Code Red- Household Alert

The Problem
A misplaced Nerf dart.  Not so bad, eh?

The Location
A light.  More specifically, the cup-shaped cover under one of many bulbs on a high hanging light.

The Challenge
The light is out of reach by hand, about four feet from the railing in the loft. The standing ladder is not tall enough to reach it from the floor.  There is an extendable feather duster, but it does not have a grab-nabber attachment.

The First Attempt
Try to dust it out.  Try not to swing light too much but dammit the dart is really lodged in there.

The Danger
Son keeps wanting to observe from right under the light, presumably to catch the dart if it drops.  The light is swinging farther now and in theory it should be quite secure but parental paranoia kicks in and you can see the whole damn light come crashing down…

The Solution
Clear son from under light by telling him to get a roll of masking tape, in laundry room.  Remove tip from feather duster and extend it to its full length.  When son arrives with tape, tear off foot-long strip of tape, wrap once around the tip of the feather duster, and crumple the remaining length into a semi-loose ball.  Drop tape ball into cup-light and go fishing. 

The Result
Tape made contact and loosened dart, then on the next attempt it made sustained contact.  Success!  Dart cleared from light.

Lesson Learned
Not a damn thing.  It happened before and it’ll happen again.  Maybe not this exact Nerf dart and this exact light, but a similar situation will present itself, I’m sure.

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You want WHAT for Christmas?!

'Tis the season for Christmas lists.  I have two boys, ages 10 and 7, and both of their lists have subtle surprises.

My older son is a Lego aficionado.  No, that doesn't mean he completes Lego sets with a snifter of brandy and a fine Cuban cigar.  He can't get Cuban cigars because they are illegal and he's a Good Boy.

His Lego enthusiasm makes him long for the biggest, most complex Lego sets available.  At least he's still focused on the sets, and he's not planning to spend years designing his own gigantic replica of famous landmarks, like OSU stadium, i.e. "The Shoe". 

His first request was the Taj Mahal.  This little beauty used to cost a mere $300.  Then David Beckham said he works on a Lego Taj Mahal to relax, and the price skyrocketed to nearly $1,000.  Thanks supply and demand! Sorry Max...

But it's OK, because my son also wants the London Tower Bridge set.  This is much more affordable at $214.99 on Amazon.com.  (NOTE: The Tower Bridge is not to be confused with London Bridge, as I learned earlier this year on a trip to England.)

He also wants a remote control helicopter (he actually wants a real helicopter, but I talked him down), a ripstick (a mutant skateboard designed by the insurance industry as a way to expedite the denial of accident and injury claims), and cold hard cash.

My younger son is a different matter.  The first item on his list:

A robot snake.

"Where did you see one of those?" My wife asked him, hoping to get a head start on her shopping.

"Nowhere," he said.  "I just thought it sounded cool."

As if keeping up with with commercials, ads, and grade-school fads isn't enough, now we have to satisfy the unbridled imagination of a seven-year-old boy. 

Fortunately, my wife, being the ultra-pro shopper that she is, found a robot snake.  We're still working our way through the rest of the list...

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Origami and Erections

WARNING: This post is not excessively adult-themed, as may be inferred from the title.  However, it is quite silly and immature, which can be ascribed to my general nature and should therefore be expected.  Please read on.

My wife took my kids to the hobby store recently.  The kids brought their own money and made their own purchases.  (NOTE: They are both loaded.  I don't know where all the money came from, but it can be helpful in those times when my wife and are desperate for cash.) 

First item: An origami kit.  It has an instruction book and paper, and with it one could make a dozen different endangered animals, if one could somehow decipher the instructions, something neither child is capable of. 

So I've been attempting a lot of origami lately.  We almost made a zebra, except it only has one hind leg.  That's easy to explain though, as zebras and lions are known to have special encounters that could easily explain the absence of such an important appendage.  I consider the zebra a success.

We also have a koala head and a panda head, but neither animal has a body, and I don't think they ever will.  The pictures in the instruction book make IKEA furniture assembly look simple and intuitive. 

My older son also purchased an Erector Set.  It also has an instruction book with amazingly complex drawings, but it is a book someone with a degree in mechanical engineering could easily use as reference.  Sadly, I am lacking in such a degree, but in an effort to reduce the volume of whining in the house, I have been making due.  And swearing under my breath.

My in-laws were here this past weekend, and I spent the whole time waiting for my mother-in-law to mispronounce the toy as an "Erection Set" because I am immature and think that would be really funny. 

Which reminds me of the time our dog had bladder stones.  Nearly 60 of them, and they had gone from the bladder into his urethra, where they all got stuck. During the examination the vet reached back between my dog's legs and felt the stones.  He encouraged me to do the same, not realizing that I was in no way mature enough to engage in a general conversation about my dog's urethra, let alone actually touch the underside of my dog's vacant scrotum.  (NOTE: I have not shaken hands with the vet since then.)

I struggle with this inability to take important things seriously.  It's an ongoing battle that I am sure is pointless, as I have no intention of ever winning it.

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Got a Question For You...

Before I had kids I used to think answering a child's questions was a wonderful way to help that child grow and become a better human being.  I was eager to respond to any child's general inquiries about life and the world, to have the opportunity to share my knowledge and help that child learn.

Then I had kids, and that all changed.  I realized that the questions Just. Don't. Stop.

I began to burn out when my older son hit the early threes.  That's when "Why?" made its initial appearance.  Then my kids got to thinking I know absolutely everything about anything, like I'm Wikipedia or something. 

Here's an example from the time we took them to an amusement park over the summer:

How high is that roller coaster?  I don't know exactly.  Pretty high.
Is it a hundred feet? At least.
Higher? Maybe.
How much higher?  Two-hundred feet? I don't know.
How fast is it? Really fast.
Is it faster than our car? It depends on where we are driving.
What year was it built? What, our car?  2009.
No, the roller coaster.  I don't know. Google it when we get home.

A month later we took a family vacation that involved an airplane.  As we made our descent at the end of the first leg, both kids looked out their respective windows.

How high are we?
Are we as high as the Wind Seeker?
What about the Drop Tower?
We're definitely higher than the Diamond Back, aren't we?
Are there any pyramids this high?

As we got settled into our seats on the next flight, my son started asking me more questions.  I fought back.  I took out my notebook and started writing them down.

Is it three o'clock?
What time is it?
Why did the TV turn off? 
Why do they do that?
[Peering at my notebook] Why is it talking about Wind Seeker?
Why are you writing down all the questions?
I'll try not to ask any more questions, okay?
Are you going to show those to people?
What if there was a fire inside the plane?
The flight attendants aren't the pilots, are they?
Why is there an exit way back here?
What if a shark ate the life raft?
What is this volume button for?
Would you stop writing those down? You're annoying me!
When we get high enough I can unbuckle, right?
What does "airborne" mean?
What's "free of charge"?

At this time he pleaded with me to stop writing the questions down.  His attempts to grab my pen and notebook made the process more challenging that I was willing to put up with, so I acquiesced (NOTE: That's a really big word. Thanks, spell-checker, for your help.)

There was one more series of questions that I had to write down, though.  I did get his permission, but I would have done it anyway.  I had pointed out the window and said, "Look at that huge airplane.  You see the higher row of windows?  It's a double-decker."

So there's stairs in there? Yep.
Have you been in one? Nope.
But you've seen one, haven't you? Really?  You just asked that? Dude, I'm writing that one down...

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What Are My Kids Snorting?

My wife and my younger son suffer from allergies.  We all get them to some degree, but they are your above-average sufferers. (NOTE: They are also above average in many other wonderful ways, and I'm not just saying that for brownie points because my wife reads this blog.  Really.)

My wife has a sinus rinse bottle that you fill with a salt-water solution and squirt up your nose.  It all comes out your other nostril and looks totally disgusting, except when my wife does it, then it's kind of hot. (NOTE: Still just sticking to the facts here.  Not going after brownie points.  Love you dear!).

The other day, she offered the sinus rinse to my son.  He was reluctant.  He said he didn't like how it feels; but this was perplexing because he had not tried the sinus rinse before.  When my wife pressed him for more information, he revealed this gem:

"One time I put water up my nose in the bathtub."

It happens, I guess.  When my wife pressed him for more information, he revealed this gem:

"I was pretending to be an elephant."

Gotta love that boy and his extra-vivid imagination...

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Piano Talk, Continued

More Piano Talk for this week!

When the piano teacher was explaining sharps and flats to my younger son, he used a flat tire as an example:

"...So a flat note is going down, like air going out of a tire.  Now what do you think sharp is?"

To which my budding young Beethoven replied: "Putting air back in the tire?"

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Past Lives

The other day, we were all driving in the car and my younger son said, with absolute deadpan delivery: "I really enjoyed my past life as an alien."

Tough not to burst into laughter at his matter-of-fact tone of voice, so of course that's what the rest of us did.

"What? I did," he insisted.

I am really enjoying this life as that boy's father ;-)

You're Not Supposed to Tell Me...

"Victor," I called.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Where are you?"

"In the bedroom."

"What are you doing?"

"Hiding from you."

"Okay."  A pause.  "Do you want me to come and find you?"  No answer.  He's getting better.  "I take that as a yes," I said as I climbed the stairs... 

WARNING: Overwhelming Cute!

We were sitting at the kitchen table playing Apples to Apples with some friends when my 6-year-old son came in with a special announcement and follow-up question.

The announcement: “We found a bunny in the yard!”

The follow-up question: “Can we catch him?”

We took a moment to visualize a pack of jubilant children being quickly outrun by a frantic hare before offering responses, which ranged from “Knock yourself out” to “Good luck with that one.”

You might imagine our surprise when, a few minutes later, the aforementioned 6-year-old came back inside with another special announcement:
 
“We got him!”

But there was another follow-up:

“But he got away.” 

We kind of saw that coming.  But not this:

“He’s still in the garage.”

Enter parental intervention.  I went into the garage with him, and he told me the bunny ran behind the stuff on the side of the garage…folded beach chairs, cornhole boards, sleds, brooms, etc.  Behind the beach chairs I found a small baby bunny.  I moved the chairs slowly.  The bunny didn’t move a whisker.  I picked him up gently, and he jumped from my hands.  My son grabbed him…not rough, but I’m sure it wasn’t comfortable for the bunny.  He gave him to me, and I held him in one cupped hand, the other hand closed over his body so he wouldn’t jump again.

The other kids gathered round.  The air reverberated with seven-dozen Can-I-Hold-Hims (there were only 6 kids, you do the math).  I took a moment to imagine myself in the bunny’s soft brown fur, getting grasped groped and squeezed by a dozen grubby mitts.

“No,” I said out of the kindness of my heart.  “But you can pet him.”

The grubby mitts reached out to pet the bunny, still safe in my hands.  Then the same complaint was repeated from all six mouths: “I didn’t get to hold him yet!”

“None of you have,” I explained.  Then they asked the inevitable: “Can we keep him?”

I explained how he was scared, he missed his mommy, his mommy missed him, he could get sick, he could get eaten by our neurotic schnauzer, etc.

“So we can keep him?”

I fixed up a box, and we put the bunny in it with spinach, carrots, and a tiny cup of water.  The bunny didn’t move.  To its credit, it didn’t produce a single little rabbit pellet through this entire ordeal (NOTE: I would have produced several thousand.  These kids were terrifying.)  I taught the kids how to hold him…not to grab him around the middle, but to let him sit on their hands.  Each got a turn to hold the bunny before we released him into the woods behind the house.  There’s a big pile of old brush insulated with fallen leaves that I’m pretty certain houses a dozen bunnies and countless squirrels.  The kids were sad they didn’t get to keep him, but overall it was a good experience for everyone.

 

I guess he takes after me...

I was at basketball practice with my nine-year old son the other day, and my wife was home with my six-year old, cuddled up on the couch watching a movie.  Very tender moment.  She hugged him tight.  "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he said.  "Now let's get back to the movie."

Rudy Toot-Toot Goes to School

Last week my older son came home from school and told me his teacher wanted me to email her.  Fearing the worst, I pressed for clarification.

"I told her you write books and she said you can come and read one to us," he said. 

Interesting.  Not knowing what he really told her, or what she really said, I took it upon myself to email his teacher and clarify my status as "someone who writes books."  I explained:

My son Max told me that you were interested in having me read one of my books to your class.  I would love to, but let me clarify where I am in my writing career.  I have attached the manuscript for one of my books so you can give it a glance first.

I wrote a chapter book, RUDY TOOT-TOOT, that a literary agent has submitted to several major publishing houses.  I don't have an offer on it yet, but I'm hopeful one will come...
 
RUDY TOOT-TOOT is a 16,500-word (75 page) chapter book. Rudy has a special power, almost like a superhero: he can fart.  It comes natural when you're born on a bean farm.  His talent often gets him in trouble.  After one monstrous emission scares all the customers away from the Toot-Toot family bean market and the bank threatens to take away their home, Rudy must find a way to use his power to lure the customers back.  As Papa always told him, "There's a right time and a right place for everything."

Un-phased by the premise of farting, she still invited me into her classroom to read to the kids.  She even invited the school librarian.

I love reading to kids.  I have a background in theater and a good amount of experience in public speaking.  Plus I'm totally immature, so I can connect with them on that critical level.

I read the first 23 pages of RUDY TOOT-TOOT to the class.  I had them laughing out loud on page one, and kept their interest until I finished the excerpt.  I left them wanting more.

That was cool, but not as cool as what happened next...

When my son got home from school, he handed me a sheet of paper.  "Ethan wants you to publish this for him," he said, like it's that easy.  I mean, I made it clear I haven't been able to get my own books published...

Ethan wrote a page-and-a-half continuation of my story.  It is one of the coolest things I've ever read.  I emailed my son's teacher to see if she gave them an assignment to write about my story.  She didn't.  He wrote it in his free writing time.  She also said I inspired several of her "non-writers" to write stories.

I never knew how to define success as a writer, until now.  It's not about money, or being a bestseller, or even being represented by an agent or published.  It's about that connection to a reader, and having the ability to make an impact on someone's life.

I am glad to say I succeeded on that level.  It doesn't kill my dreams of actually being a best-selling author, but somehow it makes that part less important. 

I've been invited back to the class to finish the book.  It will probably take two more sessions.  The kids are really looking forward to it...but not half as much as I am.

The Evolution of a Bike Ride

We bought our bikes soon after my first son was born.  My wife and I got matching Giant cross-road bikes, ones that would be comfortable for a long ride down a paved path, but could also bounce along off-road.  We also bought a co-pilot seat and helmet for our son, and a rack for the mini-van.  (NOTE:  Dude seriously, a mini-van?  You are soo cool.)

When we got home I attached a wire frame to the rear of my bike and slid the co-pilot seat onto it.  We were set.  Many of the rides in those early days were along paved trails.  Being new parents, we were totally paranoid about riding on the open roads with our baby.  Even in the neighborhood.  We eventually conquered our fears, and whether the rides were short jaunts to a neighborhood playground or several miles of pathway at a local park, we got good use out of our bikes.

Later my son got a bike of his own, and it worked for the rides in the neighborhood, but for summer trips to Hilton Head or rides along the river he still sat in the co-pilot seat.

Then his brother was born, and there was an issue with seating capacity.  It all worked out, though.   Right around the time my second son was able to ride comfortably in the co-pilot seat, a friend sold me one of those attachments to turn a regular bike into a tandem.  Since the co-pilot frame was attached to my bike, my wife’s bike became the tandem, and my older son was just big enough to ride it.  We could still go out as a duo, each with a child in tow.

Then my older son grew big enough to ride on his own and we hit the trails as a trio.  When my younger son was finally big enough to ride the tandem I retired the co-pilot seat to its hook on the garage wall.  I didn’t bother to take the frame off the back of my bike, mainly out of laziness, a quality in which I am abundant, but also out of foreshadowing, which you will understand in the next paragraph, so please read on…

This year my younger son was finally big enough to ride his own bike, and our trio became a foursome.  We took our bikes to Hilton Head this summer and rode them to the beach every day.  I found a way to strap two boogie boards together, and attach them to – you’ll never guess – the co-pilot frame.  We bought new beach chairs that had straps so we could wear them like backpacks, and each chair had a small cooler-pouch and a pouch for books / magazines.  Our beach umbrella came in a sack that I could sling across my chest like a bandolier, and my older son wore a backpack with our beach toys.  We didn’t have to hunt for parking spots, or get the car (okay, mini-van) sandy and salty.  We were the mark of efficiency.

We have a BMX park nearby home, and both boys are big enough to ride the course, something I really enjoy doing with them.  We still go on long rides, there are several trails that cross town, each with a number of parks along the way.  Nowadays our rides are slow paced…they must be, so the young one can keep up.  But I have a feeling that our rides will soon evolve again, and both boys will be able to keep up with us.

And then…then my wife and I will start to slow down, and the boys will pull ahead.  We’ll be the ones struggling to keep up.  The kids will be turning back to us, impatiently telling us to keep moving, pedal, don’t stop, this was your idea…after all, we’ve said the same things to them enough times.

But you know what?  As long as we’re still riding together, I don’t mind.

The Ghost Hunters

The two Ghost Hunters went down to the basement with a flashlight and a voice recorder.  The flashlight was a big industrial job, the kind with the large square battery that, being a guy, I should probably be able to describe in more detail.  The voice recorder came from a Hot Wheels playset. 

After a couple minutes they came back upstairs and called out to their younger siblings, who came running.  The Ghost Hunters pressed play. The sound of static came from the recorder, then knocking.

"Do you hear that?" the Ghost Hunters asked.

"Yes!" The younger kids could hardly contain their excitement.  I almost expected to find pee puddles on the floor.

"That's a ghost," the Ghost Hunters said with authority.  "You stay here," they cautioned the younger kids and then took their equipment back down to the basement.

When they returned, the youngsters gathered round and listened to the new recording.  The ever-present static was followed by knocking again, then a voice.  "Get out of my house," it said.

The giggles that followed told tale of excitement laced with fear.  The younger kids waited while the Ghost Hunters descended to the basement one more time, again coming up with a new recording of static, knocking, and voices.  This time the message was, "Get out of my house or I will kill you."

This was my cue to take action, because that's the kind of father I am.  After all, it disrupts my sleep when the kids come into our bedroom in the middle of the night to tell their mom they had a nightmare. 

The Ghost Hunters were already preparing for another mission.  "Let's go in here this time," they said, opening the pantry door.

"That's fine.  Just don't go in the Bat Cave.  You might not ever come out," I said, because that's the kind of father I am.  (NOTE: The Bat Cave is the closet under the stairs.)

Undaunted by the chance they could disappear forever, the Ghost Hunters abandoned the pantry and walked to the Bat Cave.  They opened the door.  I got off the couch and quietly walked over to the wall.  On the other side of the wall was the interior of the Bat Cave, and inside it, the Ghost Hunters.  I heard the door close.  Then I banged like hell on the wall, loud and fast.

The door opened so fast a sonic boom shook the house and the Ghost Hunters came out in a blur.  The screams were incredible.  I laughed so hard I again felt the need to check the floor for pee puddles.

I haven't seen or heard a ghost since. 

The Boy Who Could Fly

My son turns six today!  On Sunday we had a birthday party for him at Gym Extreme, and I took this snapshot.  I had no idea it would turn out all cool-like with him hovering silhouetted against the open door.  Click on the picture for a larger version:

He landed in the foam pit without issue.  Looked so fun I had to try.  I hope to follow this post up later this week with a more in-depth account of the injuries I sustained...

Childish Humor

Kids have a funny sense of humor.  As infants, anything from jingling car keys to tapping a soda can on the counter can elicit full-blown belly laughs.  Then they grow up and start to hear jokes.  They laugh when adults laugh, or when their siblings laugh.  They know the words were funny, but don't always understand why.

This is most apparent when they try to make up jokes on their own.

This doesn't always work with the intended degree of success.  I find myself laughing at my kids' jokes, but not in a "Wow that's funny" way.  More in a "Where the heck did THAT come from?" way.

Here's an example.  It's a simple knock-knock joke my five-year-old told me recently.  It's spent two weeks on a post-it note on my desk, awaiting its turn here on Ye Olde Blogge:

SON: Knock-knock.

ME: Who's there?

SON: Working out.

ME: Working out who?

SON: Working out at the place you work at.

ME: Huh?

SON: (Belly laugh).

So I end up laughing at his laughter, and he thinks his joke was a screaming success and tries to come up with more.  It's a self-perpetuating cycle ripe with a mixture of delight and confusion.  I'm sure I'll have more examples in the future, please stay tuned...

Oh, yeah. I went there.

Insanity is a path all parents walk down from time to time.  We are led there by periods of totally irrational behavior in our children.  Kids do crazy things, and it makes parents crazy.  It's like reverse heredity, if you think about it.

You may be thinking that something happened in my house tonight to inspire this post, and you would be right.  I'm not going to get into the details, because that's not the funny part.  Lets' just say it involved an extraordinary volume of tears...a volume totally disproportionate to the act that inspired them. 

This particular tantrum yanked an age-old parental cliche out of me.  I tried to stop it, I didn't want to go there, but it just made sense to say it.  The perfect words to sum up what I was feeling, right there at the tip of my tongue.  Before I could stop myself I said, "Do you want me to give you something to cry about?"

I can say it worked, he didn't want anyting...wait, my wife just told me he's still upstairs crying.  I'll be right back.
 
Okay, I'm back.  Now before you call CPS, for the record, I did not give him anything to cry about.  Unless you count enforcing bedtime hours without the privilege of reading a book, something he was encouraged to do earlier in the evening.  Personally, I don't count that.  He argued that he's supposed to do it for school, which is true, and that his teacher will be mad at him, which is not.  It's Monday and he can make up for it any of the remaining days this week.  I'm not buying the tear-inducing necessity of "just one page."  I'm all for reading, but not as a reward for driving my wife and me crazy.

Eventually he stopped I didn't need to follow up with "this will hurt me more than it will you."    

Once, years ago, I caught myself using the threat of a spanking in a horrible juxtaposition that bewildered the tears right out of my son.  He was back-talking, and said no when I told him to do something he needed to do.  So naturally, I said, "Don't you say no to me.  Do you want a spanking?"

So what option did I leave him as a response?  Yes?  Maybe?  It stunned us both into silence.

Now that's it for tonight.  No more blogging.  Put the laptop down.  Do it now.  Because I said so.

Getting the Run-Around

I wasn't planning on posting again this week, but this is just too good...

Last night I was sitting on the couch watching a DVR recording of America's Funniest Home Videos with my five-year-old son.  Or rather, I was watching AFV while my son bounced around the couch like a jumping bean.  A very loud jumping bean.

"Wow, you're wound up," I said, checking the clock.  It was around 8pm, edging on bedtime.  "Why don't you run three laps around the couch and burn some of that energy off?"

He thought that was a great idea, so he took off.  I counted each time he passed between me and the TV screen.  "One...two...three..."

Oh, he didn't stop there.  He wasn't done by a long shot.  "Four...five...six..."  He asked if this would make him better at basketball.  I assured him it would.

"Seven...eight...nine...ten..."  I won't go through every number, because trust me, it's boring as hell.  I will give you some general recaps, however, so you can get the sense of how this little exercise progressed:

Laps 45-55: He added the dining room and kitchen.  I still only counted a lap when he passed between me and the TV screen, though.  After ten extended laps he went back to circling the couch.

Lap 70- He asked if his basketball game would be over.  I said it would be pretty close.

Lap 75- He told me he would go to 101.

Lap 101- Still going strong.  He asked me if running would help build up his Magneto powers.  I said I didn't know, but encouraged him to try it out and see.

Lap 125- I was cracking up, and reminded him that I only asked him to run three laps.  He asked me not to laugh.  Then he clarified that I could laugh at the TV, just not at him.

Lap 150- AFV was over, and I noted that surely his basketball game would be over too.  He did not object to being called Shirley.  Must work on this.

Lap 212- He started walking.

Lap 251- It was 9:01 pm and my wife came in to admonish me for not sending him up to bed already.  I made him stop and sent him up to bed, but I'm pretty sure he was dead-set on clearing 300 if we would have let him.

Guest Post

The author of today's guest post is my eight-year old son.   He's in second grade, and part of his homework is to write 10 sentences using 10 vocabulary words.  Today's words were:

• Yelling
• Sit
• Passing
• Running
• Pick
• Jumping
• Picking
• Sitting
• Jump
• Resting

And here's his contribution to this blog, via his homework.  Feel free to psychoanalyze us in the comments:

Stop yelling.  Stop yelling at me yelling hurts my ears.  Sit down mate.  Hey! Stop passing that football and get over here.  Stop running on the track and get over here.  Don't pick on my little brother wimp! Hey! Stop doing your jumping jacks and get over here!  Why aren't you sitting up?  Jump come on kid jump! I'm resting I broke my back I am parylized you see.

And the Winner is...

My son, and we are very proud of him.  Now if we could find out what the contest was all about we'd be even more proud.  Unfortunately, getting your kids to provide details about school can be as eventful as asking your fish to describe the taste of water.

So here's what happened:

I was a guest reader for my son's kindergarten class last week.  I brought DON'T LET THE PIGEON DRIVE THE BUS from our home library, and it was such a hit that we followed up DON'T LET THE PIGEON STAY UP LATE from the classroom bookshelf.  There was a brief intermission where each child raised their hand to tell me how late they stayed up (NOTE: Apparently Star Wars airs on Fridays and many parents extend the standard 8:30 bedtime to 9:00.  Must look into this.  Also, several stayed up until midnight on New Years and one little liar stayed up all the way until morning uh-huh really she did.)

When I finished with the second book it was time for the kids to get ready for dismissal, and I decided to drive my kids home instead of having them take the bus because that's the kind of Dad I am.  We gathered his things and went off to another classroom to get my other son.

When we got there my older son's second-grade teacher saw my kindergartner and said, "It's nice to meet you, congratulations on your Trail Blazer award.  We heard your name on the announcements."

I was too busy beaming with pride to notice if he said "thank you" so I'll just assume he did.

On a side note, when I signed the kids out at the office, the administrative staff complimented me on the interactive reading.  My younger son's kindergarten classroom is closest to the office, and the door was open so they could all hear two dozen tiny voices shout "NO" over and over again.  The Pigeon books rock!

When we got to my car I asked a few questions about the award.  The answers were as thin as the air.  Later that evening I asked my wife, and she was totally in the dark.  She asked the boys some more questions, and by then they were sick of talking about it.  We have yet to determine:

- Why he got the award.  From what we could surmise, he was nice to people.
- When he got the award.  It wasn't that day.  We are certain it was this school year, and confident it was in 2010 (but not positive).
- Who else got the award.
- What else comes with the award, other than the principal saying his name in the morning announcements. 

For all I know it was a Major Award, falling someplace between the Nobel, Pulitzer, and that leg lamp from A Christmas Story...

"Fra-gee-lay.  It must be Italian..."

Shivering, and Not From the Cold

Once again my children have stepped to the plate at the last minute to contribute fodder for this blog.  Their youthful innocence brings marvel and wonder to life's most minor aspects, and I am proud to share them with you.  Of course, I'm referring to the phenomenon of "pee shivers" or, as Wikipedia puts it, post-micturition convulsion syndrome.  But for the purposes of this post, I'm going with pee shivers.


My older son recently had his first experience with pee shivers, which was accompanied by laughter and a lot of errant splashing.  It takes a while for a boy to master aim in general, and it's much more difficult when your body is experiencing a magnitude 8.5 trembler.  Even the scented candles on the back of the bowl are at risk of being extinguished.  Don't bother to ask about the floor.

I explained to him that pee shivers are a natural, if not freakish, occurrence, and it happens to all guys (NOTE: I hope this is the only "it happens to all guys" speech I will ever need to have with my children).  That seemed to end his questioning for the time being.  Then, yesterday, I had the pleasure of overhearing this conversation...

"Hey, I just shivered again when I peed," my older son shouted from the bathroom.

My younger son ran to him.  "Can I try?"

(NOTE: this is when I grabbed the post-it note and pen and started writing as fast as I could)

My older son zipped his pants and made room in front of the bowl.

"When, when I start?" the young one asked his brother as he got in position, ready for his first pee shiver.

"After," his brother told him.

"When you flush it?" the anticipation was killing him.

"No, while you're peeing."

I could hear the stream hit the water, then fade to a trickle and stop.  Then a very disappointed "I'm not shaking."

Alas, the pee shivers are not contagious like yawns and he will have to try again.  But I am confident that one day he will experience them.  As far as he is concerned, that day cannot come soon enough.