A Jarring Revelation

In the course of playing Duck Duck Goose in the backyard tonight after our dinner of ribs and corn on the cob, I learned about the "cookie jar."

This was an element of the immortal children's game that my playmates and I had never incorporated. When the first goose was tagged, our son said, "You're in the cookie jar!" That's the place in the center of the circle where you sit, a lame, uh, goose, until the next unfortunate soul is caught by the ducker.

When I sat down for my first spell in the cookie jar, our daughter looked at me with sincere sadness and sympathy. Wanting to put her mind at ease, I smiled at her and said, "It's OK. I like to be in the cookie jar."

Our boy then added, "Yeah, because you can eat as many cookies as you want and no one will know."

That, I suppose, is every child's fantasy.

Chasing the Birds and the Bees Back to Their Nests and Hives

Yesterday afternoon, I was briefing the kids on our plans to have some friends over for dinner that evening. I explained that they were Mr. and Mrs. D., and that Mr. D. was a friend of mine from my former job.

"Do they have any kids?" our daughter asked.

"No, they don't," I said. "They just got married last year, and, well, they may never have kids or they may wait a while to have them. A lot of married couples like to just be married first and have kids a little later."

"How do they keep the baby from getting in her tummy?" our boy asked, clearly thinking that these things just HAPPEN when people get married and that that's how it works.

Casually, and averting eye contact, I responded, "Mommies and daddies have a special way of putting a baby in the mommy's tummy."

"Oh," he said. "And they just haven't done that yet." True in a sense, and all the information he needs at age 6.

Strandbergs' Book of Quotations

This morning, my daughter and I were wrapping a couple of birthday gifts to bring to a friend's house. Since she was "helping," we were doing it awkwardly on the kitchen floor, where I hadn't noticed there were a few small puddles of water from when I'd last washed my hands. Naturally, the gift wound up in one of the puddles.

Inspecting the damage, I said, "Bummer. I wish this hadn't gotten wet."

"Maybe if you don't tell anyone about it, your wish will come true," my girl helpfully suggested.

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While playing at said friend's house later in the day, my son was admiring a particular toy that his playmate was wielding.

"That's a cool sword," he said.

My girlfriend told him, "That came from Japan." She'd just been there on a business trip.

"Hmm," my boy replied. "Most things come from China."

Home Sweet Foam

Our daughter celebrated her fourth birthday a week or so ago. For the first time ever, my beloved did the shopping for this illustrious occasion, mostly because he was in the vicinity of our local educational toy store on his way home from a volleyball match two nights before the big day.

Let me say first that I was very proud of him for this. He really did an exceptional job--with all the gifts but one. I call his judgement into question on the modeling foam.

Ever heard of modeling foam? I hadn't either. It's this amazing substance consisting of (I kid you not) tiny colored spheres 1mm or less in diameter that supposedly (and I place emphasis on that word) adhere to each other but not to your hands or anything else.

Ha.

This morning, I was picking microscopic pink and white foam bits off the couch, attempting to sweep them off the hardwood floor in the dining room, plucking them from the bristles of the broom...it was a nightmare, especially when combined with the task of convincing my cherubs to tidy up thousands of Legos, hundreds of molded plastic animals, and dozens of markers.

Managing the whole endeavor proved too much for me, and I started doling out punishment as a result, including the dreaded bedroom time-out for our wee one. Then, when I went to retrieve her from her confines, I discovered that the foam pellets also functioned in much the same way as burrs, attaching themselves to my daughter's flesh and then dislodging onto her comforter, her rug, and a multitude of other things she came into contact with while apparently rolling around, wailing and gnashing her teeth in protest of her short-term incarceration.

If it weren't for its educational qualities, I'd say damn the stuff to the depths of Hades. You know what? I'll go ahead and say that anyway.

Uh Oh...Spaghetti-Os

Once again on this hot, sticky morning, our six-year-old dressed himself in thick sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The torso wardrobe problem is partly my fault; he can't reach short-sleeved shirts to pull them off the hangers in his closet, and I've done nothing to remedy that.

As a result, this sort of thing has happened frequently this summer. Each time, I gently suggest that he might get too hot in the 90-degree temps and that perhaps he'd like to change. The response is invariably the same: eye rolling and arm waving accompanied by grunts of frustration and annoyance.

Today was no different. "I don't WANT to change. I always tell you that," he said. No kidding.

"Well, I just want you to be comfortable, honey. That's part of my job," I said.

He thought for a second, and then he said, "If it was really hot and I was a girl, I'd wear Spaghetti-Os," he said.

"Spaghetti-Os?!" I asked. "Like the food?"

He looked up at me. "You know," he said, tracing a line over each of his shoulders. "Those shirts with the skinny little things on them."

"Spaghetti straps," I said. "Not Spaghetti-Os. And I thought those were against the rules at Roosevelt School."

"They are," he said, "but it's summer."

My point exactly.

Pretty as a Princess

While showering this morning, I detected a presence outside the frosted glass door. This is not an unusual occurrence, but what was unusual about this visit was that it was not accompanied by shouted accusations against a sibling.

As I exited the stall still dripping, I saw something on the bath mat and quickly stepped to the side to avoid it. There awaiting me was a collage created with the Disney princess art kit our daughter had received from one set of grandparents for her birthday. Festooned with princess stickers and stamps, it had obviously taken some time to create.

I picked it up, dabbed dry the spots where I'd dripped on it, and set it on the counter, then leaned out the bathroom door to look for the artist. I found her, grinning, in our bedroom.

"Did you make this for me?!" I asked.

"Yes," she said, and gave me a kiss.

"It's just beautiful!" I said. Then, wanting to emphasize that it was beautiful not because of all the princesses but because of the one who'd put it together, I decided to ask some questions along the line of beauty.

"Who do you think is more beautiful, Cinderella or Mommy?" I asked, still wrapped in a towel, my hair disheveled and damp.

She looked at me for a long moment, squinted her eyes just a bit in thought, and said, "You, when your hair is dry."