Moving

Well, the big day has come, and I have moved to my very own domain: Filets to Fishsticks. For now, my original blog will remain, but in time it will redirect to my new location which holds great things for the future . . .

The Inquizition

Everyone expects questions from children. Their small, spongy brains absorb as much knowledge as possible as they grow and learn. We understand this to be true, but everyone has a breaking point and, a few weeks back, She found Hers. I have waited to unleash Her findings from that morning in order to let the pain subside, but the time has come: From 8:00AM to 12:00PM, a small 4 hour window, He was able to ask 76 distinctly different questions. That's 19 questions per hour which equates to roughly one question every 3-3.5 minutes. If answer time is figured in, along with time to process new thoughts, it is feasible to think that His question state of mind ran constantly for 4 hours. Quite a feat, seeing that I don't know if My mind spends even 4 hours a week in such an inquisitive state. Granted, there were probably lulls in the questioning, which would throw off this theory, but, regardless, this was truly amazing documentation on Her part. However, when the results were brought to my attention and I noticed a glazed look in Her eyes, coupled with a slow shake of the head, Her silent retreat to the bedroom was deserved and unquestioned . . . even by Him.

Fil•i•bus•ter

He is quite a curious boy, but this curiosity reached a new level last night. While running an errand, He asked me if there were any words He didn't know. Rather than break the news that there were a good 50,000+ that He was completely oblivious to, I replied with an amiable "yes." Naturally, this news was compelling to Him and He requested to know a new word. Thinking for a moment, I went with "Filibuster." I had used the word earlier in the day and the thought of hearing it executed by a five year old was too much to bear. I recited the word, assisted with pronunciation, and proceeded to define it as follows: "It's when someone in a meeting keeps talking, and talking, and talking so no one else can talk." This definition was then immediately equated with the chatty nature of SpongeBob. Though odd, His age appropriate comparison was quite good, so I allowed the analogy. However, this was soon trumped by his use of the word in a sentence. Just this afternoon He told His Grandpa, in relation to the woman vacuuming the doormats at the store last night, "she was 'filibustering' with the vacuum" because she didn't stop as We left. Although I don't know that the Senate has ever experienced such a situation, I challenge any spelling bee to come up with a better sentence for such a normally boring word.

The Tool Set

He was always asking for a tool set, so We thought a few tools would make a good Christmas gift. The repercussions of such a gift, however, never crossed Our minds. The piles of tiny screws, miscellaneous springs, and dozens upon dozens of batteries that would soon overcome the house must have seemed irrelevant at the time. And, to be honest, none of this really hit Me until I set about to clean His room and was able to gather a small sample of battery covers and mutilated toys (note: the pathetic, dismembered foot of a once laughing Elmo was omitted from the photo). I am amazed at how much He has actually taken apart with the help of Our great gift. His weapon of choice is a small Phillips-head screw driver and, from the carnage I have seen, there is nothing it cannot accomplish. He was even able to disassemble, in an hour, a wooden mouse-house that had been meticulously constructed by Her, glue and all, for Christmas the year prior, and yes, the irony of this is undeniably classic. I guess I could attempt to match each battery cover with its other half, but I know that I would be fighting an uphill battle that I could never win.

Faded Humor

I can remember growing up and watching A Christmas Story thinking it was hysterical. In one scene, Ralphie, the central character and narrator, comments that his mother has not had a hot meal in X number of years because she is always getting up to get things for her children. I found this funny for years and I now feel sorry that I ever laughed at such a thing. As We sat at the table tonight and realized, after getting additional napkins, water refills, carrots (by request) and answering dozens of questions, We signed in defeat and realized that scenes such as the above are in no way humorous: they are gut-wrenching, depressing, and distressingly realistic. We love family dinners, but We have come to realize that the only way to truly enjoy Our food is to eat in darkness and silence after He is asleep. This is one of those moments that all parents wait for their children to discover so they can sit back and smirk between each nervous tick.

Mass Transit Goes Diner

Not wanting a party, being the anti-other-children parents that We are, We opted for a "better" idea: A train ride followed by lunch at a train themed diner for Him and one friend from school. This, as We found out, was a prime example of an idea that looks great on paper, but had unforeseen consequences. The diner is geared toward kids with an eye for trains and parents with an incredible amount of patience. The food is delivered on train-cars to each table or counter seat before the trains chugs away back to the kitchen for another run. This provided just enough entertainment that the He needed prompting to eat, but that was to be expected; what we did not account for were the small train-shaped whistles that topped each cupcake: they were cute, plastic, and deafening. As time passed, the ratio of children to parents grew to roughly 6 to 1 as the shrill sound of the whistles mingled with screams of excitement from the surrounding generation. The walls seemed to close in behind Us when We left and, as the shrieks were silenced by the swing of the door, a sense of relief overcame Us as We walked away, accomplished, without looking back.

"Hill Park"

This is an image of Him and I at "Hill Park": A small grassy area with a tree (not pictured) and a hill that's perfect for rolling (an art that I taught Him). When asked at one point why His people do not have arms, He replied quickly, "Because they just run."

Name Change

After perusing some of My old entries (which, I say with a hung head, have been few as of late) I began to ask myself a few questions: What needs to be known to write a "guide"? . . . Can a "guide" even be written? . . . If so, who has the power to due so? Then I realized, while pondering not only my old posts but also the stacks of parenting manuals, magazines, and anecdotes that lie on the shelves in Our den, I hate parenting guides. They are annoying and never seem to serve the intended purpose. That said, I have changed the name of My blog to match the purpose of my writing: to provide snippets here and there of the joys, challenges, and triumphs of parenting in today's assorted world.

The Fall of the Castle

The value of a construction is only equal to its ability to withstand all forms of disaster. However, the value of a cup castle is determined by how quickly it falls and how far the cups fly.

By Nightlight

Over the last few months, She and I have been under the impression that He is sneaking out of His bed at night to play with toys, wander around in His dark room, and generally revolt against sleep. We have come to this conclusion for two reasons: First, every now and again We hear rustling; second, He has told us that He does so. This has lead Us to two conclusions: The age at which they tell on themselves is truly one to relish in, and we must try to stop His cunning escapes sooner than later. In an attempt to deter His late night adventures, We try to keep an open ear to His room and stop it right when it starts, but sometimes, as I recently discovered, it's difficult to get upset. I heard clanking a few night back and, well aware of His obsession with screwdrivers and the like, I opened the door to His room and found Him in the corner, huddled by His nightlight with a pile of batteries, a few opened toys, and the makings of His circuit board set. I was stuck between lecturing Him for getting out of bed and being completely amazed at His set up. I managed to stay on track, to explain to Him that He should not get out of bed at night, and to tuck Him in once again before confiscating the goods. Regardless, I closed the door behind me not only impressed at what He had done, but impressed by the fact that He Had gathered and arranged His findings only minutes after We had left the room.

Broom and Dustpan

This collaged creation was done by Him, in the silence of His room at His little white art table. Without any prompting, He created a broom, complete with dustpan attachment, intended, as We found out, to match the one in Our laundry room. The white bar on the handle of the broom, he explained, acts as a holder for the dustpan so it doesn't fall off. Imperfect, impractical and a bit of an odd creation for a child? Yes. Amazing, hysterical, and tremendously ingenious? Absolutely.

Valentines Day

This was the first year that He had a moderate understanding of Valentines Day and it was also the first year He experienced it in a school setting. Naturally, this experience extends homeward as each child is responsible for bringing one Valentine per classmate. Being the artsy, creative girl that She is, She decided it would be fun to make them. At first, for simplicity's sake, I protested, but She was persistent and, eventually, convinced Me it would be great. Agreeing that She would head up the creation, She set off, gathered supplies, and set to work one night with Him at Her side and Myself as the audience. The plan was 20 red hearts with eyes, and a mouth and a message, written by Him, on the back. I will spare complete details, but it must be known that after two botched hearts (all meticulously cut by hand), and only six on their way to completion in 30 minutes, a box of generic cartoon characters seemed more and more appealing to Her. However, She is not one to quit and, with great patience and 3 or 4 separate sessions, the Valentines were complete and, in the opinion of the audience, worth the time.

Measurements

He is always looking for ways to quantify things: height, weight, length, distance, etc. Typically His estimates are extremely inaccurate, but His unit choice is almost always correct: Distance from place to place is in miles (87 miles to Grandma's house), measurements of objects are in inches (a human finger is 47 inches long) and the amount of fluid is given in galleons (which, to the best of Our knowledge, is equivalent to a gallon). However, He recently caught Us both off guard when He tried to quantify a distance with shoes, in this case, "Could we get there with a million shoes?" To ease the math, I thought of each shoe as one foot and tried to continue the conversation with feet as the unit. Feeling, perhaps, that I was incapable of His requested calculation, He simplified it for Me and shrank the distance to inquire whether or not 11 shoes would span his room. Confident with my answer I exclaimed, "No, I think you would probably need 14 shoes." He was silent for a moment and seemed content with the math. She and I exchanged glances in recognition that we had apparently passed, and drove the remainder of the way home (roughly 4132 shoes).

Playground Anarchy

About two weeks ago, there were a few abnormally warm days and I found Myself thrust, once again, into the world of park outings, child governance, and playground rule. It took Me one whole summer to catch on, but after countless hours of observing and interacting with My son at various parks, I realized that children do not naturally conform to the democratic philosophy. Rather, a sense of anarchy seems to prevail. Rule switches from child to child and, during times of extreme duress, a dominant group of rules emerges to protect the good of the whole, maintain order, and ensure that no one takes more than one turn. Each child makes and breaks rules conjured up by themselves as well as by others and intense, short debates about who should go first down the slide, how loud is too loud when it comes to screaming, and who is acceptable to socialize with, are frequent. Groups form organically and a Utopian peace grapples the masses. Parents, including Myself, try to intervene with morals and rules of their own, but this only serves to temporarily scramble the balance. Anarchy slowly edges its way back and commands again echo from swing to swing.

Preventative Maintainance

She loves sleep more than anyone I have ever known. She could sleep twelve hours at night, nap after lunch, and then fall asleep without a hitch shortly after dinner. Now, naturally, as a parent it is impossible to get this much sleep, but She will do whatever is in Her power to spend just a bit more time in the warmth of the bed each morning. It was not until recently, however, that I realized exactly how far She would go. As I stumbled about in the dark grabbing breakfast to go, keys, etc. before work, I realized that something was different: the house had been staged. His hooded sweatshirt was sitting in plain view on the sofa, a lidded cup of juice was on the lowest shelf in the fridge, and a bag of cereal was sealed on the counter. I stood aghast! She had covered it all. Each morning He wakes with the same complaints/requests that are delivered in order, immediately upon entering Our room: "I'm cold . . . I'm thirsty . . . I'm hungry." She had anticipated each utterance and, as She so carefully planned, allowed Herself one or two extra minutes in bed because of it! Proof that a little parental genius and a splash of desperation can go a long way.

The Anatomy of a Popper

The simple mechanics of the classic Fisher Price Popper have amazed many for decades. Its vibrant colors have marked the rooms of countless young children and the incessant POP-POP-POP has echoed off the walls of millions of homes. As this very noise rings in My ears, I occasionally think about the Popper's simple construction and mysterious mechanisms, if only for a fleeting moment, but I always move on to some more meaningful task. My Son, however, refused to move on. Seeing nothing more meaningful than the inner workings of such a thing, He made it His mission to disassemble His beloved toy. With Her help, after weeks of pestering, His dream was made a reality and the wonders of such a simple thing were revealed. Though not the first time He has insisted on deconstruction for the purpose of education (as the many miscellaneous flashlight pieces reveal), this particular endeavor tops the list for the child in each of Us.

Bottom Front Tooth-es

Well, they're loose. Or at least thats what the dentist has told Him, and now that has become a central focus in His little world. "Ya know what?" He asks, and then, before I even have a chance to express my interest, blurts, "My two front tooth-es are loose." I had already heard the news from Her earlier reports of the dentist outing, but His narration was far better. Plus, being the generous little guy that He is, I have been informed that the Tooth Fairy, who he is quite excited to meet, will not only bring a gift (yes, a gift, because it seems quarters no longer suffice as they once did) for Him, but for Her and I as well. Fantastic! That would be just like loosing My teeth all over again minus the awkward speech and the constant molesting of the tooth with the tongue. Well, gift or no gift, the toothless path that lies ahead is sure to be clouded by the mysteries of the Tooth Fairy, challenged by the perils of dental loss, and framed in awkward grins.

Rules of the Game

I sat across from Him as He explained the rules of the "game" from His commanding post in a small, collapsible Scooby Doo chair. The Objective: Toss a small, partially deflated beach ball into a hand-held seed spreader without it bouncing out. The Prize: An empty and used Pez dispenser. The Catch: After each successful toss, the target would be moved back (the distances far from incremental) until it lay at the far end of the room. This was a daunting task, but any toss that was moderately close was "redirected" into the seed spreader by His closely poised hands and finished off by an exclamation of a job well done. Sure, I felt like a cheat, but what choice did I have with such a prize on the line. Besides, in the end, I succeeded in sinking the ball twice (at the two closest distances) without any assistance, so I told Myself I earned it, took the prize, and walked away a successful competitor.

Defined by Child

Ching (ch-ing) - v. To lightly hit two objects together in celebration: lets ching our glasses, lets ching out hats.

Page, Chapter, Book

Experienced parents always spout off the same bit of advice: "As long as you both are on the same page when it comes to parenting, everything will be fine." What page? How about a range, or a hint? Frankly Her and I have spent the last three plus years flipping through pages and, honestly, I'm not even sure We're in the same chapter or, for that matter, the same book. But maybe this diversity is the key. If We were both reading the same epic child novel, the pages would become so synchronized and bland that life would grow dull. Then again, every so often, as I stare at His puzzled little face following one of our classic simultaneous, yet clashing answers and think that maybe dull would be nice for a change. Then I come to and realize that those parents reflect and advise from the ideal rather than the real and I flip back to page 212 in chapter 6 of book 4 and lean over to catch a snippet of what She is reading: page 83, chapter 2, book 6.

Flowers and Smudge (Sun), 1/1

Simplicity and Joy

There He sits, spoon of peas in hand, apparently pondering something. "What?" I wonder, "To eat or not to eat? Why are they green? Why are they round?" I have grown so used to questions that I try to anticipate every possible inquisition so that I can have what He will deem an acceptable answer when the time comes. Smiling, He looks up triumphantly, "They're havin' a wittle party!" Shocking. There was no question; there was only a simple statement before He shoved the spoon, minus a few peas that fell victim to the floor, into His mouth. I stood and stared for a moment before laughing, first to myself, then aloud. Moments such as this are some of the best. I must remember, as I stand at the sink scrubbing a pot or bustling around the house doing any number of random chores, that I have been ruined. The world has ravaged Me and withered My ability to recognize a pea-party taking place right before My eyes. However, children, My son in particular, has not yet been tainted by the world: He is able to not only see the party, but laugh at it, and then form a boat from an accompanying piece of cheese. This is joy in its purest form and while My first reaction is laughter, I know that deep down that laughter is masking envy because I know that the peas would have a much more eventful party if they were riding on that little boat of cheese.

Stuck

Every now and again the little guy will come stumbling into Our bed in the middle of the night. I am usually so sound asleep that I don't notice until He wedges His little body against mine trying to leach whatever warmth He can. This scenario occurred at about 2 am this morning. I tolerated sharp toe jabs to the groin for about an hour before returning Him to His own bed only to find Him staring Me down again at 6 am looking for a spot. For some reason, He flocks to my side, completely ignoring His mom, which pins Me in the middle. This is where the real trouble arises. Somehow I must get out of the bed for work without disturbing either one of them. I can crawl over Him, but if He wakes it's all over. She provides a bigger obstacle, but if I wake Her, She'll be out again in no time. Thinking for a moment I decided my girlfriend was the safest bet and I went about my early-morning contortionist routine, manage to shimmy over Her (despite grumbling) without waking either party. The escape complete, my morning was a success.

Me, Her, Him, and Us

In this quaint, modern family home of ours there are three member: Myself, my girlfriend (She, Her, etc.) and our son (Him, He, etc), a four and a half year old streak of energy. Despite the current "buyer's market" that is dominating today's economy, we still rent . . . an apartment. It's nothing glamorous, and we would prefer a house, but it suits us well and, in the long run, we have no complaints. It is a bit of a challenge not having a yard to unleash the little vibrant wonder, but we make do with parks, trips to the grandparents, and an occasional glass (or bottle) of wine. We are lucky enough to live near Her parents which provides an excellent outlet for His energy while allowing Him to have a great relationship with His grandparents and, above all, giving Us a glimpse of sanity and freedom on an occasional weekend night. We tend to work opposite schedules as She works part-time on the weekends and evenings with an overlap every now and again (thank you grandparents). We have plenty of grand plans for the years to come and We never loose sight of them, but for now, We stroll forward as individuals and as a family in this every changing world of toy recalls, child obesity epidemics, and parent-focused reality TV.

Thoughts, Explainations, and Introductions

In hindsight, it may have been an outstanding idea to start this blog three and a half years ago and simply chronograph my daily and weekly endeavors as they happened; however, I fell that the overall quality of such a thing would have been lacking, spotty, and generally boring. Now, as I can both look back and peer forward, I am able to reflect on the past while living in the present and anticipating the future. With that in mind, this blog is to serve two proposes: First and foremost, it is to provide an outlet for my compassion, my frustration, and my confusion as I venture down the parental road; Second, it is to provide advice, or perhaps just comforting words, to the millions of parents attempting to fill the same shoes that I am cramming my feet into. I do know that there are more parent blogs clogging the web than any one person or family may need, but I have decided to create my own feeling that I have something a bit different to contribute. I do not write for The New Yorker while trying to hold down my family with two six-figure incomes in a Manhattan loft, nor do I have multiple children with numerous play dates and P.T.A. meetings mingling on the side. I work full time while attending school and attempting to be the best father and dad (and yes they are different) that I can. I am not claiming to be a super parent and I'm not criticizing the six-figure Manhattan-ites, but I know that my reflections will serve to provided sanity for myself and laughter for others, while providing relief to the many people of this modern, fast-paced era who are raising the worlds most complex pets: Children.