What’s Yours is Mine

English is a crap language for kids to have to learn. It makes no sense it so many ways. But it also makes for some entertaining discussions. Take possessive pronouns, for example. Hilarity can easily ensue.

This all started with an innocent discussion at the lunch table:

“Daddy, eat your sandwich.”

“I already ate my sandwich, Bub. You eat your sandwich now.”

“Daddy, wanna eat your sandwich?”

“Mine’e gone, Bub. Do you see my sandwich?”

“Daddy wanna share your sandwich?”

Oh, I get it now. He doesn’t know the word ‘my,’ so he’s using ‘your in its place. And I thought he was just slow…

“You mean YOUR sandwich?”

“Yes, your sandwich.”

Well, that didn’t help. Damn English.

“No, you say MY sandwich, Bub.”

“My sandwich.”

“Say ‘You wanna share my sandwich?’”

“You wanna share my sandwich, Daddy?”

“Nah, not hungry. Already ate my sandwich.”

When you don’t clarify, you can find yourself in situations not unlike this one:

“Where’d your privates go?”

He was trying to bait me into another fun-filled game of pre-bath private peekaboo. Oddly, I wasn’t in the mood. But this did make for a concrete, if awkward, teaching moment.

“Well, Bub, MY privates are in MY pants.”

He flashed me.

“Boo! There they are!”

“No, those are YOUR privates.”

“Ohhh, where’d YOUR privates go?”

Damnit.

“I told you, they’re…”

“BOO! There they are!”

Again with the crotch shot.

“No, Bub, listen. YOU say MY privates. Repeat after me. Where did MY privates go?”

“…”

“Say it with me. Where did my privates go?”

“Where’d your privates go?”

Getting loud, gesture-y now: “No, Bub, repeat: WHERE DID MYYYYY PRIVATES GO?”

“What are you guys doing in there?” Mommy yelled.

“GRAMMAR!” I screamed over my shoulder, “NOW WHERE DID MY PRIVATES GO?!”

“In your pants, Daddy.”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

**This is actually a few months old. He's since gotten much better at differentiating his privates from mine.

The Crappiest Birthday EVER

Today is Mommy's birthday, and she is really getting the shaft. Not only is she at her second day at her new job (where few people know her name, let alone the day she joined planet Earth), but we just moved the whole familial unit 2400 miles out to sunny Portland. We are living with my very generous brother and wife; though friendly takeover seems more apropos of what we've done here. We've even displaced the poor cat.

Anyway, it does seem to happen that nearly every year in the eleven that we've been together, something is in the way of her birthday. One year we were moving to Vegas, last year she was eight months pregnant and COULD NOT FUCKING EAT SUSHI. Always something. Several were spent traveling, including this one:

It makes them memorable in their own way, but not necessarily they way she may want. Birthdays should be relaxing, mellow. All spritzers and neck massages. Not a stress-cloud of uncertainty hanging over us, raining applications and credit checks and references all over our parade. Me going to the DMV instead of the ice cream cake store. WTF? And, yes, I did schedule a quick apartment viewing for right after we pick her up from work. Oh yes he did.

But one thing I know she always wanted was a blog post. This is that post.

So happy birthday to you, my beautiful, stunning, strong, independent, feisty, occasionally backseat-driving wife. You are the only one for me. You keep me righted and call me on my shit. You lift me up, even though I'm clearly much heavier than you. You're a wonderful, natural mother to our kids. You even taught one how to tongue. You are tireless and stubborn and I love that. And you pull it all off with that effortless grace I fell in love with so long ago. I could go on and on, but naptime is almost over.

In short, you are the water that dilutes my juice in this sippy cup called life. Or maybe it's the other way around. The point is we mix for a mean cocktail, you and me. This is a brand new chapter in our rich narrative together, and like anything worthwhile, it's scary as hell. But let's go kick this town in the teeth, what do you say? Here's to you, baby. Happy birthday.

For Whom the Bells Toll

I'm Bowie, he's the curmudgeon.

I don’t know if fight is the right word for what’s going on here. It’s more of a feud. An ongoing disagreement of indisputable facts in my favor. It all started when we were in the car and Bub says:

“The bells are on Wayne, Daddy.”

Let me decode. There is a church with a belltower containing these said bells that is on our normal walking course around the hood. And those bells are on Lakewood Avenue. I mean, that’s a fact. So far as I know, they have always been on Lakewood Avenue. There’s been no gerrymandering of church bells or relocation efforts from the parallel street known as Wayne. The bells, in a very tangible, ringy-dingy way, are physically housed on Lakewood.

“Ahhh, the bells. Yes, Bub, but I think the bells are on Lakewood.”

“Bells are on Wayne, Daddy.”

“No, I’m pretty sure they’re on Lakewood.”

“Actually, they’re on Wayne, Daddy.”

“Well, actually, if by Wayne you actually mean Lakewood, then yes. They’re on Lakewood.”

“No, they’re on Wayne, Daddy.”

Okay, see I thought we were having a friendly little disagreement, and then he says, NO, DADDY, YOU’RE WRONG, I’M RIGHT. Uh uh, little buddy. This sass will not stand.

“Okay, Bub, let’s just go see where those bells are then, huh?”

It was actually on our way home. Not that that mattered. I couldn’t lose our first fight—it would just send the wrong message.

So we drove up Berwyn, stopping right at the corner of Lakewood. Perfect view of victory.

“See there, Bub? There are bells. Right there on Lakewood. I realized this is a tad awkward because you can’t read, but if you COULD read, you would be able read that street sign. Do you know what L-A-K-E-W-O-O-D spells?”

“WAYNE!”

“No, man. L-AKE-WOOD. Lakewood. The bells are on Lakewood. Point for Daddy. Thank you, good night.”

We didn’t even make it to Clark Street.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Bub. Hey, it’s okay. You thought they were on Wayne. Only one street off. Honest mistake. It’s easy to get confu--”

“Bells are on MagNOLLLLLLIA!”

“No no, Bub, Magnolia is one bell-less street in the other direction. I just proved to you beyond a reasonable doubt that the bells are most certainly not on Magnolia. They are definitely on Lakewood. Got it?”

“Yessss.” Pause. “Um, Daddy? The bells are DEFINITELY on Wayne, Daddy.”

Happy Father’s Day, everyone.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Just sayin...

 

Yellow Cars

If you ever wondered what two year-olds dream of, it is one thing, plain and simple: revenge. Mommy was the first to posit the theory. I didn’t want to believe it, but then I heard it with my own ears. Let me explain.

Like so many revenge tales, it all started with a harmless game. As most games, Bub and I invented this particular game out of pure boredom. We were on a walk one day, and I began pointing out yellow cars. And…that’s the game. Find yellow cars. They don’t even have to be driving. You should probably get a bonus for that, but I can’t go changing the rules now, can I?

Yes, this is what passes for entertainment in this household. Don’t judge me, judger.

There was some logic involved here: Bub was learning his colors, and I was tired of trying to describe colors like cosmic gray mica and champagne metallic. So I started drawing his attention to the primary colors, and yellow was the rarest. Look for the bright and bold; it’s not only okay to be different, it’s something to celebrate. This is called “teaching life lessons,” I think. Plus beige cars just piss me off.

Yes, my car is beige. What did I say above, judgers?

Anyway, I guess my competitive streak caused this father-son bonding to morph from spotting the cars to getting a point for them to the hard knocks lessons of efficient shit-talking and rubbing it in your opponent’s face at every opportunity.

“Hey, Bub, what’s that behind you? Oh, can’t see around your car seat? Oh, that’s too bad, because it looks like…yes, it is in fact…a BIG FAT YELLOW POINT FOR DADDY. INYA FACE!!!!”

And so on. Did I mention it was a six hour drive to Nana and Boompa’s?

So once we arrived and got settled, we shared a room with the kids. Too big for a Pack n Play, Bub slept in the Totally Awesome Big Boy Sleeping Bag beside the bed. The first night, my allergies were killing, so I went into the living room and slept on the couch. In the morning, Mommy regaled me with tales of being woken up in the middle of the night by an eerie, yet tiny, voice, emanating from the floor beside her.

“Yellow car, yeloooooooowww car. One point, shapowwww.”

Maybe that’s not verbatim, I wasn’t there. It’s a pretty reasonable interpretation, though. Then later that same night, he spoke again, saying only this:

“Dirty hands.” He could only be referring to his tiny digits soiled with cold-blooded vengeance. Chilling.

Well, yesterday we packed up and headed back. Six more yellow-car hours. Round 1 was spirited and intense; I destroyed him. After lunch, he conked out for a good hour or so. But he didn’t call “Time,” so I cherry-picked a few points whilst he slumbered. Pad the stats a little.

Forty-five minutes into his nap, he didn’t even really stir, he just kind of moved his head from one side of the car seat to the other, fixing his closed eyes on me, and said:

“Yellow car.”

Man, this kid was serious. Even though I saw no such thing, I decided to give him the point. Call it respect, call it pity; it cut the overall lead to 156 – 8. And who says sportsmanship is dead?

The Rat

"Don't worry, HP, I only told them EVERYTHING."

 

I think it’s time to introduce Bub to the genre of gangster films. Because he is currently headed down a one-way street to fish-sleeping with his utter and holistic lack of loyalty. Note example A:

“Daddy, HP tried to escape diaper change,” Bub said. It was first thing in the morning, apropos of nothing. All I did was walk in the room, looking for coffee. Wrong room.

“Wow, you mean to tell me that Mommy changed HP’s diaper and HP tried to roll away?”

“Yes.”

“Well, holy moly, did you notify the authorities? She could be anywhere!”

“There she is, Daddy.” Of course she was. Because she’s immobile. And also, Bub, who cares?

“Well, we can close the books on that one. She can’t really get far, can she?”

“HP a rolling-over ma-CHINE!”

“Yes yes, but why are you telling me she tried to escape?”

“…”

“You know, you could have covered for her, Bub, instead of throwing her under the bus,” I said, shaking my head. “You fucking rat.”

“What’s a rat, Daddy?”

“Well, Bub, a rat is a filthy piece of vermin that spreads entrusted secrets around like the bubonic plague, betrays all its friends, and cowers in sewers, feasting on feces.”

“Oooooooh, that sounds GOOOOOD!”

And then there’s the time he ratted his own Bubbe out. Yeah. His own beloved, fawning, IPad-owning, Dum Dum-purveying Bubbe. We walked in after a babysitting session, and Mommy says to Bubbe:

“Mom, why is your mouth blue? Oh my God, are you OKAY??”

“Um, yeah. Why?”

End of conversation. Thought nothing of it. Perhaps a circulation problem. Then we asked Bub what he did with Bubbe. He couldn’t wait to dessimate their relationship.

“We ate DUM DUMS!”

“Oh, Dum Dums, huh? Probably weren’t supposed to tell us that.”

“I ate a red one!”

“Oh, that’s my favorite.”

“And Bubbe have BLUE one!”

“Real nice, Bub. Didn’t even ask about Bubbe. You fucking rat.”

The Hand

Don't I look just like that chick chained to Jabba's bed?

The other day, I put Bub down for his nap and went to the living room to work. He talked and sang to himself for a good while; not unusual. I thought I heard a few bangs and knocks coming from that direction, but it was storming, branches were blowing, etc. Whatever, it’s not like he could get out of his wide open big boy bed on his own.

Maybe forty minutes later, I had to go to the bathroom. The bathroom is right across the hall from the kids' room, which is relevant because there I sat, going about my business, when I happen to look over and see this:

An addition flash card was sucked into the darkness. OH MY GOD, IT’S BOBBY!!! HOLY SHIT, HE’S REAL!!

Because it’s well-known that Bub is not physically capable of breaking through the invisible one-way force field surrounding his big boy bed. Well, it DID, anyway. Even though theoretically we knew this day would come, I was completely stupefied. You’re telling me he had gotten himself untucked, disabled the imaginary force field, just to stick his hand under the door? Why?

So I did the most mature thing I could think of: I got down flat on the floor, ninja style, and peeked under the door.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Right into the ambush. Same feeling I had playing Lazer Tag last week. You know the one, when you’re stealthing around, clinging to walls, shortening your breathing. And then suddenly your chest starts bleeding flashing lights and some 12 year-old who has been watching you the whole time stands there laughing his ass off while you writhe in self-pity.

So I opened the door. And like most kids, I presume, he was just sitting there, playing with his number flashcards. In the dark.

“I made this!” he said.

“What did you make, Bub?” Why was I even asking? We do not negotiate with terrorists.

“I made THIS!” he said, pointing at a mess of flashcards. “Equals. I made TWO equals.”

“Wow, awesome. Say, I can’t help but noticing you’re not in bed during nap time.”

“I’m a-WAKE!”

“Great, well I’ve got a new problem for you. Are you ready? 5 plus 2 equals GET YOUR ASS BACK IN BED!”

It happened a couple more times that week, then he started staying in bed. I guess he tired of his little game. Either that, or stepping on the booby traps I laid around the room. Six in one, half dozen the other.