It occurred to me tonight, after my 11-month-old daughter Charity refused to eat a pea that was in a spoonful of her baby food, but gladly popped in a small piece of chalk she found while scouring the baseboards, that there is some serious irony in comparing what she will and will not eat. For example, here is a partial list of things she has put (and kept) in her mouth lately:
* Scraps of paper
* Popcorn kernels
* Dust bunnies
* Thread from clothes
* Any toy she can find on the floor
* Shoes
* Socks
* Grass
* Bark
* Twigs
* Sand
* Chalk
* Dried up old pieces of macaroni and cheese that fell on the floor earlier today
* Dirt
And here is a partial list of things she quickly spits out when they find their way into her mouth:
* Peas
* Chunks of carrot
* Broccoli
* Corn
* Green beans
It seems as if her taste buds are trying to tell us something: if vegetables taste worse than dirt, don't you think they were probably never meant to be eaten?
My wife doesn't buy it.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Imitation is Great--But THIS?
One of the most enjoyable, ego-stroking parts of being a father to young children is seeing their earnest attempts to imitate me. As Anne Shirley, the fictional orphan of the beloved Anne of Green Gables books so aptly says, "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."
And flatter me my children do. From the youngest age, they learn to mimic facial expressions, lighting up a whole room when they return a toothless grin, tugging at their parents' heart strings when they repeat back "Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma" and "Da-da-da." In fact, it has not escaped my attention that my eleven-month-old daughter Charity seems to say "Da-da-da" when she is feeling her very happiest. Flattery, oh yes. She seems to understand already who the weaker parent is when it comes to getting one's little way or begging for a special treat.
Charity has recently supplemented her one-syllable-repeating-word vocabulary with some fabulous non-word sounds, a family favorite being her lip-smacking noise that she lets loose when she hears us blowing kisses. Yes, with deep blue eyes at least twice too big for the rest of her body, she is an A-grade kiss-blower.
She has also started doing "raspberry" sounds, much to the delight of her older siblings. She sticks that little pink tongue out and blows with her might, vibrating her whole mouth and sending spittle into the stratosphere. Yes, her siblings are enjoying the flattery of imitation too.
But ultimately, my wife and I set the gold standard for our children's' behavior, as far as imitation goes. With such power of suggestion comes some inherent responsibility, an inconvenient detail I sometimes forget. But I was reminded today as I walked into the kitchen where I had placed Charity in her high chair for lunch. It was just the two of us in the room. She looked eagerly at me, and as I not-so-discretely discharged some gassy buildup from my bowels, she responded with a loud, long raspberry.
Laugh if you want; I sure did.
Yes, imitation is great, but it looks like I've got to start watching my vocabulary.
And flatter me my children do. From the youngest age, they learn to mimic facial expressions, lighting up a whole room when they return a toothless grin, tugging at their parents' heart strings when they repeat back "Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma" and "Da-da-da." In fact, it has not escaped my attention that my eleven-month-old daughter Charity seems to say "Da-da-da" when she is feeling her very happiest. Flattery, oh yes. She seems to understand already who the weaker parent is when it comes to getting one's little way or begging for a special treat.
Charity has recently supplemented her one-syllable-repeating-word vocabulary with some fabulous non-word sounds, a family favorite being her lip-smacking noise that she lets loose when she hears us blowing kisses. Yes, with deep blue eyes at least twice too big for the rest of her body, she is an A-grade kiss-blower.
She has also started doing "raspberry" sounds, much to the delight of her older siblings. She sticks that little pink tongue out and blows with her might, vibrating her whole mouth and sending spittle into the stratosphere. Yes, her siblings are enjoying the flattery of imitation too.
But ultimately, my wife and I set the gold standard for our children's' behavior, as far as imitation goes. With such power of suggestion comes some inherent responsibility, an inconvenient detail I sometimes forget. But I was reminded today as I walked into the kitchen where I had placed Charity in her high chair for lunch. It was just the two of us in the room. She looked eagerly at me, and as I not-so-discretely discharged some gassy buildup from my bowels, she responded with a loud, long raspberry.
Laugh if you want; I sure did.
Yes, imitation is great, but it looks like I've got to start watching my vocabulary.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Through Children's Eyes: Easy Solutions To Tough Problems
I'm going to do something a little unusual here, which is to publish a story by another author, my maternal Grandpa. He wrote a short autobiography which will probably never see very many eyes outside his own posterity. However, this sweet, unassuming, meek man had an ordinary yet fascinating life and a bit of talent for telling stories, and I am going to share with you one of the gems he recorded, in his own words.
This particular trouble seems, in my estimation, to be newsworthy, but I don't have an exact year to the events (probably around 1918), and have not yet been able to find any newspaper archives containing an independent record of his story.
Lastly, let me point out that we all have memories that attest to the fact that children are particularly talented in both creating and getting out of trouble. Grandpa's contemporaries were no exception. Without further ado, here's Grandpa's own words.
* * *
Irven's Escapade With the Dogs
Our dog Pat had a habit of slipping his collar off over his head. Of course, the license was on the collar. One of the times when the collar was off the dog catcher got him and took him to the pound north of Warm Springs.
Irven, then about nine, and his cousin, Jim Glade, walked to the pound to get the dog back. Upon arriving there they found no one present. The dogs were in an enclosure of heavy wire on all four sides and the top of the enclosure. Not wanting to return home without the dog, they climbed on top of the enclosure and removed the metal plate covering the opening. Irv dropped through the opening into the cage, gathered Pat in his arms and boosted him up through the opening to Jim who reached down and took the dog. Then Irv with Jim's help got back through the opening and placed the plate over the opening.
After jumping down from the cage, they started home. The cage was full of homesick dogs, and you can imagine the racket they were making during all this procedure. As Irv and Jim left the dogs were still barking, "Arf, arf, arf, irf, irf, irf." Irv was so touched at their calling his name that he and Jim returned, climbed to the top of the cage and repeated the previous procedure with each dog.
As they left the pound the dogs' joy at being free was unbounded. They barked continuously and ran in every direction causing quite a commotion. Back of Warm Springs and up Wall Street Irv and Jim went with dogs all around them. Housewives came out of their doors, mothers called their children home, and gates and doors were closed against the hoard of dogs.
As they neared the top of Wall Street, none of the dogs had left to find their ways to their homes. Things began to look serious to Irv and Jim. They could well imagine what would happen if they arrived home with all those dogs. Something had to be done! And quick!! As they crossed the Capitol grounds the solution came to them. Going to the west entrance to the ground floor of the Capitol building, Jim held the door open while Irv with Pat in his arms ran as fast as he could through the building to the east door. All the dogs, still joyous, followed into the building. Then Jim ran to the east door and slipped out, closing the door behind him. Joining Irv and Pat, down the canyon side they went, crossed the canyon bottom and up the other side as fast as frightened legs could carry them.
I was in the kitchen talking to mother when Irv came in with Pat. Irv quickly slipped across the kitchen to the bedroom and closed the door. Mother apprehensively asked, "Now what do you suppose he has done?" Not a sound was heard from the bedroom. After a little mother asked me to see what he was doing. I passed through the bedroom and returned to the kitchen to report, "He and Pat are under the bed." Hours passed before hunger drove him to the kitchen. After eating he promptly returned to the bedroom with Pat and to their haven under the bed.
Neither the boy nor dog left the house for three days. Many inquiries were addressed to him, hut he would not say a word. Their fright was justified. You can imagine what a disturbance twenty ecstatic dogs would make in that dignified building, the well-oiled machinery of State abruptly halting, and the anger of those who had to contend with the turbulent situation. A long time passed before we finally learned the truth.
This particular trouble seems, in my estimation, to be newsworthy, but I don't have an exact year to the events (probably around 1918), and have not yet been able to find any newspaper archives containing an independent record of his story.
Lastly, let me point out that we all have memories that attest to the fact that children are particularly talented in both creating and getting out of trouble. Grandpa's contemporaries were no exception. Without further ado, here's Grandpa's own words.
* * *
Irven's Escapade With the Dogs
Our dog Pat had a habit of slipping his collar off over his head. Of course, the license was on the collar. One of the times when the collar was off the dog catcher got him and took him to the pound north of Warm Springs.
Irven, then about nine, and his cousin, Jim Glade, walked to the pound to get the dog back. Upon arriving there they found no one present. The dogs were in an enclosure of heavy wire on all four sides and the top of the enclosure. Not wanting to return home without the dog, they climbed on top of the enclosure and removed the metal plate covering the opening. Irv dropped through the opening into the cage, gathered Pat in his arms and boosted him up through the opening to Jim who reached down and took the dog. Then Irv with Jim's help got back through the opening and placed the plate over the opening.
After jumping down from the cage, they started home. The cage was full of homesick dogs, and you can imagine the racket they were making during all this procedure. As Irv and Jim left the dogs were still barking, "Arf, arf, arf, irf, irf, irf." Irv was so touched at their calling his name that he and Jim returned, climbed to the top of the cage and repeated the previous procedure with each dog.
As they left the pound the dogs' joy at being free was unbounded. They barked continuously and ran in every direction causing quite a commotion. Back of Warm Springs and up Wall Street Irv and Jim went with dogs all around them. Housewives came out of their doors, mothers called their children home, and gates and doors were closed against the hoard of dogs.
As they neared the top of Wall Street, none of the dogs had left to find their ways to their homes. Things began to look serious to Irv and Jim. They could well imagine what would happen if they arrived home with all those dogs. Something had to be done! And quick!! As they crossed the Capitol grounds the solution came to them. Going to the west entrance to the ground floor of the Capitol building, Jim held the door open while Irv with Pat in his arms ran as fast as he could through the building to the east door. All the dogs, still joyous, followed into the building. Then Jim ran to the east door and slipped out, closing the door behind him. Joining Irv and Pat, down the canyon side they went, crossed the canyon bottom and up the other side as fast as frightened legs could carry them.
I was in the kitchen talking to mother when Irv came in with Pat. Irv quickly slipped across the kitchen to the bedroom and closed the door. Mother apprehensively asked, "Now what do you suppose he has done?" Not a sound was heard from the bedroom. After a little mother asked me to see what he was doing. I passed through the bedroom and returned to the kitchen to report, "He and Pat are under the bed." Hours passed before hunger drove him to the kitchen. After eating he promptly returned to the bedroom with Pat and to their haven under the bed.
Neither the boy nor dog left the house for three days. Many inquiries were addressed to him, hut he would not say a word. Their fright was justified. You can imagine what a disturbance twenty ecstatic dogs would make in that dignified building, the well-oiled machinery of State abruptly halting, and the anger of those who had to contend with the turbulent situation. A long time passed before we finally learned the truth.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
There are Monsters Everywhere
I have had a blast writing My Wife Rules over approximately the past year. However, from time to time I would find myself attempting to sort of shoehorn in stories about my kids that, if I were completely honest with myself, had little to do with my wife.
But without my wife, I wouldn't have any kids, I would tell myself, which represents some pretty darn shrewd thinking. But still, in order to preserve the original intent of My Wife Rules with greater purity, to form a more perfect onion, ensure access to domestic tranquilizers, provide for the common cold, etc., etc., I do hereby establish this new blog, There are Monsters Everywhere.
The name comes from one of those little incidents that all parents experience in such rapid succession day after day that it may take months or sometimes years for the throwaway silt to be separated out from the true gems that somehow end up lodged in our memories for good.
It's not much of a story, really. I was just exiting my bedroom into the common nook at the end of the hall, which we share with the nursery and our boys' room. Suddenly my three-year-old burst out of his door, brandishing a miniature, bright-red chainsaw given to him by an adoring uncle that emits fairly realistic noises (the chainsaw, not the uncle, though he emits fairily realistic noises too). His sun-bathed blond hair was protruding wildly in every direction, reminiscent of Hobbes' faithful comrade Calvin, and a wild, wide look was in his eyes, which were magnified by miniature, matching bright-red safety goggles.
He squeezed the trigger on the chainsaw, and the little chain rattled around the perimeter of the saw as the speaker emitted sounds worthy of felling the very Cedars of Lebanon (gotta love modern electronics). He struck out wildly in every direction for foes unseen and then, with a gruff attitude through gritted teeth exclaimed, "There are monsters everywhere!!!"
And I kind of have to agree with him, having been a boy once myself. I'm not talking about the all-too-real monsters, such as billionaire despots who murder their captive subjects or fund managers who rob their investors blind. I refer to the fancied fables fabricated in the minds of children who are, as yet, unspoiled from the world; the whimsical and strangely beautiful products of pure imagination that are as entertaining and endearing as they are threatening.
I'm talking about the shivers we used to give ourselves by repeating ghost stories. I'm talking about the enemy we used to shoot down, always in the next yard over, which provided ample excuse to climb the fences. I'm talking about the Tyrannosaurus Rex that every two-year-old boy stores under his pillow for safe-keeping, and oh by the way, just in case he ever needs a powerful ally with death mandibles full of six-inch long, razor-sharp teeth.
But it's more than just monsters. I'm also talking about the magic that is real, if never quite visible; of fairies with translucent wings and magic wands; of pet tigers and pet cheetahs and pirate ships with Jolly Roger sails and sword fights and princess gowns and superheroes.
I'm talking about waking up one morning and noticing that you kind of sort of wish that you had enough courage to talk to that girl at recess after all. Somewhere private, like behind the swings.
I'm talking about waking up one morning and noticing that girls have legs.
I'm talking about every experience of unbridled joy born of pure childhood innocence. Memories preserved in vivid technicolor with Disneyland-like special effects of smells and sounds and sensations that seem all too hard to come by in a grown-up, scheduled, air-conditioned, practical world.
I'm talking about reliving the magic with my own kids.
I have no idea where this blog might meander to, but one thing I do know: it's going to be a lot of fun getting there.
But without my wife, I wouldn't have any kids, I would tell myself, which represents some pretty darn shrewd thinking. But still, in order to preserve the original intent of My Wife Rules with greater purity, to form a more perfect onion, ensure access to domestic tranquilizers, provide for the common cold, etc., etc., I do hereby establish this new blog, There are Monsters Everywhere.
The name comes from one of those little incidents that all parents experience in such rapid succession day after day that it may take months or sometimes years for the throwaway silt to be separated out from the true gems that somehow end up lodged in our memories for good.
It's not much of a story, really. I was just exiting my bedroom into the common nook at the end of the hall, which we share with the nursery and our boys' room. Suddenly my three-year-old burst out of his door, brandishing a miniature, bright-red chainsaw given to him by an adoring uncle that emits fairly realistic noises (the chainsaw, not the uncle, though he emits fairily realistic noises too). His sun-bathed blond hair was protruding wildly in every direction, reminiscent of Hobbes' faithful comrade Calvin, and a wild, wide look was in his eyes, which were magnified by miniature, matching bright-red safety goggles.
He squeezed the trigger on the chainsaw, and the little chain rattled around the perimeter of the saw as the speaker emitted sounds worthy of felling the very Cedars of Lebanon (gotta love modern electronics). He struck out wildly in every direction for foes unseen and then, with a gruff attitude through gritted teeth exclaimed, "There are monsters everywhere!!!"
And I kind of have to agree with him, having been a boy once myself. I'm not talking about the all-too-real monsters, such as billionaire despots who murder their captive subjects or fund managers who rob their investors blind. I refer to the fancied fables fabricated in the minds of children who are, as yet, unspoiled from the world; the whimsical and strangely beautiful products of pure imagination that are as entertaining and endearing as they are threatening.
I'm talking about the shivers we used to give ourselves by repeating ghost stories. I'm talking about the enemy we used to shoot down, always in the next yard over, which provided ample excuse to climb the fences. I'm talking about the Tyrannosaurus Rex that every two-year-old boy stores under his pillow for safe-keeping, and oh by the way, just in case he ever needs a powerful ally with death mandibles full of six-inch long, razor-sharp teeth.
But it's more than just monsters. I'm also talking about the magic that is real, if never quite visible; of fairies with translucent wings and magic wands; of pet tigers and pet cheetahs and pirate ships with Jolly Roger sails and sword fights and princess gowns and superheroes.
I'm talking about waking up one morning and noticing that you kind of sort of wish that you had enough courage to talk to that girl at recess after all. Somewhere private, like behind the swings.
I'm talking about waking up one morning and noticing that girls have legs.
I'm talking about every experience of unbridled joy born of pure childhood innocence. Memories preserved in vivid technicolor with Disneyland-like special effects of smells and sounds and sensations that seem all too hard to come by in a grown-up, scheduled, air-conditioned, practical world.
I'm talking about reliving the magic with my own kids.
I have no idea where this blog might meander to, but one thing I do know: it's going to be a lot of fun getting there.
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