Monthly Archives: April 2013

50 shapes of chicken

We were on our way to KFC for dinner, because I’m classy that way and it’s only the best for my family.

I don’t know why I periodically crave KFC. I would guess that the 11th herb or spice must be crack cocaine, except that I don’t think they make a version of crack that you would crave only once or twice a year. Maybe it’s the mind-boggling number of different shapes of chicken you can get in a single store. It certainly isn’t the clear, informative menu posted behind the counter. My dear Colonel, as your friend I must tell you that your menu board has never enlightened anyone about the various manifestations of chicken and chicken-like products you serve. Your front counter is a reservoir of confusion, where customers and cashiers meet to gaze in wonder at the petroglyphs above and ponder their possible meanings.

Anyway, I was driving to KFC to get some spherical chunks of chicken for me and my family when my son called out from the back seat, “Hey look, I found some white trash.”

Okay, just because I have a sudden taste for KFC does not mean you get to call me names.

I glanced over my shoulder. The boy was holding up an old, curled register receipt. It was white and it was very likely trash. I was relieved that he was not, in fact, hurling an insult at me. I reassured myself that KFC was a fine, upstanding establishment and I was perfectly within my rights to enjoy one of its many incarnations of poultry.

At the store, the cashier and I went through the mutually baffling routine known as placing my order. We got most of what I thought I’d ordered, which I counted as a success, and went to eat in the pristine dining room for which all KFCs are famous.

Our dinner conversation settled upon the issue of whether our boys more closely resemble myself or my wife. People tell us one or the other, but we have never been convinced of a strong resemblance between either boy and either parent.

My wife asked our older son to put his face next to mine.

“Why?” he asked.

“Mommy wants to look at us together so she can tell if you look like me,” I explained.

His look communicated that he thought this a preposterous idea. Running his palm over the crown of his head, as if modeling his skull for Men’s Fitness Magazine, he replied, “I have lots of hair right here, so I don’t look like you.”

Ouch.

The kid was on fire, tonight. This one wasn’t a coincidence. This one was targeted shot. Fortunately, I am comfortable with the amount of hair on top of my head – more comfortable than I was with random chicken bits on my plate.

boy and iguana

That’s the crown of the boy’s head in the foreground. The crown of my head is below. Family resemblance? You decide.

Bald comparison

Speaking of birds, apparently I don’t much look like this “Bald” Eagle either. The eagle is at far right – the one with the great hair.

Pride and baby gates goeth before a fall

My wife and I know it’s in everyone’s best interests for the baby to learn to walk. We know this, but we ignore it.

We ignore this tried and true fact of life for a single reason. That reason can be explained in two words: baby gates.

Nobody likes baby gates. They are a pain to put up, a pain to negotiate, and a physical pain when you foolishly try to step over one because your hands are full. You almost make it cleanly, except for that foot that has grown older and fatter than you recall it. You go down hard and take the baby gate with you. Now you get to go through the pain of putting it up all over again.

Baby gates are especially hard to think about once you’ve suffered through them, put them away, and enjoyed living in a free-flowing home for a few years.

baby with walker

Mere days away from turning our home into a compartmentalized federation of rooms.

Our first child became a walker almost exactly on his first birthday. We were foolish, novice parents then. We got caught up in the competition of child development. We fell over ourselves helping that boy learn to walk. We were playing Beat the Clock against a clock that didn’t exist. It turns out that the age at which a child first walks is not recorded on his permanent record.

We beamed with pride when he took those first steps. Then we scowled with annoyance as we put up, and fell over, the baby gates designed to keep our happy little walker from walking anywhere except in circles.

The second baby wants to walk. We also want him to walk. Philosophically, we want him to walk. In practical terms, we’d be fine if he took a few more months to become an Olympic caliber crawler before he took on any new projects.

Every time I forget myself and hold the baby’s hands so he can practice, my wife mouths the words baby gate at me and I sheepishly set the boy down and pretend I have some other pressing business that needs my attention. My wife hates baby gates even more than I do, possibly because she carries more baskets of laundry around the house than I do.

We understand that it could be inconvenient to have a fourth grader who hasn’t yet learned to walk. Maybe we’ll target first or second grade, when the child is skilled enough at reading so that we can post warning signs around the stairs instead of using baby gates.

Yes, I know that’s just a pipe dream. This boy will be strolling around the most dangerous sections of the house before we can wring those last few drops of comfort from duty-free passage between rooms. In spite of our hard-earned wisdom, we’ll help him walk. Then we will attempt foolish hurdles for which we are too old and round. We will tumble down; most likely, a safe, happy, footloose toddler will laugh at our clumsiness.

 

Why are cows so smart?

I’ve seen online debates between people who hold that childlessness is the supreme lifestyle choice and those who espouse the blessings of children.

I’ve never joined these debates. I won’t try to convince people who really don’t want children to have children. Also, the reasons they list against having children: the expense, the disappearance of free time, stifled romance, sleep deprivation, etc., are all true. They are painfully, irrefutably true.

You can’t demonstrate the value of children by listing their virtues, nor condense what you get from your kids into bullet points. It’s magic that must be experienced:

On Saturday, we had two goals. My car needed an oil change and we wanted to attend a family activity at our university. I dropped my car off at the shop advertising an oil change and tire rotation for $21.99. My family picked me up and we went to the event.

We saw lots of animals. My wife and my son put their hands into the stomach of a living cow through a porthole cut into its side. Since cows and I have a checkered history, I kept my hands to myself.

Then we stood in a long line so the boy could milk a cow. Poor kid, when I was his age, I never had to wait in line to milk a cow. I got to milk cow after cow, no waiting. Those were the good old days, I guess.

girl and cow

In the old days, cows weren’t as well-educated as they are today. They hadn’t learned how to market themselves; hence, children could walk right up and milk them without waiting in line for an hour.

As we walked down a hallway decorated like an undersea panorama. I asked my son, “Why are fish so smart?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re always in schools.”

He walked a few feet and then asked. “Why are worms so smart?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because they go to worm school.”

I laughed the father’s obligatory laugh and soon forgot about jokes.

We were viewing lizards when the boy tugged my arm. “Daddy, why are cows so smart?”

There was 99% chance of cow school. “Why?”

“Because they go to cowllege.”

I laughed, because I was sincerely tickled. “Where did you hear that joke?”

He tapped his finger on his head. “In my own brain.”

 

getting ready to milk

Flashing a nervous smile in anticipation of his first experience with a cowllege girl.

 

On our way home, I called to ask about my car. “We couldn’t get the hood open,” the shop guy said, “so we couldn’t do anything.”

I do have a sticky hood latch, but it’s never thwarted mechanics before. Maybe it was finally kaput, or maybe those mechanics didn’t have my secret weapon: a four-year-old to help them.

I took the car home. My son and I had the hood up within five minutes.

How do I list this day to illustrate the awesomeness of children? I can’t. You have to live it.

I can’t prove the boy invented the cow joke. Before I had children, I would have thought there’s no way a four-year-old comes up with that. Now I believe it is absolutely possible.

Is there some magic power in a preschooler tugging on a hood release cable? Probably not. Yet, he tugged on it better than grown men could.

I’ve found faith in the genius of childhood. Maybe it’s not an important faith, as faiths go. It may even be a childlike faith, but that’s often the best kind. It reminds me of the amazing possibilities in life. I’m thrilled to have been part of the creation of the only little people who could bring me such faith. It’s the best thing I ever did.

 

Welcome to the real world; here’s your cheese sandwich

My son sometimes plays a game where he pretends to be a waiter. He calls us Sir and Ma’am and writes down what we would like to eat on his imaginary order pad. We have grown to like the restaurant he works in because they have an expansive menu and can prepare anything we think of ordering.

As the boy grows up, the world becomes less pretend and more real. In this development, something is gained and something is lost. For instance, last night our four-year-old waiter actually served real food. This was a revolutionary step forward, but it played havoc upon his once expansive menu.

“I’m hungry,” my wife said to my son. “Can you get me something to eat?”

“Okay, what would you like?” he replied as he got out his invisible order pad. We expected him to take the order, disappear, and reappear with an equally invisible dish of whatever was ordered.

“Pizza,” my wife decided.

Cheese sandwich

THE COOK: The key is folding the bread right. A delicious sandwich must look as good as it tastes.

The boy hesitated to write it down. “Okay,” he said, “I will make you . . . a cheese sandwich.”

“No pizza?” the dejected mother asked.

“No. A cheese sandwich is the only thing on my menu. So, what would you like? A cheese sandwich . . . or nothing?”

“I guess I’ll have a cheese sandwich. But I only want one slice of bread.”

“Good choice.”

He went to the kitchen. We heard noises of actual food preparation from that direction. “Do you want a kid plate or a grown-up plate?” he yelled to her.

“A kid plate is okay.”

“Good, because I’ve got a red one for you. It’s solid red, okay?”

“Okay.”

Bringing Mommy a sandwich

THE WAITER: Our menu has expanded to include cheese sandwiches served on solid blue kid plates.

He rooted around the kitchen for a few minutes before returning with a beautiful cheese sandwich on a solid red kid plate. The presentation was as good as either of his parents could have done. There was one piece of bread, folded evenly over a few neatly stacked slices of American cheese. There was nothing sloppy about the sandwich.

“Wow! That’s a nice-looking sandwich,” his mother told him. “Look at all that beautiful cheese.”

“You got an extra slice because you’ve been so good today,” he informed her.

The sandwich looked so good that everyone, including the baby, had to have a bite of it. I’m not a huge fan of cheese sandwiches, but that was just about the best bite of anything I’ve ever had.

As we all took a taste, the waiter/cook/restaurant manager explained the shortness of the menu. “I can only make things that don’t go in the oven or on top of the stove, because I could burn myself.” He gave us a serious look. “I mean, I could burn myself really bad.”

So, they no longer have a huge selection of entrees at this restaurant. I don’t care about that. What they do have, they make with great skill and, I dare say, with love. Besides that, the service is excellent.