Trust Me...

Kids are generally very trusting. I suspect it's because they are unaware of the existence of lawyers. This is why, for instance, children have to be taught not to take candy from strangers. Most adults would look warily at a bedraggled stranger sitting on a park bench proffering sweet tarts and move to the other side of the road. The same man could be carrying an axe and kids would still say, "but he's got candy."

In the same way, my kids have an undying trust in me, despite my introducing solid foods far too early and not bothering to put those silly plastic covers on our outlets. My two-year-old daughter in particular relies on my judgment regularly, not having gathered any long term historical data against me.

On a recent trip to the beach, I thought it would be a good idea to sprint down a 100 foot sand dune with her in tow. She readily assented, without considering the implications of my considerably greater size on the force of any crash landing partway down the hill.

At some point I'll have to teach her not to say yes to just any guy who asks her to run down a sand dune with him (and the accompanying jujitsu moves if he attempts to hold her hand). But I was thrilled to have a companion for my sprint. As veteran parents know, you can get away with countless un-adult activities provided there is a toddler present. Our run started well, both of us gaining speed as our bare feet sunk into the warm sand. Within moments, though, I realized that my daughter had switched from running to something akin to skipping. But with her tiny hand enveloped in mine, she no doubt felt secure touching the ground only once every six feet as we hurtled downhill.

I suppose the faceplant was inevitable. My daughter is not a gazelle, and gravity is a poor companion when you're on a steep decline. In one moment I was carrying her through the air as she jumped along with my loping strides. In the next moment, she was picking sand out of her swimsuit.

So while my Father of the Year application will probably be delayed once again, I know my daughter has great memories of the first three-fourths of our run down the sand dune. I just hope she forgets how it ended, so she'll trust me when I take her out dressed as a ballerina in October to ask strangers for candy. 

Polar Plunge

At some point, almost every child has a well-meaning adult pull him aside and warn him of the dangers of video games. As a child who grew up playing Zelda and Mario Brothers (at my friends’ houses, because we didn’t have a Nintendo...or a microwave for that matter) I’ve heard the warnings about kids whose eyes were stuck open from staring at screens for too long or whose fingers bled from pushing the jump button too many times. None of us thought video games could really hurt us though.

As a parent, I’m trying to take a moderate view on video games. So far my stance can be summed up this way: No video game shall ever enter my house or be played by my children under any circumstances. See what I mean by moderate? Today, however, I decided to relax my rules a bit and let my six-year-old try a computer game. I made my way to a website that has dozens of free, supposedly educational children’s video games, where I chose “Penguin Drop” because it had a cool picture of a penguin wearing a parachute. I figured there was probably even some math lesson in there somewhere.

Imagine my bewilderment, then, when the game loaded and a polar bear appeared sitting on an iceberg with a cannon pointed at the sky and a pile of little frozen cannonballs next to him. Then, as you may have already guessed, the penguins (wearing parachutes) began to drop. At first, my son (who apparently does not know how a polar bear would normally respond if penguin paratroopers began landing on his ice floe) just watched. Once three penguins landed with the polar bear, the digital ice broke, and the game was over.

“What am I supposed to do, Daddy?”

“I think you’re supposed to shoot the penguins.”

“Really?!?”

So the second time, I helped him by aiming the cannon with the arrow keys, while he pushed the space bar to blast the invading penguins from the sky. I have to admit the game grew on me quickly. I raced to swivel the polar bear’s armaments across the horizon while my son pounded the space bar. Soon, however, I realized a few important things:

1. Penguins and Polar Bears don’t actually live anywhere near each other.

2. If they did, the phenomenon I was watching would be blamed on global warming

3. There was no math, reading, or anything else remotely educational about the game.

4. The game was a lot like space invaders.

5. I would have a much better chance of winning without a six-year-old at the trigger.

So I let my son clear the air a few more times, and then sent him off to bed. An hour later, my eyes were dry from staring at the screen, sores were forming on my fingertips, and I could actually feel my IQ dropping. But there were a whole bunch of penguins dropping too. I’m sure my son will ask to play again soon. Next time, I get the space bar. 

I probably shouldn't be surprised that he likes defending the iceberg against penguins

Only Cavemen Can Write on the Walls

Do you remember making dioramas in school? They probably involved a cardboard box, a few lessons about habitats, and begging your mom for craft supplies. I made my first diorama in third grade for an open house. This was back when open houses meant your parents came to your school to inspect your work. If you made a convincing case, you could generally count on a trip to the ice cream shop afterward. So this was a big deal. Anyway, my diorama involved turned a shoe box into a desert, I think because we had a sand box in the back yard, which meant half my work was already done. I stole a camel from the nativity set (The wise men were already there. What did they need a camel for?) and borrowed my mother’s compact mirror to look like a pool of water in the middle of the desert. (Or in case the camel needed to reapply mascara.) I don’t remember what grade my teacher gave me, but I’m sure I got ice cream.

Not wanting my kids to miss out on this childhood pleasure, I had them use a Safari Ltd Toob to recreate a prehistoric world. We used the Prehistoric Life set, which includes a dozen small figures from the Pleistocene epoch. How do you pronounce Pleistocene, you say? I have no idea. I had to look it up just to have a shot at spelling it right. Here’s a look at the toys: 

You won't see these at the zoo

 

First we got out our encyclopedias to figure out which of these creatures should be eating the trees and which ones should be eating each other. Yes, we have encyclopedias in the house. Yes, I know there is a thing called the Internet. But I don’t need my six-year-old seeing ads with women in bathing suits trying to sell a granola bar or whatever.

Brennen finding information without seeing advertisements for online dating sites

Then we got out the glue, which led to an immediate feeding frenzy. Why do kids assume glue tastes good? In fact, how do kids innately know that some things taste better than others? Put a plate of carrots and a bowl of jelly beans in front of a child, and they go for the jelly beans every time. But I digress. Some of the glue actually made it where it needed to go.  

Princess Glue Stick

Sir Sticks-a-lot

 

Check that. A lot of glue. No amount of coaching can get a two- and four-year-old to use less glue. If the bottle is not empty, they need to apply more glue. Or eat more of it.

Once we had the thing looking colorful, the kids grabbed rocks, sticks, and leaves from the yard, driveway, and my wife’s landscaping to give their diorama a more realistic feel. 

My three children deciding the fate of a Woolly Mammoth

Then came the tough part: deciding where to put all the realistic replicas. My oldest insisted that each animal be engaged in some sort of life-or-death duel with another figure (including the Saber Tooth Tiger battling a volcano). My daughter wanted every animal blissfully munching leaves. In the end, we didn’t glue down the animals at all, so everybody can play with the diorama as they wish: Death Match, Vegetarian Delight, or anything in between.

 

Brennen insists that one of the animals should fly

As you can see, the final product looks great! Plus the kids have a toy they can rearrange and play with over and over again. I was so impressed, I decided to take them out for ice cream. Maybe it will mask the glue flavor.

Play Ball

I’ve decided it’s time to teach my oldest son how to play baseball. It’s not that I have delusions that he’ll someday turn out to be a highly paid professional ballplayer and buy me a beach house (although I wouldn’t turn down the offer). Rather, I think young boys should know how to handle themselves around a baseball bat and be aware that a slider isn’t just the name of a disgusting sandwich from White Castle.

Now, when I was growing up, my brothers and any neighborhood kids we could rope in played ball in what you might call a nonstandard field. It sloped uphill, with a large pine tree between second and third base, a boat parked in center field, and a steep ravine behind home plate. Game stoppages to chase wild pitches through patches of poison ivy were common. We also had a few special rules to make up for the fact that we usually couldn’t scare up more than eight players at a time. If you’ve never heard of pitcher’s hand out, opposite field out, and ghost runners, you’ve lived an overly sheltered life.

The first game between my six-year-old and me was going great. Then I hit a double off the roof of the shed in our backyard and stood on second while he approached me to tag me out. “Ghost runner on second” I called, and began trotting back home.

“Daddy,” my son called in a quivering voice. I turned to see a look of confusion and sorrow on his face. “I think you’re cheating. There’s no one on second.”

The explanation that followed could go toe-to-toe with any calculus lecture in complexity. No, I wasn’t cheating. No, there wasn’t anyone on second. No, he couldn’t tag me out even though I was walking back to home plate. No, I didn’t make this rule up just now. Yes, he could have ghost runners too.

My son must have seen some inherent disadvantage in this new rule, because he immediately asserted that we could each have only one ghost runner. Maybe he was nervous about being surrounded by phantoms while pitching.

We continued our game in peace with no further accusations of cheating. He won, 10-8, but I was robbed of a few runs when he insisted that a ball I drove over the neighbor’s fence was an out rather than a home run, because there was no way for him to retrieve the ball.

It’s okay though. It’s not like I’m trying to recover any lost glory days by smacking Wiffle balls into the next yard. If this keeps up, I’ll be smacking them into Lake Michigan from my lavish retirement villa.

Around the World in 80 Minutes

“Daddy, what’s inside the Parthenon?” Questions like these have replaced “Why is grass green” at my house thanks to the Around the World Toob® from Safari Ltd®.  The educational possibilities of this collection are almost unlimited, and my kids are drawn to the beautiful replicas.

Around the World

 We started by using the Around the World figures to make matching cards, which are popular in many elementary classrooms.  In this case, we have colorful replicas in place of pictures. I wrote cards with the name of each wonder and its country. Then my six-year-old worked on matching them up.

Brennen tries to remember where Big Ben is located

 

He was thrilled when he was able to match each of the ten figures to its name and country. Then we practiced saying the name of each wonder. Fortunately Machu Picchu wasn't included in this group, or I'd have been in trouble.

Then we brought out our world map. My four-year-old joined us for this, and both boys enjoyed trying to locate the country where each figure belongs and place it on the map. Although we have a large world map, this would work with any sized map, as the figures are just a few inches wide at most. 

Caleb sets the Empire State Building in New York

 

This turned out to be a wonderful group activity, as my oldest gave the name and country for each replica and his little brother tried to find it on the map. I was no help at all, as I spent the whole time trying to figure out why my camera batteries kept dying. A few minutes later, they had each model in the right place, and were they ever proud of their work!

Emily joins in for a group shot

 

So in one morning, my kids learned some history and some geography while playing and having fun. I learned what's inside my camera, which was far less fun. Now if I can only figure out what's inside the Parthenon.

Call of Duty or Honor or Whatever

You know that scene from epic guy movies where a muscular hero wipes out an invading horde of bad guys with like a butter knife, and then he’s standing there surveying the carnage, and says in a deep, gravelly voice, “My father taught me that duty and honor are more important than anything”? 

Well, as a father of two impressionable young boys that I would love to raise to be epic heroes someday, what I want to know is how do I get that deep, gravelly voice? I mean, how cool would it be to teach a kid to tie his shoes, and then tell him in a deep, gravelly voice, “Son, always remember that the rabbit goes around the bush and then into its hole.” He’d never forget that lesson. At the same time, I’d also like to know when those lessons about duty and honor are supposed to be worked into the conversation. 

I thought I’d discovered the perfect opportunity a few days ago when my kids were playing outside, and my youngest son began to cry because he’d fallen off his bike. (It’s about three inches from his seat to the ground, so why this is cause for tears is beyond me, but we must be sensitive, mustn’t we?) Anyway, the exchange that followed went like this:

Me (After clearing my throat repeatedly in search of my best James Earl Jones voice): “Son, going to aid your brother in his time of need would be honorable.”

Six-year-old: “Daddy, you sound funny.”

That went well. At some point I should probably consider the wisdom of trying to model my parenting techniques after the fictional fathers of half-naked male characters from guy movies who spend their time eviscerating their foes and sharpening their butter knives. That deep, gravelly voice on the other hand…maybe I’ll find something for that in my spam folder.

Tangled and Tied

You know those people who can take a piece of kite string and fashion a knot capable of suspending a grand piano in midair? Then they further insult you by saying, “Yeah, that’s a mid-shipman’s half hitch slip noose with a breaking point of seven tons.”

Having never been in Boy Scouts, Eagle Scouts, Little League, or wherever people learn these critical life skills, I can barely keep my own shoes tied. So I was thrilled when my five-year-old son recently learned to tie knots.

This has opened up some exciting new possibilities for him. Just the other day, for example, I pulled a pair of boots from my closet, only to find that it was tied to five other pairs of boots. Why do I have six pairs of boots, you ask? Shut up. That’s not the point.

Being able to tie knots, my son can now be expected to perform simple tasks like tying his own shoes and changing the oil. So far, though, he has yet to use his new power for good. Yesterday, while I thought he was playing quietly in his room, (No child, by the way, is ever just playing quietly in his room; it has taken me five years and three children to learn this) he removed all the laces from his shoes and roped every one of his dinosaur toys together into some kind of prehistoric chain gang.

This led to a daddy rendition of that “With great power comes great responsibility” speech from Spiderman, which I completely botched, because I could only think of the beer ad: “With great beer comes great responsibility.” My Father of the Year application will have to be postponed again. In the meantime, my son apparently needs a more constructive hobby. Maybe I’ll have him join Boy Scouts.