Occupation: Dad

Special Appliance

2011-12-25T10:32:00.000-06:00

For Christmas Gong Zhu got an Easy Bake oven from Saint Nicholas!! She's going to try it out. She says, "Now Mama, this is not your everyday oven!"

Oracle . . . of Sales

2011-11-27T08:46:00.001-06:00

GongZhu found a free promotional calendar that we got from a "mail order" company and knew it had to be hers. She put it in a 3-ring binder to make it part of a "book" she'll continue to create. She seems impressed at all the advice it gives such as, "Last chance to order for Easter!" Once set up, she was very eager to show the book to Mommy. Opening to the cover page of the calendar, she pointed to the bold numbers "2012" and excitedly and earnestly pronounced, "It tells the future!"

SquareDad LoserPants

2009-07-25T02:15:00.008-05:00

One day (earlier this summer) my children & I were "playing tennis." (By "playing tennis," I mean only that were using a tennis court, balls and racquets, and we were attempting to hit the balls ... WITH the racquets. Any other similarity to the sport called "tennis" was purely coincidental.) I made a bad shot and my 5 year-old daughter said to me, "Lo-ser", in the sing-songy taunting way that I'm sure the teens think is so '02 (if they remember that far back). This verbal act was the first violation of our rule "It's OK to watch SpongeBob as long you don't ACT like SpongeBob." What I really mean by that, is that it's not ok to act like Squidward, or Patrick or King Julien (yeah I know, different show) ... etc, but the former formulation is catchier ....

Yes, we let the kids watch "SpongeBob SquarePants." We continue to do so only because the humorous anecdote just related is an anomaly. How did it all start? Well, I've been familiar with the images for most of the ten years it's been on television. (When I taught 4th grade I had a student who, in his "spare" time, would adorn his margins with perfect SpongeBob character likenesses making witty comments, often of his own invention.) But until less than a year ago, I knew nothing of the content of the show. From promotional footage, I had the impression it was a lot of belch- and butt-oriented humor. As our son approached 7, it wasn't that there was anything very offensive about the samples I saw. Heck, by that time he had already been through several bodily function obsessions with absolutely no help from network TV producers whatsoever. It seemed, however, watching such shows would be a big step away from innocence. Then I started catching an episode of "SpongeBob ..." here and there, while doing dishes, scanning the channels, yatta yatta yatta, there was nothing else on. (Yeah, I know, I'm 40 ... ish ... going on 10. Who doesn't know this already?) So now: this show is funny. It's not just poop humor (except "People order our patties" but that's another story). It's so much more. It has characters that are clever caricatures, witty irony, and some good old physical comedy and drooling to boot. But still, irony ... yeah, sarcasm, too, plus all sorts of subjects—crime, greed, "sailor talk", fist fights, etc.—that are just not present in the likes of "Diego ...", "SuperWhy," etc. My children watching this? That would be a more profound stride away from innocence than I'd initially thought.

Nevertheless, we allowed Nickelodeon in the kids' faces, and after their 'softcore' Nick Jr. "playdates" with Dora, etc., the "SpongeBob..." promo's beckoned. One day "SpongeBob..." came on and Mrs. OccupationDad didn't turn it off. I think I objected once and was gently told it's probably OK for them to watch. I'm pretty sure I didn't object again for about 20 minutes, because I hadn't seen those episodes yet myself.

We debated about it, but a new precedent had been set, and my mild concern was little match for it. Once Mrs. OccDad realized how funny the show was, it was all over. The advantage is we all have a show we can laugh at together. No more occasional attempts to sneak in a tamer episode of "Seinfeld" at dinner.

Of course, our son is seven now. He's fully authorized to watch ... because I have complete faith that the "TV Parental Guidelines Monitoring Board" and "individually-participating broadcast and cable networks" are lookin' out for our young'un's. You betcha'. (Yes, you detect sarcasm. Feel free to imagine that statement being uttered by Squidward at his sardonic best.) But what about Gong Zhu? She's but a tender 5 years old. Well, I figure, there are SpongeBob pajamas in her size, and if she gets much bigger she'll be in the "Hannah Montana" section, so it would appear we're right on target. In reality, it's about equity. No, she doesn't get to do everything her brother gets to do But this is a hard one to "developmentalize." Putting her in front of another TV with a "Blue's Clues" DVD seems even more of a descent into contemporary suburban stupor.

I suppose we could just altogether turn off what my dad often called the "idiot box" and get on with our lives. Ahhh but who are we kidding?

So it just is: We watch SpongeBob.

And yes, the "It's OK to watch SpongeBob, as long as ...." rule is real one we actually discussed with the kids.

The aforementioned "loser" quip notwithstanding, it's worked. Outside of literally quoting, or acting out scenes or dances from the show for fun, they almost never imitate TV in real life interactions.

The second little, teensy exception is our son's new affinity for the word, "WHAAATever." He has given this laconic response in real conversations, with more than a hint of Squidward's slack tone. So, yeah, we've had to review the rule there, too.

All this agonizing over 22 minutes (now and again), of a frolicking, hyperactive cartoon Sponge, a drooling Starfish and a squirrel in a diving helmet. I guess it's a bit much.

But admit it: for you it was worth it all just to picture that little Gong Zhu, who had choosen to be our lowly "ball girl," on the tennis court that day, haul off and call me a "looo-ser." You just love it, don'cha'?

Yeah . . . . WHAATever . . . .

Vanity: Hair Today, What Tomorrow?

2009-07-23T23:35:00.049-05:00

Today I noticed how shiny Gong Zhu's hair was after I had combed it a bit and had stuck in one barrette. I complimented her on it. She quickly checked the mirror. The concentrated grin, the unmistakable look of pride and (dare I say?) vanity on her face was remarkable and ... a little scary. I used to be a "feminist"—feminist enough to call myself only "pro-feminist" for fear that some womyn feminists might think no man could be a true feminist. Now I'm a little too busy trying to get the dishes done to worry too much about gender agendas. Nevertheless, I don't want my daughter to think more of her "value" as a person comes from her appearance than it does from her intelligence, compassion, strength, yatta, yatta, yatta .... I hope I'm not sending that message to her.

Of course, I compliment her all the time on her accomplishments—clever things she thinks and says, crafty things she makes, physical feats in the backyard, etc. Is the proportion of this praise to "you look very pretty" high enough? I know I tell her she's pretty more than I tell Sponge that he's handsome. I have no idea if I'm unintentionally overdoing the pretty praise. I'm not known for being a cultural lemming, but really these days I just take my cues on this one from everyone else. They're all heaping on the "you look beautiful"'s like she's the empress with no clothes and she'll off with their heads if she finds out the truth. In fairness, she is the cutest little one you've seen. (If I weren't paranoid about their safety, the Internet, etc., I'd pull out the photos and prove it to you a-good-one, I would). And she doesn't let her cuteness go unnoticed, with her usually effusive, command-the-room personality.

So there it is. If she starts perceiving herself as a human doll, it's not necessarily my fault. I blame her. I blame society. Seriously, I guess I'll just have to be mindful and do what seems right.

In the meantime, I have even gotten my own ego stroked via her "vanity". The other day I decided to put her hair in a hair band instead of doing a ponytail or barrettes. (I had rarely used the hair band, but it seemed like it would work for that day.) I struggled as I usually do with her hair—fine motor skills, straight lines, etc.: not my forte. I got it done without loops of hair sticking out at odd angles and what-not, and, frankly, that was accomplishment enough. I made it past at least one impatient sigh (I can't compete with mommy for outcome or speed), and Gong Zhu's hair wasn't a disaster. She responded, "Can I least look in the mirror before we go?" I consented, and she went for the full-length one that she can see into, in the bedroom. I heard, "Baba, it's beautiful? Will it stay this way until I get to our friends' house?"

Nice! It's all in day's work, baby. All in a day's work.

Trains Without Eyes

2009-06-17T15:11:00.007-05:00

Did I ever tell you this story? (Note that it happened a year or more ago, when Gong Zhu's didn't speak English as grammatically as she does now.)

Sponge is a big fan of Thomas the Tank Engine. Gong Zhu, then, has enjoyed a lot of Thomas . . .
One day we went by the part of the train yard in town where they keep the engines when they're not using them. We pointed them out to Gong Zhu. She looked at them for half a minute then very earnestly asked, "Why those trains not have eyes?"

A New Smurfy Record

2009-06-14T00:15:00.008-05:00

Here's a record I never thought would be broken. Never thought, because I never would have thought anyone would try to . . . .
Just take a look.

Simple Truth

2009-03-08T20:59:00.019-05:00

I was walking a friend of Sponge's to our house today. Noticing the nice, strong breeze, he commented, "This would be great kite-flying weather!" Of course, I would have called it something else. The breeze was actually a 15 mph wind out of the north, blowing sleet into our faces as we walked on ice and about 1/2 inch of slush. Gotta like his positive attitude.

At our house we told the same friend that one of our cats had recently died. He said, "That makes me really sad. All cats are precious to me. I don't know why, they just are."

I like cats. We will miss Spooky.

The kids didn't dwell on sadness, however, and were soon playing pretend, including elements of Star Wars. Our young friend explained to our daughter, " Jedis have these things called light sabers. They can cut through anything; you can just put it through a door and cut right through it. It's as simple as that."

I would say our young friend sums up life's complexities pretty elegantly. It's as simple as that.

A 4 Year Old Joke

2009-01-02T20:21:00.003-06:00

Gong Zhu told us this one:

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
A joke.
A joke who?
A joke is knocking on your house.

I think . . . she made it up herself.

Gong Zhu's Movie Review

2008-10-13T09:16:00.067-05:00

Gong Zhu has gradually become a part of the 'princess club.' She is very into dresses, shoes (even if they are not glass slippers), anything pretty pink or purple, fancy dancing and, of course, princesses. The first sign was only hours after we were united with her, when she dug out of a suitcase the few pretty dresses we had brought to China for her and insisted on changing into them. It culminated after she found "Cinderella" in one of our storybooks and wanted us to read it to her. Soon after was the Disney movie of the same; then one of the sequels. For a couple weeks after it was a rarity if I was not asked to answer to "Cinderella;" call her "Anastasia;" her brother, "Drizella;" and poor Mama, not step-mother but "mean stepmother." We were not going to the grocery store or our friends house, we were going to the "ball." Frequently, failing someone to play the role of fairy godmother, I was only permitted to go after some negotiation.

The above summary goes to explain how we came to watch "Beauty and the Beast" (Disney), not to traumatize our daughter, but at her confident request. Watch, mind you, with remote at the ready, one finger on "fast forward," another on "stop." The film has a number of suspens . . . OK, OK, scary parts. Gong Zhu snuggled in close to Mama during the first several scary scenes, with little whimpers, but could not look away. After a while, at the first sign of animated danger, she would just begin to ask what was going to happen, and how we knew — to be quite sure it would end up all right. She seemed OK with it all, and wanted keep watching.

By the time we reached the happy ending she seemed quite relaxed. She immediately pronounced her verdict in a calm, sweet, sing-song voice very out-of-place for this girl who forcefully speaks her mind when she's emotional: "Mommy, . . . I never want to see that again."

A Grown Up Realization OR "TELL me about it"

2008-09-22T10:56:00.017-05:00

The kids were cleaning up the playroom the other day. (Well, de facto playroom. It used to be a sunroom.) It had gotten quite messy and previous attempts at getting them to clean it up had been interrupted by life. This time, however, there was time, we were holding them to it, and they were really working at it.

Well, the hard work they were doing — like many "real life" experiences — really got them thinking and talking.
Gong Zhu took a break from the rigorous toil, came up to me and said, "Gohgo [big brother] and I talking, we not have any room for all presents."

"Huh?"

She repeated herself.

"What presents?"

As if I were quite dense, she explained, "All presents we going get from Santa."

"Ahhh, ... right!"

Indeed! This is a problem we have oft considered in the past and one which daunts us again and again with each approaching gift-producing holiday.

Remediating Cat-astrophe

2008-07-31T20:56:00.088-05:00

The comment on the last post brings up a good topic to reflect back on: Gong Zhu and cats, pets and other animals. Ms. Bratt mentioned that (in her experience) most children from China don't like cats. Gong Zhu likes cats now, but that wasn't always the case. She kind of had to adapt: we have three cats.

After we were united with Gong Zhu in Guangzhou and we would walk around the neighborhood of the hotel to go eat, etc., occasionally we would see someone out with a dog. She would point excitedly and say 狗狗 "gáu gáu" [doggy]. There was also a statue of a person walking a dog that we saw almost every day; she was very interested in that dog, too. We were encouraged: perhaps she liked furry critters and would enjoy our cats. Not so much. When we got home pretty much terrified of our cats.

So how was it that, a month later, one of our biggest concerns was how to deal with Gong Zhu going to a family Christmas celebration at which a "dog cousin" would be present? She had made clear in a number of ways that she did not want to be in the house with this dog, including simply saying, "我唔中意狗;我中意貓!" "Ngóh `mh jung yi gáu; ngóh jung yi maau!" [I don't like dogs; I like cats!"] And she said it with an expression that seemed to imply that it was the most ridiculous thing in the world for me to not understand that she liked cats and that therefore it was absurd that she would even think about liking dogs.

The first sign that her affinity for animals was different that ours was during our travel group's trip to the Guangzhou Zoo. She was not at all afraid of the animals in the regular habitats and enclosures. We came upon a small, but still fenced area, where several ostensibly tame animals were (sadly) tethered with short chains. There were goats, monkeys, even domestic dogs. We stopped to look. One of the small monkeys climbed off of a pedestal on which it was sitting and started to approach us. Even though it was several feet from the fence and quite obviously chained, Gong Zhu cried out and clung to Mama like ... well, like a cat you're about to drop in a bath. Although I reassured her (in my poor, simple [but previously effective] Cantonese) that the monkey couldn't come out, she wanted to get far away from there, fast!

Fast forward to the day, here at home, when she first met one of our cats: the very same reaction. OK, we have a little bit of work to do.

And we did. Whenever the cats came near she wanted to be picked up and/or held. We did that, but also comforted her repeatedly saying the the cats were nice, wouldn't hurt her, etc. Gradually, she would allow the cats to walk by on the other side of the room with out needing to be airlifted out; then halfway across the room, and so on. It was gradual and yet fairly quick progress.

But as to actually liking the cats? The interest in befriending them came with surprising suddenness after just a few weeks. One day she saw the cat nearby and wanted me to pick her (Gong Zhu) up. She looked at the cat then told me she wanted to touch him. I was shocked, but calmly let her try. She did and didn't freak out. But after a few seconds that cat turned his head toward her hand and she yanked it back. Over the next three days, she did the same thing a few more times. After that, she seemed genuinely fond of the cats, though she retained a wariness that also wore away gradually.

As the previous post illustrated, she is quite comfortable with the cats now, and once in a while she will "manhandle" them in a way that I am reluctant to do.

Ironically, one of the holdout pet fears is that of the only animals in which she seemed interested when we first met her: dogs. A friend of ours who is originally from China told us many children in China are taught to stay away from dogs for safety. Makes sense. I don't know if this was the case with Gong Zhu. Certainly, dogs are much more active and "in-your-face" than other animals she has met. Her apprehension of dogs is not as intense as her first fears. Not surprisingly, it depends on the situation and mainly only occurs with larger dogs.

Nevertheless, Gong Zhu has come a long way with animals in just a short time. In the last couple of months she has gotten close to horses, pet rabbits, touched chicks, played with a small (chewing) puppy, gone into a petting zoo (no fence) with over a dozen goats and pet a number of them, and rode (with Mama & the Bünj') on a camel at the zoo.

Without enumerating the plethora of immense changes she has undergone in the last eight months, this is just one way Gong Zhu has amazed us.

Superhero

2008-07-29T23:02:00.042-05:00

(But first . . . I must record some stories from the present. Well, this bit, anyway.)

Today the sprinkler was on and the cat was outside. Mei Mei, logically, decided it would be a good idea to wet the cat. So she took — what else — a toy sword and repeatedly applied small amounts of water to the cat's fur. She also experimented with other applicators: a toy plastic hockey puck and a pop can. (I'm not kidding.) She used the outside of the can, like a roller; she didn't pour water on the cat. In this, she is wise.

Once or twice she told me or Mrs. OccupationDad that she was putting water on the cat. When asked why, she said, "I giving her bathtub."

"You're giving him a bath?" I clarified.

"Yes."

OK, purpose; that's good.

Soon it was time to dry the cat with kitchen towels. She didn't have to say this: "Y' know, this kitchen towel would make a darn good cat dress."

Before you know it, I was an accomplice, helping her tie it on. Well, then it was ON. (Not the towel, the comedy.)

I asked Mei Mei, "Is Tigger your buddy? You like to dress him?"

She smiled, "Yeah, now her pretty!"

Soon Tigger got up and began to walk, his regalia looking more like a cape. Mei Mei noticed, "He a superhero."

It's about 77 degrees, and the cat has the built-in fur coat under the dress/cape; he's a good cat.

When Mei Mei charmed me into trying to put towel number two on the cat (who, incidentally has all of claws) as a "skirt," I should have known even this saintly cat would draw the line somewhere. Fortunately, he didn't draw that line in blood on one of our arms. No one was injured in the momentary, but quite clear, resistance. Once the skirt plan was scrapped, peace was restored.

I have no big finish for this one ... except pictures ... 1000 words; you do the math.

Well, ... maybe a superhero on vacation.

Long Time No See

2008-07-29T22:29:00.015-05:00

OK, so ... OK, so here's what happened. We packed and packed, and got ready, and got nervous, and went over our important documents 5 more times, and then about 20 hours before we had to leave our laptop's hard drive failed, and then it got fixed in the nick of time (thank you Apple Store) and we got up at 4am and left for China.

We went to Beijing, acclimated, de-jet-lagged, learned about our daughter's homeland, then flew to Guangzhou to be united with her.

She met us, obediently did as her escort (the orphanage director) told her — called us Mama, Baba & Goh-go (Mommy, Daddy & big brother) and then burst into tears. Each day that followed held some tears and grief but also the wonders of smiles, fun together, and beginning to get to know and love each other.

This new turn in all of our lives took place last November. Now Mei Mei is fully, wonderfully a part of our lives. Things that happened three days ago, let alone events of 9 months ago, she describes — in English, a language she'd probably never heard back then — as "long time ago." (Nevertheless, we try to keep that past alive, and find out about her life before we were united with her.)

It's about time I put some of the stories from the adoption, China travels, etc. up here. (Yeah, we wrote some of that stuff down elsewhere.)

OK, ALL RIGHT I admit it, we kept a personal China blog for family, friends, etc. and didn't write a damn thing on this blog. But I'll make it up to you . . . somehow . . .

Need Cheering Up? Remember: Things Fall Apart

2007-10-23T15:50:00.001-05:00

Today's excitement is very common among the Kindergarten set, but it's a little weird when you think about it for a while, at least from a grown-up perspective.

Let me back up, though. The Bünj' was eating a sandwich but all of a sudden he started whimpering and sobbing to himself and saying, "ouuuuch." I comforted him, and asked him if he hurt himself, where, etc. He said he bit his teeth down too hard; he must've bit his lip. I tried not to make too much of it and let him get over it. Then the whining ramped up a little more. Something about him biting down too hard again and it not going away. I wasn't getting what he was saying (any more than he knew what the problem was). He kept talking about his teeth, not his tongue or lips. So I asked him what he meant and looked. Was his tooth moving?

"Is your tooth moving?"

"Yeahhh," he whined.

"Do you have a loose tooth?"

The whining stopped on the instant. First was the moment of comprehension, then the wonder spread across his eyes.

I looked closer, "Sure enough, you have a loose baby tooth. I see your new tooth coming in right behind it!"

This observation elicited a huge grin. He started wiggling around excitedly. "So that must've been why my teeth kept hurting when I bit down. I was biting down on my loose tooth! he said, as if the incident about which he was just sobbing was his most cherished memory.

I've never seen pain turn to cheer so quickly. And all because his body is getting ready to shed a piece of itself.

At my age, if stuff is falling out or off, it's nothing to celebrate. (Well, expect maybe a particularly nasty scab; but that's just really the relief of being slightly less bestial again.) I guess the loose tooth days (heck, even the pimple-popping era) are now the subject of wistful memories.

Anyway, the Bünj' continued his excitement and he thought right away to call the Müms at work to tell her all about it.

Even hours later when his friend called on the phone, the Bünj' immediately told him he had "very exciting news." His friend — 5 year old friend, that is, and a first baby tooth veteran — needed no clues whatsoever.

"Did you lose a tooth?" he asked instantly. They all think alike sometimes (especially these two).

The ensuing brief flurry of conversation was plenty to convince anyone — even those who couldn't appreciate how darn cute it was — that this was truly a landmark event.

Quotable

2007-10-20T10:17:00.001-05:00

"Ughhh. It's hard to have boxes as feet!" That's what I heard Bünj' say a couple of minutes ago. I turned around, and he was walking with each foot in a cardboard box (about 10" X 10" X 12").

I think he's probably right.

Rats: Still Not Popular

2007-10-19T09:54:00.000-05:00

I was searching for something else on the Internet and I stumbled on something . . . well, here is the headline: "Rat adoptions static despite Disney movie 'Ratatouille'".

And a quote from the article: "In our seven stores, I doubt if we sell a rat a week," says Burton Patrick, who owns Pet Supplies . . . ." Apparently he "had anticipated "Ratatouille"-related sale increases . . . ."

Rats: still not popular. Go figure.

Mr. Patrick's sales numbers are being topped about twelve-fold by another pet seller quoted in the article. He admitted, however, the reason was probably that his was the only pet store in town that sold live rats for feeding to snakes.

It's a tad ironic that I'm amused by this story, since I actually think most furry creatures are pretty cute, including rats — at least the ones in pet stores. The other day, however, I had a conversation with a friend who painted a pretty clear picture of how and why she found rats so creepy and disgusting. Most people are probably with her. And I'll wager it's going to take more than an animated Disney rat — a feral rat traipsing around a restaurant kitchen, no less — to polish the image of these overgrown rodents known primarily for their infestation and disease-spreading skills. The Bubonic Plague is just one of those skeletons-in-the-closet that will severely challenge even the slickest imagemakers.

So, rats and rat-sellers, go ahead and hope for the best, . . . but I wouldn't put a downpayment on that house on the coast just yet.

Do They Trick-or-Treat in China? OR We're Going to China!

2007-10-09T14:54:00.001-05:00

We're going to China!

We now have our travel dates and have even begun a little bit of the packing. We will leave at the end of October and return in mid-Novemeber with Mei Mei!

As we have all along, we plan to go as a whole family — the Bünj' included!

The typical China adoption trip involves:
(1) An optional stop in Beijing to get used to the time change and to learn about China — see the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, etc.
(2) A stay in your child's home province to be united with her or him and do some of the legal paperwork
(3) A stay in Guangzhou to do final paperwork — the adopted child's U.S. Visa & immigration forms — at the U.S. Consulate there.

In our case, we will do the optional Beijing tour. We believe this will be especially good for getting the Bünj' used to being in China and night being day and day being night. Then we fly to Guangzhou, since Mei Mei lives there. Our flight home leaves from Guangzhou. So we only have the two China destinations.

We booked our flights to China and back. We won't get our in-China itinerary (hotel reservations, flights) for a week or two.

I'm pretty anxious about getting everything ready, making sure we don't forget any of the irreplaceable important documents, keeping our luggage under the weight limit, etc., etc. And of course, I'm nervous but very hopeful about Mei Mei making a good transition in her first days, as well as the coming weeks, months and years.

But, of course, we are so very excited. We can't wait to meet and be united with our sweet, little Mei Mei.

Matched: Mei Mei

2007-10-09T14:31:00.001-05:00

By way of continuing the recap of our recent adoption news, here is the announcement letter we sent out in July when we were matched with Mei Mei.
____
It is with overwhelming joy and gratitude that we announce the referral of our daughter! The picture was taken in December, 2006.

Here's what we know so far:

Her birthday is in April, so she is three years old — just two years younger than the Bünj'. She is living with a foster family in Guangzhou, China, and has lived with them since she was 11 months old. Guangzhou (sometimes called Canton) is in southern China and has a very tropical climate.

She is described as "active," with a ready smile. She is not timid. She likes music. She gets along well with others, but is "sometimes obstinate." (What three year old isn't?) She is "talkative," just like her daddy and big brother-to-be. Her favorite activity is going down slides.

We think she is perfect!

The normal wait to travel is between 3-6 months. The average is 110 days. That means, with any luck, we'd travel in early November and have her home by Thanksgiving. We will not know our exact travel dates until about 1 month before we go.

Given the increasing wait times to adopt from China, we were not expecting to be matched with a child for many more months. However, the Chinese Center for Adoption Affairs periodically sends a list of special needs and waiting ("older") children to our adoption agency. Our agency circulates the list to all of their clients in the country who are adopting from China. We saw her on the most recent list, and we both just fell in love with her. We applied to be matched with her and were thrilled when our family was chosen. Her special need is thalassemia minor or thalassemia trait. Thalassemia is a type of anemia. Our pediatrician has looked at her lab results. Her type of thalassemia is not likely to have any effect on her. However, if she has biological children with a man who has the same trait, her children could be very ill. Therefore, she will need to have genetic counseling before she has children.

We would appreciate your prayers for as smooth a transition as possible for her. We can't imagine telling the Bünj' when we was three, or at any age, that he was going to go live with strangers on the other side of the world who looked different, and spoke differently and ate different foods. We have been taking Mandarin Chinese lessons for a couple of months and our Chinese teacher is also teaching us how to make some southern Chinese food. We hope those things will make her new life with us easier for her.

We want to thank all of you for supporting our decision to adopt. We can't wait to meet Mei Mei and for our family and friends to meet her as well. As we learn more, we will keep you updated.

Waiting, a Change and a Match

2007-10-09T14:00:00.001-05:00

I can't go completely in reverse chronological order, or you won't know what's going on.

So to quickly summarize: we were in the "regular" adoption-from-China process. That is, we submitted information on our family along with a request for a child, including the sex (girl) and age range (as young as possible) we hoped for. From that point, we waited for the Chinese government's adoption office (China Center for Adoption Affairs or CCAA) to match us with a child.

Our adoption agency periodically sends out lists of waiting and special needs children. During the time we've been waiting, we have expressed interest of varying degrees in some of these children. A few months ago we were strongly drawn to one of these children, a three year old — Mei Mei. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.) We requested that she and our family be matched. The agency chose us to be Mei Mei's family!

Filling In Gaps Starts . . . NOW

2007-10-07T07:31:00.000-05:00

Ironically, Mrs. OccupationDad encouraged me to start a blog because of blogs she had encountered in the international adoption realm; yet I stopped blogging during some of the biggest moments of our adoption process.

So I had better recap, in reverse chronological order perhaps.

Back

2007-10-07T07:15:00.000-05:00

Why haven't I written a blog entry in so very long? Letting everything else (high priority things, low priority stuff, and outright putzing) crowd writing out of my "schedule," I guess.

Well, in the words of veteran Korean war army cook Frank Costanza, "I'm back, baby!"

(Of course, with a hackneyed but bold [literally: note the font] statement like that, I'll have to follow through. Oh crap)

Searching

2007-05-29T18:37:00.000-05:00

We want to get a bicycle basket for the Bünj's bike. Somehow, though, in the process of shopping for a basket, the Bünj' scored a horn — the classic sort with the squeezy bulb. (In fairness, he's paying for part of it with some of his "gift money.") Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk honk, starting right in the store … I'm thinkin', how is this a good idea? Anyway, that day in the store, Mrs. OccupationDad went off with the Bünj' and I shopped in some other departments. No luck with the bike basket. I had no problem finding them (my wife and the Bünj'), though. In this age of "supercenters" and "Greatlands," maybe the boy is on to something. Each couple could carry a differently pitched horn so in case they separate, they could beep to each other. OK, maybe not.

Anyway, either we put the horn on his bike posthaste, or I'll have to start calling him "Harpo."

Meanwhile, all we have found around here is baskets for girls' bikes. Now we're going to look for a boys' (or unisex) bike basket on-line. Benjamin just suggested that we should first "check boysbikebaskets.com".

Wish us luck.

Rubber Tires Can Save Your Life?

2007-05-27T10:51:00.000-05:00

It is storm season in the Midwest. So I was wondering, are people really safe from lightning in a car … because of the insulating or grounding effect of the rubber tires? Yes . . . and no, as it turns out — at least according to this "lightning safety quiz" (from the Museum of Science, Boston). (I got most of them right.) It's pretty interesting.

Omen

2007-05-21T14:54:00.000-05:00

Perhaps being 40 won't be bad at all. A few days ago I opened up a new jar of jam. The lid looked like this:

Is it a sign?

40

2007-05-09T17:17:00.000-05:00

I turned 40 today. Call me a poor sport, but I specifically hoped for no kind of party this year. Those black "Over the Hill" balloons and "You're really old" jokes thoroughly annoy the crap out of me.

Further — cliché of clichés — I don't want to be reminded that I am both way "older than I feel" and (unfortunately for grown-up's around me, especially Mrs. OccupationDad) way older than I act (i.e., about 12 years old).

Moreover, I ought to have got way more done by the time I'm forty, but I am slow and inefficient.

It's all summarized and symbolized by my anxiety dream the night before last. Many odd things occurred, as happens in dreams. I was on a trip, so was Mrs. OccupationDad, but we were in separate cars. I took a "detour" just for a change of scenery, but forgot to tell her. Then I was all worried I wouldn't catch up with her at the right juncture …blah blah … The road went through a town and then through a courthouse. Then I was on foot going through the courthouse. Then somehow I was in this long public meeting. Soon it was almost over and everyone wanted to get it over with, but then I had something to say and did. But I was all stressed about getting it said while not pissing everyone off because they wanted to go. And the sidetracks when on and on. Delay, inefficiency, stress.

The kicker was when I was waiting around downtown for … something …I was just relieving "it" wasn't waiting for me, for once. I became contemplative and just began thinking, "I just can't believe I'm forty years old and I'm just now finally graduating from high school. I've really squandered my time." (Pathetic existential sigh.)

Yeah, well, that should make me feel good right? It could be that bad. Or worse.

Well, a new era dawns today. It's the first day of the rest of …yatta, yatta, yatta …

Everything is about to change. S-t-a-r-t-i-n-g . . . . . . . . . . . now !

Adoption Is Not Just for the Infertile

2007-05-08T22:34:00.000-05:00

A recent blog entry at the "On Parenting" blog (The Washington Post) was about adoption. As another person who commented on the blog noted, the blogger and the commenters seemed unduly focused on adoption as something for infertile couples.

I hope it's not too obvious to say that it is not only infertile couples who adopt. Adoption doesn't have to be a last resort. We are in the midst of an adoption. We chose to adopt because we love children and because there are many children in the world in need of loving homes. We've had no fertility problems. (We, of course, have one biological child, also known as "the Bünj'" and by many other names.)

To be sure, adoption isn't for everyone. There are many factors in deciding whether adoption is appropriate for someone. As we've learned in the educational component of our adoption process, one must be aware that "being adopted" is a real psychological difference or challenge for a child and a person to cope with as she grows up and throughout her life. Parents must feel they are emotionally equipped to be able to support their child with that issue.

That having been said what, good, healthy biological parent whose child happened to have a physical or psychological challenge wouldn't try to move mountains to help and support him and cope with it.

When you adopt, you don't always know what sort of child to expect; you may know little of her family history. But with a biological child you still don't know who he will be until you have him and raise him. You may know a lot or a little about your family and genetic heritage. But as to what combination helps make your daughter or son who s/he is, that's a gamble no matter what — even without the potential of not-genetic problems or tragic life events. Yet every day people choose to take the risk and have children they plan to love and raise no matter what.

I am the first, however, to acknowledge that (as I said) not everyone has the personality to adopt — and moreover to adopt someone of another ethnicity, to adopt an older child, to adopt someone with special needs, etc.

One of the most difficult parts of applying for our adoption was indicating — in the abstract — what sort of child we were requesting. (In our situation, the China Center for Adoption Affairs [or CCAA] will match us with a child, but they will do so based upon our application and request.) It seems like a sin to say we want to adopt but only within these parameters. Nevertheless, it would be a mistake for parents (and adoption agencies) not to be honest enough to recognize that, given their own backgrounds, there are some situations certain people shouldn't volunteer to get into. We had to admit there are certain levels of special needs children that we don't feel strong enough to be able to give the best care. Yet, strangely, if any such child were chosen for us or born to us, we would care for that child the best we possibly could. It is a near paradox, and I find it disturbing. Yet that is how is happens.

When we talked to our social worker, together we kind of explained it this way: When a couple decides to have a biological child, they hope for the healthiest of healthy, strong, smart, emotionally adaptable children. Even if the child born to them is far from that hope, good parents will raise her and love her just the same. But when you are adopting among children already born and known, how can you hope for the "best", but be willing to love the "neediest"? Choice is involved. It seems to me that it takes a uniquely strong and sacrificing person to say, "I want to adopt the child with the greatest needs." Or even (to be hypothetical), "Choose a child for us randomly." And yet anything less than the former option seems callous.

It comes back to what a person feels capable of taking on. Life may present me with any number of risks I don't choose in advance. There are many risks I feel I am wise not to take, if I have the choice. If I become stranded on a high mountain, I guess I'll do my best. Otherwise, though, I'm not going to take up mountain climbing; I don't have the temperament or coordination for it.

That's just with my life. It seems even more unwise to take risks with other people's lives, like adopting "over your head."

Despite the challenges of adoption, I truly believe the world would be a better place if even more parents who felt they were up to those challenges would adopt regardless of their ability to conceive. There are so many children in our country and all over the world who need parents and homes.

Elevator Protocols

2007-05-08T15:06:00.000-05:00

In addition to trains, Bünj' really likes elevators. It's a cautious, compulsive interest. When he uses real elevators he's really intense, kind of nervous. He insists on strict adherence to protocol: immediate boarding and offloading, he must push the buttons, etc. He respects the elevator. He senses its power.

Rebecca had a couple of professional conferences last month and Bünj' and I joined her on the trips (as is our custom). Beforehand, Bünj' was really looking forward to the elevators (and the swimming pools) in the hotels, particular the "glass elevator" in one hotel at which we'd stayed previously.

Well, we had nice trips, had many good adventures and enjoyed numerous fruitful, if intense, elevator rides.

Well, now we have an elevator in our house. (YES, it's imaginary.) Fortunately, it's our sunroom, not some cramped, dark closet.

You see, we live in a hotel. Bünj' is the manager. We all work here.

When we want to go upstairs in our house, unless we have some serious reality-based reason, we can expect to be told we must step into the sunroom— er, uh, elevator … while Bünj' pushes some buttons and closes the door and then let us out.

Moreover, it's the service elevator. It's the only one we may use. This restriction, we discovered, is quite strictly enforced. Yesterday Mrs. OccupationDad tried to use a different one. Mr. Manager reproached most stridently saying, "You can't go that way. That's for guests!" It's obvious he thought she was the most ridiculous employee he'd ever encountered.

As Mrs. OccupationDad said this morning (when Mr. Manager was still asleep), "It really comes to something when we're regulated to the service elevator in our home."

It's the Blogification of It All

2007-05-07T22:16:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we visited a friend that Mrs. OccupationDad met through a blog. In a sense we really met her yesterday. We've never seen her in person before. (She lives in the Southeast. We [obviously] don't live in the Southeast; although, with the Lake Michigan-cooled weather we've been having lately, it might not be a bad idea. Anyway, the friend was visiting Wisconsin.) So the visit was a sort of consummation of a relationship that was entirely Internet-enabled. Pretty weird.

Of course, it's far from the fast-paced, youth-populated world of chatrooms and "MySpace," etc. The whole friendship developed in cautious-adult time. It gradually grew from blog reading to commenting to personal emailing to a few telephone calls and then finally this visit. All this having developed over the course of . . . I don't know . . . a year and a half, all parties were pretty confident they weren't going to be meeting up with a scam artist, a predator, a psychotic killer or even Dateline NBC.

It was a great visit. And the whole thing is so . . . 21st Century . . .

New Flavor

2007-03-15T14:34:00.000-05:00

I bought the Bünj' a few pieces of taffy when we were in a store yesterday. On the way home he was eating them while I was driving. With each one he was trying to figure out what flavor it was based upon the color.

With one piece he couldn't even guess at first and asked me. I told him I couldn't look and that he should tell me what colors it was or just taste it and see.

"Well," he responded, "I think its toenail polish – vanilla flavor." How could I not think that was hilarious and also be very curious?

At the next stop sign, I turned around to have a look. Sure enough, the taffy had a white swirl in it and the rest was a color I don't think I've ever seen on food. It was, however, a kind of pinkish flesh-tone color, the exact match of which, I have no doubt, is in stock on any department store's nail polish rack — "Blushing Salmon," perhaps.

Fortunately for all, it didn't really turn out to be nail polish flavor. In fact, the Bünj' assured me, it was peppermint/butter flavored.

Uhhh . . . What just happened here?

2007-03-12T22:45:00.000-05:00

The following is an actual conversation between Occupation Dad and an Occupation Dad customer his son.

Benjamin: May I have some buttock tea?
Dad: Uhhhhhhhh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . if you make it, you may.
Benjamin: It has to have buttocks in it.
Dad: Uhhh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . whose buttocks?
Benjamin: Alien buttocks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Because they're in outer space. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And they're even not real, right?
Dad: Uhhh . . . right.

A Wish

2007-02-13T14:32:00.000-06:00

I've made a habit of quipping that by the the time Benjamin is 10, he'll be so exasperated with the forgetful, feeble minds of his parents that he'll merely be tolerating us (hopefully with a little affection). Perhaps I was being a little optimistic to estimate the onset of this sad state of affairs at age 10.

One day recently (during our regional deep freeze), Benjamin and my wife went out to do some errands. Just before they left, Benjamin had found his little umbrella somewhere and was playing with it. He decided to take it along. He said he was bringing it to protect himself from the wind. My wife told him that was a good idea. She went even further, offering the general compliment, "You come up with a lot of good ideas!" (When you're conversing all adultlike with a four-year-old, however, you don't always get the return you expect.)

Benjamin accepted the compliment without modesty, "Yeah, I do." He then sighed and said to my wife, "I wish you did."

"Coming in Second" at DadBloggers

2007-01-30T09:35:00.000-06:00

If you want to, read about how Benjamin didn't like me until he was 4 years old over at DadBloggers.com. The post is called "Coming in Second."

Détente in the House of Mouse

2007-01-26T09:25:00.000-06:00

Check out RunningWithStilettos.com, a blog by a friend of ours. She has some good, funny pieces on there.

Her latest is about some field mice that taunt her cats. That reminded me of some of our mouse adventures of yore.

Many years ago my wife and I rented a farm house. We're pretty big suckers for animals. (Ya' think? Maybe that has something to do with us having had four cats and a dog for a several years.) Anyway, we took in a couple a few no more than five of the begging farm cats that roamed the area.

Being an old farmhouse, the structure was not as tight as modern houses, and we were lucky it was impervious to possums, forget about mice. The cats, no doubt, kept the house relatively free of rodent scat while the mice kept the cats fit and entertained. When these events took place while we were asleep or gone, no problem.

However, when they caught mice in our midst, this was another story. Yes, I know about the balance of nature, the circle of life, and several other ecological clichés. I know the predator-prey thing is going on all around us every hour of every day.

I'm just too damn Disneyfied to watch the little mice's hearts beat in terror as our friends scoop them up in their fangs. Moreover, I have some little hang-ups about watching anything being disemboweled in our kitchen, mouse entrails on our living room carpet, etc. The dead pigeon that one cat brought home was quite enough, thank you. Ten years later it's still hard to forget Nighthawk straining her neck to carry its heavy, plump, juicy body across the barnyard, her plopping it down on the breezeway floor. I remember its wings splayed out like perfect charcoal-grey fallen-angel wings, the dripping stigmata on its breast. Yeechhh.

So at least once, when the cats were having their fun catching-and-releasing one particular victim before making the kill, I couldn't stop myself from intervening. I neither cared for the notion of the mouse (cuteness aside) relieving itself in our cupboards, nor in the cat's finding the critter later and leaving its gushy remains on the bedroom threshold for our bare feet to discover in the morning.

When one of the cats, between teasing releases, had the horrified thing in its teeth, I grabbed the cat ran to the door, threw it open and started yelling, "Let it go! Let it go! Let it go!" Finally, I put my finger in the cat's mouth, and against the force of all nature, pried his mouth open until finally the mouse leapt farther than I've ever seen something so small jump and rocketed off into the shrubs.

Crazy? Maybe. But our "marriage" to these half-tame, half-tiger lap-warmers is an open relationship. They pretend to be civilized and eat by-product-crunchy-O's. We pretend to respect all their hunting, scratching, licking, hairball-horking instincts. But really, we fawn over Mickey Mouse and Stuart Little, and they kill stuff. As long as each of us keeps our "improprieties" to ourselves, no one gets hurt … that we know of …

Backlash to Come (No pun intended)

2007-01-19T09:00:00.000-06:00

I read that a California legislator wants pass a law to ban spanking of children who are 3 years old or younger. (See "Spank A Kid, Go to Jail"
or No-spanking law ….)

Personally, I do not approve of spanking. I think the more you escalate punishment with your child, the more you have to escalate. My wife and I rarely raise our voices with our son, never mind spanking. We don't need to raise our voices or spank, if we so much as use an urgent tone with him, he is practically in tears. It's not out of fear of something severe. We just rarely have to use that tone; he's not used to it, so calmer warnings have an effect. If he doesn't respond to verbal warnings, a "time-out" is more than enough convincing. Why? Firstly, I believe our son is well-attached to us and wants to please us as much as we want to make him happy. Secondly, when we give positive or negative consequences, we follow through and are consistent, and I believe he has internalized this.

Those things having been said, a law against spanking is probably a bad idea. Granted, spanking a baby or very young toddler goes beyond bad parenting. I believe such treatment, at the very least, adversely affects the child psychologically and hurts the parent-child relationship. The problem is that there is a large population of people in our country who feel that as a part of their freedom as parents they have a right to spank, and this right is well entrenched in their social philosophy. With the linking of the news of the anti-spanking proposal on the "Drudge Report," this segment of the population has already tagged the idea as a ridiculous product of the lunatic fringe. This bill is likely to create nothing but backlash.

Moreover, the law seems marginally enforceable. Public social service agencies and law enforcement have a difficult enough time catching and sorting out cases of much more severe abuse. Nevertheless, hoping human service agencies find those individual cases where spanking crosses the line seems the best we can do at this time.

O'Reilly Kidnaps Common Decency

2007-01-18T23:21:00.000-06:00

We'll return to the weight story soon, believe me. First, however, I have to pile on Bill O'Reilly, because he deserves it.

There's this sensational story in the news about finding Shawn Hornbeck and Ben Ownby who had both been abducted some sick predator. Apparently the former boy, who was held for four years, had some "freedom" to go outside, use the computer and telephone, etc. Some are wondering why he didn't just contact the authorities or his parents.

Oprah Winfrey interviewed the parents of both boys and Shawn Hornbeck today. Off camera, Oprah claimed, Shawn Hornbeck said he didn’t contact his parents, "because he was terrified."

Bill O'Reilly, a couple of days ago, not only wondered why Shawn Hornbeck didn't walk away or contact someone, he speculated that the boy may have liked some elements of living with his kidnapper, because he didn't have to go to school, could play all day, etc.

Others have been outraged and even another Fox news host, Greta Van Susteren, challenged his comments.

He implies that by pointing out that this child did not try to escape and should have, he can make parents aware of the danger of abduction and scare them into teaching their children survival skills.

Survival skills? Like when someone kidnaps you and "terrorize[s] [you] with a handgun", do what he says so he doesn't kill you or someone else. When you're 11 YEARS OLD, this may be the only survival skill you can come up, even if you were lucky enough to be prepared by Bill O'Reilly — an honor trauma that Shawn Hornbeck didn't have the good fortune to receive.

Read here where O'Reilly does not apologize: Anger Over the Kidnapping of Two Missouri Boys. That's what he headlined the "memo." It ought to be called "Anger over the kidnapping of common decency." Among other things he says:

After teaching teenagers in high school, it is hard for me to believe that a normal kid would stay in a horrible environment when escape was easy, especially if the child had confidence in his parents. No question this monster Devlin made threats and intimidated Shawn. But teenagers have brains and Shawn had the freedom to get away if he wanted to.

It boggles my mind that Mr. O'Reilly expects an 11-year-old being threatened by a large man with a gun to behave no differently than his students. Given his comments, perhaps he forced kids to take his class at gunpoint.

Given Mr. O'Reilly's harshly-worded opinions (over the years) about those who victimize, blaming the victim is particularly unbecoming.

I'm at a loss for words for Mr. O'Reilly. His comments go beyond ignorance and insensitivity. They are repugnant in the extreme. I question the man's humanity.

The End of an Era

2007-01-11T14:53:00.000-06:00

For my whole life, basically, I've been able to eat and eat and eat with impunity. But that's all come to an end.

Youth and Teaching: Great Weight Control Plans
I was skinny as a kid and as a young adult. About four years ago I became a more moderate weight. I chalked this up to the change in lifestyle. As a teacher, I was quite stressed (… but, yeah, it was all good stress [eustress] … yeah, sure it was …). I hypothesized that this almost constant stress kept my metabolism high and/or that the nervous activity from the prompted burned a lot of calories. Unscientific codswallop? Probably. But that's my "theory".

Being a Househusband: NOT a Great Weight Control Plan
Moreover, the eating opportunities of a househusband versus a teacher are vastly different. As a teacher, breakfast was a quick affair. There were never second helpings at lunchtime as I wolfed it down at my desk while marking papers or planning lessons. I was lucky if I finished my food. Sure there were frequently snacks in the teacher's lounge … they say. But who has time to go to the lounge?

As an at-home parent, I spend half the day in the kitchen it seems. Sometimes it's easier to eat than not to eat, like when Benjamin (a very slow well-paced eater) has been eating for 45 minutes and leaves a little of everything on his plate.

The Gluttony Glory Years
Throughout both of these periods, I ate lot. Mind you, I'm not talking competition grade eating, but people did not hold back with the hollow leg or tapeworm bromides. At meals, family and close friends would without question pass unfinished food to me and (assuming it passed germophobe standards) it was not wasted. I was beloved by many a German grandmother.

The End is Near
About two years ago I noted that the stay-at-home dad "freshman 15" was not leveling off. It then came to my attention that I was no longer in the middle of my "healthy weight" range, but near the top.

In Benjamin's baby and toddler years, true, I wasn't keeping off pounds by being frazzled over getting my grades done nor by hiking between copy machine and classroom. I was nevertheless carrying a kid around a lot, first in that $#@% unwieldy carseat/carrier, then in a sling, and finally just on my hip. Ultimately he became fully mobile, and the living was easy. Too easy.

It's all over now. I was at the CDC website looking something up and ended up at their Body Mass Index Calculator. I am officially 2 pounds overweight. Overweight?!!!?

OccupationDad is many things; many unpleasant things even. But he is not overweight. Something had to be done. It has begun and it is not pretty.

Developing…

What's a Benjer?

2007-01-10T15:04:00.000-06:00

Speaking of nicknames, how did my son become Benjer? Is it just a cute diminutive of Benjamin? Not exactly.

Contrary to popular myth, it is not the case that I accidentally transposed the names of Spencer, our late dog (God rest his soul) and that of my son, outright calling my son "Benjer" by mistake. We're getting closer, though.

In fact, I blurted out the amalgam "Spenciman" at the dog one day, and instantly thought to myself, "Spenciman, . . . that's funny. I guess if he's 'Spenciman', then 'Benjamin' must be 'Benjer'. Heyyyy, I like that! "Benjer". (Yes, it's true; this is what my mind spends its time and resources doing.)

So, at some appropriate silly moment thereafter I called him "Benjer." The boy and the wife . . . they both liked it and it caught on, as did its variant "the Benjer."

So, yes, I gave my son part of the dog's name on purpose. And, no, you can't call him that …unless we say so.

OccupationDüds

2007-01-09T08:20:00.000-06:00

I started out as "Dada" ('a' as in last), my wife as "Mama." These monikers have remained consistent until Benjamin's fourth year — with the exception of The Wiggles phase, for which time he referred to us as "Greg" and "Anthony" respectively.

Some time last year he would substitute "my Mom" and "my Dad" when talking to other people. A few months ago Benjamin began occasionally calling us by our first names. It's not really a "Hey, Homer" syndrome¹ , since he does this only for utilitarian reasons, like when talking to other people (in place of "my mom" or "my dad") or when trying to get my attention down the aisle in a store, when I won't answer to "Dada!!!"

Benjamin loves to "play" with language. For example, he invented the "huggle" — part hug, part snuggle — and identified the "hisby lion" (I still have no idea what this is). Our names were inevitable targets.

So about a month ago we became "Momsy" and "Dadsy." Not too long ago "Momsy" was shortened to "Müms", where 'ü'=oo like in book. I became … I don't even know how to write this … it's in between "Düds" and "Dids."

Often he appends his own diminutive suffix to these, yielding "Mümsit" and "Düidsit" or "Mümsis" and "Düidsis." And it hasn't stopped there. Recently our cats Tigger and Ginger have become "little Tiggsit" and "little Gingit."

He uses these new names everywhere. The result is that that when other people hear him calling out "Düidsit", I'm pretty sure they think he's either speech-delayed or Swedish. The upside is that Benjamin has no problem getting our attention in public: I'm confident we're the only "Mümsit" and "Düidsit" in the store.

_________________

¹As in:

Homer [Simpson]: After all, you wouldn't be here today if I hadn't become the responsible head of a household.
Bart [Simpson]: Hey, Homer, can we have a can of frosting for lunch?
Homer: Okay.
From en.wikiquote.org/wiki/The_Simpsons

In Which I Use the Phrase "Daily Constitutional" Thrice, and Enjoy It Thoroughly

2007-01-04T17:14:00.000-06:00

After my daily constitutional [noun] this morning, I sat down at the computer to work on the weblog . . . (I made some joke about a daily constitutional to my mother-in-law [age not-disclosed … but she was born in the 1930's] the other day. She knew exactly what I meant.)

Anyway, today was my second day of daily exercise in a row. Call it a tacit New Year's resolution, or just having a little time now that the holidays are over. I think calling it a "daily constitutional" will somehow motivate me. Of course, I think a lot of things.

I got up at 6:30am and took a walk. It was very nice. I underestimated, however, both our unusually mild winter and the capacity for brisk walking to heat up my body. 38^oF may be warm for dawn in January, but it's not warm. I also followed the inspired plan of walking a scenic stretch along the lake where there are far fewer annoying trees and houses blocking the wind. Note to self: when walking outside in winter, wear a winter coat.

Whew!

2007-01-04T14:47:00.000-06:00

My wife apparently had some sort of intestinal virus last week. Our memories of the horrible stomach virus of ought-5, which laid waste to the whole family, were still so vivid that we lived in fear for days: segregating all eating utensils and cups, washing our hands every two minutes … my wife even quarantined herself for a while.

While her illness was not enjoyable, it didn't turn out to be the scourge we'd experienced before. And fortunately neither Benjamin nor I caught it!

So when I quasi-randomly link-skipped over to this post (an imagined letter from a detergent manufacturer). I became empathetic and grateful … but mostly amused; it's pretty damn funny.

Chasing Trains

2007-01-03T20:50:00.000-06:00

I wrote a thing about one of the pastimes Benjamin and I acquired this past year. It's titled "Chasing Trains." It's at DadBloggers.

Just Buy Some

2006-12-31T09:38:00.000-06:00

For those of us in (Southern) Wisconsin who miss a little bit of snow at Christmastime (instead of these drizzily Seattle/London holidays of 2006), here's a thought.

Colorado Woman Selling Snow on eBay

Fake News

2006-12-31T09:04:00.000-06:00

A recent poll taken in Southern Wisconsin ¹ showed that 95% of respondents believed global warming is taking place.

In a related story, 97% of Colorado residents polled believe global warming is a load of crap.
_____
¹ Where it hasn't been below freezing (during the day) for 3 weeks.

I Thought The Election Was Over

2006-12-04T12:06:00.000-06:00

The other day Benjamin and I were out shoveling in front of our house. He decided to go check the mailbox. There was a letter in it and he seemed surprised, "Hey! There's a letter." He paused and appeared to be looking at it. Then for a reason I've been unable to determine, said, "Ahhh, it's just Democrats," and closed the mailbox.

Fortunately, it wasn't a political solicition for 2008 already. I was either too tired from shoveling the 6-inch layer of snow from the walks (or too distracted thinking, "Hmmmm, that might be good blog material") to try to get him to explain what his comment meant or where it came from. I note that some of us over a Thanksgiving visit spent a good lot of time shooting the proverbial breeze with a fairly conservative uncle of Benjamin's. I'm sure Democrats must have come up at least a few times.

Even said uncle, though, has never blamed the Democrats for receiving mail, junk or otherwise.

Packing List

2006-11-15T14:56:00.000-06:00

pants
shirts
socks
Winne-the-Pooh toothbrush
Thomas (the Tank Engine) underpants
books
swimsuit
personal flotation device
light-up sword
toddler stacking cups
velcro bear-paw catch game
railroad engineer's cap and neckerchief
3-D Thomas Halloween costume
necktie
dress shirt
dress pants

Sounds like a suitcase full of stuff for the whole family. In reality, it's just Benjamin's "packing list."

We and some friends took a little overnight trip (just into the city) for some fun "kids'" activities. My wife and I were amused by Benjamin's "packing list." We had him pick out some of the clothes and things he's like to bring; the above are some highlights.

As to the tie and dress clothes, those were not our idea, nor did he need them. While he was packing he decided he wanted to wear a shirt and tie. Our destination? The children's museum. (Almost all of you, even those without kids, must know that despite the haute name, a children's museum is a glorified indoor playground with educational displays that the kids manipulate, yank, push, climb on, etc.) No formal attire required.

So with items from baby toys to business dress, my wife and I were just amused by Benjamin's electic selection.

And, yes, he did wear the dress clothes to the children's museum. He was the only person, not the only kid, the only person in the place wearing a tie, . . . . and it was (of course) as cute as heck.

Operating While a Preschooler

2006-11-06T13:13:00.000-06:00

I had a very disturbing dream last night that we let Benjamin drive our car and he drove down the street and out of sight (very safely and straight, I note). We were distracted and didn't follow him and when he came back a couple of minutes later he told us he had run into a child, he thought the child was seriously hurt or maybe even dead. I was horrified for this child, his family, and for the psychological scar that hurting this boy would leave on Benjamin. I was shattered with guilt. Strangely the guilt was not about letting Benjamin drive our car, but about letting him get out of our sight. Of course in the dream he was 5 years old, not 4-1/2.

I don't generally have prophetic, mysterious dreams. My dreams are almost always pretty transparently connected to something in my real life or something I've heard or seen. Though it's not a very mysterious nightmare, I am trying to figure out where it came from. A few days ago, while looking on the internet for information on booster seats I ended up at a car safety website, KidsAndCars.org. It warns about common accidents with kids, kids getting hurt or killed by getting backed over, by setting the car in motion, by getting caught in power windows, etc. It includes testimonials - close calls and tragedies - a couple of which I read. It's sobering information, probably stuff I didn't think about enough before I stumbled on that site.

One of the points the site brought up, which I hadn't really thought of, was why few (if any) American cars have power windows that work like garage doors, with a sensor that stops the window from closing if there is something caught or in the way. Another safety feature the site's backers favor is safer power window switches (ones that are difficult for children to activate accidentally).

I'm not sure what I think about all of that. We can't danger-proof every aspect of every product. On the other hand, these features don't seem that difficult or costly, and apparently on several European models these features are standard equipment. More information is on this "CarsAndKids.org" page: Power Windows Press Release. What do you think?

Turning back to my dream, the website didn't discuss letting 5 year olds independently operate cars on city streets. The bit about Benjamin going off on his own in the car may have been connected to my recent exaggerated anxieties about some things Benjamin did in school. A few times he innocently did and said some silly things to another boy who took offense at them. The boy is known to his parents and teacher to be kind of sensitive. Nevertheless, I was surprised and didn't know what generated the behavior in the first place. The situation seems to be over and never was a big deal. Nevertheless, it riled up my worries. I think both the conscious anxieties and dreaming about what happens to Benjamin and others when Benjamin is out of sight (and not under the guidance of my wife or I) are probably some of the early symptoms of the trouble many (or most?) parents have letting go.

Anyway, one truth is that parenting worries haunt parents even in their sleep, and - so long as it doesn't get out of hand - that's probably not a bad thing.

Meanwhile, Benjamin's driving privileges have been revoked until he's at least 23, even in my dreams.

October Surprise

2006-10-06T14:52:00.000-05:00

You know it's political season when name recognition extends to four-year-olds. Benjamin today picked up a flyer from a realtor, pointed to the realtor's portrait on the sheet and asked if the man pictured was Jim Doyle. Jim Doyle is our governor here in Wisconsin currently running for re-election.

True, Benjamin is not quite ready to identify the Governor by sight. Nevertheless, the Governor, with all due respect, would be, I think, much complimented to have someone mistake the much better-looking, younger, and much less bald realtor in question for him.

Hey, Mike Timmins¹ of Homestead Real Estate, if you're out there, you've got my son's vote.
__________
¹ Names changed to protect the innocent

First Days of School and Railroad Crossing Therapy

2006-10-05T15:00:00.000-05:00

Benjamin has started school and we all had a hard time with it at first. It is hard to turn over care of your child to someone else, particularly to people to whom you are not close. This statement is almost hackneyed, I think, because it is true of so many parents. I don't think I could understand this before I became a father. I doubt I even understood it a couple years ago, when Benjamin was little and this time was so far in the future.

Once the time was upon us, even though we selected his school with great care and deliberation, we were nervous and questioning ourselves.

He started a daily pre-Kindergarten program at the school to which we think we will send him for Kindergarten, 1st grade, etc. When we dropped him off he was cautious and serious for the first couple days. This made sense. He was feeling the effects of a big change in his routine, but was really interested in what was going on in school and wanted to be there.

On the second or third day, Benjamin said I should be sure to drive him home past a railroad crossing, because that would make him feel better. (Benjamin right now is very consumed by all things trains. Also, he has before asked us to drive him past a railroad crossing when he was in a bad mood.) Feel better? What was wrong? He said he was bored because he'd had school that day and that he had missed me. (Bored!!? )

The following day he'd mentioned that he'd cried at school. Cried? (I remained calm so as not to betray my surprise and pity.) I asked why, and he said that he had missed his mama and me.

We talked to his teacher and she said he had cried for a little bit kind of out of nowhere. She asked what was wrong and he said he didn't know. The rest of the time, though, he was involved, acted normal, in a good mood, etc. The next time he cried, he did tell his teacher it was because he missed us.

These happenings set off a spate of self-questioning of our school decision, whether he was ready for school, how we should approach it with him, etc. We were also afraid that while we were preparing him for the transition to school by talking often and positively about it as something to excitedly look forward to, he got the message that it was a very important duty and that he couldn't tell us anything negative about it.

And what was the deal with the 'bored' thing? We talked to Benjamin about that. We finally got to the crux of it once our conversation went this way:

"Are you bored when we take a long ride in the car?" one of us asked.

"No."

"Are you bored when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing?"

"When you guys are with me, or when you're not with me?" he countered.

Huh? Ohhhh. He didn't know what 'bored' meant. In his mind it was the same, we discovered, as being homesick or missing us.

Despite these emotions, he very much wanted to go to school, he always told us, because he really "likes all the activities."

After my wife and I talked about it extensively, and explored it with Benjamin, we agreed on an idea. Maybe he could take something with him to school to cheer himself up, like a picture of us or something.

"No, I don't think that will help. How about a railroad crossing sign? That will make me feel better."

That's right. So now he carries a little toy railway crossing sign from his train set in his pocket. In case he is a bit sad because he misses us, he can just take it out of his pocket and look at and that will cheer him up. As far as I can tell from his reporting, etc., he's never actually done that, but he knows it's there.

We were still concerned, so my wife checked William Sears (Dr. Sears) website. We found it was common for attachment-parented kids to react this way. Dr. Bob Sears's article suggested walking your child to his classroom, perhaps staying a while (and other measures if the child does not become comfortable). Though other parents rarely do this at Benjamin's school, we started taking him right up to the room for a quick goodbye. Sometimes it feels a little awkward to seem like the doting parent. (I'm sure part of that feeling comes from being a teacher and hearing colleagues in Kindergarten talk about clingy parents hanging around the door making it so much harder for the child to get used to staying.) Nonetheless, it's helped Benjamin. He's 4 years old. It's the right thing for right now.

The tears have subsided and, thanks to some patience, talking and a little "R/R X" sign, Benjamin is much more comfortable and happy at school.

Howling Good Time

2006-09-25T15:15:00.000-05:00

I learned some strange things today. I learned that in Egypt people put a certain kind of napkin over their chests to keep the flies away . . . at least according to Benjamin. He told me this interesting "fact" while demonstrating at the lunch table. He elaborated, saying that they use Venus flytrap napkins (though his own napkin was not only devoid of toothy plants but was plain white).

Earlier today I learned that we have at least one howling centipede in our house. Now sometimes when I see a particular large individual of the common type of centipede we have in our house, I want to howl. Anyway, Benjamin told me to look; he was running a pocket comb along the floor so that the teeth looked like moving legs. Then there was a loud howl. "It's supposed to be scary," I was told. I recoiled in play horror, not dissimilar to the way I would react if indeed I saw a real yellow, 50-legged, inch-high howling chilopod crawling on my floor.

For better or worse, apparently this is what staying home all day with me does to one's imagination.

Post-Teaching Stress Disorder

2006-08-25T07:26:00.000-05:00

I liked teaching elementary school, but it could be very stressful. So when I was on that helpful break in the summers, the first sign of school supplies on the store shelves always caused my throat to tighten a little bit. I knew I had better start the mad rush to get the classroom and plans for the year ready.

My issues with time, compulsion, attention, etc. would always conspire to make it a less than smooth ramp-up, though I always made it work somehow.

Since I went "on hiatus" from that profession these last years, I do tense up when I see those school supplies come out. Then, however, comes the sigh of relief and the little smile when I remember that September 5th will just be another day, and that my class size this year is again just 1 — or 2.

The subconscious, however, is less relenting. The night before last I had my second end-of-the-summer teaching nightmare.

Vicarious Nerves

My first one was caused by listening to my niece, who will be starting her first year of teaching this school year, describe what's on her plate in the next month. The first year is always tortuous, with little experience and having to set up everything without really knowing what you'll be doing. Moreover, unlike in some professions, you can rarely have someone just come and help you because all your colleagues are at their busiest exactly when you are. You close that classroom door on the first day and you're never alone, but you're on your own.

Well, getting ready for the first day and the first year is plenty. My niece is also coaching volleyball and has games before the school year begins. Right, not uncommon. But wait, there's more! She's getting married on Labor Day weekend. Not just an intimate little affair with a few family and friends. It's a weekend-long extravaganza at a YMCA camp up north, with lots of folks flying in from the groom's native country.

I think this particular niece is the most organized, practical person in the family, so if anyone can do it well, she can. As for me, the anxiety started buzzing just listening to it all. That night was the first nightmare.

Nightmare 1: What grade do I teach?

I arrived at school to set up my classroom. I wasn't sure if it was the first day of school or the day before, but either way I knew I was in trouble. If only I knew which grade I would be teaching . . . or which room was mine; that would help so much. I didn't want the principal — played in this dream by a former boss — to know, however, that (a) I was ill-prepared (b) I didn't even know where to go. So I wandered the halls hiding from her while looking for clues: an empty classroom with nothing set up, or the like.

I was too conspicuous and nervous; I was having no luck. I hovered discreetly near the office hoping to find the boss out. Then I could make a dash to my mailbox. Certainly something in there would tell me whether I was a 2nd grade teacher or a 5th grade teacher. Of course, I dreaded notes saying, "Why isn't your classroom set up?" and the pile of paperwork I surely already needed to have turned in.

I never did find my classroom and was not in recent memory happier to wake up in our humid, messy bedroom, with my son moaning for his mama as if I was merely an intrusive butler. Not happier, perhaps, until this last teaching dream.

Nightmare 2: UNPROFESSIONAL

The school year had begun a few weeks earlier, but I was sick at home the whole time. I went to school for the first time after recovering the afternoon before I was going to start work again. I knew that my class had been run by a disparate chain of substitutes about whom I knew nothing. Though I again desperately wanted my mail, I avoided the office for fear of the very same principal.

All the other classrooms were embellished and organized nicely, with signs and displays on the doors and inviting bulletin boards. I arrived at my room. Someone had begun to put a display on the door, but it appeared to be made out of plain white paper and cut paper grocery bags. It was something about Hawaii. Most notably, on each classroom door the principal had put a label with bold black print that said, "PROFESSIONAL," except on my door. My door's label said, "UNPROFESSIONAL."

Inside, the room was organized chaos: desks oddly arranged, half-unpacked boxes used to organize stuff, piles of books and papers scattered about. Given the clues I saw, I believed last sub' was trying to manage by being "the cool teacher" but not maintaining control.

Before or during my absence, I apparently failed to get anything ready for my class this year. My principal hunted me down and sternly asked me what I'd been doing all these weeks. I said, "Well, first, trying to get better."

"Well, that's good; that's good, of course. What else?" she answered.

I mumbled something about some plans I had come up with, and said I'd be working there late that night to get things together.

She said that was a good start and left me alone. I stood alone in the disarray trying for hours to organize, to figure out what the subs had been teaching and to plan even just one lesson. Instead, I just ended up moving piles around, and becoming more and more muddled.

One of the challenging kids in the class stopped by. (He must have forgotten something.) His taunting attitude I felt was ominous. I debated whether I would be trying to get the little . . . whatever . . . on my side, or to come down hard on him with discipline.

The dream ended in the frazzled cloud of confusion before the next day's crashing failure had even begun. I woke up anxious but ultimately relieved.

Awake: Blessed "Boredom"

So again I feel blessed that my only lessons, of late, are largely spontaneous ones involving teaching common expressions so that Benjamin can appreciate certain knock-knock jokes, as well as learning the locations of various operational and disused railroads around town.

And, sometimes, I even get to abandon — almost — all responsibility and be the student, as yesterday, when Benjamin taught me a game involving bopping a beach ball around the living room. It was called "Nic Nic Nic Nic Nic Nic," and it's great therapy for PTSD.

Candy Program Scuttled in Committee

2006-08-24T09:45:00.000-05:00

I previously discussed negotiating with Benjamin ("Negotiations with a Preschooler"). Well, Benjamin still tends to propose deals that don't quite have a "carrot" in them for those on the other side of the table.

Yesterday he said to his mom, "Let's start doing this. How about every day when you come from work, you bring me candy?"

He doesn't even eat that much candy. If you give him a big piece, a little bag of something, a lollipop, or a popsicle, he doesn't even finish it. We have candy hoarded from a few parades and holidays back, which we must cull as it gets stale. Maybe he's a candy collector. The end result is that I eat too much candy.

We like that he rations his own candy for whatever reason, so were not about to upset the balance — or the overflowing candy basket — by delivering. The daily candy program is a no-go.

Friends and the Fuzz

2006-08-24T07:55:00.000-05:00

While I'm doing housework or driving, etc., I like to listen to radio, internet radio or podcasts. Here's a story I heard the other day that's kind of sweet. It poses the question how long until you're an "old friend." The answer? Two years, unless . . . . . .

If you're a libertarian, parts of this story about the court case of "United States of America v. $124,700, in U.S. Currency" may anger you, but I like the funny bits. You have to listen to the audio for those.

Magic Cats

2006-08-23T07:01:00.000-05:00

The other day Benjamin, apparently out of nowhere, said, "Tigger is a Guernsey." (Tigger is the corn-on-the-cob-eating cat.) I don't know where he got 'Guernsey' from, but I didn't bat a proverbial eyelash. Holstein, Guernsey ... this is Wisconsin; these words are in the air.

Me: Tigger is a Guernsey?
Benjamin: Yeah!
Me: How do you know?
B: He does Guernsey kind of stuff.
Me: Like what?
B: He's moos.
Me: He's moos?
B: Yeah, he moos.

Now our cat has many unique abilities, but to date I've not heard him moo.

What abilities? Well, he his very sympathetic. Whenever someone is crying, he rushes over, wide-eyed, to offer his assistance, or at least to sniff them a little bit. This happened a number of times in these past few days, what with the hoof-and-mouth and all. Unfortunately, a cat in your face doesn't do much for painful sores in the mouth. (If anything it annoyed the boy more.)

I think I mentioned this before, but Tigger can catch food in his mouth like a dog, but only if it's shrimp. Sometimes he even catches it with his paws.

We also have magic cats, though their abilities seem limited to opening doors when no one is around. We discovered this ability not long after we acquired Tigger.

We had a friend who had found this very friendly cat she called "Tigger." The friend lived in the country and had to leave the cat outside much of the time because Tigger and her German Shepherd had personal differences. Every time we went to see her, Tigger would run up and purr and rub on us. We often asked our friend if she would let us take Tigger, since she had to leave him outside anyway. At a Halloween party she had, when she was a little tipsy, she conceded.

Though we were scheduled to leave town overnight the next day, we thought we'd better take Tigger home with us right away lest she change her mind when sober. We had another male house cat at the time, and of course they hissed and growled like crazy when they met. Unfortunately, we couldn't stay to help them acclimate. Instead we closed them in separate rooms with separate food and facilities.

When we come back they both walked up to us together at the door purring, shoulder-to-shoulder, like they'd been friends their whole lives. I should be wondering at their amazing ability at unaided reconciliation, and actually I often have. Diplomats around the world today could probably benefit from their abilities. But what keeps bothering me is, how did they get that door open? Either they can use door knobs, or they're magic cats.

They have done it since and they will do it again. But never when we're watching.

Me: Tigger, moo.
Tigger: Meow.
Me: Can you moo, Tigger? Moo?
Tigger: PurrrrrrrrRowww.
Me: Moo, Tigger. Can you moo?
Tigger: Meow.

Well, there's only so much you can expect from magic cats. They're still cats, after all.

Electric Shock Game

2006-08-23T06:53:00.000-05:00

"Electric Shock Game" for sale at C. Crane.

Uhhhhhh . . . . . . How is this fun?

Hoof-and-Mouth

2006-08-22T07:29:00.000-05:00

Benjamin has been crying, shrieking and moaning a lot these last few days since he got "hoof-and-mouth."

OK, well it's not really "hoof-and-mouth" and I know that because when the first kid-of-a-friend got "hand foot and mouth disease" and his mom emailed us, she included a link about the virus. The article had a prominent clarifier that it is different than the "hoof-and-mouth disease" (or "foot-and-mouth disease") contracted by cattle. It's a good thing she did that, because in the minutes before I got to the link I nervously thought, "Is that the human version of that 'hoof-and-mouth disease'? Did they get that at the petting zoo? We were at the petting zoo . . ."

So, anyway, "hand, foot and mouth disease." Apparently it's a common childhood illness; symptoms include painful sores on the hands, (yeah, that's right), feet and mouth.

Benjamin's tongue hurt and at first we thought he had bitten it. But when we looked, we saw the 3 or 4 nasty-looking blisters. And that's how the 4 days of him shrieking or moaning in pain sometimes only when he tried to eat or drink, other times every few minutes. The poor little guy. Even on alternating doses of ibuprofen and acetaminophen, he would complain of lots of pain and had a horrible time eating and drinking.

We don't know for sure that it was "hand, foot and mouth" virus. Some of the clues, however, are hard to argue with. We avoided contact with the first child we knew with the virus. We did, however, spend an evening with a second kid friend who had it but was not supposed to be contagious. We were all in very close contact with him. Maybe he was still contagious after all. It's obviously been going around town, though, so maybe we got it from a grocery cart handle; who knows?

Another clue were the sores in my mouth. I recalled that I had some unexplained sores on my cheek just recently and 3 or 4 canker-like sores were forming on my gums. I also had a strange little blister on my hand, a sore throat and headaches for a while (other symptoms). Usually, only kids get this disease, but adults can get it. And I was in a lot of close contact with cute little suspected vector number one.

Anyway, the shrieking, moaning and crying made the last several days a challenge. And that was just me. (Kidding.) Of course, one of the hardest parts is not being able to do anything else to take the pain away from Benjamin. In my experience, pain relievers don't do too much for throat or mouth pain. We tried a local numbing medication on his tongue sores, but the initial stinging was too much for him to bear.

Benjamin is a slow, distracted eater to begin with. With every bite feeling like a stab in the tongue, each attempt at a meal became a major project, from finding foods that wouldn't sting or scrape, to breaking them into little bits, to coaxing him to actually eat it.

Nights too have been rough (rough mostly for Mrs. OccupationDad who is the light sleeper and the one Benjamin wants to snuggle up to when he wakes up hurting and, moreover, the one has to go to work in the morning). Since we "co-sleep" with Ben, we all awake together and wish we could do something to make the pain go away. (If you're shocked by the co-sleeping, you probably didn't notice the "Attachment Parenting" links in the sidebar. Worry not; it's a good thing.) I do get up for medicine or water or whatever might be needed.

Basically, when you have a sick child, life largely reverts back to when you had a baby. Night waking, holding, frequent comforting and reassuring, more loud "preverbal communication," often bodily fluids need to be removed from clothing and bedding. And, again, that was just dealing with me. Kidding!

Finally yesterday, the shrieking dwindled, and Benjamin ate a relatively normal solid-food meal without tears. So things are looking up!

Moral: If it comes to your town, beware the "hoof-and-mouth."

May I Ask What You Paid for This Piece?

2006-08-04T19:29:00.000-05:00

The other day I came downstairs to find Mrs. OccupationDad and my son sitting at the table eating and "playing 'Antiques Roadshow.'"

My wife was in the middle of considering an early 21st Century toy "Hello Kitty" toaster "from Japan" that Benjamin had brought in for her to appraise. She showed my son the maker's mark on the bottom, and gave him a little information about it. It appraised at about $100 - $120 because of "condition issues" and because it did not have the "original toasts."

When she stated the value of the object Benjamin made the "brrrrrring" sound and called out, "Bring out that treasure box" (indicating the graphic that comes up on the show with the appraisal amount).

Benjamin brought a number of other artifacts for my wife or I to appraise that day. Never have kids' meal toys fetched such high prices!

(Disclaimer: These appraisals were for play purposes only and therefore pretend. Your "Hello Kitty" toaster may not be worth $100. Please see a qualified appraiser or memorabilia specialist.)

When 4-year-olds talk, . . .

2006-07-30T21:13:00.000-05:00

At "DadBloggers", I posted "When 4-year-olds talk, . . ."

Our Cat Eats Corn on the Cob

2006-07-24T20:28:00.000-05:00

Our cat eats corn on the cob. Simple and to the point. Some set-up or fluke? Well, there is butter on it, but he was not just licking the butter off. (Our other cat was doing that, trying to figure out what the corn-eating cat was after.) No, the cat was chewing the kernels off and eating them.

We left the room, not having cleared the table, and returned to find the cat had stolen the cob and had taken it down to the floor for consumption.

Actually, knowing this cat, I wasn't that surprised. Before we got him, I thought cats ate meat (including fish and seafood) and drank milk and water. Period. (Garfield and his lasagna notwithstanding; he is, after all, a cartoon cat.)

Our corn-eating cat's favorite food is shrimp. He can smell it frozen at 50 yards and goes so wild for it that he'll catch a little piece in his mouth like a dog. His broader set of food preferences, though, are somewhat diverse and strange. Like his cartoon counterpart, he likes pasta, though he prefers it plain. If you drop a piece of spaghetti near him he'll eat it, but he backs away first then paws it, to make sure it's dead.

If we break out the canteloupe he'll start meowing and meowing — not quite the shrimp meow — but persistent. He'll eat several small pieces at a time. If denied and a rind is left accessible, he'll dig it out and eat whatever "meat" he can scrape off of it.

He's not quite as agressive about cucumber, but he will ask. Again, if peelings are around he sample them.

We've learned not to leave bread or buns out. He'll just claw a little hole in the bag and just have a little snack, making a 2-inch crater in the crust, but usually managing to render at least 3 pieces inedible.

He can't be the only feline who has odd cravings. What cats (or other pets) do you know with unusual appetites?

Speak Softly but Carry a Big Pillow

2006-07-09T22:48:00.000-05:00

The other day Mrs. OccupationDad was trying to get Benjamin down for a nap. She read him a story and then had him lie down, staying with him. He was kind of antsy, wiggling around and talking. My wife told him that he should try to close his eyes and rest.

He responded by saying, "No, you have to get me to sleep like Dada does it."

"Oh," my wife answered calmly, "What does Dada do?"

Then my son slandered me, "He yells at me."

You will allow me to defend myself, yes? I do not yell at my son. If I did, I would have to be pretty dense to do it at naptime. I stay with Benjamin until he falls asleep. Most of the time he just lies quietly and eventually falls asleep; he such a good little guy. Sometimes he needs to snuggle or bury himself under a mountain of pillows or something. Sometimes I doze off before he does. Occasionally, he will be all restless and he'll be playing with something on the bed, while I'm there falling asleep. Whether my catnap is intentional or not, when Benjamin's flopping on the bed, or digging his feet into my side, I wake up and crankily whisper, "Please just try to lie still" or "I can't make you sleep, but it's not time to play." But even this crabby-Dada scenario is fairly rare.

Now back to the story. My wife knows I don't yell, so she asked our son, incredulously, "Dad yells at you?"

Benjamin lowered his voice; in fact, he whispered, "Yeah, … but he does it very, very quietly."

Legal Emigrants

2006-06-26T23:42:00.000-05:00

Benjamin and I were reading the book Honkers. In it, a girl, staying at her grandparents farm for a time, helps them hatch and raise some goslings from abandoned Canada Goose eggs.

We've read it a few times, so Benjamin is very familiar with the story. On one of the pages, the grandparents first show the eggs to the girl in a barn. In the picture, some white geese are standing near the Canada Goose eggs.

Now, I must mention that I told Benjamin (regarding the migration part of the story) that the Canada Geese, flying south, are off to spend the winter in Mexico. I now realize this is not accurate. Maybe I was thinking about many songbirds and Monarch butterflies (eastern populations). It turns out most Canada Geese only migrate to the central and southern U.S., though some do go as far as Mexico.

Anyway, Benjamin looked at the picture of the white geese and the eggs and said to me, "Those farm geese can keep those Mexican geese's eggs warm until they hatch."

¡Muy bien!

Say Nothing

2006-06-12T14:52:00.000-05:00

It's funny I should mention my "answering service" (in the last post). Today Benjamin answered the phone and shortly thereafter announced that his dada was going poo and that I could talk after I was done going poo. Gosh, I sure hope the window was open wide enough. I wouldn't want to keep the neighbors out of the loop.

So we're working on "can't come to the phone" or "not available" a little more. I also threw in a brief discussion of traditional ideas about privacy, what information people may or may not want to have, etc.

Now, Benjamin has watched a "Bob the Builder" episode (from a library DVD) a lot lately. It's one where Mr. Bentley has an anniversary surprise for Mrs. Bentley, and the machines must "say nothing" to preserve the surprise.

When my wife was home for lunch, I told her today's telephone story. "That's really funny," was her addition to the "teachable moment." By contrast, I quizzed Benjamin, "So if someone calls and one of us is on the potty, what could you say?" (Yeah, I know. I'm no fun.)

Benjamin grinned and responded, "Always say nothing."

That, indeed, was Muck's summation of the lesson for that "Bob the Builder" episode.

I propose a modified version: "When it comes to surprises [and poo], always say nothing."

Very Affordable Answering Service

2006-06-10T21:53:00.000-05:00

Our son likes to answer the telephone. Not only do I enjoy listening to him answer — in his cute little, 4-year-old, but educated way—, I'm not above taking advantage of it . . . a little.

He easily learned, "Who's calling, please?" and to tell us whom it is. (Also, he is now learning to not be quite so candid when he answers and I'm indisposed. "He's in the bathroom; he needs privacy" [or more vivid descriptions] are being replaced by, "He's not available right now.")

Anyway, when telemarketers call, Benjamin can come in quite handy. He is fully in the habit of asking who it is. And, stickler that he can be, he'll keep asking until he understands sufficiently to repeat to my wife or me what the caller has said.

I haven't had the heart, yet, to have him lie to them. It's not that I feel that guilty about fibbing to the solicitor. It just seems sad to have an innocent child do your dirty work. I've thought a number of times of telling Benjamin to tell the friendly new caller all about our trip to Disney world, about how his train set works, or about what happened in our last game of Candyland. Benjamin has become remarkably long-winded in his descriptions and storytelling of late (don't know where he gets that from), so I'm sure he'd have a lot of interesting things to say. But, again, I don't want to exploit his good-natured interest in sharing with others, nor do I want to have to unteach this strange phone etiquette.

Nevertheless, I savor some of Benjamin's natural phone interactions with telemarketers. Sometimes businesses call and representatives either can't hear Benjamin (perhaps because of a bad connection somewhere between here and Bangalore); or they mistake his cute little voice for that of a 2 year old; or maybe they just don’t want to give the upper hand to a child. Whatever the reason, they insist on speaking to Benjamin in a slow, loud, condescending voice: "I need to talk to your mommy. Please get your mommy."

Meanwhile he's been trying to nicely ask, "Who's calling, please?" He answers their request politely, but firmly, "My mom's at work; my dad's here. I need to know who's calling, please."

"Can I talk to your daddy?"

Benjamin now becomes, louder and slower, realizing he's dealing with someone not quite at his level, "WHO'S CALLING, PLEASE?"

After a few exchanges back and forth, the caller finally identifies her/himself, "Well, … MY . . . NAME . . . IS 'MARY.'"

Of course, I don't know "Mary," so I must whisper to Benjamin, "Ask them, 'From where?'"

Usually they revert to "I need to talk to your daddy" a few more times. Then they give in, "OK . . . I'm from 'Cap - i - tol One.' Will you be able to say that?"

"Dada," he turns to me, "It's Mary from Capitol One. She wants to talk to you."

"Thank you," I politely respond. Then and only then is the helpful representative permitted to speak with me.

'How do I know what the caller is saying to him?' you ask. I'm listening on speakerphone, of course. But far be it from me to rudely interrupt the cordial conversation my son is trying to have.

Why do I thus allow telemarketers to waste even more of our time by going through all of this? I guess I take a secret formerly-secret pleasure in the whole thing, especially with the ones who talk to him like he's 1-1/2 years old. Yeah, I know, it's a sad state of affairs. I'm far too easily amused and have too much time on my hands act like I have too much time on my hands.

Out of the Closet, Finally

2006-06-07T09:39:00.000-05:00

We spent quite a while today closed inside a little closet.

I had Benjamin pick out his shirt today. He chose a campground
shirt that, as he quickly reminded me, glows in the dark.

He wanted to see it glow, so we "charged it up" next to the light bulb and closed the closet door. "It's glowing!" Glowing stars, fireflies, a lantern and a moon.

He wanted to do it again. And again. And again. Our closet light has a pull-string switch. He had a hard time finding it in the dark, so he began asking the fireflies to help him find the string. (I helped the fireflies.)

He wanted to do it again. And again. And again. I could see that I — literally — needed an exit strategy.

I could just say, "All right, enough of this. We're done." I could if I wanted to hang out with an angry 4-year-old for the next half hour. It always works better to ask something like, "How many more times?"

In this case the answer was, "Three." I could deal with that. We charged up the shirt one last time and he got to wear it . . . glowing. And out we went.

Finally, out of closet. With a few stretches I've almost got all the kinks out of my back, legs and neck.

Heaven of Peace Tower

2006-06-02T14:05:00.000-05:00

Benjamin: "Dada, this is one of the tallest towers in the world. "
Dad: "Wow! What is it called?"
Benjamin: "Well, it's called the 'Heaven of Peace Tower'"

Memories

2006-05-30T17:42:00.000-05:00

I think our recent trip may have had an impact on our son.

When he woke up from his nap today, he just lay there pensively for at least 15 minutes.

Then out of the blue he said, "Excuse me, Dada. I have a question for you."

"Yes?"

"Do you know where I can get a Disney map?"

I dug out a "Magic Kingdom" map from the trip. He opened it up and shouted, "There's the monorail!!!" He liked the monorail a lot.

I would tell you more, but I have to go. He needs to show me something "really interesting" on the map. Something about "Main Street USA" and a "steam train."

Assigned Reading

2006-05-30T16:23:00.000-05:00

Another backdated entry is up: "Geek in Paradise or 'Honey, I Shrunk Your Self-Image'"

Also, I posted an entry — "Negotiations with a Preschooler"
— at Dadbloggers.

Returned from the World — Back Down to Earth

2006-05-25T08:32:00.000-05:00

We're back from Disney World. I wrote some entries on the vacation, but chose not to go on-line there due to Disney's magically high Internet access rates. (We were fortunate to be able to stay at one of the budget Disney hotels.) What about dial-up? Well, Disney has magically turned any phone number not on their property into a long distance call from the hotel.

To fill in the gaps, I'll post these entries backdated to when I wrote them. "Disney Daze," dated May 17th, is now up.

Geek in Paradise or "Honey, I Shrunk Your Self-Image"

2006-05-18T16:37:00.000-05:00

One of the things that contributed to my staying up much of the night before our trip was the fact that I lost my eyeglasses. Now, I've lost a contact lens before (putting one in or taking one out, cleaning one and even walking into a tree branch). I've even lost a whole pair of contact lenses in their case. But I've never before lost a pair of glasses.

It all comes of vanity and greed for comfort. These demons compelled me get new contacts and promptly lose my glasses. ¹

I looked in the house, the car, called the optician's office, turned several little bags inside out and even dug through the garbage. No luck. And we were leaving the next morning.

I found an old pair of my glasses from 8 years ago (or so). The prescription is not strong enough and they are bigger and dorky-looking.

When we left, I saved my "contact time" for later. In the car, plane, bus, etc.: glasses.

By the time we got to the gate at the airport from which we departed, I'd forgotten about the glasses. So I walked into the restroom at the airport and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. With my current hair style configuration, my tired, unshaven face (that saved me 8 minutes earlier) and those hideous glasses, I did a double take. I looked like a washed-up Rick Moranis impersonator on a bender.

Why should I care? 'Tis it not dandy vanity? Well, I did care: enough to complain about it to my wife. She took a few seconds to really have the good look at me that our running around that morning had not afforded her and gave an amused snort.

Vain self-consciousness quickly deteriorated into humiliation after that when, every time my wife — who, in our 12 years of marriage, has seen me in all manner of states of disrepair — commenced to laugh at me every time she looked at me for more than 2 seconds.

While this sad state of affairs is perhaps the culmination of the ill karma for the vanity and lust-for-comfort that began this whole thing, it has also compelled me to wear the contacts whenever possible. I'm also handling them more carefully than I would handle precious jewels.

Vanity: deadly sin. Ridicule: powerful motivator.
______

¹ I haven't worn contacts for a year or so. (I had worn gas-permeable ones. My eyes had grown drier, so they became uncomfortable. I wore them less and less. Then that pair became the pair I lost in their case.) Lately I've been thinking that I'm ready to try some of the newer types of soft lenses.

As the trip approached, I thought about I look lots better in contacts, plus I don't like glasses constantly sliding down nose when I sweat, as I will in the Florida heat. Contacts would fix that, too.

So I made a last minute appointment. It was the day before we left. I got new contacts; they were great! I wore them home. I stored my glasses in the small shopping bag with the solutions, etc. That's the last I saw of them. Fine, but I'm not supposed to wear the contacts full-time yet. [Click to return to text where footnote link was.]

Disney Daze

2006-05-17T15:07:00.000-05:00

We made it to Disney World! Healthy and happy! And almost awake!

We had to get up at about 4am to prepare to go catch our flight. I know, it could be a lot worse. Really, if you go to bed a little early, like Benjamin did was coaxed into doing, you're fine.

If you're a fool and you procrastinate, manage your time poorly and stay up until 2am the night before still getting ready (even though you started packing days earlier), like me, then you're not fine. You get weird symptoms like a sore throat and weird headaches and you fear you're getting sick again and it'll ruin everyone's trip. You know, though, that it's all just your own damn sleep-deprived fault.

I could just take a nap on the plane. But we flew affordably. Coach on a 717 is nothing to complain about when your destination is Disney World!!! Nevertheless, the 5 degrees that the seat reclines isn't that conducive to sweet repose.

So after checking in, a little lunch and a little fun, a nap saves the day for the whole family. Unless the Disney Magic Express (due to postponing the trip) isn't quite as magic as could be in delivering the luggage. It was coming, no doubt, but during naptime. Did I wait for them? Are you kidding? I hit the hotel bed like Donald Duck landing on Goofy's head. Yes, I did it knowing full-well I would soon wake up going, "Wha'!? Wha'!? Wha's goin' on!!?" and proceed to open the door, throttle the caller, take the bags, leave a tip on the unconscious "cast member" and go directly back to bed. And that's what happened. Except the bellhop, she was a cute kid, so she was spared.

Oh, and in my semi-awake stupor, I . . . uh . . . forgot the tip. So Julie or Kelly or Caitlyn or Courtney or whatever your name is, if you read my blog, stop back at the room; we have a shiny Sacagawea dollar with your name on it.

Life Lessons in Advance of a Florida Trip

2006-05-15T08:54:00.000-05:00

A friend whom we will see when we go on our Disney World trip tomorrow sent me the link to this article, perhaps to get me "psyched" for the trip: Alligators

Now, I think it is part human nature and part American denial-of-death and hope-of-banishing-all-risk-of-danger to hear about tragedy and start thinking, "Now why couldn't this be me?" Or, "How could I avoid this fate?"

In that spirit, I take away the following life lessons from the aforementioned article.

Don't snorkel alone in an alligator-infested swamp.
Don't hang out with alligators while on drugs. They may impair your ability to run for your life.
Don't jog alone in ethnically-alligator neighborhoods.

OK that was callous. I do feel the horror and sympathy. Many of us deal with it using humor.

And I take the caution to heart as well, especially after the following exchange with a travel agent and Disney specialist.

My question:

Are there any sand beaches along any of the lakes on the Disney property that are open us as Disney guests? I'm wondering about a place we might be able to take a break and just sit on the beach, perhaps wade into the water?

Response:

... there are nice beaches at the resorts around the Magic Kingdom resorts (Contemporary, Polynesian, Grand Floridian and at Fort Wilderness) as well as Caribbean Beach. Anyone can go on those beaches, but you don't want to get in the water. First of all, it's not allowed, and secondly, it could be contaminated water (and most water in Florida contains some size of alligators). You're welcome to hang out on the beach and play in the sand.

Got it. We'll stay out of the water.

The Experimental Travelers

2006-05-14T23:32:00.000-05:00

We're ramping up — again — to go to Disney World.

But why are we going on a full-fledged vacation when we're spending thousands on the adoption and trying to save thousands more for the same?

Practice. We plan on taking Benjamin with us to China. Because of how close the three of us are and our attachment parenting history, we're quite convinced this would be the least traumatic option. Secondly, we think going to China with us will be quite an opportunity for him to get a glimpse of another culture and his sister's ethnic heritage. Moreover, we would like all of us to start bonding with our daughter right from the moment she joins the family.

So, yes, practice. Benjamin has never been on an airplane before. We'd like him to have that experience before he hops on a 15-hour flight. He's a patient child, and a good traveler. He can be, however, kind of anxious. We would like to know what things will keep him calm, comfortable and occupied on a flight. Also, we'll have to wake him up very early in the morning to catch our flight. He'll experience having to get on transportation at a specific time, waiting in long lines, waiting for buses, large crowds, etc. Of course there are hundreds of things for which we won't be able to prepare him (or ourselves for that matter), but it's a start.

We also have to practice. Practice packing light, limiting our luggage, and staying organized during a trip. (We're . . . OK, I'm notorious for over-packing, having extra bags, and constantly losing stuff when we're on vacation.) Other than my wife's short business trips and one long-weekend trip (all by car), we haven't really gone on vacation since 2001. So we're out of "practice" ourselves.

So, do any of you have tips about traveling with kids or traveling in general?

Blessed With a Patient Little Fella'

2006-05-14T20:19:00.000-05:00

We are so thankful for Benjamin; he is such a good little guy. When we had to postpone the trip, he didn't complain at all. He just said, "OK," and went about his business. He's never once said he wished we would leave now, or asked how soon we will be leaving. He is very patient.

The flip-side of that virtue is that, in dealing with him, like in dealing with his time-impaired papa, one has to be very patient or very persistent. Like when you want Benjamin to finish eating a meal in under 45 minutes.

Nonetheless, even his patience has limits. The most recent time we played Candy Land, he got sent way back on the track after an already long game. After that delay, he decided to read the "magic rule" allowing us to finish the game sooner. (After he won, though, he wanted me keep going until I too got to Candy Castle.)

We are pretty sure we're spoiled with him on patience. While he does have some other traits that can be difficult, in the scope of kid challenges, we'll take 'em any day. Once number two joins the family, like with any new addition, we'll probably see just how spoiled we are.

As to any quality with a child you don't yet know, it's impossible to predict. I'm human, so I can't help but speculate. Will being adopted influence her patience or other long-standing character traits? Surely it will. But how? If she has spent her infancy in an orphanage, sadly, she may be well used to waiting. By contrast, some orphans from foster homes are rightly showered with attention and care. Further, we've heard stories of orphanage-raised babies who, once they get a feel for their lifelong mom and dad, don't want to let go of them.

We will judge none of it but just give her what she needs. I've met and heard so many stories of biological siblings who are almost polar opposites, I think the most shocking thing would be if she were just like Benjamin. We're not counting on anything except a child that we will love no matter what.

Meet Bob

2006-05-11T15:48:00.000-05:00

This morning my son was printing his name. Instead of a 'B' he wrote a 'D'. When I suggested he make the line longer and add another "hump" to turn it into a 'B', he thought of an easier route.

"No, I'm just going to change my name," he told me.

He did not, however, choose a 'D' name. "I'm just going to call myself 'Bob' now." He chuckled, "I named myself after my Uncle Bob."

This story reminds me how over a year ago he named lots of his toy characters, bears, figures, his hobby horse, etc., all "Max." One day we were out somewhere; someone new we'd met asked him his name. Without warning he grinned mischievously and told her it was "Max."

Later that day he was back to "Benjamin," which he's been since . . . until today.

Stuck on a Gooey Gum Drop

2006-05-09T12:22:00.000-05:00

My son and I were playing Candy Land this morning. Now who doesn't like a good competition or game of chance for a diversion once in a while?

I didn't check the clock when we started, but I knew it had been well over an hour. And we were almost no closer to someone winning than we had been 45 minutes earlier.

Somewhere, on the "Other Side," some guy named Milton or Bradley or Hasbro was laughing his head off every time I got sent all the way back to that gol' darn "Peppermint Stick Forest."

I couldn't take it any more. We had to do something else, so I used a variation of a trick I heard Grandma perform the other day. She "found" some "magic passes" in the refrigerator that gave her and Benjamin free passage to the "Candy Castle."

I "found" a "magic rule" in there. It was a proclamation by "King Kandy": " … anyone who shall draw a purple card shall skip all the purple squares and proceed to the very last and shall have the privilege of entering Candy Castle!!!"

Well, you know what happened. Draw. No purple. Draw. No purple. Draw. No purple. Draw. No purple. Draw. No purple. Draw. No purple . . . .

I had to rig it. When he was looking away — Benjamin, not King Kandy; even the King was getting bored — I slid in a purple card ripe for one of his upcoming turns.

Hurrayyyyyyy! Benjamin is victorious!! And we all win a chance to do something else.

Myself, I'm really looking forward to doing the dishes.

Two Riveting Hours of Television

2006-05-09T10:54:00.000-05:00

My wife said to me the other night that she had seen a promotion saying David Blaine was going to attempt to hold his breath under water for 9 minutes. "Then it said," she went on, "'tune in Monday for the 2-hour special event.' That should be more like a 9-minute special event, shouldn't it?"

Right!

Personally, I would give them 5 minutes for intro', 9 minutes for the stunt, 5 minutes for the EMT's to determine a winner, and 5 minutes for post-game analysis. A few commercials. 30 minutes: bam! Done!

I didn't watch it. Actually, my only motivation to watch it would have been to see how they managed to pad the thing out that long.

How did they fill 2 hours? (Oh, and I suppose I should ask, need I send a sympathy card to the Blaine family?)

"Card-Carrying Breastfeeders"

2006-05-07T18:55:00.000-05:00

I read on BloggingBaby about a new Kansas breastfeeding educational initiative. Nursing proponents are making cards available to breastfeeding moms. Women can then hand out the cards if harassed for breastfeeding in public. The card states that it is a woman's right and has numbers to call about the law or nursing.

See Kansas now has card-carrying breastfeeders.

As I commented on that post:

Good for Kansas!!!!!

In a park once, a teenage or young-adult daycare teacher with her group of kids once warned a breastfeeding friend of mine, "Um, I don't think you'll be able to do that here, we're bringing a bunch of kids over here." Indeed! My friend, of course, told her she had to, had every right to, and would continue feeding her baby right where she was. (Good for her!) I thought, "What a good thing for those kids to see — how a mom does and should feed a baby, and that it is nothing to be ashamed of!"

The young daycare teacher was surely just ignorant, but probably didn't believe my friend. What a great educational opportunity a card like the Kansas one would have been!

We Should Be at Disney World: A Close Call

2006-05-07T17:13:00.000-05:00

We are supposed to be at Disney World right now. We postponed our first substantial vacation in many years, and thank God we did.

It all started last Saturday afternoon when Benjamin told us in a tired voice, "I have a terrible headache." Now, this could have meant a lot of things (as my discussion of kid symptoms explores). It turned out to mean 'I'm going to be miserable for three days and puke a lot.' The poor little guy!! Fortunately, we were at home when learned. Less fortunately, we were scheduled to leave for DisneyWorld in three days.

To Convalesce At 38,000 Feet Or Not To ...
We quickly looked into what costly consequences we might be up against if we rebooked for a later date. Meanwhile, Benjamin got pretty much better, and we considered going. We took into our minds, however, enough of his Dr. Jeckyll-Mr. Hyde convalescing behavior. We thought about it and imagined having Ben's first plane ride begin with us carrying him on board, terrified, balling and saying, "I won't go! I won't go! I do want to go! I do want to go! I won't go! I won't go!" Nausea or not, we would have had to use the complimentary sanitary bags located on the back of the seat in front of us before the jet even began to move.

That experience would have forged lovely memories and associations to prepare Benjamin for his third flight — probably later this year — when he will be cooped up on the plane with us for a relaxing 18-hour jaunt to China.

Further, our clean-up-puke time had severely restricted our get-enough-rest-so-you-enjoy-the-trip time and our neatly-packing-suitcases time. Had we gone, we would have had to run out the door with a house in shambles to return to.

Though it doesn't sound like a good thing, my wife luckily began to feel queasy just when we had to make a decision. That clinched it.

Thankfully, the cost of delaying the trip was quite reasonable, all things considered. We'll be going a little later in May.

Providential Decision Affirmed: The Crud Hits Me Mid-Week
Incidentally, the virus hit me mid-week, fast but hard. Benjamin was not kidding when he said "terrible headache." Man alive !!! (I've never had a dagger stuck through my head, but I feel like I now know what it feels like.) I'm so glad I wasn't paying $100's/day in 88-degree Florida to lie in a hotel bed, moaning, aching, with a 103-degree fever, praying I wouldn't vomit, not having the energy to convince my wife that she must take Benjamin to the park herself and try to get him to go on rides he's afraid of because he's tired and moody, only to hear later how he refused; to force my wife to alternately listen to my feverish babbling and Ben's crying about how he really did want to go on the Dumbo ride now. I was quite able to moan and enjoy my delirium in my own bedroom much more affordably, thank you very much.

I obviously have no idea what our vacation will hold. Nonetheless, I just know it will be better than the one that almost was.

New Old Posts

2006-05-07T11:25:00.000-05:00

So I was writing the other day about Benjamin and me tagging along on my wife's business trip to a conference.

I have now posted the entry about the benefits of not acting like "the help" (or those around us in different jobs in general) is invisible: "All From a 'xiang jiao' [banana]" (I backdated it.)

Even though we often end up plopped down amidst interstate exits and mini-mall sprawl, I always enjoy these trips. I tried to explain why in this entry—

"Business Trips: In which Benjamin Meets an Orange Moose and is Awarded His Very Own Shoehorn"

—that I wrote for DadBloggers.

"I'm Sick": Choosing Wrong

2006-05-05T18:30:00.000-05:00

As the other day's sudden onset of Pool-Time Deficiency Syndrome demonstrated, my son's "symptoms" can indicate unmet needs wants. Once in a while they can mean he's bored or doesn't like what we were doing.

Sometimes, several of a child's physical complaints in row are on the safe side of the reality-fantasy divide (which divide toddlers and preschoolers find virtually undetectable). Then, just when you think it's safe to assume the next symptom is more mind than body, the following — an old incident that recent events recalled — happens.

I was with Benjamin at a café, and he started saying his stomach hurt. Given his then-recent history, his mood, and other factors, I was fairly certain he just wanted to go home. With that certainty, I chose to finish my conversation with a friend before leaving. I chose wrong.

There is a high price to be paid for making a wrong judgment on this front. That day I learned that this price can be as high as a father and son, stained (shirt and pants) with vomit (out in public where people are eating) and with no clothes to change into.

The upside of this tale is that most of the consequences fell (literally) on me that day, not on the heart (or the person) of Mrs. OccupationDad. Therefore, there were was no marital peace lost.

And the moral of the story: "The boy who cried 'wolf!' he may be, but if he has a full stomach, take heed!

All From a "xiang jiao" [banana]

2006-04-28T19:34:00.000-05:00

Finally my annoying habit of practicing Mandarin Chinese phrases, even as I walk around in public, has paid off. We were at the breakfast buffet at the hotel this morning and I was doing just that with Benjamin. I was asking him if he wanted a "xiang jiao" [banana]. A minute later the person running the breakfast buffet, a polite, cheerful, middle-aged woman who looked to be of another ethnicity, approached my wife, Benjamin and I and asked incredulously if I had said "xiang jiao" . I admitted I had, now embarrassed. We explained that we were trying to learn Mandarin (because we are adopting from China
) and asked if she spoke Mandarin.

We got into a nice conversation with her — in English, though: ("Wo putonghua shuo de bu hao." [I don't speak Mandarin well.] Yet.) We learned that she in fact speaks four languages (And, she had been trying to learn a fifth, Spanish, from some of her Latino colleagues when she had worked in the hotel's housekeeping department.) She is originally from Taiwan, but has family connections to the Philippines and Hawaii.

We really enjoyed asking her questions about languages, hearing about her travels and family, and seeing a photo of her cute grandchild. She appeared to like having an interchange beyond "Good Morning, Ma'am, . . . we'll be bringing out a fresh bowl of that in just a minute," etc. Further, she seemed to be delighted by engaging Benjamin to use the words and phrases he knows in Mandarin. (One of his favorites is "Wo xiang niu nai." [I would like milk.] He's a big fan of the "niu nai." )

True, our chat was serendipitous; it did not result from my initial greeting. (Two minutes before our exchange I had offered a homogenous "Hi, how are you this morning" to our acquaintance-to-be and had received a similarly everyday, friendly reply.) Nevertheless, the result highlighted the enjoyment and connection to be gained by not pretending those around us with different backgrounds or types of jobs are just wallpaper.

I guess I also found out, perhaps to the chagrin of my potentially embarrassed wife and friends, that the same gains can be sparked by wandering around mumbling in broken Chinese.

A Serving from the Melting Pot?

2006-04-28T10:15:00.000-05:00

At her conference, my wife was in the buffet line for lunch yesterday. Behind the buffet line were servers who all appeared to be Latino. One of the conference attendees next to her — a Caucasian guy — was telling another that he had seen a bumper sticker that said "Secure Our Borders." He continued that he thought he would have a bestselling bumper sticker if the same slogan were written in both English and Spanish.

We don't know if the man was oblivious, indifferent, or being deliberately provocative. (My wife thought he was clueless; the staff was, perhaps, "invisible" too him.) Now it's possible the workers were all citizens and/or legal immigrants and completely agreed with the sentiment of the bumper sticker in question. (Statistically, though, I suppose that the opinion part of that hypothetical is very unlikely). Nevertheless, the comment — the guy's opinion notwithstanding — seemed insensitive, to say the least.

Without getting into my (complex) opinions about immigration or multicultural issues, the situation makes me wonder. Would this man have been as outspoken about, for example, the war if surrounded by a bunch of soldiers or peace activists, or about abortion if surrounded by a group of conservative Christians or pro-choice feminists?

At breakfast, we again learned the value of not acting as if the "staff" is invisible just because their culture or income-level or language or education level might be different than yours.

I hope to tell that story in the next post.

Pool-Time Deficiency Syndrome

2006-04-27T13:56:00.000-05:00

We are in Janesville (WI) staying in a hotel. (Mrs. Occupation Dad has to attend a conference here and we came together, like we always do.)

There is free wireless Internet access for me, TLC's "A Baby Story" for my wife and a pool for Benjamin. "Hotels always have pools in 'em," he observed today. Good pattern finding! Maybe we better start staying at Motel 6's to give him a little dose of the real world.

(I wonder if we'll encounter any exceptions to this pool rule in China. [We're told that the urban hotels in which adoptive families are set up are always pretty upscale. The more rural hotels — typically where children actually join their new families — are less fancy but still nice.] Time for swimming, though? That's another story.)

Benjamin surely was very eager to use the pool this morning. We went to the included breakfast thing in a room with a view of the pool. Benjamin is not the kind of kid who would (or did) keep asking excitedly over and over about swimming, running over the pool window and saying, "Let's go, let's go!" You can tell, though, that inside his head he's constantly percolating about it. He did ask a couple of times, "When are we going to go to the pool?" spacing these casual remarks out a bit. This didn't speed things up enough for his taste.

So, near the end of breakfast, he put on a bothered face and made a couple of humming, moaning noises, then said, "Well, . . . I'm feeling really sick today."

"You are?" we replied, wondering what this was about.

"Yeahhh," he continued pathetically, "but . . . I think going in the pool would make me feel a lot better."

We explained to him that you didn't need to be sick to qualify for pool time, that, in fact, it's the other way around — and that he and I would be heading to the pool shortly after breakfast.

A miraculous healing ensued and we've had no more reports or signs of really sick sickness so far today.

Life Near the Fastlane

2006-04-25T21:41:00.000-05:00

For those of you who read this blog periodically — all 5 of you — you might be wondering where I've gone.

Well, I have lots of "material" for the blog in my mind, in notes, and in half-finished stories.

I haven't been able to really complete any because, for a guy who's been living in the "slowlane" it's seemed like a crazy couple of weeks.

There's the substitute teaching, of course. We've also had an adoption seminar, a number of family (of origin) things — including Easter and multiple celebrations and visits for Benjamin's birthday, family-business tasks, taxes (we have someone do ours, but I help my brother-in-law do his . . . figure that one out), a couple of viruses (relatively mild but annoying nonetheless). On top of all that, a car, an electric line and a dryer have all died (in unrelated incidents) here in the past couple of weeks. Plus, we're trying to get ready for my wife's business trip (this week) and our vacation (next week).

Gosh, when I put it all in one paragraph like that, it's more understandable. Now I'm starting to see where all the time has gone.

Frankly, though, I'm not above screwing around, and at the end of few of these past days, I've been known to just drop in front of the TV without the energy to write.

I want to fill in some of the "stories" of which I've been making note. (I'll backdate them to the appropriate for organization [anal retentive] purposes.) I'll link them in a current post.

Here are some—
My first day as a music teacher: Clap the rhythm ... on your own knees!

A funny "incident": The Teacher Kicked Him in the Eye

Ben's new friends: "That which we call a [Beanie Baby] by any other name would smell as sweet."

"That which we call a [Beanie Baby] by any other name would smell as sweet."

2006-04-19T19:55:00.000-05:00

This is "Sweet Bunny." Now you maybe notice that Sweet Bunny is, in fact, a dog — not that there's anything wrong with that. His official Beanie Baby tag does not bear this name, but this is what Benjamin named him.

Benjamin is not really into stuffed animals that much, but he likes to snuggle this one, which he received recently from his Aunt. The poem on the tag, which he's memorized, states that this dog likes to snuggle. Benjamin's a stickler for instructions (most of the time).

This is "Sweet Rabbit," (compliments of the Easter Bunny). The name makes sense. Interestingly, though, he was named "Sweet Cupboard." Sweet Cupboard, however, had to "have a talk with" Benjamin — this is what he tells us — and as a result he changed the puppet's name to "Sweet Rabbit."

The Teacher Kicked Him in the Eye

2006-04-08T20:14:00.000-05:00

"The teacher kicked him in the eye," was what the student told them in the office, but I didn't find that out until later.

I had taken an assignment to sub in kindergarten.

The students were a little chatty and silly, but it was a well-behaved group.

At one point, the kids were all seated on the floor as I was in front of them leading a reading lesson. One of them raised her hand and told me her finger was hurt. I walked between the kids to get to her. I thought maybe she'd cut her finger; when I got close, though, I could see it was just a just a sore hangnail or something like that.)

Meanwhile, behind me I heard a scramble of voices and then sobbing.

I turned around and saw one of the boys in the class had his hand to his eye. He was the one crying, but the poor little guy was trying to restrain it.

I could see that, as I had been walking by (balancing to make sure I didn't fall on the kids in front of me), the heel of my big shoe must have caught him right by his eye.

I rushed back to him, "Oh my Gosh! Oh my Gosh! Tyler, I'm sorry; I'm sorry! Tyler, are you OK?" (Names changed to protect . . . you know the drill.)

Well, I took the poor fella' aside and told him he could sit down and rest. I had another student go to the office for an ice pack. Tyler was OK, and was feeling fine a few minutes later.

An educational assistant returned with an ice pack (and the student I'd sent). "They" (in the office) wanted the E.A. to bring Tyler back to the office, just so they could check if he was OK. That surprised me, . . . but fine.

Not too long after that he returned. With the other ensuing classroom adventures of the day, I didn't think much about the incident again.

At the end of the day I went to the office to get a form. One of the secretaries greeted me with, "How did your day go? Sounded like you had a little incident down there today."

I wrinkled my forehead: for a few seconds I didn't know what she was talking about; I had put it out of my mind. "Ohhh, Tyler ! Yeah, I feel so bad about that. I'm so clutzy. I was walking in between the kids and I caught the poor guy with the back of my shoe."

She laughed, "Oh, well, one of the kids came down and asked for an ice pack, and I asked him, 'For what?" and he just said, 'The teacher kicked Tyler in the eye.' And we were like, 'Who's your teacher?' and he said, 'Mrs. Stadelmann.' We looked at the board [with the sub's listed on it] and I was thinking, 'What's going on ?'" Note that not only was I a sub' they had never had there before but also probably the only man in the building besides the gym teacher and one of the custodians.

We discussed the "incident" in more detail, and I asked when to expect a subpoena. We laughed and they assured me not to worry about it now that they understood what had happened. However, they said they had already had to contact Tyler's mom just to let her know, since she's a teacher and all. Great , I thought. (There are two types of teacher-parents, those who are extra understanding of their kids' teachers and those who are hyper-critical of the same.)

As for me, next time I send a kindergartener with a message about an injured child, I'd better send a note, especially if I'm the cause of the injury.

Clap the rhythm ... on your own knees!

2006-04-06T19:30:00.000-05:00

Welcome! We're so glad you were available to sub' here today.
My first day subbing went pretty well overall. It didn't start with quite the "welcome back" to the district one might wish for.

As I mentioned, I was in for an elementary music teacher. She works at two different schools. I whisked into the office of the first school just at the time I was supposed to get there. It was a little busy so I had to wait a minute.

"May I help you?" They see an unfamiliar man in a tie with a black briefcase. They probably think I'm an educational software salesman.

"I'm the substitute for Mrs. Querin." (Names changes to protect …)

"For who?"

My heart rate doubles; I've started at the wrong school. No. That can't be, I read the information over five times.

"Mrs. Querin . . . ," I pronounce the name a couple of different ways. " . . . music teacher, she starts here and then goes to Franklin," I add, almost confidently.

The secretary believes me, but seems to be trying to hide her bewilderment. She walks back to the other secretary and repeat my alleged assignment.

The other secretary explains who I'm supposed to be subbing for and points to a schedule on the wall. (I would think that they would know a sub' is coming, or least know all the teachers in their building, part-time or not; it is April, after all. Maybe, the first secretary was a sub', too.)

Whew! They direct me and even tell me there is another music teacher down there who will let me know what I'll be doing.
__________

Only 10
The plans were thorough. And her Thursday schedule was thoroughly hectic. Her prep' time for the day: a ten-minute break, a thirty-five-minute break during which she has to travel to the other school, and a half-hour break called "lunch." There were 10 half-hour music classes to teach, ranging from Kindergarten to 4th grade.

Multitask Or Else
Both of the schools have a significant population of lower-income students. Almost all of the groups needed stern classroom management.

It was my first day, and I had had a bit of practice "teaching" again at church school.

Nevertheless, I found it difficult to deliver this firm class guidance while trying to choose and find the right songs on the CD player and in the music book, attempting to lead the singing in a way that did not incur infectious ridicule, and (sometimes), trying to prevent musical games from turning into recess-like free-for-alls.

Ultimately, each class went fine.

I do not envy the elementary vocal music teacher, especially "Mrs. Querin," and especially on Thursdays.

"Dada's going to work today" OR Operation 'Occupation: Sub', Day One'

2006-04-06T07:30:00.000-05:00

Today I had to say something I've never said to my son before, "Dada's going to work today." I will miss him. Especially after the nightmare I had last night in which he, my wife and I were all clinging to each other for dear life as giant rocks were falling out of the sky. (A little repressed anxiety about subbing, perhaps . . . ?)

Today is my first day substitute teaching. I'll be subbing in an elementary music class. I've taught elementary before (that's my field), but never music.

I hope the teacher has left a very complete lesson plan. Perhaps I should bring a Wiggles video just in case. Or, better yet, The School of Rock. ("Hat tip ..." [as they say on the web] ... "hat tip" to my wife for the School of Rock joke.)

What are you doing in there?

2006-04-03T15:54:00.000-05:00

Today I was reminded of a story about something that happened a few months ago.

Benjamin was going through a phase where he would use the bathroom and then stay in there just playing with stuff he found. One day while my brother and sister-in-law were visiting he was doing just that. Just before they left, my sister-in-law needed to use the bathroom, so we gave him fair warning that he'd have to come out in a minute.

When she couldn't wait any longer, we told him, ready or not, we were comin' in.

He was at the sink with a big roll of toilet paper under the running water. Half dissolved tissue was oozing off in the standing water (since the drain was pretty well clogged with the same substance).

In the flurry of vacating the bathroom, making the sink operable again, saying goodbye to my family members, telling Benjamin not to put toilet paper in the sink, etc., we didn't really discuss what on Earth he was trying to do.

Once it was calm, we asked. He earnestly answered, "Well, the toilet paper fell in the toilet. I was just trying to wash it off."

It broke our hearts. Conscientious to a fault. A big soggy, messy, gloppy fault.

April Fool's Day

2006-04-03T15:18:00.000-05:00

Oh yeah … April's Fools Day: We explained the concept to Benjamin and he got it.

His main jokes were:

"Oh, no! Eddie [one of our naughtier cats] peed on the floor …"

"Mama, I peed on the floor …"

"Dada, there's a badger in our house! …"

" . . . . . . April Fool's!"

April 3rd and the jokes — same ones — are just starting to peter out this morning.

John Travol-tot

2006-04-02T16:25:00.000-05:00

I was with Benjamin at church school this week. One day all the kids attending (ages 2 – 9) were together singing and doing hand and body motions to a song they had learned. The accompanying music was upbeat pop-rock.

Most of the older kids were doing the learned dance and motions. The preschoolers were either trying to do the same, just standing there, or kind of wiggling to the beat. Except my kid.

Benjamin was doing this wild free-form dance. I wanted to blame The Wiggles , but this was no Wiggles dance. It was an intense, all-out disco dance: turning, arms up, elbows out, up, down, shake, hip-shimmy, etc., etc. Despite being in a crowd, he was taking up a 3' X 8' space on the floor.

Actually, … Benjamin and I are not shy about gettin' down in the kitchen, whether it’s the Wiggles, Mother Goose Rocks, They Might Be Giants, New Order, C+C Music Factory (one of his favorites), Cake, Count Basie, J-Lo, Glenn Miller, Moby, … whatever.

When he was showin' his moves there in the church hall, I didn't know whether to be self-conscious or proud.

Well, anyway, now half the church probably thinks I take my kid out clubbing every weekend. (It's only really like once a month.)

Teaching Flashbacks

2006-03-31T10:53:00.000-06:00

The public schools in our town are on spring break right now, and our church is having a morning church school program for preschool and school-age kids for the week. My wife and I signed Benjamin up for it and I signed up to volunteer to work at the program for a few of the days.

Benjamin hasn't had a whole lot of experience with long, organized group activities or learning. Nevertheless, he's been doing great. He's had no signs of "homesickness," and is adjusting to the routines quickly.

I, on the other hand, was reeling a bit after my first day of volunteering, and it was not even half of a day. I was leading the "recreation" sessions. Each (age-level) group of kids would come to "my area," and I would lead them in specific games or activities. Having taught elementary school, I was on familiar ground.

I often carelessly remark, about being an at-home dad, that I'm still teaching, but with the ideal student-teacher ratio — 1:1. It wasn't quite as funny when the "ideal" part was taken away and I was forced to humbly remind myself that even a small group of kids about whom I know little is much different terrain.

These are some pedagogical and life lessons I relearned in a few hours:

Kids aren't born knowing how to raise their hands or get in a line.
Just because kids are staring at you intensely doesn't mean they have any idea what you're saying or even that they're listeni— "What? Uhhhh, no, we're not talking about my shirt right now …"
You should have already come up with excuses valuable life lessons about why everyone won't be able to have a turn at being the special … whatever … today.
When a 10 minute activity takes 20 minutes, and you have to repeat it for the next "class," they will finish it in 5 minutes. You will want to be ready for the question-and-answer session that will follow it: "Now what are we gonna do?" "Uhhh … "
Curricula are rarely written by "normal" teachers, but instead by curriculum writers and/or teachers who seem to have forgotten what it's like in a classroom. So most teachers' guides are to teaching as your car's manual is to learning to drive.
Any schedule that doesn't list bathroom breaks is wrong.
There are naughty kids There are kids with naughty behavior (even at church school.) Not your kids. They were great! Hope springs eternal that the naughty can be truly separated from the kid. Prepare. This transformation will not occur under your watch.
Starting at around 5 or 6 years old, kids will perceive almost any activity as a competition, no matter what it says in the teaching methods book, lesson plan, or the Bible.
If any sort of projector is involved, allow 5 minutes for improvisational shadow plays, 5 minutes for ceasing said shadow plays, and 5 assistants to micromanage spontaneous arm and head shadows. Alternatively, have ample security personnel to lock down a corridor between projector and screen.
If you're seeing leg shadows on the screen, the owner of the leg might not be your first choice for the student to summarize today's lesson.

I was being cautious on day one. By the second day, however, I was flagging down running kids in the hall, and jumping in front of the assembled group of kids channeling presumed-long-lost gimmicks to get their attention even when it wasn't my turn to teach. The teacher knee-jerk reflexes die hard and resurface quickly. (It took years for me to lose the impulse to intercept others people's kids running or yelling in the supermarket.)

Now a shocking confession: soon I may just be "Occupation: Part-time Dad" for a while. I have signed up to substitute teach (in the local school system). (The pay will help defray some of the adoption costs.) Not to worry, when our beautiful daughter arrives I'll be back on full-time overtime.

I don't know how much the kids learned at church this week, but I do know that God sent me some good practice for subbing.

Sub' teaching, as I recall, makes for some good stories. So the outstanding question is, do I post them here … or create Occupation: Sub?

Spy vs. Us

2006-03-26T22:55:00.000-06:00

Yesterday we asked Benjamin point blank, "Are you a secret agent?"

Straight-faced, without hesitation, he answered, "Yes."

My wife and I laughed. "Why are you laughing, Mama? Dada, why are you laughing?"

I don't know how much longer I can take these mind games.

Cover Blown

2006-03-24T23:39:00.000-06:00

We've always thought our son was good and bright and cooperative. A little too angelic? Surprisingly clever? Suspiciously obedient? No ... we just always thought we were extremely blessed and lucky. Until now.

Today Benjamin let it slip. He started talking about his "security papers." "Important security papers."

Sure they just looked like notepad sheets with scribbles on them. But it's obviously some sort of ruse or highly-sophisicated encryption. Our kid's clearly some kind of secret agent, disguised as a preschooler.

I know what you're thinking. But, in talking to him and each other we have identified no books, videos or TV he's encountered that talk about "security papers". (Sure, there are lots of kids materials about "security papers"; we just don't read or watch them.)

No. He's a covert operative all right. Homeland Security sent him here, no doubt, on suspicions of our suspicious dealings with China.

And people thought the NSA's "warrantless wiretapping" was an intrusion ... try living with a secret agent and 4 hairball-horking cats.

Occupation: Overprotective-Private-School-Yuppie-Dad???

2006-03-22T16:05:00.000-06:00

Yesterday we visited the school to which we will likely send our son. It is a private school. So what? Lots of people send their kids to private school. Well, I was (and may be again) a public elementary school teacher. Hypocrite! Right? I know of some public school teachers who would say so. I know some who would say, "I don't blame you!"

In fact, if I hadn't taught in a public school, I probably would never have even thought of sending Benjamin to a private school.

That being said, the schools here in Wisconsin, in general, are very good. The schools in our town are very, very good. But we want to shelter our child while he is young and impressionable. Are we spoiling, overprotective wackos? Well, not surprisingly, I say no.

I had this discussion once with someone of a similar opinion. He and his wife homeschooled their children. They often got the question, "But aren't you worried about socialization?"

His answer was, "Yes! That's why we homeschool."

This comment gets to the root of our feelings as parents. In school, kids learn behaviors from other kids. Good behaviors and bad behaviors. In public schools, classes are large, there aren't funds for sufficient supervision. The schedules are filled with loose transition times where students have lots of unecessary opportunities to socialize with little guidance.

Counterargument: If you brought your kids up well, they will be good role models and will rarely pick up negative behaviors from other kids.

I disagree. While teaching, I've seen too many good kids pick up naughty habits. Do they learn that they are negative behaviors? Of course, and quick! The brighter, good ones also quickly learn that they shouldn't do them … until they think that adults aren't around.

Another counterargument: All kids learn naughty stuff from their peers. We're only delaying the inevitable, and denying them an opportunity to learn about self-control, and about kids who are different, kids who may suffer hardship. Any bad behavior they pick up is a chance for parents and teachers to give an object lesson on right and wrong, why other people misbehave, etc., and to teach self-control.

Again, I disagree. Public school, private school or home school, there will be ample opportunities to teach self-control. We want to minimize learning by negative example, not maximize it. There is a time and place to learn that Johnny may have hit Bill because he has a hard home life, or that Mary swore at her teacher because she her parents don't monitor what she sees on TV. I contend that the best time and place is not in a 2nd grade classroom, nor even a 5th grade one. Part of my reason for saying so is that young children are still developing the abstract thinking abilities required for adult-like self-regulation.

There are myriad other reasons why we will probably choose the school we having been scoping out. (Blog posts, however, should probably be shorter than this one is already. In the future I would like to write about:
-Why I have the crazy belief that private school (and this one specifically) is any better than public school
-Curriculum and academics
-Organziation and management
-Diversity or lack thereof
And maybe I will.)

Right now, I'll just say I am so very thankful that this is even a possibility for our children.

Old Mystery Solved

2006-03-21T07:32:00.000-06:00

If you know me (or at least have read this old post), you know I am indecisive.

My wife is more decisive -- that's not saying much -- but she is not a stranger to agonizing about whether to get the turkey sandwich or the pasta primavera, etc., whether to go to the party or not, etc. Since she highly vales decisiveness, she is not particularly proud of what she describes -- in her critical moments -- as our being crippled by indecision.

My wife especially, then, is quite pleased that this trait seems to have skipped our son.

Case in point:

The other day I happened to hear the old Dylan song, "Blowin' in the wind." Bob famously wonders, "How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?" Being no stranger to non sequitirs and other such foolishness, I said to Benjamin, "I have a question for you, Benjamin. How many road must a man walk down ... ?"

Without hesitation he answered, "Two."

All right then. That settles that.

In the sun-stained brown grass

2006-03-19T14:33:00.000-06:00

Spring is lurking under this chill.
I can smell it. The winterbright sun is
trying to thaw something reluctant, not the
snow, it's gone. I think I found it, the

first clover that's not in a ranch house
window with a leprechaun. So small,
with light and dark greens only found
near the earth. My son can sense it. He won't

go in the house when we come home. This
34 degrees is different than three
weeks ago. He's rolling around in last year's
leaves with the cat. I think they're both purring.

Line up

2006-03-18T09:19:00.000-06:00

The other day, Benjamin was washing his hands and I needed to do the same. I reached in from the side and started to wash along with him.

"Dada, no," he started. (I fitted my I-don't-respond-for-Mr.-Bossy look.) "You have to get in line."

He doesn't go to preschool, but lately he has been attending Sunday school quite regularly. His rash reaction was clearly instigated by my appalling breach of wash-up-time protocol.

He will start a preschool program this fall, so this is just a taste of things to come. It will intensify, culminating in 2nd grade. At that point, we should anticipate that any break with established precedent will require a lengthy, carefully-worded explanatory statement, along with a liberal question-and-answers period. The results will likely range from "Well, that's still not fair" to resigned, quiet and highly skeptical acceptance. (Or, if we're in a hurry, we'll have to fall back on "we'll talk about it later," hoping later never comes. Worst case scenario: "because I said so.")

Back to the bathroom incident: Benjamin registered my stern look and reflexively repeatedly his request with a "could you please." I thought about explaining that there are different rules for home than there are in classrooms. I had just imagined all of our rules discussions for the next four years. I'll skip it this time.

"That's better," I sighed, and slunk to the end of the line.

He's probably right. It's a small sink.

De-sensationalizing the Adoption Abduction Connection

2006-03-16T10:53:00.000-06:00

China adoption news is on my radar because my wife and I are in the process of adopting a baby girl from China. The topic ventures into the media every so often. Some positive (or at least neutral) recent examples are the Meg Ryan adoption and a recent People piece on the adoptive families of Chinese sisters finding one another. Negative media crops up from time to time, as well. Mostly recently The Washington Post featured an article drawing attention to Chinese baby trafficking and its connection to the adoption system.

The author lays out the alleged facts in such a way as to suggest unfair and sensationalistic implications. First, the report leads one to believe that most of the babies involved in the trafficking were abducted. Brian Stuy, who has done much informal research in China and has followed the Hunan trafficking case closely, points out that there is no evidence that any of the babies involved in these prosecutions were abducted. Rather, it appears that they were given up by parents willingly. Moreover, the parents of the trafficked children in question did not sell their babies but rather paid a liaison to insure that the children would get to a family or an orphanage safely. (Most Chinese parents giving up children are doing so out of ponderous cultural pressure, unbelievable economic hardship and in response to China's "one child" population control policy. These parents are forced to relinquish children secretly and illegally in the face of fines that could bankrupt them for life.) The fact that profit may have been made by middlemen is very disturbing.

This more accurate narrative, however, is a far cry from the inference that people have abducted hundreds of children from Chinese parents to be sold and adopted.

Second, the article seems to portray that the real story of Chinese adoption is one of wealthy Westerners going off to China to buy children from orphanages to avoid the complications of adopting elsewhere. The truer and bigger story of Chinese adoption is this: Some 250,000 to as many as one million children are abandoned in China each year. Dozens of thousands are adopted domestically, despite disincentives. People all over the world have opened their minds and hearts to provide homes for these children many of whom, should they remain as orphans, are headed for a future without education, in poverty, and worse. These are caring people sensitive to the complexities of international adoption, learning and bringing Chinese culture into their families so that these children will be able to have the opportunities and freedom of their new homelands, while being secure with and enriched by their culture of birth. (I do not mean these statements to be self-congratulatory. We have done a lot of work, but we are still waiting to adopt.) The adoptive families I know (and know about) are people changing the path of their lives and the shape of their families to provide a home to someone without one.

Child abduction sickens me. But that is a different story. No one wants to turn a blind eye to a report of corruption and selling human beings for profit. But that is yet another story — of people (some trying to help perhaps, some just greedy) in Hunan, who along with their official accomplices are, after all, being prosecuted.

The story of China adoption is a quieter, more complicated one about a huge need and hands from many places carefully reaching across the globe to respond.

Like a Duck in Water

2006-03-11T00:28:00.001-06:00

Benjamin was playing with a duck decoy we have out as a decoration. He was asking about it, so I explained how hunters use duck decoys. I guess he picked up on that they floated in the water; he began talking about how the duck was in the water, etc. I thought it was clever because he was playing on the glass-covered coffee table ... the glass being like the water. Not so. He soon said, "I want you to notice something about duck's head." Instead (when I went closer), I noticed something about the ducks environs. The duck was swimming in a shallow (thankfully) puddle of actual water on the coffee table. "I just did it just for fun." (At least this newly-formed pond motivated us to clean the already-smeary tabletop.)

Benjamin is almost always very good at not doing something we've asked him not to do. As in this story, he comes up with new, creative ideas, that in his mind, are not connected with previous prohibitions. It's true. We never told him not to make a duck pond on the coffee table.

Treat

2006-03-10T09:44:00.000-06:00

Benjamin started bringing the fireplace tools across the room to me. I was trying to be enthusiastic about the offerings, sayings things like, "Thanks, this is nice."

He was asking, "Why?"

I said, "Well, these are very useful tools."

He went to get another, mumbling something about the "wood grabbers." On his way back to me with the fireplace tongs, he very excitedly informed me, "Now you're in for a real treat."