When not busy dismembering his Lego Minifigures (which can be seen here), my kiddo loves reenacting scenes from Star Wars.
Everyone remembers the gripping confrontation between Darth Vader and C-3PO, as Yoda tried in vain to bring an end to the conflict…
…and the edge-of-your-seat, pusle-pounding duel between Yoda and the battle axe wielding cheerleader…
…all leading to the action-packed melee in the exciting conclusion.
Take a bow, everyone!
My son turned four last month, and he has recently fallen in love with the idea of getting a “big boy” bike. In other words, step aside tricycle! Spring is coming, and that trike is so last season.
We took him to the store a few days ago (evil big box retailer once again. We are weak. Weak, I tell you!), and let him try out a few, to see what size would be the best fit. Unless you have kids, you probably don’t realize that little kid bikes come in several sizes. We were quick to learn he’s in the 16” frame market. And they had Spider Man! Cue happy kid (and happier Dad!).
As we were busy corralling him so he wouldn’t take off down the aisles on “HIS” new bike—explaining he’d have to wait to see if maybe the Easter Bunny would bring him one is a whole ‘nother story—I took note of how blissfully stable the training wheel setup was. And I got jealous of the safe, fun way in which he’ll get to learn to ride.
A little.
When I was a kid, learning to ride a bike, even with training wheels, was a bit…terrifying.
Why is that, you may ask? Oh, you silly youngsters.
Not to age myself, but I have no choice if I’m going to explain this properly. You see, when I learned to ride a bike in the magical year of 1979 (I was in kindergarten. Yeah, I’m old. Get over it.), training wheels weren’t the lovely, stable, smooth, run flat on the ground support enjoyed by kids today (and kids since sometime in the early 80s, I believe).
No, our training wheels rode a couple of inches off the ground. The idea was you’d learn balance, but the wheels would catch you so you wouldn’t actually fall. This resulted in an odd combination of elation and terror. A feeling of panic grabbing your heart as you tilted first to the left and then to the right, your heart racing as the training wheels caught you at the last possible second before certain death. Panic and blind fear. That’s the way to learn, man!
“I’m doing it! I’m riding a bike!”
“AAAHHH! I’m gonna die!”
“Yes! The wheels caught me! I’m INVINCIBLE!”
This range of emotions would span a period of mere seconds, repeated on a continuous loop until you a) learned to ride a bike b) said “Screw this! I’m going inside to watch The Love Boat!” or c) gave up and rode a Big Wheel for another year.
And we didn’t have helmets.
But we did get to ride bikes with banana seats. And there is something to be said for accomplishment gained through terror. It’s more meaningful to overcome than to never have really faced adversity. We conquered our fears. Not to say it won’t be a little scary once the training wheels come off, but to have no fear of falling before they do? I think you miss out on something.
And did I mention we got banana seats? Suck on that, new millennium!
Is dismembering Lego characters normal four-year-old behavior? Because, to be honest, it’s freaking me out. A little.
It’s a bit weird to find dismantled Star Wars figure displays scattered throughout the house, no?
Perhaps we should be glad he has no access to carbonite. Notice how Darth Vader is exempt from such treatment?
Photo courtesy of Volume One http://volumeone.org/
As an adoptive parent, I often ponder the role my husband and I play in who our son is as a person. How much is genetic? How much is our influence—the environment we’ve created? These are certainly not new ideas. The nature-nurture debate has raged for centuries, and I have no delusions about bringing anything new to the discussion, but it is a topic brought to the forefront of my mind a few nights ago while attending a concert.
We’re big fans of the Celtic band Gaelic Storm (check them out!
http://www.gaelicstorm.com/
), and see them whenever we can. This past summer, we took our son to his first show, and he was hooked. This week took him to show number two. We were front row, center, which gave kiddo the chance to really ham it up, which he did with great gusto. He spent the evening dancing right up by the stage, and by the end of the night, was completely wiped out. It was well past bedtime, and as they were playing their final song of the set, he finally sat down with me. My husband and I were sure he would fall asleep. Snuggled up to me, his sleepy voice asked, “Mommy, can we go home now?”
I told him they would play one more song, the encore, and then it would be all done and we could go home. He was agreeable to staying until the end.
After raucous applause, the band came back for their encore, and played “What’s the Rumpus?” Hearing the familiar song begin, a reenergized kiddo jumped up and started to dance again, joining the rest of the crowd which was on its feet. As the song went on, he began to run out of steam, so I picked him up so we could finish out the night dancing together.
Patrick Murphy, singer, musician, and all around cool guy, came to the front of the stage and motioned to me. He looked down at kiddo and held his hands out. With only a slight feeling of trepidation, I handed him over and watched as our little man was lifted on stage. I looked at my husband, knowing we shared the same thought. This would either be a smashing success, or a colossal failure. Our kid is not shy, but he was tired. And when he’s tired, watch out.
Fortunately, he was thrilled. He was handed a mallet, and given free rein to bash away at a cymbal. He embraced the task with great gusto, and the crowd went wild, cheering with each crash, egging him on. He looked from band member to band member, as if suspecting it was all too good to be true, but they smiled and encouraged him, seeming to enjoy the moment every bit as much as he.
After this went on for a bit, I went to the steps of the stage, figuring he would see me and come running.
Not even close.
I found myself onstage, standing next to a gleeful child still bashing away at that magical cymbal. When I finally got him off stage, he asked, “Can I have the violin next?”
After the show, he hammed it up some more with the band, and Pat expressed his admiration, telling us on the occasions when they do take a kid on stage, they usually stand there, frozen.
Not our kid. He was fearless and grabbed the moment with both hands, which got me thinking. I was the same way when I was a kid: a bold people person who would have done the exact same thing, begging the question: where does he get it? Is it our influence over him, teaching him never to be afraid of being himself? Do his observations of our interactions with the world shape the outgoing personality he’s developed? Or is it just who he is? Is it in his DNA?
We may never know, but it sure is fun to think about.
Boy do I suck at keeping up with my blog. I’m just going to blame my kid, and his protestations of “STOP TYPING, MOMMY!” That and the evil (but admittedly quite necessary) process of query and synopsis writing.
So, no surprise, it’s cold here. Not as cold as it probably should be—this is Wisconsin, after all—but cold, nonetheless. This got me thinking back to my childhood, and a very embarrassing truth I will now admit publicly. All for your amusement, dear reader.
I used to believe my dad, and my dad alone, could control the weather.
That’s right.
I know, lots of kids believe crazy things their parents tell them, but I believed. Far too long. Much longer than I should have. We’re talking late elementary school, here.
And why would I believe such a thing? Quite simple: he told me it was so. Not a smirk, not a chuckle—straight faced, determined certainty. As sure as telling someone his name.
In my defense, he had developed quite the elaborate mythology around his weather-controlling abilities.
It goes something like this:
During his service in the Air Force, while stationed at a NATO base in Germany, he was part of a secret government project to develop the Benson-Drive Unit, a high-tech machine that could control the weather. It was the cold war, after all, and as you can see from THIS post, I was indoctrinated with some pretty strong evidence on the possibilities of scientific breakthroughs—and government experiments gone awry.
Eventually, the project was de-funded, and my dad was chosen as caretaker of the only fully-functioning unit. He brought it home with him, sworn to utmost secrecy (yet, he told his kids—a detail I couldn’t be bothered with). He and my mom bought an old house in the country on land that had once been a farm, and he built a secret room in one of the outbuildings where he safeguarded the secret, and did his best to give the locals a nice climate.
When it would rain on a day we’d been planning something outdoorsy, he’d apologize as he’d look out the window toward the garage, shaking his head. “Sorry, kids, I guess the Benson-Drive’s on the fritz again. I’ll go work on it, see what I can do.” And off he’d go, devoted citizen that he was.
This went on for YEARS, even as my tales at school stopped eliciting oohs and aahs (kindergarten) and began getting me strange looks and scorn (around third grade or so). I was a true believer.
Long after the jig was up, we’d still joke about it. In fact, the day before my wedding, I asked him, “You sure the Benson-Drive’s in tip-top shape? I don’t want it to rain tomorrow.”
It was beautiful and sunny; the perfect day.
Thanks, dad.
I’m baaaaaack!
All four of you who noticed I’ve not blogged in a while have my apologies. The holidays, rewrites, and a bout of general writing apathy combined in a swirling vortex of laziness, keeping me away for a while.
So I’m just going to jump right in with a new topic.
It would seem that teenagers (not that I have one, yet) are the leading authorities on embarrassment. It is a scientific fact that kids from the ages of twelve to nineteen are in a perpetual state of mortification brought about by their parents (I’d site my sources, but I have none). What these ambassadors of cool fail to realize—or perhaps they just don’t care—is that they were, in fact, the source of a great deal of embarrassment felt by their loving parents at various times throughout the childhood leading up to their current state of teenagery.
A toddler, especially, has the power to embarrass. Whether it’s an ill-timed tantrum (Like, you know, while you are attempting to shop in an Amish grocery store and your normally mild-mannered and well-behaved child is screaming like a demon spawn, completely inconsolable and drawing stares from patrons and employees alike as you try to rush out of the store with even a shred of dignity remaining), or making boisterous announcements in public (“THAT MAN SMELLS FUNNY!”), our wee ones are quite capable of dishing out undignified moments.
So, fellow parents, what is the most embarrassing thing your child has ever done? For me, there is one moment that wins, hands down. No contest. Most of you who know me have heard this one before, so feel free to return to your regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.
Allow me to begin my tale of woe…
In the summer of 2009, my husband, son and I traveled to San Diego. My husband had always wanted to attend Comic-Con, and I will gladly jump at any chance to visit So Cal. So off we went, my husband to panel discussions and booth upon booth of entertainment, while our son and I went off on daily adventures with our good friend who had come down from Los Angeles. We went to the zoo, LEGOLAND, Sea World, the beach (another funny story for another time), and had a great time. Our son was about 18 months old at the time, and was quite the little explorer. He had a great time, save the occasional tantrum.
While in San Diego, we stayed at the Comic Con host hotel, which along with being convenient was great for celebrity spotting.
At the time, our son was very into walking by himself—no hand holding, thank you! He just loved to wander around, taking off in random directions while we followed, close on his heels.
On the morning we went to Sea World, my husband was attending a panel discussion, so we were killing a bit of time waiting for him to get back, since he wanted to go with us. Little man and I went off on one of his walking journeys, perhaps more accurately described as me chasing him around journeys, and the San Diego Marriott is perfect for it. It’s a huge hotel with two separate lobby areas, so he could wander to his heart’s content.
As we made our way through the second lobby, I noticed—not five feet away—Allison Mack, one of the stars of Smallville. I glanced away from my son for a moment in a “Wow, that’s Allison Mack,” sort of way, and as I looked back, to my horror; it became painfully clear he was milliseconds away from accosting this guy:
And, yes, he does actually look like this in real life. Yowza.
Justin Hartley, another star of Smallville, was crouched down near the floor, talking to his daughter.
It seemed to happen in super-slow-motion, me reaching for my son shouting “Noooooooooo!” as his little hands, palms flat, landed on Mr. Hartley’s back with a thud.
Since we’re talking about the world of Superman, here, I suppose it was more of a KA-POW!
He jumped up and spun around, a surprised look on his face as I began apologizing immediately. It’s all a bit of a blur, but I think it was something like, “OhmygodI’msosososososorry!” I think I even stuck in a “We’re big fans of your show!” (Complete with awkward laughter).
Fortunately, he was very kind, taking the time to crouch back down and talk to my son for a few minutes, asking his name and if we had big plans for the day. He even introduced us to his wife and daughter.
We made a not so gracious exit as he thanked me for watching the show.
At least I managed to get out of earshot before calling my husband and leaving a “Your son just jumped on Green Arrow!” voicemail.
After recently watching an episode of Chuck in which he guest starred, I said to my husband, “Well, I guess it’s official. I will never be able to watch Justin Hartley on TV without thinking about our kid accosting him.”
Such is parenthood.
I was raised on A.A. Milne. Winnie-the-Pooh, The House at Pooh Corner, When We Were Very Young, and Now We Are Six were staples of my childhood, and their unique language permeated my family’s vernacular. We would often set off … Continue reading
Sorry for my absence. I’ve been knee-deep (at least) in rewrites and beta reading/critiquing. And, you know, the whole raising a kid thing. But he’s happily distracted by an electronic device at the moment (hey, it’s an e-reader for kids! He’s learning something-don’t judge me!), so I thought I’d drop some knowledge.
Becoming a parent does something to you. Well, it does many things to you, but I’m going to focus on one today: the “My kid is a genius, so I must record for the world and all of humanity his every accomplishment” thing.
We all do it, and our friends all smile and say things like “Wow! Look at that. That’s really impressive. Yup. That finger painting does look just like it’s from Monet’s Water Lilies series.” The friends who are also parents then lavish us with stories and pictures of their own kids, and we marvel at the infinitesimal odds of us both having child prodigies. The ones without kids nod and smile politely, their eyes glazed, just waiting to get home so they can lament their crazy friends. We know this, and laugh at their naïveté—I mean, they just don’t get it—but they get the last laugh by staying up late watching R rated movies and sleeping in until 9AM.
Touché.
We exist in a blissful ignorance, a bubble of parenthood that makes us forget what it’s like not to have kids. We become immersed in a world of amazement, every first a tiny miracle to our mom and dad brains, and we worry that if we miss something, we might forget. The time flies by with amazing speed, the firsts going by in a blur, so we do what we can to catch them and keep them. And we NEED to share. Because no other child has ever done such amazing things!
We really are doing this for the greater good. Our photos, videos and Facebook updates (“Wohoo! He pooped in the potty!”) are history in the making. I mean, what if he’s The President someday, and I didn’t capture the moment, highlighting his early flashes of brilliance, foreshadowing his future as the leader of the free world? I clearly owe it to AMERICA to take this picture:
I mean, he’s not even four yet, and he’s writing words.
Okay, he may have some spacing issues, but writing BOAT is pretty impressive.
Well, BOA
T.
What do you suppose he’s telling us? Our economy is adrift in uncertain waters, in danger of running aground? We need find a safe harbor in order to weather the storm, or face the prospect of a global economy collapsing under its own weight?
That’s probably it. He’s boiled down the Greek debt crisis into a single word, a beautiful metaphor.
Told you he’s a genius.
As parents, we’re willing to do practically anything for our kids. Sadly, this often involves subjecting ourselves to painful entertainment, much to the delight of our little ones who find the music/television show/fill in the blank kiddie entertainment to be … Continue reading
Since today is cold, windy, and generally crummy (ahh, the joys of November in the Upper Midwest), and I feel like talking about adoption, I think I should touch on the lighter side of the process. There’s a lighter side, you ask? Why yes, there is. There are things that, while happening, were thisclose to sending us off for a mental health evaluation, but with the benefit of time, we can look back upon and laugh. Hopefully. So enjoy a few laughs at our expense as our tale of woe unfolds…
Adoption involves paperwork. A lot of paperwork. In Wisconsin, we are blessed with an even greater pile to work our way through, as Wisconsin requires you to have a licensed foster home in order to house your child from placement until the adoption has been finalized. Where are the fire extinguishers located? Has your water been tested? Sign this affidavit that you will have licensed daycare for your child, should daycare be needed. Take a car seat safety course, a SIDS awareness class, background checks, driving record checks, provide copies of your homeowner, auto and health insurance policies, fill out this criminal records search form…well, you get the idea.
In 2006, the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act was passed (in my opinion, much needed legislation), which added one more bit of paperwork/bureaucracy to the adoption process. You see, prior to this law, all the background checks were done on a local and state level, thus, someone who had a record in another state could fall through the cracks. This law required a FBI background check (fingerprints through the database) for potential adoptive parents. No problem, right?
Wrong.
You see, in September of 2007 when we began our adoption process (on a RUSH RUSH RUSH because our son was due in January), I learned a little fact that would come back to haunt me. Wisconsin had requested, and been granted, and extension in enacting the Adam Walsh Act. Meaning? The state would not begin conducting the federal background checks for adoptions until 2008. Well, guess what? We were adopting out of state, where they required the check.
You can see where this is going. You’re a savvy reader, and I have utmost faith in your reasoning and forward thinking nature.
Apparently, we were the FIRST and ONLY couple this EVER happened to. Calls to our adoption agency (across the border in Minnesota, where they didn’t have this problem), local agencies, the Wisconsin Adoption Information Center (oh, the irony) and even our local field office of the FBI were all met with baffled “Umm’s” “Aaahh’s” and “Gee, I really don’t know, can I get back to you’s” (Still waiting for the call back, by the way). After a day of pounding my head against the wall (okay, I took scheduled breaks, but still…) I finally used the magical Google, and found the FBI forms online. Even found the address for rush processing. I printed out the forms and after a call to our local sheriff’s department, my husband and I went in to get our prints taken.
Problem solved, right?
Oh, no, dear reader. No, no.
At the county jail—fun!—my husband already pat-searched and on his way back to get his prints taken, the voice of GOD crackles through the officer’s walkie-talkie. And by God, I mean, the head honcho, whom I had just spoken to on the phone not an hour earlier.
“Wait, what are they doing here?” he demands.
“They need to be fingerprinted for an adoption,” says the officer.
Oh, boy. My officer has stopped the pat-search mid-pat, my husband and his officer frozen at the big, scary metal door. This can’t be good.
“What do you mean?” head honcho asks. You can hear the head scratching through the walkie-talkie. I swear. Some gears grinding, too.
“They’re adopting a baby,” the first officer says, slowly, like that will help.
“I just talked to him on the phone.” I say, a little too much irritation in my voice as I point to the radio on his shoulder.
“She says she just talked to you on the phone.”
Silence.
“Hang on, I’m coming down.”
Oh, great.
After several agonizing minutes, watching the comings and goings at the county jail, down comes A Very Irritated Man. The Voice.
“So, what is it you need?” he asks.
I stare at him for a moment, my mouth agape. My gaze falls to the cardstock fingerprint forms in my hand. I sigh, look over at my husband who gives a helpful eye roll, and finally return my attention to Mr. Very Irritated.
“We need our fingerprints taken. For an adoption. See?” I hold up the forms. “I printed these out. You said to come in.”
“I can’t just give fingerprints out to anyone,” he insists, shaking his head.
“But they’re my fingers. Attached to my hands. I’m not asking you for his fingerprints,” I say as I point to a nearby (presumed) miscreant. “I mean, it’s just ink, right? What’s to stop us from going to Office Max, getting an ink pad, and going to town on the thing?”
Oops. Too far, Michelle. Too far.
“No,” he says. Firm. Resolute. “I can’t do this without some sort of authorization.” He shakes his head like he’s dealing with children. “You have an attorney, right?”
“Uh, yeah, we do. Two of them, actually. One here, and one where we’re adopting. Out of state.” I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but still can’t believe them. Am I imagining this whole thing? Is this really what has come to pass?
“Well, pick one and have them get in touch with me.” And with that, he turns and walks away.
“Sorry,” the other officers say, quietly, as we leave.
We don’t speak as we make our way back to our car, too stunned for words.
“Did that just happen?” my husband asks as he buckles his seatbelt and starts the car.
“Yeah, I think it did.”
As we drive past the first gas station on our way home, he observes, “If we go rob that place, they’d fingerprint us without a problem.”
Yes, yes they would.
