Tag Archives: Sons

Why are cows so smart?

I’ve seen online debates between people who hold that childlessness is the supreme lifestyle choice and those who espouse the blessings of children.

I’ve never joined these debates. I won’t try to convince people who really don’t want children to have children. Also, the reasons they list against having children: the expense, the disappearance of free time, stifled romance, sleep deprivation, etc., are all true. They are painfully, irrefutably true.

You can’t demonstrate the value of children by listing their virtues, nor condense what you get from your kids into bullet points. It’s magic that must be experienced:

On Saturday, we had two goals. My car needed an oil change and we wanted to attend a family activity at our university. I dropped my car off at the shop advertising an oil change and tire rotation for $21.99. My family picked me up and we went to the event.

We saw lots of animals. My wife and my son put their hands into the stomach of a living cow through a porthole cut into its side. Since cows and I have a checkered history, I kept my hands to myself.

Then we stood in a long line so the boy could milk a cow. Poor kid, when I was his age, I never had to wait in line to milk a cow. I got to milk cow after cow, no waiting. Those were the good old days, I guess.

girl and cow

In the old days, cows weren’t as well-educated as they are today. They hadn’t learned how to market themselves; hence, children could walk right up and milk them without waiting in line for an hour.

As we walked down a hallway decorated like an undersea panorama. I asked my son, “Why are fish so smart?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re always in schools.”

He walked a few feet and then asked. “Why are worms so smart?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because they go to worm school.”

I laughed the father’s obligatory laugh and soon forgot about jokes.

We were viewing lizards when the boy tugged my arm. “Daddy, why are cows so smart?”

There was 99% chance of cow school. “Why?”

“Because they go to cowllege.”

I laughed, because I was sincerely tickled. “Where did you hear that joke?”

He tapped his finger on his head. “In my own brain.”

 

getting ready to milk

Flashing a nervous smile in anticipation of his first experience with a cowllege girl.

 

On our way home, I called to ask about my car. “We couldn’t get the hood open,” the shop guy said, “so we couldn’t do anything.”

I do have a sticky hood latch, but it’s never thwarted mechanics before. Maybe it was finally kaput, or maybe those mechanics didn’t have my secret weapon: a four-year-old to help them.

I took the car home. My son and I had the hood up within five minutes.

How do I list this day to illustrate the awesomeness of children? I can’t. You have to live it.

I can’t prove the boy invented the cow joke. Before I had children, I would have thought there’s no way a four-year-old comes up with that. Now I believe it is absolutely possible.

Is there some magic power in a preschooler tugging on a hood release cable? Probably not. Yet, he tugged on it better than grown men could.

I’ve found faith in the genius of childhood. Maybe it’s not an important faith, as faiths go. It may even be a childlike faith, but that’s often the best kind. It reminds me of the amazing possibilities in life. I’m thrilled to have been part of the creation of the only little people who could bring me such faith. It’s the best thing I ever did.

 

Welcome to the real world; here’s your cheese sandwich

My son sometimes plays a game where he pretends to be a waiter. He calls us Sir and Ma’am and writes down what we would like to eat on his imaginary order pad. We have grown to like the restaurant he works in because they have an expansive menu and can prepare anything we think of ordering.

As the boy grows up, the world becomes less pretend and more real. In this development, something is gained and something is lost. For instance, last night our four-year-old waiter actually served real food. This was a revolutionary step forward, but it played havoc upon his once expansive menu.

“I’m hungry,” my wife said to my son. “Can you get me something to eat?”

“Okay, what would you like?” he replied as he got out his invisible order pad. We expected him to take the order, disappear, and reappear with an equally invisible dish of whatever was ordered.

“Pizza,” my wife decided.

Cheese sandwich

THE COOK: The key is folding the bread right. A delicious sandwich must look as good as it tastes.

The boy hesitated to write it down. “Okay,” he said, “I will make you . . . a cheese sandwich.”

“No pizza?” the dejected mother asked.

“No. A cheese sandwich is the only thing on my menu. So, what would you like? A cheese sandwich . . . or nothing?”

“I guess I’ll have a cheese sandwich. But I only want one slice of bread.”

“Good choice.”

He went to the kitchen. We heard noises of actual food preparation from that direction. “Do you want a kid plate or a grown-up plate?” he yelled to her.

“A kid plate is okay.”

“Good, because I’ve got a red one for you. It’s solid red, okay?”

“Okay.”

Bringing Mommy a sandwich

THE WAITER: Our menu has expanded to include cheese sandwiches served on solid blue kid plates.

He rooted around the kitchen for a few minutes before returning with a beautiful cheese sandwich on a solid red kid plate. The presentation was as good as either of his parents could have done. There was one piece of bread, folded evenly over a few neatly stacked slices of American cheese. There was nothing sloppy about the sandwich.

“Wow! That’s a nice-looking sandwich,” his mother told him. “Look at all that beautiful cheese.”

“You got an extra slice because you’ve been so good today,” he informed her.

The sandwich looked so good that everyone, including the baby, had to have a bite of it. I’m not a huge fan of cheese sandwiches, but that was just about the best bite of anything I’ve ever had.

As we all took a taste, the waiter/cook/restaurant manager explained the shortness of the menu. “I can only make things that don’t go in the oven or on top of the stove, because I could burn myself.” He gave us a serious look. “I mean, I could burn myself really bad.”

So, they no longer have a huge selection of entrees at this restaurant. I don’t care about that. What they do have, they make with great skill and, I dare say, with love. Besides that, the service is excellent.

Guess who isn’t buried in Lincoln’s Tomb

It turns out that my son is something of a conspiracy theorist. So far, he hasn’t been big on producing evidence for his theories, but when you are four, you just know things. If evidence were such an important thing, somebody probably would have explained to you what evidence is by now. But they haven’t, have they? Case and point.

We were driving past a cemetery the other day when the boy asked, “Daddy, is this the graveyard?”

“Yes. It’s a cemetery.”

“Is this where they buried all the zombies?” He’s big on zombies just now.

“There aren’t any zombies. They’re just people who died.”

“Why can’t we see the people who are buried there?”

“Because they are buried, underground.”

“I know they’re buried, but why do they have those big, square rocks on top of the graves?”

“Those are headstones. They tell you who’s buried there.”

“I think I know who’s buried in there.”

Holding tomb

Lincoln’s first tomb. It was sort of like a waiting area until his fancy tomb was ready.

“Oh, you do? Who?”

“Mr. Lincoln.” The boy has an unusual reverence for Abraham Lincoln. He might have gotten some of this from me, but we can’t be sure at this point.

“He is? Is Mr. Washington buried there too?”

“No. Mr. Washington is buried in a different graveyard, in a different town.”

“I should think he is.”

“You know who else is buried in there?”

“Who?”

Moving Lincoln's coffin

The last of many documented rearrangements of Lincoln’s coffin within his tomb. No pictures were taken when he was secretly moved to one of the cemeteries in our town.

“Mr. Lincoln’s mother.” Sorry, conspiracy buffs, he didn’t specify Nancy or Sarah.

“Really?”

“Yup. She is. You know who else isn’t buried in there?”

“Who?”

“John Booth.”

“I would hope not.”

“Nope. John Booth is buried in a graveyard in China.”

“China?”

Booth cemetery

Baltimore’s Green Mount Cemetery in 1848. John Wilkes Booth wasn’t buried there then and, according to my son, he’s not buried there now. (Image: Augustus Köllner/Laurent Deroy)

“Yeah, because that’s where he lives now.”

So, apparently, John Wilkes Booth did escape to Asia after all. I had always heard that he fled to India, but the updated story indicates it was China. What makes this new information even more startling is that, by all indications, he is still alive, although buried in a graveyard. That can’t be too comfortable for him, especially at his age.

Sounds like somebody has been watching the History Channel without Daddy again.

Lots of mammals would kill to have my thumbs

This summer I want to see if I can get the four-year-old interested in sports. We signed him up for an introductory sports class at the YMCA last fall. He enjoyed all the running around, but he was not great at the parts that required him to do something purposeful with any kind of ball.

dunking practice

Learning the one-armed slam dunk. Who needs fundamentals when you can power slam?

If he turns out not to like sports, that’s fine. But he probably should have the benefit of the exposure before he makes his final decision. That exposure should probably include more than seeing his dad watch sports on TV.

His favorite sport from his class was soccer. Of course it was. Let’s just say I don’t love soccer. Evolution gave me opposable thumbs for a reason, and I don’t think that reason was to award the opponent a free kick every time I try to use my special thumbs during a game – oh, sorry, I meant match, not game.

Oh well, if he wants to play soccer, we’ll play soccer. But we may also sneak some basketball in as well, so I can really shine the spotlight onto my awesome thumbs.

I love basketball, which is not to say I was ever great at it. I gave up playing organized basketball after 7th grade when it became clear that I would always be one of the guys who gets to play the last 30 seconds of a blowout.

Basketball is a game requiring self-confidence, and once you become the player at the end of the bench nearest the exit, it’s hard to imagine what self-confidence is, or to be able to pronounce it. That last half-minute of a lopsided game is ample time for you to dribble the ball off your foot and miss three layups. Even if you play competently in pick-up games, you will shoot the ball off the side of the backboard when the world is watching.

dribbling practice

Learning the double dribble technique that will earn him a comfy spot on the bench. He’s got all his daddy’s thumbs.

I did make a last-second shot in one game, though. I caught an inbound pass and hoisted a 15-footer that bounced around the rim before falling through at the buzzer. My teammates, all of them who weren’t already in the locker room, mobbed me. It was quite a celebration. We won that game by 27 points, but it would have been a measly 25 if not for my late heroics.

My wife ran track in high school. Her race was the 100 meters. This was the only distance she ran because she couldn’t figure out how to run and breathe at the same time and that was as far as she could go without air. I think she also tried out for the swim team, but her breathing techniques and water didn’t mix.

Neither of his parents are in any shape to coach the boy to stardom. But, he doesn’t need to be a superstar. He doesn’t even need to love sports. All he really needs to do is quit asking to watch Cartoon Network when I’m fully involved in a college basketball tournament game.