Game of Ultimate Power

So my sister’s kids – who range in age from five to 10 -- ask me to play this game where they’re super heroes and I’m an evil monster trying to destroy the universe and reap Ultimate Power. I love to oblige, although once I ended up in the ER after playing this game on a family vacation, wrenching my neck and succumbing to a migraine. Those hurt. The Ultimate Power game has also landed me in the chiropractor’s office.

Earlier in the week, my two-year-old daughter, Belle, gets a letter from her cousin, Sophie, my sister’s eight-year-old daughter, that says: “Dear Isabella, I hope you’re growing well. When is your dad going to come and try to ‘kill’ us? Love, Sophie.” I’m like, “Hmm, I hope the FBI didn’t read that letter and get the wrong idea!”

So we’re playing Ultimate Power with a new rule: No Climbing or Grabbing the Evil Being and Sending Him to Certain Emergency Medical Care. I’m chasing my 10-year-old nephew, Lucas, who currently has the super power to make inanimate objects come to life and destroy me. I’m playing the role of the Velocior—a combination of a velociraptor and an evil warrior.

So I’m chasing Lucas--my arms are mimicking the Velocior’s jaws, and my wedding ring falls off into the bushes. (The ring gets loose in the winter because skin contracts in the cold.)

I convince the kids to help me search for the ring by promising that the kid who finds it will have certain Ultimate Power. Then my niece, Sophie, says, “We need a metal detector. I’ll go ask Dad.”

I could just hear what she would probably say inside: “Dad, do you have a metal detector?”

“Huh?”

“A metal detector. Uncle Chris lost his ring playing the Velocior.”

“Ah-huh. We don’t have a metal detector, but you can try using the flashlights.”

So Sophie comes out with flashlights, but it's still daylight. The search starts out as an exciting adventure for the kids, like something out of the movie Goonies.

Then after two minutes, Lucas says, “I don’t want to spend my whole day searching for some old ring.”

Luckily for me and my marriage, I found the ring a few minutes later. “My precious,” I say.

In the end, Lucas uses his super powers to bring a large tree to life, which of course "grabs" me (the Velocior) while his siblings pummel the Evil Being—me—to death and reap Ultimate Power.

I guess the moral is, the struggle for Ultimate Power is kinda fun when you don’t end up in the ER.

A Very Special Two-Year-Old Thanksgiving

We had a very memorable Thanksgiving.

At one point Grandma’s talking to my daughter, Belle, on the (pretend) cell phone. Belle’s like, “Um, hello? Um, yes. Um, goodbye.” So she “hangs up” on Grandma and then Grandma asks her, “OK, where are you going to put your phone?” Belle looks around and Grandma says, “You don’t have any pockets.”

So Belle lifts up her dress and inserts the phone into her tights.

Thanksgiving week got off to a great start for me because:

A) I only had to work two days after a busy week, during which a building literally blew up 30 minutes before a news conference I was organizing; and

B) Belle and I watched college basketball together for the first time.

“Packers!” she says, looking at the basketball players but thinking it was pro football. “Nope, that’s basketball,” I say, “Marquette versus Duke. Marquette’s the good guys.” Nothing against Duke, my sister and brother-and-law went there, but half my family went Marquette, and most of them either lived or currently live in Milwaukee. I don’t expect Marquette will win, since Duke is the perennial powerhouse in NCAA hoops, but Marquette waxes them by 11 to win a tournament. Their point guard, Dominic James, does a reverse dunk on a breakaway. I show the dunk to Belle.

“Yea!” she claps, clearly impressed. “Hims dunk ‘gain? Hims dunk ‘gain?” My wife says it’s natural for two-year-olds to use the wrong pronouns, but my theory is she’s trying to speak Spanglish. She says things like “I bring mis doll to the store!” Mis is actually a proper Spanish pronoun. So we watch hims dunk about a dozen times, much to the glee of Belle and me. Belle’s mommy would never ask to watch a dunk a dozen times!

Thanksgiving morning, we’re changing Belle’s diaper and getting her ready for the big day. “No put poo in hair?” she asks. My wife and I giggle and say, “Yes, that’s right. Don’t put poo in your hair.”

“No put poo in mouth?” she asks.

“No, definitely not in your mouth,” we say.

Fortunately, I was able to wipe that memory away before sitting down to an amazingly delicious Thanksgiving buffet. It included pumpkin and apple pie, of course, and a Greek dessert which I can’t pronounce.

“Galaktoboureko,” my brother-in-law says, it’s a traditional Greek dessert. He’s from Cyprus and speaks fluent Greek and English.

“Yes, I’ll have some Galactic Burrito, please!” I say. It was quite buttery--delicious.

So let’s see: Reverse dunks, an upset victory, no poo in mouth, turkey, apple pie, good health and Galactic Burritos? What more could a guy want on Thanksgiving?

Happy holidays!

Ring Around the Inappropriate Lyrics

Recently I was reading to my two-year-old daughter, Belle, a book called Time for Bed by Mem Fox. Each page is like a short, two-line nursery rhyme. Belle knows it well enough that she fills in the last word of each rhyme. Usually she's clutch, nailing her part like Derek Jeter batting in the bottom of the ninth inning with two Yankee runners on base.

But yesterday I read, "It's time to sleep, little bird, little bird, so close your eyes not another--"

"Toot!" Belle says with glee.

Of course, the correct answer would be "word." The lyrics in Time for Bed are totally appropriate, as long as your child doesn't get too creative. But have you ever noticed that's not the case with some of the Mother Goose traditional rhymes?

My dad used to tuck me into bed and read these delightful ditties to me.

Take "Ring Around the Rosie," which Belle has started to sing. You know, the one that ends, "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down." Some have speculated that it grew out of the Black Plague, that "ring around the rosie" refers to the mark of the plague and "ashes, ashes, we all fall down" refers to all the kids croaking. This is disputed by historians but, my point is, if you have to ASK if it's about the Black Plague, can that be a good thing?

Take Peter Peter Pumpkin eater:
"Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater
Had a wife and couldn't keep her
So he put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her, very well."

Very well? So we're telling kids, "If you're such a great catch that your girlfriend breaks up with you, the solution is to stalk her, carve out a large vegetable and force her to sit there while you eat pumpkin seeds with lots of salt?" That's not good.

Then there's the old woman who lived in a shoe. Apparently she had so many children she didn't know what to do, gave them broth for dinner, spanked them all soundly and put them to bed. She probably also kept them in large vegetables the next day, poor little darlings.

Some of you might be thinking, "Chill out dude, they're just nursery rhymes." I actually agree. I had no clue what the nursery rhymes really meant when my dad read them to me. As Eminem fans often say, "I just liked the beat." I just cared that Dad read them to me, and mixed in some tickling under my chinny-chin-chin.

So while I won't be singing "Rock-a-Bye-Baby" to my unsuspecting infant, I will read my daughter "Three Blind Mice," regailing her of the ultimate tale of revenge -- the carver's wife getting her comeupance from the three little creatures. That'll teach her not to use rat poison.

I guess the moral is, the most important thing is to read and sing to children and, secondarily, to make sure you play Eminem's inspirational "Lose Yourself," which is about seizing the moment, rather than his less desirable "Big Weenie."

A Master’s in Two-Year-Old Guerilla Marketing

My daughter, Belle, has been putting on a clinic the last few weeks on marketing. Two-year-old guerilla marketing, that is. Jay Conrad Levinson coined the term “guerilla marketing” in 1982 and defined it as subliminal promotional messaging on a very low budget. The messages are designed so the target audience doesn’t realize it’s receiving them.

In the case of two-year-old guerilla marketing, the target audience is almost exclusively Mom and Dad, and whoever seems to be the happier or weaker parent at that moment gets the first pitch. Dad’s football team just won? Fruit juice for everyone! Mom just watched a sad movie? Sure, Belle can sleep with Mommy! If one of the parents owes you for accidentally banging your head on the door frame, that’s a sure bet, too. Other potential audiences are grandparents, aunts and uncles.

Belle has really picked up on this. For example, her grandma asked her if she’d like a certain toy. Belle said, “YES!” because that’s her answer to everything. Grandma said, “OK, maybe Santa will bring that to you.” Belle thought for a second and said, “Aunt Fanns?” which is what she calls my sister. Apparently, Belle isn’t going to wait around for some mythical man to bring her the loot—she’s hitching her sleigh to a relative with financing.

The Three Pillars of TYOGM
According to Belle, there are Three Pillars to two-year-old guerilla marketing tactics.

The first is, “Nod Your Head any Time You Ask for Something, and Ask the Same Question Again While You’re Waiting for The Nod to Take Effect.” For example, Belle has been known to throw out slogans like, “Drink Daddy’s double-cappuccino before bed? Drink Daddy’s double-cappuccino before bed?” She’ll nod repeatedly with a look of utter conviction. Is this tactic low budget? Check. Is it undercover? Maybe not, but it’s certainly underhanded: Check. Do Mom and Dad realize they’re getting subliminal messages? Hmm… you mean that’s why she was up all night? Check.

The second pillar of two-year-old guerilla marketing is, “Use a Jingle.” The major beer, fast food, soft drink and shoe companies have perfected this tactic, right? They’re not bad, but Belle puts paltry campaigns like McDonald’s “I’m Lovin’ It” to shame. First, she learns lyrics to cute songs that melt her father’s heart. Songs like, “I Have the Love of Jesus In My Heart” from VeggieTales. When I hear her sing that, it’s as if my wallet is a cash dispenser and she has my debit card and PIN number. She has also learned to ask, “Listen to Johnny Cash?” Daddy loves Johnny Cash, and Belle cashes in—the refrigerator and pantry become her personal open bar and buffet. Daddy also magically turns into the bear from Chuck-E-Cheese, willing to sing and dance any song she pleases ad nauseam, dispensing pizza between songs.

The third and final pillar is, “Demand Immediacy.” Nobody knows how to close a deal like a two-year-old. The other day, Belle asked for a toy that has four little animals that stick up like joysticks. When she pulls them, they make noises or play songs. Thankfully, there is an “off” button. We were in the car the other day and Belle asked her mom to hand it to her. “Mommy, pweease?” she said, tilting her head to the side and grinning. My wife handed it to her and said, “That’s a nice way to ask, Belle. Now what do you say to Mommy?”

“Turn it on!” Belle said. Now that’s closing a deal. I think Mr. Levinson would be impressed. I guess the moral is, you have to get up pretty early—and drink a double-cappuccino—to outfox a two-year-old with subliminal messaging (head nod, head nod).

How the Miracle Blanket Saved Our Marriage (Twice)

Babies are clinically proven to cause stress. Sure, they're cute and usually smell good, but they also have tar-like poo and stay awake 23 hours & 55 minutes a day. When our two kids were babies, my wife and I were at each other's throats like Bart and Homer Simpson.

Then we discovered the unifying force of a colic baby crying through the night. My wife and I would walk to the bathroom at night like monsters from Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video, with hairdos to match.

Then a woman suggested a simple product made of about two feet of fabric that would change our lives forever: The Miracle Blanket. Basically, it wraps up your kid like a burrito. Or Hannibal Lector.

Our baby suddenly started sleeping. We were like Dr. Frankenstein: "It's asleeeeeeep! It's asleeeeep!" It saved us a good two weeks in the Mendota Mental Health Institute. If I could find the genius engineer who invented that blanket, why, I'd give him or her a rousing rendition of the "Thriller" dance--a gift that Genius Engineer would surely never forget!

Speaking of looney, the other night our two-year-old daughter was about to jump off a chair and my wife said, "Belle, stop! Are you crazy?"

Belle replied with glee: "YES!" You see, my daughter is going through that phase when she says yes to everything. Is a ball round? "YES!" Is Tom Cruise stable? "YES!" Is Larry King really a gigantic robotic bobble head? "YES!"

She's also a parrot. For example, the other day I held up a toy polar bear. "What kind of bear is this?" I asked her. Belle replied with complete confidence: "It's a whatkinda bear!," as if whatkinda was the latin form of polar. Silly Daddy, don't you know anything?

The other day, friends came over to our house and Belle immediately reported, "Daddy poops!" My lovely wife is to blame for this embarrassment. Belle had started to cry whenever she had a stinky diaper, so my wife thought it'd be a brilliant idea to tell Belle, 'It's OK, everybody poops."

My wife has a master's in elementary education. Ha, I thought, some use of higher learning; that will never work. Well, it worked famously. My wife rattled off names of serial poopers, beginning with Belle's best buddies. "Andrew poops," my wife explained. "Allison poops. Leah poops. Holly poops." Belle stopped crying, started giggling, and basically ate up the whole concept like a frat boy watching "Girls Gone Wild." My wife's grand finale was when she asked Belle, "Does Daddy poop?"

Belle replied, "YES!" of course, because that's her answer to everything. "Daddy poops!" she exclaimed, as if it were an epiphany. "Daddy poooooops! Woo-hoooooooo!"

Yes Belle, what a relief. I guess the moral is, kids can be difficult sometimes. But are all the pooey-tar diapers worth it when you help them through a tough phase? "YES!"

My Daughter Has 'Big Girl Envy'

My two-year-old daughter Belle idolizes her big cousin Sophie, who's eight.

She morphs into Sophie's shadow whenever they get together, mimicking her like Marcel Marceau.

Belle has pictures of Sophie everywhere in our house, and loves to look at them. It's gotten to the point where we point to a picture and ask Belle, "Who's that?"

She'll say, "SOPH-ie!" Then we'll point to her other cousin, Lucas, and say, "Who's that?"

Belle will say, "Not Sophie." Then we'll point to Belle in the picture and say, "Who's that?"

Belle says, "Not Sophie."

Belle and I were at the library the other day and we saw two older girls playing in the kids area. "BIG GIRLS!" Belle exclaimed gleefully. One of them had the same name as Belle. "Hey Belle, that big girl has the same name as you," I said. The big girl smiled at Belle during my informal quasi-introduction. "Her name is Isabella," I said. "What's your name?"

"Fun!" Belle replied. Maybe she thought I was asking for her middle name.

She loves playing with her big girl cousins' Disney dolls, too. Her favorite is the one she calls "Sleeping Booty." Belle is enthralled when her Aunt Jessie comes to town with her sweet-smelling hair products, makeup and chic purses. That's when Belle gets to wear lip gloss and walk around in oversized heels--what could be more fun than that?

Belle also looks up to Aunt Jessie's fiance', David, who for some reason she calls "Max." I say, "No-no, Belle, his name is David."

"Hi MAX!" she deadpans.

I guess the moral is, we all need someone to look up to, especially when your daddy can't afford Prada.

Up Next: How the Miracle Blanket Saved My Marriage

Sincerely,
Chris

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2006, all rights reserved.

My Car Seat? The Back of a Pinto

I despise car seats. I use them for my kids, but I need a shoe horn to get my baby boy Johnny into the straps. He loathes them, too—when strapped in, he screams like a dying eagle shot in the wing.

There were no car seats when I was little. My parents drove on Easy Street. They'd throw me in the back seat and relax while I played with my toys. They even got to listen to Neil Diamond (“Sweeeeet Car-o-mine…”). Never mind that I was sitting in the back of a Pinto—you know, the old Ford model that exploded when hit from behind because the fuel tank was exposed.

Johnny’s car seat had straps threaded awfully short in the back of the seat so, every time we got Johnny in or out, a strap fell out of one side. It was like when you have a hooded sweatshirt and the string gets so far to one side that you can’t get to the other side of the string. When you try to re-thread it, you end up looking like a cat trying to grab a tether ball.

So I wasn’t surprised when we got a letter that read:

“Car Seat Recall: Harness Bracket. Dear beloved sucke-errrr—CUSTOMER, we regret to inform you that the harness adjustment bracket on your car seat has been recalled. Your son will soon be ejected from your vehicle like Evil Knievel.”

OK, I made up that last sentence. What it should have said was:

“Car Seat Recall: The Whole Thing’s a Hunk of Junk.”

It’s interesting that the brochure to sell Hunk of Junk is on glossy paper in full color; the recall notice is photocopied—crooked—in black and white. I felt so… used. It was like when your high school sweetheart makes this big red valentine with doily trim to declare love for you—then later sends you a one-line FAX to dump you that reads:

“Dear sucke-errr—SWEETHEART, you’re dumped.”

How did they fix the problem with our harness bracket? They sent two pieces of cheap plastic. Nothing says “It’s safe now!” like something that probably fell off an old toy playset. I guess the moral is, if you’re going to take away a kid’s elbow room and force his parents to listen to nursery rhymes, the least you could do is salvage some metal from an old Tonka Truck to fix their kid’s car seat.

Thanks for reading—please tell a friend!

Next up: My Daughter Has 'Big Girl Envy'

Sincerely,
Chris

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2006, all rights reserved.