It was all fun and games until my daughter fell on her butt. Sprout was having one of her patented “molasses on a cold day” mornings meant to drive me insane, but I was in too good of a mood to succumb. This displeased Sprout. For reasons beyond my comprehension, she had decided that needed to be upset with me this morning. She does this sometimes, testing to see just how far I will bend before breaking. However, my steadfast refusal to play her games only made her more determined to get a rise out of me.
She lagged behind by a few paces as we walked the Bean to school. She attempted to stay with her brother on the playground, wanting to try out being a first grader for the day. On our return trip, she was half a block back, casually pretending to notice imaginary interesting things on the sidewalk. I remained cool, maybe even a little detached.
Sprout was unhappy that she was no longer the center of my attention so she tired a different tactic.
She suddenly appeared by my side and in her sweetest voice said, “Pick me up!”
I obliged and tossed her over my shoulder.
This was not what she was expecting and though she pretended to be upset, her delighted squeal as I lifted her in the air betrayed her. She squirmed and twisted, yelling, “Daaaddddyy! Put me dooooowwwwnn!!!”
She was still wriggling when I placed her back to the ground and that’s how she ended up tush-first on the pavement.
It was clearly a soft landing so I know she wasn’t hurt, but I apologized all the same. This was the opening Sprout was looking for. Like a shark sensing blood, I had given her a signal that I had done something wrong. Now she had a reason to be mad at me. She let me know it by ignoring me while getting her mom to cuddle with her. And from the time we returned home until the time I dropped her off at pre-school, she made sure to move as slowly as she could.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Friday, November 9, 2012
If I Were a Rich Man
The Bean wandered into the bathroom as I was brushing my teeth. He noticed a copy of Entertainment Weekly on the counter.
“That man is very handsome,” he said of the picture of Prince Charming from that show my wife inexplicably likes, Once Upon a Time. “He must be rich.”
“Does being handsome mean that you’re rich?” I asked.
“Well, one time Dr. Doofenshmirtz turned handsome and walked into a bank and they gave him two bags of money.”
Deciding not to repeat my “things in real life don’t work the way they do in cartoons” speech yet again, I opted for “uh-huh” as my response.
“Do you think I’m rich?” I asked.
“No dad,” said The Bean. “You don’t look like that.”
“That man is very handsome,” he said of the picture of Prince Charming from that show my wife inexplicably likes, Once Upon a Time. “He must be rich.”
“Does being handsome mean that you’re rich?” I asked.
“Well, one time Dr. Doofenshmirtz turned handsome and walked into a bank and they gave him two bags of money.”
Deciding not to repeat my “things in real life don’t work the way they do in cartoons” speech yet again, I opted for “uh-huh” as my response.
“Do you think I’m rich?” I asked.
“No dad,” said The Bean. “You don’t look like that.”
Friday, October 26, 2012
Schools Banning Food
Sandwiched between the announcement of the PTA’s latest fundraising drive and the Principal’s pleas for kids to stop shoving each other on the playground, the administrators running the Friday morning assembly at the Bean’s elementary school offered up some thoughts on nutrition. The Principal said that kids who didn’t bring a “nutritious” snack to school would be “sent to the cafeteria for a sandwich.” It was clear that gummi bears and Flaming Hot Cheetos were deemed inadequate snacks. It was not clear if after sending a kid to the cafeteria, the school would pay for the healthy sandwich or if the kids were on the hook for it themselves. Listening to this, my hackles raised a bit.
We’ve had issues with this school and food before. Last year, the lunchtime monitor deemed some items in the Bean’s lunch unhealthy and scolded him for bringing them to school. The Bean happened to be in the midst of a brief obession with food where every bite he took was preceded by the question, “Is this healthy?" WonderWife™ takes pride in packing nutritious lunches for our kids. And as a person raised on fast food, who doesn't have the world’s best eating habits (read my numerous posts on candy and bacon if you don’t believe me), it’s really important to me that my kids learn to eat well. The woman at the Bean’s school was plain wrong about judging the yogurt he was eating (it was healthy) and she certianly had no place saying anything to my son about it. The issue was discussed with the school and it has not happened again. But it was running through my mind as I listened to the Principal address the students.
The school’s heart is in the right place, but I don’t think schools should become food police.
We are a nation of overweight, processed-food junkies who are getting exponentially bigger while passing our terrible eating habits on to the next generation, and we need help. Schools should play a part by offering healthier food and not making soda and candy readily available in the hallways. But should they have the right to tell a kid what kinds of food they are allowed to eat? Shouldn’t this be up to parents?
A school dictating what is considered nutritious for a student takes away the ability and need of the parent to make those kinds of choices by removing them from the decision making process. Parents need to be able to choose their own paths and influence their kids behavior as they see fit, not because a group of public school administrators says so. Doing so is forcing behavior change. And as we parents know, forcing will inevitably cause backlash from our kids.
Recently Flaming Hot Cheetos have been banned in schools in California and New Mexico because of the poor nutritional value of the snack. While I personally find them to be tasty, I agree that Cheetos aren’t even in the realm of healthy. But is banning or confiscating these snacks the answer? Taking away snacks in school doesn't stop kids from eating them when their not in school. It just makes them forbidden fruit. So wouldn't it be better if the people educating our children attempted to teach them about nutrition instead of policing it? Let's give the next generation the information and tools to change instead of forcing our will upon them.
To my son’s school, I offer this suggestion: How about if you notice a kid eating unhealthy food instead of punishing the kid, maybe send a note home to engage the parents who are providing the food in a discussion? Explain why the food in question may be problematic and allow the now-informed parents to make a decision they deem best for their child. But stop being food bullies. Because nothing is going to get better by forcing it.
We’ve had issues with this school and food before. Last year, the lunchtime monitor deemed some items in the Bean’s lunch unhealthy and scolded him for bringing them to school. The Bean happened to be in the midst of a brief obession with food where every bite he took was preceded by the question, “Is this healthy?" WonderWife™ takes pride in packing nutritious lunches for our kids. And as a person raised on fast food, who doesn't have the world’s best eating habits (read my numerous posts on candy and bacon if you don’t believe me), it’s really important to me that my kids learn to eat well. The woman at the Bean’s school was plain wrong about judging the yogurt he was eating (it was healthy) and she certianly had no place saying anything to my son about it. The issue was discussed with the school and it has not happened again. But it was running through my mind as I listened to the Principal address the students.
The school’s heart is in the right place, but I don’t think schools should become food police.
We are a nation of overweight, processed-food junkies who are getting exponentially bigger while passing our terrible eating habits on to the next generation, and we need help. Schools should play a part by offering healthier food and not making soda and candy readily available in the hallways. But should they have the right to tell a kid what kinds of food they are allowed to eat? Shouldn’t this be up to parents?
A school dictating what is considered nutritious for a student takes away the ability and need of the parent to make those kinds of choices by removing them from the decision making process. Parents need to be able to choose their own paths and influence their kids behavior as they see fit, not because a group of public school administrators says so. Doing so is forcing behavior change. And as we parents know, forcing will inevitably cause backlash from our kids.
Recently Flaming Hot Cheetos have been banned in schools in California and New Mexico because of the poor nutritional value of the snack. While I personally find them to be tasty, I agree that Cheetos aren’t even in the realm of healthy. But is banning or confiscating these snacks the answer? Taking away snacks in school doesn't stop kids from eating them when their not in school. It just makes them forbidden fruit. So wouldn't it be better if the people educating our children attempted to teach them about nutrition instead of policing it? Let's give the next generation the information and tools to change instead of forcing our will upon them.
To my son’s school, I offer this suggestion: How about if you notice a kid eating unhealthy food instead of punishing the kid, maybe send a note home to engage the parents who are providing the food in a discussion? Explain why the food in question may be problematic and allow the now-informed parents to make a decision they deem best for their child. But stop being food bullies. Because nothing is going to get better by forcing it.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Nails, Part 3
Every morning, the first graders all swarm around me in the
morning holding out their fists. I’m not sure how I became the ringleader of these massive games of Rock, Paper,Scissors, but once the proverbial genie had been released it wasn’t going back in the bottle because it was having too much fun playing with the grown up before school began.
On this particular morning one of the fingernails of the hands playing was painted bright orange. In the midst of the action, one brash girl stopped so she could tell the boy who was attached to the orange fingers that it was “against the rules” for a boy to wear nail polish. She punctuated her proclamation with an authoritative, “My mom said so.” Another boy chirped that his mom also said that boys were not allowed to paint their nails—only girls.
The orange-nailed boy quietly slunk away.
As the father of a boy, who on occasion likes to paint his nails, I have some strong opinions on the subject. I told the objectionable kids that everybody has different rules and just because their moms told them one thing doesn’t mean it applies to everyone. It took a lot not to use phrases like “narrow minded” or worse when talking to those kids about their mothers.
The kids scattered to line up when the bell ran. I hugged the Bean, who had witnessed the whole thing, and reminded him that no matter what anyone else says it’s okay for anyone to paint their nails if they want to. I then scanned the area for the orange-nailed boy. I spotted him at the front of the line and worked my way around some errant kids to get to him. I tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around I looked him in the eye and said, “Just so you know, I think your nails are awesome.”
He smiled as he went off to class.
On this particular morning one of the fingernails of the hands playing was painted bright orange. In the midst of the action, one brash girl stopped so she could tell the boy who was attached to the orange fingers that it was “against the rules” for a boy to wear nail polish. She punctuated her proclamation with an authoritative, “My mom said so.” Another boy chirped that his mom also said that boys were not allowed to paint their nails—only girls.
The orange-nailed boy quietly slunk away.
As the father of a boy, who on occasion likes to paint his nails, I have some strong opinions on the subject. I told the objectionable kids that everybody has different rules and just because their moms told them one thing doesn’t mean it applies to everyone. It took a lot not to use phrases like “narrow minded” or worse when talking to those kids about their mothers.
The kids scattered to line up when the bell ran. I hugged the Bean, who had witnessed the whole thing, and reminded him that no matter what anyone else says it’s okay for anyone to paint their nails if they want to. I then scanned the area for the orange-nailed boy. I spotted him at the front of the line and worked my way around some errant kids to get to him. I tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around I looked him in the eye and said, “Just so you know, I think your nails are awesome.”
He smiled as he went off to class.
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Mini Moguls
The Bean knew exactly what his problem was. Legos cost money. A lot of money. And even though he was relatively new to math, his skills were sharp enough for him to figure out that it would take him a very long time to save up for that Ninjago set on his meager allowance. So the kid decided to get creative.
Driving up to the house one evening, I spotted the Bean and Sprout marching on the sidewalk, a few of their old toys scattered on the front lawn yelling, “Toys for sale! Get some toys! Only one dollar! Toys for sale!”
While I appreciated their moxie, there were a few holes in their plan. The first being that there is very little foot traffic in front of our house. The second is that it was a good bet that anyone who might be passing by probably wasn’t going to want a beat up truck or tattered doll.
For nearly 20 minutes, the kids paced back and forth yelling to get the attention of people who weren’t there. The Bean looked dejected as he trudged inside for his bath. Billy Mays he was not.
A few days later the Bean had another idea. He realized there was one thing a kid could do to earn a few bucks in the suburbs—a staple of childhood so familiar that it’s practically a cliché—lemonade stand!
A day was picked and a menu was planned. WonderWife™ asked the Bean to write a shopping list of all of ingredients they might need to sell lemonade and cookies. The kids helped juice the lemons and while they painted signs, WonderWife™ baked. To counter the foot traffic problem, WW™ suggested a spot a few blocks away in front of a post office. We posted the time and location of the stand on Facebook (because we are modern parents and both helplessly addicted to social media), loaded up the car, set up and watched as the kids went to work.
.JPG)
The Bean held up his homemade sign and danced around to attract customers with the natural aplomb and charisma of a street performer. He flipped the sign and shook his ass shouting, “Lemonade! Delicious lemonade!” despite that there was no way the cars zooming along the street could hear him. Sprout was a little meeker in her efforts, but following her brother’s lead she too hoisted her sign and yelled her little voice hoarse.
A few friends stopped by to patronize the sale, but most of the customers were folks from the neighborhood who couldn’t resist the sight of two sweaty kids hustling in the hot Valley sun. The generosity of our neighbors amazed and warmed us, as more than a few people stuffed extra money in the till telling the kids to “keep the change”. WonderWife™ and I helped pour glasses and make change when the math got a little too hard, but the kids did the majority of the work. And nearly two hours later, their supply of lemonade was depleted.
Over a celebratory meal of cheeseburgers we helped the kids count their profits. Incredibly, they each earned enough to buy the toy they wanted. We took them directly to the toy store so they could have the experience of handing over their hard-earned cash in exchange for prizes. Clutching his new Lego figures, the Bean declared it “the best day ever!”
I was incredibly proud of my kids, and made sure I told them so as I tucked them in that night. They worked hard and learned that earning money isn’t easy. But it can be extraordinarily rewarding—especially if you’re the parent of two entrepreneurial kids.
Driving up to the house one evening, I spotted the Bean and Sprout marching on the sidewalk, a few of their old toys scattered on the front lawn yelling, “Toys for sale! Get some toys! Only one dollar! Toys for sale!”
While I appreciated their moxie, there were a few holes in their plan. The first being that there is very little foot traffic in front of our house. The second is that it was a good bet that anyone who might be passing by probably wasn’t going to want a beat up truck or tattered doll.
For nearly 20 minutes, the kids paced back and forth yelling to get the attention of people who weren’t there. The Bean looked dejected as he trudged inside for his bath. Billy Mays he was not.
A few days later the Bean had another idea. He realized there was one thing a kid could do to earn a few bucks in the suburbs—a staple of childhood so familiar that it’s practically a cliché—lemonade stand!
A day was picked and a menu was planned. WonderWife™ asked the Bean to write a shopping list of all of ingredients they might need to sell lemonade and cookies. The kids helped juice the lemons and while they painted signs, WonderWife™ baked. To counter the foot traffic problem, WW™ suggested a spot a few blocks away in front of a post office. We posted the time and location of the stand on Facebook (because we are modern parents and both helplessly addicted to social media), loaded up the car, set up and watched as the kids went to work.
.JPG)
The Bean held up his homemade sign and danced around to attract customers with the natural aplomb and charisma of a street performer. He flipped the sign and shook his ass shouting, “Lemonade! Delicious lemonade!” despite that there was no way the cars zooming along the street could hear him. Sprout was a little meeker in her efforts, but following her brother’s lead she too hoisted her sign and yelled her little voice hoarse.
A few friends stopped by to patronize the sale, but most of the customers were folks from the neighborhood who couldn’t resist the sight of two sweaty kids hustling in the hot Valley sun. The generosity of our neighbors amazed and warmed us, as more than a few people stuffed extra money in the till telling the kids to “keep the change”. WonderWife™ and I helped pour glasses and make change when the math got a little too hard, but the kids did the majority of the work. And nearly two hours later, their supply of lemonade was depleted.
Over a celebratory meal of cheeseburgers we helped the kids count their profits. Incredibly, they each earned enough to buy the toy they wanted. We took them directly to the toy store so they could have the experience of handing over their hard-earned cash in exchange for prizes. Clutching his new Lego figures, the Bean declared it “the best day ever!”
I was incredibly proud of my kids, and made sure I told them so as I tucked them in that night. They worked hard and learned that earning money isn’t easy. But it can be extraordinarily rewarding—especially if you’re the parent of two entrepreneurial kids.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Arrgh! Tis a good day, me hearties!
Arrrrgh! September 19th is International Talk Like a Pirate Day so not only do tha Geek Boy family be talkin' like pirates all day, but I re-post the following audio treat from that scurvy dog, tha Bean (who was nearly 3 years-old at tha time).
Enjoy, me hearties!
Enjoy, me hearties!
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Kiss Ass
Sprout was being stubborn, her default position, and
refusing to brush her teeth. The
Bean was in the bathroom already, his vigorous scrubbing and foam covered mouth
giving him the appearance of a rabid animal. It had been an extraordinarily hot day in the Valley, as
they tend to be in August, and reserves of patience were in limited
supply.
Sprout sat on edge of the tub with the grin of a girl who
thought she was being cute. I
started with the calm approach but gradually worked my way up to full fledged
angry. She was deliberately stalling
and being cocky about it, a move that pushes nearly all of my buttons. Yelling soon gave way to a threat—the loss
of one of her prized toys. That
snapped her into action and soon she too had a mouth full of foam.
Meanwhile the Bean finished up his brushing, smiling the smile of a boy who was glad not to be in Dad’s line of fire. On the way out of the bathroom, he stopped to give me a hug.
“I love you, Daddy,” he said, drawing out the “love” in a sugary
sweet tone. “When it’s my
birthday, I don’t even need a present because I have you as my dad!”
He stood there, waiting for me to respond, waiting for me to
praise him for his compliment. The
sounds of Sprout’s sporadic teeth brushing were all too present amongst the
silence.
“Thank you,” I said after a deep breath. “Any chance you’re telling me this
because I’m yelling at your sister?”
“Uh huh,” he said as he practically skipped down the hall
into his bedroom.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Juvenile Guy Bonding
July was a cruel month for the Geek Boy family, resulting in me seeing the rest of the brood for literally three hours over the course of three weeks. At the end of it all, WonderWife™ needed some solitude and sanity and I desperately needed to reconnect with the kids. Thus the plans for a road trip were hatched. I loaded the kids into the ol’ Family Truckster* and we headed south to the San Diego Zoo.
It was a great whirlwind of a weekend that involved sightseeing, junk food, laughter, room service, swimming and inexplicably waking Daddy up at 5:45am. It was such a jam-packed outing that it took approximately 10 minutes into the drive home for both kids to pass out in the back seat.
The Bean began to stir 45 minutes later.
I was excited. "Buddy…Buddy,” I whispered trying to roust him out of his groggy state.
“What?”
“Look.” I pointed to a sight just over the horizon. “Keep watching that as we get closer.”
He leaned forward as much as his seat belt would allow and squinted. In a few minutes he smiled and suppressed a quiet giggle.
“Should we wake Sprout to see?” he asked.
“No. Let her sleep. This one’s just for you.”
This is what he saw**:
.JPG)
*In real life, the Truckster may more closely resemble a well-worn Camry.
**I am nothing if not predictable.
It was a great whirlwind of a weekend that involved sightseeing, junk food, laughter, room service, swimming and inexplicably waking Daddy up at 5:45am. It was such a jam-packed outing that it took approximately 10 minutes into the drive home for both kids to pass out in the back seat.
The Bean began to stir 45 minutes later.
I was excited. "Buddy…Buddy,” I whispered trying to roust him out of his groggy state.
“What?”
“Look.” I pointed to a sight just over the horizon. “Keep watching that as we get closer.”
He leaned forward as much as his seat belt would allow and squinted. In a few minutes he smiled and suppressed a quiet giggle.
“Should we wake Sprout to see?” he asked.
“No. Let her sleep. This one’s just for you.”
This is what he saw**:
.JPG)
*In real life, the Truckster may more closely resemble a well-worn Camry.
**I am nothing if not predictable.
Monday, May 7, 2012
This Story Does Not Make Me Look Good
The Bean has hated getting water in his eyes since he was
old enough to sit up in the bath.
To this very day, he complains whenever he gets splashed while
bathing. Though he doesn’t seem to
have this problem when he’s swimming.
I don’t know why, but this has always bothered me. I guess that getting splashed in the
eye is one of those details that is so minor to me it should be minor to
him. I mean it’s just water. And he couldn't be complaining about shampoo in his eyes because
it’s not supposed to sting. It
says so right on the bottle. His sister even confirmed that it didn't hurt.
I was giving the Bean his bath when water splashed in his
face. As per his custom, he
freaked out and asked for a rag to wipe his eyes. Even though the rags were in a container that was literally
right outside of the bathroom door, I rejected his request. I’m not sure what compelled me to do
this. Ignoring the fact that he's six, I wanted him to stop being so dramatic over a little water. I figured in a minute he'd forget about his eye and continue on with his washing. Hee began to get really
upset—the screaming, red-eyed, nose-running, sloppy sobbing kind of upset. Instead of nurturing the problem that I
created and getting the boy a rag, I made it worse by calmly telling him to stop crying. The sobbing continued all the way through the bath
and only calmed down after a hug from his mom and some Ninjago.
I felt really shitty about it.
At bedtime, I tucked the Bean under his covers and sat down
on the bed.
I inhaled deeply and said, “In the bath tonight, you asked
for a rag to wipe your eye and I didn’t give it to you. I was wrong and I’m sorry. I should have given you what you were
asking for and the next time I will.”
The Bean looked visibly relieved and a slight smile crept on
his face. We hugged. We kissed. We were good again.
And I walked out of his room learning a very valuable lesson—if it’s
important to him, it doesn’t matter if it’s not important to me.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Holding Hands
I panicked for a moment that I was not holding the Bean’s hand on the escalator, forgetting that he’s old enough to ride it by himself. This was followed by the sharp shot of melancholy that accompanies the realization that your kid is growing up. The Bean no longer needs to hold my hand while crossing the street or in a parking lot.
Sometimes he will take my hand out of habit and I enjoy the feeling of being connected with my first born as we walk. Sometimes he too forgets that he doesn’t need to hold on to me and clasps his hand with mine for a moment before letting go.
It’s only a matter of time before he stops taking my hand altogether. It will be added to the list of things that I miss, along with carrying him on my shoulders and tossing him up in the air.
It’s wonderful to see my son grow up. But there are times when I long for the little boy he used to be. Letting go of his hand is only the beginning.
Sometimes he will take my hand out of habit and I enjoy the feeling of being connected with my first born as we walk. Sometimes he too forgets that he doesn’t need to hold on to me and clasps his hand with mine for a moment before letting go.
It’s only a matter of time before he stops taking my hand altogether. It will be added to the list of things that I miss, along with carrying him on my shoulders and tossing him up in the air.
It’s wonderful to see my son grow up. But there are times when I long for the little boy he used to be. Letting go of his hand is only the beginning.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Volume 8
After rejecting being taught how to tell time after getting a watch: “I don’t need to know how to tell time with a watch!” (12/11)
The Bean: Can you get me the cereal?
DGB: Who am I, your butler?
The Bean: (pointing) Hey everybody, this old man said booty! (1/12)
At a hockey game: "Why do they say 'go Kings go? They don't move." (1/12)
The Bean: This watch makes me look fancy.
DGB: Oh, you want to look fancy?
The Bean: Duh, I'm a boy! (1/12)
“School is so worky!” (10/11)
“I keep thinking, why am I me? It’s hard to explain. Why am I me? I don’t even remember being in mommy’s tummy.” (11/11)
WonderWife™: Why weren’t you wearing underwear?
The Bean: Because it was Wednesday. (11/11)
"I smell stinky chocolate, or is it my feet?" (12/11)
The Bean: "I expected Disney World to look more like Mexico."* (12/11)
The Bean: Those things are in a force shield
WonderWife™: A force field.
The Bean: No, a force shield! (1/12)
The Bean: Aki. Aki ya.
DGB: What are you doing?
The Bean: Speaking Spanish.
DGB: That's not Spanish.
The Bean: I know!! (4/12)
*He's never been close to Mexico.
Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Volume 6
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition
Volume 7
The Bean: Can you get me the cereal?
DGB: Who am I, your butler?
The Bean: (pointing) Hey everybody, this old man said booty! (1/12)
At a hockey game: "Why do they say 'go Kings go? They don't move." (1/12)
The Bean: This watch makes me look fancy.
DGB: Oh, you want to look fancy?
The Bean: Duh, I'm a boy! (1/12)
“School is so worky!” (10/11)
“I keep thinking, why am I me? It’s hard to explain. Why am I me? I don’t even remember being in mommy’s tummy.” (11/11)
WonderWife™: Why weren’t you wearing underwear?
The Bean: Because it was Wednesday. (11/11)
"I smell stinky chocolate, or is it my feet?" (12/11)
The Bean: "I expected Disney World to look more like Mexico."* (12/11)
The Bean: Those things are in a force shield
WonderWife™: A force field.
The Bean: No, a force shield! (1/12)
The Bean: Aki. Aki ya.
DGB: What are you doing?
The Bean: Speaking Spanish.
DGB: That's not Spanish.
The Bean: I know!! (4/12)
*He's never been close to Mexico.
Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Volume 6
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition
Volume 7
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Voices
I give different voices to the characters in some of the books I read to my kids. Not all of them, but some. I don't what it is about a particular book that inspires me to do it, but I am compelled each time I read them aloud to add this performance element. Though I possess a few talents, the ability to create cartoon quality voices escapes me. Most of them end up sounding a lot like Marvin Martian/Kermit the Frog mutations.
I started doing the voices for the Bean though I am not sure if he didn't notice or just didn't care because he never said anything about them. Maybe he just accepted that this is what some grow ups do when they read books. Sprout, on the other hand, has become enchanted with them–well two of them, at least.
Piggy (a pig) has a nasally whine. Gerald (elephant) has a dumb sounding voice kind of like Petey Puma when he's asking for a whole lotta lumps. They are the stars of a series of books by the immortal Mo Willems. The Bean went through big phase with these books that burned hot and fast. They soon collected dust on his shelf–until the girl found them. I've been reading them to her for a few weeks now in the exact same way that I read them to her brother, with these goofy voices. Each performance is fairly consistent, the cadence and inflection of the characters were cemented in years ago. Surprisingly, Sprout not only noticed the voices she soon asked me to sing her goodnight song in Piggie's voice.
The singing requests came through for the next few nights and it wasn't long before Gerald joined the act, helping Piggie sing Mary Had a Little Lamb. Without a book to follow, the act varied a bit from night to night. Sprout was enthralled. Next Sprout discovered the Bean's old Gerald and Piggie dolls and they were added to the song. Sprout now squeals with delight when her nighttime routine turns into a puppet show.
And I must admit that I am very much enjoying performing nightly for an audience of one.
I started doing the voices for the Bean though I am not sure if he didn't notice or just didn't care because he never said anything about them. Maybe he just accepted that this is what some grow ups do when they read books. Sprout, on the other hand, has become enchanted with them–well two of them, at least.
Piggy (a pig) has a nasally whine. Gerald (elephant) has a dumb sounding voice kind of like Petey Puma when he's asking for a whole lotta lumps. They are the stars of a series of books by the immortal Mo Willems. The Bean went through big phase with these books that burned hot and fast. They soon collected dust on his shelf–until the girl found them. I've been reading them to her for a few weeks now in the exact same way that I read them to her brother, with these goofy voices. Each performance is fairly consistent, the cadence and inflection of the characters were cemented in years ago. Surprisingly, Sprout not only noticed the voices she soon asked me to sing her goodnight song in Piggie's voice.
The singing requests came through for the next few nights and it wasn't long before Gerald joined the act, helping Piggie sing Mary Had a Little Lamb. Without a book to follow, the act varied a bit from night to night. Sprout was enthralled. Next Sprout discovered the Bean's old Gerald and Piggie dolls and they were added to the song. Sprout now squeals with delight when her nighttime routine turns into a puppet show.
And I must admit that I am very much enjoying performing nightly for an audience of one.
Friday, March 23, 2012
He Ski
“I want to be there now!” the boy said brimming with excitement. “It’s the afternoon already.”
Actually it was 8:30 in the morning. But since the Bean and I had only been awake for 2 hours and an hour and a half of that was spent in the car, I couldn’t blame him for being somewhat confused. We had gotten an early start on our way to the mountains. Today was the day I was going to introduce the Bean to skiing.
I am a terrible athlete. I can barely throw and I have been literally laughed at by my closest friends while playing basketball. But despite all of this somehow I have emerged a decent skier. (Back before I had kids, when I used to hit the slopes on a regular basis, I was actually a really good skier.) Skiing ranks up there with roller coasters and going to the movies as one of my favorite things to do. Of course like roller coasters and movies, my chosen partner in crime, WonderWife™, has no interest in it. This is why I’ve been not so secretly hatching a plan to get at least one of my kids into ski. And since the Bean is the oldest, he was lucky enough to try first.
In order for this plan to work, I had to be smart and patient. The Bean hasn’t always taken to new things, especially ones that require practice when you’re a noob (just ask WonderWife™ who’s been an unfortunate spectator when the kid first started playing Lego Batman). While some kids start skiing as young as 3 or 4, I knew that I needed to wait a bit longer. I couldn’t just shove him in ski pants, plop him on a mountain and expect him to like it just because I want him to. I’d have to strike at the right time. Thankfully, this past summer the Bean started asking about snow. He wanted to go to the mountains and have a snowball fight. When the weather turned cold, I told the Bean I was going to take him to snow and take him skiing. He was excited and we were off to a good start.
On the way up to the mountain, I reminded the Bean that he was not going to be a very good skier at first. He was going to spend a lot of time falling down. He was okay with this—mostly because when he plays the We Ski video game he loves making his avatar crash into things. I also reminded him that falling in real life may be a bit more painful than when done virtually.
We rented his equipment and I stuffed his feet into his ski boots. I tried not to laugh as he struggled to walk in the clunky gear. He didn’t find it funny. We had an hour before his lesson so I took him to a flat section near the base of the slopes and showed him how to get into his skiis. Pretty much immediately he was on his ass. A lot of frustrated yelling was soon hurled my way and I quickly realized that although I know how to ski myself, I had no idea who to teach somebody to do it. We soon gave up skiing in order to have the snowball fight he so desperately wanted.
I dropped the Bean off with the ski instructor and made my way to the lodge where stood with the beauty of a mirage in the desert a patio that overlooked the bunny slope next to a bar. I ordered a brew and covertly watched my boy learn “pizza.” It wasn’t long before he took a small run, his instructor in tow. Near the end of his lesson, he was turning by himself. I beamed with pride, suppressing the urge to point out my kid to the rest of the bar patrons.
I was standing at the top of the moving carpet lift when the Bean crested the hill. He saw me and through the biggest smile he could muster said, “I love this! I want to do it more!”
It seemed my plan had worked. Sadly, the Bean will have to wait another year to ski again. Jelly legs prevented us from taking any more runs that day and there is a painfully limited window of opportunity to ski in Southern California as the season is so short. But rest assured, as soon as the next snow falls I will be making the trek with my young Padawan to the mountains to continue his training.
Actually it was 8:30 in the morning. But since the Bean and I had only been awake for 2 hours and an hour and a half of that was spent in the car, I couldn’t blame him for being somewhat confused. We had gotten an early start on our way to the mountains. Today was the day I was going to introduce the Bean to skiing.
I am a terrible athlete. I can barely throw and I have been literally laughed at by my closest friends while playing basketball. But despite all of this somehow I have emerged a decent skier. (Back before I had kids, when I used to hit the slopes on a regular basis, I was actually a really good skier.) Skiing ranks up there with roller coasters and going to the movies as one of my favorite things to do. Of course like roller coasters and movies, my chosen partner in crime, WonderWife™, has no interest in it. This is why I’ve been not so secretly hatching a plan to get at least one of my kids into ski. And since the Bean is the oldest, he was lucky enough to try first.
In order for this plan to work, I had to be smart and patient. The Bean hasn’t always taken to new things, especially ones that require practice when you’re a noob (just ask WonderWife™ who’s been an unfortunate spectator when the kid first started playing Lego Batman). While some kids start skiing as young as 3 or 4, I knew that I needed to wait a bit longer. I couldn’t just shove him in ski pants, plop him on a mountain and expect him to like it just because I want him to. I’d have to strike at the right time. Thankfully, this past summer the Bean started asking about snow. He wanted to go to the mountains and have a snowball fight. When the weather turned cold, I told the Bean I was going to take him to snow and take him skiing. He was excited and we were off to a good start.
On the way up to the mountain, I reminded the Bean that he was not going to be a very good skier at first. He was going to spend a lot of time falling down. He was okay with this—mostly because when he plays the We Ski video game he loves making his avatar crash into things. I also reminded him that falling in real life may be a bit more painful than when done virtually.
We rented his equipment and I stuffed his feet into his ski boots. I tried not to laugh as he struggled to walk in the clunky gear. He didn’t find it funny. We had an hour before his lesson so I took him to a flat section near the base of the slopes and showed him how to get into his skiis. Pretty much immediately he was on his ass. A lot of frustrated yelling was soon hurled my way and I quickly realized that although I know how to ski myself, I had no idea who to teach somebody to do it. We soon gave up skiing in order to have the snowball fight he so desperately wanted.
I dropped the Bean off with the ski instructor and made my way to the lodge where stood with the beauty of a mirage in the desert a patio that overlooked the bunny slope next to a bar. I ordered a brew and covertly watched my boy learn “pizza.” It wasn’t long before he took a small run, his instructor in tow. Near the end of his lesson, he was turning by himself. I beamed with pride, suppressing the urge to point out my kid to the rest of the bar patrons.
I was standing at the top of the moving carpet lift when the Bean crested the hill. He saw me and through the biggest smile he could muster said, “I love this! I want to do it more!”
It seemed my plan had worked. Sadly, the Bean will have to wait another year to ski again. Jelly legs prevented us from taking any more runs that day and there is a painfully limited window of opportunity to ski in Southern California as the season is so short. But rest assured, as soon as the next snow falls I will be making the trek with my young Padawan to the mountains to continue his training.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Cow
It had been a long day at work and a long day at home. I was starving by the time the kids were corralled, bathed, dressed and put to bed. Thankfully WonderWife™ had a plate of that night’s dinner waiting for me in the fridge. Peeling back the foil I discovered chicken and pasta in a béchamel sauce (that’s white sauce for all of you non-Food Network addicts out there). It might have looked monochromatic, but it was tasty.
I had just hunkered down in front of the TV digging into the meal when the Bean emerged from his bedroom.
WonderWife™ and I turned our heads and said, “Go to bed!” with the precision of a pair of synchronized swimmers.
“But, but…” the Bean stammered. “But I need to tell Dad about the cow.”
Apparently livestock was brought to the Bean’s school as a teaching aid. It was clear that the Bean was not going to even attempt to sleep until his story was told.
“Go ahead,” I said shoving another forkful of dinner into my mouth.
His eyes lit up. “Did you know that a cow has four sections in his stomach? And that it eats food and it goes into the first part of the stomach and gets moistened and then it goes back into the mouth and chews it again and it goes through all four of the stomachs.”
I looked down at my dinner plate, chunks of chicken and pasta covered in that creamy sticky white sauce that didn’t seem as appetizing as it had moments ago. I realized that I was still chewing my last bite of food.
“Then the cow peed and we all laughed,” the Bean said gleefully.
He was beaming, waiting for my response. I slowly swallowed.
“Thank you for that enlightening dinner conversation,” I said. “Now please go to bed.”
I had just hunkered down in front of the TV digging into the meal when the Bean emerged from his bedroom.
WonderWife™ and I turned our heads and said, “Go to bed!” with the precision of a pair of synchronized swimmers.
“But, but…” the Bean stammered. “But I need to tell Dad about the cow.”
Apparently livestock was brought to the Bean’s school as a teaching aid. It was clear that the Bean was not going to even attempt to sleep until his story was told.
“Go ahead,” I said shoving another forkful of dinner into my mouth.
His eyes lit up. “Did you know that a cow has four sections in his stomach? And that it eats food and it goes into the first part of the stomach and gets moistened and then it goes back into the mouth and chews it again and it goes through all four of the stomachs.”
I looked down at my dinner plate, chunks of chicken and pasta covered in that creamy sticky white sauce that didn’t seem as appetizing as it had moments ago. I realized that I was still chewing my last bite of food.
“Then the cow peed and we all laughed,” the Bean said gleefully.
He was beaming, waiting for my response. I slowly swallowed.
“Thank you for that enlightening dinner conversation,” I said. “Now please go to bed.”
Thursday, February 23, 2012
After
It was hard to tell where the body was buried. The only clue was the small pile of loose dirt that all but blended into the debris that surrounded it. I held my children’s hands as we stood in a circle around the grave. We were there to say goodbye to our pet.
The Bean was adamant with his suggestion that we mark the occasion by reciting “The Plegible Legions.”* With no better ideas on the table, we did it. In the middle of it WonderWife™ and I caught each other’s gaze. The emotions of the past few days mixed with the absurdity of the moment and we couldn’t keep ourselves from laughing.
The kids had handled the news that their pet was being put to sleep remarkably well, all things considered. WonderWife™ and I had planned for the conversation with the precision of a military strike. We decided not to pull any punches with them. We would not invent wild fantasies to disguise the truth with sugary sweetness. There would be no talk of kitty heaven. We planned for lots of tears and lots of questions. Both were in plentiful supply.
That morning, the Bean said his final goodbyes to his cat and left for school. Sprout didn’t have pre-school that day, so my job was to plan a morning of activities that would distract her while WonderWife™ took care of the unpleasantries. While it was hard to plaster a happy look on my face to keep my daughter focused on playing, I knew that my wife was dealing with the way more difficult task.
That afternoon, we sat shiva. WW™ made a pie and we lit candles and said a few nice words about our departed cat. After the sugar worked its way into the Bean’s system, he declared the day “the best ever!”, oddly seeming to forget that a just few moments earlier we stood over the grave of our companion performing an inappropriate eulogy. It didn’t matter. The tension had been broken.
*Say it out loud.
The Bean was adamant with his suggestion that we mark the occasion by reciting “The Plegible Legions.”* With no better ideas on the table, we did it. In the middle of it WonderWife™ and I caught each other’s gaze. The emotions of the past few days mixed with the absurdity of the moment and we couldn’t keep ourselves from laughing.
The kids had handled the news that their pet was being put to sleep remarkably well, all things considered. WonderWife™ and I had planned for the conversation with the precision of a military strike. We decided not to pull any punches with them. We would not invent wild fantasies to disguise the truth with sugary sweetness. There would be no talk of kitty heaven. We planned for lots of tears and lots of questions. Both were in plentiful supply.
That morning, the Bean said his final goodbyes to his cat and left for school. Sprout didn’t have pre-school that day, so my job was to plan a morning of activities that would distract her while WonderWife™ took care of the unpleasantries. While it was hard to plaster a happy look on my face to keep my daughter focused on playing, I knew that my wife was dealing with the way more difficult task.
That afternoon, we sat shiva. WW™ made a pie and we lit candles and said a few nice words about our departed cat. After the sugar worked its way into the Bean’s system, he declared the day “the best ever!”, oddly seeming to forget that a just few moments earlier we stood over the grave of our companion performing an inappropriate eulogy. It didn’t matter. The tension had been broken.
*Say it out loud.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Lesson In Equality
It was the day after the MLK holiday. I was getting Sprout ready for bed.
“We got treated at school today,” Sprout said to me as I helped her pull her pajamas over her head.
“How did you get treated?” I asked.
“We got M&Ms.”
“Why did you get treats at school?”
“The teacher gave all the kids with curly hair M&Ms.”
“And since you have curly hair, you got some. But kids without didn’t get any?”
“No.”
“How do you think they felt about that?”
“Bad. But then the teacher gave them M&Ms too. They were treated.”
“You mean they were treated the same?”
“Yes.”
“We got treated at school today,” Sprout said to me as I helped her pull her pajamas over her head.
“How did you get treated?” I asked.
“We got M&Ms.”
“Why did you get treats at school?”
“The teacher gave all the kids with curly hair M&Ms.”
“And since you have curly hair, you got some. But kids without didn’t get any?”
“No.”
“How do you think they felt about that?”
“Bad. But then the teacher gave them M&Ms too. They were treated.”
“You mean they were treated the same?”
“Yes.”
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Gender Observations
After spending a good portion of the evening piecing together his new Lego Y-Wing Fighter, the Bean was eager to play with me. He quickly fashioned a crude Lego ship for me to pilot and the space battle commenced. Midway through our aerial skirmish, Sprout slid into my lap, new doll in hand, and also wanted to play. While the Bean was busy dive-bombing my ship, Sprout’s doll complimented my Lego guy’s outfit and asked if I wanted to help cook breakfast. I attempted to land my ship at her dollhouse table, but was under heavy fire from the Y-Wing. Unfortunately, Sprout’s dollhouse took some friendly fire and breakfast was never cooked.
I was fortunate enough to be one of two people who attended the marriage of Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue (aka “Lemon Girl”). The surprisingly short ceremony took place on the floor of Sprout’s room and was officiated by Sprout herself. The dolls walked down the aisle, were complimented on their hair by Sprout and made to give each other a hug and a kiss. Afterwards Strawberry Shortcake made Lemon Girl soup because she was feeling sick.
Over a rare leisurely brunch with some friends, the topic of boys and girls came up. The couple has two girls, but the husband clearly wished he had a boy in his life to balance the scales. As we discussed what life was like with a boy in the house--including, but not limited to: destruction, running around like a 55 lb. wrecking ball, constantly jumping on the furniture (and my back), the ever present very loud noises and screaming, smelly feet, excessive gas… As their girls quietly played with Sprout on the floor, the husband peered at the Bean and looked a little pallid.
The Bean is no longer allowed to play Mario Kart right before bed. He cannot contain himself when he plays, tapping his feet and bouncing on the couch like the Lord of the Dance after a few Red Bulls. The rush of adrenaline causes him to sweat profusely, dampening his just-washed body and clean pajamas and making sleep nearly impossible to attain. We have noticed that this phenomenon is not limited solely to the Bean. While gorging on an afternoon feast of Mario Kart with a friend, both boys were unable to stop squirming while they played.
Upon saying goodbye to his friend, the Bean in a surprisingly effective move swept the boy’s leg like a Cobra Kai and talked him. They continued to flop around on the floor with a ferocity that belied their friendship. The kid’s dad and I just looked at each other and shrugged. Off in the corner, Sprout played with her dolls, either unaffected or decidedly ignoring the rambunctiousness of brother.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I was fortunate enough to be one of two people who attended the marriage of Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue (aka “Lemon Girl”). The surprisingly short ceremony took place on the floor of Sprout’s room and was officiated by Sprout herself. The dolls walked down the aisle, were complimented on their hair by Sprout and made to give each other a hug and a kiss. Afterwards Strawberry Shortcake made Lemon Girl soup because she was feeling sick.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Over a rare leisurely brunch with some friends, the topic of boys and girls came up. The couple has two girls, but the husband clearly wished he had a boy in his life to balance the scales. As we discussed what life was like with a boy in the house--including, but not limited to: destruction, running around like a 55 lb. wrecking ball, constantly jumping on the furniture (and my back), the ever present very loud noises and screaming, smelly feet, excessive gas… As their girls quietly played with Sprout on the floor, the husband peered at the Bean and looked a little pallid.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The Bean is no longer allowed to play Mario Kart right before bed. He cannot contain himself when he plays, tapping his feet and bouncing on the couch like the Lord of the Dance after a few Red Bulls. The rush of adrenaline causes him to sweat profusely, dampening his just-washed body and clean pajamas and making sleep nearly impossible to attain. We have noticed that this phenomenon is not limited solely to the Bean. While gorging on an afternoon feast of Mario Kart with a friend, both boys were unable to stop squirming while they played.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Upon saying goodbye to his friend, the Bean in a surprisingly effective move swept the boy’s leg like a Cobra Kai and talked him. They continued to flop around on the floor with a ferocity that belied their friendship. The kid’s dad and I just looked at each other and shrugged. Off in the corner, Sprout played with her dolls, either unaffected or decidedly ignoring the rambunctiousness of brother.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Hair Don't
Sprout’s ponytail was askew, causing her perfectly round head look lopsided. I had attempted yet again to do her hair and yet again the results were less than stellar. Earlier my fingers had been tangled in ropes of her brunette tresses as she struggled to pull away from me so she could chase one of the cats around the house. She won, breaking free with her badly coifed curls bouncing in seemingly every direction.
It took a long time for Sprout’s hair to grow. She was a bald baby for a while before straight, sparse hair overtook her pate at around 2 years old. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but recently Sprout’s hair has sprung up like some sort of type-A Chia Pet. She now has a mop of long, unruly curly hair that gets in her face…a lot. This means hair clips. So many hair clips. It also means I need to learn a thing or two about hair care.
I don’t know anything about hair. I’ve had short hair practically my whole life (save for that brief period in junior high when I had a mullet*). I don’t even use a hairbrush, let alone clips or barrettes or rubber bands. The only use I have for rubber bands is making giant balls. Even growing up with a sister hasn’t helped. She used to cut the hair off of all of her dolls.
The hair stuff is really just the tipping point, the first symptom in a problem I became saddled with the minute our doctor said, “you’re having a girl.” I’m not good at the girl stuff. The first stark realization of this came while changing the newborn Sprout’s diapers. Since she was my second child, I was a little cocky when it came to the parenting basics. But I quickly learned that girls come with a whole set of new equipment that has a whole set of different rules to navigate. Though I had previously had some experience with the adult version, the baby girl parts proved to be intimidating. I was told one wrong move and infection could set in. It was all too clear that there was a lot I didn’t know.
As a pre-schooler Sprout has proven herself to be a girl’s girl, which means there’s a lot of foreign stuff orbiting my world these days: dolls with tutus, princesses, dress up clothes, outfits that need to be coordinated, glittery stuff, stuff with feathers, foreign sounding ballet moves and a plethora of hair clips that seemingly appear from the ether to bite me in sensitive places whenever I sit on the couch. I don’t want to paint myself as some stereotypical clueless dad, but I'm at a loss with what to do all of it. My son asks me a question about Bugs Bunny or Batman and I’m a walking Wikipedia. My daughter asks me to braid her doll’s hair and I’m completely paralyzed.
I'm trying to learn. I'm working on doing a better job with Sprout's hair. One day I hope to fix her mop without WonderWife™ having to re-do it because every failed attempt at Sprout’s hair is another reminder of what I don’t know.
*Don’t judge, it was the 80’s.
It took a long time for Sprout’s hair to grow. She was a bald baby for a while before straight, sparse hair overtook her pate at around 2 years old. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but recently Sprout’s hair has sprung up like some sort of type-A Chia Pet. She now has a mop of long, unruly curly hair that gets in her face…a lot. This means hair clips. So many hair clips. It also means I need to learn a thing or two about hair care.
I don’t know anything about hair. I’ve had short hair practically my whole life (save for that brief period in junior high when I had a mullet*). I don’t even use a hairbrush, let alone clips or barrettes or rubber bands. The only use I have for rubber bands is making giant balls. Even growing up with a sister hasn’t helped. She used to cut the hair off of all of her dolls.
The hair stuff is really just the tipping point, the first symptom in a problem I became saddled with the minute our doctor said, “you’re having a girl.” I’m not good at the girl stuff. The first stark realization of this came while changing the newborn Sprout’s diapers. Since she was my second child, I was a little cocky when it came to the parenting basics. But I quickly learned that girls come with a whole set of new equipment that has a whole set of different rules to navigate. Though I had previously had some experience with the adult version, the baby girl parts proved to be intimidating. I was told one wrong move and infection could set in. It was all too clear that there was a lot I didn’t know.
As a pre-schooler Sprout has proven herself to be a girl’s girl, which means there’s a lot of foreign stuff orbiting my world these days: dolls with tutus, princesses, dress up clothes, outfits that need to be coordinated, glittery stuff, stuff with feathers, foreign sounding ballet moves and a plethora of hair clips that seemingly appear from the ether to bite me in sensitive places whenever I sit on the couch. I don’t want to paint myself as some stereotypical clueless dad, but I'm at a loss with what to do all of it. My son asks me a question about Bugs Bunny or Batman and I’m a walking Wikipedia. My daughter asks me to braid her doll’s hair and I’m completely paralyzed.
I'm trying to learn. I'm working on doing a better job with Sprout's hair. One day I hope to fix her mop without WonderWife™ having to re-do it because every failed attempt at Sprout’s hair is another reminder of what I don’t know.
*Don’t judge, it was the 80’s.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Ghost Train
There were a few hundred people lined up outside the entrance to the train yard. Stupidly, it had never occurred to me that a spooky ghost train ride running for a scant few nights around Halloween in a big city like Los Angeles might attract a crowd. So the Bean and I would just have to wait it out. This was the first sign of trouble.
The Bean’s excitement at riding the train carried us through for a little while. He had spent the majority of the day exclaiming, “Oooh, I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” (I was pretty excited about it too.) The Bean was also curious about being up past his bedtime. He didn’t yet have a solid grasp of time, so as we waited the conversation went like this:
The Bean: If we were at home, what would I be doing right now?
Me: You would be in the bath, complaining about having to wash instead of getting to play.
(Five minutes later…)
The Bean: What would I be doing now?
Me: You would be drying yourself off and running naked around the house, refusing to put on your pajamas.
(Five minutes later…)
The Bean: What would I be doing now?
Me: You’d be halfway through your first game of Mario Kart, bouncing around on the couch like a maniac and whining that you weren’t winning.
Twenty minutes went by and we had barely moved. Since we were now officially past the Bean’s bedtime, our conversation had subsided. He remained excited about the train ride, but was getting a little antsy. I didn’t have anything for the Bean to do but watch the kids who’s smart parents had brought glowsticks and lightsabers. I attempted to keep the kid busy by “timing” how fast he could run to a nearby tree and back. That didn’t last for very long.
It took us an hour before we reached the entrance to the train yard. The Bean was growing tired, but was steadfast in his wanting to ride the train. Then I noticed the second sign of trouble: what was usually a small straight line from the ticket booth to the train was now an unruly queue made up of a couple hundred people that snaked back and forth four times. Though he was deflated and yawning consistently, the Bean insisted that we stay. At least inside the yard there were Halloween decorations to look at.
We slowly moved our way past one of the displays that turned out to be the third sign of trouble: a mannequin bathed in a black light with a woman’s face projected on to it hung on a wall, creating a ghostly visage. It was a cheaper version of the effect used to bring Madam Leola to life in the Haunted Mansion. And even though the Bean had been in the Haunted Mansion a plethora of times with absolutely no problem, this freaked his head off. I tried to diffuse the situation by showing him the projector and telling him how the trick was done but the Bean was still afraid. At this point, we had been waiting for nearly an hour and a half.
As we zigged and zagged through the line, the Bean alternately complained about being scared and being tired. I asked him if he wanted to go and he gave a sharp, firm no. He was going to ride that train. Then he spied a picture that was projected onto a makeshift frame hung above the train platform. It was an old-timey person that slowly transformed into a zombie—another trick he’d seen at Disneyland that wigged him out here. He slid behind me and covered his eyes.
I became convinced that the ghost train was going to break my son. I mean here was a kid who claimed to have gotten spooked by a scene from Dinosaur Train. I gave the Bean every out imaginable. Yet the kid was determined to let anything keep him from riding the train that night. I wondered how long it would take me to save up for his therapy bills.
We had been waiting for two hours by the time we reached the front of the line. The Bean was practically asleep on his feet suddenly became excited boarding the train. I, on the other had, was incredibly nervous.
Thankfully the ride was fairly mild, favoring goofy scares over true horror. And even though there were some images a little more severe than not-Madame Leola, the Bean wasn’t bothered by any of it and we both had a spooky good time. Even though it was two hours past the Bean’s bedtime, the ride acted like a caffeine shot and he was bouncing all over the place after we arrived home, unable to contain his excitement as he told his mom of his adventure on the Ghost Train.
The Bean’s excitement at riding the train carried us through for a little while. He had spent the majority of the day exclaiming, “Oooh, I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” (I was pretty excited about it too.) The Bean was also curious about being up past his bedtime. He didn’t yet have a solid grasp of time, so as we waited the conversation went like this:
The Bean: If we were at home, what would I be doing right now?
Me: You would be in the bath, complaining about having to wash instead of getting to play.
(Five minutes later…)
The Bean: What would I be doing now?
Me: You would be drying yourself off and running naked around the house, refusing to put on your pajamas.
(Five minutes later…)
The Bean: What would I be doing now?
Me: You’d be halfway through your first game of Mario Kart, bouncing around on the couch like a maniac and whining that you weren’t winning.
Twenty minutes went by and we had barely moved. Since we were now officially past the Bean’s bedtime, our conversation had subsided. He remained excited about the train ride, but was getting a little antsy. I didn’t have anything for the Bean to do but watch the kids who’s smart parents had brought glowsticks and lightsabers. I attempted to keep the kid busy by “timing” how fast he could run to a nearby tree and back. That didn’t last for very long.
It took us an hour before we reached the entrance to the train yard. The Bean was growing tired, but was steadfast in his wanting to ride the train. Then I noticed the second sign of trouble: what was usually a small straight line from the ticket booth to the train was now an unruly queue made up of a couple hundred people that snaked back and forth four times. Though he was deflated and yawning consistently, the Bean insisted that we stay. At least inside the yard there were Halloween decorations to look at.
We slowly moved our way past one of the displays that turned out to be the third sign of trouble: a mannequin bathed in a black light with a woman’s face projected on to it hung on a wall, creating a ghostly visage. It was a cheaper version of the effect used to bring Madam Leola to life in the Haunted Mansion. And even though the Bean had been in the Haunted Mansion a plethora of times with absolutely no problem, this freaked his head off. I tried to diffuse the situation by showing him the projector and telling him how the trick was done but the Bean was still afraid. At this point, we had been waiting for nearly an hour and a half.
As we zigged and zagged through the line, the Bean alternately complained about being scared and being tired. I asked him if he wanted to go and he gave a sharp, firm no. He was going to ride that train. Then he spied a picture that was projected onto a makeshift frame hung above the train platform. It was an old-timey person that slowly transformed into a zombie—another trick he’d seen at Disneyland that wigged him out here. He slid behind me and covered his eyes.
I became convinced that the ghost train was going to break my son. I mean here was a kid who claimed to have gotten spooked by a scene from Dinosaur Train. I gave the Bean every out imaginable. Yet the kid was determined to let anything keep him from riding the train that night. I wondered how long it would take me to save up for his therapy bills.
We had been waiting for two hours by the time we reached the front of the line. The Bean was practically asleep on his feet suddenly became excited boarding the train. I, on the other had, was incredibly nervous.
Thankfully the ride was fairly mild, favoring goofy scares over true horror. And even though there were some images a little more severe than not-Madame Leola, the Bean wasn’t bothered by any of it and we both had a spooky good time. Even though it was two hours past the Bean’s bedtime, the ride acted like a caffeine shot and he was bouncing all over the place after we arrived home, unable to contain his excitement as he told his mom of his adventure on the Ghost Train.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Molasses
The speed at which Sprout headed toward the toilet stood in direct opposition to the urgency in her voice when she said she needed to use the potty. Her movements were painfully lethargic.
“I’m moving in slooooow motion,” Sprout said to me. There was a mischievous smile directly underneath the brunette curls of hair that has spilled down over her eyes. She didn’t care that we were in a hurry.
The expression “like molasses on a cold day” often pops into my mind when it comes to my daughter. No matter what Sprout is doing, she does it with painstaking methodical deliberation. Even when there is urgency to her action, like the potty or needed to spit toothpaste into the sink, she is at a snail’s pace. This flies in the face of the ultra-fast, always running late, trying to herd cats pace of day-to-day life in our house.
Naturally, this drives me crazy. Sprout knows this drives me crazy, which is why she is sometimes slow on purpose. When an already slow child decides to be even slower, the result can be excruciating. Moving like a glacier she will carefully pull her shirt over her head, all the while smiling at me. “I’m slooooow,” she says in a voice that sounds like a cartoon turtle.
There are times when I am flummoxed that this child can be three years-old. She seems way too smart and way too manipulative. On those mornings when both kids have school and WonderWife™ is feeding them breakfast and preparing lunches and I’m working on getting them ready for the day and Sprout is operating at the speed of a dial up computer trying to download a movie, I have to fight back the urge to throttle. I try reasoning instead. In some cases, I’m not above begging. But it’s no use, she’s slow even when she’s not doing it on purpose.
Meanwhile, the Bean buzzes around like a caffeinated hummingbird.
These are my mornings. These are my children. This is my life.
“I’m moving in slooooow motion,” Sprout said to me. There was a mischievous smile directly underneath the brunette curls of hair that has spilled down over her eyes. She didn’t care that we were in a hurry.
The expression “like molasses on a cold day” often pops into my mind when it comes to my daughter. No matter what Sprout is doing, she does it with painstaking methodical deliberation. Even when there is urgency to her action, like the potty or needed to spit toothpaste into the sink, she is at a snail’s pace. This flies in the face of the ultra-fast, always running late, trying to herd cats pace of day-to-day life in our house.
Naturally, this drives me crazy. Sprout knows this drives me crazy, which is why she is sometimes slow on purpose. When an already slow child decides to be even slower, the result can be excruciating. Moving like a glacier she will carefully pull her shirt over her head, all the while smiling at me. “I’m slooooow,” she says in a voice that sounds like a cartoon turtle.
There are times when I am flummoxed that this child can be three years-old. She seems way too smart and way too manipulative. On those mornings when both kids have school and WonderWife™ is feeding them breakfast and preparing lunches and I’m working on getting them ready for the day and Sprout is operating at the speed of a dial up computer trying to download a movie, I have to fight back the urge to throttle. I try reasoning instead. In some cases, I’m not above begging. But it’s no use, she’s slow even when she’s not doing it on purpose.
Meanwhile, the Bean buzzes around like a caffeinated hummingbird.
These are my mornings. These are my children. This is my life.
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