Part of the problem I have with blogging more frequently than a blue moon eclipsing the sun is that I keep holding out for those undeniable gems that really, truly must be shared with everyone I know. The sad thing is that having two boys ages four and five provides ample material for the average blog, and it's only my blog-snobbery that prevents me from spewing forth our daily comedy.
Take, for example, a scene from about a month ago now, when I had the kids on my own for the weekend. At some point on Sunday I looked toward the back seat of the car at Ben, who had stretched a green rubber band around his head like the most uncomfortable hair band I could imagine. What caught my attention, though - rubber band misuse being pretty standard fare with these two - was some hair that was sticking up from the crown of Ben's head. Not because of the rubber band - no, out of his earlobe-length mop emerged an Alfalfa-esque tuft of hair only an inch and a half long at most. Ben denied any knowledge of its existence, but I had a feeling that was somewhat less than true.
Later that evening I asked him again if something had happened, or if he or someone else had cut it. Ian, as if reminded of some great hilarity I shouldn't have missed, chirped, "Yeah, Ben cut it!" Ben responded to my raised eyebrow with a downcast expression that is as good as a signed, notarized confession to an interrogating parent. For whatever reason, he'd taken his craft scissors and chosen a lock of hair at a particularly unfortunate location, just for laughs or kicks or whatever else motivates five-year-olds. Not that he's the first, of course; Sarah knew of a girl who cut off an entire pigtail at a birthday party, and it was on someone else's head. The real kicker in this case was the further detail Ian provided: "Then he threw it under the couch!"
But hair grows back, and bad haircuts fade into memory, at least until the photos come out for high school graduation.
What probably won't go away, however, is Ben's uncanny ability to use our parenting tactics against us. The time he got the timer to make sure I didn't dawdle preparing dinner was funny, but now his knack for bending the word of the law to flaunt its spirit (or at least our intended purposes) has made me wonder if there's an attorney gene that we've somehow passed to him.
We base a lot of rules on age. Ben is five, so time-outs are five minutes long, and he has to eat five pieces of carrot or broccoli with dinner. Ian gets a pass on vegetables because he's only four, and we didn't get harsh on eating habits until Ben was five. Of course we wonder what we'll do when Ian turns five, since his diet is about as varied as that of a panda bear - and with less fiber.
Which brings us to today. Getting out of the house is usually an ordeal, since there is no priority lower in the mind of a four- or five-year-old boy than getting dressed. Nudity, furthermore, is de facto hilarious, and usually sparks fits of mirth that are either infectious or infuriating depending on how much time we have. This morning they ignored my entreaties to put their clothes on while I gathered their library books, and were running laps of the coffee table like ancient Olympians when I came downstairs. By that point I had lost my patience (or its tattered remnants), so I snapped at Ben, "Why do I have to ask you to do everything five times?!"
And the little brat said, "But I'm five..."
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Vice and vitriol
As Ben and Ian grow older, each of them comes more into focus as an individual. Ben has a good grasp on right and wrong, and an innate sense of justice. Ian also understands right and wrong, but he's usually more interested in what he wants, and he has a stubborn tenacity that would challenge even the Supernanny.
Ben can be disarmingly honest at times. Unfortunately, that often makes him a terrible keeper of secrets. When he stayed home with Grandma during spring break, he revealed while we prepared dinner that he had had three treats already that day, so Ian should be allowed to have dessert, but really it wouldn't be appropriate for him to have any more. And here I thought there was no such thing as too many treats from Grandma.
I wish some of that guilt would rub off on Ian, who would happily eat nothing but sweets all day, with the occasional bagel thrown in to reset his taste buds. About a month ago we couldn't figure out why he kept going under our bed - we assumed he was just playing or hunting dust bunnies - until we discovered the empty box of cinnamon graham crackers he'd apparently stolen from the pantry. Ballsy move, hiding contraband under the parents' bed. Explains why reverse psychology doesn't work with him: he's figured it out himself.
Ben's deceitful moments are less to enrich himself than to conceal things he knows will get him in trouble. Most of the time he and Ian get along famously; they'll turn off Saturday morning cartoons to play elaborate games of make-believe that would make Mr. Rogers proud. There are mornings, though, when the bickering starts before eight o'clock and escalates to physical and psychological warfare. While Ian resorts to hitting or pinching, Ben usually sticks with verbal abuse.
The other day, after bickering led us to separate them altogether, Ben was downstairs drawing (as usual) while Ian was in their bedroom looking at books. Ben called for Ian to see what he'd drawn, but Ian wasn't interested. Ben persisted, then became furious when Ian wouldn't budge. Neither of these things (Ian's stubbornness, Ben's frustration) was anything out of the ordinary, so I thought little of it. As I walked downstairs, Ben rushed over to the easel to block my view, saying it was a secret. Again, nothing new - he often wants to save the big reveal for when his work is complete.
Fast forward a couple of hours. I'm rolling up the used paper from the easel, and something catches my eye. It suddenly dawns on me that he said "secret," not "surprise." Ben draws a lot of planets and rockets and space stuff, but this time he'd drawn an asteroid high in the sky, a stick person labeled "Ian," and the caption:
Ben looked sheepish when I confronted him about drawing fratricidal fantasy threats, but I couldn't bring myself to punish him for something so comical. Nonetheless, the guilt must have weighed on him to some extent, because a little while later he dragged me back to his easel. With a conciliatory grin on his face, he showed me how he'd undone whatever damage he'd hoped to inflict on Ian with a sly amendment. Now the caption read:
Ben can be disarmingly honest at times. Unfortunately, that often makes him a terrible keeper of secrets. When he stayed home with Grandma during spring break, he revealed while we prepared dinner that he had had three treats already that day, so Ian should be allowed to have dessert, but really it wouldn't be appropriate for him to have any more. And here I thought there was no such thing as too many treats from Grandma.
I wish some of that guilt would rub off on Ian, who would happily eat nothing but sweets all day, with the occasional bagel thrown in to reset his taste buds. About a month ago we couldn't figure out why he kept going under our bed - we assumed he was just playing or hunting dust bunnies - until we discovered the empty box of cinnamon graham crackers he'd apparently stolen from the pantry. Ballsy move, hiding contraband under the parents' bed. Explains why reverse psychology doesn't work with him: he's figured it out himself.
Ben's deceitful moments are less to enrich himself than to conceal things he knows will get him in trouble. Most of the time he and Ian get along famously; they'll turn off Saturday morning cartoons to play elaborate games of make-believe that would make Mr. Rogers proud. There are mornings, though, when the bickering starts before eight o'clock and escalates to physical and psychological warfare. While Ian resorts to hitting or pinching, Ben usually sticks with verbal abuse.
The other day, after bickering led us to separate them altogether, Ben was downstairs drawing (as usual) while Ian was in their bedroom looking at books. Ben called for Ian to see what he'd drawn, but Ian wasn't interested. Ben persisted, then became furious when Ian wouldn't budge. Neither of these things (Ian's stubbornness, Ben's frustration) was anything out of the ordinary, so I thought little of it. As I walked downstairs, Ben rushed over to the easel to block my view, saying it was a secret. Again, nothing new - he often wants to save the big reveal for when his work is complete.
Fast forward a couple of hours. I'm rolling up the used paper from the easel, and something catches my eye. It suddenly dawns on me that he said "secret," not "surprise." Ben draws a lot of planets and rockets and space stuff, but this time he'd drawn an asteroid high in the sky, a stick person labeled "Ian," and the caption:
Astaroyd fall on IAN!Complete with an arrow indicating the asteroid's path toward his head. Ben undoubtedly hoped Ian would find this suitably menacing, and to a kid who thinks Peter Pan is a documentary, it probably would be.
Ben looked sheepish when I confronted him about drawing fratricidal fantasy threats, but I couldn't bring myself to punish him for something so comical. Nonetheless, the guilt must have weighed on him to some extent, because a little while later he dragged me back to his easel. With a conciliatory grin on his face, he showed me how he'd undone whatever damage he'd hoped to inflict on Ian with a sly amendment. Now the caption read:
Astaroyd fall on IAN! AND BENSometimes wishing for mutual destruction is the closest you can bring yourself to apologizing.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Teddy, bared
This weekend I took the boys to Theodore Roosevelt Island National Memorial, a public park in the middle of the Potomac so tucked away it's nearly impossible to get to. Not that it's terribly far from major roads - a five-lane bridge crosses the southern end of the island - but you need to approach from a certain direction, and if you miss the turn it would take fifteen minutes of backtracking to give it another go.
First of all, Roosevelt Island is part of the District of Columbia, but you can only get there from the Virginia mainland. Obvious, I know. Then there's the fact that it is accessible only from northbound George Washington Parkway, which is a beautiful drive, but one of Washington's least accessible roadways. On top of it all (and what gives the island a modicum of charm), a pedestrian bridge offers the sole point of entry. Something this challenging to reach must be a real treasure, no?
This being Washington, DC, the idea is somewhat greater than the reality. Tedd Roosevelt - great proponent of national parks, icon of the outdoorsman, and mustachioed adventurer - is memorialized not so much with a nature preserve as an island estate gone to seed. Two hundred years ago, John Mason, son of George Mason, cleared much of the island, built a home, and planted a very impressive garden of flowers and fruit trees with little regard to native flora. He left in 1833, however, and you can imagine what 175 years of neglect can do to a garden.
Nowadays the island looks like the backyard of that neighbor everyone wishes would take care of their landscaping for once, but on a grander scale. The human detritus accumulating along the shores is plentiful enough for a dozen Boy Scouts to make Eagle (there's what looks like a washed-out wooden dock at the north end, fer cryin' out loud), and most of the foliage surely started out as weeds.
What TR might find most disappointing is the fact that there is no point on the island that offers an escape from the surrounding urban thrum. Through the leafless branches of Winter, from most of the island you can see the city all around you: the Watergate Hotel to the east, Georgetown to the north, and the gleaming office towers of Rosslyn to the west. The south side is dominated by the aforementioned five-lane bridge, and we didn't explore the path beyond because it was posted with a warning that herbicide had recently been sprayed to keep weeds at bay. Yeah, good luck with that. The coup de grace, however, is the roar of commercial airliners taking off from Reagan National Airport that since 9/11 have been routed directly over Teddy's tiny haven. Central Park offers more isolation.
The Theodore Roosevelt Memorial itself is a bit more impressive, but it too looks neglected. There's a broad plaza encircled by a stagnant moat that gets cleaned every leap year or so, a couple of requisite fountains, and some engraved slabs of granite. The plaza is dominated by a statue of the Man Himself, although he's posed like he's hailing a cab. Teddy would rather be elsewhere.
All that being said, at least it was outdoors, and the boys proved their stamina is increasing by traipsing the full circuit of trails over more than an hour. They liked the boardwalk bridge through the swamp (the entire eastern side of the island, basically), and we actually managed to see some wildlife: a hawk flying low overhead, and a great blue heron that I would have snapped a great picture of if Ian hadn't been, well, Ian. We don't call him "Dear lord, will you please give us a moment of peace and quiet?" for nothing.
First of all, Roosevelt Island is part of the District of Columbia, but you can only get there from the Virginia mainland. Obvious, I know. Then there's the fact that it is accessible only from northbound George Washington Parkway, which is a beautiful drive, but one of Washington's least accessible roadways. On top of it all (and what gives the island a modicum of charm), a pedestrian bridge offers the sole point of entry. Something this challenging to reach must be a real treasure, no?
This being Washington, DC, the idea is somewhat greater than the reality. Tedd Roosevelt - great proponent of national parks, icon of the outdoorsman, and mustachioed adventurer - is memorialized not so much with a nature preserve as an island estate gone to seed. Two hundred years ago, John Mason, son of George Mason, cleared much of the island, built a home, and planted a very impressive garden of flowers and fruit trees with little regard to native flora. He left in 1833, however, and you can imagine what 175 years of neglect can do to a garden.
Nowadays the island looks like the backyard of that neighbor everyone wishes would take care of their landscaping for once, but on a grander scale. The human detritus accumulating along the shores is plentiful enough for a dozen Boy Scouts to make Eagle (there's what looks like a washed-out wooden dock at the north end, fer cryin' out loud), and most of the foliage surely started out as weeds.
What TR might find most disappointing is the fact that there is no point on the island that offers an escape from the surrounding urban thrum. Through the leafless branches of Winter, from most of the island you can see the city all around you: the Watergate Hotel to the east, Georgetown to the north, and the gleaming office towers of Rosslyn to the west. The south side is dominated by the aforementioned five-lane bridge, and we didn't explore the path beyond because it was posted with a warning that herbicide had recently been sprayed to keep weeds at bay. Yeah, good luck with that. The coup de grace, however, is the roar of commercial airliners taking off from Reagan National Airport that since 9/11 have been routed directly over Teddy's tiny haven. Central Park offers more isolation.
The Theodore Roosevelt Memorial itself is a bit more impressive, but it too looks neglected. There's a broad plaza encircled by a stagnant moat that gets cleaned every leap year or so, a couple of requisite fountains, and some engraved slabs of granite. The plaza is dominated by a statue of the Man Himself, although he's posed like he's hailing a cab. Teddy would rather be elsewhere.
All that being said, at least it was outdoors, and the boys proved their stamina is increasing by traipsing the full circuit of trails over more than an hour. They liked the boardwalk bridge through the swamp (the entire eastern side of the island, basically), and we actually managed to see some wildlife: a hawk flying low overhead, and a great blue heron that I would have snapped a great picture of if Ian hadn't been, well, Ian. We don't call him "Dear lord, will you please give us a moment of peace and quiet?" for nothing.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Damn the torpedoes!
Ian is continually proving himself to be a problem solver, even if mortal peril is involved.
I came downstairs this morning to find Ian walking out of the kitchen with a cup in his hands. He said that he was thirsty, so he got it all by himself. But before he said that, I detected a momentary look on his face. One of those looks that says there's a bit more to the story that he's not telling me. Not quite surprise, not quite fear of getting in trouble, but maybe a sudden realization that the probability of retroactive parental approval is something less than 100%, so immediate distraction is required. Sort of like when someone walks in while you're wrapping their birthday present, except it's not their birthday, and you're not sure they'd want the gift you bought.
See, I couldn't remember leaving that particular cup on the counter. Last night I'd cleaned the kitchen pretty thoroughly, and I was sure all our cups were in the cabinet above the sink. What did he do, climb onto the counter somehow? Without falling into the sink?
Oh no. If only. Turns out that rather than ask us for help, he dragged a dining room chair into the kitchen, then stacked his child-sized chair on top of it so he could climb up and reach the cabinet. Being four years old, he'd left his improvised scaffolding intact instead of destroying the evidence.
When I saw how close he'd come to disaster, I emphatically warned him never to do such a thing again. Trouble is, I'm not sure he could hear me over his glowing pride at his accomplishment.
It's crazy how different kids can be. Ben would have called for us to get him a cup before he even looked to see if one was within reach. Annoying? Sure, sometimes. But at least I don't have to worry as much about him doing a header onto the kitchen floor. More frequent stress perhaps, but lower levels. It probably averages out in the end.
I came downstairs this morning to find Ian walking out of the kitchen with a cup in his hands. He said that he was thirsty, so he got it all by himself. But before he said that, I detected a momentary look on his face. One of those looks that says there's a bit more to the story that he's not telling me. Not quite surprise, not quite fear of getting in trouble, but maybe a sudden realization that the probability of retroactive parental approval is something less than 100%, so immediate distraction is required. Sort of like when someone walks in while you're wrapping their birthday present, except it's not their birthday, and you're not sure they'd want the gift you bought.
See, I couldn't remember leaving that particular cup on the counter. Last night I'd cleaned the kitchen pretty thoroughly, and I was sure all our cups were in the cabinet above the sink. What did he do, climb onto the counter somehow? Without falling into the sink?
Oh no. If only. Turns out that rather than ask us for help, he dragged a dining room chair into the kitchen, then stacked his child-sized chair on top of it so he could climb up and reach the cabinet. Being four years old, he'd left his improvised scaffolding intact instead of destroying the evidence.
When I saw how close he'd come to disaster, I emphatically warned him never to do such a thing again. Trouble is, I'm not sure he could hear me over his glowing pride at his accomplishment.
It's crazy how different kids can be. Ben would have called for us to get him a cup before he even looked to see if one was within reach. Annoying? Sure, sometimes. But at least I don't have to worry as much about him doing a header onto the kitchen floor. More frequent stress perhaps, but lower levels. It probably averages out in the end.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Killing me softly, I hope
Ben's quote of the day from yesterday:
"This shirt is killing my nipples!"
Don't even ask me to explain.
"This shirt is killing my nipples!"
Don't even ask me to explain.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Outta time
When Ben started kindergarten, our lives were suddenly on a more rigid schedule. Daycare didn't really care if we were five or ten minutes later than usual, but when you have a humorless schoolbus driver determining whether your child avoids a tardy, you start to watch the minutes a bit more carefully. 8:25? Plenty of time. 8:26? Getting close - might want to get things moving toward the door. 8:27? OH MY GOD WE NEED TO RUN NOW!
But Ben is a notorious dawdler. No matter how routine the practice, he needs to be reminded three times (usually at increasing volume and level of hysteria) before he'll take action. In order to cope with this habit, we bought an egg timer. Both our oven and microwave have built-in timers, but like most things digital, they lack a certain quality of their old-fashioned counterparts: namely, the ominous tick-tick-ticking and metallic staccato of the bell. Much in the way that the tell-tale heart drove its proprietor to madness, we hoped the egg timer would drive Ben to get dressed.
Ben received the egg timer with amused suspicion at first. We set it to five minutes, and Ben beat the buzzer by about four. Huzzah, we said to ourselves. Within days, however, Ben came to despise the egg timer. He never failed to get dressed with more than enough time left over, but I think the timer's cheap construction - which led to its occasionally failing to ring the bell when it reached the zero - left a sense of the unresolved. Ben came to see the ticking plastic pear as his nemesis, and I could see him wanting to stash it under the floorboards.
The timer did work, though. After a week we didn't even need it. If he took too long to get dressed, the mere threat of pulling out the timer got him moving.
Like those phrases you never realize you say until your child says them back to you, though, parental tactics can come back to haunt you. Kids notice everything, and whenever they see an opportunity to use something against its creator, they will. This morning, for instance, I was apparently taking too long to make waffles for breakfast, so Ben said:
"Daddy, I'm going to get the timer, and if you're not done by the time it goes off I'm going to be starving!"
But Ben is a notorious dawdler. No matter how routine the practice, he needs to be reminded three times (usually at increasing volume and level of hysteria) before he'll take action. In order to cope with this habit, we bought an egg timer. Both our oven and microwave have built-in timers, but like most things digital, they lack a certain quality of their old-fashioned counterparts: namely, the ominous tick-tick-ticking and metallic staccato of the bell. Much in the way that the tell-tale heart drove its proprietor to madness, we hoped the egg timer would drive Ben to get dressed.
Ben received the egg timer with amused suspicion at first. We set it to five minutes, and Ben beat the buzzer by about four. Huzzah, we said to ourselves. Within days, however, Ben came to despise the egg timer. He never failed to get dressed with more than enough time left over, but I think the timer's cheap construction - which led to its occasionally failing to ring the bell when it reached the zero - left a sense of the unresolved. Ben came to see the ticking plastic pear as his nemesis, and I could see him wanting to stash it under the floorboards.
The timer did work, though. After a week we didn't even need it. If he took too long to get dressed, the mere threat of pulling out the timer got him moving.
Like those phrases you never realize you say until your child says them back to you, though, parental tactics can come back to haunt you. Kids notice everything, and whenever they see an opportunity to use something against its creator, they will. This morning, for instance, I was apparently taking too long to make waffles for breakfast, so Ben said:
"Daddy, I'm going to get the timer, and if you're not done by the time it goes off I'm going to be starving!"
Friday, October 26, 2007
It's precious moments like these
Ian's mind-blowing question of the day:
"What would happen if a monster ate only the skin of us?"
"What would happen if a monster ate only the skin of us?"
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