tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368485732024-03-14T03:41:05.336-07:00What My Kids Don't Know Hurts MeWhat My Kids Don't Know Hurts Me is a blog about parenting.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-24580273114855451072014-03-24T08:26:00.000-07:002014-03-24T08:26:54.508-07:00The Blame Game<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My son John is 7 years old. Like many 7-year-olds, he is a smart kid who is reading above level, and hence believes he knows everything. To wit: I recently asked him to pick up clothes he left on the floor of the living room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Dad," he said, "why do you always have to blame ME for everything <i>I</i> do?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Um, because you did it, I told him.</span></div>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the end of a fun family weekend, I told the kids I enjoyed playing cards, basketball, eating out, and Shamrock shakes.</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not to mention watching Harry Potter.</span></span></div>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I told them my favorite part of the weekend was when the kids played together nicely for two hours. Apparently miracles do happen in the Muggle world. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">John groans and says, "Really Dad? Why do you always have to focus on how we're improving? Why can't you just enjoy the good times?"</span><span class="userContentSecondary fcg" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="userContentSecondary fcg" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh I do, John. I do.</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-28932827336942680312013-07-15T15:44:00.000-07:002013-07-15T16:26:48.110-07:00Reaching a New Summit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;">We just returned from a family reunion in the Smoky Mountains. On our way there, my son John, 7, said he was worried the mountains would erupt.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">We told him they're not volcanic, and our vacation didn't involve Tom Hanks or Meg Ryan.</span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">He said, "then why do they call them smoky mountains?" </span><br />
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<a href="http://valariebudayr.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54ef8375388330120a7b1fca9970b-500wi" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="http://valariebudayr.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54ef8375388330120a7b1fca9970b-500wi" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">John asks a lot of deep questions these days. For example, the other day he asked me, "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Why do you wear underwear to work?"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"Because it's professional," I said.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"But sometimes I don't wear underwear," John replied, "and I'm a professional."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"A professional what?"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"A professional kid."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">That's what I want to be. A professional kid! Coincidentally, I've</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> learned that my debut thriller novel, <i>Sleep When You're Dead</i>, will be published Oct. 21 by TitleTown Publishing and distributed to a store near you by MidPoint Distribution. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPu38l4LHG1_z2xDn0-CGJzhuumsodTG960gDn6GtGXvwCEMiJM83QyqEQNgxkbqsPIaMIg_ST6Cz73N0nBd0BTdPSfk7jJeYUL9PHVhyUseX2o7Yx9xh91FL7CPuhuSrgE0h8/s1600/FbookOct21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Coming Oct. 21: Sleep When You're Dead (TitleTown Publishing)" border="0" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPu38l4LHG1_z2xDn0-CGJzhuumsodTG960gDn6GtGXvwCEMiJM83QyqEQNgxkbqsPIaMIg_ST6Cz73N0nBd0BTdPSfk7jJeYUL9PHVhyUseX2o7Yx9xh91FL7CPuhuSrgE0h8/s640/FbookOct21.jpg" title="Sleep When You're Dead" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">It's a dark mystery that carries the same sense of humor as this blog--What My Kids Don't Know Hurts Me.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.3em;">In the novel, a killer is posing victims as statues to recreate famous paintings, and it's keeping residents of Green Bay up at night. </span><span style="font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.3em;">But not narcoleptic reporter Casey Thread. He can't stay awake. When his girlfriend, Elena, disappears from the shadows of a pro football stadium in Green Bay, Casey teams with Nell, an FBI agent, to find Elena before she becomes one of the killer’s statues. </span><span style="font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.3em;">The stress of the pursuit exacerbates Casey’s narcolepsy, causing him to suffer sleep attacks at the worst moments. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.3em;"></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">My agent, Joel Gotler, represents thriller authors Michael Connelly (the Harry Bosch detective series), Sue Grafton (<i>A is for Alibi</i> alphabet series), and James M. Cain (<i>The Postman Always Rings Twice</i>), and has sold movie rights for films such as CHOCOLAT, L.A. CONFIDENTIAL, IN THE BEDROOM, and LINCOLN LAWYER. <br /><br />Visit <a href="http://www.chrishollenback.com/">www.ChrisHollenback.com</a> for more info, including a video trailer, a countdown to publication day and pre-order information. Thanks for your support! </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-25720502059559697902013-05-16T07:32:00.001-07:002013-05-16T07:34:58.385-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My son John, who is six, asked me at breakfast which finger was supposed to be stuck up in the air, and which to never stick up. Little did I know he'd turn it into a class project at school with this handy diagram:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">John also recently pointed out how lame my theoretical super powers would be. "If we were super heroes, my power would be lightning," he said. "What would yours be?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Love," I said. "Love is all you need."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"LOVE?" he said indignantly. "Eeeewww."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">John would have been so disappointed in the Dalai Lama, who visited our town this week, spreading his message of kindness. At least John and His Holiness could have agreed on the digit diagram.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-18846288118655188792011-12-29T06:03:00.000-08:002013-05-16T07:36:43.989-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">During the holidays, my brother and mother visited. My daughter, 7, said, “Spending time with you is the best present of all.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">My brother said, “Aww. Belle, you always know just what to say.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">My son John, 5, responded by saying, “Yes, and if you had a white beard you’d look just like Santa!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">While John might have bruised his uncle’s ego, it was nothing compared to what he did to his own father. The kids got Disney Scene It, a game involving watching DVD clips of Disney productions and answering trivia questions about them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">Belle and John, both incessantly seeking control, fought over the remote. John, strong as a Clydesdale, ripped it away and clocked me right in the orbital bone. Nearly plumb knocked me out!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">John, always knowing just what to say, said, “Oops. Sa-weee.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">Then not 5 minutes later, Belle is showing her uncle how she can bounce her new soccer ball on her knees and for some reason, as it's getting away from her, she kicks it full force -- right into her uncle's face from point blank, hitting his check and glasses.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">Fortunately, his blow didn’t hurt. I was the one who ended up with the egg on my orbital bone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">Here’s to the holidays. And to them ending—so I can heal. </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-85611831392582066432011-11-25T17:48:00.000-08:002011-11-27T15:16:20.439-08:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >The Necessary Evils of Parenting</span><br /><div style=""><br />I recently went to the dentist. The hygienist was very nice. Her poker was very mean. That is, the tool she used to scrape tartar off is also the one she uses to poke the gums of customers. What could be the purpose of this?<br /><br />I asked a friend who is a hygienist, and she said it's to see how your gums react. Isn't that a bit like shooting a squirrel to see how it would react?<br /><br />Alas, dental appointments are necessary evils, as are Family Fun Nights. You know, the Friday nights when the school welcomes all parents into their petri dish to inhale as many germs as possible while kids share food and toys at alarming rates. At the most recent infestation, my kids were playing bean-bag toss while eating the greasy free popcorn handed out by volunteers. <span style="font-style: italic;">Bean bag, popcorn, mouth. Repeat.</span><br /><br />The next three nights, my five-year-old, John, woke up hacking.<br /><br />If a parent declines to go to Family Contagion Night, said parent is a deadbeat. And your seven-year-old looks at you with a sad countenance, replete with a fat lip ala Cindy Lou Who from The Grinch.<br /><br /><a href="http://images.wikia.com/myfavoritemovies/images/b/b3/CindyLouWho.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://images.wikia.com/myfavoritemovies/images/b/b3/CindyLouWho.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Going to Family Fun Night is a necessary evil.<br /></div><br />Then there's changing clothes. Locking my door for privacy is a necessary evil, even at home. The other day, my five-year-old ran down the hall, slammed full speed into the door, bounced back up and wiggled the handle. "Hey, Dad! Wait 'til you see our costumes!"<br /><br />I didn't know it right away, but I'd soon learn that it was quite necessary to see the kids impersonate Eminem and Paris Hilton:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TLOn3k1g5qevokhqAySrO56DXiyhxVMRakAbGd1PhQ_fDZ1UmPDqbIpkcAr-_vYqssXEFmyhQDAtDYC9ZyJlY87N7WDHLGh2WR9eEzNS4A6KLF1gzkFjGNMVR6LJiU78IDaX/s1600/EmimemParis.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TLOn3k1g5qevokhqAySrO56DXiyhxVMRakAbGd1PhQ_fDZ1UmPDqbIpkcAr-_vYqssXEFmyhQDAtDYC9ZyJlY87N7WDHLGh2WR9eEzNS4A6KLF1gzkFjGNMVR6LJiU78IDaX/s320/EmimemParis.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679164110431849074" border="0" /></a>/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-1945473567530802482011-11-19T14:23:00.000-08:002011-11-19T21:12:29.562-08:00<span style="font-size:180%;">I Can't Believe We're Having This Conversation</span><br /><br />Earlier this school year, a boy went to my seven-year-old daughter's school locker between classes. He offered her a real ring and said they were boyfriend and girlfriend. After school, when Belle told me this, I couldn't believe "it was starting" so early. I felt like Homer Simpson:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQX_o73oj-0K5VSUxGsUcxHr8faITMI3rk6baYaUk6LPlW8aM8RQyVvmOe24I32dSpCbEjHmpZCBxjoTUPM4gx4eXUBBkBg5EXHW2WE_FQHXCz_bQOBff4gizGOT9nOS1Hp9G/s1600/the-scream.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQX_o73oj-0K5VSUxGsUcxHr8faITMI3rk6baYaUk6LPlW8aM8RQyVvmOe24I32dSpCbEjHmpZCBxjoTUPM4gx4eXUBBkBg5EXHW2WE_FQHXCz_bQOBff4gizGOT9nOS1Hp9G/s1600/the-scream.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I couldn't believe she and I were having this conversation when she was seven. So I told her that it was great she found a friend she liked so much. However, it was inappropriate to be dating someone at age seven. And even more inappropriate for him to be offering her valuable merchandise.<br /><br />Belle frowned. "When can I date someone, Daddy?"<br /><br />"When you're 60," I said.<br /><br />She looked worried. "Seriously?"<br /><br />"No, but not until high school."<br /><br />"So what do I tell this boy?"<br /><br />"Tell him you'll be friends, but you can't be his girlfriend right now because you're both seven and it's inappropriate."<br /><br />"But Daaaaaad, what if no other boys want to be my boyfriend?"<br /><br />At this point, I decided to boost her confidence, but I'm not so sure now that was right call. I said, "Belle, you're so smart, talented, and pretty you'll have boys lining up in high school to be your boyfriend."<br /><br />She winced, rolled her eyes and said, "Daddy. Awkwaaaaaaaard."<br /><br />Almost as awkward as a new poll showing that, in Wisconsin, <a href="http://www.publicpolicypolling.com/main/2011/11/whos-more-popular-than-aaron-rodgers.html">Packers Quarterback Aaron Rodgers is now more popular than Santa Claus or Mother Teresa</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGA4bLIEVMsVGBROVj5l0ORuinSs346qV-aNCzmioMvzFIUIPoxQR0lVoMZULI8MYuo2Kl6264UQnw7WiuUkigXJoaTTu_SMVAGbgZaXGy-F1erliAQNbi8kpe7YOXlXSlpceW/s1600/MVP3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 108px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGA4bLIEVMsVGBROVj5l0ORuinSs346qV-aNCzmioMvzFIUIPoxQR0lVoMZULI8MYuo2Kl6264UQnw7WiuUkigXJoaTTu_SMVAGbgZaXGy-F1erliAQNbi8kpe7YOXlXSlpceW/s320/MVP3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676841666523529378" border="0" /></a><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8e/MotherTeresa_090.jpg/220px-MotherTeresa_090.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 132px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8e/MotherTeresa_090.jpg/220px-MotherTeresa_090.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/49/Jonathan_G_Meath_portrays_Santa_Claus.jpg/220px-Jonathan_G_Meath_portrays_Santa_Claus.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 109px; height: 154px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/49/Jonathan_G_Meath_portrays_Santa_Claus.jpg/220px-Jonathan_G_Meath_portrays_Santa_Claus.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I respect all three. But while Rodgers does a lot of charity work--especially for the American Family Children's Hospital with kids who have cancer--he shouldn't be more popular than the saintly Teresa. In fact, I can't believe I'm having this conversation, either. Then again, I never saw Mother T throw a 60-yard touchdown on the run.<br /><br />As for Santa, I can see Rodgers being more popular. After all, Rodgers is a real person. And, he never got booed by Philadelphia Eagles fans.<br /><br /><a href="http://media.philly.com/images/600*450/20110318_dn_0li86f0l.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 233px;" src="http://media.philly.com/images/600*450/20110318_dn_0li86f0l.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>At least Rodgers wasn't voted more popular than Abe Lincoln or Jesus.<br /><a href="http://www.thesportsbank.net/core/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/tebow-christ2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 213px;" src="http://www.thesportsbank.net/core/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/tebow-christ2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>We'll leave that to Denver fans' view of Tim Tebow. And, of course, the <a href="http://www.publicpolicypolling.com/main/2011/11/whos-more-popular-than-aaron-rodgers.html">poll participants ranked their approval of THEMSELVES higher than all of the above</a>. Talk about awkward.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-58394951885630555582011-11-13T12:53:00.000-08:002013-05-16T07:38:32.946-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;">Thinking With His... Stomach</span></span><br />
<br />
My five- and seven-year old kids have a new game they love to play. It's called "Something's Changed."<br />
<br />
The person who is "It" spins around and the other players try to memorize how the person looks. When the person who's It leaves the room, s/he changes something about his/her appearance. The other players try to guess what has changed.<br />
<br />
My wife was It, left the room, removed her socks, and declared, "Something's changed."<br />
<br />
My five-year-old son, John, guesses, "You removed your nipple cover!"<br />
<br />
He had been referring to her bra, of course, which thankfully was still in place.<br />
<br />
My wife flexed her toes and said, "Um, no, that's not it."<br />
<br />
I said, "John, this is a FAMILY game. Let's keep it clean."<br />
<br />
I have no idea where he gets these notions, any more than I know where the party band LMFAO gets theirs.<br />
<br />
Although, in John's case, research may have an explanation. An article in <a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/201110/your-backup-brain">Psychology Today</a> suggests that our moods are determined as much by our <a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/201110/your-backup-brain">stomachs as our brains</a>. Comfort food releases chemicals that make us happy.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://rsrc.psychologytoday.com/files/imagecache/article-inline-full/article/2011/10/78235-68895.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://rsrc.psychologytoday.com/files/imagecache/article-inline-full/article/2011/10/78235-68895.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 239px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 189px;" /></a>That's certainly true for John, who is happiest when he eats. Like the time he <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]-->giggled while placing a half gallon of milk upside down on the top of his head.<br />
<br />
"John!" my wife scolded. "Put that back in the fridge. Where’s your brain?”<br />
<br />
John shrugged and, in all seriousness, pointed to his tummy and said, “Here?”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi24pceQVc33D4Vo_99BFhBwsKHrJU6jFhYt-3tE8od3Xyhs1uLoufTyl0dWHGJ-sjRTKXaav-LdC9J6jLRyB6yI4OuZcYo4Y3kkgw96fAjSM05OJUnqwxJeMOlQ4yKVF884jra/s1600/johnsilly.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674592674478260018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi24pceQVc33D4Vo_99BFhBwsKHrJU6jFhYt-3tE8od3Xyhs1uLoufTyl0dWHGJ-sjRTKXaav-LdC9J6jLRyB6yI4OuZcYo4Y3kkgw96fAjSM05OJUnqwxJeMOlQ4yKVF884jra/s320/johnsilly.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 239px;" /></a>/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-29771787226058067652010-12-05T16:56:00.000-08:002010-12-05T18:45:38.106-08:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Blog-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">onade</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This week, the kids were in the car on their way to school. They buckled themselves but Belle, 6, didn't close her door on the sedan all the way. When Belle's mom pulled out of the garage, the door flung open and speared the side of the garage! The glass shattered and there was $2,000 worth of damage.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Oops," Belle said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Fortunately, everyone was OK. When my wife called me, I was taking my mother to the hospital for surgery out of town. I told my mom that the car v. garage accident was "All part of our elaborate plan to make you forget about your surgery!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"It worked," my mom said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We hired people to fix the car and the garage door, but I got creative fixing the drywall in the garage--I simply used one of Belle's stuffed animals for insulation:</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoopiJNGGErAEJOI3TTu1FyWDJLq7Q3J7JFP2jVJQh6nAxeh6ihxX0dT4qjWDCtYLhGJnMGN01vd84ANIwfk2WJABjaS1yFEJeEDzoX8Me5HglUN9p6pzxmFtzmhIRScI6JlLz/s1600/drywall.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoopiJNGGErAEJOI3TTu1FyWDJLq7Q3J7JFP2jVJQh6nAxeh6ihxX0dT4qjWDCtYLhGJnMGN01vd84ANIwfk2WJABjaS1yFEJeEDzoX8Me5HglUN9p6pzxmFtzmhIRScI6JlLz/s320/drywall.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547380804600491762" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">We're expecting an energy-efficiency rebate from Uncle Sam any day now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Today, my son John, 4, wore his black pirate hat and took out his telescope and declared, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Argh</span>, I'm a pirate."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"OK, Pirate John," my wife said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Don't call me pirate--my name is John," he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Do you have to go potty, John?" my wife said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Pirates don't go potty," John said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Do they wet their pants?" I asked. No wonder they had so many diseases.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"No," John said. "They sit down and say, 'Man overboard!'"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'd hate to be in the row boat when that happens.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">While I'm sure Belle would have LOVED to make her brother walk the plank, she was too busy being Rudolph and trying to perform a timeless Christmas carol. But even that went awry:</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dys10mdyZnK4oaYssRLvL5tja1JpBZpXa4uAmfE1bpPVjiBPf5JlmMWCqqIb0ZCzYtUXGIgQTWXfmM' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was a tough week--dealing with a surgery, a car crash, home damage, a pirate who won't go potty and deer with a droopy nose--but we made the most of it. It's good to see the kids picking up on this outlook. For example, Belle's friend was sucking on ice from her drink. Belle said, "What are you doing?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Sucking ice," the friend said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Oh, OK," Belle said. "I won't tell anyone you suck."</span><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxG7Y4ddlw1voGsg0tUPLQ59-BqhnUFqL8YZES3iHOKBA1yW_ZQ6PtKGw-zgHaxSkJ45ke0oV_PAlhm0wkMnTwOime5vqR0aKiYr7OA6q_WVfenoJyRJpRhXvk7J8il4x68WNR/s1600/DSC04196.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxG7Y4ddlw1voGsg0tUPLQ59-BqhnUFqL8YZES3iHOKBA1yW_ZQ6PtKGw-zgHaxSkJ45ke0oV_PAlhm0wkMnTwOime5vqR0aKiYr7OA6q_WVfenoJyRJpRhXvk7J8il4x68WNR/s320/DSC04196.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547394449925828818" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">___________________________________________________________________________</span><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-90209721512378680512010-07-18T11:00:00.000-07:002010-07-18T16:07:54.794-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 51, 0);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Kids Meet NFL Players, Get Hugs!</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The kids and I stood in line for an hour at the local zoo, waiting to meet Green Bay Packers Pro Bowl Receiver Donald Driver and Coach Edgar Bennett. It wasn't so bad, because the zoo keepers brought around animals for the kids to see while waiting. A parrot said "hello" to the kids.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXJP2R5knYpaMo98xklr9L5hdvL6t8wszH2l8B506kfXpPMJ5fjkVKjsMzH79lvEYPzjoBwvj9fwlh_myT5-PvcqUH3ZIC2M2KZWbe9Zoq9eUO8RLVL1vlA_Q1CYbbaGd_iWo/s1600/Kids+Parrot.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXJP2R5knYpaMo98xklr9L5hdvL6t8wszH2l8B506kfXpPMJ5fjkVKjsMzH79lvEYPzjoBwvj9fwlh_myT5-PvcqUH3ZIC2M2KZWbe9Zoq9eUO8RLVL1vlA_Q1CYbbaGd_iWo/s320/Kids+Parrot.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495310646179345362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">John asked the parrot if he could say "Donald Driver." The parrot just stared. Must be a Vikings fan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When the time arrived to meet Donald Driver, Belle gave him a picture she drew of him:<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJJNyps30ATEFB9UqK5Y7mbb3p9vImTeuYDiyxH7OFdfwXSf5GCqiLujkRxwWyuHIA97rGav3279KE-Er0HFg3zPSL8_Dxz8sCv6_ZKX3Y1xgRRPgiAMCL7oWA2kiNOwxlb_s/s1600/BelleGivesDDpicture.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJJNyps30ATEFB9UqK5Y7mbb3p9vImTeuYDiyxH7OFdfwXSf5GCqiLujkRxwWyuHIA97rGav3279KE-Er0HFg3zPSL8_Dxz8sCv6_ZKX3Y1xgRRPgiAMCL7oWA2kiNOwxlb_s/s320/BelleGivesDDpicture.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495311270686554818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Donald loved it and said, "Thank you Darling," and gave her a hug!</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuPmGOezVbzZb98Ig38PTNMU5tanZn-WVFY0CN8D3xPJKKsmBogj5EBDPb4NtTN5dVxczSRrezvP-HSY6SEjRwvEDbhOj8o7t3v5C9yxbKYtn_6lb1Wr6vsnf-wdGZjUa0WSS/s1600/DDhugsBelle!.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuPmGOezVbzZb98Ig38PTNMU5tanZn-WVFY0CN8D3xPJKKsmBogj5EBDPb4NtTN5dVxczSRrezvP-HSY6SEjRwvEDbhOj8o7t3v5C9yxbKYtn_6lb1Wr6vsnf-wdGZjUa0WSS/s320/DDhugsBelle!.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495311080351007138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Then Donald said to Johnny, "Hey kid, come here." Johnny turned and ran away screaming. Donald hadn't meant to scare him, and Johnny's just shy. So Donald pulled me out to exercise with him and the kids. Except Johnny didn't want to move. So I had to run in place while holding 50-pound John. Donald jokingly asked me to "get those knees up!"</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-OEinNMijWe_Dej_1zj9sjWzxELsxRKE-Y5w-tvefNswCtftqUVWOp2qmteXZU5tnKb09ghNxT8ixk4v4lQ6OtWOIZbBKNCqH2X_5Z-mfxZTtY5OuydVrlcHg4dlgz4BNQ2m/s1600/Belle+DDriver!.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-OEinNMijWe_Dej_1zj9sjWzxELsxRKE-Y5w-tvefNswCtftqUVWOp2qmteXZU5tnKb09ghNxT8ixk4v4lQ6OtWOIZbBKNCqH2X_5Z-mfxZTtY5OuydVrlcHg4dlgz4BNQ2m/s320/Belle+DDriver!.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495386139190901794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle and the other 10 kids ran wind sprints with the Packers, and I had to run with Johnny on my shoulders. Luckily, Coach Bennett noticed my jersey -- bearing the name and number of Packers Quarterback Aaron Rodgers -- and asked me to run slowly to mimic the star QB. Bennett laughed and cheered my modest gait.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Most kids wore Packers gear, but of course there were two kids in Bears jerseys. Donald made them do twice the jumping jacks. The kids took it well and Donald was quite sporting with them afterward.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was a lot of fun and well worth the wait. Speaking of waiting, later in the day the kids were playing with dolls and Belle said, "Daddy, we have five girls and one boy in our pretend family."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"And how many bathrooms are in your pretend house?" I asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"One," Belle said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Uh-oh," I said. That poor boy would do a lot of waiting in his pretend life. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"But Daddy," John declared, "the bathroom has five potties!"</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-70239607994342720822010-06-23T18:11:00.000-07:002010-06-24T16:30:58.569-07:00<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >'Children' Sounds Strangely Like 'Collusion'</span><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The other day, my kids worked their way into a circular vitriol. "Daddy, Belle's hitting me."<br /><br />"No," Belle said, "Johnny's just trying to get me in trouble!" And on it went.<br /><br />I explained to them that if they both kept their mouths shut, neither of them would get into trouble.<br /><br />"We wouldn't?" </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >said Johnny, who's four.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />"It's called collusion," I said. "Can you say, <span style="font-style: italic;">collusion</span>?"<br /><br />They paused.<br /><br />"Daddy," Johnny said, "Can we please keep our mouths open?" You wouldn't think I'd have to teach them the word <span style="font-style: italic;">collusion</span>, since most kids seem to be born with an innate sense of how to act it out.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldAtb1cZxfgR1B98UhOYngxvfJpIS3JXJGLybFWK-nHNKyTkNK9Z3Vr_d2tvQk22wPZzr9k_DIydFb2iS1lrMiZ_I6SEGjLzX1jx4vmPWtPkNgx_oKKA_i-MYS4jDop2SqgzF/s1600/stuffedanimals.jpg.htm"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldAtb1cZxfgR1B98UhOYngxvfJpIS3JXJGLybFWK-nHNKyTkNK9Z3Vr_d2tvQk22wPZzr9k_DIydFb2iS1lrMiZ_I6SEGjLzX1jx4vmPWtPkNgx_oKKA_i-MYS4jDop2SqgzF/s320/stuffedanimals.jpg.htm" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486140981722900114" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br />Like when they conspire to convince me to let them watch TV. "Daddy, can we watch Diego?"<br /><br />"No John," I said, "we don't have a DVD player with us. After all, we're at the botanical gardens."<br /><br />Five seconds later Belle chimes, "Now can we watch Diego?"<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > Maybe that's why <span style="font-style: italic;">collusion</span> sounds so much like<span style="font-style: italic;"> children</span><span>; they're practically <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">synonymous</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > "I'm sorry, Belle," I said, "but we're still at the botanical gardens." Never mind that it was 75 degrees and sunny and the plants and flowers were in full bloom.<br /><br />The kids also have conspired to leave random objects in my clothing and shoes. The other day, I<span class="UIStory_Message"> went five hours with a Disney princess doll dress stuck in the toe of my work shoe, wondering, "What the heck is that?"</span><br /><br />Belle thought that was so funny, she decided to get crazy and wear her pants on her head and her shirt as pants. "Pants on the head, pants on the head... lookin' like a girl with her pants on her head!"<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy22C3sqjhv12MqiEev99A-pej_nM2h4UzRh5VXhzdknMEoDpU2_4GJOQSE9wob0Q_FWs-dRj8zXAQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><h3 style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="UIStory_Message">What can I say? The kids like to let their "freak flags" fly.<br /></span></span></h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;font-family:arial;" class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}"><span style="font-size:100%;">And not just with their clothes--with my clothes, too. I like to think I'm pretty fit. But John</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="UIStory_Message"> recently ran into the living room with a pair of my underwear and declared to the whole family, "Look at these FAT PANTS!"</span></span></h3><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Sometimes they intend to be funny. Other times not. Like when Belle was making clothes for her paper dolls. She cut a little too much and ended up with a tiny piece of paper. She held it up to her grandma and said, "Look, Grandma. I made a paper bra!"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ziJjUQvuDF8ksRfWt33uYChRfCXC4qmD0C4YF9WBDq2WoV9fbXy3gKqqiXKDNxibk_KoXl36CmCcSZDev6sCFn8v2Lz4YPK8W_C6GQADsx-PAc5sr3bHgFCbgiZTQxQvIwv5/s1600/PaperDolls.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ziJjUQvuDF8ksRfWt33uYChRfCXC4qmD0C4YF9WBDq2WoV9fbXy3gKqqiXKDNxibk_KoXl36CmCcSZDev6sCFn8v2Lz4YPK8W_C6GQADsx-PAc5sr3bHgFCbgiZTQxQvIwv5/s320/PaperDolls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486145293338669410" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-74657696788268785322010-04-23T12:10:00.001-07:002010-04-25T19:13:46.694-07:00<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">What's My Name Again?</span></span><br /><br />They say a parent starts losing his or her memory after having kids. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, I'm not sure. Or, it could be a typo, and it's really parents start losing their <span style="font-style: italic;">minds </span>after having kids.<br /><br />Fortunately, my kids recently tied strings of yarn around random objects throughout our house. And not just one or two objects. We're talking fifty or so.<br /><br />Tie string around the refrigerator? Check. My shoes? Yep. Cell phone? No doubt. Ketchup bottle? How could you not?<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pQBeKylEGqpQRhahQ3-rwsSz6HzwbBQm2a68t-pHskoKWzpwmgc9XUuxlie9w9FOr9i6sD4n5ZRjHKUsJxZ0XntnqJXLDqZSGA48bv0FUpBWUZyUNE2FvUDOL0WIxYipzsS_/s1600/ketchup.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pQBeKylEGqpQRhahQ3-rwsSz6HzwbBQm2a68t-pHskoKWzpwmgc9XUuxlie9w9FOr9i6sD4n5ZRjHKUsJxZ0XntnqJXLDqZSGA48bv0FUpBWUZyUNE2FvUDOL0WIxYipzsS_/s320/ketchup.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464258007048780658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">If only I knew what they were trying to get me to remember. "You could remember to turn on your cell phone," my wife said sardonically.<br /><br />At least my kids remind me how much they love me. Like yesterday, when my five-year-old daughter Belle said, "Daddy, I love you as much as my stuffed animal Kitty."<br /><br />I frowned. "That's it?"<br /><br />"Yep!" she said excitedly.<br /><br />"Well, who would you miss more if you lost one of us -- Kitty or your daddy?"<br /><br />"Kitty!" she giggled.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHTIbdkz0X8p6ymIJtCuiohe3h9uxAq8yPVSqF1rOBY5Aj2A0UUqGoO4cbcvq7hd3XLmbIk_0OvgvGATbO-YCEKsCZaLwcSocsVdF57vMfijxKJ7C0cLYCUeasJmz5DfCQ3MT/s1600/BelleKitty72.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHTIbdkz0X8p6ymIJtCuiohe3h9uxAq8yPVSqF1rOBY5Aj2A0UUqGoO4cbcvq7hd3XLmbIk_0OvgvGATbO-YCEKsCZaLwcSocsVdF57vMfijxKJ7C0cLYCUeasJmz5DfCQ3MT/s320/BelleKitty72.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464262495978846242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">Thanks a lot, Belle.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"><span class="UIStory_Message">She tried to console me. "I love you both, Daddy -- even you."<br /><br />"Um, do you mean, 'I love you both -- <span style="font-style: italic;">especially</span> you?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdoDldYVK8S0O3nt4ZePnZofdFbx2J_7uZRK_y-_sPs3DWEpjTwvSRfAKP-vV_pGsadEbs-g6rLUd3KCyMiKbJXMoi6bRImkZ5uDva4ZmTwRVgM3W4B5CjnRk2I3c-I2wQ4MkF/s1600/BelleTower.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdoDldYVK8S0O3nt4ZePnZofdFbx2J_7uZRK_y-_sPs3DWEpjTwvSRfAKP-vV_pGsadEbs-g6rLUd3KCyMiKbJXMoi6bRImkZ5uDva4ZmTwRVgM3W4B5CjnRk2I3c-I2wQ4MkF/s320/BelleTower.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464259277516803314" border="0" /></a>Belle looked confused. "Something like that."<br /><br />Worse, the kids already have me with one foot in the grave. Belle said to her brother: "Johnny, when you die you'll see our parents in Heaven."<br /><br />Johnny said, "Will Mommy go to Heaven first?"<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9fnJG1efpETw6SteZVmhIA7vHc0DXWrKw8zS8sEyf2eEhgSh0xi_C5b6pggxmmCjKo-f14Cz3NhOEr6_Yk3fK2a51g_F1iWdZ1xyBlwE-V3LV-jnzWKR1ZNrDTnkexRZgvoA/s1600/JohnnyClose.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9fnJG1efpETw6SteZVmhIA7vHc0DXWrKw8zS8sEyf2eEhgSh0xi_C5b6pggxmmCjKo-f14Cz3NhOEr6_Yk3fK2a51g_F1iWdZ1xyBlwE-V3LV-jnzWKR1ZNrDTnkexRZgvoA/s320/JohnnyClose.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464259559416106626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><span class="UIStory_Message">Belle: "No way, Daddy's definitely going first."</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Hmm," I scratched my head. What was I talking about again?</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-49804391116597949412010-03-28T17:34:00.000-07:002010-03-28T17:51:37.034-07:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;">Partly Clogging With a Chance of Mud Pies</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Our furnace went out this week. Turns out the reason was my daughter Belle and her friend (both five years old) had chosen to use the furnace vent in the back yard as a mold for their mud pies.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The furnace guy found the problem, came into our house and said, "Um, do you have kids?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Why yes, we do. And they love to dance:</span><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxj0S0Xx08mCRH-Jak9vN6MUYSG6XDkIrXYHl6WM9mTH47li0-w8mTa-Ml-wqlBApN3g48a9uIgxLw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Like Max from "Where The Wild Things Are," they also like to make mischief. My three-year-old son, Johnny, opened my desk drawer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"Johnny..." I said. "What are you getting into?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Johnny said: "Whatever is in there."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">This weekend, we had fun with friends at the zoo. John asked, "Daddy, if I went in there, could that tiger eat me?"<br /><br />"Yes," I said, "and I don't think he'd even have to chew."<br /><br />John swallowed. "Oh."<br /><br />Belle appreciated the sentiment. "You are my best daddy ever."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I said, "I am your only daddy ever."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Belle said: "You are my best only daddy ever."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">She can be a real sweetheart. For example, I'm writing my second novel and my dream is to get published. Belle said, "Daddy, I love you even if you don't publish your book." How could a parent not melt?<br /><br />Of course, the next day she said, "Daddy, it would be great if I could have a bigger room." Guess I better get writing.</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-63319140284206818932010-02-04T06:02:00.000-08:002010-03-07T17:00:58.789-08:00<span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >My Son: 'Dad, You're a Tool'</span><br /><br />Parenting is a bit like being tickled under your armpits. If you don't invest yourself, if you resist taking the plunge into full involvement into your child's life, you become that guy who resists tickling by kicking and whining. Nobody has fun.</span><h3 style="font-family: arial; font-weight: normal;" class="GenericStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}"><span style="font-size:100%;">Kids know how to have fun. "If I went to a party with all grownups, that would be a disaster," my five-year-old daughter, Belle, said.</span></h3><h3 style="font-family: arial; font-weight: normal;" class="GenericStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlUiEN256RuAMxCquUY0qunA8jyfOjgJ5JGQCuGaWjF7WVm7nZqvTAs0cdTubbfVixukp_laVhHvrtL1SDR8QT9-03zfimkPZaF4b1G18lNi6vOUnscLt6Hjh_JVC0I2q5-Wn/s1600-h/belleruns.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlUiEN256RuAMxCquUY0qunA8jyfOjgJ5JGQCuGaWjF7WVm7nZqvTAs0cdTubbfVixukp_laVhHvrtL1SDR8QT9-03zfimkPZaF4b1G18lNi6vOUnscLt6Hjh_JVC0I2q5-Wn/s200/belleruns.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446057393097146018" border="0" /></a></h3><h3 style="font-family: arial; font-weight: normal;" class="GenericStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}"><span style="font-size:100%;">I took the family to the annual office party, held this year at a bar. Fortunately for Belle, there were other kids there to save her from the adults. At the party, I had fun playing pool. Except for the fact that as a pool player I'm . . . streaky. Inconsistent? OK, lousy. When my opponent turned out to be equally terrible, our game kept going and going because we couldn't sink more than one ball in a row.</span></h3><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.douglemoine.com/wp-content/uploads/leif-parsons-jump-shot-pool-0508-lg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 378px; height: 249px;" src="http://www.douglemoine.com/wp-content/uploads/leif-parsons-jump-shot-pool-0508-lg.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >After awhile, Belle walked by and said, "Daddy, you have been playing pool a loooooong time." I wish I could be great at billiards, but nobody said life is fair. Except for Belle.<br /><br />"Let's be fair," she said. "I'll pick three books for bedtime and Johnny can pick none." Her brother, Johnny, is three.<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2d-ihic4_JSCZK4HHmDPeHU2OkMuLdOZ5rgGEpOt1iJkdpnOLQlQEBWWihJiweFirGC1SwoTX_Fuu_APlRtJ7c05ODcTGXhvTrOzXNznVEMXABjvrlCDa36GoVijr2Me3Wta8/s1600-h/jkh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2d-ihic4_JSCZK4HHmDPeHU2OkMuLdOZ5rgGEpOt1iJkdpnOLQlQEBWWihJiweFirGC1SwoTX_Fuu_APlRtJ7c05ODcTGXhvTrOzXNznVEMXABjvrlCDa36GoVijr2Me3Wta8/s320/jkh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446058772014909362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >"How's that fair?" her mommy said. <br /><br />"Because we all get to listen to the books I picked."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >I read them a book about dinosaurs. It explained that dinos lived more than 70 million years ago. Belle said, "Daddy, is that older than even you?"<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLM46Ms5su68pUqdTM96Y3uQ6TvD9fcSxhsvaE8vhsBs-XxVYP47hrBNIXRSu2EnNtwgHelkWTcRGAuh3nwVxgATq1VSlVIy8ktMr3W1_wnso_5rT1OT7DFkDZpOfpX9EGxFQA/s1600-h/IMjuice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLM46Ms5su68pUqdTM96Y3uQ6TvD9fcSxhsvaE8vhsBs-XxVYP47hrBNIXRSu2EnNtwgHelkWTcRGAuh3nwVxgATq1VSlVIy8ktMr3W1_wnso_5rT1OT7DFkDZpOfpX9EGxFQA/s200/IMjuice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446058179360365506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >Parenting isn't all fun and games. Sometimes, of course, discipline is in order. You have to know what buttons to press. For example, if Johnny had a cell number, it would be 1-800-BURGERS. So whenever he's naughty, his mom hits him where it hurts--his appetite. At first threat of denying food, he snaps right into line.<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://superhomeless.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/double-ba-burger.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 206px;" src="http://superhomeless.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/double-ba-burger.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOf2Td0i7uDcj2bLsO3R1BIq2fbR3Y3yH2UwlnnbfFgbrRuXk3v576C3M4tWPJ1iBGxqE9jftgoGn7rjIN9g6NJL885lhIg4-BkuP9uLIL2A12FIUU3aMgk_KbCn5ae_jLWAb/s1600-h/JKjuice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOf2Td0i7uDcj2bLsO3R1BIq2fbR3Y3yH2UwlnnbfFgbrRuXk3v576C3M4tWPJ1iBGxqE9jftgoGn7rjIN9g6NJL885lhIg4-BkuP9uLIL2A12FIUU3aMgk_KbCn5ae_jLWAb/s320/JKjuice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446059071413081842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >Sometimes I'm at a loss for whether to discipline the kids or roll with it. For example, is it bad when your daughter declares that lip balm is to be applied onto her Barbies' nipples? Her brother scratched his head at that one, a confused look on his face.<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.thestayathomemother.com/sites/default/files/u3/Barbie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 226px;" src="http://www.thestayathomemother.com/sites/default/files/u3/Barbie.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >I found it especially interesting, given that Barbie dolls don't have nipples.<br /><br />Then there was the time the kids were watching Handy Manny, a cartoon about a carpenter/ repairman who has animated tools that talk.<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.buycostumes.com/mgen/merchandiser/36556.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 205px;" src="http://images.buycostumes.com/mgen/merchandiser/36556.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFx1-Vk82g_9zDQPEUjuB-8LRDXaDPSQCQ9tvWE1GI9mEzmrMyDukzsIzwHrreXnWYvYakK3mRO26fnd8LZsBSgYXIYSfAYXeoYzSwE_sCGvH3N0wN1eZ0a3D-bJbG4yWAGgf/s1600-h/tickle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 151px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLFx1-Vk82g_9zDQPEUjuB-8LRDXaDPSQCQ9tvWE1GI9mEzmrMyDukzsIzwHrreXnWYvYakK3mRO26fnd8LZsBSgYXIYSfAYXeoYzSwE_sCGvH3N0wN1eZ0a3D-bJbG4yWAGgf/s320/tickle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446060482045154546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >My son turned to me during the show and said, "Dad, you're a tool."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >I've learned that, when parenting, life is short. Sometimes, you just have to throw your arms in the air and let the kids tickle your pits. Then, if only for a few moments, life is a kick.<br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-84750413016670792572010-01-20T18:45:00.001-08:002010-01-20T19:23:28.601-08:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family: arial;">This Parent Could Use an Avatar</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"> <span style="font-family:arial;">My kids were making art using pictures they'd cut out from magazines and pasted onto paper. They created some really neat collages--at first.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Then my five-year-old daughter, Belle, cut out a shampoo ad depicting several naked women strategically covering each other with appendages and bottles of conditioner. "Let's put it on the fridge!" she said.<br /><br />To which her mommy responded, "Um, NO."</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Not to be outdone, my three-year-old son cut out a picture of a woman in the shower from the thighs down. "Here Daddy, you can put this up in your office at work!" So much for our health insurance.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle pointed to a picture of Malificent, the evil queen from Sleeping Beauty:<br /><br /></span> <a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcL9dTi_rd_6OYC7-CGW5oH_aCLe-M5Tv3pfcvilQou4zOFlYYT9X7JrwmoFFAO7BLUxfqlpLb6Puhi2JzzN8BjRFoCho5jQk4lc_E-9bwX3OPlB5Quvs6PgK6oMTLZq3cUpB/s1600-h/maleficent3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcL9dTi_rd_6OYC7-CGW5oH_aCLe-M5Tv3pfcvilQou4zOFlYYT9X7JrwmoFFAO7BLUxfqlpLb6Puhi2JzzN8BjRFoCho5jQk4lc_E-9bwX3OPlB5Quvs6PgK6oMTLZq3cUpB/s320/maleficent3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429020752412540546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle said, "Her skin is green because she never bathes." Clearly, that shampoo ad is working.</span><span class="UIStory_Message" style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I need an advertisement that encourages my children to not fight. Don't get me wrong, they usually play very nicely. But they're also quite skilled at "pushing the right buttons" to annoy the hell out of each other when they get the itch.<br /><br />Case in point: Belle bossed Johnny around incessantly on how to play with his toys and Johnny sighed, rolled with it and said, "OK, Belle." Eventually, he couldn't take the bossing any longer. Belle screamed, "Daddy, Daddy!" When I arrived in the bedroom, Johnny was sitting on her back, arms folded, grinning.<br /><br />Of course, this isn't new. When I was a kid, my big brother used to sit on my back, rub my face in the carpet and giggle. He called the game, "Chris: Meet the Floor." We'd get reacquainted nightly.<br /><br />Some days--when the kids are fighting, shoving random objects in the toaster and eating the leftover pizza only to put the crust and Tupperware back in the fridge--you feel like an Avatar stuck in Pandora:<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaEXlaRx8xRBK_0zToauksSuHgMr74pj8TSeZMZR6EpT696zjoCME_mxX-aq315MRertX0_lTqK62QFxqZ9b3y5yvlOxUB6HrCo1Qcairnk_k3zW5Eg0W3xT9Zg1slDWTCe8u/s1600-h/Jake-and-a-Monster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaEXlaRx8xRBK_0zToauksSuHgMr74pj8TSeZMZR6EpT696zjoCME_mxX-aq315MRertX0_lTqK62QFxqZ9b3y5yvlOxUB6HrCo1Qcairnk_k3zW5Eg0W3xT9Zg1slDWTCe8u/s320/Jake-and-a-Monster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429025916443773986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="UIStory_Message" style="font-family:arial;">You're jumpy, your butt hurts and it feels like the movie will never end.<br /><br />These are the types of days when you put your children to bed early and almost immediately fall asleep. Before bed, Belle said, "This is the longest day of my life."<br /><br />I said, "Why?"<br /><br />She said, "Because it's the first day I've noticed."</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-74275579657374243742009-12-14T18:53:00.000-08:002009-12-31T12:51:39.115-08:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">The Cure for the Hangover</span></span><br /><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />With all the excitement on Christmas night, my three-year-old son, Johnny, couldn`t sleep.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">"Want to snuggle with me?" I asked.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />"Yes, Dada," Johnny said.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">He crawled into bed and promptly head-butted me. "OK Dada," he said, pulling the sheets up to his chin, "Now you get out."<br /><br />He head-butted me again, and I felt a bit like the guys from The Hangover:<br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.thecinemapost.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/the-hangover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 510px; height: 370px;" src="http://www.thecinemapost.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/the-hangover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">With all the presents, Johnny also didn`t quite make it to the potty, and instead settled for going No. 2 in his underwear while playing toys in the living room.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />His mommy said, "Remember Johnny, where do you go potty?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Johnny said, "On the floor in the living room."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At least he`s honest.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Meanwhile, my wife teased the kids that they didn`t get any lumps of coal. Our five-year-old daughter, Belle, said, "Mommy, you`re the silly Big Dipper."</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />During Advent, I tried to emphasize to the kids that it is better to give than receive, and that it was important to be on the Santa's Nice List. The kids did pretty well. Until we opened presents.<br /><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://wiki.provisionslibrary.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/santa_claus3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 181px; display: block; height: 183px; cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="http://wiki.provisionslibrary.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/santa_claus3.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Then every time their uncle handed out a present that was NOT for Johnny, my son folded his arms, stuck out his lower lip, puffed out his cheeks and bent his brows into a "V."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Dada, I`m SO mad," Johnny declared. "Look at my Mad Face!"<br /><br />We all tried not to laugh, which of course just made the Mad Face more pronounced.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />We finally made it through Christmas without anyone puking for the first time in three years. However, three days later, breakfast didn`t agree with me. I puked.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle made me a clay bracelet, "For you to feel better, Daddy." I felt better right away. Before bed, she approached me and said, "Do you feel all better, Daddy?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Yes, thanks. Your bracelet did the trick."</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Belle said, "OK, but remember: Tomorrow when you have breakfast, don`t eat so many blueberries. Just do what I did, take enough to make a smiley face. You see, that way you know you won`t puke!"<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.featurepics.com/FI/Thumb/20070605/Blueberry-Smiley-Face-340154.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 130px; display: block; height: 117px; cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="http://www.featurepics.com/FI/Thumb/20070605/Blueberry-Smiley-Face-340154.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">"Thanks, Dr. Belle."</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />"You`re welcome."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Now, we don't have to worry about puking on New Year's Eve. Just eat a smiley face of blueberries and you're good. Happy New Year!</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-64140485487965457142009-11-20T16:58:00.001-08:002009-11-29T16:35:56.964-08:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;font-size:180%;" class="UIStory_Message" >Embarrassment and Buck Rogers' Love Child</span><h3 style="font-weight: normal; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}"><span class="UIStory_Message" style="font-size:100%;">My son, Johnny, has been learning to use the big-boy potty. On Thanksgiving, he sat down and said, "Dada, the seat's too cold." I blew warm air on it. He sat back down and said, "Ah, all better." What are dads for?</span></h3><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Answer: They're for embarrassing. On Friday, we were at a botanical garden with lots of respectable old ladies around. There are plenty of signs asking people not to touch the flowers or climb on displays. I told Johnny several times, "Follow directions."<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NtuBW2BQD9fCKXig3Rr9Rw_j0gSu4LebslVTMOJnukC6zQAKwVGQjSpSi_7tG502xczcT5jLESUlqNrnfK-y4p7HRiVElLWJPhn7T6TZCbAqcQe7MTjY95Nav2NhG7h0eglv/s1600/johnruns.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NtuBW2BQD9fCKXig3Rr9Rw_j0gSu4LebslVTMOJnukC6zQAKwVGQjSpSi_7tG502xczcT5jLESUlqNrnfK-y4p7HRiVElLWJPhn7T6TZCbAqcQe7MTjY95Nav2NhG7h0eglv/s200/johnruns.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409686318537817250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A few minutes later, we were looking at orchids when Johnny said, "Daddy, follow erections! Follow erections!" Half the old ladies were appalled; the others slapped their knees.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Johnny also created snickers when he shouted at a store, "Daddy, I have a big one in my pants!" He, of course, was referring to the poop in his underwear.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />My daughter, Belle, isn't to be outdone. She likes to tell her little brother in public, "Johnny, don't do that -- or SO HELP ME GOD..." a phrase I assure you she has NEVER heard from either of her parents. (OK, maybe once or twice.)</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.411mania.com/game_article_pictures/10199.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 114px; height: 114px;" src="http://www.411mania.com/game_article_pictures/10199.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Fortunately, I'll even the Embarrassment Score when Belle and Johnny are teens who won't be seen with their dorky dad. Or, when they're dating someone who looks like the spawn of Rob Zombie, I'll show them this blog.</span> </span><pre style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.kiddieland.com/ContentImages/DoraPosed%20Web.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 193px;" src="http://www.kiddieland.com/ContentImages/DoraPosed%20Web.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a></span></pre> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Speaking of scandals, everyone knows Dora the Explorer, right?</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">But I bet you DIDN'T know Dora is actually the secret love child of Buck Rogers and his robot:</span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://everseradio.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/buck_rogers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 282px;" src="http://everseradio.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/buck_rogers.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Ah, to live is to suffer embarrassment.<br />/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////</span></span><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-44524191317783760712009-11-01T18:12:00.000-08:002009-11-01T18:29:54.103-08:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;">The Meaning of Life -- In a Candy Bar</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">For Halloween, Johnny went as Winnie the Pooh. Belle went as Princess Belle.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfnHp9LNgBzlx1vDPmvbNf1LU4fcBd68my0sANToLD8ZhScU5C8Xd_HopuFCCZTKevf2Z1mO76u2vSzZ0NsP-R9SDgAGMaKq9vR-zWZRmNSpG8qqfRPFl3u9_pRlk3ENK4FC2/s1600-h/BellePooh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfnHp9LNgBzlx1vDPmvbNf1LU4fcBd68my0sANToLD8ZhScU5C8Xd_HopuFCCZTKevf2Z1mO76u2vSzZ0NsP-R9SDgAGMaKq9vR-zWZRmNSpG8qqfRPFl3u9_pRlk3ENK4FC2/s200/BellePooh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399325736092664562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">As they trick-or-treated, older kids dressed in ghastly costumes approached. A big bully in a skeleton outfit approached little Johnny and roared in his face. Johnny didn't cry, didn't even say "Oh, bother." After the skeleton left, he sadly said, "Daddy, I don't like skeletons at Halloween. But I LOVE candy."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Leave it to Johnny to find the meaning of life while trick-or-treating.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Belle also became ensnared by an unexpected skeleton.</span><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIvpOrdeiWS8QJLnmFibqOmUyZqRBpcRRibQFubJGaXXqHwGpU9vJQ-1PLfrr7-3AhOzxrUqlAxKlgrQkuvsWdSDKvP4fWN2NDCFOfDNkXDyE2HQGBj3DdR1eH2FDfqojGxD_/s1600-h/Skeletor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIvpOrdeiWS8QJLnmFibqOmUyZqRBpcRRibQFubJGaXXqHwGpU9vJQ-1PLfrr7-3AhOzxrUqlAxKlgrQkuvsWdSDKvP4fWN2NDCFOfDNkXDyE2HQGBj3DdR1eH2FDfqojGxD_/s200/Skeletor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399325585522995202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">Poor Belle. At least that house gave out big candy bars and margaritas to the adults.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Johnny didn't let the creeps get him down.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AxEGC7AbGYAJVlBRvO-htmsYOvZJQBn7NgUlra0xnLLNohyphenhyphenOCcgd1s9jEwcqPVm_gRy_9Se9QGKb4ysJXRyFhySNQBwTuZ6_Q4DwhTx1J3_7sDKqOlc5nxGy7_T0TLsu1oA-/s1600-h/SafariHomey.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AxEGC7AbGYAJVlBRvO-htmsYOvZJQBn7NgUlra0xnLLNohyphenhyphenOCcgd1s9jEwcqPVm_gRy_9Se9QGKb4ysJXRyFhySNQBwTuZ6_Q4DwhTx1J3_7sDKqOlc5nxGy7_T0TLsu1oA-/s200/SafariHomey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399325432564938146" border="0" /></a><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-33557826587908433782009-10-22T09:31:00.000-07:002009-10-25T16:38:19.916-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">A Knight in Charmin Armor</span></span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />My daughter, Belle, just turned five. My son, Johnny, is three.</span><span style="text-decoration: underline; font-family: arial;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-family: arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVFwQJhOypz6POYqwGeC97GivaFHxd7vw9A4MbCyWmgUWuFoKqoMAHztK9HyxVcVIIJ0TQUuV-rgPMSumpBYqq8IBAyrTS5BEHJtPxXE-rIBYGv641XTJly7liWYFeetR2pSh/s1600-h/DSC04067.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVFwQJhOypz6POYqwGeC97GivaFHxd7vw9A4MbCyWmgUWuFoKqoMAHztK9HyxVcVIIJ0TQUuV-rgPMSumpBYqq8IBAyrTS5BEHJtPxXE-rIBYGv641XTJly7liWYFeetR2pSh/s200/DSC04067.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395466344640310386" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSDr4nq1Xwa4mGx8ctjseEaf8O9R7XFermT1Hz62oJtkcGSDUwGGMQSdqjSB31jS4mFgmOMGaCC1Wtctv4xrZ_0PDbBU1T6sV2kWBNtL24yuudtMpESNikUex2K6Otyig7Kny/s1600-h/DSC04068.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSDr4nq1Xwa4mGx8ctjseEaf8O9R7XFermT1Hz62oJtkcGSDUwGGMQSdqjSB31jS4mFgmOMGaCC1Wtctv4xrZ_0PDbBU1T6sV2kWBNtL24yuudtMpESNikUex2K6Otyig7Kny/s200/DSC04068.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395466443530031394" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div> <span style="font-family:arial;">They've recently taken to playing with dolls and action figures. My kids judge whether these figurines are "good" or "bad" depending on the state of each figurine's manners. In the following video, Johnny declares one of his action figures a "bad guy" because he has horrid manners:</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw7-z4nOELM4uV4Dg_nWqqht7PEeMaW7oWIUfzbv6jrjVScjSdbHA2ifpOptvb3lGsGIT2byerdHHA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><br /><johnny vid=""> <video style="font-family: arial;" of="" johnny="" gimme="">And what could be worse than saying, "Gimme, gimme?"<br /><br />Johnny said he wants to be a good guy, a knight in shining armor. Except, when he says it, it comes out "Knight in Charmin." Hmmm, speaking of Halloween...<br /><br /></video></johnny><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://gridskipper.com/assets/resources/2006/11/Charmin12.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 238px;" src="http://gridskipper.com/assets/resources/2006/11/Charmin12.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><johnny vid=""><video style="font-family: arial;" of="" johnny="" gimme="">Johnny is still working on getting out of diapers. The other day, he and Belle were playing with action figures and he filled his diaper.<br /><br />Belle waved in front of her nose. "Pee-yew, Johnny," Belle said. "You're making my breath stinky."<br /><br />Some of their figurines have dogs. Belle calls them all "Lily," which is the name of her grandma's dog. And all these figurine dogs have bad breath, just like Lily.<br /><br />"Why do dogs have stinky breath, Daddy?" Belle said.<br /><br />I decided to be truthful. "Because dogs lick their butts," I told her. Belle stared blankly at me. Meanwhile, Johnny spun and spun around for fun, giggling all the way until he thumped into the wall. Luckily, he bounced. It was reminiscent of the Great Gonzo from the Muppet Show.<br /><br /></video></johnny><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://roshkoch.mlblogs.com/gonzo_cannon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 164px;" src="http://roshkoch.mlblogs.com/gonzo_cannon.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><johnny vid=""><video style="font-family: arial;" of="" johnny="" gimme="">I'm proud my kids have good manners, although sometimes it's displaced. For example, the other day Johnny extracted an entire meatloaf from the fridge, carried it into the living room and ate it like a Snickers bar. "Wanna bite, Daddy?" he said. We both discovered we could take eight bites and still say "Arrrgh!"<br /><br />Yesterday, I folded the laundry and sorted it in neat piles on the living-room floor. Johnny walked through, knocking over half of the piles. I frowned at him. "What do you say, Johnny?"<br /><br />"You're welcome," he said. Hey, at least he's polite.</video></johnny>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-22378646752321104962009-09-16T12:48:00.001-07:002009-09-27T18:20:42.628-07:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Parenting is Messy</span></span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Ever dispense hairspray toward your bouffant, only to have it squirt in your eye because some of the spray had caked onto the nozzle?</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">That's what it's like having small children.<br /><br />The other day, the kids found a puddle of mud in the backyard. Every kid should get to play in the mud; it's a blast. But the next thing I knew, I had mud on the fridge, sink, my pant leg and in my eye.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><photos here=""></photos></span> <span style="font-family:arial;">My four-year-old, Belle, thought it was great. "It's like chocolate milk!"<br /><br /></span> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivpKmrKdqwvpsmlFpol8ibRcbRAf2tyuHpNCB8vFWn1Yhm875EDvGivafqUYGhLGejngGlyMXQnZ09lmbseKR4ifAHYjW3sLrzoqf8mTib425PROVjkHC0nF7dqUhkWq4wSeya/s1600-h/muddy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivpKmrKdqwvpsmlFpol8ibRcbRAf2tyuHpNCB8vFWn1Yhm875EDvGivafqUYGhLGejngGlyMXQnZ09lmbseKR4ifAHYjW3sLrzoqf8mTib425PROVjkHC0nF7dqUhkWq4wSeya/s320/muddy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385554940384354226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">My son, Johnny, jumped into his inflatable kiddie pool and did a face plant through the foot of muddy water and down to the bottom of the pool. He stood up with an entire side of his face suddenly purple. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">I thought, "OH MY GOD!" and braced for an ambulance ride.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Meanwhile, my wife laughed hysterically because she knew our daughter, Belle, had thrown a big piece of purple chalk into the pool earlier in the day, only to have it mostly dissolve before Johnny's face plant. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Johnny wiped his face and I could see his hand print in the purple chalk on his face. I turned to my wife. "Very funny."<br /><br />She slapped her thigh in hysterics.<br /><br />Another example of my Hairspray Theory is when little kids "help." Last weekend, Belle was stirring dinner. "Daddy, I'd like you to check the recipe so I know <span style="font-style: italic;">ex-act-ly</span> when to stop stirring."<br /><br />"Just keep going," I said.<br /><br />"Dad! It's important to <span style="font-style: italic;">stick to the recipe</span>!"<br /><br />"Belle, it's just rice."<br /><br />"Oh."<br /><br />We had southwestern chili with rice and it was delicious. Belle did a great job. And, before we ate, we prayed in thanksgiving for the food and offered prayers for kids who didn't have food to eat.<br /><br />Belle said, "Or worse--kids who have no toys."<br /></span> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-33976645010867167772009-08-30T18:37:00.001-07:002009-09-16T12:53:47.771-07:00<div style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Boom Boom Potty</span></span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Potty training is as much an art as it is a science. Some parents swear by letting their kids wear underpants or read a book about Elmo going potty. Some like to drop Cheerios in the toilet and have "target practice." None of these worked with our son, Johnny, so we had to improvise.<br /><br />Recently, while he was trying to go potty, we listened to the song "Boom Boom Pow" by the Black Eyed Peas. He had success, and we celebrated.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Now, every time he goes potty, we play "Boom Boom Potty" on the laptop:</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxKITn7SBR1PK-Mjm8jfhlD33elzPHagwThq3qXY9xMA5JivfyY_6O7qSWUG3EU3Ja66NJpDh1Ew-8' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He booms, he pows--right in the toilet! Works every time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Johnny's an innovative kid. For example, on Labor Day, we </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span>picked apples from our backyard tree and together made apple pie. Mmm... Then Johnny dumped the cinnamon on the floor and made "cin'mon angles."<br /><br />He also invented a new Olympic sport by rubbing yogurt on his feet and "skating" across the kitchen. Like the Russian judges, I gave him a really low score. I know, I'm biased.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">While we were recently camping with family, my wife tried to make a bonfire so we could toast marshmallows. Unfortunately, we couldn't get the fire to stay lit. My brothers came by and got it going by lighting birch bark. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My four-year-old daughter, Belle, said, "Thanks, guys, for helping us start the fire. Mommy's not an expert at that."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We had a lot more fun fishing. I didn't even have to put hooks on their lines. I simply tied a blue sailboat to the end of Johnny's line, and every time he reeled it in, he joyously celebrated catching a sailboat:</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwpNAfMMa8dZltGeX-lj_2YNfpJ-QiDA6qBMrtsSbSQ0H33Nf7jn82ZqaYvNV82QTZWrac_VQOha2U' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle and Johnny both fell off the pier while fishing, and my brother and I had to scoop them out. We were standing inches away, but they lost their balance so fast they fell in. Luckily, the kids wore their life jackets and weren't harmed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Hey, at least we didn't let them teethe on a python:</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://failblog.org/2009/08/20/parenting-fail-14/"><img src="http://failblog.wordpress.com/files/2009/08/fail-owned-parenting-fail.jpg" /></a><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Being a parent of young kids is almost enough to send you running for the hills. Or, at least, running after your bare-butted son as he sprints out the back door through the yard--with all the neighbors watching--and your family laughing at you as you try to track him down. That's NOT funny.</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-84242208171058539132009-08-08T11:46:00.001-07:002009-08-20T19:21:27.612-07:00<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >A Parent's Post-Traumatic Stress</span></span><br /><br />While I was recently changing my son John's diaper, he farted in my face. Twice. With no diaper on. I think I have post-traumatic stress.</span><br /><div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://pupillageandhowtogetit.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/homer_the_scream.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 134px;" src="http://pupillageandhowtogetit.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/homer_the_scream.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock's famous quote: "There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it." </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://tf.org/images/covers/hitchcock_north_by_northwest.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 144px; height: 216px;" src="http://tf.org/images/covers/hitchcock_north_by_northwest.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div> </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://carbolicsmoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/alfred-hitchcock.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 129px; height: 172px;" src="http://carbolicsmoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/alfred-hitchcock.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">However, with all due respect to Mr. Hitchcock, he never changed John's diaper.<br /><br />I fear Cleaning Day at our house. Belle used to really protest when I'd ask her to clean up her room so I could vacuum the floor, but now she does it without prompting. In fact, last Cleaning Day, Belle came up with a song: </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">"Today's the day for Cleaning Day<br />Today's the day for showing respect."<br /><br />I thought, Cool, nice start.<br /><br />But then her song turned south. She opened</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the patio door, stepped out and sang at the top of her lungs:<br /><br />"Wake up neighbors! It's Cleaning Day.<br />Come on over and clean my house!"<br /><br />Those who have read this blog know Johnny, 3, is taller and heavier than his sister Belle, 4. He always says, “Belle, I’ll give you a gentle hug.” Except, for him, giving Belle a "gentle hug" is a little like a "gentle bombing."<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwa6rXKszKdWbi7Qsc7o2-X0MqLFPPxxYFlSLAqv63vyEBWc_5cO3zAUdIusT43byREYQwF8vaYmg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><br /><div> </div><br /><div></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Johnny negotiates like a used-care salesman: You try to make him a great offer, but he won’t listen until you start to leave.</span></span><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://misspinkslip.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/used-car-salesman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 215px;" src="http://misspinkslip.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/used-car-salesman.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div> <span style="font-family:arial;">John has taken to kissing girls. Before he does, he likes to say, "I'm gonna put my lips on you." Hey, at least he asks for consent. </span><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Often while getting ready for bed, Johnny strips naked and dances like a sumo wrestler. He tries to say, “I've got nothing on my privates,” but instead says: “I've got nothing on my pirate!” </span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://shiftingbaselines.org/blog/images/pirate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 278px;" src="http://shiftingbaselines.org/blog/images/pirate.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIe3-k_6GAqqbTGHypFSVpeGC0oeNQdhOJAG-LpdM3txT00W651Rb3tG7Qcz3P79Jj53nbSZYOLbqzUw3O0JAporPYHo17BwI5anJWO6yjb85pLmfmsh_WN2ed7CzArueIGl3/s1600-h/happy10th.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIe3-k_6GAqqbTGHypFSVpeGC0oeNQdhOJAG-LpdM3txT00W651Rb3tG7Qcz3P79Jj53nbSZYOLbqzUw3O0JAporPYHo17BwI5anJWO6yjb85pLmfmsh_WN2ed7CzArueIGl3/s320/happy10th.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370335647752764994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">With times like these, it’s great to get nice notes from your kids. Belle recently made a card for my 10th wedding anniversary.<br /><br />She said, “I love you no matter what I do, no matter what you do, even when I go to Heaven or the hospital. I love you Mom & Dad!”<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-32436786746705228532009-08-02T17:52:00.000-07:002009-08-05T18:42:54.067-07:00<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >Every Parent's Dirty Little Secret</span><br /><br />There's a dirty little secret every parent knows but none will discuss: They all, at some point, get a kiss from their toddler while the kid's nose is leaking. I call this a Snot Sandwich. And, no matter how frantically you scrub your lips, you're doomed to get the kid's cold.<br /><br />Luckily, I've found a solution:<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://sblom.com/hats/nozehat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 137px; height: 187px;" src="http://sblom.com/hats/nozehat.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >My 3-year-old Johnny gave me a Snot Sandwich the other day. I had to digest this hoagie right as I was leaving for work--at a time when Johnny suffers separation anxiety. I strug</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >gled with this, like many young parents, but have found a solution for that, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" class="status-body" ><span class="entry-content">I say, "Daddy's going to work to earn money to buy milk, vid</span></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" class="status-body" ><span class="entry-content">eos and toys for YOU." Invariably, Johnny immediately ceases crying and cheerfully says, "OK, bye-bye."</span></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" > Then he skips away to his toys or the pool.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3q0jDUhn6h04dPTnwStuqmYIar9RL1oJxVW-dSKd6s0akFZAVCGuTu22mROAGEHrferOUwU_w6gncVXiZZGGyul6bKnf3YrH5w3r_FyoDVaXLdWQ2CJ9QiOqSyQVB_TuX7VmU/s1600-h/poolparty2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3q0jDUhn6h04dPTnwStuqmYIar9RL1oJxVW-dSKd6s0akFZAVCGuTu22mROAGEHrferOUwU_w6gncVXiZZGGyul6bKnf3YrH5w3r_FyoDVaXLdWQ2CJ9QiOqSyQVB_TuX7VmU/s400/poolparty2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366659025962912274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >Every parent at some point thinks, "OK, kid, wait until YOU have children!" But this can be a dangerous thought. Recently, my 4-year-old daughter Belle walked up to me with her stuffed-Minnie Mouse under her shirt.<br /><br />"Hey Dad? I'm having a baby in 5 minutes." A second later she said, "Ding, here's my baby. I'll call her Minnie."<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://disneyheaven.com/images/MickeyNFriends/Minnie/BabyMinnie1.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 209px;" src="http://disneyheaven.com/images/MickeyNFriends/Minnie/BabyMinnie1.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >Hey! Don't judge. It takes a village to raise a stuffed animal.<br /><br />At least Belle did the right thing and got "married" the same day. I didn't even have to prompt her! She dressed in her mommy's skirt and a T-shirt. When asked who she was marrying, she said: "Myself." Hey, she's an independent woman. As Beyonce would say, "I depend on me."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://image.examiner.com/images/blog/wysiwyg/image/beyonce_knowles2_400-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 175px;" src="http://image.examiner.com/images/blog/wysiwyg/image/beyonce_knowles2_400-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Plus, Belle is already domesticated. She loves using the toilet brush to scrub toilets. She said, "I want to scrub toilets every day." Any takers out there? I wonder if she could pay her way through college... </span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" class="body" >Or maybe she could be a professional windsock:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx-38mE-IcGkASU06LSAI9AhWH_yOTSCQH3t2X7j6TLmG61negAhDaDXlz31zHjN7doZa31pzfUdp4' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><insert shudder="" here=""><shudder style="font-family:arial;"><br />Luckily, Belle's career options are open because she is pretty philosophical for a preschooler. For example, while preparing for bed at our house she said, "Let's clean up our toys. That's <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> novel."<br /></shudder></insert></span><h3 style="font-family: arial; font-weight: normal;" class="UIIntentionalStory_Message"><span style="font-size:100%;">My son has much more basic ideas at his age. For example, he was recently playing with his sister's dolls. He laid down next to them and declared, "Daddy, I want to sleep with AAAALLLLL the princesses!"</span></h3><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/moviemom/Disney-Princesses3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 168px;" src="http://blog.beliefnet.com/moviemom/Disney-Princesses3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><shudder>Belle decided she was going to give me a prince's haircut (which tells you something about her thoughts on my current hair style). "We're playing haircut, Daddy," she said, using two fingers as pretend scissors--first on my hair, then on my ears, nose and throat. Who knew I had a hairy throat? I thought my throat only felt hairy due to the cold I acquired from the Snot Sandwich.<br /></shudder></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img2.timeinc.net/ew/dynamic/imgs/080618/malcolm-in-the-middle_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 255px;" src="http://img2.timeinc.net/ew/dynamic/imgs/080618/malcolm-in-the-middle_l.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><shudder>I'm comforted by Nietzsche, who said, "<span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">He who has a 'why to live' can bear almost any 'how.'"<br /><br />I think most parents immediately realize their kids are their <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span>--but few, including me, realize before they become parents how much their progeny will one day become their <span style="font-style: italic;">how</span>.<br /><br />////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////<br /></span></span><br /><br /></shudder></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-30864693322232747852009-07-13T20:30:00.000-07:002009-07-26T16:55:44.053-07:00<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Testing Homeland Security</span></span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />My family recently went on a vacation to Seattle. In the airport, I carried two car seats, a suitcase and two backpacks.<br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDV2xFQGdbJnFRP7EBVVWmQxsZK5kUGaXNeILVcxFRiJqTidmzBdatsH4pspbZqvQiD77hXQIGTykYf3F6YqkcMYMMabkHeeFoCsL-nNx6ABF03mpfPrZXMYJKQZBAcqWSv6oag/s320/travellight-723519.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDV2xFQGdbJnFRP7EBVVWmQxsZK5kUGaXNeILVcxFRiJqTidmzBdatsH4pspbZqvQiD77hXQIGTykYf3F6YqkcMYMMabkHeeFoCsL-nNx6ABF03mpfPrZXMYJKQZBAcqWSv6oag/s320/travellight-723519.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">What did my kids carry?</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Nothing. Which allowed my three-year-old son, Johnny, to run through airport security, giggling with joy as he set off every possible alarm. The Homeland Security officers were quite patient, politely asking him to come back and walk through the metal detector again. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">As Johnny walked back through the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> detector, his f</span><span style="font-family:arial;">our-year-old sister, Belle, said, "I smell something stinky." </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />"Is it John's diaper?" I asked.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />John giggled as he ran through the metal detector again yelling, "I smell like meat" three times in a row.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Fortunately, meat is not an illegal substance on an airplane. But shaving cream is. They made me toss a perfectly good bottle of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Barbasol</span><span style="font-family:arial;">. As if I was going to lather my legs in order to </span><span style="font-family:arial;">commandeer</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> the plane.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Johnny enjoyed riding the escalators at the airport. "Can we take the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >escamater</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> again, Daddy? Can we, please?"</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">At least my kid</span><span style="font-family:arial;">s are polite. They say please and thank you. But sometimes their vigilance for manners backfires, like when we were boarding our plane.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">"John, you bumped into me!" Belle scolded. "<span style="font-style: italic;">What-do-you say</span>?"<br /><br />Other passengers giggled.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">I sat down in my seat on the airplane and Belle said, "Congratulations, Daddy." I thought, did she mean congratulations on not being arrested by Homeland Security? Congratulations on carrying a mini-van's worth of luggage to Concourse Z?<br /><br />Oh no.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle said, "Congratulations on loving me, Daddy." I think we need to work on her modesty.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><pic style="font-family: arial;" of="" cory="" damian=""></pic><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />So my kids are a little wild. We don't call them "Thunder and Lightning" for nothing. That's normal, according to novelist Stephen King. "Schizoid behavior is a pretty comm</span><span style="font-family:arial;">on thing in children," King said. "It's accepted, because we adults have this unspoken agreement that children are lunatics."</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Thank God my kids don't live in a remote hotel like the ones in The Shin</span><span style="font-family:arial;">ing</span><span style="font-family:arial;">:<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tunkuhalim.files.wordpress.com/2008/11/the-shining.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 173px;" src="http://tunkuhalim.files.wordpress.com/2008/11/the-shining.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Lately I've been </span><span style="font-family:arial;">trying to calm Johnny down by teaching him to meditate:</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqoaNOx3gzdeF7zaO0_x1j8XgeSHehaJTpHALbzMqjNJ4juFj3PgHOufhiC1459Hqlhv3hPZKp6qOw2hUAyo0ikETKcS4i5pUtVvybT0xzELeRQ-_BvIw-gzJR6xvgxiYZ3B2/s1600-h/meditate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqoaNOx3gzdeF7zaO0_x1j8XgeSHehaJTpHALbzMqjNJ4juFj3PgHOufhiC1459Hqlhv3hPZKp6qOw2hUAyo0ikETKcS4i5pUtVvybT0xzELeRQ-_BvIw-gzJR6xvgxiYZ3B2/s320/meditate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362915940505740930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Unfortun</span><span style="font-family:arial;">ately, he even</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> meditates to the extreme. Maybe he'll participate in the X</span><span style="font-family:arial;">-Games some day.<br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://www.tbnnetworks.com/affiliate/resources/photos/extreme%20sports%20-%20motorcycle%20in%20air.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 578px; height: 375px;" src="http://www.tbnnetworks.com/affiliate/resources/photos/extreme%20sports%20-%20motorcycle%20in%20air.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;">So far, he has a</span><span style="font-family:arial;">greed to take proper safety measures, like wearing bike helmets and life jackets. He recently</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> got a new Disney Cars life vest.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYto_VkYHO4xyz5-vqszYLDoBGqKziVy5sTvxm6WKW_zOER10Xb7WINnX_RfT_i2tHd1KRZiCSGmLPrCbnO8WRDEaWn_TNlPaX5NDndpIYiYtymlH0XAGi3P9pUOoIMwfKDuR/s1600-h/Johnnylifevest.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYto_VkYHO4xyz5-vqszYLDoBGqKziVy5sTvxm6WKW_zOER10Xb7WINnX_RfT_i2tHd1KRZiCSGmLPrCbnO8WRDEaWn_TNlPaX5NDndpIYiYtymlH0XAGi3P9pUOoIMwfKDuR/s320/Johnnylifevest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362916586071844722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">He liked it so much, he wore it all weekend in our house--just in case of a flash flood or plumbing accident.</span> <photo style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />Grandma sat on a bench between Belle and John and said, "I'll be the pickle in the middle."<br /><br />John said, "and I'll be the strawberry."<br /><br />As a parent, some days you're the strawberry, some days you're the pickle.<br /><br /></photo><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://msnbcmedia3.msn.com/j/msnbc/Components/Photos/071008/071008_luggage_hmed_12p.hmedium.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 382px; height: 273px;" src="http://msnbcmedia3.msn.com/j/msnbc/Components/Photos/071008/071008_luggage_hmed_12p.hmedium.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><photo style="font-family: arial;"></photo><span style="font-family:arial;">//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////</span> <photo style="font-family: arial;"><pic of="" cory="" damian=""><br /></pic></photo>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-21878693456815439672009-06-04T19:25:00.000-07:002009-07-02T05:34:06.454-07:00<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Knock-Knock. Who's There? A 3-Year-Old.</span><br /></span></strong><br />Jerry Seinfeld would love to have my kids open for his stand-up routine. Since most jokes by three-year-olds make absolutely no sense, Mr. Seinfeld would seem that much funnier. Here's one of Johnny's favorites:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzN7Bbm20lHPWdH1FZjsdMb1ll2arBMz2B4a-2u0XLXIIUt-UCD4KKGGLlVyZulQoe5XeolCTZFx_E' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial;" href="http://ordinarynetizen.com/uploaded_images/Plunger-743845.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 119px; float: right; height: 115px; cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="http://ordinarynetizen.com/uploaded_images/Plunger-743845.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />OK, I admit there's a stench to that joke. But nothing compared to the odor Johnny created when he clogged the toilet, flushed it, and it overflowed. Johnny grabbed the plunger and wildly plunged. Toilet water sprayed everywhere. I wrestled the plunger from Johnny. My daughter, Belle, cried.<br /><br />As I cleaned up the bathroom, Johnny declared: "Let's get drinking!" I wasn't sure what he <span style="font-style: italic;">meant</span>, but I hoped he wasn't referring to the toilet water. Like a sorority sister, Belle chimed, "Yeah, John, let's drink!" Johnny and Belle hoisted their milk cups in unison and chanted, "Drink, drink, drink!" And people wonder why Wisconsin is always No. 1 in binge drinking? It's in our <span style="font-style: italic;">genes</span>, man.<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial;" href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/ni/God.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 94px; float: right; height: 133px; cursor: pointer;" alt="" src="http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/ni/God.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><br /><insert style="font-family: arial;" atch="" quesadilla="">My wife is from the east coast. She deals with frustration by saying things lik</insert><insert style="font-family: arial;" atch="" quesadilla="">e, "Fo</insert><insert atch="" quesadilla="" style="font-family:arial;">r</insert><insert style="font-family: arial;" atch="" quesadilla=""> the love of God!" The other day, I was disciplining Johnny by placing his </insert><insert atch="" quesadilla="" face="arial">stuffed animals on the fridge each time he misbehaved. By the t</insert><insert style="font-family: arial;" atch="" quesadilla="">hird stuffed animal, Johnny said, "For the LOVE of Go</insert><insert atch="" quesadilla="" face="arial">d, Daddy!" I couldn't help laughing.<br /><br />As a parent, I often don't know whether to laugh or cry. Like yesterday, Johnny decided he could make cinnamon toast. Except that what he thought was <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 51, 0); font-weight: bold;">cinnamon</span> was actually <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">black pepper</span>:<br /><br /></insert></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuO9WPXeMG_XlAArqPL6ByYav6AIVljOAVohnmM2Dc3oIQoy5j71W3vq9UJ009QIDhmuP41W51GqIVtYpnTkBKpm6nxwoI6k4riOrCeqJ9heT_MxJHvaKHHLbSXw037TT1XGj/s1600-h/pepper.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px; display: block; height: 240px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353654731488596834" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuO9WPXeMG_XlAArqPL6ByYav6AIVljOAVohnmM2Dc3oIQoy5j71W3vq9UJ009QIDhmuP41W51GqIVtYpnTkBKpm6nxwoI6k4riOrCeqJ9heT_MxJHvaKHHLbSXw037TT1XGj/s320/pepper.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Preschoolers are the spice of life.<br /><br />///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36848573.post-379805586947731222009-04-16T07:55:00.000-07:002009-05-03T12:37:54.818-07:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">Ready for American Idol</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My two-year-old, Johnny, recently started singing "Shake Your Groove Thing."</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyThYMjb_gHhNSEdOj0vxQy9K0h_g9gD_JLLO6Zj_AfEGnO0jXt6lDcZyqlp8mJ5bnMLaF2kcHWC0I' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And he already knows how to exit stage right before Simon Cowell can critique him!</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2007/06_01/SimonCowellPLT_468x351.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 212px;" src="http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2007/06_01/SimonCowellPLT_468x351.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Still, Johnny has some maturing to do before he hits Hollywood. For example, the other day he picked his nose and said, "Daddy, I get burgers from my nose."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Don't you mean boogers, John?" I said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Not burgers, Daddy. Cheeseburgers."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The other day, I sat down with Johnny to explain it was finally warm outside. And, of course, he insisted on wearing his heaviest flannel jammies. To the store. So we went to Target and a woman walked by, looked at Johnny and his older sister, Belle, and said: "I love it, it's spring and the girl's in her Christmas dress and the boy's in his flannel jammies."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Johnny still isn't *quite* potty trained. He's close. But once in awhile, he'll sneak into Belle's room and suddenly get quiet. Really quiet. The other day I interrupted him sitting in Belle's room, wincing. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"What are you doing, John?" I asked him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Pooping," he said, luckily still with diaper on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"John, don't we poop in the <span style="font-style: italic;">potty</span>?" I asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"No, I poop in Belle's room!" he said.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Let's face it, sometimes our best attempts at parenting turn out like this:</span><br /><object style="font-family: arial;" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rU3WgN--sFs&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rU3WgN--sFs&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Lately, though, he has been getting better at using the potty. We're so close I can smell it!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle's learning to overcome her fears. "Daddy, that blanket downstairs looks scary," she said. "It scared my pants away."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Neither kid is afraid to share their developmental progress, either. John took the phone while I was talking to my brother and declared, "Uncle Jay, I have my wallet and I have my clothes on. Love you, bye."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle's so mature at age 4 she's already joining the Women's Lib movement. She was pretending to be a princess and pretending John was a frog. She kissed him to turn him into a prince, thought about it then declared, "Nah, I turn you back into a frog."</span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://princessbrianna1.tripod.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/.pond/fairy_princess_frog_framed.jpg.w560h447.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 227px;" src="http://princessbrianna1.tripod.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/.pond/fairy_princess_frog_framed.jpg.w560h447.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1