Tattoo

Sometimes we are all bad parents (if you're a parent and you read this blog, it's okay, you can admit it).  This post will prove both that I'm a bad parent and that I was parented poorly ... or quite well, depending on your opinion of useless cultural trivia.

As we've mentioned at various times, Nicholas has become obsessed with any form of mass transit, including planes.  Fortunately, one of the initial approaches to the Baltimore airport from the north runs almost directly over our house.  It's nice actually—the planes are low enough to really see them, but high enough that they don't make a whole lot of noise.  And Nicholas loves it.  In fact, we frequently get him out of the car when we arrive home and he'll immediately start yelling, "airplane! airplane!" and pointing to the sky.

Which brings me to the bad parent portion of the post.  He was doing it last week while standing on the sidewalk, and I couldn't help but think of this video clip:



Yes, thanks to Nicholas's grandparents (okay, Grandpa Richard, so that I can let Grandma Alice off the hook on this one), I look at my son and see Hervé Villechaize.  And now that I think about it, does that make me Ricardo Montalban?  Oh dear.  The questions could go on forever; this blog post, however, must end.