Most normal kids cling to stuffed animals and make possessive claims like 'My cheetah!' or 'My gorilla!'. As a Johnson, Tommy had no choice but to distance himself from the normal pack with corrective shouts of 'My Ute!' every time someone mentions Ute.
Aside from being one of Tommy's possessions, Ute is a good friend of ours who helps out occasionally with watching the animals while Mama and Papa play work. It was also her birthday today and, despite fully knowing the consequences, she still invited us over to celebrate. It's okay; we got you earplugs this year.
In keeping with the Johnson tradition, we showed up an hour late. I made a beeline to the keeper of the beer, also known as Alex. No shit, it took less than two minutes for Tommy to full-on body-crash into the corner of their coffee table. What, parties are supposed to be loud, right?
Ute immediately scooped up Tommy and started spastically blowing on his forehead. After two minutes, Tommy finally stopped wailing and explained in broken sobs to HIS Ute that actually, he had hurt his elbow.
After some mild elbow blowing and heavy cuddling by HIS Ute, Tommy was released back into the wild. The wild was actually Peter and David, who had already been kicked out to the hallway to play with their Beyblades. They are basically New Age spinning tops for those of you who have yet to experience the joys of procreation.
Within seconds, Tommy had managed to spin his top under HIS Ute's cabinet. At first, this seemed liked a disaster, but it actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise. In addition to being tougher than a honey badger, my brain puts dolphins to shame. My huge cranium whipped out a flashlight and *POOF*, sulky kid was gone for almost an hour looking for HIS toy.
The silent hour was well appreciated, but it went by too quickly. By the time Tommy realized that there was no way in hell he was getting his toy back, it was time to kiss HIS birthday girl goodnight.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TOMMY'S UTE!
