Tag Archives: parenting

The world according to Buster

You’ve probably heard the phrase, “I’m a lover not a fighter.” If our one-year-old could speak English, he would never say such a thing. He would proudly proclaim that he is a lover and a fighter.

He’s a little scrapper, that one. He loves to roughhouse and he’s not above bopping a family member on the nose when push comes to shove, or at any time before or after. He’s not very big for his age, but he makes up for his lack of volume with full doses of piss and vinegar.

Buster Brown

With a haircut like this, you’d have to be a fighter. (Image: Richard F. Outcalt)

My wife suggested that we change his name to Buster, or maybe Brutus. Brutus was the big meanie who picked fights with Popeye. This was either directly before, or directly after, his name was Bluto. I can’t remember the chronology; it’s so hard to keep up with Popeye now that he’s not appropriate for children anymore.

Buster and Brutus are tough guy names. But our little rough and tumble kid has a sweet side too. He’s a really good hugger who is never shy about passing out kisses to his family. If you rescue him from his crib when it has become a prison to him, he’s apt to take your face in his hands, turn it toward him, and plant a big wet one on your lips. (And you can pretty much count on baby kisses to be wet, even out of runny nose season.)

Pick him up from day care and he will smother you with hugs and kisses. He’s never loved anybody so much as he loves the particular parent who brings him home from that peculiar form of exile.

When you have a toddler who is both so rough and so tender, you have to be careful about how you teach him to employ the opposing sides of his personality. We’ve learned it is dangerous to lead such a child to the belief that a kiss is the equivalent of an apology.

Brutus . . . er . . . Bluto?

“See, it says right here. My name was Bluto until 1956, and again after 1958.” (Image: Fleischer Studios)

Sure, it seems like a sweet kiss would be a nice way to say I’m sorry, when the culprit is too young to say I’m sorry with actual words. But no.

Whenever the little boy plowed an unprovoked fist into this brother’s ear or pinched his arm, we asked him to make up by giving his brother a kiss. He had no problem doing this. After all, the punch was meant in good fun. Since no one hits him, he doesn’t know how much it can hurt.

Kisses seemed like a fine substitute until Buster could express his remorse in actual words.

Then, one day Mommy picked up her little boy and asked him for a kiss. He knitted his brow. He wanted to give her a kiss, but could not recall having anything to apologize for. So he punched her in the ear.

And then, in accordance with his training, he gave her a sweet kiss dripping with love (i.e. baby spit).

Be careful what you inadvertently teach your Buster.

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like a house with the right kind of bed in it

On the days I pick my son up from kindergarten, we come home through the neighborhood. There are a lot of very nice, roomy houses on the school side of our neighborhood. The homes get smaller and plainer as we get closer to ours. When there is nothing left to envy about the houses we pass, we know we are home.

dream home

What our house surely looks like from the other end of the neighborhood. (Image: Marion Post Wolcott/US Farm Security Administration)

There have been three or four houses for sale along our path since we began taking it. They are all near the school, over on the swanky side of town. We couldn’t afford to upgrade to any of them, but with the addition coming to our family, it is tempting to fantasize about living in a bigger house.

My son always points out each house with a for sale sign in the front yard. We make a game of picking out which property each of us thinks is the nicest. It’s kind of a stupid game, since they are all nicer than people of our ilk can afford. But it passes the time.

One day, on our trip home, I asked the boy, “Would you like to move to a new house?”

“No.”

“Not even a nice, big, fancy one like these?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the new house might have a girl’s bed in it.”

“A girl’s bed? What does that mean?”

“It might come with a girl’s bed in my bedroom instead of a boy’s bed.”

I’d never thought of that. Who would want to take such a chance? “When you move to a new house, you take your own bed with you,” I explained.

“Oh. That’s a good idea. I should keep my same bed.”

Yesterday was my morning to take him to school. All of his favorite pants and shirts were in the hamper, so we had to make do with whatever was clean. He balked at the two pairs of pants I could find that fit him. Then, when I finally got him to understand that there were no other choices, he complained that the shirt I found went with a different pair of pants. The situation escalated. I yelled at him to just put something on before we were late. He whined and got all pouty about having to wear such unappealing clothes.

fresh laundry

All his other clothes were dirty. (Image: Dorthea Lange/US Farm Security Administration)

And there I was arguing fashion with my five-year-old son. I’d never imagined a scenario that would lead me to this result.

It’s a good thing I don’t have any money to buy a new house. There was an hour yesterday morning when I might have shopped for one that came with a girl’s bed.

That knee-jerk reaction faded fast. It soon occurred to me that he was arguing about his loss of control more than about fashion. Even so, he can be into fashion or whatever else he wants. He’ll always be my boy and he’ll always be able to bring his own bed wherever we might go.

A child of the world

About a year ago, I wrote about taking the family to an international festival. This was the event where I won happiness by transferring M&Ms between dishes with chop sticks.

At this festival, two Indonesian ladies showed us a traditional marble game called Congkak. They skillfully moved the marbles between wells cut into a wooden tray as I futilely attempted to follow the strategy. It seemed like a fine game, but it involved more thinking than I like to do at my age. My wife was rather taken with it. She continued to watch the women play as I wandered off to enjoy my first taste of Gangnam Style on a large screen Samsung at the South Korean exhibit.

Later in the day, we noticed people at the Malaysian exhibit playing their own version of the game. This redoubled my wife’s interest. I had to agree that if the populations of two countries so culturally distant, and separated by so many thousands of miles, as Indonesia and Malaysia both enjoyed this game, it must be an exceptional entertainment. Having contributed my requisite wise crack on the subject, I forget all about Congkak in the accompanying flash of euphoric smugness.

Congkak board

A traditional Congkak board – not available at Target. (Image: Tropenmuseum)

My wife did not. A year later, she found something that looked like it at Target. It has a different name, so we can’t tell if it is indeed the same game, but the picture on the box shows marbles on a wooden tray, and that’s good enough. She put the game into the cart, declaring that one of the boys would give it to her for her upcoming birthday.

Can't go wrong with wood and marbles

A game that is available at Target, which we bought on the strength of its wood and marbles.

That night, our son found the game on the kitchen counter, where all things we buy that don’t have a preordained spot in the fridge or the pantry sit until we figure out what to do with them. The marbles in the picture must have reminded him of Chinese Checkers. “Is this a Chinese game?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “I think it’s Indonesian or Malaysian.”

“Can I play it?”

“It belongs to Mommy. You’ll have to ask her. But I think it’s for her birthday, so she probably won’t open it until then.”

He thought for a minute, then put together a statement constituting a powerful argument for letting him play. “Well, I’m Indolaysian.”

“You are? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. Just a little bit. But it’s mixed in with the German and Polish and American and all the other stuff, so it’s hard to see.”

“Oh. Well, even so, you’d better go ask Mommy.”

He let it drop. If his lineage bombshell didn’t move me, it sure wasn’t going to do anything for Mommy.

Now, whenever I take a good look at my boy, I try to pick out the Indolaysian traits. He’s right though. The Indolaysian is mixed in seamlessly with the German and Polish and American, and especially all that other stuff. I can hardly pick it out at all.

Bar tender, my darling, let’s have another round over here!

It occurred to me recently that children are like drinks of scotch. After you’ve had a couple, someone will attempt to take advantage of your impaired condition to convince you that just one more would put you right smack dab in the zone of happiness. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve suffered headaches caused by your liquor or your kids. It’s not like you’re going to have half a dozen more, just one, and a little one at that.

Since I’ve had children, I don’t spend much time with scotch anymore. Only time will tell if I made the right choice.

I hope it’s the right choice because we’ve made it again. We’re going on this exciting and frightening adventure one more time.

Here comes the stork

I sure hope they’ve updated the safety regulations on stork transportation.

It’s exciting because my children make me happy, albeit with undertones of aggravation. A third would, by my calculations, increase that happiness by 50%. That doesn’t even account for compounding, but I want to keep any math I have to do as simple as possible.

It’s exciting because I’m still thrilled that a woman of my wife’s caliber would agree to mix her excellent DNA with my swill just once, let alone three times. My wife is amazing; her only failing is an occasional lapse in judgment.

You’d think that by the third go-round, the fear factor would be mitigated. It’s not. It’s a different fear. It’s not that old fear of being sent home from the hospital with a living creature and inadequate training on how to keep it that way. It’s the fear of stretching resources beyond their limits. The house suddenly seems too small. My car is definitely too small. College just became an even fiercer financial dragon. I don’t even know how these kids are going to pay off their preschool loan debt yet.

Retirement? Never heard of it.

After the sixth child, Teddy Roosevelt kept a shot gun filled with bird shot next to his bed. (Image: Kermit Roosevelt)

After the sixth child, Teddy Roosevelt kept a shot gun filled with bird shot next to his bed. (Image: Kermit Roosevelt)

Since we can’t trade in our house, we’re looking at minivans. I hate to give up the 15-year-old car, fully equipped with power nothing, that used to be the symbol of my Spartan existence, but I can’t find any infant seat anchors on the hood. And minivans aren’t so bad. I’m actually looking forward to taking 20 minutes to place an order at the drive through (30 minutes, if the kids want something to eat).

I recently learned from one of my favorite Mommy Bloggers that I’m some kind of hipster because I got married in my late 30s and am producing offspring well into my 40s. First off, she’s confusing trendiness with the inability to get a date for 20 years. Secondly, I just got a whole lot more hip, sister! And it’s not because of the replacement surgery. Not this time.

So the cat’s out of the bag. A bun is the oven. Where’s the scotch?

P.S. I want to send thanks to couple of fantastic blogs. Randomnessessities nominated me for the Liebster Award and Are You Finished Yet? nominated me for something I don’t quite understand but I’m sure is a high honor. Both are very well written blogs. You should check them out.