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.

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.