Awkward moments, Vol. 1

As an antidote to all those ubiquitous Precious Moments things, here are a few of the most Awkward Moments my children have seen fit to drag me into, just in the past week and a half.

Please note that while I include the word "loudly" in all three entries, I'm sure you know I had no need to mention it even once.

1. While enduring an excessively long checkout process at the store, my 2-year-old daughter M- loudly pointed out that supermodel Giselle Bunchen, posing effectively in the nude on the cover of this month's Vanity Fair, had no shirt on, before speculating that "the lady [was] going to take a shower, probably," and then following up in graphic detail with all the steps she would be taking next.

2. Walking by a woman carrying her child with a beautiful (and probably very expensive) head of cornrows, M- and her 5-year-old brother D- said hi, each referring to the child as a different sex (due to this apparently unfamiliar hairstyle and ambiguous clothing colors), and then they began loudly debating whether it was a boy or a girl, including the heretofore uncharted territory of a "boy-girl".*

3. Just days before the normally large Immigration Rally here in Chicago, and in the midst of all this swine flu nonsense, a Hispanic busboy** began clearing our table while we were gathering up our supplies to leave a local pizza pub, and the kids coincidentally decided to start very loudly chanting the refrain from one of their recent favorite books (Gotta Go by Sam Swope): "Gotta go to Mexico!!"

Luckily for us, neither of them were frowning or pointing at the time they issued this grammatically ambiguous statement/command.

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* For the record, I had been 99% sure it was a girl until I heard these two arguing. I don't feel too badly about this uncertainty, given the number of times D- was misidentified as a girl in his first 2 years of life, and the handful of times M- was as a boy, but if anyone ever thought either was a boy-girl/girl-boy, they had the decency to keep it to themselves.

** Seems a demeaning job title, considering that the guy is at least 40. But "Busman" just sounds like a really, really low-budget superhero. Like Batman if he wasn't a billionaire. Guy's gotta get around somehow, right?

Classic quotes, Vol. 13

Here are the latest quotes from my 5-year-old son D-, 2-year-old daughter M-, my wife J-, and me:

Me (to J-, once again dangerously undervaluing my hilarious genius): You being in a bad mood doesn't make me a jerk, it just makes me funny without being appreciated.

D- (as we walked past a church): Hey look! A window like a "t"!

M- (pleading with her brother after I explained to him that getting run over by a car would be lethal): And you would get a BWOOZE!!

D- (while building Duplos at the library): Dad, look! It's a dragon... with guns on him!

M- (repeating a gem of J-'s after seeing me in shorts on a mild day): You gonna freeze your bummy off.

D- (trying to start an unknown chant without the ability to spell): B! Y! B-M-J! B! Y! B-M-J!

The weather inside is spiteful

It was raining all last night here in Chicagoland, which makes me mad. It's supposed to be winter, a time of cold, fluffy snow, not balmy rain and lethal ice.

I think it's quite possible that Hell is actually a frigid ice fortress full of horrifically pointy icicles in every direction and black ice the only floor covering.

I have a feeling this warm-up indicates we'll miss a white Christmas yet again in my lifetime, which happens so often I'm never surprised, even though Christmas occurs at the end of December in Chicago. Two and two equal five here, it seems.

All of our beautiful, hard-fought snow from earlier this week (whose sudden arrival during rush hour caused me to park the car and walk with D- to Target rather than endure another half hour trying to drive a mere mile and a half), will be iced over and ruined, like a jilted lover left to rot at the altar.

This perfect snowball powder I didn't even get to roll in once got Havishamed in one long, bitter night, and what I'll be walking out into, whenever it is I choose to exit our icy cocoon, will be a shadow of its former self. I'm almost too upset to even picture it. Breaking through the icy crust over the yard (with the back of my skull, no doubt) to find the soft insides dried-out and useless for anything but metaphors...

I'm too digusted to even crack a simile.

A conversation with M-: The official seal is made of sugar

Here's a deeply poignant, spontaneous conversation I had the other day with my 20-month-old daughter M- on the way home from dropping her brother off at preschool:

M-: Brackabama! I want Brackabama!

Me: You want Barack Obama to win?

M-: No.

Me: Oh, you want John McCain to win?

M-: No.

Me: Well, who do you want to win?

M-: Candy.*

Me: What?

M-: I want Candy! Can I have some?! Please?

So it's not clear to me whether she wants to see a Clark bar elected president or she's shrewdly selling her vote for one.


Editor's Note: I swear on all that is good and holy that I did not make this up.**

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* Actually, I believe this was Ron Paul's nickname in medical school, so that counts.

** The lack of this disclaimer on previous or future posts should not be taken as an indication of fictionalization.

All the Queen's bees vs. all the President's boys

On the way home from preschool yesterday, D- began chanting a somewhat disturbing song I only vaguely recalled hearing before-- The Baby Bumblebee Song.

Like any red-blooded American, my first thought was that I needed to call the ACLU to organize a protest against the teaching of this song that clearly incites violence against innocent bees, but then I thought, you know what else incites violence against suddenly-less-than-innocent bees? Those panicky little f***ers themselves stinging people without having the decency to give them a little honey first.

I guess I run hot and cold like that, so it's good to know that the kid is being sent off somewhere two afternoons a week to study at the feet of more level-headed people who understand we need to begin training our anti-bee army* as early as possible, to protect America at home and abroad in our uncertain future.

In case you haven't yet had the honey-soaked veil lifted, don't feel too bad when singing happily about slaughtering their young-- all these bees are steadily leaving for more profitable positions overseas anyway, so they can jack up their already obscene profits by avoiding taxes while exploiting our insatiable appetites and not giving a bit back voluntarily.

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* An important special unit in our overall War Against Nature.

The finest in casual dining

A couple of days ago, the kids and I took a jaunt down to the massive outdoor mall* near our house, which meant that we got to bite into a juicy cross section of what passes for Americana these days.

Among the stores we passed was a Chili's**, which caught D-'s eye immediately. He said, "Hey look, there's that 'rons-traunt' we went to that time." I acknowledged this and praised him as usual for his good memory, since it was quite awhile ago. He stared at the window as we (happily) passed it by, and his brain began to slowly warp itself before he continued with a second thought. I was all over it two words in-- I don't know why I'm so tuned into his brain patterns most of the time, but I just knew exactly what he was thinking.

D-: Remember we went there that time 'cause Momma's friend works there, and she...

Me: Nope, that was a different place.

D-: No! It was that place right there! We went there and Momma's friend...

Me: You're right that it's the same kind of place, but it's a different restaurant, from a different company.

D-: No it was that place! We went there that time and Momma's friend gave us cookies and they sang Happy Birthday to you!

Me: I promise you, that was a Bennigan's. This is a Chili's. They're pretty much exactly the same restaurant, with the same kind of food, but they have slightly different decorations on the walls. They're from two different companies, and they have two different names, but I can see how you could get confused.

He walked on in silence, since my Imperious Kung Fu is much stronger for the time being, but it was clear from his posture that he still believed he was right, just like I would. As I caught him gazing innocently off in the direction of the Outback Steakhouse, rather than go through this all over again, I immediately veered off the sidewalk to instead cut through the parking lot in the general direction of a big box store whose name willfully escapes me.

Who says America doesn't have any culture?

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* Not to be confused with the other massive outdoor mall also in our town but another mile farther away in a different direction.

** I had to quickly double-check that it wasn't actually an Applebee's, Ruby Tuesday, Chotchkee's, Flingers, Fuddruckers, Uncle Moe's Family Feedbag, TGI Friday's, or one of the others.

A conversation with D-: One hand clapping

Here's another little conversation with my four-year-old son D-, which took place the other day while we were walking home from the library after he held up his hand for me to hold.

Me: Oooh, that's a nice hand. Can I keep it?

D- (slightly confused, but characteristically unfazed): No.

Me: Why?! Do you need it for something?

D- (half shrugs while thinking of a response): No...

Me: Then why can't I have it?

D-: ...Cause... you don't have, like a knife or something... to cut it off, so it'll just stay stuck on me there, so...*

Me (frowning a little): Hmmm, you're right... oh, well.

For the record, I'd like to register my absolute bafflement as to where he might have picked up such dry, pragmatic attention to detail.


* Don't think for a second I didn't notice he said "like". Shudder.

A conversation with D-: I believe you can't fly

The following is an impromptu conversation with my 4-year-old son D-, which took place the other day as we walked down the alley on the way to the library:

D-: I can't fly right now.

Me: Oh yeah?

D-: But when I'm 5, or maybe when I'm 10, then I'll be able to fly right through the sky!

Me: I'm older than that-- can I fly?

D- (thinking): No, you just have to hold on to my heels.

Me: Ahh... nice.

D-: Cause I'm like a train up in the sky!

You know, it's high time they came up with a name for those.

Developments at our house, Vol. 6

Here are some more developments at our house in the past few days:

1. M- found a way to confuse and frustrate Daddy-- wake up at 7:30 after a long couple of days of unexplained illness (probably exacerbated by a long night/morning out with the uncles before the wedding), and then crawl in his arms and say, "Nigh'-nigh'" HALF AN HOUR LATER. Then, after a few minutes of silence in the crib, change your mind.

2. D- learned that no, there is no medicine that can make you stop hiccuping. If there was, whoever invented it would be a trillionaire (unless they were under contract with a corporation, of course). And those riches would come just from my payments alone, for when I want to stave off a horrible headache from an hour of violent hiccups. J- finds it amusing, but as my friend Adam would say, it makes me want to kill people.

3. I re-decided that U2 is incredibly awesome, and that this is one of the best albums you will ever buy. Why pay $18 for some random CD with two decent songs on it when you can pay $14 (and that much only if you're shopping at absolutely the wrong store) for one jam-packed with this kind of greatness?

4. M- discovered that our laptop screen makes all sorts of pretty colors when you press on it really hard with your finger.

5. I learned that M- could redeem herself for a few choice acts of naughtiness by spontaneously calling out, "cue me" from behind the couch after burping. (Note that the following 450 self-congratulatory "cue me"s she issued afterwards did not each have an equal effect.) Apparently she really is a sponge, because as far as I know, no one has tried to teach her this yet.

6. D- decided that with the cape stuck onto his Superman pajamas (we usually leave it off so it's not a hazard or hassle during sleep), he has no need to ever change into real clothes.

7. I now understand that we need to branch out in our activities, because when we are between storytime sessions at the library, we don't have much reason to leave the house, we don't shower or get dressed until noon, and my step-count plummets.

8. We all learned that windshield wiper motors have transmissions, and that they can break pretty easily since they are often made of plastic. Later today, we'll find out just how expensive they are to replace.

Read our previous lists of developments.

An additional child

I've come to the realization that even when I put down M- and D-, I'm still carrying our other stubbornly clingy toddler, Belly. I mean, 20 pounds roughly equals one toddler, right? So I'm going to start thinking of it that way, to provide myself with a tiny, weak, easily vanquished, and non-intimidating enemy.

Belly is a stubborn and demanding child, though he does keep me warm. Still, he's always known I hate him, so there's no point in pretending anymore that he's imagining my whispered snide remarks and double stink eyes anytime I feed or care for him alongside the other kids. He is most definitely my least favorite child, and in fact I consider his paternity highly in question.

I suppose you may find it disturbing, then, that after personifying this lil fella, I plan to ramp up my efforts to starve him and crush him into oblivion day by day. After months of walking even more than before, I feel like I can walk anywhere without tiring. Luckily our neighborhood has grocery stores, convenience stores, hardware stores, restaurants, and the library all within a few blocks, so it's pretty easy to just walk everywhere.

Hundreds of pushups and crunchers have also helped rebalance my body composition, and they have left little Belly on the defensive, wondering what he ever did to deserve this treatment. Soon he'll be like one of those poor, emaciated, swollen little children on one of those charity commercials, but unfortunately for Belly, there will be no creepy bearded man gratingly badgering and guilting people into sending money to allegedly help him save the waif.

Little Belly will instead stand like Oliver Twist before the Master, pleading for more pizza and junk food, but he shan't receive a crumb beyond his allotment, and so shall I hang him for his insolence. I swear by the benevolent gods Mozzarella and Canadian Bacon, Bellicose J. Tumtum shall perish from this Earth by the close of a fortnight!

[Editor's note: Okay, more like several months, since I take a relaxed approach to most everything, and because I don't want to die, but I'm trying to really scare him here.]

Steppin' to the OCD

Like most people who've suffered a decrease in physical activity after enduring a marked increase in nighttime screaming and predawn eyelid yanking, I've gone a bit soft around the middle in the past 3 years or so.

To combat this, I've enlisted the help of my comically debilitating obsessive-compulsive disorder, through the use of a pedometer.

As ridiculous as I may look, I've clipped this thing on my left front pocket every day for over a month now. Since the "other mothers" at library storytime pretty much ignore me anyway, I can unselfconsciously^ drive my way upwards towards the Minimal Acceptable Level For Physical Activity, which is 10,000 steps a day.

It's a lot easier to cite this nice, round number as a baseline than it is to walk it when the people you are chasing only measure their stride lengths in inches. I mean, what are the odds that this magical minimum for all humans is such a perfect number? Did the Masons arrange that, too? Just like they designed the Great Seal of the United States, and the way they planted this clever ruse now that Nicholas Cage has been hot on their trail for 3 years with no signs of slowing down?

...You might think my tendency to be easily distracted, which I'll tell you about some day, would interfere with my quest to achieve 10,000 steps per day. But, my friends, you would be discounting the awesome power of my OCD, which has spawned several worse nicknames for me than LiteralDan.

Do I have a fully calculating spreadsheet on which to record my daily steps and view my monthly average as it changes each day, you ask? You'd better believe I do. And will this spreadsheet only expand exponentially in complexity over time? My Magic 8 Ball says... All Signs Point to Yes. I think it's only basing that on my spreadsheets for our DVDs, Books, Bills, Presents (to give), and... that's all I have, really it is. Well, entirely by accident, I did recently create a spreadsheet for the pledged delegates in the 2008 presidential race. I swear I will delete that one once Obama wins the nomination. (You wouldn't think such a thing would really require a solemn oath, but when freed from the limitations of physical space, you'd be surprised by the useless s**t I have kept "in case I ever need it." Come to think of it, you should also come see the physical space in which I live...)

Anyway, because I'm such a gentleman, I did J- the courtesy of cloning my Steps spreadsheet for her, since she received the same pedometer from my sister this Christmas. All I can say is thank God the thing stores the previous 7 days' totals, or I would never be able to accurately record J-'s steps for her once a week. For some reason, she just doesn't seem to be consistently drawn each day to the computer to fill in the little cell with a number to see how all the other numbers change. And for the record, of course the spreadsheet is for her, not for me-- I am not now helplessly bound to fill the empty box I've created.

Alrighty... after walking around our apartment at least a dozen times just before midnight (I needed to beat my February average, to keep moving forward, and then I couldn't not break 6000 after getting so close), I'm ready to do that thing I do sometimes between feeding people dinner and breakfast... no, after sitting on the computer for a couple hours... for some reason, I can't think clearly enough to come up with what you call that... I'd better go lay down.


^ I've decided that this is a word, and that this is how it is spelled. I bet there's already a German word for it, though, and it would make me sound much more sophisticated.

Can you dig it?

You know the best way to derail a quick walk to get Momma some 7-Up to settle her stomach? A giant hole in the street being filled by gravel dumped from a big loud truck and patted by the scoop of a backhoe.

I tried, but not very hard, to push past it and tell D- we'd check it out after our errand, but I knew before I said anything that this was a lost cause. It's like telling Ponce De Leon to make a mental note to further inspect that mysteriously glowing pond at a more convenient time.

So we stood and watched.

And watched.

And watched some more.

For some reason, several people walking by and looked at us like maybe somehow there was something more sinister at work than a 3-year-old boy's transfixion with his favorite toys wrought larger than life. People are weird sometimes.

He didn't get to operate any of the machinery this time, like he did this summer after we watched a crane replace the HVAC unit on the roof of a hardware store, but he was still pretty satisfied. Plus, one of the workers waved to us, which helps reaffirm D-'s carefully cultivated belief in the general politeness of people. Boy, is he in for a rude awakening at some point.

Till then, he's as pure as the new-fallen snow that's kept J- home from work (as a special ed teacher) for the past two days. Once life got word of this windfall, of course, it made sure to leave her deathly ill for the entire time. I guess on the bright side, that's two sick days she can use later.

A character study

To illustrate the kind of boyo I've got, and to offer up one of the unexpected perks of parenting, I offer this:

M-, D-, and I walked a few blocks this evening in blistering wind laced with hateful little snowflakes to get a few necessities at the store. Whilst picking through the milks to find the youngest one, apropos of nothing, D- walked over to me, kissed me on the cheek, and said "Love ya, Daddy."

He didn't ask for candy or toys or anything.

That was it.