Entries from August 2009 ↓

Allison has been going to Vacation Bible School this summer where she’s been learning all about Jesus.  In these two clips she explains to dear old dad the story of The Passion and the story of Jesus healing the paralytic.  I know I’m biased, but I think it’s freakin’ adorable.  Take a listen and I think you will too:

The Passion… according to Allison

Healing the Sick… according to Allison

Ask anyone with a four- to ten-year-old and they’ll tell you: Knock-Knock jokes are the bane of a parent’s existence.  I’ll take the three-year-old “why why why” phase any day over the Knock-Knock phase.

It’s not just that Knock-Knock jokes are inherently unfunny.  But because the setup is so dang simple, kids feel like it gives them free license to write their own material.  Which is basically the equivalent of somebody reading Harry Potter and thinking, “Hey, I like to read.  I could be a novelist.”  Or my personal favorite, a woman who told my wife that she could be a midwife because she watches A Baby Story every day.  So Allison will frequently come out with such gems as:

Knock-Knock.
Who’s there?
DVD.
DVD who?
DVD like the movies!

Knock-Knock
Who’s there?
The couch.
The couch who?
The couch that you sit on to watch TV!  Ha ha ha ha!

As a parent this really is a no win situation.  By laughing I encourage her to keep making lame attempts at humor.  By not laughing, I of course destroy every shred of her self-esteem and scar her for life, right?

On the other hand, the fact that they find such disproportionate levels of humor in something so insanely stupid can, in fact, make a parent’s job easier.  For the last two years I have been able to make both my kids laugh without fail using this very simple formula:

Q: What did (x) say to (y)?
A: You’re so silly because you’re a (y) and I’m an (x)!

Mind you, the punchline is always delivered in a frantic almost stuttering manner and punctuated with a heartfelt “Ba-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!”  But the effect is always the same: both my kids laughing hysterically at what essentially amounts to restating a question with the question itself.  Hopefully I’m not raising them to be TV pundits.

Q: What did Barack Obama say to the deficit?
A: Y-y-y-you’re so silly because because because you’re the deficit and and and and and and and I’m Barack Obama! Ba-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Roll your eyes all you want, but this little technique has come in quite handy on many a JC Penney portrait days after said children have been cooped up inside a car for an hour and then forced to sit in a chair and smile during what should be their nap time.

But as much as I pretend-complain here, the fact is I really do bring it on myself.  I recently introduced the Chicken Joke and its one truly funny manifestation to Allison:

Q: Why did the frog cross the road?
A: Because it was stapled to the chicken.

Now she simply substitutes any animal or inanimate object for “frog” and tells it like it’s a brand new and utterly freakin hi-larious joke.  And okay, the way she cracks up every single time is kind of adorable as hell.

We’re T-minus any day now for kid number three (boy number two), so I figure it’s about time to get this dormant blog fired up again with all those random musings about childhood, parenthood and randomhood that all three of you faithful readers have come to expect.  So without further ado:

RANDOM PARENTAL MUSINGS AS OF LATE:

Bibbity bobbity BOOM

I was watching Star Wars with Allison the other day.  Upon watching the Death Star obliterate Alderaan, she turns to me and says: “Where is the Princess going to live now?  I guess she’ll just have to marry someone with a house.”  I, of course, blame Disney.

Jesse is two and a half and has taken to playing with his penis pretty much non-stop.  I don’t want to necessarily scold him and lay the foundation for weird sexual hang-ups later in life (that’s what walking in on mommy and daddy mid-coitus is for).  On the other hand, with the way he yanks on that thing, and the fact that I can’t personally attest to the tactile strength and elasticity of foreskin, I don’t want him to, ya know, break anything… which, I imagine would affect his future sex life even more.  That’s why the phrase, “Only in your crib,” is uttered an estimated three hundred times per day in our house.  Because the fact is, he’s probably fine.  I just don’t want to see it.  This is why this standup bit is the funniest damn thing I’ve seen in months.  And as a side-but-related-note… even though I don’t doubt our decision not to circumcise, I just have to say: foreskins are freakin’ WEIRD.

Allison and I have been reading chapter books before bed.  We recently started “Ramona the Pest” which I thought would be great since Ramona, like Allison, is starting kindergarten.  Yeah, then on her first day she gets into trouble like five times and has at least three kids making fun of her.  Allison was psyched about kindergarten, but then you have jerks like Beverly Cleary making her ask, “Why was Ramona sad on her first day of school?”

I have not pooped by myself in about four months, which is coincidentally about how long it’s been since Jesse learned how to open doors.  I don’t know why he insists on joining me while I drop a load, but I’ve lost the will to fight him anymore.  Now I simply have fun with it. Like sticking my foot out so that Jesse, running at full speed and expecting the door to open all the way, plows into it head first.

Whereas we had all our girl names picked out a good three months before we were even engaged, Lauren and I have really had to struggle to eke out a boy’s name, preferably at least a couple days before they’re born.  We’ve been settled on Max for several months now.  At least I thought we were until the other night when Lauren announces that she’s freaked out about what we’ll name him if he comes out with red hair.  “Max just always struck me as a dark haired name,” she says.  In case you didn’t already know, both our kids have red hair, I have red hair, Lauren’s sister and grandmother have red hair, my entire paternal side of the family has red hair.  Recessive genes be damned, if we don’t have a redhead, I’ll be pretty freakin surprised… after which I’ll apparently be one of those parents who, in fact, did not pick out their kid’s name ahead of time.

I’ve discovered that no matter how cranky Jesse gets, or how hopped up on adrenaline he becomes, I can pretty much diffuse the situation and make him laugh by hurling a pillow full speed at his head.

I find having Jehovah’s Witnesses come to the door actually provides a good opportunity for discussing world cultures with a five-year-old and explaining how “some people don’t believe the same things we do.”

In the last couple months Jesse has mustered up the strength to open the refrigerator door.  In the last week he has mustered up the strength to lift and move his step-stool in order to reach the microwave.  Absolutely nothing in our house is safe anymore.

I had my first “there’s no such thing as monsters” talk with Allison before bed the other night.  Hearing her say, “Thanks, Dad,” at the end and then throwing her arms around my neck was, perhaps, the highlight of my entire summer.

Santa gave Jesse a Matchbox car ramp for Christmas.  Few things let me bond with my rambunctious son more than staying up until eleven o’clock on a Friday night, racing these things down the ramp over and over again, and busting a gut every time they crash into each other.