Tag Archives: Sons

Boobies of knowledge

Our one-year-old doesn’t like saying goodbye to Mommy. Even if he doesn’t need her for anything specific, and even if he is happily playing with Daddy or Big Brother, he likes knowing that Mommy is at hand. Daddy can do everything for him that he needs done, but it’s hard to put 100% faith in somebody who doesn’t have boobies. Everyone knows that boobies are where parenting knowledge is stored, which means if Daddy forgets how to do something, he’s got no place he can go to look it up.

Two-volume set

“Think what you will. I refuse to hide my ample reference materials.” (Image: Stanley Kubrick/Look Magazine)

Thus, whenever Mommy leaves the house, she takes the entire archive of tips for keeping little boys happy and comfortable with her. She also takes a couple of really comfortable snuggling pillows, but that’s of secondary concern. The important thing is she’s leaving a fragile little boy in the hands of some dude who is likely to forget the recipe to baby’s comfort at any moment.

When Mommy needs to run an errand, she sometimes finds herself slipping out of the house quietly, to preserve the little boy from any unnecessary anxiety. This is what she thinks she’s doing. What she is actually doing is deferring the unnecessary anxiety until the child is completely in the care of a man whom the boy recognizes as wholly devoid of appropriate reference materials, since Mommy always carries those with her.

Whenever our little boy realizes he hasn’t seen Mommy for a while, he runs toward the door to the garage, since that is Mommy’s most likely escape route. If Mommy has gone out, Daddy needs to take some time to reassure the boy that he does indeed remember how to feed and diaper a child, notwithstanding his flat, bony chest. The boy always recovers his composure, but it can be an unpleasant 10 minutes of distress.

If Mommy is just someplace else in the house, Daddy only needs to make the boy understand that, or, as in the most recent case, let him figure it out for himself.

We have a low counter beside the door to the garage. Sometimes, Mommy sets her purse on this counter.  Last time the boy went to the door chasing a missing Mommy, he saw the purse sitting upon the counter. The purse was evidence, but it was not definitive proof.

carrying mommy's phone

“Mommy can’t be too far away if I’ve got her umbilical cord in my hand.”

The boy pulled the purse to the floor and opened it up. All the distress melted away from his countenance as he plucked out Mommy’s cell phone. This was proof. Mommy might leave home without her purse, but she would never ever leave her phone behind. A phone doesn’t make such a good snuggling pillow, but then grown-ups do have crazy ways.

He took the phone and climbed the stairs. He heard the shower running so he pounded on the bathroom door. When Mommy opened the door, he handed her the phone. He understands how troubling it is to be separated from your comforting boobies of knowledge.

Now, everybody could relax.

If the frog’s happy, I’m happy

If you secretly resent those crafty parents who can effortlessly sew together adorable Halloween costumes for all their kids, then you have no reason to resent my wife and me. All of our skill at producing cute costumes comes at a bargain price from a discount store.

I have created many of my own costumes for Halloween parties over the years, but my creations have been more conceptual. One year, I was a window. Another time, I did Halloween as part of this complete breakfast. I got a lot of hungry looks from squirrels that night.

Angry owl

The Angry Owl. If I were an animal who regularly coughed up balls of mouse hair and bones, I’d be angry too.

Kids’ costumes are supposed to be cute and, more or less, easily identifiable. If this weren’t enough of a stake in my creative heart, they are not supposed to be even slightly dangerous. I was never able to guarantee that the costumes I’d made for myself wouldn’t accidentally poke somebody in the eye. That’s not really a selling point at a kids’ party.

My wife and I aren’t very artistically talented, if you take away the part of art that is left to the beholder’s imagination. Consequently, my wife spends part of October shopping for boys’ Halloween costumes.

The big boy decides what he wants to be on his own. Last year, Halloween coincided with his skunk phase. All boys go through a skunk phase, right? This year, he’ll be a soldier. He’s known this for at least six months. Easy.

A frog's OK I guess

The Ambivalent Frog. The good news is he isn’t an owl. The bad news: Do owls eat frogs?

The little boy is another story. Finding an appropriate costume for a toddler can be an adventure. Of course, it must be cute. But it also must not make him topple over at every step. Most importantly, it must not induce him into a screaming fit every time it comes near him. Nobody is cute wearing a screaming fit.

After much browsing, Mommy and Toddler narrowed down the candidates to three. The pumpkin costume had the advantage of being inexpensive, but it didn’t quite ring the bell on the cuteness scale. The owl had the potential to be very cute, but sometimes a little boy just doesn’t want to be an owl. The owl was presented to him on two separate occasions, resulting in two separate screaming fits. With regret, Mommy crossed the owl off the list.

The frog is definitely cute. The boy let himself be clothed in frog with only a mild look of reservation. Whether or not the frog will make him topple over at every step remains to be seen. But after the owl experience, we’ll find a way to live with that.

This Halloween, if you see a tired, prematurely aged man carrying an adorable frog on his shoulders, you’ll know who they are. Yes, the man may appear to be wilting under the weight, but rest assured, so long as the frog is not screaming and crying, that little old man is perfectly content.

Baby steps toward superstardom

Last spring I expressed my desire to use the summer to expose our five-year-old to playing sports. I didn’t put him into organized leagues because I wanted him to have more time to be a disorganized kid and figure out what he likes. Also, leagues cost money, and I’ve been in a cheapskate mood for the last 30 years.

Now that summer is over, it’s time for an update on his progress as an athlete. All of these wonderful advancements were accomplished under the tutelage of only his tepidly athletic dad.

Baseball

I’m not sure this is one of his favorites, as he never asked to play catch. I am happy to boast that he did successfully get all of his fingers into his baseball glove one time. This was not because he wanted to throw the ball with me, but because his friends found a ball and some bats in the garage and wanted to play. I can also proudly report that despite there being three Kindergarteners in the yard with a ball and bats, no windows were broken. Those are the kinds of fundamentals a dad can really appreciate.

Archery

We only tried this once, but he showed promising talent at sticking a foam skunk. This is a twist, since he spent all last year pretending to be a skunk.

in pursuit of the foam skunk

Skunks used to be the coolest animal. Now, they’re the coolest animal target.

Football

Now this is real progress. He no longer runs away when I toss the football in his direction. He might turn his back and layer his arms over his head, but keep in mind we’re not using helmets or pads yet. He is completely unprotected from the injury that Nerf sponge could cause him. Occasionally he will actually stretch his arms out toward the ball, but this usually ends with him swatting the dangerous missile away.

Basketball

He can now dribble a basketball up to three consecutive times with one hand. He has yet to fully comprehend that he needs to push the ball with his hand rather than just slap at it. This leads to diminishing returns after each dribble. By the fourth one, he is squatting down, slapping a ball that is resting on the ground. I may be a rulebook stickler, but I don’t count beating a dead ball as dribbling.

baby slam

Little Brother is a natural athlete. Here he is at six months, perfecting his dunk.

Soccer

He’s pretty good at soccer. When he kicks the ball he doesn’t usually miss the target by more than 75˚ to either side. He still likes to kick the ball with his toe, like he’s playing kickball, but he rarely misses it anymore. He only uses his hands as an absolute last resort, even less so after that time he got his finger kicked. It’s amazing how much a little pain keeps one mindful of the rules.

All in all, it’s been a productive summer. Sure, the little man displays lots of natural talent, but raw talent needs to be molded. Hence, much of the credit for his blossoming as a superstar athlete must be assigned to his awesome coach.

The price of too much free stuff

Driving home at night. It’s not completely dark because the five-year-old is playing with a flashlight. Every 30 seconds, I see police lights in the rear-view mirror. I wonder what I did wrong, until I realize it’s just that damned flashlight. But he really wants to see it, and promises he won’t shine it upwards anymore.

It’s loud in the car. The one-year-old is crying his most desperate cry – the one he reserves only for emergencies like wanting breakfast, not wanting his diaper changed, wanting the toy his brother has, or not wanting to ride in the car right now. It was a struggle getting him into the car seat. He stiffened himself, ramrod straight, because they can’t fit you into your car seat if you don’t bend in the middle. He has strong abs for a pipsqueak. Mommy is sitting in back, trying to console him. He won’t be consoled.

It’s raining. Not a steady, windshield-cleansing rain. It’s that fine drizzle that clings to the greasy film of life outside the glass. Those name-brand wipers that cost double, but were worth the price of protecting the family, excel at smearing nature’s spittle and assorted bug innards across my view. Despite his promises, Flashlight Boy finds the perfect angle to play a beam of light off the rear view mirror. Retinas spin cartwheels.

This blind and deaf moment was an entire day in the making. It’s the cost of hitting every free event in town in a single day.

It started at the Home Depot kids workshop, building a kit plane. They give the kids aprons and access to lots of paint. The person next to a kid with a paint brush needs the apron more, but parents are left to fend off wayward strokes on their own.

Painting the plane

A five-year-old and paint – a dangerous combination.

Painting th wing

A one-year-old and paint – sheer madness!

There’s no time to let the paint dry before the firefighters’ exhibition. Nobody with a big, red truck that shoots water needs a bounce house to attract children, but firemen often add this overkill anyway. They set a simulated room on fire. The one-year-old wants to help them put it out. He wants this more than popcorn or chips or fruit punch, which means he wants it a lot. He kicks and screams when Daddy holds him back from his heroic intentions.

simulated fire

Getting ready to put out the fire, all by themselves.

Then, it’s off to the inter-squad game of the university hockey team. Inter-squad exhibitions always run too long, even without hungry kids. Even the Zamboni loses its mystique after the second period.

Dinner isn’t free, but it’s pretty cheap in the university cafeterias. At one of the remodeled halls, it’s also one of the better meals in town. It’s like Disney World, for pennies on the dollar. Food revives the kids just enough to keep them from sleeping peacefully on the ride home.

And that’s the problem. I drive by memory until my pupils stabilize. Mommy confiscates the flashlight and we make it home safe. Four people trudge into the house, all of them cranky. It must have been a fun day.