Candy!

So . . . where were we?

(Checks back at blog . . .)

Good lord, the last time I posted was in 2013, December. Time flies.

So, quick update. Still a stay at home dad, still have two energetic sons (Sonwun and Sontoo), still have a lovely wife and am still coming back to my creative outlet once in a while when I the need to write rears its ugly head. (I think it was a review on Urban Spoon this morning that sparked the need to write again.)

I guess the most significant change of late has been the introduction of Sunny’s Treehouse Candy . . . my first real run at doing something to earn a little cash to add to the family stash. It started a couple of Christmases back when the wife and I decided to make candy for our family members who live in other provinces and countries. We wanted to do something different. So we did.

And just this last Christmas, the wife’s sister, who works in Toronto, asked us if we could pull off 5 $200 corporate gift baskets. We had no idea. But I’d read Richard Branson on Twitter say something like, “If someone asks if you can do something, say yes. Then figure out how and do it.”

So we did.

And then in January, we started hitting Farmer’s Markets here in town and in Winnipeg. We’re not yet profitable, but we’re getting there.

I gotta say, I really enjoy making the candy. We’re up to about 18 different flavours of Hard Candy, four flavours of Salt Water Taffy, Sweet and Salty Peanuts, Sponge Toffee and three different kinds of Brittle (peanut, chocolate peanut and almond).

We’ve designed a logo, labels and packaging in keeping with our Treehouse theme. (Mostly the wife there, she’s really good at this stuff!) We’ve sourced inexpensive suppliers for candy ingredients as well as packaging. It’s been an education and, in a couple of months, we might even be profitable!

So that’s what’s kept us sane over the winter. More later, I hope.

Yet Another Milestone . . .

Okay, so let's talk about vomit, shall we? (If you're squeamish, or not a parent, go find another blog today.)

My sister once said to me that one of the biggest and best milestones she celebrated with her children, was the day the last one learned to puke in the toilet. I'm the father of two small boys. I get this.

When the stomach flu invades the house, I find myself grabbing sheets from the linen closet and covering the couches. In carpeted rooms, I'll even throw some on the floor. I can handle puke on hardwood, on linoleum and even on the walls. But on carpet, or furniture? Um, no thanks.

So, where am I going with this?

Well, Sonwun had his first friends-over birthday party Friday. And may I just say, WOW! What chaos! The violence, the insanity, the unbridled, unfiltered, unfettered energy of a group of five-year-olds needs to be explored, harnessed and used to power a small city. Again I say, WOW!

But I digress.

Sonwun stuffed himself with popcorn, candy and cake. He ignored any food of substance. Fair enough. It's one day, it's his party and he'll puke if he wants to.

And he did. With his belly full of garbage, he ran, he jumped, he wrestled, and he ran some more with his little friends. And then he ran to the bathroom and threw up. And may I just say, HOORAY! He made it to the bathroom and let fly where he was supposed to. That was a first and yeah, as big a milestone as birthday number 5.

Now, unbeknownst to me at the time, Sontoo observed this little ritual. At 2 years and 10 months, he was fascinated. But I was busy. I shooed him out of the bathroom, we cleaned up Sonwun and sent him back into action.

Fast-forward about 8 hours. It's 2:20 a.m. I'm awakened by the sound of retching. I fly out of bed and follow the sound. Been here before. I know I'm going to be changing sheets, pajamas, perhaps addresses.

I'm on my way to the boys' room when I look right. And there, kneeling in front of his little potty, is Sontoo. He's not even three yet, but he got out of bed, made his way to the bathroom and threw up in his potty.

Yeah, it still breaks my heart to see the poor little guy having to deal with this. But at the same time, I was so proud of him. After a clean-up, I took him back to his bedroom and checked the bed, the floor, the walls, the dog and the cat. All puke-free.

He had to get up two more times in the night, and I didn't get any sleep, but he made it to the potty each time. I'm thankful, grateful and proud.

Sonwun has taught Sontoo many things. Not all of them make me proud. Food-throwing, using the dog as a trampoline, flying off the coffee table . . . this one makes up for a couple of the negatives.

I know if you're a parent, you get this one.

Have a great Monday!

(And Happy 5th Birthday Sonwun. I love you!)

It continues . . .

23 Days to Go . . .

It's amazing how much Christmas changes when you have kids. And it's amazing how it changes year to year as these kids grow.

I mean, when you first have the kids, they have no concept beyond staring at the pretty lights and loving the sound wrapping paper makes when they smack it. And yeah, that's kinda cool.

But before long, you're making supper and all you can hear from the living room is "Holy Cow Daddy, you have to see this." And then the inevitable follow-up, "I need that."

Yeah, the marketing is well underway. And it's aimed squarely at my kids and my Visa card.

So we'll do our best to ignore that for a while.

Sonwun has also received his annual video message from Santa. And he was very excited about that. This, again, is something that was not available when I was a kid. Hell, it wasn't even available five years ago, to the best of my knowledge. But clever marketing folks have once again enlisted the Jolly Old Elf to sell product and increase website traffic.

But, to be fair, it's pretty cool. Click here to see Santa's message to Sonwun. WAIT! I just tested this and apparently it takes you away from the blog. So . . . finish reading, and then go back and click there. Thanks!

Neomom has been busy decorating the new house and, as usual, has done a fantastic job. We just await the tree. And I'm not allowed to get it until about two weeks before the big day. Why? Because they only last about two weeks before they start throwing needles faster than a Vancouver methadone clinic. So I'll wait.

And yeah, Neomom has fed her Christmas addiction, once again, with the purchase of one or two of those battery-powered goofy, gimmicky season-based toys. Don't know how else to describe them.

But every year, while we're out Christmas shopping, we inevitably separate. But from a few aisles over, I'll hear a tinny, computer generated voice, or music and then I'll hear Neomom laughing her head off.

No exception this year. Kissing penguins. Cute the first few times, but quickly loses its charm on the 4 or 500th time you hear it, as the kids just can't leave it alone. But check it out and, if you'd like to see what I mean, play it 500 times.



And when you add this one to the 8 or so others, all making their noises, well . . .

Have a great Thursday.

Superman to Dad o' Kitchen

A while ago, I wrote about Sonwun's obsession with Superheroes. Specifically, he'd latched on to the Justice League and, naturally, had renamed the family. He had decided that he was Batman, "the gweatest Superhero ever."

I, of course, was dubbed Superman, while Neomom picked up the title of Batgirl and Sontoo was renamed Robin. (At Halloween, however, Sontoo renamed himself "Robinson" as it apparently seemed more appropriate.)

Now, that being said, we have a new obsession in the house and we have all, once again, been renamed.

This time, it's Sontoo. And he's addicted to the Disney movie Cars. He could literally watch it over and over 24 hours a day if we let him.

So, Sontoo is introducing himself to the world as Sontoo McQueen, the World Famous Race Car. Honest. At the doctor's office yesterday, an older gentleman in the waiting room asked him his name. "I'm Sontoo McQueen, the World Famous Race car," he replied, very seriously. Always gets a smile.

I have picked up the title of Dad Doc Hudson. When he says it, however, it sounds like Dad o' Kitchen. Either one works, I guess. Doc Hudson, in the movie, is the once-great race car, now a cantankerous old fart, judge and doctor. I guess I can live with that. As for Dad o' Kitchen, well, I do make some mean pancakes.

Neomom is Momma Sally. Again, it works. The Sally car in the movie is the beautiful, intelligent little Porsche lawyer and hotel owner.

Now, there is a little controversy when it comes to Sonwun. Sontoo has decided he's Tow Mater, the backwoods, gap-toothed, tractor-tipping goofball (played by Larry the Cable Guy). But to his credit, he's also a loyal friend. I choose to think that is why Sontoo labelled Sonwun as such.

This particular naming, however, has led to a number of arguments at the dinner table, all reminiscent of the "Tastes Great/Less Filling" debate of the 80s.

"I'm McQueen, the famous race car."

"No you're not, I'm McQueen."

"I'm McQueen, the famous race car."

"No you're not, I'm McQueen."

"I'm McQueen, the famous race car."

"No you're not, I'm McQueen."

Lather, rinse, repeat ad nauseum.

This, I know, will pass. And I gotta admit, I kind of enjoy the roles my boys assign to me. I mean, c'mon, I've been Superman and now I'm a judge, a doctor and one of the most famous and successful race cars in Piston Cup history.

Who could ask for more?

Happy December, Happy Wednesday!

Tired in Thompson

If sleeping were an Olympic event, Neomom and I would have taken the bronze last night. Well, truthfully, Neomom took the bronze and I was disqualified.

Gold medal goes to Sonwun who, at 10:30 p.m., put together a spectacular performance in the mattress moistening competition. He finished with a flourish, by crying and screaming due, in part, to the fact that he wasn't really awake. We found him pointing and kicking at a pillow while howling. Neomom mistook this for a bad dream involving said pillow and removed the offending item from the bed. She then sat down in a puddle and realized that the pillow was really not the issue.

And so, while Sonwun curled up in a new, dry blanket on the extra bed, basking in his gold-medal glow, Neomom and I changed his bed, tucked his now-sleeping body back into his own bed and headed back to the competition.

At 3 a.m., Sontoo made his run for the podium. He opened with a little crying. Kind of a weak start really, considering he does this fairly regularly and it only lasts about five minutes. Neomom and I laughed off the lackluster effort and soldiered on under our own blankets.

But Sontoo is a trooper and he knew the silver medal was on the line. He dug down deep and kept that crying going for a good 20 minutes, knowing our gold-medal dream had already taken a hit from Sonwun.

After 25 minutes, we knew we were beaten. In keeping withe Sleep Olympics rules, I changed the ceremonial diaper and prepared the traditional concession bottle. Sontoo took silver. I, however, took consolation in the fact that I got to snuggle with the little silver medalist while he enjoyed the victory bottle and, shortly thereafter, fell back to sleep.

At this point, I also conceded the bronze medal to Neomom. She had to get up in about three hours and get ready for work. I advised her to put in the earplugs (perfectly legal in the Sleep Olympics) and catch what she could in the remaining hours.

As for me, I figured my best bet for a strong finish was the couch. So that's where I went. And, about half an hour into my near slumber, my arm cramped up, causing considerable pain and wakefulness. It was my fault. Every athlete knows you should stretch before competition. I did not and I paid the price.

But I wasn't giving up. I stretched out the arm, curled up and gave it my all for a big finish.

And it was about half an hour later that the cat decided to engage in mortal combat with a neighbourhood cat, through the basement window. While neither warrior could actually touch the other, due to three panes of glass and a screen between them, it didn't stop them from high-volume trash-talking and determined, yet fruitless, punches at one another.

The problem for my stupid cat was that he was on a thin ledge inside the window while his adversary was on solid footing in the window well outside. Thus, with each violent attack launched, my cat would fall from the window sill and scramble like a cat possessed back to his perch. In the oft-repeated process, he took out a lamp, knocked the blinds to the floor and shoved the futon mattress halfway off the frame.

Well, after chasing off the massive Tomcat that, in truth, would have beaten my indoor cat like a rented mule, I replaced the futon mattress and caught about 45 minutes of sleep before Sonwun awoke, came downstairs, turned on the large, bright, overhead light and asked "Daddy, are you awake?"

So yeah, I didn't make the podium and I don't think I even got ranked, as I did not finish the event. My Olympic dream is dead.

And it's a good thing I'm not a sore loser, or right now rather than laundering the evidence, I would be sending three blankets and a diaper off to the lab to test for performance-enhancing drugs.

Well, happy Tuesday! Gonna be a long one.

Boogie Nights

So I'm sitting in the gym at the rec centre. I have on a pair of lovely yellow latex gloves (too small). In front of me is a large bin, filled with hot water, dish soap and bleach.

To my left is a much larger bin, filled with over-size building blocks. They are kinda like Legos on steroids. Each one is about four inches thick, six inches wide and about a foot long.

In my gloved hands are a J-cloth and a toothbrush. Nearby are four moms, similarly attired.

Volunteer time for the stay-at-home dad has arrived.

Saturday night just ain't what it used to be. Because it used be date night . . . or party night . . . or snuggle-up-with-the-wife-and-a-good-movie night.

But this Saturday night was clean-the-snot-puke-and-food-off-the-toys night at playgroup. Just doesn't have the same lure as the Saturday nights of old.

I seriously considered picking up a six-pack on the way. I mean, if I have to do this, I might as well have a few libations to make the time crawl by just a little less slowly. Instead, I stopped by the drive-through for my Timmy's regular coffee and headed out. Didn't want to look like a bad daddy.

An invitation had been extended to the 30 or so moms that attend this "cooperative" playgroup, in the hopes that the five-member "executive" would not have to face this pile of toys alone. Twenty-nine of those moms chose not to attend. One showed up, but left early.

So, I opened the evening with the most manly task I could find - battery replacement. It involved a screwdriver, thus, it is manly. Okay, it was a small screwdriver and small batteries, and any monkey could do it, but it's as close as I could get, in my yellow gloves, to feeling like I still had a pair.

The battery replacement took about half an hour. Everyone else was working away, wiping down the toys and chatting away about husbands, childbirth, breast feeding and people in town I have never heard of.

So I filled my bin with water, bleach and soap, sat down with my pile of building blocks and started washing. It was about this time that the one mom who did show up bid us a fond farewell. And it was about 30 seconds later that the "treasurer" broke out a couple of bottles of red wine and styrofoam cups.

Should have picked up the six-pack.

Should have picked up the six-pack!

For me, red wine is great with a nice, thick,bloody steak. But for something to drink while "working?" No. Gimme a beer. Thanks anyway.

Anyway, the process for cleaning the blocks. Throw four into the bin. Pick up the first, and wipe it thoroughly with the J-cloth. Put it back into the bin, upside down, so you don't forget which one was already done. Yeah, I know there's only four of them, but after about five minutes, your mind starts to wander, and wonder what the hell you're doing here.

Anyway, after they're all wiped down and upside down, drop the cloth and pick up the toothbrush. Grab the first block and start brushing the crud out of the nooks and crannies. And let me tell you, 50 kids can secrete, spill and spew a lot of crud on building blocks.

So why am I doing this? Well, my boys participate in playgroup. They enjoy playgroup and it is a "cooperative" playgroup, so they say. And that is supposed to mean that it is run by all of the parents who attend. Everyone cooperates to set up the toys at the start, clean up the toys at the end and, once a month, get together to sanitize the toys. For this to work, people need to take part. Fact is, most don't. They figure if they show up, put away a couple of toys at the end of the day, they've done their part.

And, with any group like this, it takes a few dedicated parents to make it really work. I prefer to count myself among those parents. Don't get me wrong. My motivations are not entirely pure of heart and altruistic. The stay-at-home parent thing can, at times, be a tad monotonous - especially during a winter in Thompson, Manitoba. And sometimes, just sometimes, I feel the need to run screaming from the house and engage in adult conversation and activity- even if it is just to clean various bodily secretions from some toy blocks.

Well, to make a long, boring, beer-less story just a little bit shorter, it took about two hours to get through the entire collection. I didn't have much to contribute to the husband-birth-and-boob discussion, so I just concentrated on the booger blocks and dreamed of the day when my boys will enter hockey, or some other sport. A time, somewhere down the road, when Saturday night executive meetings will be held in bars, with other men. And discussions will revolve around wives, snowmobiles, yes, maybe boobs, and the Blue Bombers.

And the best part is that I will not have to wear yellow gloves to participate.

Anyway, after that little rant, here is a picture of the snowman we made on Saturday afternoon to make us all feel a little better:

Why?

So, six days until mommy comes home. The light at the end of the tunnel is growing brighter.

I have done my best to keep up with the vacuuming, laundry and general cleaning. But with two kids, a cat and a dog, I will have to put in a little extra effort this week to create the illusion of cleanliness upon her arrival.

It has also been a goal/tradition to attempt to complete at least one project in her absence and this time it's the shower.

Ever since we moved in, mommy's been unhappy with the plastic folding doors on the shower. She'd prefer a shower curtain. Fair enough. The doors make it difficult to bathe the boys as they don't fold out of the way. Fully folded, they take up about a quarter of the space on each side of the tub, leaving only half the space to access the children.

So, with Sonwun in tow, and Sontoo playing happily on his own, I attacked the problem. Sonwun was eager to help and eager to learn. In fact, for the past month or so, he has been "eager to learn" about everything under the freakin' sun. It's a phase, they tell me; the "why?" phase.

For each and every one of my actions, from dawn to dusk, there is a question. What are you doing daddy? What is that daddy? Which came first, the chicken or the egg? What colour is the mirror? What is the sound of one hand clapping? Daddy, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it . . .

You get the idea.

And as if this preschool-inspired PHD test was not enough, each answer I provide is now followed up with a "why?" So it's not just a multiple choice test, the professor wants essay answers. I hated those exams.

In any case, back to the bathroom.

"What are you doing daddy?"

"I'm taking off the shower doors."

"Why are you taking the shower doors off?"

"Because your mommy doesn't like them."

"Why doesn't mommy like them."

"Because they make it hard to bath you guys."

"Why does it make it hard?"

"Because they're in the way and you guys might bump your heads on them."

"Why would we bump our heads?"

"Because the doors are in the way."

"Why are the doors in the way?"

And on and on it goes. It's not long before I begin to notice the signs that he isn't really paying attention to the questions, or the answers. He's just inserting the word "why" in the second half of my answers and repeating. At the same time, he's trying to tie all of the bathroom drawers together with hair ties.

And so, in an effort to end the questions, save some hair ties and make Sonwun feel part of the process, I hand him a spare screwdriver and invite him to help.

"What's this daddy?

"It's a screwdriver."

"What's it for?"

"It's for putting in screws and taking screws out."

"What are screws?"

"They are these things here (employing a visual aid) and we need to take them out so that the shower doors will come off."

"Can I help?"

"Yes, why don't you start on the ones on that side and I'll work on these over here."

This buys me about 30 seconds of work before the questions start again.

And so, while I work, I answer every possible question about tools, showers, shower curtains, shower curtain rods, screwdrivers, screws, screwing, unscrewing and bath mats.

At which point, Sonwun loses interest in "helping" and decides he'd rather wander about the bathroom with "his" screwdriver singing, and I quote, "I love to screw, I love to screw, I love to screw."

I did my best to avoid laughing. And it wasn't too difficult, because all I had to do was imagine where this will come back to haunt me; checkout line at the grocery store, playgroup, during a visit from friends, during a visit to the wife's detachment surrounded by police officers.

But I digress.

I don't ever want my boys to stop asking "why?" It's the only way to learn, the only way to challenge what you've learned and to challenge those that are teaching you, daddy included. It's the only way to gather information that will help them make decisions, big and small, for the rest of their lives.

When evolution is presented as fact, I want them to ask why. When they're offered drugs, I want them to ask why. When they are tempted to shoplift, I want them to ask why? When they're invited to church, I want them to ask why? When a preacher tells them their daddy is going to hell, I want them to ask why? And hopefully, by that time, they will have asked why enough times to have put together a pretty decent database of information that will enable them to make solid decisions.

As for right now, as I said, mommy's home in six days. And that, my friends, will provide my one of my favourite answers to most of Sonwun's questions: "I think your mother knows that one. Why not ask her?"

Highway to Hell

Well, apparently I'm going to hell.

If, that is, you believe some oversized preacher who shall remain nameless. He just doesn't merit a mention.

Quoting, or perhaps misquoting, out of context, a verse in 1st Timothy, this preacher (and, to be fair, one other that I know of) says that because I have chosen to stay home and raise my boys, I am bound for hell.

On one of his televised, televangelist episodes, this preacher says I, and all stay-at-home dads, am too lazy to work and support my children.

"You call yourself Mr. Mom," he says, as the camera pans to the audience, showing men nodding solemnly in agreement. "God calls you a bum . . . Let me look you right in the eye and tell you that hell is your future home."

Wow. That's a little bit of an eye-opener. And, for the record, why don't you bring yourself to Thompson and look me right in the eye when you say that. I would beg to differ.

I don't claim to be perfect but, as I read the Bible, I'm not called upon to be so. It's impossible. I am a sinner, granted and well documented. But I'm not taking this dude's word on my eternal destination.

So I decided to look up this rather condemning verse. After all, as a reporter, I learned its best to go right to the source and avoid second-hand information.

1st Timothy 5:8 is the verse in question. And forgive me if I don't have a King James version handy, so we'll have to go with the New International Version. (I suspect using anything other than ol' King James probably merits a ticket to hell as well, in some minds).

"If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his immediate family, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever."

Now, assuming that the pursuit of money is the only way to provide for a family, sounds pretty bad for me and my brethren. But, just for giggles, let's look at the verses leading up to this one, shall we?

Starting at chapter five, verse 1: (Start at verse 1? But why?)

"Do not rebuke an older man harshly, but exhort him as if he were your father. Treat younger men as brothers, older women as mothers and younger women as sisters, with absolute purity.

Give proper recognition to those widows who are really in need. But if a widow has children, or grandchildren, these should learn first of all to put their religion into practice by caring for their own family and so repaying their parents and grandparents, for this is pleasing to God.

The widow who is really in need and left all alone puts her hope in God and continues night and day to pray and to ask God for help. But the widow who lives for pleasure is dead even while she lives. Give the people these instructions too, so that no one may be open to blame. If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his immediate family, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever."

Now call me crazy, but I don't think this particular section is aimed at us stay-at-home dads. It seems to me that we're talking about taking care of family in need and, in this section in particular, widows. Your dead brother's wife, or your mom after your dad dies. Am I wrong?

So why is this guy picking on us stay-at-home dads?

Well, if history is any teacher, when you're a televangelist, you need an audience. And, as Hollywood has proven time and again, if you're popularity is such that no one is tuning in any more, you need to throw out some controversy, spice things up a bit, piss people off. For a televangelist, that keeps the poor saps glued to the TV on Sunday morning and, most importantly, keeps the cash flowing. And that way, his wife doesn't have to work; just sit quietly at his side, nod when appropriate, stay quiet and do what she's told.

So, I don't think I'm hell-bound for the sin of taking care of my children at home. My wife and I are a team and together we decided she needed to pursue her dream of a job in the RCMP. When it came time to have children, we decided that, after a year of maternity leave, it would be best for all of us if I stayed home with the boys. When we needed a little extra money, I worked at night and she worked during the day. Someone was home with the boys at all times because we believe that is important.

I'm not condemning or looking down on anyone who decides it's best to send the kids to daycare. Your team, your family, needs to decide what is best for all of you. I'm just saying this is what we believe is best for us and our boys.

I will have to wait for the big dirt nap to find out if the fat preacher was right and I was wrong. But I think I'm right, I think we're right.

And hey, now that I have the Bible out again, maybe I'll just look up a few other things. I'll start with false prophets, move on to gluttony and then do a little digging around for heresy. Just wanted to see what the source has to say about the future home of folks who practice these things.

Artistic Evolution

I don't know whether to celebrate or mourn.

Sonwun has reached a new phase in his artistic development. He's now leaning toward realism and I'm not sure what to make of it.

Sonwun has always been a free spirit. He thinks outside the box, colours outside the lines and every day is no-pants day in his mind. Cast off society's denim prison, says he.

I admit, I have had some concerns with his art. One of his first friends, back in Gimli, was more of an in-the-lines kind of guy. This kid could colour and not only inside the lines, but with the correct hues for the occasion - a born realist, a Bateman in training.

And it was during this time that Sonwun was fully exploring scribblism, often monochromatic scribblism, which I, as his patron, preferred to think of as "pure" scribblism without all those distracting colours. He filled sketchbook after sketchbook with his work, quickly abandoning his lesser works and spending hours on his masterpieces, all in an effort to express, with wax and paper, his toddler angst.

Sure, he dabbled on the multi-chromatic side once or twice, but his heart wasn't in it. It was merely an experimentation, a walk on the wild side, and did not speak to, or from, his inner artist.

In time, he moved on and we were soon deep into dot-to-dotism. It began simply enough, with a mass-produced colouring book. He found some pleasure in the medium, but, again, being a free spirit, he found his artistic soul trapped within the confines of the pages. Dot-to-dotism, in its commercial form, lacked meaning. Why must four follow five every time. Maybe four likes the way 15 thinks, and would prefer to follow him. Maybe four wants to lead, maybe four is its own entity with its own dreams and its own raison d'etre, independent of the others, said he.

And so he abandoned the popular demands of Disney's corporate dot-to-dot cage and struck out on his own. I will create my own dots, said he, and they will not be squelched by pre-assigned numerical expectations. They will exist independently on the page, free to follow those they choose, if

they choose to follow at all. And, just when it is believed they have found peace, connection and stagnation, I will offer them new choices, new dots and a new perspective. And so he did.

Once again, blank pages were filled with monochromatic representations of his vision in this free-flowing milieu. The scribblism pieces that formed the backbone of the Kenmore Art Gallery collection was soon joined by his best dot-to-dotism efforts, fleshing out his burgeoning career.

Sonwun briefly flirted, as well, with performance art, which almost cost him his funding. One of this first works, Yogurt on Dog, fell on deaf ears in his art community and was quickly destroyed in a fit of fury by his otherwise tolerant patron. (Although one fellow patron of the arts, who is rearing a few artists of his own, correctly suggested I should have photographed the piece before its destruction - my bad). Equally misinterpreted pieces included Toothpaste Mountain- a Bathroom Experiment; and Baby Brother Blue, a fusion of his love of scribblism with a live subject.

But his journey, his foray into the art world, veered off the path yesterday. It took a sudden turn that shocked his patron and raised concerns that maybe he had discovered and embraced marketability. Perhaps his dreams lay outside of the Kenmore Art Gallery and he was seeking bigger, more profitable venues for his visions.

He was working in his studio, warming up with multi-chromatic scribblism when I left him. I returned a half hour later to find this . . .

He has titled it, Me, Balancing on my Boinger. It is his first foray into realism and, as I mentioned earlier, I'm not sure whether to celebrate or mourn. Only time will tell as we watch and wait, with bated breath, for his next artistic evolution.

In the meantime I am keeping an eye on Sontoo's early works, which vary greatly from his elder sibling's. Wax and paper bore Sontoo. They are not his mediums of choice. As for markers? He'd rather eat them which, I

believe, is one of his first performance art presentations.

He is, I believe, a cubist at heart (or head) and is leaning more toward sculpture, as witnessed by his work New Balance Bottle.

Stay tuned folks. These pieces will

be available for sale, just as soon

as I figure out how to use PayPal. Sonwun may be averse to commercialism, but his patron knows the value of a buck and has been cultivating this aesthetic garden knowing there will be a bountiful crop down the road. We patrons are like that. And, as such, I choose to celebrate his exploration of realism and will find a place for his most recent work at the Kenmore Art Gallery.