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.