Charles has sort of entered a mildly regressed, whiny, misbehavin’ state since Josephine showed up; a little jealousy, a little boredom, a little attention-seekin’. So I try and make sure he gets to be the center of attention every so often. To this end, he and I went to purchase ice cream at a little place up the road from us. He got a vanilla soft-serve cone covered liberally in sprinkles, 1/3 of which he ate, 1/3 of which he rubbed over every inch of his body, and the remaining third of which I put into the freezer after he left it to melt onto the coffee table. I got a chocolate milkshake the size of Charles’s torso, and picked up a peanut-butter shake for Sarah, who remained home to feed Josephine.

While we were there, I met an aged gentleman who had on, of all things, a Philadelphia Athletics Historical Society tshirt. I was unaware that such a society existed, and asked him about it; apparently they have a little museum somewhere up near Hatboro, PA. After he went on his merry way, I whipped out my phone and did a little googlin’. As you might surmise, they have a website. More importantly, they have a store, filled with stuff like this. Daddy want. Wait, wait, no. Daddy really want, except without Foxx’s name, since players didn’t have their names on their uniforms until 1960. Plus then people would be like, “What the hell is that you’re wearing? Oakland’s colors do not include blue,” and I would say “It’s a replica Jimmie Foxx jersey, man, know your SHIZNIT.”

I have strange conversations.