A Kindergarten teacher was observing her classroom of children while they were
drawing. She would occasionally walk around to see each child's work.
As she got to one little girl, who was working diligently, she asked what the
drawing was.
The girl replied, "I'm drawing God."
The teacher paused and said, "But no one knows what God looks like."
Without looking up or pausing from her work, the girl replied, "They will in a minute."
*****
A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales.
The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal its throat was very small.
The little girl stated that a whale swallowed Jonah.
Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible.
(Imported from March 26, 2007)
The little girl said, "When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah."
The teacher asked snidely, "What if Jonah went to hell?"
The little girl replied, "Then you ask him ."
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Birthday Party, Part III
Emphysema Man didn’t stick around long, so we didn’t, either, in part because of No. 2’s fascination with bathroom fixtures (OK, OK, she has discovered toilets … and not for the reason I wish she would have). Although I had made a mental note not to, Car Wreck Syndrome took hold as we walked out, and I stole a quick glance toward the urinal. You know, in case we stumbled over a prone Emphysema Man in the hall.
Police: “What happened here?”
Witness (me): “I’m not sure, but there appears to be a lung in the urinal.”
I heard Bulldog Woman before we turned the corner. Now, there’s a little-known Texas law that requires businesses to turn on and leave on air conditioning the first time temperatures reach 60 degrees. Even if it’s February. But despite the briskness, Bulldog Woman was sweating profusely, one arm waving wildly, barking into her phone. “No, you can’t drive yourself; you don’t have a driver’s license! (pause) I told you to tell him … (pause) I don’t give a shit what he’s watching! Tell him … (pause) You better … (pause).
I find it’s usually a good rule of thumb to be out of sight when someone finishes such a phone call, particularly when that someone comes across as the type who finds biting the heads off kittens amusing. Besides, I figured a heart attack lurks very near in this woman’s future and, cruel as it may seem, I’d lean heavily toward tending to a gagging Emphysema Man until help arrived, given the choice.
YMCA employee: “Oh my God, did she have a heart attack? What should we do?”
Me: “Run, Forest, runnnnnnnn!”
So through the door to the party room we shot. Right into the belly of the beast. My first thought was that I had just walked onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange during a particularly heated selling frenzy. Everyone was talking. Make that yelling. And not to anyone seated remotely close to them, it seemed.
My second thought was to turn left.
Tables were situated in the shape of a U with the open end facing the door. To the right, in its full flannel and John Deere hat splendor, sat the Petticoat Junction Faction (along with several of The Hills Have Eyes kids who, by the way, appeared to still be wearing what they had in the pool).
While there were many more empty seats to the left, we had to edge our way past a gaggle of humanity forming a poor facsimile of a line to the hot dog table: The Eminem Boys were there, either suffering from simultaneous epileptic seizures or attempting to communicate with one another; Old Harley Dude decked out in full leather which, judging from a distinctive aroma, he apparently put on in 1973 but had been unable to get back off (I won’t swear to it, but I’m almost positive I detected a swarm of gnats hovering above); a handful of screaming kids, including Birthday Boy, darting around three more rather prodigious women whose sole focus seemed to be making sure there would still be hot dogs left when they reached the table; and another older guy, who I imagined could have been Hulk Hogan had he chosen speed over steroids at a young age, with his arm draped over the shoulders of Goth Girl (formerly Pagan Girl … thanks for clearing that up, Foxy), who was inching along an infant carrier on the floor with one foot. (Please don’t ask. Don’t even suggest, because I’d rather have the Wizard of Oz flying monkeys come for me in my sleep every remaining night of my life than know ANY details there).
Finally, we made it to the back corner of the room, and I got the girls situated at the table when a fork in the road appeared. Decision time. Leave them there, alone in this post-apocalyptic setting, and go get in line? Or take them along and risk having No. 1 ask me, too loudly, why Skinny Hulk Hogan has his tongue in Goth Girl’s ear.
Me: “I don’t know, sweetheart. But wouldn’t you rather ask me again why you don’t have six toes?”
Fortunately, before trying to convince the girls that these hot dogs were only for people who DID have six toes and therefore we’d have to wait for cupcakes, I caught sight of No. 1’s “best friend” and her mother, who was waving at us from the opposite corner. We quickly joined them, and after determining mustard or ketchup for the girls (“Ketchup! No, mustard!” … daddy turns to leave … “No, ketchup!” … this is another favorite game), I headed quickly toward the line.
Not quickly enough. Bulldog Woman had returned to the room and somehow, in a way only a physics professor could properly explain, managed to edge through the crowd to the back of the line. In a rare stroke of luck for the evening, though, she had switched back to her party play-by-play call, which meant there was little to no arm-waving, less spittle emanating from her mouth and, I chanced assuming, a far greater chance she would refrain from ripping off one of my arms.
I didn’t escape detection, though. At one point, when the other trio of women had reached the table and, apparently, were engaged in a how-many-hot-dogs-can-we-get-on-our-plates competition, Bulldog Woman called out, “Save some for the rest of us, Doris!” Half-turning and chuckling, she cackled a “How ya doing, sweetie?” into my face , which brought a certainty that I’d be seeing my lunch again.
The nausea passed, though, and what seemed like at least a week later, I returned to the girls, balancing hot dogs, chips and cups of red soda (the host’s choice of a lone beverage fit right in, I’d say). Tucked in among the Petticoat Junction Faction, I was struck by the realization of why none of these adults had been at the pool: An early start on the hot dogs was required so that as many as possible would get a turn with the set of teeth.
I stand corrected on the earlier flannel comment, too. There were several men wearing T-shirts that I’m guessing at one point were adorned with some type of logos or silk screens … of course, they also could have been faded stains of some sort. There were also a couple of sets of overalls (one on a woman), and one man sitting across the table and down some might have been the Faction’s provider, as he was wearing a dark blue work shirt with a small patch that read “Joe’s” … a garage of some sort, I assumed, since he appeared to have very recently pulled an oil pan from overhead without first draining the oil.
I’d soon learn that this guy was, in fact, Emphysema Man. Good thing for our earlier encounter, too, or I might have been moved to leap over the table and perform the Heimlich Maneuver to help him dislodge what I otherwise would have thought was an entire hot dog from his airway.
The girls only got halfway through their hot dogs when the hostess began passing out rather large cupcakes. After the “Do you want blue or red icing?” game” No. 1 got red, No. 2 blue, which worked out perfectly because blue icing appears far less frightening when caked in a 2-year-old’s nose than I imagine red icing would.
The cupcake adventure brought a number of chortles from those around us, including, unfortunately, a woman who must have been the Faction’s elder … and possibly the oldest living human being on earth. She was sitting across from us in a wheelchair, being fed and generally attended to by a younger woman whose attention also was focused on a young girl on her other side … at least I think it was a girl … who appeared to be about 8- or 9-years-old and never once changed expressions or uttered a sound the entire time we were sitting there. Not even at the sight of No. 2 with blue icing covering roughly the bottom half of her face. Grandma noticed, though, and the unfortunate part of that was she had just been given a drink of red soda. And hadn’t, I guess, swallowed it all. The more she chuckled, the more seeped out, which elicited a screeching “Ewwww!” from No. 1 followed by another from her friend.
To my relief, no one on the other side of the table had noticed Grandma leaking, and Bulldog Woman’s voice suddenly boomed through the room, announcing that it was time for Birthday Boy to open presents. This caused a rush to the front of the room, the likes of which I’d only seen when one of those U.N. helicopters drops food in some remote Third World village.
I begrudgingly allowed No. 1 to join her friend in attempting to wedge themselves up front to watch while I went about unplugging No. 2’s nose. The shredding of wrapping paper, sprinkled by what I thought to be over exuberant ohh’s and ahh’s, had begun by the time I carried her toward the fracas. Now, the day before when I took No. 1 to the store and asked her what Birthday Boy liked, her response (“cars”) was the most accurate thing that will ever come out of her mouth.
Everything this kid opened had to do with cars. Toy cars. Car coloring books. Shirts with cars. Sheets of stickers with … yes, cars. And the excitement, particularly from the Petticoat Junction Faction, grew and grew with everything he opened. Two older guys … I’d say in the 16- to 21-year-old range … who were standing directly behind Birthday Boy and looking over his shoulder, were increasingly ecstatic with every gift he opened and several times reached over his shoulder to grab something for an up-close look … to the point that someone from the crowd shouted “Ricky! Just remember whose that is!” followed by someone else mocking “He gets to play with it first!”
This hardly dampened the pair’s enthusiasm, and they playfully poked fun at each other. And then came No. 1’s gift … a small remote-control ATV with helmeted rider. The image that came immediately to mind was one of those old game shows when the host would go into the audience and pick a couple to “play for the grand prize!” and two people would leap out of their chairs and hop up and down in orgasmic glee.
I can’t say for certain, for my vantage point wasn’t the greatest, but I strongly suspect Ricky and Dicky (I’m guessing) were actually drooling.
There was one more present, and the group began breaking up. I hurriedly grabbed No. 1’s hand and led her back to where we were sitting to grab our bag … a decision I regretted because the woman across from us had been feeding Grandma an ice cream cone while trying to watch the festivities and missed her mark more often than not.
"Grandma's gonna need a hose," I said under my breath while reversing the girls' direction.
Undaunted, I escaped with the little ones and our belongings, got out the door and in our car before encountering anything else that could potentially lead to therapy.
That is, until speeding out of the parking lot, I caught sight of what I believe was a little bald kid with a banjo sitting on the opened tailgate of a pickup truck …
(Imported from Feb. 11, 2007)
Police: “What happened here?”
Witness (me): “I’m not sure, but there appears to be a lung in the urinal.”
I heard Bulldog Woman before we turned the corner. Now, there’s a little-known Texas law that requires businesses to turn on and leave on air conditioning the first time temperatures reach 60 degrees. Even if it’s February. But despite the briskness, Bulldog Woman was sweating profusely, one arm waving wildly, barking into her phone. “No, you can’t drive yourself; you don’t have a driver’s license! (pause) I told you to tell him … (pause) I don’t give a shit what he’s watching! Tell him … (pause) You better … (pause).
I find it’s usually a good rule of thumb to be out of sight when someone finishes such a phone call, particularly when that someone comes across as the type who finds biting the heads off kittens amusing. Besides, I figured a heart attack lurks very near in this woman’s future and, cruel as it may seem, I’d lean heavily toward tending to a gagging Emphysema Man until help arrived, given the choice.
YMCA employee: “Oh my God, did she have a heart attack? What should we do?”
Me: “Run, Forest, runnnnnnnn!”
So through the door to the party room we shot. Right into the belly of the beast. My first thought was that I had just walked onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange during a particularly heated selling frenzy. Everyone was talking. Make that yelling. And not to anyone seated remotely close to them, it seemed.
My second thought was to turn left.
Tables were situated in the shape of a U with the open end facing the door. To the right, in its full flannel and John Deere hat splendor, sat the Petticoat Junction Faction (along with several of The Hills Have Eyes kids who, by the way, appeared to still be wearing what they had in the pool).
While there were many more empty seats to the left, we had to edge our way past a gaggle of humanity forming a poor facsimile of a line to the hot dog table: The Eminem Boys were there, either suffering from simultaneous epileptic seizures or attempting to communicate with one another; Old Harley Dude decked out in full leather which, judging from a distinctive aroma, he apparently put on in 1973 but had been unable to get back off (I won’t swear to it, but I’m almost positive I detected a swarm of gnats hovering above); a handful of screaming kids, including Birthday Boy, darting around three more rather prodigious women whose sole focus seemed to be making sure there would still be hot dogs left when they reached the table; and another older guy, who I imagined could have been Hulk Hogan had he chosen speed over steroids at a young age, with his arm draped over the shoulders of Goth Girl (formerly Pagan Girl … thanks for clearing that up, Foxy), who was inching along an infant carrier on the floor with one foot. (Please don’t ask. Don’t even suggest, because I’d rather have the Wizard of Oz flying monkeys come for me in my sleep every remaining night of my life than know ANY details there).
Finally, we made it to the back corner of the room, and I got the girls situated at the table when a fork in the road appeared. Decision time. Leave them there, alone in this post-apocalyptic setting, and go get in line? Or take them along and risk having No. 1 ask me, too loudly, why Skinny Hulk Hogan has his tongue in Goth Girl’s ear.
Me: “I don’t know, sweetheart. But wouldn’t you rather ask me again why you don’t have six toes?”
Fortunately, before trying to convince the girls that these hot dogs were only for people who DID have six toes and therefore we’d have to wait for cupcakes, I caught sight of No. 1’s “best friend” and her mother, who was waving at us from the opposite corner. We quickly joined them, and after determining mustard or ketchup for the girls (“Ketchup! No, mustard!” … daddy turns to leave … “No, ketchup!” … this is another favorite game), I headed quickly toward the line.
Not quickly enough. Bulldog Woman had returned to the room and somehow, in a way only a physics professor could properly explain, managed to edge through the crowd to the back of the line. In a rare stroke of luck for the evening, though, she had switched back to her party play-by-play call, which meant there was little to no arm-waving, less spittle emanating from her mouth and, I chanced assuming, a far greater chance she would refrain from ripping off one of my arms.
I didn’t escape detection, though. At one point, when the other trio of women had reached the table and, apparently, were engaged in a how-many-hot-dogs-can-we-get-on-our-plates competition, Bulldog Woman called out, “Save some for the rest of us, Doris!” Half-turning and chuckling, she cackled a “How ya doing, sweetie?” into my face , which brought a certainty that I’d be seeing my lunch again.
The nausea passed, though, and what seemed like at least a week later, I returned to the girls, balancing hot dogs, chips and cups of red soda (the host’s choice of a lone beverage fit right in, I’d say). Tucked in among the Petticoat Junction Faction, I was struck by the realization of why none of these adults had been at the pool: An early start on the hot dogs was required so that as many as possible would get a turn with the set of teeth.
I stand corrected on the earlier flannel comment, too. There were several men wearing T-shirts that I’m guessing at one point were adorned with some type of logos or silk screens … of course, they also could have been faded stains of some sort. There were also a couple of sets of overalls (one on a woman), and one man sitting across the table and down some might have been the Faction’s provider, as he was wearing a dark blue work shirt with a small patch that read “Joe’s” … a garage of some sort, I assumed, since he appeared to have very recently pulled an oil pan from overhead without first draining the oil.
I’d soon learn that this guy was, in fact, Emphysema Man. Good thing for our earlier encounter, too, or I might have been moved to leap over the table and perform the Heimlich Maneuver to help him dislodge what I otherwise would have thought was an entire hot dog from his airway.
The girls only got halfway through their hot dogs when the hostess began passing out rather large cupcakes. After the “Do you want blue or red icing?” game” No. 1 got red, No. 2 blue, which worked out perfectly because blue icing appears far less frightening when caked in a 2-year-old’s nose than I imagine red icing would.
The cupcake adventure brought a number of chortles from those around us, including, unfortunately, a woman who must have been the Faction’s elder … and possibly the oldest living human being on earth. She was sitting across from us in a wheelchair, being fed and generally attended to by a younger woman whose attention also was focused on a young girl on her other side … at least I think it was a girl … who appeared to be about 8- or 9-years-old and never once changed expressions or uttered a sound the entire time we were sitting there. Not even at the sight of No. 2 with blue icing covering roughly the bottom half of her face. Grandma noticed, though, and the unfortunate part of that was she had just been given a drink of red soda. And hadn’t, I guess, swallowed it all. The more she chuckled, the more seeped out, which elicited a screeching “Ewwww!” from No. 1 followed by another from her friend.
To my relief, no one on the other side of the table had noticed Grandma leaking, and Bulldog Woman’s voice suddenly boomed through the room, announcing that it was time for Birthday Boy to open presents. This caused a rush to the front of the room, the likes of which I’d only seen when one of those U.N. helicopters drops food in some remote Third World village.
I begrudgingly allowed No. 1 to join her friend in attempting to wedge themselves up front to watch while I went about unplugging No. 2’s nose. The shredding of wrapping paper, sprinkled by what I thought to be over exuberant ohh’s and ahh’s, had begun by the time I carried her toward the fracas. Now, the day before when I took No. 1 to the store and asked her what Birthday Boy liked, her response (“cars”) was the most accurate thing that will ever come out of her mouth.
Everything this kid opened had to do with cars. Toy cars. Car coloring books. Shirts with cars. Sheets of stickers with … yes, cars. And the excitement, particularly from the Petticoat Junction Faction, grew and grew with everything he opened. Two older guys … I’d say in the 16- to 21-year-old range … who were standing directly behind Birthday Boy and looking over his shoulder, were increasingly ecstatic with every gift he opened and several times reached over his shoulder to grab something for an up-close look … to the point that someone from the crowd shouted “Ricky! Just remember whose that is!” followed by someone else mocking “He gets to play with it first!”
This hardly dampened the pair’s enthusiasm, and they playfully poked fun at each other. And then came No. 1’s gift … a small remote-control ATV with helmeted rider. The image that came immediately to mind was one of those old game shows when the host would go into the audience and pick a couple to “play for the grand prize!” and two people would leap out of their chairs and hop up and down in orgasmic glee.
I can’t say for certain, for my vantage point wasn’t the greatest, but I strongly suspect Ricky and Dicky (I’m guessing) were actually drooling.
There was one more present, and the group began breaking up. I hurriedly grabbed No. 1’s hand and led her back to where we were sitting to grab our bag … a decision I regretted because the woman across from us had been feeding Grandma an ice cream cone while trying to watch the festivities and missed her mark more often than not.
"Grandma's gonna need a hose," I said under my breath while reversing the girls' direction.
Undaunted, I escaped with the little ones and our belongings, got out the door and in our car before encountering anything else that could potentially lead to therapy.
That is, until speeding out of the parking lot, I caught sight of what I believe was a little bald kid with a banjo sitting on the opened tailgate of a pickup truck …
(Imported from Feb. 11, 2007)
Birthday Party, Part II
OK, as a prelude, I should point out that I had met Birthday Boy's mom a time or two at daycare, and while no conversation made it much past hello, she seemed nice enough ... normal enough, I should say. I don't remember meeting her husband but guess I did, because I got the "good to see you again" handshake at the party. I'm fairly certain he's the one who came down off the mountain at some point and that the Petticoat Junction faction of this gathering came from his side.
I'm not sure any of that group made it to the pool part of the party. Or maybe it was that I didn't notice. I tend heavily toward tunnel vision when the girls are anywhere near water ... the swim classes still haven't cured me. And then there was the matter I failed to mention before of No. 2 finally deciding she wanted daddy to release her in the pool. So I got her out of the water, carried her over to a rack of floatation devices and, while trying to find one that would fit her, she waddled right back over to the pool and stepped in ... into three feet or so of water. A lifeguard was standing nearby … near enough to beat me into the water. You never feel as worthless (or maybe so ... I just haven't stumbled upon it yet) as when someone is handing your gasping 2-year-old to you up out of a pool.
But I digress. The Jerry Springer contingent did make its way in, or at least part of it. The lead character was a woman who might have been Birthday Boy’s grandmother … or aunt. Hard to tell. I’ll refer to her as Bulldog Woman, because her facial features strongly suggested that there was a bulldog somewhere in her recent lineage. Portly woman, too. OK, big woman. Big as in if she held her arms out, parallel to the ground and then relaxed them, they remained pretty much parallel to the ground. She was wearing one of those long, casual dresses … at least I think it was a dress. Could have been something one would wear to bed, or perhaps I thought so given the fact it appeared that she had. No sleeves on this garment, either, which was good, because that offered everyone a full view of both tattoos on the upper halves of both arms.
And all that was not even what drew attention to this woman. What I’d learn as the evening progressed was that she would be providing party play-by-play via cell phone to someone who could not attend. Someone who was hard of hearing.
A dozen or so kids were in the pool. About half of them I recognized from daycare, the other half from the unfortunate town in “The Hills Have Eyes.” No. 1’s favorite, though … at least while we were in the pool … was a girl I’d guess to be in her early- to mid-teens. No. 1 has always been drawn to older kids, especially at daycare. This one, she couldn’t take her eyes off. As a parent, it’s a challenge to keep young children from staring, but in this case, I wanted this image burned into her psyche as something she’d never, ever, over-my-dead-body want to emulate. Blue-streaked black hair. Nose rings on both sides. Black eye make-up. A lot of it. That or she was the victim of a practical joke involving shoe polish. Black lipstick. Black nail polish. (I know, I know. It’s a statement.)
As was the case with Bulldog Woman, Pagan Girl was extremely adept at projecting her voice (like to another zip code) although her vocabulary left a little to be desired. Well, maybe that’s a bit harsh. I couldn’t understand half of what she was projecting, although the two teenaged guys standing at pool’s edge … two guys who I feel confident in saying idolize Eminem … did not seem confused, a guess considering I couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, either. (In the interest of full disclosure I should confess my position that there’s nothing more pathetic in this world than white guys acting like black guys. They just come off as, well, white guys trying to act like black guys.)
Eventually, it was time to get out. I’m not sure if it was the deepening bluish hue of the girls’ lips or Bulldog Woman’s sudden outburst into her phone (several decibels higher than a Metallica concert) … something to the effect of “You tell him to get off his lazy ass and take you to the store” … that made me decide swim time was over. Could also have been the growing discomfort associated with “shrinkage” graduating to “full-fledged turtle” … yes, the water was COLD. The second half of the party was in another room, anyway, and it was time.
This is where we stumbled upon another member of the Springer Gang. Our bag and towels were on a bench in the corner, and No. 2 actually made the first sighting with “Look daddy! Beebee!” Sitting beside the bench was an infant carrier. With an infant inside. The fact that no one belonging to this child was near motivated me to hustle the girls out, down the hall and into a bathroom to change.
Now, Arlington’s a fairly big city. We’re approaching, I believe, half a million in population. This particular YMCA, however, didn’t see fit to have “locker rooms” or even “family rooms.” Just men’s and women’s. And the men’s featured a sink, a urinal and a stall … a handicap stall, fortunately. So in we went. And, as luck would have it, someone came in seconds later.
Now, normally when I enter a public restroom and see that a stall door is closed, I take for granted that someone’s in there. At the very least, I might glance down to make sure. And beyond that, the adventure that is getting these two changed out of swimsuits creates enough buzz to, at the very least, offer a hint that THIS STALL IS OCCUPIED. But this MIT grad went ahead and tried the door anyway. Twice.
If that wasn’t unsettling enough to the girls, this guy … at the urinal now, I’m guessing … starts whistling. And then coughing. I’m talking a “Wow, I think I just tasted my lung” cough. Followed by a very thick and audible spit and splat. (Couldn't help but hope it landed inside the urinal but also couldn't help thinking this guy wasn't real particular about that sort of thing.)
“Is that man sick?” No. 1 asks in a not-so hushed tone (and I swear, her sentence echoed at least four times). At this point, I’m pretty much resigned to the fact that this guy’s leaving the bathroom before we emerge. Even if it takes two hours.
To be continued …
(Imported from Feb. 11, 2007)
I'm not sure any of that group made it to the pool part of the party. Or maybe it was that I didn't notice. I tend heavily toward tunnel vision when the girls are anywhere near water ... the swim classes still haven't cured me. And then there was the matter I failed to mention before of No. 2 finally deciding she wanted daddy to release her in the pool. So I got her out of the water, carried her over to a rack of floatation devices and, while trying to find one that would fit her, she waddled right back over to the pool and stepped in ... into three feet or so of water. A lifeguard was standing nearby … near enough to beat me into the water. You never feel as worthless (or maybe so ... I just haven't stumbled upon it yet) as when someone is handing your gasping 2-year-old to you up out of a pool.
But I digress. The Jerry Springer contingent did make its way in, or at least part of it. The lead character was a woman who might have been Birthday Boy’s grandmother … or aunt. Hard to tell. I’ll refer to her as Bulldog Woman, because her facial features strongly suggested that there was a bulldog somewhere in her recent lineage. Portly woman, too. OK, big woman. Big as in if she held her arms out, parallel to the ground and then relaxed them, they remained pretty much parallel to the ground. She was wearing one of those long, casual dresses … at least I think it was a dress. Could have been something one would wear to bed, or perhaps I thought so given the fact it appeared that she had. No sleeves on this garment, either, which was good, because that offered everyone a full view of both tattoos on the upper halves of both arms.
And all that was not even what drew attention to this woman. What I’d learn as the evening progressed was that she would be providing party play-by-play via cell phone to someone who could not attend. Someone who was hard of hearing.
A dozen or so kids were in the pool. About half of them I recognized from daycare, the other half from the unfortunate town in “The Hills Have Eyes.” No. 1’s favorite, though … at least while we were in the pool … was a girl I’d guess to be in her early- to mid-teens. No. 1 has always been drawn to older kids, especially at daycare. This one, she couldn’t take her eyes off. As a parent, it’s a challenge to keep young children from staring, but in this case, I wanted this image burned into her psyche as something she’d never, ever, over-my-dead-body want to emulate. Blue-streaked black hair. Nose rings on both sides. Black eye make-up. A lot of it. That or she was the victim of a practical joke involving shoe polish. Black lipstick. Black nail polish. (I know, I know. It’s a statement.)
As was the case with Bulldog Woman, Pagan Girl was extremely adept at projecting her voice (like to another zip code) although her vocabulary left a little to be desired. Well, maybe that’s a bit harsh. I couldn’t understand half of what she was projecting, although the two teenaged guys standing at pool’s edge … two guys who I feel confident in saying idolize Eminem … did not seem confused, a guess considering I couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, either. (In the interest of full disclosure I should confess my position that there’s nothing more pathetic in this world than white guys acting like black guys. They just come off as, well, white guys trying to act like black guys.)
Eventually, it was time to get out. I’m not sure if it was the deepening bluish hue of the girls’ lips or Bulldog Woman’s sudden outburst into her phone (several decibels higher than a Metallica concert) … something to the effect of “You tell him to get off his lazy ass and take you to the store” … that made me decide swim time was over. Could also have been the growing discomfort associated with “shrinkage” graduating to “full-fledged turtle” … yes, the water was COLD. The second half of the party was in another room, anyway, and it was time.
This is where we stumbled upon another member of the Springer Gang. Our bag and towels were on a bench in the corner, and No. 2 actually made the first sighting with “Look daddy! Beebee!” Sitting beside the bench was an infant carrier. With an infant inside. The fact that no one belonging to this child was near motivated me to hustle the girls out, down the hall and into a bathroom to change.
Now, Arlington’s a fairly big city. We’re approaching, I believe, half a million in population. This particular YMCA, however, didn’t see fit to have “locker rooms” or even “family rooms.” Just men’s and women’s. And the men’s featured a sink, a urinal and a stall … a handicap stall, fortunately. So in we went. And, as luck would have it, someone came in seconds later.
Now, normally when I enter a public restroom and see that a stall door is closed, I take for granted that someone’s in there. At the very least, I might glance down to make sure. And beyond that, the adventure that is getting these two changed out of swimsuits creates enough buzz to, at the very least, offer a hint that THIS STALL IS OCCUPIED. But this MIT grad went ahead and tried the door anyway. Twice.
If that wasn’t unsettling enough to the girls, this guy … at the urinal now, I’m guessing … starts whistling. And then coughing. I’m talking a “Wow, I think I just tasted my lung” cough. Followed by a very thick and audible spit and splat. (Couldn't help but hope it landed inside the urinal but also couldn't help thinking this guy wasn't real particular about that sort of thing.)
“Is that man sick?” No. 1 asks in a not-so hushed tone (and I swear, her sentence echoed at least four times). At this point, I’m pretty much resigned to the fact that this guy’s leaving the bathroom before we emerge. Even if it takes two hours.
To be continued …
(Imported from Feb. 11, 2007)
Birthday Party, Part I
Not sure how in depth I'll go on Saturday night's excursion, because frankly, I'd like to wipe those little memory chips away. Kids birthday parties are one of the few things I've never really been able to come around to since becoming a father. Being spit up upon? Not my favorite but something I think I've handled very well all things considered. Nuclear-waste diapers? Used to be, as a mere uncle, the thought made me want to jam my head as deeply as possible into a toilet and flush for, oh, at least two hours. The lack of sleep, attempting to make sense to a 2-year-old (or 3 ... or 4), the absence of anything remotely resembling a life, the steady drip-drip-drip on finances (I know, I know, wait til they're teenagers), the changing of minds with the changing of the minute (which may just be a female thing) ... I've just rolled with the punches, so to speak.
But a gaggle of 2-year-olds (or 3 ... or 4)? I'd almost rather conduct a field test to see just how far one can stick one's arm into a fire ant hill. Well, I stumbled upon something much worse, much more dark last night. A party of 4- and 5-year-olds ... a swimming party, to be exact, at the YMCA (a first for me, but what the hey ... Emler does it, too).
We're early ... largely because No. 1 has been asking me for 156 hours "Is it time to go yet?" She's in the pool immediately. Now, No. 2 usually gives her a good run for first in and, subsequently, first to make daddy's heart stop because he's convinced she's drowning (this is their favorite game ... just outdistancing inserting macaroni into their noses). But this time, she chooses throwing a fit about getting into the pool without daddy (good thing Daddy Radar picked up that blip 15 minutes before we left and I was prepared). No prob there after last year's Water Baby classes (although her favorite thing in the pool still, especially when I'm holding her, is to stick her face in the water and leave it there).
First thing, the pool's indoors, of course. But it's not heated, which I found extremely strange considering this is FEBRUARY. So while I'm enjoying a sneak preview of how my girls will eventually look with blue lipstick and jogging my memory for early signs of hypothermia, several other kids begin to straggle in. Then several more. Along with parents.
Now, I really, honestly, cross-my-heart-and-hope-for-six-more-weeks-of-winter don't look down on people in general. Those who know me know I'm one of the last who would consider himself better than others. (Unless they're Libs, of course.)
But let me tell you something, folks. The birthday boy's family arrived. The extended family, I mean. All of them. And I spent the next two hours developing an intimate sense of what it's like backstage at Jerry Springer's show.
(Imported from Feb. 11, 2007)
But a gaggle of 2-year-olds (or 3 ... or 4)? I'd almost rather conduct a field test to see just how far one can stick one's arm into a fire ant hill. Well, I stumbled upon something much worse, much more dark last night. A party of 4- and 5-year-olds ... a swimming party, to be exact, at the YMCA (a first for me, but what the hey ... Emler does it, too).
We're early ... largely because No. 1 has been asking me for 156 hours "Is it time to go yet?" She's in the pool immediately. Now, No. 2 usually gives her a good run for first in and, subsequently, first to make daddy's heart stop because he's convinced she's drowning (this is their favorite game ... just outdistancing inserting macaroni into their noses). But this time, she chooses throwing a fit about getting into the pool without daddy (good thing Daddy Radar picked up that blip 15 minutes before we left and I was prepared). No prob there after last year's Water Baby classes (although her favorite thing in the pool still, especially when I'm holding her, is to stick her face in the water and leave it there).
First thing, the pool's indoors, of course. But it's not heated, which I found extremely strange considering this is FEBRUARY. So while I'm enjoying a sneak preview of how my girls will eventually look with blue lipstick and jogging my memory for early signs of hypothermia, several other kids begin to straggle in. Then several more. Along with parents.
Now, I really, honestly, cross-my-heart-and-hope-for-six-more-weeks-of-winter don't look down on people in general. Those who know me know I'm one of the last who would consider himself better than others. (Unless they're Libs, of course.)
But let me tell you something, folks. The birthday boy's family arrived. The extended family, I mean. All of them. And I spent the next two hours developing an intimate sense of what it's like backstage at Jerry Springer's show.
(Imported from Feb. 11, 2007)
Language of purity
Watching a 2-year-old's personality develop, seemingly by the hour, is an amazing gift. Listening as their vocabulary evolves consists of equal parts frustration and joy.
Mine, this morning, recited the Declaration of Independence. That, or she was attempting to tell me what just happened on Barney.
(Imported from Jan. 26, 2007)
Mine, this morning, recited the Declaration of Independence. That, or she was attempting to tell me what just happened on Barney.
(Imported from Jan. 26, 2007)
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