Tag Archives: Sons

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.

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.