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.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Wit & Wisdom Combo-Pack: The Bean, Volume 9, Sprout Volume 4
Today is a special two-for-one offer, a collection of the ramblings of my kids. Though not as prolific as they used to be, my kids can sure burst forth with nuggets of wisdom. Here is a collection from the past year:
Grown ups get to do whatever they want...except for evil things. (10/12)
The Bean's Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Volume 6
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition
Volume 7
Volume 8
Sprout's Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
THE BEAN
(Watching TV)
Me: She said that woman [they're talking about on the news] is a Republican.
The Bean: Why did you call her a pelican? (2/12)
The Bean: Why did you call her a pelican? (2/12)
Anyone see that new cartoon with Mordecai and
Rapey? (6/12)
Upon trying Indian Candy for the first time: It
tastes like underwater ham! (5/12)
I wish every quarter was a dollar (6/12)
Muffins are fancier than cupcakes. (6/12)
Is this salad here to make the table look
pretty or are we going to have to eat it? (6/12)
Me: What words do you know in Spanish?
The Bean: Agua. Darth Vader. (8/12) ™
The Bean: Agua. Darth Vader. (8/12) ™
Grown ups get to do whatever they want...except for evil things. (10/12)
I saw birds practicing geometry because they
were flying in a circle and a square. (11/12)
Do all the other crabs obey the King Crab?
(12/12)
Me: Remember the stuff you get with arcade tickets doesn't last forever.
The Bean: Yeah, especially if you squeeze it. (12/12)
SPROUT
Is it tomorrow today? (1/12)
Let’s play America's Funniest Videos. You tickle me until I fall off the bed! (3/12)
If you see any bad guys let me know
because I have a gun. (2/12)
You might make me smile, but you can’t make
me happy. (6/12)
Oh man, I rule this popsicle stick! (6/12)
Sprout: Daddy's job is to go to work ad make money
for the family.
WonderWife™: What's mommy's job?
Sprout: I don't know, be lazy? (9/12)
Sprout: I don't know, be lazy? (9/12)
The Bean's Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Volume 6
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition
Volume 7
Volume 8
Sprout's Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
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!
Monday, September 10, 2012
Eternally Disgusting
I managed to horrify even myself this year. In all it's shocking glory, I present the annual list of everything I ate at the Los Angeles County Fair:
Brick o' Curly Fries.
Deed Fried Strawberry Cream Cheese Wonton
Fried Spam
3 Beers
Trio of Street Tacos
Trio of Sliders
Pressure Cooked Fried Chicken
Deep Fried Cookie Dough
Deep Fried Trix Cereal
Deep Fried Klondike Bar
Cheesy Garlic Bread
Homemade Potato Chips
Deep Fried Hot Dog
Apple Pulled Pork Grilled Cheese
Traditional Grilled Cheese
Hot Fudge Brownie Sundae
Deep Fried Watermelon
Deep Fried Red Velvet Cake
Soft Pretzel
(Amazingly, no bacon this year.)
Brick o' Curly Fries.
Deed Fried Strawberry Cream Cheese Wonton
Fried Spam
3 Beers
Trio of Street Tacos
Trio of Sliders
Pressure Cooked Fried Chicken
Deep Fried Cookie Dough
Deep Fried Trix Cereal
Deep Fried Klondike Bar
Cheesy Garlic Bread
Homemade Potato Chips
Deep Fried Hot Dog
Apple Pulled Pork Grilled Cheese
Traditional Grilled Cheese
Hot Fudge Brownie Sundae
Deep Fried Watermelon
Deep Fried Red Velvet Cake
Soft Pretzel
(Amazingly, no bacon this year.)
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Guy Talk
The Bean was in the bathtub when I got home from work. He was really happy to see me and launched into details about camp. Having drunk several cups of coffee and water throughout the day, followed by a marathon of afternoon meetings and a long drive home, I was in desperate need of relief. I closed the door and told the kid of my intentions to pee.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” he said. “I’ll turn away.”
“You don’t have to. We’re both guys. It’s okay.”
After the business at hand had begun the Bean said, “At camp after swimming today, my friends were talking about wieners.”
“Like with your guy friends?”
“Yeah, they were making jokes about wieners and…” The Bean got a guilty look on his face and stopped talking.
“What’s wrong?”
"Mom said I’m not allowed to say ‘wiener’.”
“Listen, when you’re with guys or your dad there are certain things you can say that you shouldn’t say in front of mom. It’s called guy talk. With me, ‘wiener’ is okay.“
The Bean soaked in that information before continuing to tell me the wiener jokes his friends made at camp.
I smiled realizing that this conversation is going to be very similar but very different when he’s 13.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” he said. “I’ll turn away.”
“You don’t have to. We’re both guys. It’s okay.”
After the business at hand had begun the Bean said, “At camp after swimming today, my friends were talking about wieners.”
“Like with your guy friends?”
“Yeah, they were making jokes about wieners and…” The Bean got a guilty look on his face and stopped talking.
“What’s wrong?”
"Mom said I’m not allowed to say ‘wiener’.”
“Listen, when you’re with guys or your dad there are certain things you can say that you shouldn’t say in front of mom. It’s called guy talk. With me, ‘wiener’ is okay.“
The Bean soaked in that information before continuing to tell me the wiener jokes his friends made at camp.
I smiled realizing that this conversation is going to be very similar but very different when he’s 13.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Everything You Need To Know About Me
In my formative years, one of my prized possessions was a book called "The World's Worst Elephant Jokes."
The first joke in the book went like this:
What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill?
"Here come elephants over the hill."
The second joke in the book went like this:
What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill wearing dark sunglasses?
Nothing. He didn't recognize them.
Now you understand what my family puts up with.
The first joke in the book went like this:
What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill?
"Here come elephants over the hill."
The second joke in the book went like this:
What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill wearing dark sunglasses?
Nothing. He didn't recognize them.
Now you understand what my family puts up with.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Retaliation
My Facebook status read:
Hey WonderWife™, that thing with the glitter....? Nicely played. I hate you for it, but nicely played.
Earlier that day, WonderWife™ and I had what we’ll call a domestic squabble. It was a very rare occurrence for us, a couple that prides themselves on how little they fight. (A stark contrast to my parents, who I lovingly refer to as “The Costanzas”…but that’s another post for another time.) The fracas wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. At the core of it, a difference of opinion. It was the kind of row that all married couples have at some point in their relationship. But there was some anger. And by some, I mean a lot. Pointed directly at me. By her. All day I could feel her silently seething in my direction, the quiet aftermath of the initial battle.
I shrewdly decided to keep my distance. Thankfully, it was a divide and conquer sort of day where each of us took a kid to a separate birthday party. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between us. WW™ took Sprout to a party in the morning while I escorted the Bean to an afternoon affair.
In the evening, I went to my study to immerse myself in various forms of social media and tubes of You. There on my desk, directly in front of my laptop were two works of art from my daughter. The kids’ love of arts and crafts had been growing steadily and the walls of my office had become plastered with their various drawings and paintings. They would leave them for me on my desk or on the chair. But upon closer inspection, these pieces were different. They were absolutely the work of my little girl, but she had worked in a new medium. Glitter. Every square inch of the artwork was coated in a thick layer of sparkly art class glitter.
I abhor glitter with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.
I used to have a cat that loved me and was incredibly territorial. During my single days, if a woman started spending too much time with me and getting comfortable in my apartment the cat would leave a present on her pillow. And by present, I mean poop. (The cat did this the most to the woman who would become WonderWife™. Later the two of them strongly bonded.) In this moment, I couldn't help but to think of that cat. WonderWife™ was exactly like her.
I carefully removed the glitter bombs from the room as carefully as Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker, knowing that one false move would mean debris, which would mean sometime in the near future I would be walking around with glitter embarrassingly attached to my face. All the while, WonderWife™ smiled a devilish smile. The message couldn’t have been any clearer if I had woken up next to a horse head.
I was pissed at WonderWife’s™ retaliation but I also applauded her cleverness. This is why I love her.
Hey WonderWife™, that thing with the glitter....? Nicely played. I hate you for it, but nicely played.
Earlier that day, WonderWife™ and I had what we’ll call a domestic squabble. It was a very rare occurrence for us, a couple that prides themselves on how little they fight. (A stark contrast to my parents, who I lovingly refer to as “The Costanzas”…but that’s another post for another time.) The fracas wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. At the core of it, a difference of opinion. It was the kind of row that all married couples have at some point in their relationship. But there was some anger. And by some, I mean a lot. Pointed directly at me. By her. All day I could feel her silently seething in my direction, the quiet aftermath of the initial battle.
I shrewdly decided to keep my distance. Thankfully, it was a divide and conquer sort of day where each of us took a kid to a separate birthday party. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between us. WW™ took Sprout to a party in the morning while I escorted the Bean to an afternoon affair.
In the evening, I went to my study to immerse myself in various forms of social media and tubes of You. There on my desk, directly in front of my laptop were two works of art from my daughter. The kids’ love of arts and crafts had been growing steadily and the walls of my office had become plastered with their various drawings and paintings. They would leave them for me on my desk or on the chair. But upon closer inspection, these pieces were different. They were absolutely the work of my little girl, but she had worked in a new medium. Glitter. Every square inch of the artwork was coated in a thick layer of sparkly art class glitter.
I abhor glitter with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.
I used to have a cat that loved me and was incredibly territorial. During my single days, if a woman started spending too much time with me and getting comfortable in my apartment the cat would leave a present on her pillow. And by present, I mean poop. (The cat did this the most to the woman who would become WonderWife™. Later the two of them strongly bonded.) In this moment, I couldn't help but to think of that cat. WonderWife™ was exactly like her.
I carefully removed the glitter bombs from the room as carefully as Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker, knowing that one false move would mean debris, which would mean sometime in the near future I would be walking around with glitter embarrassingly attached to my face. All the while, WonderWife™ smiled a devilish smile. The message couldn’t have been any clearer if I had woken up next to a horse head.
I was pissed at WonderWife’s™ retaliation but I also applauded her cleverness. This is why I love her.
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.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Chocolate Twinkies
My sister texted me: Have you tried chocolate Twinkies yet?
My text back: Whaa??
A few days later, a package arrived containing a box of chocolate
crème Twinkies. (I love my sister.)
Mere moments after the kids were in bed, WonderWife™ and I broke open the box. She took the first bite.
“Doesn’t really do anything for me,” she said between bites. “But then again, neither do regular Twinkies.”
“So you totally don’t count on this one,” I said.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she shot back, “I’d eat the whole box if given the chance.”
My wife sometimes confuses me. I rolled my eyes at her as I opened up mine. The snack looked like a normal Twinkie—same size, same shape. The only discernible difference was the color of the three dots on the bottom of the cake. They were brown instead of the traditional white. It was only upon taking a bite that the chocolate Twinkie revealed how different it was. In a standard Twinkie the crème and cake are both vanilla, so besides moisture the crème doesn’t add a lot to the flavor of the snack. But the chocolate added an entirely new dimension to the familiar Twinkie flavor. The crème had a richer-than-expected taste that stood out nicely against the spongecake.
The new flavor is a welcome addition to the Hostess arsenal and while I give them a lot of props for creating a new variation that actually tasted new, in the great chocolate vs. vanilla debate I am solidly in the vanilla camp. Also, I’m a Twinkie purist. So if given the choice I’d pick the standard version over the chocolate crème. That is until they make a peanut butter version.
(Have I mentioned lately that I love my sister?)
My text back: Whaa??
A few days later, a package arrived containing a box of chocolate
crème Twinkies. (I love my sister.)
Mere moments after the kids were in bed, WonderWife™ and I broke open the box. She took the first bite.
“Doesn’t really do anything for me,” she said between bites. “But then again, neither do regular Twinkies.”
“So you totally don’t count on this one,” I said.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she shot back, “I’d eat the whole box if given the chance.”
My wife sometimes confuses me. I rolled my eyes at her as I opened up mine. The snack looked like a normal Twinkie—same size, same shape. The only discernible difference was the color of the three dots on the bottom of the cake. They were brown instead of the traditional white. It was only upon taking a bite that the chocolate Twinkie revealed how different it was. In a standard Twinkie the crème and cake are both vanilla, so besides moisture the crème doesn’t add a lot to the flavor of the snack. But the chocolate added an entirely new dimension to the familiar Twinkie flavor. The crème had a richer-than-expected taste that stood out nicely against the spongecake.
The new flavor is a welcome addition to the Hostess arsenal and while I give them a lot of props for creating a new variation that actually tasted new, in the great chocolate vs. vanilla debate I am solidly in the vanilla camp. Also, I’m a Twinkie purist. So if given the choice I’d pick the standard version over the chocolate crème. That is until they make a peanut butter version.
(Have I mentioned lately that I love my sister?)
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
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Pain in the Chest
I’m dying, I thought to myself as I woke up. It was my fifth day living with an unidentified pain that resided in my chest near my heart. As I rolled over, my arm felt numb. This is it, I nearly said out loud, this is the beginning of my end. For a few minutes, I was too groggy to realize that I had been lying on my arm, thus the pins and needle sensation. Thankfully, WonderWife™ wasn’t making toast for breakfast because that might have sent me into a tailspin. So I wasn’t having a heart attack, but I didn’t have an answer for the ache in my chest.
I’m not a hypochondriac. I rarely get sick. I didn’t want to go to the doctor. I wanted to hide in the back of my closet. This was impractical, unrealistic and foolish. I needed to act. People in this world depended on me and loved me. But I was scared. Scared of what this pain might mean. Scared of what the doctor could tell me. I forced myself not to look anything up on the internet.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I told WonderWife™ about the pain knowing that once I blurted the truth to her, I couldn’t run away from it. She wouldn’t let me.
“I need to go to the doctor,” I told WW™ quietly over breakfast. “There’s something wrong with me. I know it. I’m scared. I’m dying.”
She rubbed my shoulder and reassured me in a way that said, “you’re going to be fine” and “you’re a freaking lunatic.” I wished she would have said, “You’re not dying you just can’t think of anything better to do.” But that’s a foolish pipe dream.
At this point I did what any rational non-rational person would do and made an appointment with the my GP. After I carefully laid out my symptoms, the doc seemed rather nonplussed about my condition. I didn’t take this as a sign of encouragement, because the man might be the most blasé person I’ve ever encountered. He did tell me that it was unlikely I was dying, but so that I might someday be able to get back to sleep he would run a few tests.
I was escorted to a small, seemingly little-used back room of the office where, sitting amongst boxes of files haphazardly strewn about, was a treadmill. Electrodes were glued all over my body and I tried not to think about how they would feel later being pulled off of my fuzzy chest. I ran on the treadmill while the doctor and a nurse cranked it faster and higher all the while reading beeps and lines of the machine that was connected to me. Or they could have been playing Angry Birds. I’m not really sure because I was busy huffing it on the treadmill, silently pleading for them to stop the machine before I passed out.
As predicted, none of the things a doctor wouldn’t want to see on the test were there. Everything was fine. Sure I had blown through my deductible in one visit, but I now had peace of mind. For now. I’m getting older. It’s really just a matter of time before something else happens.
I’m not a hypochondriac. I rarely get sick. I didn’t want to go to the doctor. I wanted to hide in the back of my closet. This was impractical, unrealistic and foolish. I needed to act. People in this world depended on me and loved me. But I was scared. Scared of what this pain might mean. Scared of what the doctor could tell me. I forced myself not to look anything up on the internet.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I told WonderWife™ about the pain knowing that once I blurted the truth to her, I couldn’t run away from it. She wouldn’t let me.
“I need to go to the doctor,” I told WW™ quietly over breakfast. “There’s something wrong with me. I know it. I’m scared. I’m dying.”
She rubbed my shoulder and reassured me in a way that said, “you’re going to be fine” and “you’re a freaking lunatic.” I wished she would have said, “You’re not dying you just can’t think of anything better to do.” But that’s a foolish pipe dream.
At this point I did what any rational non-rational person would do and made an appointment with the my GP. After I carefully laid out my symptoms, the doc seemed rather nonplussed about my condition. I didn’t take this as a sign of encouragement, because the man might be the most blasé person I’ve ever encountered. He did tell me that it was unlikely I was dying, but so that I might someday be able to get back to sleep he would run a few tests.
I was escorted to a small, seemingly little-used back room of the office where, sitting amongst boxes of files haphazardly strewn about, was a treadmill. Electrodes were glued all over my body and I tried not to think about how they would feel later being pulled off of my fuzzy chest. I ran on the treadmill while the doctor and a nurse cranked it faster and higher all the while reading beeps and lines of the machine that was connected to me. Or they could have been playing Angry Birds. I’m not really sure because I was busy huffing it on the treadmill, silently pleading for them to stop the machine before I passed out.
As predicted, none of the things a doctor wouldn’t want to see on the test were there. Everything was fine. Sure I had blown through my deductible in one visit, but I now had peace of mind. For now. I’m getting older. It’s really just a matter of time before something else happens.
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.
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