Backlash to Come (No pun intended)

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

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

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?

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

• 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.