Isn’t he just the luckiest fellow?

Actually, we are lucky to have him.

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Hey! This post was Editor’s Pick on BlogHer! It’s like my very own Father’s Day present.

I think the world would be a happier place if all small trucks were decorated like the trucks in Abu Dhabi: flowers, butterflies, sometimes hearts. It makes being almost side-swiped a little easier.

Oh, okay, I didn’t really know them know them.  But they did have a foosball table.

And now I have a foosball table too.

About two months ago, before we knew we were moving, we re-arranged the boys’ shared bedroom, a shift that included moving Caleb’s legos from one side of the room to the other.  His response to this shift was something like HOW CAN YOU MOVE THINGS IT’S PERFECT THE WAY IT IS NOOOOO PLEASE NO CHANGES NOOOOO PLEASE DONNNNNNNT.

You would’ve thought we were asking him to take up residence in the cupboard under the stairs but without the consolation of magic or Quidditch.

So as you might imagine, I felt a tad anxious about how our change-averse eight-year old would handle the news that we were moving.

Then in a sporting goods store, where we were buying one of the boys new soccer shoes football boots, I had a revelation. While I was paying, I saw Caleb and Liam playing with the foosball table that the store had on display. Or rather, the boys saw “foosball” but I saw a bribe an incentive: announce the move and then tell them that the new house would have room for a foosball table.

Worked like a charm. We explained that we were moving, Caleb immediately began to angle for livestock–bunnies, gerbils, guinea pigs, dogs–then we countered with the foosball table and he was sold. Wondered why we weren’t moving RIGHT AWAY.

I found a foosball table for sale on dubizzle, the UAE equivalent of Craigslist, and voila: here it is, wedged into the living room behind the couch:

Do you suppose that either Chandler or Joey ever played foosball in his underpants? That’s Caleb’s preferred uniform.

True, my living room now feels a bit like a frat boy lounge, but you know what? Foosball is wicked fun and I’m thinking that spinning all these knobs is probably good for my triceps.  I do slap the ball into my own goal with alarming regularity, unfortunately, which means that I’m at the bottom of the family foosball tournament ladder.

Heh. But I practiced this week while the boys were at school and I’ve developed a little whizbang shot that works like a charm.  So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kick some eight-year old ass.

Although I probably wouldn’t be able to get in to my neighbor’s pod house villa because it will be locked. And by locked I mean seriously, totally locked:

I mean a whole lotta locks. These keys are the keys we received for our villapod — not the keys for the entire complex.

In our current apartment, there are doors to the living room, doors to all the bathrooms, doors to all the bedrooms, a door to the little hall that leads to the bedrooms, a door to the kitchen, a door to the little hallway that leads to the kitchen, a door to the “maid’s room” (where we keep the washing machine), and a door to the tiny bathroom connected to the maid’s room.  All of those doors have locks and keys, which when we moved in, we removed and put somewhere safe. And by safe I mean I don’t know where they are.

Now we’re moving into a bigger space. More space, more doors. More doors, more locks. More locks, more keys.

I don’t know how to explain this architectural fascination with doors: why a lock on hallway doors? why a locking door on the kitchen? Am I supposed to A) have a live-in housekeeper; and B) lock her in the kitchen until dinner is ready?  I don’t know how to break it to the designers, but we’re living in an era where actual privacy is impossible–and by impossible, I mean everything from the NSA kefuffle (really? The Patriot Act enabled violations of civil liberties? I’m shocked, shocked) to the fact that your most embarrassing high school moments can surface at any moment on facebook, courtesy of old enemies friends with scanners.  Given that any actual privacy these days is pretty much a myth, all these keys and locks seem… quaint. Positively twentieth-century.

We will do with these keys what we did with all the keys we pulled out of the doors in this apartment: pile them in a box and put them somewhere safe. And by safe, I mean nowhere within reach of Liam, who would like nothing more than to lock his brother in some small enclosure for a month or two.

Of course, before we do anything, we have to find the key to the front door.