Julie was quizzing Jordan about girls in his class trying to find out whom he might "like." After getting nowhere, she moved on to girls he thought were "nice." Sarah was also very attentive to the whole conversation.
Sarah: "Yes, Jordan, nice girls like me. I'm nice."
Sarah: "Hey don't roll your eyes at me!"
The line of questioning continued. Trying to make a point to Julie about the futility of the whole conversation, I asked Jordan if he knew who in the sixth grade was wearing make-up.
Jordan: "I don't know, who?"
Sarah (exasperated): "You don't even get it! That's why girls wear make-up; to attract boys. Geesh."
I'm so glad they don't get it.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Valentine's Boxes
I just wasn't up to it this year, so when child #2 wanted to make her box into a puppy, I sold her on making it more abstract, with various shapes in lieu of actual, realistic puppy parts. She bought into the "Picasso's Love Puppy" concept and she seemed genuinely pleased with the final product.
I told her I thought no one else would have ever seen anything like it. I certainly hadn't.
Gratefully, nearly two weeks have passed without any obvious signs of emotional scarring, well not from this any way. Given my track record, that really is an accomplishment.
I told her I thought no one else would have ever seen anything like it. I certainly hadn't.
Gratefully, nearly two weeks have passed without any obvious signs of emotional scarring, well not from this any way. Given my track record, that really is an accomplishment.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Because I Didn't Kill Him the First Time...
The unmentionable child has done it again. This time it was Monday evening, during dinner, where it came out that Child 0 had a solar system project and that he was making a stop-motion movie using LEGOs to complete the project. All well and good, until two fateful questions: ‘when is it due?’ and ‘how long have you known about it?’ Apparently it didn’t occur to Child 0 that he had scouts tomorrow night and that he still had to develop the storyline, film it, edit it and then render it before he could actually complete the assignment.
So late Tuesday evening the cinematography is mostly complete and I ask Child 0 if the movie needs dialogue so he can discuss the key elements that had to be included in order to get any credit for the assignment. “Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.” Child 0 went to bed around 1am; I got to bed around 3am. Julie got said child up again around 6am so he could complete the written portion of his assignment.
When he got his grade, I wanted to scream and not in a good way. (He got 100% on the project.)
So late Tuesday evening the cinematography is mostly complete and I ask Child 0 if the movie needs dialogue so he can discuss the key elements that had to be included in order to get any credit for the assignment. “Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.” Child 0 went to bed around 1am; I got to bed around 3am. Julie got said child up again around 6am so he could complete the written portion of his assignment.
When he got his grade, I wanted to scream and not in a good way. (He got 100% on the project.)
Friday, November 6, 2009
Dinner Wars
Eating dinner has always been a difficult thing in our family, a battle really. All three children initially had to be forced to eat anything not coated in sugar, except child #3 who would eat bread and some things coated in sugar. I forced her to eat a very small bite of banana cream pie the other day and it very nearly put her into hysterics. I can’t even begin to count the number of pleas, deals, threats, rants, tears, missed desserts, early bedtimes, and cold-dinners-for-breakfast over the past decade. I can count the number of times we had to “recycle” a non-eating child (once), but that’s a story for another time.
This brings me to last night: tomato soup and quesadillas. Surprisingly, it was not the tomato soup that prompted the problem, it was the quesadillas. I made the quesadillas from whole-wheat tortillas, which apparently violated some sort of dinner armistice. My only defense was that the package was already open and I didn’t want open a new package of regular tortillas until this one was gone. After some bellicosity and undiplomatic saber rattling, child #2 launched the opening salvo: she gagged on her first bite and affirmed that the quesadilla was too “wheat-y.” I countered with “the look.” Child #2 retaliated in kind. Julie attacked the flank with the classic, “it’s perfectly good – even [child #3] likes it.” Child #3 crossed the neutral zone and said she “kind of” liked it and requested more cheese. Child #0 took pleasure in being a neutral observer and fled to his bedroom as soon as he could. As the intensity escalated, Julie lobbed in the, “It’s all in your head,” and “don’t get yourself so worked up” grenades. On the verge of biological warfare, we switched strategies. We promised a trip for soft-serve ice cream cones at a local fast food place for all who finished their dinner. I had to leave the room to de-escalate tensions and permit settlement talks. Child #3 stopped asking for more cheese, but child #2 resisted. I returned to the negotiating table and Child #0 and I both got on our coats, upping the ante. Finally, with extra milk, child #2 dry-heaved her way through the entire quesadilla. The conflict was over. It had lasted nearly an hour, but Julie & I won. For those that think we bribed our way out and that this was merely an empiric victory, you are mistaken. The kids each got a free ice cream cone coupon from school that expired at the end of the week. We had to do it regardless. Ha, ha ,ha!
The aftermath made the battle ironic. Once we sat down with our ice cream (I got an Oreo shake because I had no free ice cream coupon), child #2 kept sharing her cone with others because she is a sloooow eater and her ice cream was to “melt-y.” I suppose some of you are not disgusted by trading licks on ice cream cones, after all one of the many parental responsibilities, particularly for dads, is eating a child’s leftover food after conceding a loss in one of the many food battles. However, this lick sharing was worse because after fixing child #2’s melt-y problem, I left little black flecks in the ice cream. (I had been eating my Oreo shake.) Rather than be disgusted by it (I was mortified personally and was planning on fixing the problem with a couple more good licks), child #2 was delighted. “Oh, I get Oreo bits in my ice cream cone – awesome!”
This brings me to last night: tomato soup and quesadillas. Surprisingly, it was not the tomato soup that prompted the problem, it was the quesadillas. I made the quesadillas from whole-wheat tortillas, which apparently violated some sort of dinner armistice. My only defense was that the package was already open and I didn’t want open a new package of regular tortillas until this one was gone. After some bellicosity and undiplomatic saber rattling, child #2 launched the opening salvo: she gagged on her first bite and affirmed that the quesadilla was too “wheat-y.” I countered with “the look.” Child #2 retaliated in kind. Julie attacked the flank with the classic, “it’s perfectly good – even [child #3] likes it.” Child #3 crossed the neutral zone and said she “kind of” liked it and requested more cheese. Child #0 took pleasure in being a neutral observer and fled to his bedroom as soon as he could. As the intensity escalated, Julie lobbed in the, “It’s all in your head,” and “don’t get yourself so worked up” grenades. On the verge of biological warfare, we switched strategies. We promised a trip for soft-serve ice cream cones at a local fast food place for all who finished their dinner. I had to leave the room to de-escalate tensions and permit settlement talks. Child #3 stopped asking for more cheese, but child #2 resisted. I returned to the negotiating table and Child #0 and I both got on our coats, upping the ante. Finally, with extra milk, child #2 dry-heaved her way through the entire quesadilla. The conflict was over. It had lasted nearly an hour, but Julie & I won. For those that think we bribed our way out and that this was merely an empiric victory, you are mistaken. The kids each got a free ice cream cone coupon from school that expired at the end of the week. We had to do it regardless. Ha, ha ,ha!The aftermath made the battle ironic. Once we sat down with our ice cream (I got an Oreo shake because I had no free ice cream coupon), child #2 kept sharing her cone with others because she is a sloooow eater and her ice cream was to “melt-y.” I suppose some of you are not disgusted by trading licks on ice cream cones, after all one of the many parental responsibilities, particularly for dads, is eating a child’s leftover food after conceding a loss in one of the many food battles. However, this lick sharing was worse because after fixing child #2’s melt-y problem, I left little black flecks in the ice cream. (I had been eating my Oreo shake.) Rather than be disgusted by it (I was mortified personally and was planning on fixing the problem with a couple more good licks), child #2 was delighted. “Oh, I get Oreo bits in my ice cream cone – awesome!”
Friday, October 30, 2009
Coprophagia
Every family has favorite pet stories. As Julie & I have not permitted pets beyond fish, our children love the stories of their parent’s childhood pets, particularly the stories of Ginger the dog. Here’s their favorite story: Ginger ate her own poop. That’s it. That’s the story. There are other stories, even other stories about Ginger. But that’s their favorite.
Why do I mention this story you ask? Well, I was working on a blog entry about my basement that had turned into a rant against personal odysseys, home-improvement and scrap books, when I remembered this story and decided to research why a dog would eat it’s own feces. (What can I say, I’m easily distracted.) Here are the important, earth-shattering discoveries I have made since googling “feces eating animals.”
It is not known why dogs engage in coprophagia or coprophagy (from the Greek, copro = feces and phagy = eat), but according to the well titled article, “Why Dogs Eat Poop” by Daniel Estep, Ph.D. and Suzanne Hetts, Ph.D. (www.AnimalBehaviorAssociates.com), “One theory is that it may be related to boredom or stress. Another is that it is related to digestive deficiencies. Neither theory has any support at the present time. No one really knows what causes it.” (So if your children ever tell you they are bored…) The article does provide comfort to some dog-owners whose pets suffer from coprophagia; rats, rabbits and horses also eat their own feces.
Another article on peteducation.com suggests that poop-eating habits can be curbed by making the poop “taste bad.” As a matter of fact, www.peteducation.com makes and sells a product to make poop taste bad. It advises against putting cayenne pepper or Tabasco sauce on the feces, because, unfortunately many dogs “acquire a taste for Tabasco.” The site does suggest however, that dogs be leashed, “in case a luscious pile of feces is found along the way.” Mmm Mmm, feces with Tabasco sauce; luscious.
After all this research I have finally concluded that Ginger’s coprophagia was not caused by stress, anxiety, intestinal disorders, primal carnivorous urges, or the taste of the feces. She was just a really dumb dog.
Why do I mention this story you ask? Well, I was working on a blog entry about my basement that had turned into a rant against personal odysseys, home-improvement and scrap books, when I remembered this story and decided to research why a dog would eat it’s own feces. (What can I say, I’m easily distracted.) Here are the important, earth-shattering discoveries I have made since googling “feces eating animals.”
It is not known why dogs engage in coprophagia or coprophagy (from the Greek, copro = feces and phagy = eat), but according to the well titled article, “Why Dogs Eat Poop” by Daniel Estep, Ph.D. and Suzanne Hetts, Ph.D. (www.AnimalBehaviorAssociates.com), “One theory is that it may be related to boredom or stress. Another is that it is related to digestive deficiencies. Neither theory has any support at the present time. No one really knows what causes it.” (So if your children ever tell you they are bored…) The article does provide comfort to some dog-owners whose pets suffer from coprophagia; rats, rabbits and horses also eat their own feces.
Another article on peteducation.com suggests that poop-eating habits can be curbed by making the poop “taste bad.” As a matter of fact, www.peteducation.com makes and sells a product to make poop taste bad. It advises against putting cayenne pepper or Tabasco sauce on the feces, because, unfortunately many dogs “acquire a taste for Tabasco.” The site does suggest however, that dogs be leashed, “in case a luscious pile of feces is found along the way.” Mmm Mmm, feces with Tabasco sauce; luscious.
After all this research I have finally concluded that Ginger’s coprophagia was not caused by stress, anxiety, intestinal disorders, primal carnivorous urges, or the taste of the feces. She was just a really dumb dog.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Where to Start...
I have truly spent the last month temporarily out of order. By way of example, last evening (Monday), at dinner, while discussing the pending book report of Child #2 that has been on-going for the past several days, Child #1 blurts out, “Oh, I have a Heritage presentation I have to do.”
“Oh, what are you supposed to do for this Heritage presentation?”
“You know heritage stuff.”
“Do you have a requirement sheet or an instruction sheet about this presentation that might be more specific?”
“Maybe.”
“Where?”
“In my backpack?”
“So, when is it due?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And you were playing DS and not working on this before dinner because…”
“I forgot.”
At this point the parental dam breaks and the lecture on responsibility, work ethic, video games, 6th grade, and “If I ever did this…” commences.
Ten minutes later…Child #1 and I are in his room, sorting through the papers in his backpack. Some have clearly been there since the first week of school. Others, like the ad for the Jog-a-thon, have only been there for a week and a half. As I straighten a crumpled paper and start reading about the Heritage presentation assignment, Child #1 goes to the other room and announces to his mother, “I can’t find it.” Her response? Something like, “I’m surprised you can find anything in that room.” This is going very well.
I spend much of the next hour taking turns with Julie as we try to guide Child #1 through a 3-5 minute presentation using 4-5 artifacts, while still continuing our work with Child #2 on her book report, without completely neglecting Child #3, who wonders around, singing loudly and asking me if I would like to color with her.
Attempt number one on the presentation lasts 30 seconds and involves a series of disjointed facts read aloud from a sheet of paper; back to the drawing board.
I try to help Child #3 with her reading homework while Julie gets Child #2 started typing on the computer. Child #1 wanders aimless around the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
Child #1 begins turning over various papers on the counter. “Looking for paper.”
“Isn’t there lined paper in the drawer?”
“Oh.” After rummaging through the drawer, he pulls out a phone list. “Can I use the back of this?”
“No. Isn’t there new, unused, lined paper in the drawer?”
“I can’t find it. I think it’s in the girls’ room.”
“No, it isn’t. If the paper in the drawer is gone, we have a whole box in the garage.”
Child #1 wanders down the hall to the girls’ bedroom. I say, in a rather loud voice, “Where do you think you are going?” as I march into the garage.
Twenty minutes later, Child #1 is giving the next draft of his presentation. It lasts 45 seconds, involves an imaginary photo of a frying egg, a refrigerator magnet of an alligator, and a tomato from our garden. At least he made eye contact when presenting the imaginary photo.
Exasperated, Julie & I begin the, “if I were telling that story, I would do it like this” and I start to wonder if that’s what Child #1 was waiting for the entire time.
By 11pm, the presentation is over three minutes long, involves the requisite artifacts and can be made with some eye contact with the audience. A thought finally occurs to me, so I ask Child #1, “is this sort of like a fancy show and tell?”
“Yeh, one kid brought in his LEGOs.”
“So some of your classmates have already given their presentations?”
“Yeh, I’m kind of the last one.”
“So these presentations have been going on for the last couple of days and it didn’t occur to you that you might want to work on your presentation?!”
“Pretty much.”
“Don’t tell your mother. She may kill you.”
“Oh, and Dad, I just remembered that I have a book report due on Wednesday.”
At this point I head off to Walgreens to print out the frying-egg photos. I am demoting Child #1 to Child #0.
“Oh, what are you supposed to do for this Heritage presentation?”
“You know heritage stuff.”
“Do you have a requirement sheet or an instruction sheet about this presentation that might be more specific?”
“Maybe.”
“Where?”
“In my backpack?”
“So, when is it due?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And you were playing DS and not working on this before dinner because…”
“I forgot.”
At this point the parental dam breaks and the lecture on responsibility, work ethic, video games, 6th grade, and “If I ever did this…” commences.
Ten minutes later…Child #1 and I are in his room, sorting through the papers in his backpack. Some have clearly been there since the first week of school. Others, like the ad for the Jog-a-thon, have only been there for a week and a half. As I straighten a crumpled paper and start reading about the Heritage presentation assignment, Child #1 goes to the other room and announces to his mother, “I can’t find it.” Her response? Something like, “I’m surprised you can find anything in that room.” This is going very well.
I spend much of the next hour taking turns with Julie as we try to guide Child #1 through a 3-5 minute presentation using 4-5 artifacts, while still continuing our work with Child #2 on her book report, without completely neglecting Child #3, who wonders around, singing loudly and asking me if I would like to color with her.
Attempt number one on the presentation lasts 30 seconds and involves a series of disjointed facts read aloud from a sheet of paper; back to the drawing board.
I try to help Child #3 with her reading homework while Julie gets Child #2 started typing on the computer. Child #1 wanders aimless around the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
Child #1 begins turning over various papers on the counter. “Looking for paper.”
“Isn’t there lined paper in the drawer?”
“Oh.” After rummaging through the drawer, he pulls out a phone list. “Can I use the back of this?”
“No. Isn’t there new, unused, lined paper in the drawer?”
“I can’t find it. I think it’s in the girls’ room.”
“No, it isn’t. If the paper in the drawer is gone, we have a whole box in the garage.”
Child #1 wanders down the hall to the girls’ bedroom. I say, in a rather loud voice, “Where do you think you are going?” as I march into the garage.
Twenty minutes later, Child #1 is giving the next draft of his presentation. It lasts 45 seconds, involves an imaginary photo of a frying egg, a refrigerator magnet of an alligator, and a tomato from our garden. At least he made eye contact when presenting the imaginary photo.
Exasperated, Julie & I begin the, “if I were telling that story, I would do it like this” and I start to wonder if that’s what Child #1 was waiting for the entire time.
By 11pm, the presentation is over three minutes long, involves the requisite artifacts and can be made with some eye contact with the audience. A thought finally occurs to me, so I ask Child #1, “is this sort of like a fancy show and tell?”
“Yeh, one kid brought in his LEGOs.”
“So some of your classmates have already given their presentations?”
“Yeh, I’m kind of the last one.”
“So these presentations have been going on for the last couple of days and it didn’t occur to you that you might want to work on your presentation?!”
“Pretty much.”
“Don’t tell your mother. She may kill you.”
“Oh, and Dad, I just remembered that I have a book report due on Wednesday.”
At this point I head off to Walgreens to print out the frying-egg photos. I am demoting Child #1 to Child #0.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Changing the Subject…More Thoughts from the Fountain
Apparently the fountain in front of my office has morphed into a cool, teen-age hangout. I don’t know if this is because these youth identify closely with the homeless regulars, but their unkemptness appears intentional at this point. Watching these young people has led me to a couple of conclusions:
1) The U.S. needs to institute forced labor camps for idle teens. (Teen idols would also be well served by such a program.) If they have the time to lounge around the edge of the fountain and go for a soak and a smoke when they think no one is watching, they have time to make license plates, pick up liter along the freeways, and other life skills commensurate with their life choices.
2) If young people wear their belts around their thighs and old people wear their belts around their arm pits, I really must be middle-aged.
3) Trouble is not a destination; it’s where people end-up when they have no real destination in mind.
4) If the term “Dress for Success” has a corollary, it’s “Fashion of Failure.” In this case, it refers to the self-selected sample of youth that are drawn to public access fountains designed for the homeless to use for clothes washing and the odd, elderly couple to wade in while strolling the streets of Salt Lake City in bathing suits. Based solely on their "Fashion of Failure," I see a future as customers of a Cincinnati Sweet ‘N’ Eats and as contestants on a rehab-based reality TV show. Who knows they may eventually rise to the level of fry cook, but only until the photos of their after-hours hot tub parties in the fry cooker start circulating on You-Tube.
Indeed, these youths have been, um, something else.
1) The U.S. needs to institute forced labor camps for idle teens. (Teen idols would also be well served by such a program.) If they have the time to lounge around the edge of the fountain and go for a soak and a smoke when they think no one is watching, they have time to make license plates, pick up liter along the freeways, and other life skills commensurate with their life choices.
2) If young people wear their belts around their thighs and old people wear their belts around their arm pits, I really must be middle-aged.
3) Trouble is not a destination; it’s where people end-up when they have no real destination in mind.
4) If the term “Dress for Success” has a corollary, it’s “Fashion of Failure.” In this case, it refers to the self-selected sample of youth that are drawn to public access fountains designed for the homeless to use for clothes washing and the odd, elderly couple to wade in while strolling the streets of Salt Lake City in bathing suits. Based solely on their "Fashion of Failure," I see a future as customers of a Cincinnati Sweet ‘N’ Eats and as contestants on a rehab-based reality TV show. Who knows they may eventually rise to the level of fry cook, but only until the photos of their after-hours hot tub parties in the fry cooker start circulating on You-Tube.
Indeed, these youths have been, um, something else.
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