For the longest time, when people would ask our youngest child his name, he’d look at them and say, in his matter-of-fact way, “I’m two and B.” Inevitably, I’d have to interpret. Now, since he’s had a birthday, he has seamlessly made the switch from “two” to “three”, and has even mastered the three-finger sign for the age, for which he has so eagerly been awaiting, for the last six months. “I’m three and B.”
Little Brisco is about as entertaining as they come. He has the voice of a Chihuahua, the personality of a cocker spaniel, and the tenacity of a bulldog. In human terms I guess that’d make him a little like a cross between Rainman, Jim Carey, and Scarlett O’Hara-in miniature form, of course. But he’s our baby, and he keeps us laughing, always guessing, and on our toes every moment of every day.
For example just this week, I went out back to check on the boys and I found him standing on the porch with his pants around his ankles, peeing into the back of his dump truck. After startling him into a wall-drenching frenzy, I managed to ask why on earth he had done such a thing. His answer was just what I expected, “Because I did.”
And that got me thinking. There’s really no mind like that of a child. So innocent, so literal, so maddening. So I wanted to be sure to catch an accurate glimpse of the mind of our “B” at the tender age of “three”. And this is what I gleaned.
Favorite Color: Red
Favorite Toy: Monster trucks
Favorite Song: Zacchaeus
Favorite Supper: I don’t like supper food.
Favorite Lunch: I don’t like lunch food.
Favorite Candy?: Red candy…and Green candy…and Black candy…and Brown candy…
Favorite Friend: Cooper
And if you could have one thing for your birthday, what would it be?: “I wish we could have a baby Sydnee.”
And that, my friends, marked the end of my questioning.
I beg myself, almost as often as I breathe, to savor every episode. And while we slip and sail through the daily insanity that is the life of a parent, I know that some day, it will all be worth it. We will be able to look back on all the moments of endless chattering, crazy-cartoon faces, and strong-willed defiance and feel relief at the gentleman he has become.
But in the meantime, as we risk life, limb and mental stability attempting to make this baby bulldog into a Supreme Grand Champion Show Dog, I’m taking notes. Because without a doubt, as “three and B” advances to “four” and “fourteen” and eventually “twenty-four”, I’m convinced the stories of his childhood will come in quite handy.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Let there be guns?
I’ve heard it said many ways. “Let there be light.” “Let there be peace on earth.” Even “Let there be rock.” But “Let there be guns?”
I don’t know everything there is to know about boys. I grew up in a house without any, so I learn something new almost every day. But I can’t help but wonder if our newest playtime activity is a universal endeavor of little boys in general, or if it is simply a sign of our times.
As sheltering children goes, I’d say we do a pretty good job. We pre-screen the movies that are “made for kids”, we have yet to engage in overnight sleepovers, and we have managed to steer clear of the Spike channel on TV. The closest our boys come to witnessing violent behavior is a clearing of the dugouts on ESPN or a wrestling match with dad on the living room floor. I think they did watch a rerun of Rocky, against my better judgment, but definitely nothing with guns.
So why is it that when boys get together, everything becomes a weapon? A fallen twig becomes a rifle; a building block becomes a pistola; and a few Legos, with little effort, can oddly come to resemble a revolver.
I’ve been wondering about this little-boy phenomenon that has so recently invaded our world. Running around the yard, hiding behind trees with the sounds of “pew pew” punching past their lips in a whisper that mimics every shot. Where did they learn such a game? Surely a four-second shot of a pirate’s pistol in Peter Pan couldn’t cause such an obsession.
As parents do when a new trend arises, I inspected our environment. Have we somehow inadvertently exposed these boys to the dangerous world of weaponry? Have we spoken of war or watched CNN or even told a gruesome hunting story in their presence?
Then it hit me. Maybe they have finally inferred how Uncle Toby managed to mount that deer head on his wall. Maybe they really do understand what happened to Bambi’s mother. Maybe they are no different than the generations of little boys who wrote letters to Santa asking for Red Rider BB guns, even though their overprotective mothers warned that inevitably, they’d put out an eye.
Maybe they aren’t bound to be gangsters or destined to be pirates. Maybe they are as normal as any other little boy playing cops and robbers in the front yard or cowboys and Indians in the back. Maybe we are doing just fine, raising good-hearted little boys in a world that can be tough for the strongest of men.
Let there be guns? Not if I have my druthers. But I suppose like so many others, they’ll turn out just fine in spite of it.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I don’t know everything there is to know about boys. I grew up in a house without any, so I learn something new almost every day. But I can’t help but wonder if our newest playtime activity is a universal endeavor of little boys in general, or if it is simply a sign of our times.
As sheltering children goes, I’d say we do a pretty good job. We pre-screen the movies that are “made for kids”, we have yet to engage in overnight sleepovers, and we have managed to steer clear of the Spike channel on TV. The closest our boys come to witnessing violent behavior is a clearing of the dugouts on ESPN or a wrestling match with dad on the living room floor. I think they did watch a rerun of Rocky, against my better judgment, but definitely nothing with guns.
So why is it that when boys get together, everything becomes a weapon? A fallen twig becomes a rifle; a building block becomes a pistola; and a few Legos, with little effort, can oddly come to resemble a revolver.
I’ve been wondering about this little-boy phenomenon that has so recently invaded our world. Running around the yard, hiding behind trees with the sounds of “pew pew” punching past their lips in a whisper that mimics every shot. Where did they learn such a game? Surely a four-second shot of a pirate’s pistol in Peter Pan couldn’t cause such an obsession.
As parents do when a new trend arises, I inspected our environment. Have we somehow inadvertently exposed these boys to the dangerous world of weaponry? Have we spoken of war or watched CNN or even told a gruesome hunting story in their presence?
Then it hit me. Maybe they have finally inferred how Uncle Toby managed to mount that deer head on his wall. Maybe they really do understand what happened to Bambi’s mother. Maybe they are no different than the generations of little boys who wrote letters to Santa asking for Red Rider BB guns, even though their overprotective mothers warned that inevitably, they’d put out an eye.
Maybe they aren’t bound to be gangsters or destined to be pirates. Maybe they are as normal as any other little boy playing cops and robbers in the front yard or cowboys and Indians in the back. Maybe we are doing just fine, raising good-hearted little boys in a world that can be tough for the strongest of men.
Let there be guns? Not if I have my druthers. But I suppose like so many others, they’ll turn out just fine in spite of it.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Nanny nanny boo boo
I’d like to find the child who invented this phrase. From every generation across all seven continents, it seems to be one of those elements of childhood that comes hardwired. Out-stuck tongues, thumbs in ears, eight fingers waving in the air, mocking my every word, and that annoying little axiom droned to the tune that is the same for children throughout time and place: “Nanny nanny boo boo”!
I don’t know who started it, or how they found my children, but like so many maddening phases of childhood, it seems to be living in and among us, forcing mom and dad to turn to the Tylenol, bring out the belts, or simply run for cover when it rears its ugly head within our children.
We don’t watch South Park. We’ve managed to avoid Sponge Bob. We haven’t even started public school for goodness sake. But regardless of our efforts, it seems someone who holds great influence or clout in they eyes of my children has introduced these angels to one of the most annoying and ridiculous sayings of all time.
Not only that, they’ve brought with it the ability to play the “last word” game like old pros. You know the one. It’s the game they play when we’re driving in the car, no viable means of escape, and they begin to argue back and forth-over nothing really-just to see who can get the “last word”.
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t…”
Well, you get the gist.
Or on Sunday morning when the house is in chaos, and you’re trying not to be late, and you barely have time to brush everyone’s teeth, but somehow the children find time to stand at the bathroom sink and go at it.
“Stop it!”
(Pestering with a poke.)
“Stop it!”
(Poking again)
“Stop it!”
(You get the last word; I get the last poke.)
And on and on they go.
I’ve talked to the boys about what “the nanny” phrase means. About how it could be taken by another child, and could even hurt someone’s feelings. The both seemed to understand, and will even catch themselves “mid-nanny”, but at this point it’s a habit, like picking their nose, or heaven forbid, sucking their thumbs. It’s like a sewage that just comes gushing out in the middle of an otherwise pleasant day.
And when Brisco does his sumo-wrestler dance-arms outstretched, hopping from one foot to the other on every down beat of his insult-it’s almost enough to force a mother to hide her face in disbelief and humiliation…and yes, a little amusement.
I guess there will always be elements of raising children that can’t be avoided. Habits that seem to appear out of nowhere and are monsters to undo. Cooper told me the other day that in six years, he’d be 10. I can only imagine the challenges that will arise in that short amount of time.
I know being a parent is a job that never ends. These boys will be my babies years from now, when they are grown and have babies of their own. Babies who fuss and argue and irritate and amuse. And when they come to me with stories of their precious angels, I’ve prepared in my mind the perfect piece of motherly advice: “Nanny nanny boo boo!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I don’t know who started it, or how they found my children, but like so many maddening phases of childhood, it seems to be living in and among us, forcing mom and dad to turn to the Tylenol, bring out the belts, or simply run for cover when it rears its ugly head within our children.
We don’t watch South Park. We’ve managed to avoid Sponge Bob. We haven’t even started public school for goodness sake. But regardless of our efforts, it seems someone who holds great influence or clout in they eyes of my children has introduced these angels to one of the most annoying and ridiculous sayings of all time.
Not only that, they’ve brought with it the ability to play the “last word” game like old pros. You know the one. It’s the game they play when we’re driving in the car, no viable means of escape, and they begin to argue back and forth-over nothing really-just to see who can get the “last word”.
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t…”
Well, you get the gist.
Or on Sunday morning when the house is in chaos, and you’re trying not to be late, and you barely have time to brush everyone’s teeth, but somehow the children find time to stand at the bathroom sink and go at it.
“Stop it!”
(Pestering with a poke.)
“Stop it!”
(Poking again)
“Stop it!”
(You get the last word; I get the last poke.)
And on and on they go.
I’ve talked to the boys about what “the nanny” phrase means. About how it could be taken by another child, and could even hurt someone’s feelings. The both seemed to understand, and will even catch themselves “mid-nanny”, but at this point it’s a habit, like picking their nose, or heaven forbid, sucking their thumbs. It’s like a sewage that just comes gushing out in the middle of an otherwise pleasant day.
And when Brisco does his sumo-wrestler dance-arms outstretched, hopping from one foot to the other on every down beat of his insult-it’s almost enough to force a mother to hide her face in disbelief and humiliation…and yes, a little amusement.
I guess there will always be elements of raising children that can’t be avoided. Habits that seem to appear out of nowhere and are monsters to undo. Cooper told me the other day that in six years, he’d be 10. I can only imagine the challenges that will arise in that short amount of time.
I know being a parent is a job that never ends. These boys will be my babies years from now, when they are grown and have babies of their own. Babies who fuss and argue and irritate and amuse. And when they come to me with stories of their precious angels, I’ve prepared in my mind the perfect piece of motherly advice: “Nanny nanny boo boo!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Life’s little moments: An adaptation
We have a satellite radio in our car, and I’ve recently found that I’ve become addicted to XM Comedy. There are six or seven stations that have nothing but stand up comedians playing back to back, doing their bit, and performing for a live audience of one escaping Mommy driving alone down the highway.
On one of my drives, I heard a spiel by George Carlin about life’s little moments. He talked about the things that happen in life that bring huge embarrassment, but simply cannot be helped. Things like finding yourself in a serious social situation when you suddenly realize you have to give your underwear a little tug. Or, while having a conversation with someone, you and laugh through your nose and blow snot on your shirt. Life’s little moments. That’s what he called them.
And I thought to myself, “Who has more of these uncomfortable moments than a mom?” So I decided to make a list.
1. Oldest child pulling down his pants in the middle of a crowd of people at a District Baseball Tournament.
2. Youngest child, after becoming intrigued with the female anatomy, goes around squeezing ladies’ “tummies”. Life’s little moments.
3. Oldest child discussing the shape of his poop in Bible class.
4. Youngest child playing with poop in the back yard.
5. Oldest child throwing a bawling fit because he got tagged out at first base.
6. Youngest child would rather hit the dog with his bat than worry about hitting a baseball. Life’s little moments.
7. Oldest child licking his food off the table at a greasy, Interstate McDonald’s.
8. Youngest child eating enough chicken and fries to feed an army and thirty minutes later…“I’m hungry.”
9. Oldest child finds something on the tree in the back yard that looks like a mushroom, so he eats it. “Cause I like mushrooms!”
10. Youngest child opens the classroom door into the auditorium during church and shouts, “Maahhmeee! I need to go poop!” Life’s little moments.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
On one of my drives, I heard a spiel by George Carlin about life’s little moments. He talked about the things that happen in life that bring huge embarrassment, but simply cannot be helped. Things like finding yourself in a serious social situation when you suddenly realize you have to give your underwear a little tug. Or, while having a conversation with someone, you and laugh through your nose and blow snot on your shirt. Life’s little moments. That’s what he called them.
And I thought to myself, “Who has more of these uncomfortable moments than a mom?” So I decided to make a list.
1. Oldest child pulling down his pants in the middle of a crowd of people at a District Baseball Tournament.
2. Youngest child, after becoming intrigued with the female anatomy, goes around squeezing ladies’ “tummies”. Life’s little moments.
3. Oldest child discussing the shape of his poop in Bible class.
4. Youngest child playing with poop in the back yard.
5. Oldest child throwing a bawling fit because he got tagged out at first base.
6. Youngest child would rather hit the dog with his bat than worry about hitting a baseball. Life’s little moments.
7. Oldest child licking his food off the table at a greasy, Interstate McDonald’s.
8. Youngest child eating enough chicken and fries to feed an army and thirty minutes later…“I’m hungry.”
9. Oldest child finds something on the tree in the back yard that looks like a mushroom, so he eats it. “Cause I like mushrooms!”
10. Youngest child opens the classroom door into the auditorium during church and shouts, “Maahhmeee! I need to go poop!” Life’s little moments.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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