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?"
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Birth of sarcasm
I remember the first time I tried sarcasm on Ian. He wasn't quite three years old, and we were all going to a waterpark for the afternoon. Ian seems to get a thrill every time he is told that he can do something cool, so he'll ask whether he can participate over and over again even after we've told him that, yes, "all of us" includes him. It's like candy to his ears. So even after telling him we're going to the waterpark while we're getting swimsuits on ("Why do we need swimsuits? The waterpark? YAY!"), while we're climbing in the car ("Where are we going? The waterpark? YAY!"), and while we're en route ("Are we going to the waterpark? We are? YAY!"), he still wasn't satisfied. Upon arrival, the first words out of his mouth were "The waterpark! Can I go, too?"
Momentarily forgetting that I was dealing with a toddler so temperamental that he would smash a banana in his fists if it so much as looks at him wrong, I responded with a jolly "Nope, no waterpark for Ian!" I assumed the sing-song tone of my voice would mean he'd either hear what he wanted to hear or not really hear me at all. Big mistake. After the longest single second ever - during which I could see the words enter Ian's head, bounce around like a pinball hitting nothing but rubber bands, then shoot straight down the middle before a single flapper could make contact - his eyes registered comprehension, his lower lip curled, and all the anticipation he'd built up disgorged in a sob so profound you'd think I'd just gutted his teddy bear in front of him. I had to walk him toward the water myself before he calmed down, and he looked askance at me the rest of the day.
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't so much being sarcastic as just being a prick. Sometimes I get those confused. Law school does that to people.
Today, however, Ian is days away from turning four, and he's finally started to figure things out. He's getting better at dressing himself, but long pants pose a challenge, so he asked me for some help. "Nope, no pants for you today," I said. "You'll just have to go to the park without them." For a moment I thought back to that day at the waterpark, wondering if I'd just ruined his day once again. But then a smile spread across his face.
Ian laughed and said "You're funny, daddy." I helped him with his pants, and we were on our way.
He's finally figured me out.
Momentarily forgetting that I was dealing with a toddler so temperamental that he would smash a banana in his fists if it so much as looks at him wrong, I responded with a jolly "Nope, no waterpark for Ian!" I assumed the sing-song tone of my voice would mean he'd either hear what he wanted to hear or not really hear me at all. Big mistake. After the longest single second ever - during which I could see the words enter Ian's head, bounce around like a pinball hitting nothing but rubber bands, then shoot straight down the middle before a single flapper could make contact - his eyes registered comprehension, his lower lip curled, and all the anticipation he'd built up disgorged in a sob so profound you'd think I'd just gutted his teddy bear in front of him. I had to walk him toward the water myself before he calmed down, and he looked askance at me the rest of the day.
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't so much being sarcastic as just being a prick. Sometimes I get those confused. Law school does that to people.
Today, however, Ian is days away from turning four, and he's finally started to figure things out. He's getting better at dressing himself, but long pants pose a challenge, so he asked me for some help. "Nope, no pants for you today," I said. "You'll just have to go to the park without them." For a moment I thought back to that day at the waterpark, wondering if I'd just ruined his day once again. But then a smile spread across his face.
Ian laughed and said "You're funny, daddy." I helped him with his pants, and we were on our way.
He's finally figured me out.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Kindergarten at last
It's hard to believe that Ben has been in kindergarten for a month already. Of course, considering the pace at which school events have unfolded, it's no wonder. The first week alone, there was the first PTA meeting, a back-to-school picnic, and so many forms and volunteer opportunities (read: parental conscription notices) that suddenly all those refrigerator calendars I never bought started calling to me.
Ben hopped on the bus on Day 1 and never looked back. I don't mean that just figuratively - I have proof:
Of course, since Ben was already reading books for recreation, he had little to fear about the rigors of academia. That's not to say he hasn't learned anything, though. One evening during his second week I heard him call Ian an "idiot" during an argument, so his vocabulary is clearly expanding. Now that he has friends with older siblings, I imagine he'll learn much he simply hasn't been exposed to. I know my brother learned a lot years earlier than I, thanks to my lack of discretion. If you see a warning label on something, that means it's cool. Trust me.
Speaking of discretion, I also stepped into a new role that first week of school: that of an "adult." I don't mean the kind of adult who can vote, buy booze, and go to jail for real if one screws up, but the kind of adult who is feared by children. In other words, a true authority figure. At the back-to-school picnic I was picking up garbage behind the fence when one of a group of kids back there doing god-knows-what with all the hula hoops saw me and yelled "ADULT!" to his comrades, who promptly scattered. I might have interfered with whatever mischief they were up to had I not been momentarily blinded by power.
Kindergarten has given Ben a new sense of authority, too. He used to preface half of what he said with "You know what?" Not that he was ever asking a question, but his tone was generally inquisitive. Now he adds "you know" to the end of everything that comes out of his mouth, as if to say, This is in no way a question. I am making a statement of fact that is undeniable. I am in kindergarten, so I know. Actually it's more of a "yuh know," with an accent somewhere between Long Island and northern Minnesota. Which would put him right in the middle of Michigan, I guess. Huh.
I'm also discovering how true it is that parents make most of their friends through their kids once they start school. I've met more people in our neighborhood since he started kindergarten than I met in the entire year after we moved here. Everywhere we go, we're crossing paths with someone in Ben's class, or at least a fellow kindergartner at the same school. And Ben is either Mr. Popular or Mr. Forgetful, because everyone calls his name, but he never seems to know theirs. He puts up a good show, though, waving and treating everyone like a close friend while I exchange salutations with the parent, hearing and immediately forgetting the name. So I can do just what Ben is doing the next time we meet.
Poor Ian was none too pleased to return to his same old preschool after all the hullabaloo of Ben starting kindergarten. He wanted to go to a new school, too. Sorry kid, but you're not rich/dumb/poor enough for anything new. That's mostly good news. The best Ian got was a bump up to the next class level, which just so happens to be the one his brother just left, so all the teachers keep calling him Ben. Hardly a rarefied experience.
Don't worry, Ian. In a couple of years you'll be the one teaching your classmates all the cool stuff.
Ben hopped on the bus on Day 1 and never looked back. I don't mean that just figuratively - I have proof:
Of course, since Ben was already reading books for recreation, he had little to fear about the rigors of academia. That's not to say he hasn't learned anything, though. One evening during his second week I heard him call Ian an "idiot" during an argument, so his vocabulary is clearly expanding. Now that he has friends with older siblings, I imagine he'll learn much he simply hasn't been exposed to. I know my brother learned a lot years earlier than I, thanks to my lack of discretion. If you see a warning label on something, that means it's cool. Trust me.
Speaking of discretion, I also stepped into a new role that first week of school: that of an "adult." I don't mean the kind of adult who can vote, buy booze, and go to jail for real if one screws up, but the kind of adult who is feared by children. In other words, a true authority figure. At the back-to-school picnic I was picking up garbage behind the fence when one of a group of kids back there doing god-knows-what with all the hula hoops saw me and yelled "ADULT!" to his comrades, who promptly scattered. I might have interfered with whatever mischief they were up to had I not been momentarily blinded by power.
Kindergarten has given Ben a new sense of authority, too. He used to preface half of what he said with "You know what?" Not that he was ever asking a question, but his tone was generally inquisitive. Now he adds "you know" to the end of everything that comes out of his mouth, as if to say, This is in no way a question. I am making a statement of fact that is undeniable. I am in kindergarten, so I know. Actually it's more of a "yuh know," with an accent somewhere between Long Island and northern Minnesota. Which would put him right in the middle of Michigan, I guess. Huh.
I'm also discovering how true it is that parents make most of their friends through their kids once they start school. I've met more people in our neighborhood since he started kindergarten than I met in the entire year after we moved here. Everywhere we go, we're crossing paths with someone in Ben's class, or at least a fellow kindergartner at the same school. And Ben is either Mr. Popular or Mr. Forgetful, because everyone calls his name, but he never seems to know theirs. He puts up a good show, though, waving and treating everyone like a close friend while I exchange salutations with the parent, hearing and immediately forgetting the name. So I can do just what Ben is doing the next time we meet.
Poor Ian was none too pleased to return to his same old preschool after all the hullabaloo of Ben starting kindergarten. He wanted to go to a new school, too. Sorry kid, but you're not rich/dumb/poor enough for anything new. That's mostly good news. The best Ian got was a bump up to the next class level, which just so happens to be the one his brother just left, so all the teachers keep calling him Ben. Hardly a rarefied experience.
Don't worry, Ian. In a couple of years you'll be the one teaching your classmates all the cool stuff.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Tracking lesson
UPS
1) Receive email notification of shipment
2) Click on link to UPS website
3) Go back to email, copy tracking number
4) Return to UPS website, paste tracking number
5) Click button to track packages
6) Receive error message, search for box to click accepting mysterious Terms and Conditions without ever reading said Terms and Conditions
7) Click button to track packages again
8) Receive package status
DHL
1) Receive email notification of shipment
2) Click on link to DHL website, which immediately informs me of package status
Conclusion: Sometimes brown isn't just a brand. Sometimes it's just the color of shit.
1) Receive email notification of shipment
2) Click on link to UPS website
3) Go back to email, copy tracking number
4) Return to UPS website, paste tracking number
5) Click button to track packages
6) Receive error message, search for box to click accepting mysterious Terms and Conditions without ever reading said Terms and Conditions
7) Click button to track packages again
8) Receive package status
DHL
1) Receive email notification of shipment
2) Click on link to DHL website, which immediately informs me of package status
Conclusion: Sometimes brown isn't just a brand. Sometimes it's just the color of shit.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Alternate route advised
I park in a commercial lot several blocks from my office. The area bordered by North Capitol Street and First Street NE between M and N is pretty desolate, containing little more than fenced asphalt lots surrounded by overgrown urban flora, a municipal maintenance garage, and a nightclub. Every Monday morning the sidewalks within a hundred-yard radius are littered with the detritus discarded by the nightclubs patrons: flyers for upcoming shows, broken Heineken bottles, and general garbage searching in vain for a receptacle.
Across the street from the nightclub is a patch of earth that I imagine once supported grass, but is now firmly and frequently tamped by the resident homeless and whoever might stumble over to keep it real over the weekend. There is usually a group of men milling about when I drive past, but the scene usually looks more like a siesta than anything.
Yesterday I exited my parking lot onto N, and saw that down by the nightclub there were more people in the street than off, so I slowed, expecting them to move aside once they saw me approaching. Then I saw two of them locked in a struggle, one of them obviously on the defensive. At that point I stopped. It wasn't the first fight I've seen, and since the others appeared disinterested I half expected them to pause for traffic so I could proceed. While I was assessing the situation, however, the two broke apart, one ran to the curb and picked something up, then hurled it toward the other. When I heard the crack of a rock ricochet off the nightclub wall, I concluded that an alternate route was in order.
Fortunately my dad taught me to drive using my mirrors, so I immediately threw the car into reverse, confirmed that the road behind me was clear, and hightailed it back into my fenced lot. Not that there's a gate to keep people out, but at least it was half a block from the fight, and offered another exit to M Street. A couple of the guys ran toward me as I was backing away, but I think it's most likely they simply didn't want to be there when police responded to the 911 call I was placing.
I'm debating which route to take home tonight.
Across the street from the nightclub is a patch of earth that I imagine once supported grass, but is now firmly and frequently tamped by the resident homeless and whoever might stumble over to keep it real over the weekend. There is usually a group of men milling about when I drive past, but the scene usually looks more like a siesta than anything.
Yesterday I exited my parking lot onto N, and saw that down by the nightclub there were more people in the street than off, so I slowed, expecting them to move aside once they saw me approaching. Then I saw two of them locked in a struggle, one of them obviously on the defensive. At that point I stopped. It wasn't the first fight I've seen, and since the others appeared disinterested I half expected them to pause for traffic so I could proceed. While I was assessing the situation, however, the two broke apart, one ran to the curb and picked something up, then hurled it toward the other. When I heard the crack of a rock ricochet off the nightclub wall, I concluded that an alternate route was in order.
Fortunately my dad taught me to drive using my mirrors, so I immediately threw the car into reverse, confirmed that the road behind me was clear, and hightailed it back into my fenced lot. Not that there's a gate to keep people out, but at least it was half a block from the fight, and offered another exit to M Street. A couple of the guys ran toward me as I was backing away, but I think it's most likely they simply didn't want to be there when police responded to the 911 call I was placing.
I'm debating which route to take home tonight.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Cotton candy moustaches
If I had to pick one state of the weather to live with for the rest of my life, yesterday's would be it. Cool morning warming to the mid to high seventies, puffy clouds lazing about in the sky, low humidity (a miracle in this glorified swampland), nice breeze, bright sunshine that was comfortable even out of the shade. It might get boring after a while with no rain, sweltering heat or bitter cold, but I doubt it.
Ben was sick last week for his school trip to the zoo, so I promised him we would go this weekend. We arrived a little before noon, snagging one of the last parking spots, which was really an adversely possessed portion of the sidewalk. But why did they need a sidewalk at the end of a parking lot median anyway? I had seen others park there before, so I knew to take it quickly before the cars ahead of me circled the lot and came up empty. You know that guy everyone glares at for benefiting from prior experience? Yeah, that was me.
We meandered from one exhibit to the next, with no agenda and no sense of urgency. That's the best part of living so close to everything DC has to offer: we can take our time, and if we run out, we can always come back again. The pandas ticked off a lot of tourists by hiding in the back of their enclosure, but we've seen those lazy furballs several times, so it hardly mattered to us. Last time one was passed out in the shade giving everyone a nice clear view of only his yellowish butt; I saw a lot of cameras dejectedly tucked back into their bags.
Ben could hardly restrain himself the moment he spotted someone carrying cotton candy, because I'd told him we would have some if it were available. Tracking it down turned out to be a walking version of Where's Waldo. Neither of the two main cafés had any, and the one person I asked gestured vaguely uphill. We finally located it beyond the reptile house, and Ben suddenly forgot how tired his feet were and ran for it. I don't think Ian had ever had cotton candy before, but he showed no sign of his typical resistance to new food items before digging in with gusto. After a few bites, they seemed to get more enjoyment out of giving themselves pink moustaches than eating it. This is why I carry wetwipes with me at all times.
No wait. This provides a better sense of how useless a napkin would be against cotton candy (click for the full effect):
After that, I knew we needed to find an outlet for the coming sugar rush, stat. Fortunately the kids' play area wasn't too crowded, and they made friends to play tag with. Or something like tag. They mostly just chased each other around in circles, but somehow managed not to yak pink goo in the process. I don't think I had enough wetwipes for that.
By the time we made our way toward the exit, it was after 5:30. We'd spent nearly six hours at the zoo. We ducked into the barn to see the goats and donkeys, and on our way out a frenzied guy pushing a stroller asked me the fastest way to Amazonia (the rainforest exhibit) because it was closing in less than half an hour. His southern accent was so strong you could almost hear the cars sitting on blocks in his backyard, and he hollered to the rest of his family, "Come AWN! We see goats ever' DAY!" I am not making this up.
The rest of the day was sublime. We drove home with the windows down, and I played them Mrs. Robinson for the first time. Then the second. Then the third and maybe a couple of times more. Sound of Silence, Homeward Bound, Cecilia... Songs for driving and feeling groovy.
I picked the first ripe tomato from our garden, and it tasted better than any tomato I've ever bought. I'm now thoroughly hooked on gardening. The avocado I had at home was at its peak, and the two combined made for fantastic guacamole. I also discovered Stirrings Simple Mojito Mix at Whole Foods, making mojitos dangerously easy to make at home now. The boys mellowed out with Mr. Rogers, which made me feel all sappy and nostalgic.
And here I was worried about wrangling the kids solo for the weekend while Sarah is out of town. Pfft. We had a great time.
Ben was sick last week for his school trip to the zoo, so I promised him we would go this weekend. We arrived a little before noon, snagging one of the last parking spots, which was really an adversely possessed portion of the sidewalk. But why did they need a sidewalk at the end of a parking lot median anyway? I had seen others park there before, so I knew to take it quickly before the cars ahead of me circled the lot and came up empty. You know that guy everyone glares at for benefiting from prior experience? Yeah, that was me.
We meandered from one exhibit to the next, with no agenda and no sense of urgency. That's the best part of living so close to everything DC has to offer: we can take our time, and if we run out, we can always come back again. The pandas ticked off a lot of tourists by hiding in the back of their enclosure, but we've seen those lazy furballs several times, so it hardly mattered to us. Last time one was passed out in the shade giving everyone a nice clear view of only his yellowish butt; I saw a lot of cameras dejectedly tucked back into their bags.
Ben could hardly restrain himself the moment he spotted someone carrying cotton candy, because I'd told him we would have some if it were available. Tracking it down turned out to be a walking version of Where's Waldo. Neither of the two main cafés had any, and the one person I asked gestured vaguely uphill. We finally located it beyond the reptile house, and Ben suddenly forgot how tired his feet were and ran for it. I don't think Ian had ever had cotton candy before, but he showed no sign of his typical resistance to new food items before digging in with gusto. After a few bites, they seemed to get more enjoyment out of giving themselves pink moustaches than eating it. This is why I carry wetwipes with me at all times.
No wait. This provides a better sense of how useless a napkin would be against cotton candy (click for the full effect):
After that, I knew we needed to find an outlet for the coming sugar rush, stat. Fortunately the kids' play area wasn't too crowded, and they made friends to play tag with. Or something like tag. They mostly just chased each other around in circles, but somehow managed not to yak pink goo in the process. I don't think I had enough wetwipes for that.
By the time we made our way toward the exit, it was after 5:30. We'd spent nearly six hours at the zoo. We ducked into the barn to see the goats and donkeys, and on our way out a frenzied guy pushing a stroller asked me the fastest way to Amazonia (the rainforest exhibit) because it was closing in less than half an hour. His southern accent was so strong you could almost hear the cars sitting on blocks in his backyard, and he hollered to the rest of his family, "Come AWN! We see goats ever' DAY!" I am not making this up.
The rest of the day was sublime. We drove home with the windows down, and I played them Mrs. Robinson for the first time. Then the second. Then the third and maybe a couple of times more. Sound of Silence, Homeward Bound, Cecilia... Songs for driving and feeling groovy.
I picked the first ripe tomato from our garden, and it tasted better than any tomato I've ever bought. I'm now thoroughly hooked on gardening. The avocado I had at home was at its peak, and the two combined made for fantastic guacamole. I also discovered Stirrings Simple Mojito Mix at Whole Foods, making mojitos dangerously easy to make at home now. The boys mellowed out with Mr. Rogers, which made me feel all sappy and nostalgic.
And here I was worried about wrangling the kids solo for the weekend while Sarah is out of town. Pfft. We had a great time.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Swedish engineering is still subject to the limitations of aging rubber and fiber
We have a Swedish washing machine in our house - a front-loading, water-conserving machine by a company I've never heard of (Asko). The other day it stopped working, leaving a load of laundry soggy but unwashed. I initially blamed the power outage we'd experienced over the weekend, but putting it through another wash cycle only made the clothes a bit soggier. A bit smellier, too, since the load had now been sitting for a couple of days. And we're talking workout clothes and underwear here, so I imagine 300 bacterial Spartans had now become 300 billion, preparing not only to defend their territory but establish a vast empire.
Ordinary people might call the landlord or a repair shop at this point, but not I. No, I inherited my dad's DIY mentality, which generally means If I can't do it myself, I'll at least get to the point where I'm sure I can't.
Being an avid diagnostician - and feeling a special bond with this machine born in the land of my ancestors - I was pretty sure that there was a problem with the drive belt. Sure enough, it had snapped and lay coiled neatly below the drive motor. Our neighborhood hardware shop somehow always has what I need (Car battery terminal? Yup! Programmable thermostat? Sure! Hollow-point torx wrench? YOUHAVEGOTTOBEKIDDINGME!) to look for a replacement, but my luck was sure to run out sooner or later. I can't find a local supplier for this brand to save my life, so I went online to find somewhere to order a replacement. As luck would have it I found a place, and they'll even do same-day shipping. Even better, you can order online and pick up in their store!
But they only have one retail store for local pickup. And where is it? Canton, Michigan. Five minutes from where we used to live. Figures.
Ordinary people might call the landlord or a repair shop at this point, but not I. No, I inherited my dad's DIY mentality, which generally means If I can't do it myself, I'll at least get to the point where I'm sure I can't.
Being an avid diagnostician - and feeling a special bond with this machine born in the land of my ancestors - I was pretty sure that there was a problem with the drive belt. Sure enough, it had snapped and lay coiled neatly below the drive motor. Our neighborhood hardware shop somehow always has what I need (Car battery terminal? Yup! Programmable thermostat? Sure! Hollow-point torx wrench? YOUHAVEGOTTOBEKIDDINGME!) to look for a replacement, but my luck was sure to run out sooner or later. I can't find a local supplier for this brand to save my life, so I went online to find somewhere to order a replacement. As luck would have it I found a place, and they'll even do same-day shipping. Even better, you can order online and pick up in their store!
But they only have one retail store for local pickup. And where is it? Canton, Michigan. Five minutes from where we used to live. Figures.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Separation anxiety
This morning we stopped by the local elementary school to register Ben for kindergarten. I know - it seems like just yesterday he was running around the yard fighting with Ian over toys, making us cut the crust off his sandwich, and getting frustrated putting his sandals on. Oh wait - that was yesterday.
Anyway, Sarah ran in with a bunch of paperwork while I waited in the car with the boys. Ian wanted to go inside, but I explained that we weren't going to kindergarten quite yet; Ben would be going there at the end of the summer. Ben broke the news to Ian gently:
"I'm sorry, Ian. I'm going to kindergarten, but you're staying at my old school. I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you, too, Ben."
I'm not sure Ian fully understands that his big brother won't be nearby anymore. All I know is that it will be a sad day when reality sinks in.
Anyway, Sarah ran in with a bunch of paperwork while I waited in the car with the boys. Ian wanted to go inside, but I explained that we weren't going to kindergarten quite yet; Ben would be going there at the end of the summer. Ben broke the news to Ian gently:
"I'm sorry, Ian. I'm going to kindergarten, but you're staying at my old school. I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you, too, Ben."
I'm not sure Ian fully understands that his big brother won't be nearby anymore. All I know is that it will be a sad day when reality sinks in.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Ikea's tap runs dry
Being of Scandinavian descent, I appreciate Ikea's approach to selling furniture. Every aspect of furnishing a home - from manufacturing to shipping to the retail stores themselves - has been thoroughly examined in the effort to bring good design to the masses at low cost. Sure, I've been let down a few times by quality issues, like the folding chair that wouldn't unfold, but for the price I paid I could hardly complain. It's like getting Wal-Mart's Every Day Low Prices without the Every Day Low Standards.
And those meatballs! With the gravy and lingonberry sludge, I just can't help myself.
The Woodbridge, Virginia Ikea has become a recreational destination for us. It's only a short drive from home, and the boys actually nag us to go. Without family nearby, Småland (their supervised children's play area) offers our only respite from parenthood that doesn't cost $10-12 an hour. There was that one day we both called in sick after we dropped the kids off at preschool, but we really were sick, so that hardly counts. We don't have any room left in the house for even the smallest disposable housewares, but sometimes we'll just browse the labyrinthine floors and dream about being able to afford something that doesn't come packed into a flat box.
But this past weekend Ikea disappointed me. We went to the Ikea Cafe for a bite to eat before setting the boys free in Småland, and as I had done on prior visits, I grabbed a glass for some icewater. When I told the cashier that it wasn't for a soft drink, however, she informed me that my only options were soft drinks or bottled water. So I could buy something that's bad for my health, or something that's bad for the environment. Chagrined, I decided to take one for Kermit and headed for the lingonberry juice. When in Rome, you know. Or Stockholm.
Right there next to the lingonberry juice fountain was the Dispenser Formerly Known as Water, now stripped of its label and actuating lever. They didn't replace the water with another drink - they just disabled the water dispenser.
I would hardly consider myself an enviro-nazi (I've only seen Al Gore's movie once, figuring he would argue that repeated viewing would just waste energy), but I can't help finding this offensive. I didn't really want lingonberry juice. But I really really didn't want to send yet another unnecessary plastic bottle into the ecosystem. Even if Ikea recycles, energy and materials are still invested in the process, and it's better not to consume them at all. Reduce comes before Re-use and Recycle, doesn't it?
I can only assume that Ikea is attempting to pad its bottom line by closing a gap in its Cafe revenue, requiring customers to pay for any and all beverages. But is this the right way to do it? According to the New York Times, even upscale restaurants are switching from bottled water to tap water for environmental reasons. Whatever benefit they reap is surely outweighed by the bad karma.
Is a simple glass of water really too much to ask for?
And those meatballs! With the gravy and lingonberry sludge, I just can't help myself.
The Woodbridge, Virginia Ikea has become a recreational destination for us. It's only a short drive from home, and the boys actually nag us to go. Without family nearby, Småland (their supervised children's play area) offers our only respite from parenthood that doesn't cost $10-12 an hour. There was that one day we both called in sick after we dropped the kids off at preschool, but we really were sick, so that hardly counts. We don't have any room left in the house for even the smallest disposable housewares, but sometimes we'll just browse the labyrinthine floors and dream about being able to afford something that doesn't come packed into a flat box.
But this past weekend Ikea disappointed me. We went to the Ikea Cafe for a bite to eat before setting the boys free in Småland, and as I had done on prior visits, I grabbed a glass for some icewater. When I told the cashier that it wasn't for a soft drink, however, she informed me that my only options were soft drinks or bottled water. So I could buy something that's bad for my health, or something that's bad for the environment. Chagrined, I decided to take one for Kermit and headed for the lingonberry juice. When in Rome, you know. Or Stockholm.
Right there next to the lingonberry juice fountain was the Dispenser Formerly Known as Water, now stripped of its label and actuating lever. They didn't replace the water with another drink - they just disabled the water dispenser.
I would hardly consider myself an enviro-nazi (I've only seen Al Gore's movie once, figuring he would argue that repeated viewing would just waste energy), but I can't help finding this offensive. I didn't really want lingonberry juice. But I really really didn't want to send yet another unnecessary plastic bottle into the ecosystem. Even if Ikea recycles, energy and materials are still invested in the process, and it's better not to consume them at all. Reduce comes before Re-use and Recycle, doesn't it?
I can only assume that Ikea is attempting to pad its bottom line by closing a gap in its Cafe revenue, requiring customers to pay for any and all beverages. But is this the right way to do it? According to the New York Times, even upscale restaurants are switching from bottled water to tap water for environmental reasons. Whatever benefit they reap is surely outweighed by the bad karma.
Is a simple glass of water really too much to ask for?
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
15 seconds of fame
So there's this ridiculous internet fad called lolcats, where photos of innocent cats are given absurd captions for comic effect. Most of them imply that cats have horrific spelling and grammar, which couldn't be further from the truth. I'm guessing a dog started this whole thing. I mean seriously, can you imagine a cat uttering such nonsensical gibberish?
Considering how difficult it is to add text to an image, someone was bound to create a website that would help people with the process. Sure enough, about a month ago someone did. All of a sudden, anyone and everyone could create lolcats, and the fad snowballed. Even I succumbed, digging through the photos of our cats for promising candidates and giving them appropriately butchered captions.
Lolcats have become so prevalent that today the Houston Chronicle even published a story about them. And what should I find among their cited examples? None other than my very own lolcat, featuring our very relaxed Beatrice:
You know, I had hoped to be cited in the newspapers someday, but this isn't exactly what I'd envisioned.
Considering how difficult it is to add text to an image, someone was bound to create a website that would help people with the process. Sure enough, about a month ago someone did. All of a sudden, anyone and everyone could create lolcats, and the fad snowballed. Even I succumbed, digging through the photos of our cats for promising candidates and giving them appropriately butchered captions.
Lolcats have become so prevalent that today the Houston Chronicle even published a story about them. And what should I find among their cited examples? None other than my very own lolcat, featuring our very relaxed Beatrice:
You know, I had hoped to be cited in the newspapers someday, but this isn't exactly what I'd envisioned.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Part of the problem
The only downside of living in a city that is a popular tourist destination is having to compete with tourists. Once spring break arrives, whole herds of teenagers or senior citizens wearing matching T-shirts graze the food court at Union Station, where until now I've enjoyed a peaceful lunchtime most Fridays. I take some consolation in the fact that the stellar Indian food at Aditi is always overlooked in favor of pizza and chicken wings, so my wait in line isn't any longer than usual, but it's getting harder to find a seat. Last week I found a two-top next to three women at an adjacent table, and when I asked if anyone was sitting there, one responded "You are!" I didn't have to ask if they were from the Midwest. After a few minutes, though, others from their group started to gather, and before you know it I'm ceding the opposite side of my table, drafting food court treaty provisions in my head, hoping to finish my curry before everyone forgets I had a legitimate claim.
Being rather new to the area, there's still plenty we'd like to see ourselves, too. Fall and Winter were great times to catch up on a lot of stuff we hadn't seen in a while and explore the sights that were always too far down the priority list to cut the mustard when we were just visitors. Like the Theodore Roosevelt Island National Memorial. Didn't know there was a Theodore Roosevelt Memorial? Let alone an island? Yeah, neither did we. It holds up a commuter freeway, and since 9/11 airport traffic has passed directly overhead, so it's not exactly the remote wilderness Teddy may have wanted. If you like mosquitoes and goofy statues, though, do put it on your list.
For Mother's Day we had grand plans of visiting Great Falls Park, making an afternoon of nature's majesty just ten miles from home. So did everyone else, apparently, because a police car was blocking the entrance when we arrived, and most of the cars passing by could be seen turning around with disappointment on their faces. We were among them, but at least we could tell the kids we'd just come back another time - no big deal. So we resorted to Plan B:
Being rather new to the area, there's still plenty we'd like to see ourselves, too. Fall and Winter were great times to catch up on a lot of stuff we hadn't seen in a while and explore the sights that were always too far down the priority list to cut the mustard when we were just visitors. Like the Theodore Roosevelt Island National Memorial. Didn't know there was a Theodore Roosevelt Memorial? Let alone an island? Yeah, neither did we. It holds up a commuter freeway, and since 9/11 airport traffic has passed directly overhead, so it's not exactly the remote wilderness Teddy may have wanted. If you like mosquitoes and goofy statues, though, do put it on your list.
For Mother's Day we had grand plans of visiting Great Falls Park, making an afternoon of nature's majesty just ten miles from home. So did everyone else, apparently, because a police car was blocking the entrance when we arrived, and most of the cars passing by could be seen turning around with disappointment on their faces. We were among them, but at least we could tell the kids we'd just come back another time - no big deal. So we resorted to Plan B:
Friday, May 11, 2007
Security weakness by design
I have a pretty simple email address (only seven letters, no numbers or symbols), so I've gotten used to receiving emails meant for other people. It's not spam - it was meant for an individual person, just not me. I usually reply with a "Sorry, wrong email address," and that's that. Most of the time, I get an apology or a "Thanks for letting me know." One real estate agent tried to sell me a house while he had my attention even though I wasn't the intended client, but that's rare.
The messages I've received by accident have ranged from the mundane (forwarded jokes, baby pictures, nice-meeting-you-at-the-convention) to the embarrassing (think Taxicab Confessions). The first email that made me really worry about security issues, though, was from a hospital. A patient had made a mistake writing out her email address, so I ended up with correspondence that included home address, social security number, you name it. I immediately contacted the hospital to alert them of the error, and felt relieved that the information hadn't ended up in the wrong hands. I'm not sure what you'd do with the identity of someone from back-country Arkansas, but I've never wanted a credit card at Wal-Mart, either.
A few days ago I received an email asking me to confirm my email with some website called Plaxo. I'd never heard of it, so I assumed someone mistyped their email address again and deleted the message. The next day I received another email from Plaxo, then a couple more within hours. Assuming the message would keep coming, I looked for something to click on that would DISconfirm my address, but this is all the email contained:
I figured my problem needed "additional help," so I sent an email to validation@plaxo.com as instructed. The next day I received this response:
I tried to use the E-mail Validation Troubleshooter, but following the link took me to a login screen. Since it wasn't my account, I couldn't know the password, so I emailed Plaxo again, recounting my experience and telling them that there had been a mistake. The response?
One of the three email addresses listed made it clear that their registered user's name was Kevin, but they went ahead and addressed their reply to Karl. Apparently, sending an email to validation@plaxo.com validated my email address, so now I'm anticipating a flood of emails meant to go to some guy whose typing skills leave something to be desired. I shot off yet another email to Plaxo, telling them that their confirmation process is a one-way street with no exit.
Then it hit me. If my email address had been confirmed, would I be able to claim that I had forgotten my password and get a new one sent to me? I returned to the Plaxo login screen, clicked on "Lost Password," entered my email address, and sent off the request. Within seconds, I received this:
Followed the link, entered a new password, and I was in. All I wanted to do was get my email off of the account, but I could have taken whatever information I could find in this stranger's account. Scary.
This is an example of poor design leading to weak security. By not providing a way to say no to an email confirmation, anyone who received it in error could gain access to the intended user's account. Plaxo appears to be just an internet address book, but if a similar weakness existed elsewhere, a serious breach of privacy could arise. This isn't just a bad way to run a company - it's bad news for the users. Simple mistakes shouldn't lead to security lapses. Here's hoping that Plaxo can provide a bad example that others will learn by.
The messages I've received by accident have ranged from the mundane (forwarded jokes, baby pictures, nice-meeting-you-at-the-convention) to the embarrassing (think Taxicab Confessions). The first email that made me really worry about security issues, though, was from a hospital. A patient had made a mistake writing out her email address, so I ended up with correspondence that included home address, social security number, you name it. I immediately contacted the hospital to alert them of the error, and felt relieved that the information hadn't ended up in the wrong hands. I'm not sure what you'd do with the identity of someone from back-country Arkansas, but I've never wanted a credit card at Wal-Mart, either.
A few days ago I received an email asking me to confirm my email with some website called Plaxo. I'd never heard of it, so I assumed someone mistyped their email address again and deleted the message. The next day I received another email from Plaxo, then a couple more within hours. Assuming the message would keep coming, I looked for something to click on that would DISconfirm my address, but this is all the email contained:
I figured my problem needed "additional help," so I sent an email to validation@plaxo.com as instructed. The next day I received this response:
I tried to use the E-mail Validation Troubleshooter, but following the link took me to a login screen. Since it wasn't my account, I couldn't know the password, so I emailed Plaxo again, recounting my experience and telling them that there had been a mistake. The response?
One of the three email addresses listed made it clear that their registered user's name was Kevin, but they went ahead and addressed their reply to Karl. Apparently, sending an email to validation@plaxo.com validated my email address, so now I'm anticipating a flood of emails meant to go to some guy whose typing skills leave something to be desired. I shot off yet another email to Plaxo, telling them that their confirmation process is a one-way street with no exit.
Then it hit me. If my email address had been confirmed, would I be able to claim that I had forgotten my password and get a new one sent to me? I returned to the Plaxo login screen, clicked on "Lost Password," entered my email address, and sent off the request. Within seconds, I received this:
Followed the link, entered a new password, and I was in. All I wanted to do was get my email off of the account, but I could have taken whatever information I could find in this stranger's account. Scary.
This is an example of poor design leading to weak security. By not providing a way to say no to an email confirmation, anyone who received it in error could gain access to the intended user's account. Plaxo appears to be just an internet address book, but if a similar weakness existed elsewhere, a serious breach of privacy could arise. This isn't just a bad way to run a company - it's bad news for the users. Simple mistakes shouldn't lead to security lapses. Here's hoping that Plaxo can provide a bad example that others will learn by.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Recent photos
This is what happens when in snows in April in DC:
Ben:
Ian:
A short-lived cherry blossom:
Self-portrait with kite:
Ben:
Ian:
A short-lived cherry blossom:
Self-portrait with kite:
Monday, April 16, 2007
Life before modesty
Nearly five years after becoming a parent, the extent to which all parents are teachers keeps becoming clearer day by day. Depending on the knowledge of the parents, some subjects are best left to formal education (Art if the parents are engineers, Math if the parents are artists, for example). Sometimes, though, it's hard to curb a child's curiosity, and you find yourself in a corner looking for a quick exit. Tonight, while reading a book based on American Indian legend, Ben asked why there weren't any people in the story, and in my attempt to explain evolution to a five-year-old I'm pretty sure I left him imagining monkeys swinging through the jungle with human babies clinging to their fur. Oh well, better that than the alternative.
Other lessons parents offer are purely practical, like the fact that fire is hot and you'll get hurt if you touch it. Yesterday I was discussing corporal punishment with a friend, and we shared the view that some lessons require it in order to drive the point home. What do you do when your child reaches out toward a burner on the stove? Scold him? Let him burn himself? The former is woefully inadequate, and the latter is excessive (not to mention likely to earn you a file down at the child welfare agency).
The way I see it, some situations call for artful emotional scarring - something that will put The Fear in them such that further instruction is unnecessary. It's for their own good, of course. When discipline is generally administered through scolding and time-outs, a spanking might be the best way to send a message with the desired force; a little physical harm is intended to prevent a lot of physical harm. Sometimes a serious discussion might suffice if the danger is not imminent. This morning another friend of mine told me about a coworker who wanted to make sure her son never left her side while out in public, so she told him the story of Adam Walsh, the boy who was kidnapped and found murdered, and whose father went on to host American's Most Wanted. Now I'm not exactly sure how old her son was at the time, but that might be a bit too much emotional scarring for a kid to handle. Especially when you leave in details like decapitation. It apparently worked, but I can't help but wonder how the kid sleeps at night.
Sometimes the hardest lessons are the most subtle. Living in Washington, DC, Ben and Ian have probably seen more demonstrators than I did in my entire life before college. How do you explain war to a child? Whenever I try something like that, I feel like Mister Rogers on Xanax, attempting to explain suffering in happy terms. When Ben overheard me telling Sarah about today's murderous rampage at Virginia Tech, describing the killer as "not a nice person" who "hurt some people" seemed like the grossest understatement I'd ever made. There are some things you just don't want to know, kid.
Of course, not all the difficult lessons are depressing. Many are difficult because they're best taught by example. Not wanting to give my boys the impression that aggressive behavior and name-calling are appropriate, I've had to dial down the road rage during the daily commute and keep certain sentiments to myself. Which is hard in a city where the level of asshatted driving goes up to 11.
Last week we started reading Charlotte's Web before bedtime. Death is one of those difficult subjects, and I'm hoping the story will help Ben conceptualize certain facts of life. It might just turn him into a vegetarian, though. And here I was hoping that he'd at least be in high school before he started to guilt-trip me for my personal vices. Anyway, sometimes the challenging subjects have to do with the type of person I strive to be, and strive to raise my children to become. Tonight I finished a couple of short chapters, and told him that tomorrow we'd read Chapter Nine, "Wilbur's Boast."
"What's a boast?" Ben asked.
"Ummmm... a boast is when you talk too much about how good you are at something."
"..."
"Say you're really good at drawing (which you are). It's okay to tell people that you really enjoy drawing, but it's not really polite to always tell everyone that you're a really good drawer."
"Why is it not polite?"
"Well, if you tell someone you're really good at something, it might make them feel bad if they can't do it as well. What if someone told you they were a really good painter, and you weren't as good at painting? Would that make you feel bad?"
Ben shook his head and said, "It would make me want to be a better painter."
Here I am trying to teach modesty, and Ben comes back with soundbites from a motivational seminar. I don't know whether to feel proud of his self-assuredness and eagerness to learn, or afraid of his budding megalomania. I went with pride, telling him that was a good way to think about it, and he should always want to keep learning and practicing in order to succeed.
I can always tell when Ben is turning things over in his mind, because he gets quiet and still, and he's content to have me leave his bedroom without objection. Tonight was one of those nights. I don't know what he'll make of my efforts to teach him certain things, and who knows what the future holds, but these are the occasions when the responsibility of parenting really bears down on me. My only hope is that I get it right more often than I screw it up. And that my kids don't turn out Republican.
Other lessons parents offer are purely practical, like the fact that fire is hot and you'll get hurt if you touch it. Yesterday I was discussing corporal punishment with a friend, and we shared the view that some lessons require it in order to drive the point home. What do you do when your child reaches out toward a burner on the stove? Scold him? Let him burn himself? The former is woefully inadequate, and the latter is excessive (not to mention likely to earn you a file down at the child welfare agency).
The way I see it, some situations call for artful emotional scarring - something that will put The Fear in them such that further instruction is unnecessary. It's for their own good, of course. When discipline is generally administered through scolding and time-outs, a spanking might be the best way to send a message with the desired force; a little physical harm is intended to prevent a lot of physical harm. Sometimes a serious discussion might suffice if the danger is not imminent. This morning another friend of mine told me about a coworker who wanted to make sure her son never left her side while out in public, so she told him the story of Adam Walsh, the boy who was kidnapped and found murdered, and whose father went on to host American's Most Wanted. Now I'm not exactly sure how old her son was at the time, but that might be a bit too much emotional scarring for a kid to handle. Especially when you leave in details like decapitation. It apparently worked, but I can't help but wonder how the kid sleeps at night.
Sometimes the hardest lessons are the most subtle. Living in Washington, DC, Ben and Ian have probably seen more demonstrators than I did in my entire life before college. How do you explain war to a child? Whenever I try something like that, I feel like Mister Rogers on Xanax, attempting to explain suffering in happy terms. When Ben overheard me telling Sarah about today's murderous rampage at Virginia Tech, describing the killer as "not a nice person" who "hurt some people" seemed like the grossest understatement I'd ever made. There are some things you just don't want to know, kid.
Of course, not all the difficult lessons are depressing. Many are difficult because they're best taught by example. Not wanting to give my boys the impression that aggressive behavior and name-calling are appropriate, I've had to dial down the road rage during the daily commute and keep certain sentiments to myself. Which is hard in a city where the level of asshatted driving goes up to 11.
Last week we started reading Charlotte's Web before bedtime. Death is one of those difficult subjects, and I'm hoping the story will help Ben conceptualize certain facts of life. It might just turn him into a vegetarian, though. And here I was hoping that he'd at least be in high school before he started to guilt-trip me for my personal vices. Anyway, sometimes the challenging subjects have to do with the type of person I strive to be, and strive to raise my children to become. Tonight I finished a couple of short chapters, and told him that tomorrow we'd read Chapter Nine, "Wilbur's Boast."
"What's a boast?" Ben asked.
"Ummmm... a boast is when you talk too much about how good you are at something."
"..."
"Say you're really good at drawing (which you are). It's okay to tell people that you really enjoy drawing, but it's not really polite to always tell everyone that you're a really good drawer."
"Why is it not polite?"
"Well, if you tell someone you're really good at something, it might make them feel bad if they can't do it as well. What if someone told you they were a really good painter, and you weren't as good at painting? Would that make you feel bad?"
Ben shook his head and said, "It would make me want to be a better painter."
Here I am trying to teach modesty, and Ben comes back with soundbites from a motivational seminar. I don't know whether to feel proud of his self-assuredness and eagerness to learn, or afraid of his budding megalomania. I went with pride, telling him that was a good way to think about it, and he should always want to keep learning and practicing in order to succeed.
I can always tell when Ben is turning things over in his mind, because he gets quiet and still, and he's content to have me leave his bedroom without objection. Tonight was one of those nights. I don't know what he'll make of my efforts to teach him certain things, and who knows what the future holds, but these are the occasions when the responsibility of parenting really bears down on me. My only hope is that I get it right more often than I screw it up. And that my kids don't turn out Republican.
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