I’ve given the beach plenty of chances. After five minutes, I’m sweaty, salty, and stingy. That’s not even remotely tolerable when you’re alone, but when you also have two genetically unsuited children in tow it can result in side by side father/son tantrums. My DNA has been passed down by generations of Germans and English blooded folk. Our genome should be called “70% chance of precipitation.”
- 60% of all sand finds its way into a child’s bathing suit. “Like sands through swimming trunks, so are the days of our lives”…I’m sorry
- Sunscreen + wet child skin + sand = Brillo Pad that wants to sit on your lap and whine.
The key to show-and-tell is to bring something significant, but not so cherished that it can’t be lost or barfed on. My wife usually ends up saying something to Silas like, ”Think really hard about it and choose something really special to you. Sorry, no. You can’t take ice cream. Nah, probably not your pillow either.” Here are some slightly more inappropriate things:
- His brother’s shoes
- The small plastic baggie he found at “the bad park”
- A dead squirrel
- A live squirrel
- The bracelet with a pot leaf on it he found at “the bad park”
- Daddy’s pills
- The frozen placenta from his birth.
Between the syncopated machine gun pops of Silas stomping on bubble wrap, I heard a flyer slide under the front door. “What’s it say?” Lindsay asked. “Either a sale on snow tires or a high school cupcake drive,” I responded. My kids started dancing, “CUPCAKES!”
”No, no, I was kidding.” And then a silence fell over the room. Even my dad was disappointed. So I broke my “never entertain hand-delivered offers” policy, and read it aloud.
“Victims of the Madoff Ponzi scheme have been forced to auction off their FINE PERSIAN RUGS at greatly reduced prices! Continue…
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…