Why My Son Wears an Effeminate Coat...

My poor eight-month-old son, Johnny, is stuck getting hand-me-downs from his two-year-old sister, Belle, for the rest of his life. “There are worse things,” you might say.

But you’d change your mind if you saw the effeminate pink coat he has been wearing lately. “It’s lavender!” my wife insists.

Uh-huh. And Mango from Saturday Night Live is straight.

Nothing against Mango, but I’d rather not dress my son in a pink beret and long gold gloves. So the other day I tried to buy Johnny a Packers coat and my wife tackled me, saying hysterical things like “he’ll grow out of it fast” and “winter’s almost over.” I said, "We live in Wisconsin. Winter’s never over."

So Johnny suffered the indignation of wearing his Mango coat to his aunt’s birthday party. Maybe that’s why he was incessantly jerking his head back and headbutting me while I held him. (They don’t tell you babies do that in Home Economics Class.)

Apples to Apples
We played this game at the birthday party called Apples to Apples.

It’s all about word association. For example, my niece matched fancy with underpants. My six-year-old nephew needed to match the word juicy, so he selected men. (I think he was thinking of orcs from Lord of the Rings gobbling men.)

Then my 10-year-old nephew matched the word innocent with Britney Spears. Apparently he’s never seen MTV.

Later, after birthday cake, I played a different game with the kids and “promised” the winners a prize—dragon medallions (a promise I was clearly hoping they’d forget). Not only did I stupidly promise them a prize, but I promised something that can’t be purchased at McDonald’s. What was I thinking?

“When do we get our medallions?” my nephew asked excitedly. “You promised!”

“It’s a surprise,” I said. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“You could at least tell us when the surprise will be,” he said.

Later, they wanted to play Apples to Apples again. “Can you go pay a team of people to come play the game with us?” my nephew asked.

“But I have no money,” I said, pulling my pants pockets inside-out. I thought I was so clever.

“Then give them your pants,” my niece said.

“Thanks,” I said. “So you’re saying I should give away the pants off my legs so you can play cards for a half-hour?”

“Yes,” she said, as if it were e=mc2.

Belle decided someone needed to step up the recruitment efforts. “Hey Grandma, you can sit on your bottom and play caaaards.”

I sat down with baby John in my lap to play the game, both of us feeling manly now that his pink coat was safely hung on the wall.

“Hey Daddy,” Belle said. “I like your lipstick.”

“Thanks, Belle,” I said. “But Daddy doesn’t wear lipstick. You must be thinking of Mango.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding and smiling.

Call Her Leonard Belle-stein...

I’m all for being a good host, but have you ever had a guest so demanding you feel like you’ve become her personal waiter? I have, and my kids don't tip. My two-year-old, Belle, makes constant requests, conducting her parents like she's Leonard Bernstein.

She has started to grab random objects on the kitchen table or counter without warning. Like Bernstein clutching air, Belle recently walked up to me and clutched my, ahem--baton. "Ah! Belle! Don't touch people there!"

"Sorry, Daddy."

Sometimes she asks for stuff when I’m clearly indisposed. “Daddy, you need get me Tigger.” Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the toilet. Or tying my shoes.

The Up-sell
The other day, Belle asked, “May I please have goldfish crackers?” On my way to get them, she declared: “Daddy’s getting me goldfishies… and more milk! And chocolate and scissors and TOILET PAPER!”

She's always trying to up-sell. I plan to use that tactic the next time I buy a car. As the salesman is going to ask his manager, I’ll declare loudly to the entire salesroom: “He’s getting me the blue Shelby Mustang at cost… the convertible with no interest and Brett Favre, Jesus and Bono to ride in it!”

Belle even talks herself into things. She’s learning to walk down stairs like a homo sapien. She holds my hand and takes one step at a time.

“Belle not fall and go boom,” she said. “Belle doing fine. Belle not die.” (I don’t know why she refers to herself in the third person. She’s like my uncle: “Uncle Tom could sure use another beer!” he’d say when I was a kid.)

But the positive self-talk is good for her esteem. “I good dancer,” she said, shaking her little butt to her mom’s new favorite song--“SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake (with totally appropriate lyrics for kids like "getcha sexy on!"). So Belle was shakin' it, big smile on her face, and she said: “I tooted!”

Hey Daddy, I Have Whiskers…

Ever wonder about things people do on instinct versus learned behaviors? I have.

I’m guilty of instilling learned behaviors in my daughter. For example, it’s taboo in our society for women to have facial hair. So I had to correct my two-year-old daughter, Belle, when she recently started reporting, “Hey Daddy, I have whiskers.”

Not whiskers like a lion, mind you. “Whiskers like Daddy!” she said.

“You don’t have whiskers,” I told her.

“I don’t?”

“No, I have whiskers because I’m a big guy,” I told her.

“Big guy,” she repeated.

“You’re a big girl,” I said.

“Big girl,” she repeated.

“Yeah, and big girls don’t have whiskers… generally.”

“Ohhhoooohhhh,” she said. That’s another learned behavior. My wife says “Ohhhoooohhh” all the time—raising her voice at the tail end. It’s a phrase that often comes in handy for Belle.

Like the time I bought her dried apricot snacks.

“Daddy, may I have some ap-cots, please?”

“Fraid not, Belle.”

“Why, Daddy?”

“Because I can’t open the hermetically sealed plastic bag inside the box and now my teeth hurt.”

“Ohhhoooooohhhh.”

She has even turned it around to point out how Daddy is mentally challenged. “Daddy, I’d like some hermphhohhhmmm.”

“Some what?”

“Some hermmphhpphmmm.” Then she walked over to the ham and cheese on the counter, pointed and said, “ohhoooooohhh, the ham and cheese, Daddy, ohhooohhh.”

Some things are definitely instinctual. Like fear—and pawning it off on someone else to make it appear you’re not scared. Belle recently started pawning hers off on her baby brother, Johnny.

"Johnny is scared of monsters in the basement sometimes," Belle said, finger in her mouth, eyes to the side, other arm swinging.

"He is?" I said.

"Yeaaaaah," she said, nodding matter-of-factly as if her mute brother had just told her.

"Do YOU get scared of monsters in the basement, Belle?"

"Yeaaaaah. Sometimes.”

“Oooohhooooh,” I said.

“Hey Daddy, I not a monster. I a human.”

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2007, all rights reserved.