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.