The Elder Boy asks a lot of questions. Pretty much, anytime you tell him something, he'll follow it up with, why? Seriously. It can be quite exhausting. It isn't that he's being insubordinate. He seems genuinely curious about things. Which is good. What is not, is that the poor Boy got me for a Dad, and well, I'm a dipshit.
Still, I'm a dedicated Dad and dipshit, so I will go to great lengths to find out why, so I can tell him. Often the answers lead to more questions, which, well it is kind of like Lost if you dig that reference or watch that show.
Then, one day, driving home from Burger House, the Boy asked a simple question on the whereabouts of his Mom that led to a series of questions, that quite simply changed the game for good. Making it much harder, and not so easy to find the answers to the tough questions we all face. To illustrate how it can go from 0 to Crazy, below is my recollection of the conversation. Mind you I'm driving in Messoplex traffic during it. And that I'm a dipshit. I speak to the Boy(s) as if they were adults using big words. My Lovely Bride thinks I'm crazy. She's right. Still, Ethan blew his teacher's mind early in the school year, before he turned 4, by using the word incarcerated in context. Nice.
I should alse note that Wy Wy was present for this conversation. He wasn't asking that many questions though. He was busy messing with his Dora helmet.
Elder Boy: Dad, Is Mom going to be home when we get home?
Dipshit: No. Mom is at a meeting for work at the Church.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: The meeting is over at 9pm - I think - so Mom will be home after you guys go to sleep. You'll see Mom in the morning.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: (Pause to consider what he is asking why about, why will Mom see him in the morning? Why the meeting is over at 9pm? Giving up, I decide to go my normal route and answer a question with a question.) Why what?
Elder Boy: Why is Mom at Church?
Dipshit: Mom is at a meeting at Church for her new job. It is a meeting about racial insensitivity, or something like that.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: Mommy has a new job and everyone on staff is going to this meeting to hear someone speak on racial insensitivity...
Elder Boy: What is race all in sent ee?
Dipshit: R A C I A L I N S E N S I T I V I T Y. It is a meeting to help people. To stop racism...
Elder Boy: What is race-um.
Dipshit: R A C I S M. Racism is bad. It is when you discriminate against somebody because of their race...their creed...the color of their skin. You treat them bad because they appear different than you. Sometimes people do the same thing because someone believes differently than them. Or has less, or more, money. Lives somewhere else...racism is very bad, Boy.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: You have brown hair. Right? Imagine if someone didn't like you because you had brown hair. Would that be fair? You can't control what color your hair is, so it would not be very nice for someone to hold that against you. You should never judge a person by the way they look, or by how much money they make or don't make. Or what they do, or where they live. You should just pay attention to how they act, and how they treat you. That's what matters.
Elder Boy: Why?
Dipshit: There is an old saying, never judge a book by the cover. You judge a person by their actions. How they treat you and others.
Elder Boy: Why?
Stopped at a traffic light I look back at the Boy(s) in my kick-ass Daddy rearview mirror thingy (it hooks to the actual rear view mirror so you can look into the back seat and see your kids, without having to turn around and risk crashing your car) and consider how I can explain something as big as racism to them. Do I even fully understand it, or the implications for it? Hell, am I even above it? Sadly, no. Just the other day I was cut off in messaplex traffic. This caused me to nearly crash. My first gut reaction after avoiding the crash was to curse the person who had caused my near miss. She was a lady. What did I say, "You stupid (F Bomb) women." She was a caucausian lady. Thus, I didn't call her a stupid (f bomb racial slur) women, but if she had been a person of color, would I have crossed the line. If my Boy(s) were in the car when it all happened would I behave the same way?
Sweating in traffic at a light, considering the huge ass implications of rearing children, I decided to opt out and again, and do my usual trick to buy some time.
Dipshit: Why what?
Elder Boy: Why is my hair brown.
Nice. Saved by the attention span of a four year old. For now, at least.
Until I BLOG again...Navin, I'd love you if you were the color of a baboon's ass.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Stepping over the line in the sands of coolness
The Boy(s) got bikes. We had us one of them there garage sales. Actually, it was more a part of the front yard, and some of our drive way sale. Regardless we got a nice chunk of change and rid of a lot of our crap, so we could quickly run out and buy more crap. Like bikes. And protective gear for those bikes. Safety first.
The Elder Boy actually got his protective gear before he purchased his bike. He was so enamored by this kick-ass helmet he saw at Toys 'R Sucks that my Lovely Bride bought it for him on the spot. If you saw it, you'd understand. It is cool. Metallic blue. Flames. I'd wear it.
The Younger Boy also was enamored by a certain helmet he saw at Wal-Mart. A Dora The Explorer helmet. My Lovely Bride swears that this Dora helmet is not gender specific. I don't believe her. It is a girl helmet. Worse, it has matching knee and elbow pads.
Not that the Little Warrior minds. He loves that helmet. And pads. So much so, he'll often wear them around the house. To school. On errands. Mind you, he's not riding his bike around the house, or to school, or on errands. Nope. He's just into the bike gear.
I actually got to go out Mother's Day shopping this past Saturday with the Boy(s) and have disgruntled phone store employees smirk at me because Wy was suited up in Dora head gear and pads. It probably didn't help that the Boy(s) got into a knock down fight in the store when I was trying to pay for our purchase. The helmet actually came in handy then, Wyatt can lower it like a battering ram. Still, it is a bit curious to have the Boy all suited up in this stuff. He wore the knee pads so much (they are tight) that he developed some weird creeping crud type rash.
Probably the oddest thing though, is that he wants to sleep in the helmet. With it on his head. I'm pretty sure that all the instruction manuals would not recommend this, so we compromise with the Boy and let him sleep with the helmet in his bed, but not on his head. You know, like most kids sleep with a blanket or a teddy bear.
So, the other day, I come home and find my sweet Wy Wy perched in my throne of impotence watching Bear (what he calls the Little Bear cartoon on Noggin.) As I bent over to give him a kiss, I noted he was sitting next to his helmet. This is normal. What was not, was the fact that there was something crammed inside of the helmet. You know, the part where you would put your head if you were actually wearing the helmet. Looking closer I realized that what was inside the helmet, well it was underwear. Seriously. More specifically, Thomas the Tank Engine underwear. The Boy is starting the potty training process, and he feels Big Boy underwear are cool. Still, it is a lot easier to watch Bear in a diaper, that way, well you don't have those bothersome bathroom breaks. So what do you do? You cram your cool Big Boy underwear into your favorite helmet and all hunker down and watch Bear. Nice.
Giving Boy #2 a big hello kiss, I thought to myself, at least he hasn't crammed Dora underwear into his helmet.
Looking up at me, Wy gave me his typical, "Hi Da!" greeting.
"Hello Wy Wy," I said, "How are you today?"
To which he replied, "That's MY bike."
Indeed.
Until I BLOG again...Hey, That's my bike!
The Elder Boy actually got his protective gear before he purchased his bike. He was so enamored by this kick-ass helmet he saw at Toys 'R Sucks that my Lovely Bride bought it for him on the spot. If you saw it, you'd understand. It is cool. Metallic blue. Flames. I'd wear it.
The Younger Boy also was enamored by a certain helmet he saw at Wal-Mart. A Dora The Explorer helmet. My Lovely Bride swears that this Dora helmet is not gender specific. I don't believe her. It is a girl helmet. Worse, it has matching knee and elbow pads.
Not that the Little Warrior minds. He loves that helmet. And pads. So much so, he'll often wear them around the house. To school. On errands. Mind you, he's not riding his bike around the house, or to school, or on errands. Nope. He's just into the bike gear.
I actually got to go out Mother's Day shopping this past Saturday with the Boy(s) and have disgruntled phone store employees smirk at me because Wy was suited up in Dora head gear and pads. It probably didn't help that the Boy(s) got into a knock down fight in the store when I was trying to pay for our purchase. The helmet actually came in handy then, Wyatt can lower it like a battering ram. Still, it is a bit curious to have the Boy all suited up in this stuff. He wore the knee pads so much (they are tight) that he developed some weird creeping crud type rash.
Probably the oddest thing though, is that he wants to sleep in the helmet. With it on his head. I'm pretty sure that all the instruction manuals would not recommend this, so we compromise with the Boy and let him sleep with the helmet in his bed, but not on his head. You know, like most kids sleep with a blanket or a teddy bear.
So, the other day, I come home and find my sweet Wy Wy perched in my throne of impotence watching Bear (what he calls the Little Bear cartoon on Noggin.) As I bent over to give him a kiss, I noted he was sitting next to his helmet. This is normal. What was not, was the fact that there was something crammed inside of the helmet. You know, the part where you would put your head if you were actually wearing the helmet. Looking closer I realized that what was inside the helmet, well it was underwear. Seriously. More specifically, Thomas the Tank Engine underwear. The Boy is starting the potty training process, and he feels Big Boy underwear are cool. Still, it is a lot easier to watch Bear in a diaper, that way, well you don't have those bothersome bathroom breaks. So what do you do? You cram your cool Big Boy underwear into your favorite helmet and all hunker down and watch Bear. Nice.
Giving Boy #2 a big hello kiss, I thought to myself, at least he hasn't crammed Dora underwear into his helmet.
Looking up at me, Wy gave me his typical, "Hi Da!" greeting.
"Hello Wy Wy," I said, "How are you today?"
To which he replied, "That's MY bike."
Indeed.
Until I BLOG again...Hey, That's my bike!
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Someday, somebody's gonna ask you
Even though I often feel I don't know jack, I recently learned that the Boy(s), at least the Elder Boy, think I'm a veritable answer man. You see, Dear Reader, the other night, Boy #1 pissed his bed. I was jarred from my night night around 4am by the sound of his voice calling to me from the dark hallway. As I groggily pulled his wet pajama bottoms off in our main bathroom, my first instinct was to point out that he more than likely pissed his bed because he was to lazy to try and pee before he went night night the previous night. Surprisingly I held my tongue, figuring he already felt bad enough, and the last thing he needed was his Dad doing the, I told you so, thing. Plus, I am supposed to be the one in charge of him using the bathroom before bed, and well, I suck, and was getting the payback I deserved.
I didn't have time to beat myself up about it though, you see, I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the Boy and his wet bed. I had recently watched Big Daddy, and thought I could do the newspaper trick, only we don't take the paper. I was considering paper towels when my Lovely Bride threw me a life line from our warm bed by telling me to put the Boy on his trundle bed.
Good idea, but even so, I didn't tell My Lovely Bride, I just grunted in her direction, as if that was the obvious choice and what I was planning to do all along. Truth be told, if My Lovely Bride hadn't offered her expert advice the Boy would have had to sleep on a bed of Brawny. Since I'm being all honest, I might as well tell you truth be told 2, you see, My Lovely Bride actually would get most of the payback that I deserved since she washed all the Boy's bedding. See, I do suck.
Fast forward a few minutes and we're both sleeping low (which is Ethanese for sleeping on the trundle bed.) I was about to return to my own bed when the Boy started to go into an elaborate story on why he peed in his bed. The Boy is shrewd. I'm sure there was some truth to the story, which had to do with ghosts and dinosaurs. There was also something about window blinds, but the main point was he had a bad dream. A nightmare. Scary enough to pee the bed? Who knows. The story he was telling me though, was his way of trying to keep me in his room without simply asking me to stay. So, I cut to the chase and said, if he wanted me to stay awhile, I would, just ask. He did. I said yes, and then we shook on it (a curious habit of ours, all about trust, and my obsession with walking my talk.)
This seemed to please the Boy enough to abandon his epic why I peed the bed story and just be quiet for a few moments. But, then, out of the blue, he asked my why he had nightmares? And then added, why do people have nightmares? Damn. Good question.
Not really sure, and under prepared to go into a lengthy discourse at 4am on brain cycles during sleep and REM and all that - I decided to shock the Boy with a revelation that would serve as a diversion and get us away from his question. I told him, that I also have bad dreams and get scared. That everyone does. His reply to this shocking news - Why? Damn, the Boy is Mr. Question (more payback I hear, as my Pop - the Boy(s) Pops - tells me I was the same way.) Again, under prepared to answer such a question at such a late (or early) hour, I told him he needed to go to sleep, we could talk about it more in the morning.
So, there we were, both sleeping low, him drifting off to night night and me with my monkey brain thinking about why people dream and get scared, and why the Boy asked so many questions. Why did I ask so many questions? My thinking why I'm always asking why got me onto something, albeit goofy, that I've been absolutely puzzled about for the past few weeks. Tomorrow being Cinco de Mayo, I figure it is as good of time as any to throw it out there.
Q: Why are there so many water stores and kiosks (where you can fill up 5 gallon water jug) in hispanic communities?
I live in an area where there are a lot of hispanic folk, and these places are everywhere. Hell, they even have one in the parking lot of a grocery store and it is shaped like a windmill. Seriously. You can drive up and fill up your 5 gallon water bottle. I'm fairly certain that this windmill (and the other strip mall shops that do this) are selling tap water? The same water the people would get at home, assuming they have running water, which I'm sure they do? A lot of the people in this area live in apartments, which I think include water as part of the rent? I don't think there is some magical spring under the windmill? Still, these good hard working people, often walk a long way lugging these heavy 5 gallon jugs to these water shops and then pay for water? Curious? What gives?
Oh, and while we're on the subject of water and latinos, another thing that perplexes me. Why do hispanic people like to put ice in their milk?
Right about now (funk show brother), you might think I'm trying to be all Jerry Seinfeld pointing out the obvious funny. Or you might think I'm a racially insensitive gringo ass. You can think what you want, just answer these two questions, cause all kidding aside, I'm sincerely curious and have spent entirely to much time considering both questions.
Until I BLOG again...Why?
I didn't have time to beat myself up about it though, you see, I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the Boy and his wet bed. I had recently watched Big Daddy, and thought I could do the newspaper trick, only we don't take the paper. I was considering paper towels when my Lovely Bride threw me a life line from our warm bed by telling me to put the Boy on his trundle bed.
Good idea, but even so, I didn't tell My Lovely Bride, I just grunted in her direction, as if that was the obvious choice and what I was planning to do all along. Truth be told, if My Lovely Bride hadn't offered her expert advice the Boy would have had to sleep on a bed of Brawny. Since I'm being all honest, I might as well tell you truth be told 2, you see, My Lovely Bride actually would get most of the payback that I deserved since she washed all the Boy's bedding. See, I do suck.
Fast forward a few minutes and we're both sleeping low (which is Ethanese for sleeping on the trundle bed.) I was about to return to my own bed when the Boy started to go into an elaborate story on why he peed in his bed. The Boy is shrewd. I'm sure there was some truth to the story, which had to do with ghosts and dinosaurs. There was also something about window blinds, but the main point was he had a bad dream. A nightmare. Scary enough to pee the bed? Who knows. The story he was telling me though, was his way of trying to keep me in his room without simply asking me to stay. So, I cut to the chase and said, if he wanted me to stay awhile, I would, just ask. He did. I said yes, and then we shook on it (a curious habit of ours, all about trust, and my obsession with walking my talk.)
This seemed to please the Boy enough to abandon his epic why I peed the bed story and just be quiet for a few moments. But, then, out of the blue, he asked my why he had nightmares? And then added, why do people have nightmares? Damn. Good question.
Not really sure, and under prepared to go into a lengthy discourse at 4am on brain cycles during sleep and REM and all that - I decided to shock the Boy with a revelation that would serve as a diversion and get us away from his question. I told him, that I also have bad dreams and get scared. That everyone does. His reply to this shocking news - Why? Damn, the Boy is Mr. Question (more payback I hear, as my Pop - the Boy(s) Pops - tells me I was the same way.) Again, under prepared to answer such a question at such a late (or early) hour, I told him he needed to go to sleep, we could talk about it more in the morning.
So, there we were, both sleeping low, him drifting off to night night and me with my monkey brain thinking about why people dream and get scared, and why the Boy asked so many questions. Why did I ask so many questions? My thinking why I'm always asking why got me onto something, albeit goofy, that I've been absolutely puzzled about for the past few weeks. Tomorrow being Cinco de Mayo, I figure it is as good of time as any to throw it out there.
Q: Why are there so many water stores and kiosks (where you can fill up 5 gallon water jug) in hispanic communities?
I live in an area where there are a lot of hispanic folk, and these places are everywhere. Hell, they even have one in the parking lot of a grocery store and it is shaped like a windmill. Seriously. You can drive up and fill up your 5 gallon water bottle. I'm fairly certain that this windmill (and the other strip mall shops that do this) are selling tap water? The same water the people would get at home, assuming they have running water, which I'm sure they do? A lot of the people in this area live in apartments, which I think include water as part of the rent? I don't think there is some magical spring under the windmill? Still, these good hard working people, often walk a long way lugging these heavy 5 gallon jugs to these water shops and then pay for water? Curious? What gives?
Oh, and while we're on the subject of water and latinos, another thing that perplexes me. Why do hispanic people like to put ice in their milk?
Right about now (funk show brother), you might think I'm trying to be all Jerry Seinfeld pointing out the obvious funny. Or you might think I'm a racially insensitive gringo ass. You can think what you want, just answer these two questions, cause all kidding aside, I'm sincerely curious and have spent entirely to much time considering both questions.
Until I BLOG again...Why?
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