Tag Archives: parenting

We’re not laughing at your tears; we’re laughing with them

When a child hurts himself and starts to cry, there are numerous ways his parents might react: alarm, fear, laughter.

It may not be the proudest moment of parenthood, but if you have never been inspired to uncontrollable laughter by your child’s mishaps, then you haven’t been a parent very long or your pants are on fire.

The truth is that children sometimes hurt themselves in comical ways. What makes it worse (or better, if you enjoy a good laugh) is that the sounds leading up to the actual crying are like a well-known symphony resounding in the parents’ ears. When that sound track begins to play, a parent has two responsibilities:

  1. Check for blood.
  2. If there is no blood, try to conduct yourself in a manner that appears sympathetic.

The first responsibility is easy to fulfill. The second, not so much. It depends upon the circumstances. Sometimes children hurt themselves in mundane ways that are not at all hilarious. It’s easy to be a good parent when you’re bored. But when the kid goes slapstick, be prepared to have your parenting chops tested.

Last week, my preschool son found a spider on the kitchen floor. As the self-appointed neighborhood watch chief, when it comes to tiny pests in the house, he immediately contacted the authorities. I (the authorities) relocated the spider outdoors.

My son, harkening to the classic axiom of infestations: where there is one, there are bound to be others, decided that he’d better check the kitchen for other spiders. He got my flashlight and was soon crawling around inspecting the nooks and crannies of the room.

We have an island in the middle of our kitchen. My wife and I were standing on one end, and my son quickly disappeared from view as he crawled around the other. We could hear him rooting about on the floor as he entered an area populated by a few wooden chairs.

He must have been too focused upon his work, and his comments to himself about the likelihood of spiders being found here or there, to notice that he wasn’t crawling out in the open anymore. We could see nothing, but we heard the telltale opening of the Overture of Torment:

THUMP!

Then that long inhaled breath that is broken up into three equal parts in the instant between the pain and the wailing:

crying to the microwave

In this over-acted dramatization of the recent tragedy, the boy makes an editorial comment by turning to the microwave for the sympathy that more fortunate children expect from their parents.

“Huuut, huuut, huuut.”

Then, with enough air drawn into his lungs to support it, the wailing itself:

“Aaaaaahhhhhhhh, aaahhnnt, aaaahhhhhaaaaa . . .”

He stood up, both hands holding the top of his head as if pressing that fixture firmly down on his neck until the glue dried. Tears ran down his cheeks as he looked to us for the sympathy so common to our parental natures.

There was no blood, so we looked away, a moment before our bodies began to shake with laughter.

We couldn’t look at him; we certainly couldn’t look at each other. We hid our faces.

My wife found the strength to ask, “What happened?”

“I . . . bumped . . . my . . . head,” he choked out, almost audibly.

I put my head down on the counter and covered my eyes. All I could think about were the spiders who were taking advantage of this tragedy to make good their escape.

The very next day, he was searching for something around the corner in the TV cabinet when we heard the exact same song:

THUMP!

“Huuut, huuut, huuut.”

“Aaaaaahhhhhhhh, aaahhnnt, aaaahhhhhaaaaa . . .”

I can’t hide my mirth on such a regular basis. Once the blood check was over, I let it out. He was angry at first, but after I sat down with him and gave him a big hug, his crying subsided. “Why are you laughing?” he asked.

“I was thinking about yesterday. Remember? You were looking for spiders, but you found a chair instead.”

“Yeah.” He started to laugh too.

They say it’s the best medicine.

Kids are STILL creepy: a horror story sequel

In the early days of this blog, I wrote a post about how my son would stand beside my bed and wake me up with his heavy breathing whenever he needed something in the middle of the night. It was pretty unnerving. Since then, he has changed his methods a couple of times, leading me to the conclusion that there is no good way for him to wake me up in the middle of the night.

kid peeking through door crack

Some people are tormented by the Spawn of Satan. We couldn’t afford that name-brand spawn, so my wife and I concocted a do-it-yourself version of spawn to haunt our midnights.

For a while, the boy gave up coming into the room at all when he wanted to wake me. We leave our door ajar at night. He would stand in the hall and put his mouth up to the crack and urgently whisper, “Daddy!” as many times as necessary to rouse me. This resulted in a higher than normal rate of bad dreams for me.

Even when his call did not penetrate my dream world, it woke me with disturbing thoughts. You’d be surprised how similar a child’s loud whisper of “Daddy!” sounds to the gravelly bellow of a demon-possessed house commanding you to “Get out!” when you are half asleep.

He must have trained me to become a heavier sleeper. You can only lie on pins and needles for so long, waiting for an unearthly voice either to ask for a drink of water or demand that you offer your soul to Satan. Eventually, you learn to sleep through it.

Consequently, the boy doesn’t stop at the door anymore. He’s back to standing beside the bed. Only now, he is more direct about waking me up.

My wife sleeps on a particular side of our bed. That is the only side of me that somebody should be on. When a finger taps me from the other direction at 3 a.m., it can lead to some instant wakefulness.

When this exact event occurred, the other night, I did a remarkably athletic 180 degree flip beneath the covers. Thankfully, I recognized the silhouette of my pint-sized tormentor in the darkness. “What the hell are you doing here?” I bellowed. The curse must be blamed upon my semi-conscious condition. The fact that I was able to refrain from dropping an F-bomb must be credited to my superior parenting instincts.

My wife was bolted awake by my jujitsu move. “You scared the hell out me!” she shouted at one or both of us. She was also semi-conscious, and is a superior parent.

“I want you to make my bad dream go away,” the boy explained.

“Well, you shouldn’t have it anymore, because you just passed it on to me.” I didn’t say this; my wife didn’t say this; we were both thinking it.

We let him lie down with us until he fell asleep. Then we put him in his own bed. He reported no more bad dreams. I guess that means everything worked out okay, except that now I have to sleep always facing toward the outside of the bed.

Don’t let your own spittle get the best of you

Now that my son brushes his teeth by himself, I think nostalgically about what he used to say whenever he reached some developmental milestone. When congratulated upon his accomplishment, his eyes would beam pride and he would say, “I’m getting a big boy.”

The words, “I’m getting a big boy,” always made it sound as if he were heading down to the Big Boy Shelter to pick out a big boy of his very own. If there is truly such a place as the Big Boy Shelter, I would like to know about it, because there are some days when I would like to drop him off there. But he’s had all his shots, he’s good with children, and my wife has grown attached to him, so I guess I’ll keep him.

Of course, he meant, “I’m getting to be a big boy,” but at the time, even the simplest verb in all language, unprocessed by conjugation, thwarted him. It was nothing to be ashamed of; the same simple verb flummoxed Hamlet, and he got to be famous, in spite his inability to come to terms with it.

Hamlet

Contemplating basic verbs. I always do my best pondering when I’m holding my thinking skull. Maybe this guy should get one of those.

My son has since gotten to be a big boy. But big boys still have their troubles. My big boy encounters one of his most vexing troubles occasionally while brushing his teeth. This is the psychological torture caused by a dangling string of spittle.

Nine out of ten times, the boy can rinse and spit without any terrifying results. Yet, every once in a while this process leaves that tenacious thread of spittle hanging from his mouth. This is horrifying to him. He would rather examine the baby’s dirty diapers than touch a thread of saliva from his own mouth. This goes for touching it with his toothbrush as well.

group tooth brushing

“Spittle can’t harm us as long as we stick together. Now, you boys in the back just wait patiently; the girls are almost finished and a toothbrush will come available presently.” (Image: Frank P. Burke)

Whenever his spittle clings to him, as it stretches its disgusting length toward the sink, he freaks. He makes moaning and groaning and whining sounds as he first shakes, then bobs, his head in a frantic effort to free himself of the horrifying link.

Of course I’m laughing, so I’m no help.

My laughter only makes him more furious. How would you feel if there were a rattle snake, hanging by fangs stuck into your lower lip, and your dad just stood there and laughed?

But if his spit is too nasty for him to touch, I’m not getting near it.

platoon tooth brushing

It is never too soon to learn your patriotic duty as an American to stand firm against the spittle hordes.

After about 15 seconds of a full-fledged Irish jig, the strand usually snaps off. By then, the kid is breathless and exhausted, but his mouth is safe to bring his toothbrush near again. That is, unless the strand has the unholy gumption to snap in the middle. Then the terror begins all over again. Only it’s worse now, because it’s going to take longer for this shorter pendulum of swinging spittle to build up enough momentum to break free of him.

He should have continued to leave out simple verbs and just gone and adopted a big boy to do these dangerous tasks for him. It would have been easier that way.

A 100th Post Party – with awards and everything!

This is my 100th post on Snoozing on the Sofa. It has been a lot of fun and a lot of work. The work part makes me think that maybe this is an accomplishment of some sort. Maybe, it’s an accomplishment that should be celebrated.

Therefore: Yay!

Okay, now that the celebrating is done.

This milestone reminds me that as a blogger, I am part of a blogging community. I have not been the most diligent member of my community.

Fellow bloggers have nominated me for blog awards three times. These nominations do not culminate in formal ceremonies. Rather, they are the way bloggers recognize the work of fellow bloggers that they enjoy. It’s a way to tell another blogger that you really appreciate the work they are doing.

These nominations come with responsibilities. With some minor variation, the recipient is supposed to:

  1.  recognize the blogger who made the nomination
  2.  reveal some facts about themselves
  3.  nominate some other blogs that they admire

I have been very bad at handling these responsibilities. The following doesn’t completely make up for the shirking of my duties, but I hope it makes some difference.

These are the blogs who have nominated Snoozing on the Sofa:

Sandy’s Spotlight nominated my blog for the Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award. Sandy’s Spotlight features reviews of books and author interviews. It’s a great spot for finding new authors, and Sandy is just about the most generous person you’ll ever meet.

Sweet blog

Ned’s Blog nominated my blog for the Liebster Award. Ned’s Blog reminds me of The Onion, except that it’s all written by one guy, Ned. He’s one funny dude.

leibster-award

Rafferty’s Rules nominated my blog for the Versatile Blogger Award. Rafferty’s Rules offers a collection of well-written pieces on a wide variety of topics.

versatile-blogger-award

Here are some facts about me (whether you want to know them or not):

  1. I am an introvert. Extroverts usually don’t understand my social awkwardness. I don’t know what other introverts think about it; we seldom speak.
  2. Although I have never been to Pittsburgh, I am a big Steelers and Penguins fan. When I used to follow baseball, I was a Pirates fan as well.
  3. I have five unpublished novels floating around on various hard drives.
  4. My favorite Confederate general is Daniel Harvey Hill. I don’t have a favorite Union general, which is odd, because I always root for the North in my Civil War reading.
  5. I love both Mark Twain and Charles Dickens, which I’ve been told you’re not supposed to be able to do.
  6. I don’t like to fly, but I’m not about to walk to Italy.
  7. My favorite spirituous drink is scotch and my favorite clear tape brand is Scotch; I’m nothing if not consistent.
  8. I once drove to Graceland to leave a bottle of Bourbon on Elvis’s grave. I’m not sure if Elvis liked bourbon, but I bet at least one of the groundskeepers does.
  9. It took me more than an hour to compose this list.
General D.H. Hill

Daniel Harvey Hill. He probably would have hated my Yankee guts.

For these three awards, I am supposed to nominate a total of about 35 other blogs. I don’t know 35 other blogs or bloggers well enough to make that many nominations. (See number 1 in the above list.) Instead, I’m going to nominate 10 blogs that are worthy of all the aforementioned awards. I hope everyone will check them out.

I happily nominate:

year-struck – It’s like a primer for those who love the English language.

Listful Thinking – Restores my faith in the next generation’s ability to write and execute satire.

South of the Straight – Travel, art, raising teenagers: all sorts of stuff I need lessons in.

Bug Bytes – As a father of little boys, I like reading this comical perspective of a mother of little girls.

Traci Carver– The life and times of a school teacher in the southern U.S. They can make a pie out of anything.

Papa Angst! – The trials and tribulations of an at-home dad.

Chronicles of Dad – A fortyish father who is also a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. Coincidence?

Dirty Rotten Parenting – Hey, all parents take shortcuts once in a while.

don of all trades – His taste in beer is suspect, but he still writes some funny stuff about family life.

UNDEAD DAD – Some eloquent pieces about fatherhood and being a writer.

Thanks to the bloggers who have nominated Snoozing on the Sofa. And thanks to all the bloggers who supply me with entertaining reading. And to all the folks who come here regularly to read a little, and hopefully grab a smile, thanks for putting the fun into these 100 posts. I hope to see you all again to celebrate the next 100.