Children are human, but that doesn’t mean they’re rational. Natural selection no longer drives their decision-making, so if you assume they have any sense of self-preservation, please know that you do so at your own peril (and theirs).
Instinct: Come on, a child must understand what “Hurry up” means, right?
Reality: Incorrect. To a kid, this phrase means, “Quick! Hide your shoes.”
Instinct: If left to his own devices, a child will stop eating cookies before he breaks into a cold sweat, slaps his brother, curls into a ball, and starts weeping. Continue…
Saturday morning was crisp. The skies were blue and the sun had already dried the dew from the grass where Arlo and I sat to watch Silas’ T-ball game. On our walk from the car to the field, Arlo had collected two small rocks, which, in case you didn’t know, are religious artifacts to three year-old boys. They’re worshipped, clutched and squeezed like a rosary in the hand of a dying Saint. But the toddler is also easily distracted by birds, the position of his shirt, and interesting leaves. Continue…
I received an email this morning from SayYesToPixieStix@PantsOptional.org containing a transcript of my three year old son, Arlo, interviewing The Honest Toddler. As you might imagine, it gets pretty deep. I’ve copied it here, unedited.
—BEGIN TRANSCRIPT—
Arlo: Any idea why my mom can’t make a sandwich while driving?
The Honest Toddler (HT): Maybe she didn’t hear you- ask again (louder). Don’t rule out that she dislikes you intensely and wants to see you suffer.
Arlo: How many books do they read to you at night? Continue…
Most of the comments I get on my blog and writing on other sites are very nice and I love them. But a very small percentage are just impossibly ridiculous and annoying. I think if we all followed these rules, everyone would be better off and I could cut my Prozac dose in half.
1. Don’t Brag
It’s cool that you taught your non hearing impaired kid sign language (just for kicks), but please, for the love of Christ, Muhammed, and any Moon Diety I’ve forgotten, keep it to yourself. Continue…
During my high school years, Sunday evenings triggered a festering pit of dread in my gut. My father would turn on 60 Minutes only to find that the “goddamn football game” wasn’t over yet. It was as predictable as the fact that the next morning would bring a new week of school, requiring me to wake up too early, only to fall asleep in geometry class, and awaken 40 minutes later with my cheek resting next to a shimmering pool of desk drool. Continue…
