SquareDad LoserPants

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?

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.

Simple Truth

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

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

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."

Need Cheering Up? Remember: Things Fall Apart

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.

Searching

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.

Elevator Protocols

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."

New Flavor

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.

Christmas Letter 2005

(abridged and adapted by the author)

Not much has happened to us this last year, so toward the end of this letter I’m just going to start making stuff up.


The cats have been horking up a lot of hairballs around the house. So we’d like pet stain remover for Christmas. Oh, those of you whom we’re going to hit up to adopt a couple of our cats, please disregard the last sentence. Those whom we plan to invite to our house in the upcoming year, please know that we have meticulously cleaned up all spots to date.

Benjamin is currently obsessed with (Australian children’s musicians and TV personalities) The Wiggles. He almost always refers to Jay as “Greg” and Rebecca as “Anthony,” and he usually answers only to “Dorothy the Dinosaur” (all Wiggles characters). Once in a while Benjamin rearranges the roles. I'm glad I don’t often have to be “Dorothy,” because it gets tiring speaking in an Australian falsetto all day. Don’t even ask about “Henry the Octopus.”

In addition to making “Fruit Salad (yummy, yummy),” serving “cold spaghetti, cold spaghetti” and other “Wiggly” househusbandly tasks, I've been spending a lot of time on my new hobby, cleaning up hairballs and other bodily waste. Not far off the topic, we attained a notable landmark this year: finally completing Benjamin’s potty training. Did I mention stain remover?

We are continuing the process of adopting our future daughter from China. We hope to travel next fall. (A specific child won’t be identified until a couple of months before that). Our most recent task in the process was getting fingerprinted for our immigration application at the U. S. Department of Homeland Security in Milwaukee. It’s very understandable. You’d be surprised how many couples smuggle in al-Qaeda operatives disguised as 1 year-old Chinese girls.

Shortly before that was our “Home Study”. It is a little strange to have a social worker interview you and come into your home to make sure you will be good parents, especially when you already are (parents, that is). Nevertheless, we didn’t get stressed out about it, except the inevitable scramble to make the house look like a dwelling of civilized people. Did I mention hairballs?

The home study went well. Of course, we tried to demonstrate how we’ve enriched Benjamin by having him show off. We asked him to tell the social worker what he would do if there was an emergency and he could not get an adult to help him. He said, “Call 911.” Fabulous. We continued, “What would you tell them?” His answer: “Me monkey. Me want banana.” He later vindicated us by spontaneously entering our phone number into a calculator and showing it to us all. Apparently, the social worker was impressed. The Chinese may not be as impressed, knowing, as well as anyone, that phones, not calculators, are for calling phone numbers and taking pictures and playing music and ….

My wife most likes her role as “Mama” — or “Anthony,” as the case may be. She still likes her job, too. One of the happier parts of her work is when she performs marriages. Well, usually happier. Recently she officiated at a wedding in which the bride happened to be Chinese. As happens at weddings, the bride began to cry. Well, my wife, already reminded of our daughter-to-be, started bawling along with her. (Mrs. OccupationDad had predicted she might not be as emotional with an adoption as during a pregnancy. Not so.) A simple explanation might have cleared things up, had the bride understood more English. As it was, she backed nervously toward the door, nodding politely, as if to hide what she was really thinking, “Please don’t hurt us, crazy lady.”

Well, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Oh, and the stuff about hairballs. I made it up.