Entries Tagged 'being a kid' ↓

On a recent Saturday night, Lauren was at work and I let Allison stay up late with me on the couch.  As we watched the Graham Norton Show on BBC America, Allison took note of their English accents and wondered why they “sounded funny.”

I told her that the people on this show were from England so even though they speak the same language as us, they speak it with an English accent.  “That’s why they talked different than us in Mary Poppins too, because they were from England.”

“Right,” Allison said, processing it all. “They must sound that way because they’re from the future.”

Love that kid.

Jesse clearly has trouble with his hearing since, ya know, we have to tell him like ten times to go put on his pajamas and yet thirty minutes later he’s still just finally getting around to taking his socks off.  Yet somehow that boy’s ears can hone in on the precise frequency of a Mellow Yellow bottle opening on the other side of the house and it sets him off running: “Daddy, c’I haf some SO-DA???”  Wonder if that’s some kind of selective X-Man superpower?

For several years, I thought Obi Wan Kenobi was describing the destruction of Alderaan as “millions of OYSTERS crying out in terror and suddenly silenced.”  For those three of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, the real word is supposed to be “voices.”

Now, what’s weirder to me, weirder than the fact that I actually misheard this line for, near on 20 years, is that for all those 20 years, I never questioned the sanity of that line.  I guess i just pictured kind of an Alice in Wonderland scene with the Walrus and the Carpenter.  Either way, I never really found this line weird.  I guess I simply trusted implicitly in the genius of George Lucas.  I think the first time I realized what the real line in that scene, was somewhere around the second prequel.  I suddenly realized that George Lucas was, in fact, fallible.  And suddenly that line hit me with the full insanity that it rightfully deserved all those years.

So, thanks, I guess, Jar-Jar.

Last night, Allison and I finally sat down to wrap the presents we got for Lauren, Jesse and Max. I’m thinking she was a little bit punchy from a combination of being up late, a few extra Christmas cookies, plus the fact that I finally gave her carte blanche to work the tape dispenser. Either way, at one point she broke into a spontaneous rendition of Wham’s “Last Christmas.”

“How do you even know that song?” I asked, fairly positive that it didn’t exist in our iTunes Christmas shuffle.

“They play it on the bus,” she said before launching into another chorus.

Last Christmas… I gave you my heart.
The very next day… you gave it away.
Next year… I’m gonna give it to somebody special.

At which point she stopped singing, looked at me and said, “I know who that is.”

Assuming she meant she knew who sang the song I asked, “Oh yeah, who?”

“God and Jesus.”

That stopped me for a second. George Michael has been called a lot of things, but I imagine Lord and Creator of the universe is not one of them.

“God and Jesus sing this?” I asked.

“No, that’s who she’s going to give her heart to,” Allison clarified. (Apparently they play the Taylor Swift version on the bus) “Because God and Jesus are really special.”

That stopped me a second longer.

Applying what she understood about life, love and the world to this cheesy Christmas song, Allison knew that no matter how fickle other people could be with their affections, God and Jesus would never take her love for granted.

You all know the place I’ve recently come to regarding religion, but how can you argue with a faith like that? In churches all over America, Christians talk about having a childlike faith in God. But very few of them ever come to the place where Allison already is, where the only thing that matters is that God loves you and you love Him… no questions, no qualifying conditions, and no eternity of torture if you mess something up.

I was rendered speechless for the barest of instants before saying through a slightly tighter throat, “You’re right Allison. They are special. I think that is who she gave her heart to.”

No matter what your faith this Christmas, whether your reason for the season is Jesus, family or tradition, I hope you all experience this simple joy of loving and being loved. Whether it’s a spouse, a child, a close friend or an invisible man in the sky, I hope you all have somebody special to give your heart to, somebody who will keep it close to their own and never give it away.

Merry Christmas and Peace on Earth.

Allison and I have been reading “The Tale of Despereaux” before bed for the last few nights. First off, it’s an amazing book so far. I find I’M getting to the ends of chapters and saying to Allison, “You wanna read just one more?”

But the name of the human Princess in this book’s name is Pea. Which, when you’re reading visually, is a very cute name. Princess Pea. You can almost picture her, a tiny little girl, dressed in green, maybe sitting on a royal chair that looks like a pod. But when you’re reading it out loud to a kid who can’t really follow along with the words, she’s just hearing it phonetically, so she can’t keep a straight face every time an exchange happens like this:

“Her name,” said Despereaux, “is Pee.”
“What?”
“The person who loves me. Her name is Pee.”
“Nevermind her name. Did you allow her to touch you?”
“Yes sir,” said Despereaux, “I let Pee touch me. It felt good.”

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.

It’s amazing how your kids will just randomly give you new and completely amazing reasons to love them.  And new and amazing examples what unique individuals they are.  The girl received the movie Dumbo for Christmas and has watched it several times since.  But when she asks to watch it, she doesn’t ask to watch Dumbo.  She says, “Can I watch Jumbo Junior.”  Because if you remember the movie, “Jumbo Junior” is what the elephant’s mom originally names him.  It’s only after everyone sees his giant ears that they start calling him “Dumbo.”  It’s meant as a derogatory nickname.  And yet even his best friend, Timothy Mouse calls him that.   That’s like making friends with that fat pie eating kid from Stand By Me and still referring to him as “Lard Ass.”   Okay so you made friends with him, but you’re still killing him a little every time you don’t call him by his real name.  Apparently this never struck anyone in the Dumbo audience as weird.

Well it struck the girl that way.  She understands that even an elephant has feelings and recognizes how blatantly wrong it was to keep referring to Dumbo as Dumbo.  So she has decided to do the right thing and call him by his real name.  And not only that, if one of us forgets and says, “the D word” she will actually correct us.  “Jumbo Junior, dad.”

I seriously love that kid.  She’s only four, but she gets it.  Sometimes I forget how much.

Indy, why does the red background move?

Continuing with the theme of video games from yesterday, the very first eBay purchase I ever made was a used Atari 2600. The year was 1999 and I was twenty-one. And yes, I realize in my previous blog I made it pretty clear just how much of a colossal loser you had to be to play video games post-drivers age. But you don’t understand. I had to buy that Atari. I had to. For one very important reason. I had never beaten Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Before I continue you should realize, if you don’t already know, that video games in the mid-80’s weren’t like the video games of today… or even the video games of the early 90’s for that matter. Most of those games couldn’t actually be beaten. You just kept moving up levels of increasing difficulty until you returned to the first board and began the process all over again. In the world of Atari and Coleco, you pretty much just played until you died… or until the console got sick of you and overheated. It was a lot like life in that respect. So the idea that you could finish Raiders of the Lost Ark in a somewhat positive way inspired you to keep at it. But between me, several of my friends and every one of their older brothers, we were never EVER successful.

That haunted me.

The Nazis' vertical line is too long... they're digging in the wrong dots.

Over the next thirteen years my mind often drifted back to that two-dimensional world of pixilated snakes and dot matrix whips. I had clearly missed something. Something to do with the Map Room screen. I knew that you had to bring a key and a medallion into that screen, just like in the movie, to reveal where the ark lay in a vast mesa field. Selecting the medallion supposedly revealed the ark’s location, but selecting the key was the only way to reveal the map itself. How could you possibly select both items at the same time? Especially when one false step without the proper item could and would make you fall off a cliff and die… and by “die” I mean your “body” would disappear pixel by giant pixel, starting with your rectangular “feet” and ending with your upside-down-T “fedora”. But the more and more I went back, the closer I came to five or six plausible strategies. Unfortunately, I’d gotten rid of my Atari in fifth grade, so I had no way of testing those theories.

God bless the age of the internet. I went onto eBay for the first time in the fall of 1999 and placed a bid on an Atari 2600 with a largish handful of games—including, of course, the much anticipated, and much antagonistic, Raiders of the Lost Ark. I checked back frequently, almost schizophrenically, in the auction’s final moments, then waited two long weeks for my check to clear and my destiny to arrive. The day it did, I could barely focus on work. I ate cereal for dinner, hooked up the Atari, jammed the Raiders cartridge into its slot and said a mini prayer of thanks when it fired up on the first try.

Cue the John Williams in 4-bit sound.

I’m here to tell you right now, folks; the American Dream is a reality. I beat the game in less than thirty minutes. The “victory screen” was minimal—a five-second animation of Indy rising on a spring toward the ark—but few moments, before or since, have ever been so satisfying. I sighed contentedly as I thought, “Okay, now what?”

That was nine years ago and I’ve yet to come up with an adequate answer.

See how it’s done:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uKI7J0pdr4