I can still feel my seven year old hands gripping the launcher.

Blood from my knuckles, skinned raw from spinning the plastic crank, mixes with dirt and is flung by the spinning rear wheel. A malignant howl-shriek rises as the bad-ass motorcycle nears launch. The pressure is on. Final tiny adjustments to the direction, hoping bendy Evel would ride his sticker-laden bike straight at the cardboard-and-phone book ramp. A maddened wheelie and he’s off – a red, white and blue streak over an endless row of rusted yellow Tonkas. He nails the landing and veers suddenly left into the grass. He rests on his side now, with the wheel still spinning fast enough to destroy a little girl’s hair.

The greatest daredevil of the 20th century. The greatest toy ever constructed. The greatest boy ever birthed. Evel Knievel, Joe Tremblay. Joe Tremblay, Evel Knievel.

The torch has been passed.

We keep a small toy box next to Joe’s car seat. It’s a toy. It’s a box.

Are you ready for some football!?! No? OK, then how about some photos of Joe and other stylish youngsters at a football game?

Elementary school night at the Colonial Heights High School football game. It’s halftime. Do we get Kathy Perry? Janice Jackson? Cirq de Sal’ad? Hell no!

We get elementary school students. And all the better, too, because the only wardrobe malfunctions up in this stadium were untied shoes and dads that really should have put a clean t-shirt on for god’s sake. I mean really.

Why are we at a football game? It’s half-past bedtime.

Oh, that’s why – friends!

She’s a great mom. I’m sure those who knew her in high school, college and through the court system will be surprised to hear it, but it’s true.

Halftime, and the Tussing Tigers are fired-the-f-up!

Who gets to start this show? Why, it’s Tussing Elementary – first of the three Colonial Heights elementary schools to walk the track, leading this tiny Parade of Nations.

Best for last – Joe brings up the rear, like Santa Claus (or the horses, depending on the holiday for which the parade is being held). Later this season he’ll break out the raccoon fur coat and straw hat. Playing his uke and leading raucous cheers through an over-sized megaphone.

Also, football. The C.H. Colonials trounced the Southampton Indians 28-12. That’s right, the Colonials decimated the Indians. Sad trombone, play us out …

Our neighborhood is nice. Quiet, good people, and on a night like this lots of kids on bicycles and new people to wave at.

The new place has a pool. How posh.

We’ve never had a pool, so it may turn out to be a big pain. Or, it just may turn out to be cool, refreshing awesomeness. Joe’s grotto.

Anyway, a week or two ago Joe got hammered, threw off all his clothes, and ran screaming out the door. Then he stopped, carefully put on his Coast Guard-approved personal flotation device, and – Aww Hell Yeah! – jumped into the pool wearing nothing but a drunken grin! And his floaty, because safety first, amiright?!

HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO PUT THAT DAMN CAMERA DOWN!?
I will #@%#&! destroy you.

First grade starts next week. Joe stopped by to check out his new office, sign some autographs, shake some hands. Scream for me Tussing!

The lucky teacher? Ridpath, Room 210.

Joe and Ms. Ridpath already know each other, so he felt right at home. Even us parents are looking forward to having Ms. Ridpath. She’s cool!

The view from Joe’s desk.

Mr. McCoig, one of Joe’s favorite people. Joe also got to see Ms. Krupp, Ms. Lee, Ms. Finch, Ms. Renee and a ton of other friends.

Ahhh the old #9 line. Time to go home!

We’re moving soon, which means soon this blog will be foul with the stench of “oh, look at our new house!” posts.

Speaking of stench, tonight was Joe’s last bath in the big old iron tub in our soon-to-be old house. Sort of a reverse bathtism, washing away the first home to prepare for the new one.

I’ll be minimally sentimental about everything else here, but me and Joe and that bathtub have some history. One of my main jobs is keeping this boy clean, and by my estimate that means about 2,000 baths in the old tub. Two thousand flushes of the day’s dirt. It’s where we checked in most nights for a final inspection of a kid who can’t talk, looking for nails that need trimming, scraped knees, ticks (found two, so far), rashes, signs of fattening up, piercings, tattoos or whatever else.

It is, or was, part of our routine, which we both enjoyed. I can tell you how many steps from his bedroom to the tub, how many plastic cups of water a seven year old needs to properly rinse his hair (no need to Google, it’s six), and how to best dry a kid off while he kicks and laughs.

New house, new routine coming soon. But first a few photos of this historic final scrub. Cue the music …

If you’ve made it this far and still can’t get enough Joe in the bath, then go outside. Get a hobby or something. Then check out our bath posts from 2014, 2013, and 2009.

I’m not going to talk about the elephant in the room.

Pete the Cat evidently frequents the LaPrade Library in Chesterfield. Sources say he reads a wide swath of authors. Sidney Sheldon, Tony Robbins, Omar Khayyam, Jill Johnston – pretty standard stuff. J.D. Salinger, too, which is a little concerning. No overdue books noted, but in ’09 he was fined for “significant damage” to a work by George Rodrigue.

But you aren’t here to study Pete the Cat’s literary habits – this isn’t petethecat.com, it’s joetremblay.com. So let’s see some Joe. And let’s try not to talk about the elephant in the room.

Joe first saw Pete outside, where he was skateboarding.

Off to a bad start, Pete. Joe said, “Oh, I get it. ‘Edgy.’ Yawn.”

Now we’re getting somewhere! Story time with Joe’s new friend Ms. Finch, daughter of one of his school-faves (also a Ms. Finch).

Our big boy likes story time.

Quick photo op at the end. We wanted to skip it, but didn’t want to disappoint such a big fan. You’re welcome Pete. A distracted Joe told Pete, “Hole … hole … holy cow your books are great!”

OK, I’m just going to say it, because we’re all thinking it. That’s creepy. The library did a super job, the guy in cover-band Pete was terrific, we’re very thankful for the event and all three of us had a great time. Still creepy.

A few more photos in a Flickr album.

Who doesn’t crave the water in the heat of a Virginia summer? From this weekend at the Colonial Heights Swim & Yacht Club – and yes, that is the actual name.

Mr. J. VanderClute Tremblay, at the yacht club.

I’m sure Rihanna’s a nice person, but at some point her Norwegian-written “Only Girl (in the World)” was licensed by Gemmy Industries in good-ole Texas, then rerecorded and sent to Yangzhou, China. A toy manufacturer there took this worse version of a bad song and jammed it into the belly of a million red and pink dancing sock monkeys, which were then unleashed on the West on Valentines Day. This is Bond-villain level nastiness.

Somehow two of these horrific automatons found their way to Colonial Heights, Virginia, where a wonderful and well-meaning woman named Terry at Grandtiques gave – GAVE – them to our boy Joe.

This was a while back, maybe two years. And since then we’d bust them out every few months and push the little button on their hand, and the monkeys would play the chorus of Only Girl and do a little shuffle step. Then we’d quickly remember how annoying this is and put them away.

Today, like usual, we showed Joe how to push the little button. But today, he really got it. Boy did he ever. For two hours it was non-stop.

Want you to make me feel like I’m the only girl in the world
Like I’m the only one that you’ll ever love
Like I’m the only one who knows your heart
Only girl in the world…