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 . . . .

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."

A Grown Up Realization OR "TELL me about it"

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.

Superhero

(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.

Quotable

"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.

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.