Never Start a Land War in Asia

Just in case anyone at the highest levels of government is thinking about offering me a position in the Department of Defense, I would like to withdraw my name from consideration. I just finished an 80-minute RISK game with my six-year-old son and I cannot find a strong enough metaphor to describe how thoroughly I was demolished.

If you’re not familiar with RISK, the game of world conquest, you have lived an unfortunately sheltered life, and the rest of this story will be a blurry of meaninglessness. If you have played, then you know how important it is to take over Australia, which I did early in the game. I also took over South America for good measure. These, and a few skirmishes in Europe, were the extent of my strategy. (Which is why the aforementioned defense post is not for me.)

The Game of World Conquest

My son’s strategy involved piling his troops at different random places around the board, taking one country, and then ending his turn, leaving him with masses of forces scattered throughout the world blocking my way. In a real war, these forces would have died of malaria, frostbite, or alcohol poisoning.

I didn’t go easy on him either. Every turn I took my allotted number of soldiers and attacked strategically chosen locations close to my borders, hoping to chip away at his morale in a battle of attrition.

The climax of the war was a skirmish in Siam, whose existence I was unaware of outside of that movie with Jodie Foster and Chow Yun-Fat. I would posit that if the fate of the world ever rests on a one-sided battle fought between an invading horde from China and a force of Siamese guards, we’d better stock up on canned goods. My humiliating defeat in Siam was followed by a mop-up operation in Australia. The jewel of my world empire had only one soldier in each of its territories. If it had been a real war, I suspect the men would have disappeared into the outback to survive on kangaroos, but as it was, they had to suffer the humiliation of my rolling ones and twos in opposition as my son’s juggernaut rolled through.

He was a gracious winner, reaching his hand across the table to shake hands and wish me “good game” after I swept my last troop into its plastic grave. He even attempted to patch my wounded pride by adding, “You were a good challenge, Daddy.”

I was the Blue team. Yep--all gone.

 I looked back across the table at my little Genghis Bonaparte, and then took in the mob of green plastic armies that had just turned Australia into its private playground. Maybe getting my butt kicked wasn’t such a bad thing. America might need a good general someday if Iceland and Kamchatka decide to invade.

O Christmas Tree

I'm not sure where the tradition of putting up a Christmas tree got its start. I've read the biblical Christmas account numerous times, and I know every line of A Christmas Story, but nowhere in either of those seminal works of holiday lore do I see an explanation for why perfectly warm human beings would leave the comfort of their homes in November or December and travel to a remote tree farm (or busy, annoyingly lit department store) and choose a small pine tree to grace their living rooms.

At my house, I've come to realize that the tree provides a measure of protection for the presents. Being forced to negotiate a tangle of Christmas lights and synthetic branches forces my kids to think twice about sneaking off with the gifts.

What the tree does not protect is the ornaments. There was a time when the tree was covered with the many ornaments of my childhood. They had been preserved by my parents for the day when I would have my own home (and pay my own electric bill, grocery bill, etc). There was a miniature metal bike, representing the year I learned to ride a bike (and symbolizing a time when things were actually made of metal.) There was a small rubber dinosaur, representing my early affection for prehistoric beasts.

When my kids were very young, we held off their curiosity by moving the ornaments higher up the tree. Yes, it looked silly to have half the tree bare, but it was better than finding an 18-month old with a mouth full of stuffing from a plush snowman ornament.

But my kids' ascent to full upward mobility happened with startling rapidity, and this year we realized it was futile to place the ornaments at the top of the tree, as that would only encourage adventurous attempts to reach the ornaments by balancing on the edge of a chair. So we chose only the sturdiest of our ornaments to adorn the tree, leaving the more fragile mementos safely packaged.

Not that it mattered. The tree was still a museum of oddities by the end of its first week. My dinosaur ornament found itself attempting to devour a bird ornament. The fake candy canes all ended up scattered among the presents under the tree--presumably after being tested for flavor and found wanting. Baby Jesus, who as I mentioned before has no business being near the tree, found himself sitting in a fire truck ornament I'd received when I turned six.

So as we end another Christmas season, I find myself staring at the Christmas tree and wondering. What does it really stand for? Who started this tradition? Would it really matter if it didn't get taken down until April? And why is there a pair of underwear on that angel's head?

Wild Horses

I've decided to go all in for Father of the Year this year. I know it's getting late, and I know it will take a lot of work to make up for taking most of the Halloween candy and for leveling my daughter in a game of backyard soccer, but I really think I've struck something big: I'm going to make my daughter a rocking horse for Christmas.

Before you protest that I have no construction skills and that it will probably end up looking like a rocking platypus, let me remind you of my building prowess, which up to now has gone mostly undocumented for legal and insurance reasons.

Just a few years ago,I built a grow-lab for starting our garden vegetables. Here I am joining 2x4s with a three-inch galvanized screw while my four-year-old looks on. This structure now helps nurture my young tomatoes before they can be put outside. (My parents still think I use it to grow weed.)

And here is the tree fort I built this spring, which I would prefer you not mention to my homeowner's insurance company.

So I'm confident that I can fashion a few pieces of plywood into a movable horse. Plus my daughter absolutely went nuts when she saw one at a toy store the other day, and there's no way I'm shelling out 99 bucks for that thing.

My confidence in this endeavor (some would say cockiness) has led me to even consider some modifications on the traditional rocking horse design. (I could be accused of making the proverbial error of counting my chickens before they've hatched--or counting my horses before they've hatched in this case, which of course just makes me sound like an idiot.)

My first idea was a rocking unicorn. Experienced parents are slowing shaking their heads. Heck even inexperienced teenagers are facepalming themselves right now. The same issue plagued my rocking Triceratops and rocking horned dragon.

I want this project to have my own unique stamp on it--something that tells my daughter that her daddy made it just for her. Maybe the Platypus wouldn't be such a bad idea...

Looth Tooth

My six-year-old got his first loose tooth the other day. Like many parents of boys, I was initially skeptical about whether he had come about this naturally, rather than as a result of jumping from the top bunk onto his brother. Six seemed early to already be losing one’s teeth.

But my musings about how the tooth had been jarred from its moorings were interrupted by my wife. “Are we going to do, you know, the Tooth Fairy thing?” I was speechless. I thought we wouldn’t have to make any potentially life-altering child rearing decisions again until girlfriends started calling. But there I was, pondering the existence of a midnight wanderer in a tutu.

I have to be honest; we’ve been pretty inconsistent in recognizing the figments of our culture’s imagination. We’ve introduced Santa Claus, but only as a character in a story, not as a prowler who slinks into our living room once a year and leaves presents behind. The Easter Bunny has been completely ignored, as I never could determine its connection to Jesus Christ.

But I haven’t thought about the Tooth Fairy since I was, like, nine. My image of her was something between Tinker Bell and that Bippity boopity boo chick from Cinderella. And I have no need for some mini-skirt clad hussy flittering around my kid’s bed offering him money. 

There’s the question of cleanliness too. Isn’t it sending mixed messages to teach my son to wash his hands and sort his laundry and then turn around and ask him to put a decaying tooth under his pillow?

Finally I have to think about his impressions of money. I guess it depends on your political persuasion, but most folks don’t think money is something that just shows up after you’ve done nothing but put in a good night’s sleep. 

Whatever I choose, I have to do it quickly. This thing is hanging by a thread, and I know it’s only a matter of time before some wrestling match or acrobatic routine shakes it out.

A Whole New World

I had hoped that by being raised with two older brothers and their respective dinosaurs, knights, and mud puddles, my daughter would turn out to be a tomboy. You know—the kind that isn’t afraid of spiders and would just as soon knock a boy down as hold his hand.

It appears I’ve failed. She’s only two, but she insists (depending on the day) that her favorite colors are pink and purple. She has tea parties for the dinosaurs and knights, and she’s totally gone for princesses. 

 The princesses are a problem. I know I should encourage her interests, but according to the Happily Ever After Princess Storybook we got at the library, princesses don’t win their men with dizzying intellect or feats of bravery. They just have to make sure their feet fit into the proper shoe. Or they have to be willing to put up with a man being a complete beast for a while. Or they can lie around laconically waiting for a kiss. Or they can wear a ridiculously low-cut top and allow themselves to be whisked about on a magic carpet.

I have no problem with my little girl dancing around in a dress and picking flowers all day. But if she encounters a troupe of short old men with long beards, I want her to be able to handle herself. She can still act like a princess, but I’m thinking more like Xena, Warrior Princess. 

With a turtleneck, of course.

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