Monthly Archives: May 2013

Going commando is what you make of it

Several weeks ago, my son took a bath. Yes, he has taken one or two baths since then, but the several weeks ago bath is the seed of the story I’m about to tell. After this particular bath, he went into this room to get dressed only to discover that all of his underwear were in the laundry.

“Uh-oh, looks like somebody’s going commando today,” I told him.

“What’s commando?” he asked.

“That’s when you put on your clothes, but you don’t wear any underwear.”

This idea did not appeal to him, so we waited to go about our daily business until some of his underwear could be washed.

Buzz Lightyear's worst nightmare

Buzz Lightyear begs you to go commando, today and every day.

About a week later, I came out of the shower to get dressed for work. My son was watching TV in my room. When he saw me pull out the drawer, he said, “Daddy, I don’t think you need underwear. You should go commando today.”

I’d like to assure any of my co-workers who may be tuning in that I did not take his advice. I’m prim and proper now, not like the old days.

Over the weeks, the boy has fallen in love with the phrase going commando. He has tried to adapt it so that it fits his own wild side. He would much rather wear underwear and no clothes than wear clothes and no underwear. In fact, I believe he would rather live completely naked than go about wearing clothes with no underwear.

At any rate, he rather enjoys running around the house and making a lot of noise, drawing attention to the fact that he is wearing only underwear. This is the action he has fitted to his new favorite phrase, going commando.

wild man vs. commando

The outfit on the right, without the outfit on the left, constitutes going commando. The outfit on the left, without the outfit on the right, is formal wear for a four-year-old wild man.

Boys his age go through their wild man stages. I don’t mind it, but I am a bit of a stick in the mud when it comes to language, even slang. I wish he wouldn’t insist on corrupting the meaning of going commando. I also wish he wouldn’t be so bi-polar in fluctuating between wild man and prude.

My carefree little commando can turn prissy on a dime. Last week, we walked to the playground. In spite having assured us before leaving home that he did not have to go to the bathroom, his first words upon reaching the playground were, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

There were no facilities within range. “Take him behind a tree,” my wife advised.

I led him behind a suitable pine and showed him the appropriate place. And do you know what that wild man, commando, tough guy asked me? He asked me this: “Why are you making me pee like an animal?”

He needs to work on his aim and generally improve his urination deportment a little bit before he can claim to be peeing like an animal, but I didn’t bother to tell him that.

This tail was made for pulling

face-off with cat

“The thing I love best about you is that you’re so unpredictable.”

Our baby and our cat are best friends. This is an unexpected development. When the big boy was a baby, he and the cat had an awkward relationship. The thing they had most in common was a wariness of the other. They might have been reality TV show contestants.

Since the big boy was the first baby, it is possible that the cat resented the way he stole the limelight. In a childless house, the cat was a pet. After baby-number-one arrived, the cat became more like a mobile piece of décor. The squeaky, helpless, crying wheel got the grease, and the cat got to make adjustments in his expectations. This may have soured the cat on the idea of human babies. The baby’s herky-jerky, heavy-handed flailing may have played a role as well. We’ll never know for sure.

Baby-number-one and the cat had their rare, sweet moments, but these were mostly when the baby was very drowsy or already asleep. The two of them were never best buddies.

Baby-number-two has taught the cat a lesson in demographics. Mr. Cat is outnumbered now, and since he hasn’t had all of his man parts in more than a decade, and there are no eligible bachelorette cats in our house anyway, he’s not likely to roll back the tide. Facts are facts.

To his credit, the cat has adjusted to his changing world. He has reached out to this new baby in an effort to mend fences with baby-kind. He flops down beside the baby and allows himself to be petted, if petted means having little fistfuls of his fur grabbed, his tail tugged, and his ears pulled. All of this is a form of attention, and the cat has come to appreciate that.

The cat also understands that this baby means no harm. He has a lighter touch than his brother did and that probably helps. If his grabby style of petting hurt the cat, the cat likely would not keep eagerly subjecting himself to it. But it doesn’t hurt, or at least it hurts better than nothing.

Their relationship is not all sunshine and lollipops, though. They’ve had their spats. One time the baby must have tugged upon the wrong piece of cat, because the cat had to yell at him. “Stop it! That hurts!” the cat said. That’s what I think he said, anyway. It was in cat language. It sounded mostly like “Rrrairrrlw!” but I think my translation is pretty close.

The baby cried after the cat scolded him. His feelings were hurt. He was only trying to play with his friend.

Another time I warned the baby in a stern voice not to tug the cat’s leg like he was. I was hoping to avoid another cat-yelling incident. I did avoid it, but the baby cried at my warning anyway. He’s very sensitive about his cat.

It’s tough when all you want to do is play with your best buddy and all it does is get you yelled at.

The perfect knock-knock joke

There’s something about a knock-knock joke. Four-year-olds can’t get enough of them. This is God’s wrath on parents.

I don’t know what crime parents have committed to merit such a harsh punishment, but it must have been something really bad.

Tell a knock-knock joke to a four-year-old (which is something a sane person should never do) and he will assume that you made it up on the spot. Moreover, he will be so enchanted with your improvisational talent that he will begin to search for his own light of inspiration. He will start inventing his own knock-knock jokes, on the spot, just like you did.

Now, because you are insane, you are stuck with a four-year-old knock-knock joke salesman. You will be bombarded with impromptu nonsense, of which all you will understand are the words: “Knock. Knock.” And you will laugh. There is nothing funny about this; you will laugh nonetheless. You will laugh because you don’t have the heart not to laugh, and because you feel awkward about telling your kid to just shut up in public. Also, you are insane. It is mostly insane people who go around laughing when nothing funny is tickling their senses.

I, too, am insane. I did the unthinkable and told my son a knock-knock joke one carefree afternoon. Now, I endure marathons of comedy like this:

“Knock. Knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

Mr. Banana comes to call

I was wondering if you were interested in a free estimate for house painting.

“Banana who?”

“Banana open the door.”

Mr. Banana gets impatient

For God’s sake, open the door! I’m getting ripe out here waiting.

And I laugh. I laugh heartily, as though my tin foil helmet is tickling the base of my neck. I laugh like I’ve finally gotten the straitjacket broken in so it doesn’t pinch like it used to do.

The other night, I was enduring a bombardment of such jokes when my son proved that at least one of us still clings to a tenuous grasp on sanity. Somehow, he hit upon the perfect knock-knock joke for a four-year-old. It summed up everything in five lines. It would have been a miserable failure of a joke if it had come from the mouth of anyone even a few years older. For a four-year-old, it was perfect – perfectly funny – because great humor is rooted in truth.

“Knock. Knock.”

Who’s there?”

“I.”

“I who?”

“I have no idea what’s going on here.”

For a fleeting moment, I took off my straitjacket, exited my rubber room, and laughed at the most sanely funny thing in the world: truth.

Then, the normal barrage resumed, and I took shelter in my safe place.