Tag Archives: Sons

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.

Easter enjoyed by all, despite egg infestation

Easter was never a big Holiday to me when I was growing up. I was at the tail end of a large brood of children, so by the time I came along, the festivities associated with eggs and baskets had pretty much worn thin around my house.

That’s why I was so happy that I remembered to run to the store and get some things to make a basket for the kids on Saturday night. It wasn’t a lot of stuff, just enough to make it a bit more special than your average Sunday.

On Easter morning, I called the four-year-old over to where I had stashed the basket. “Look what I found!” I shouted to him. “Somebody must have left this for you and your brother during the night.”

boy with chocolate bunnies

Proving that you are what you eat, the boy’s head morphs into ebony and ivory bunnies. We are big on diversity in the animal-shaped confections we devour.

He came over and examined the contents carefully. He was pleased at the discovery.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. “This must mean it’s Easter. Who would have left this candy for you?”

“Did you see anybody around here?” he asked.

“I just saw a big, round, fluffy, cotton tail running through the bushes outside.”

He nodded as my description fell in line with the profile he was concocting in his head.  His eyes narrowed as the pieces fell into place. “The Easter Bunny,” he announced, in the same tone that Batman uses to identify The Joker as the culprit.

We hadn’t planned anything else, but at the last moment, my wife decided to hide some eggs. Aspiring hoarder that she is, she just happened to have some plastic eggs hanging around waiting to justify their existence. She rounded up some stickers and restaurant mints, but mostly she filled the eggs with pennies and nickels.

A minute later, my son came running to me. “Eggs!” he exclaimed. And then, as if eggs were as shocking a discovery as scorpions, he clarified the gravity of the situation, “In this house!”

His mother told him she wanted to see what the Easter Bunny had put inside the eggs, so he opened one up. When a couple of coins fell out, his eyes grew wide. “Money!” he cheered. “I didn’t see that coming!”

There were 14 eggs to find, and when he’d found about 11, he asked for my help. This was not so much fun for me, because I hadn’t seen where my wife hid them, and I already spend enough time looking for things around my house.

When we had finally found all the eggs, he pulled out the coins from his collection of loot and fed them to his piggy bank. The stickers and hard candy were soon forgotten. He’ll probably see the same ones again next year. Altogether, he probably raked in upwards of a dollar in cash. That, plus the fresh chocolate rabbits in his basket, made it an excellent Easter.

As for his little brother, he had some milk in his belly and a warm, soft mommy to cuddle up with. When you are barely one year old, that makes for just about the perfect Holiday.

Happy birthday, little Wahoo Wahoo

The baby is turning one. He’ll be a toddler soon. The other day, he stood up by himself for almost 10 seconds.

It’s hard to believe it’s been a whole year since this insane night:

Dispatches from the Delivery Room, Part 2: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Labor Pain

In that year, the child has been known by many names. There have even been the rare occasions when we have called him by his given name. His current nickname is Wahoo Wahoo. That is the onomatopoeia we use to describe his cry of parental manipulation.

teeth and dimples smile

Four teeth + two dimples = one great year!

For example, if my wife tells me, “I tried to put him down for a nap, but that didn’t last long.”

And I ask, “What did he do?”

She rolls her eyes and mimics: “Wahoo, Wahoo.”

Here are some of the other nicknames he’s sported over the past year:

Ginger and his brother, Mary Ann: a nicknaming debacle

He’s a good baby, but I’m ready for him to grow out of some of his baby hang-ups. I’ve never known an infant who hates riding in the car as much as Wahoo Wahoo does. He screams about being in a car like Daddy screams about being on an airplane; it’s a most unbecoming display. Maybe when he’s one and we put him into the forward-facing, big-boy seat, he’ll be less put out by the experience. They say it’s safest to keep him facing backward until he outgrows that seat, but I think it’s safest to have him in a car where the driver is not always distracted by inconsolable wailing directly behind his head.

Wahoo Wahoo begins his second year of life with four very sharp teeth and more hair than any three other toddlers combined. He has had his four front teeth for several months now without sprouting a fifth tooth. His attitude seems to be, “Who needs grinding? As long as I can bite good and hard, I’m good.”

This is a bit about the trouble caused by his first tooth.

A Land Shark is born: baby’s first tooth

He was born with a healthy thatch atop his head and it has grown skyward ever since. I am happy to report that the back of his head is now getting its share of hair too. For a while, the top was full, but the back and sides were very sparse, giving him the exact opposite hairstyle as his daddy.

If Don King and Cosmo Kramer had a baby:

The little kid with the big wig

For my wife, this birthday is bittersweet. Mothers seem to want their babies to always stay babies for some reason. Dads want their kids to grow quickly into sensible youngsters who can be threatened into keeping quiet when the big game is on.

Even so, I think I will miss some of his baby characteristics. Very soon, he will be walking. That will mean the end of the pitter-patter of his little hands and knees as he run-crawls to greet me when I come home from work. I’m all in favor of progress, but I’m pretty sure I’ll miss that.