His Ego's Writing Checks His Body Can't Cash
Hey, it's Nate again. Mom and Dad were nice enough to take me to the big air show at Westover last weekend, but things got a little out of hand. Read on.
I was totally just minding my own business, checking out the cool aircraft on display, when I must have pressed the wrong button.
And I was off. This is me acting concerned about the fact that I'm quickly rising into the air, yet not quite being able to contain my perverse glee.
Of course, they came after me, but I know a few maneuvers. My dog's not named Maverick for nothing. This sort of thing runs in the family.
It was all very exciting, but I had to come down eventually. The panicked crowds quickly scattered, but no one was seriously injured.
Military brass were none too pleased, but after a stern lecture, they set me up here and told me to make myself useful by educating people about the dangers of being sucked into a jet engine. The danger of birds being sucked in, I mean. 'Cause if your kid's getting sucked into an engine at 10,000 feet, you're probably not a very good parent.
Anyway, next air show, we're just gonna watch. I promise.
Day Trips to Benefit Humanity, Part 2
Hey, it's Nate again. So, I was at Six Flags recently, having a perfectly lovely time, aside from having t0 straighten my hat and resettle my stomach after the spinning teacups, which look a lot slower when you're standing in line.
But then something caught my eye: the bright colors and seductive sounds of Wiggles World. This is an area of the park dedicated to expanding the empire of four creepy guys from Australia whom I have never had the opportunity to watch on TV. Thank God.
The foursome, fortunately, were not actually at Six Flags; they were apparently off somewhere counting their money. But we were treated to the inappropriate stylings of Captain Feathersword, a "friendly" (the show's words, not mine) pirate. "Captain Feathersword?" Dad whispered to Mom. "That's the subject line of half the spam e-mails I get at work." I had no idea what that meant. But the fact that the pirate's sword was soft and wispy didn't stop him from repeatedly tickling the show's lady host with it. She'd jump and shriek a little, but then she'd just keep singing, bracing for the next poke, rather than storming off right there and reporting the assault to her union rep. "Wow," Dad said. "This sort of workplace behavior hasn't been acceptable since, like, 1957."
"Wags," I asked the big brown dog after the show, "why did Captain Feathersword treat the host that way? Is demeaning women a problem isolated to your show, or is it endemic to Aussie culture?" Wags gave me a sad, confused look. "Oh, you don't really know, do you?" I asked. "It's not that," Wags said. "It's your Mom and Dad. They just got arrested and carried off for asking too many questions. But have a wiggly day at Six Flags anyway!"
Great. Not only had my questions about institutionalized sexism gone totally unanswered, but now I had to rescue my parents. So I jumped into the closest car I could find, whipped around the corner, and was hot on the kidnappers' trail.
Unfortunately, I drifted farther behind when the car stalled and I had to steal a horse, but I was determined to catch up with my Mom and Dad. I mean, they had my snack bag, and I really wanted some goldfish.
By the time my horse staggered, exhausted and half-lame, into the Peter Pan station in downtown Springfield, I knew he could go no farther. No buses were scheduled to leave for awhile, so I just stole one. So many thoughts were racing through my head: would I be on time to save my parents? How angry is Peter Picknelly going to be? Why do I keep changing shirts?
Feeling guilty, I ditched the bus and hopped a train, but soon began to feel like I was going in circles. This was not a particularly useful engine.
To my great fortune, however, a fleet of helicopters landed dramatically in a nearby field. I was told to hop aboard -- they knew what happened to Mom and Dad! Yay! And I got to ride a helicopter! Double yay!
We touched down at a little-used, high-security space station, where I boarded a rocketship. "Where am I going?" I asked. "Mars," someone said. "Your parents are on Mars." Then I blasted off. Good thing I'm NASA-trained.
As it turns out, I had an ally up there. Marvin confronted the kidnappers courteously but firmly, as is his way. "You have made me very angry, very angry indeed," he said before whipping out his weapon and instantly disintegrating them. Wow, I thought. That's no feathersword. Then we took a few photos and headed back to earth. All in all, a good day. Never did get my goldfish, though.
Day Trips to Benefit Humanity, Part 1
Good afternoon! It's me, Nate, the esteemed scientist, here to give Pioneer Valley Days an exclusive report of my latest paleontological, ecological, aerospace, and oceanographic studies. Oh, stop smirking. I'm a multifaceted scientist. I'm the Charles Pellegrino of the preschool set.
First I was called over to the Boston Science Museum to help assemble a newly unearthed triceratops. I'm really good at puzzles, especially the Sesame Street one and the one with the doggie at the beach, so this was a piece of cake for me (a cake with no nuts, of course). I also know, by the way, that triceratops babies say "ow! ow!" I learned that tidbit while doing research earlier this year at the Springfield Science Museum. Take that, Boston!
Since I was in town anyway, I was asked by local EPA officials to investigate fluctuating water-quality conditions in the Charles River. We boarded an amphibious vehicle called a "duck boat," and I sat in back with my research colleague, Jennifer, for the land-based portion of the journey. But once in the water, I was called upon to steer as we conducted river-testing efforts and shared our findings with the environmental-studies undergrads who were along for the trip. My analysis? I love that dirty water.
I was far from the first ecologist to come to the same conclusion, of course. Someone named "Mike Lowell," apparently part of the Water Safety and Massachusetts Vitality Program, did similar work in 2007. Now, I personally would never be so unprofessional as to scribble on the ceiling of a government research vehicle. This is an important scientific endeavor, not some parade.
It was still early in the day when we returned from the river, and I was met at the museum doors by NASA officials, who told me about a worrisome situation on the moon to which I could perhaps lend my expertise. Well, what was I going to say? Outer space beckoned! So I bid a tearful farewell to my colleagues (well, they were tearful; I was pretty stoked) and was blasting off within the hour.
Due to national-security concerns, I can't tell you much about my work in space, but I'm happy to say I splashed down a couple days later in Long Island Sound and safely washed up on shore, exhausted but proud to have served my country.
The needs of science never take a day off, of course, so I immediately grabbed my red haz-mat bucket and set about capturing one of the approximately 3,000 aggressive, possibly deadly, but oh-so-pretty jellyfish that had gathered that morning close to the Connecticut shoreline.
Satisfied with another victory for zoological research, I spent the rest of the day surfing.
Next up: my first trip to Six Flags. You know, to conduct, um, motion research.
'Cause We're Really Smart
Actual conversation in a messy living room:
Joe: Oh, hi, Ripley.
Ripley: (wags stump)
Joe: Hey, Nate, here's Ripley, and right next to her is your sneaker and, uh, Percy the train. Hmm. What can we do with Ripley, Percy, and a sneaker?
Nate: Maybe Percy could go in Ripley's belly!
Joe: Really? She could eat Percy? Um, OK. Well, then ... then maybe Ripley could wear the sneaker! Then we'd have ... a train-eating, sneaker-wearing dog! Yeah! We just figured out Blue's Clues!
Nate: Yeah!
Ripley: (wags stump)
I really need to get out more.
Staycation, All We Ever Wanted
Well, we didn't spend our whole staycation shopping at Raymour & Flanigan, even though that radio commercial kept telling us to. In fact, we spent three full days last week painting a house and listening to pop radio. Um, Carrie Underwood? You could have at least asked for his business card. You know, Jesus wants you to take your own wheel once in a while. And stop snickering, Katy Perry; that goes for you, too. Sheesh, should we pass out name tags now? Would that help?
That said, this is basically a placeholder post to let everyone know I'm still alive -- and heading back to work today not having found any time to blog about our week. Nate said that if I let him on the computer soon (and I will), he'll tell you all about our day trips to the Boston Science Museum (and getting to steer a duck boat); Six Flags, where a friendly pirate taught the kids that sexual harassment is good; and Hammonasset State Beach, where he caught a jellyfish in a bucket (Nate, not the pirate). See? We did do more than paint.
Oh, and Maverick ran his inexplicable Q streak to 16, but don't let Ripley know I told you that.
Monday on the Phone with George
"George," I told my editor's voice mailbox, "I have a doctor's appointment later this morning, and it doesn't make a lot of sense to come in and leave again and kill an hour of work time on the road when my doctor is a mile from my house. So I'm going to make my calls at home and come in after the appointment. Call me if you need anything." Then I hung up.
Nate, who was getting ready for school, immediately fished his cell phone (a real one, minus the battery) out of his toybox and pressed some buttons.
"Hello, George?" he said. "Yeah. Are you at work? What do you want?"
Nate likes George, who gives him Hot Wheels once in a while -- including a limited-edition Jamie McMurray car that the Lenox Industrial Tools folks gave George at a race in Loudon. Nate loves that car.
"What do you want to eat?" he continued. "Chicken Nuggets or Apple Dippers?" He paused, then turned to me. "He wants Chicken Nuggets, Apple Dippers, and chocolate milk from Old McDonald's."
"This early in the morning?" I said. "Good luck with that. Ask him if he wants an Egg McMuffin instead."
Nate was already past that topic, however. "What do you want?" he asked imaginary George. "Do you need some money?"
"Tell him I need some money," I interjected. Maybe Nate wanted to pay for the cars. I figured buying George breakfast would be a fair swap, but hey, it wasn't my phone call.
Riding to school a few minutes later, Nate tried again to talk to George, but complained that the buttons weren't working. I can never dial phone numbers in dreams, so I did a reality check with the digital clock. Nope, not dreaming. Although flying to school would have been nicer.
"George says he needs a rest," Nate said as we pulled into his parking lot.
"We all need a rest," I said. See, even Nate knows we work too hard. And his phone doesn't even have a battery.
Maybe It's Top-50 Material After All
I was wandering around after dinner when Nate picked a snacktime show from the DVR list. I grabbed my ratty kakuro book and a pencil (I will get through all 250 puzzles) and sat down at the end of the couch. Jenn -- who had not yet read yesterday's blog posting, mind you -- lowered her book, looked at me, and said, "You came in here to watch Peep, didn't you?"
Eight years of marriage, people. No secrets.
The Dude's Cool in a Pinch
Nate finally had his 3-year checkup last week, and I'm starting to wonder if he's really my son. No, he looks nothing like the mailman. But he's intrigued by his own blood in ways I can't comprehend even when I'm not looking straight down at the floor.
I'm a pretentious braggart when it comes to Nate, so I got a kick out of answering the nurse's milestone questions. "Does he climb stairs taking one foot per stair?" she asked at one point. "Sure," I said, thinking about how he conquers swinging ladders and anything else at the playground that leads upward. Even the list of age-related milestones in this pediatric guidebook we have is pretty funny. Three years: Your child can throw an object 5 feet forward. Yes, and smack overhand pitching 40 feet, when he's not lining shots off Jenn's lip. Four years: He can pedal a tricycle 10 feet forward. Yup, ahead of schedule there. Five years: He does not get overly upset when left with a babysitter. If it's Babci or Auntie Sherri, he pretty much pushes us out the door so he can get back to assembling elaborate train-track interchanges. Six years: He can catch a ball with only his hands. Um, by 6 years old, we're expecting at least some feelers from lower-level Sox scouts. Although, while he does hit like Pedroia, he still fields like Lugo and throws like Damon. On one of Damon's good days, but still.
Maybe I'm a jerk, but I just find him delightful, whether he's ditching diapers completely, even overnight, as he did several weeks ago; assembling 24-piece puzzles in a few minutes; or coming up with impromptu jokes in the car ("I'm gonna kick my ball at the park." "Well, don't hit anyone with it, or they'll kick us out." "Yeah, like I kick my ball"). Even when he's serving a timeout for one of his stubborn, 3-year-old screaming fits, I know I'm only minutes away from a hug and feeling proud of him again. I can't help it. He's really cool.
Which brings us to the blood test. Nate was expecting shots and didn't seem too bothered by the idea (then again, he loves bees, even though he clearly remembers -- and still talks about -- being stung last fall during apple picking). As it turns out, he wasn't due for any vaccinations, but he did need a finger prick for a lead test. He jumped a little when he was pierced, after which I tried to get him to look at me. But no -- for the next, oh, 90 seconds, he insisted on staring at the finger from which the nurse was taking drop after drop of blood. She was squeezing blood out of him, and he was simply ... fascinated. And didn't seem to mind. I -- being prone to dizziness due to my lifelong blood-drawing phobia -- was staring down, mostly, and rubbing Nate's chest, although he probably should have been rubbing mine.
He was pretty proud of the "bandy" on his finger and the red mark still there when it came off a little later. And when he told the nurse he was 3 years old, he got to pick out three stickers: two Thomas engines and one with a bunch of dinosaurs. Hard-earned stickers, if you ask me. I was positively beaming, after regaining my balance.
I should add that I recently, with much prodding from Jenn, went for a cholesterol test. I got exactly zero stickers. Wasn't anyone proud of me?
I can also hit overhand pitching, sometimes. And field at least as well as Lugo.
Here's Where the Sleeping Starts
I don't know how we made it this long, but we're all pretty sick of Bedtime Lullabies from Johnson's, so we retired that dog-eared disc to Nate's closet. But what to replace it with? He fell asleep to Alison Krauss quite a bit last year, but he didn't seem all that interested when we dusted her off over the weekend. So two nights ago, I went with my gut and popped in the Sundays. Last night, he asked for Harriet again. What can I say? The kid's got taste.
My Life Has Gone to Sh...aring Parenting Stories
What the hell happened?
It was all going so well. Thanks to Skittles, preschool, and our own diligence, Nate was -- the occasional accident notwithstanding -- essentially potty-trained. Not only was he peeing like clockwork, he was setting higher goals:
"Did you pee?"
"Yeah."
"OK, you're done?"
"No, I want to poop, Daddy."
"OK, then."
And sometimes he'd poop, and sometimes not, but the point is, he was a man with goals. He enjoyed pooping. He'd often accompany his successful efforts with a satisfying grunt or two. Oh, sometimes he'd still argue when you told him to go to the bathroom, but he'd always wind up in there, stripping, doing his business, dressing, and, if you reminded him, washing his hands. We were impressed. His teachers were impressed. Life was good.
Then, four days ago, Nate pooped his pants. No big deal; it's happened before. I cleaned up the mess, encouraged him to to tell me when he had to go, and that was that. Then, the following evening, about 15 minutes after he peed and assured me he didn't have to poop, he darkened his pants again. That ended the show he was watching and landed him in bed, although it was pretty close to bedtime anyway. Hmmm. Two days straight. Trend?
Yup. Next morning, he announced he had to poop, but it was already in his shorts by the time he got to the bathroom. Half-credit, I think. But maybe not, since he had this conversation with Jenn while he sat on the toilet just a half-hour before:
"Do you have to poop?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"You don't have any poops to do?"
"Noooo, Mommy! I don't have to poop!"
"You'll tell Mommy if you have to poop, right?"
"Yeeees."
"You really don't have to poop?"
"No."
And so on. Later that day, I managed to get him to do a little more on the toilet with the promise of Skittles, but on Monday, Nate was back to schizophrenic waste disposal: peeing consistently and impressively, like the Sox bats when they're at Fenway, and pooping like ...well, like a West Coast swing. We were about to head out for the local farmstand for ice cream last night when Nate pulled down his pants to pee, and other activity was already in progress. Ice cream was quickly replaced by a bath, bed, and a grilling from both of us over whether he'd like us to buy him more diapers, take apart the racecar bed, put the crib back up, and move him back to the infant room at school. Yes! Psychological warfare!
I don't think he dislikes potty-pooping; I just think he gets involved in an activity and doesn't want to interrupt it, not realizing that undie-soiling will effectively end it. Whatever the case, Jenn's going away on a work trip for a few days, and she has promised Nate that if he has a good week pooping on the potty, we can make the ice cream run next weekend. As for me, I've gone back to Skittle rewards, and I've already been rewarded with an actual potty poop this morning (after 10 minutes of Nate insisting he didn't have to go, of course). So, here's to a better week. Nate's already more upbeat about the prospects, as the friendly cashier at Barnes & Noble found out this morning when Nate placed the new Nora Roberts (for his mom's trip) on the counter:
"You're a very good helper, aren't you?"
"Yeah. And I did poops!"
Make Sure It's Deep ... We Have Dogs
If I should suddenly disappear one of these days, you might want to check the backyard.
Soccer. Soccer! SOCCER!
With apologies to the "Monster Detectives" episode of The Backyardigans:
"I am a soccer monster--
I cannot get my fill.
And when I get bored at practice,
I just roll down the hill.
I'm faster than a springer,
more annoying than a cocker,
and my green shirt shimmers
as I rock the field in soccer.
Soccer! It's a clear blue sky.
Soccer! My Pull-Up is dry.
Soccer! Can you handle some more?
Soccer! Pass, shoot, score!
Pass, shoot, score!"
Now can I get a cheeseburger, Mommy?
By Special Request of My Sisters
Here you go. Now back to the TV list. :-)
Skit(tle) or Get Off the Pot(ty)
I’m finding that thirtysomething parents are all pretty much in the same boat (unless you’re a Gosselin, in which case your boat contains eight kids, a crapload of free stuff from TLC, and Beth). Cases in point: on Monday, I got into an e-mail conversation with an area marketing guru about our experiences sitting in front of Noggin (I eventually told her I had to get back to work or my editor would fire me … unless I could tell him which shape was an octagon). At about the same time, Jenn and some moms at her workplace were having a much more practical chat … about Skittles.
The subject was actually potty training, and someone brought up using M&Ms as a reward for using the potty: one candy for #1 and two for #2. But Nate can’t have M&Ms, she said, because even the plain ones contain traces of peanuts. Someone immediately suggested Skittles. What the heck, we figured, so that night I went to CVS and bought a pound bag of Skittles, which have since taken up residence in a Tupperware container in the bathroom.
Nate, it turns out, really digs Skittles. On Tuesday, he peed in the potty upon waking up, which isn’t rare for him, ’cause he’s still groggy when we plunk him down, and he can’t really resist. He chose a purple Skittle. But then came something new. Around 10:30 a.m., he got up from his mound of Duplos and announced he had to go. His diaper, I soon found, was dry, and the potty quickly was not. Red Skittle. Before his nap, I had him sit down again, and the squirting commenced, quickly followed by cleanup, because Dad had forgotten to replace the little plastic spray guard. Green Skittle ... Nate's favorite so far, he said. After his nap, he earned an orange one, and at bedtime, he collected another green. Five successful potty trips! Wow!
Wednesday was even better, because he peed on the potty three times at school, which was impressive since no candy was involved. All told, he splashed the plastic six times that day. So far today (he just went down for his nap), he peed on the potty three times, didn’t wet a diaper once (even during our hour-long grocery-shopping outing), and, like Tuesday, got up once and took the initiative without being asked.
None of this is to say he’s potty-trained, of course, since he's still never played a deuce, even though he’s missing out on a promised double shot of sugary fun. He even dirtied a Pull-up last night, and the only thing messier than that is trying to remove a soiled, soaking-wet swimmie diaper. Trust me.
But the boy clearly enjoys his pee runs now, and not just for the Skittles. He’s really proud of himself when he checks out the pot and goes all in, and he enjoys the dump-n-flush routine almost as much. And I’m actually remembering to wash his hands, which for me is progress. After all, I don’t want the Skittles getting germy for those times when I earn one. Or two.
Or 10. Oh, shut up. I bought ’em.
Get the Potty Started
The top 10 sayings never uttered by Jenn or me before Nate showed up:
10. “Is this peanut-safe?”
9. “I can’t believe he likes that impostor Joe better than Steve.”
8. “No, don’t drink the bathwater. Seriously, just don’t.”
7. “Why should I build another tower if you're just going to destroy it?”
6. “You did? Really? Let me see. You did! You get a sticker!”
5. “Yeah, it was a new one! They saved a ladybug from a Venus flytrap! It was awesome! I mean, he thought it was awesome.”
4. “You do not step on his tail. Now tell him you’re sorry.”
3. “Clearly my hippo isn’t as hungry as yours. Let me be yellow.”2. “You know you put that on backwards, right?” (On second thought, Jenn probably did say this once or twice before Nate arrived.)
2. “That engine sure causes a lot of confusion and delay.”
1. “Did you poop? Because you smell like poop.”
Grading on a Curve
We'll take a quick break from Joe's Christmas memories to bring you Nate's very first homework assignment, which he brought home after his first week in the preschool room. Your days of leisure are officially over, kid. Anyway, the first page had him tracing his name. Jenn helped guide his hand on the first attempt. For the second, he was on his own, which resulted in a lovely panoply of circles and ovals adorning the letters. Nate is totally into circles these days.
The letter of the day was i. So you can just forget about writing team.
Did I mention he likes circles? Also irony.
OK, now back to Christmas.
Popcorn, Rabbits, and a Red Rubber Ball
We'll probably bring Nate to the Big E for the first time this month -- that's the Eastern States Exposition, New England's largest agricultural fair, and one of the biggest in the country. We warmed up recently at the Blandford Fair, which offered some of the same attractions on a much, much smaller scale. Nate dug it.
Welcome to Blandford! Just in case anyone forgets where they are.
Nate has learned over time how to "pet nice," and actually does a pretty good job of being affectionate with Mav and Rip without stepping on them, pulling body parts, etc. He demonstrated his technique with two goats that probably just wanted this weekend of petting to be over with. The one in the foreground looks especially traumatized.
Don't let him pet the rabbits, George ... Don't let him pet the rabbits, George ... Don't let him pet the rabbits, George ...
Of course, one of the highlights of any fair is fair food, with batter and grease being the top two ingredients of most items. Hey, if you want health food, stay home. Or, better yet, just visit the booth that sells veggies...
...which are also fried.
These horses were fried, in another way, by the end of a long, hot day dragging thousands of pounds of cement blocks for no good reason. Of course, it was really no less pointless than those ESPN Toughman competitions, and people sit down with beers and chips to watch those. I was actually kind of impressed by these guys, three of whom had to manually pull the horses to a stop if they didn't get hooked up to the sled properly. I told Jenn, "that's a little more man than me." She smiled reassuringly at her big, strong ... health care writer.
Nate happened to be first in line for a balloon-bending clown, who made this critter -- Bugs Bunny after the lobotomy, I'm guessing -- for the little guy. I asked the clown how many years he had been making balloon animals, to do something this cool, and he said, "you never stop learning. There's really nothing we can't make. The only barrier is time." Nate was happy to wait for Bugs, who got played with all the way home and -- to our astonishment -- survived with each inflated limb intact. That clown was good.
Not much to say here, except that Nate officially loves ponies. He's been talking about his first pony ride ever since, and followed up a few days later with a few solo rides -- with no one supporting him -- at his school. Jenn took him to that (which is good, because I probably would have been freaking out), and said he grinned the whole time he was on the horse. Looks like that dude-ranch weekend we've been talking about might not be too many years away.
Of course, any fair worth its salt has a midway where pimply, shifty-eyed carnies rig games and steal your money. But Nate likes penguins, and amazingly, this game offered a prize every round. So Jenn and I made sure we were the only competitors and got down to business shooting water into the red dot, pumping the penguins higher and higher on the pole. Which sounds like a global warming metaphor.
You might think your local agricultural fair's pretty awesome. You are wrong, because your fair doesn't feature a girl who simultaneously fiddles and balances on a rubber ball. Ha! Out-redneck that, North Carolina!
And when the popcorn is done, it's time to go home.
Reconstructing History, Piece by Piece
Hi, Nate here. Today, I'm hosting a study in Duplo paleontology. Won't you join the discussion? We're serving tea. Well, actually, it's imaginary tea that I meticulously brew in my plastic kitchen, but Mom and Dad say it's tasty. No, really. Sit down. You might learn something.
Today's seminar topic is dinosaurs. Working from available fossil records and the tiny, colorful shards of molded plastic collected in caves along the Connecticut River Valley, we can say with certainty that a wide variety of dinosaurs not only roamed the pristine, unsullied landscape, but tooled around in tall, unwieldy, brightly hued, mechanized vehicles, one of which I have recreated for you today. The dinosaurs would gather for heated, often bloody competitions of skill and strength -- or, when they were especially tired, Scrabble -- to determine which reptile earned the right to man the roof-mounted water cannon. Unfortunately, this early combustion engine wasn't too thrifty on mileage, and gasoline wasn't easy to come by (basically, they produced it by crushing the loser of the aforementioned competition between two sheets of rock for a very, very long time), so the dinocruiser wound up languishing in the garage most days.
Without regular transportation, especially during the long winter months when they could no longer carpool to Miami, the dinosaurs began to feel vulnerable to the elements, so they aggressively mined the vast reserves of colorful plastic that lined the valley's network of caves, using the plentiful material to construct great fortresses, where they hatched war plans and took turns riding the crane attachment (only the wealthier dino families had those). But as any great society eventually learns, the dinosaurs could not remain cocky and complacent forever.
Despite their impressive achievements in architecture and engineering, the dinosaur culture of prehistoric New England inevitably fell to ruin. Did they perish beneath a catastrophic dust cloud caused by an asteroid strike? Did they run out of food, or succumb to disease, or endure a horrific string of traffic fatalities? Perhaps their brains exploded during a particularly heated argument over whether UNNGZNUH was an acceptable alternate spelling for UNNGZNAH when the 50-point bonus was at stake. Alas, no one really knows, and historians still wrack their considerably-larger-than-a-walnut brains trying to determine how these majestic creatures met their untimely end.
Personally, I suspect aliens.
Sesame Place, Part 3: Anaphylak-Fil-A
We don't have Chik-Fil-A in Massachusetts, but I've been hearing about it for years, whispers of gastronomic ecstasy at the far edge of earshot, like some southern-fried poultry cult. "It's like no other chicken on earth." "Leave the pickles on, 'cause the pickles are integral." "My Sundays are lost and empty without it. Maybe I should go to church, too." And those ads with the cows painting "Eat mor chikin" on billboards are just adorable. So when our hotel near Sesame Place happened to be across from a Chick-Fil-A, well, I couldn't pass up the chance. And by Saturday night, time was running out. "Um, we're leaving Monday morning, and Chik-Fil-A honors the Lord's day, you know," I told Jenn. So after we put Nate to bed, I dashed across the street (a four-lane state highway, actually, but this was important) and brought the loot back to the room.
We'd actually planned to nosh on this stuff for dinner, but I had called the restaurant earlier in the day and asked if any of their products were cooked in peanut oil. The answer? "It's all peanut oil." Great. Sorry, Nate. So we ate at the park that evening, and the dude missed out on the late-night Chick-Fil-A bonanza.
I bought Jenn the classic sandwich, myself some nuggets (whole pieces of chicken, mind you, not the kind first dissolved into a fine slurry and then reassembled). We both had fries and cole slaw, but they told me they were promoting the slaw and packed me five containers. Had I been struck by a car crossing the street on my way back to the Sheraton, Jenn might have had a slam-dunk lawsuit based on the excess cabbage weight slowing me down.
The verdict? Not bad at all, but nothing life-changing. Somewhere around KFC quality, but certainly better than the typical McDonald's fare. It was pleasant. I was satisfied, not only that I had finally joined the Chik-Fil-A club, but that I now knew their secret. Long before I had tried their food, I had always thought the secret was Jesus. But it's actually peanut oil. Huh.
I ate standing up, Jenn at a small table near the dresser. The food hardly touched the furniture surface, as I recall, maybe just a fry or two, and I ditched all the garbage in a hallway trashcan. But I guess we didn't wipe up quite well enough, because the next morning, as Nate ate breakfast at that table, his eyes began to get puffy. Nothing a little Benadryl couldn't handle, but really. Eat mor chikin? Umm ... you must be nuts. See you in church, though.
Sesame Place, Part 2: Sing of Good Things, Not Bad
Nora, Nora, open the door. Open the door, Nora blue, Nora blue.
I just came from the baseball game, and everyone asked about you.
The slugger, the pitcher, and even the catcher:
everyone asked about you.
Baoomba, baoomba-oomba-oomba…
“It’s kind of a Paul Simon-Ladysmith Black Mambazo thing,” Bob explained before singing, with audience help, the story of Nora, a little girl being stalked by just about everyone in the universe. Of course, this reference point meant nothing to the toddlers, but surely the enrapted parents who had come to hear Bob sing and tell stories had heard of Graceland. Anyway, not only was the comparison accurate, but the audience got to sing the baoomba-oomba-oomba part. It was a happy few minutes, one that seemed to exist outside the rest of the complicated, despairing world … just Bob, his new fans, and his old ones, baoombing together.
Nora, Nora, open the door. Open the door, Nora blue, Nora blue.
I took a hike to the peak of Mt. Pike, and everyone asked about you.
The porcupines, mountain lions, and all the yellow butterflies:
everyone asked about you.
Baoomba, baoomba-oomba-oomba…
This is what Bob McGrath does, what he has always done: he makes people feel included, shares the spotlight. Here’s a good question: if I ask for your Sesame Street memories, what do you think of first? Big Bird, perhaps? Ernie and Bert bickering before bedtime? The guy with the cream pies taking a header down the stairs? Mr. Hooper dying, and the rest of the adults gently explaining to the kids what that meant? Whatever your very first thought is, it probably isn’t Bob; yet, in many ways, Bob (the longest-running cast member) was the glue, an unassuming, humble presence who always smiled, always reassured, always taught lessons with patience and warm humor. Would you like to know something? That’s really him. On this especially warm day at Sesame Place, Jenn and I could tell.
Nora, Nora, open the door. Open the door, Nora blue, Nora blue.
I just explored the ocean floor, and everyone asked about you.
The tuna, the porpoises, and all the seahorseses:
everyone asked about you.
Baoomba, baoomba-oomba-oomba…
One of the cool things about this trip was seeing Nate playing with more confidence than he had at Disney World in December. He was less nervous around characters, more excited about the rides, and more willing to jump in and participate. So at Bob’s music-and-stories show, Nate didn’t miss an opportunity to dance up front with the other kids (and the two pretty park attendants near the stage, the big flirt), especially when Bob sang “The Dinosaur Swing” and “Your Face.” And Bob’s reading of one of Nate’s favorite stories, The Monster at the End of This Book (spoiler: it’s Grover), was just gravy. As for me, I liked “Everyone Asked about You” the best, so I bought the CD for Nate … well, mostly for Nate. ’Cause I’ll be darned if Bob, at 75 years old, didn’t go and make this overgrown kid feel included once again, creating even more memories to take home.
All right, all right, Mr. Sunshine bright,
I've heard enough stories from you, so no more.
If everyone, everyone, everyone asked for me,
why don’t they come to my door?
We came back to the park that night. I ran to grab a map from the welcome center, and returned to find Bob chatting up my wife. He had been hanging out near the front gates, and he approached Jenn and Nate to reintroduce himself. I learned later that, when Jenn told him we enjoyed his show, he seemed genuinely humble and even a little insecure, like he really wanted our approval. He needn’t have worried. On this sunny day, everything was A-OK.
Sesame Place, Part 1: The Red Menace
The high-pitched voice emerges from nowhere. More accurately, it comes out of a speaker somewhere above the ride. What is Elmo thinking about today?
If I was still a snotty high-schooler, and for some reason found myself at Sesame Place, it would take me about one beat to yell back, Farm tariffs? Pet food safety? Trigonometry? But I stay quiet. Anyway, the correct answer is elusive. No one really knows what Elmo is thinking about, because he's too hyperactive to stay on one thought for very long. He's Elmo, after all, and you force a resigned smile and put up with him, kind of like you tolerate a drunken nephew at a Christmas party because you don't want to offend your sister, only the Christmas party is your life, and the sister is your kid.
To be honest, on the Peek-a-Bug ride, I got the impression that Elmo was thinking something sinister, because he chimes in every now and then with, Peek-a-boo, I see you! as the ride both swings and spins -- a pleasant diversion for an adult, but a nice moment of bravery for a 2-year-old. A lot of the dry rides at Sesame Place (much of which is a water park) are like this, not too scary but definitely enough to thrill toddlers, a clear step up in velocity from the Magic Kingdom's Fantasyland. Nate ate it up. So did Jenn and I, actually, until we left the ride area, slipped into one of the park's live shows, and found ourselves trapped in a studio recreation of...
...Elmo's World. Elmo's Freaking World. Yes. And let me tell you, this psychedelic monstrosity that has overtaken the last 20 minutes of Sesame Street in recent years is no more tolerable in person. Nate, to his credit, didn't exactly drink the Kool-Aid; he stared noncommittally most of the time, probably wondering why Elmo talks in the third person, like some highly salaried pro athlete at a press conference: Elmo owns the house, but never goes there! Elmo didn't know about the fighting pits! Elmo will just have to speak sternly with his posse! It's kind of hypnotic for kids, I'm sure, but what's really going on inside that red-carpeted head?
Dual diagnosis, that's what. Let me explain. I recently wrote a story about how the behavioral health community is more effectively treating folks who suffer from mental health and substance abuse issues simultaneously. Well, in Elmo's case, the mental health signs are literally scribbled all over the walls, floor, and piano, in crayon. Then there's the giggling, the inability to focus, the impossibly positive outlook in this uncertain world, the clearly unhealthy relationship with Mr. Noodle and his brother, Mr. Noodle ... you get the picture. But substance abuse? Is it possible? Well, consider this photo of Mr. Happy taking precious moments away from his live show to rummage through his graffiti-tagged drawers. For what, I wonder?
His car-shaped pillbox, of course, which we watched him desperately hammer with his fists in an effort to free the sweet, sweet prescriptions within. This was serious business, people. When Elmo crashes, Elmo crashes.
Apparently he was successful, however, because within minutes he was engaged in a lively chat with a fish. And so it went, head-shaking moment after head-shaking moment, for 20 excruciating minutes. As we walked out, I turned to Jenn and said, "That was ... horrible. It's OK to say it, you know." She agreed, although we tried not to be too obvious about it in front of Nate. I mean, it wasn't bad on the level of, say, Dora (Hola! Can you say 'Hola'? Can you do that? Can you? I'll just stand here and wait three or four minutes while you think about it, amigo!), but it wasn't exactly entertainment, either. It was just something you tolerate as a parent, because kids just love the amphetamine-fueled bastard.
Sesame Place knows this, too, which is why nary a live show in the park lacks for Elmo's presence in some way. Here he is with some monster buddies at Abby Cadabby's Treasure Hunt, which is basically 20 minutes of trying to figure out what's in the box. (I so wanted to yell, Gwyneth Paltrow's head! But I didn't. I was very well-behaved on this trip.)
A little later, having achieved their goal, the monsters began to dance in a circle, although Grover was clearly eyeing a side exit and gauging his odds at escape. Elmo, however, had that glazed, absent look that says, Hey! Massachusetts will require insurance coverage for all residents on July 1! Elmo needs help paying for his drugs! Elmo should move there! But his enthusiasm was misplaced. The law's prescription drug component won't kick in until 2008.
Anyway, back to the bug. The attendant has closed the doors and checked the lap bars -- and there's the voice again. What is Elmo thinking about today? it intones from behind the hedge.
The immigration bill? my brain answers back. Barry Bonds? Internet porn?
But I say nothing, of course. I'm not in high school anymore; I should be a mature parent, or at least act like one. And as the bug once again begins to sway in its multidirectional fashion, Nate grips the lap bar and positively beams. And isn't that really all that matters?
Caught in the Act
Hello! Me COOKIE MONSTER! We take break from chanting slogans at meeting of blue supremacist organization to say Joe too busy today to blog about family trip to Sesame Place. But he tell you to stop by during the coming week to share in many adventures! Want to see Joe hula dancing in public? Want thoughtful examination of exactly what wrong with Mr. Noodle? Want to know why Chick-Fil-A should stay hell away from kids? It all here this week at Pioneer Valley Days, where life tasty as COOKIES! So come back starting tomorrow! OK, me and Grover go back to chanting now. Blue power!
Quadrangling Up a Good Time
Hey. Nate here. This was Mother's Day weekend, but in our house, you'd have thought Saturday was National Kids Day, the way Mom and Dad treated me. We started the day on the McDonald's playscape, where I went down the big, dark, twisty slide for the first time ever, and then six more times after that, yelling "I did it!" upon each landing, which Dad said sounded way too much like someone named "Dora" who has a TV show I'm not allowed to watch. And we ended the day with a visit to the neighbors' rented bounce house and an evening ice cream outing (I had a bowl of soft-serve twist). But the easy highlight of the day was our mid-morning visit to the Springfield Museums -- a first for both me and Dad, although Mom had been there years ago. Color me impressed. Let me tell you, Springfield is no one-horse town. Or one-dinosaur, for that matter. Some highlights:
We started in the Dr. Seuss sculpture garden in the center of the courtyard between the four museums (an area known informally as the Quadrangle). The sculptures were built in 2002, which, by the looks of it, is a really long time for the Grinch to stand there without being allowed a restroom break. I think his even poor, abused dog feels kind of bad for him. He should really wear diapers. That works for me. And road-tripping astronauts.
Sure, I like to carry around books, but that doesn't mean I actually know how to read. Duh.
OK, now we're in business. The Springfield Science Museum had a temporary exhibit (it's ended now) called Life Through Time, which turned out to be a roomful of animatronic dinosaurs doing dinosaur things, like hatching babies, exchanging threatening looks, discussing the latest odds of the asteroid actually nailing the Yucatan, and roaring. Especially roaring. Let me tell you, I spent the morning repeating "see dinosaurs? see dinosaurs?" about 600 times, and after about 10 seconds actually seeing them, I was ready to move on to the neighboring astronomy room, because the planets suspended from the ceiling don't roar. But after being chauffered around by Mom for a few minutes...
...I figured I was brave enough to face this dangerous reptilian kingdom on my own, which eventually involved lots of running, pointing, and shouting "dinosaurs! dinosaurs! dinosaurs! dinosaurs!" as if Mom and Dad had forgotten what room we were in. My favorite display wasn't a dinosaur at all, though, but a couple of sabre-toothed tigers, which Dad helpfully called "big kitties," apparently not aware that, while "kitties" might constrict his allergy-cursed throat, "sabre-tooth tigers" will gleefully rip it out. Nice attempt at early education there. Can you believe I spend a few days a week at home with this guy? I swear, I'm going to wind up like that woman on Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader? who was asked "which continent is also a country?" and said, "um, all of them?"
Hey, look, a dog bed, just like Mavi's at home! Oh, wait ... it's kind of hard. Actually, this is supposed to be a dinosaur footprint, but something tells me it's just a recreation of one. Because museums don't normally let 2-year-olds climb around in actual fossils. Still, this display was an authentic model of organic scientific wonder compared with...
...the Solutia Eco-Center. That's right, the Solutia Eco-Center. Which is kind of like christening an aircraft carrier the USS Cindy Sheehan. Turns out the name wasn't all that odd, though, considering that the exhibit features enclosure after enclosure of life-size nature dioramas populated amost entirely with fake animals. Living critters? Um, we saw two turtles and two fish, one of which Dad identified as the "three-eyed monsanto," yet another stepping stone on my way to not getting into the right college. Down the hall, we came across a bunch of older kids dressed in white outfits working on some kind of school project. Scrubbing chemicals off birds, probably.
Turns out Dr. Seuss made similar observations about Springfield in his day, modeling the polluting factory behind Dad after an actual plant not far from his childhood home. Once we left the Science Museum and headed into Connecticut Valley Historical Museum, however, I was less interested in the mural work than the tea party they had set up for me. Mom stepped out to look at the displays of old Indian Motorcycle products while I poured imaginary tea for myself (I'm kind of selfish with my imaginary tea), but she did return in time to capture this tender father-son moment. I'm surprised the chair didn't break, Dad. I'll bet you climb on sculptures, too.
Speaking of which, Mom and Dad tried to take me into the George Walker Vincent Smith Art Museum, but everything was too high off the ground or glass-encased to physically threaten, so what fun is that? And I was really tired by this time, so I left the naked statues in peace. You know, these dudes have surely been around way longer than the Seuss sculptures, yet somehow, they maintain their patient dignity. Methinks the Grinch could learn something.
On Breakfast, Sort Of
Jenn told me Nate had bursts of 2-year-old attitude yesterday, but you wouldn't have known it from his cheerful smile this morning (and his ghostly sense of humor). I guess he slept off his rougher edges, and I'm pleased to write that he had something of a good time today. Last night, I heard about how Nate walked Ripley on the leash at the park, and I thought that was a winning idea, so I took them both outside this morning and watched the little guy get pulled all over the yard, giggling maniacally all the way.
I'm sure it was partly the sugar, though, 'cause he asked for Berry Berry Kix upon waking up (and I quote: "Kix? Kix? Kix? Kix? Kix? Kix? Kix? Kix? Kix? Kix?"). Yes, I gave in when I should be serving up more healthy options (although he did finish a whole banana, too, as usual). I didn't exactly set a positive example with my own bowlful of Crunch Berries, but I'm pleased to say they don't cut your mouth to ribbons as I remember them doing as a child, so either I've become tougher-palated, or the cereal manufacturers are totally coddling Nate's generation. On the other hand, Cap'n Crunch still teaches kids patience; I haven't eaten the stuff for years (hey, it was buy one, get one free at Big Y this weekend), but I haven't lost my mad skillz at eating all the yellow pieces first, so that, after a long while of precision spoon maneuvers, the reward of multi-colored berries emerges. Of course, in my day they were red only. Again, blatant coddling. Now, I'm not trying to dog kids these days, but my point, pretty much, is that if we sucked it up and had to deal with monocolored berries and bloody gums, they should too.
But enough of that. My dude is tough enough, I guess, and besides, I just don't think he's quite ready for the sugar rush that is the curse of the Cap'n. But I'm no longer a kid, and I can buy it for myself if I feel like it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Duplo castle to assemble.
Disney Days, Part 3: Low Resolution, High Fatigue
Nate here, once again, to finish off our little Disney travelog. Mom says I'm not talking enough about non-park stuff, like the lovely Port Orleans resort where we stayed, and the scenic boat ride we took from the resort to Downtown Disney, and especially the fact that, one night, we saw the nighttime launch of the space shuttle, which looked like a big orange streak in the sky. Well, they saw the launch, anyway. I was sleeping. Anyway, regarding the content of these posts, I can only comment on the available photos, and Dad apparently took most of them in the parks or at dinner. The camera probably got bored, which is why it broke three shots into today's slideshow. The rest were taken on a disposable camera. I'd like to add that the camera was in Dad's possession at the time of said breakage, but he's not claiming responsibility. Must have been the camera fairy. Disney is a magical place, after all.
MGM Studios, 10 in the morning, enjoying my tasty apple. We had to clear the way for Mater, who was responding to an accident call. People were saying Goofy was involved. I also heard something about "blood-alcohol level," but I don't know what that is.
Now it's about 10:10. Man, I love apples.
I had to put away the apple to attend the stunt show, which was pretty cool, at least the five or 10 minutes I watched it. Toward the end, Dad had to remove me from the stands so Mom and the rest of the audience could watch in peace, without my cranky moans and flailing arms ruining the fun. Later on, we rested for awhile at the Honey I Shrunk the Kids play area, after which we stopped for lunch, caught a few more attractions, and headed for the shuttle bus. By then, it was about 1:45, and...
...I was still totally digging my apple.
No apples for dinner, though. Instead, we ate at the 50s Prime Time Cafe, a kitschy restaurant decorated like a suburban kitchen from 50 years ago. The black-and-white TVs played clips of old shows, and the waitresses acted like your Mom, telling you to keep your elbows off the table and finish your dinner if you want dessert. (If you refuse, they're not above feeding you a few bites, airplane-style. Even the grown-ups. Especially the grown-ups, actually.) We were on our best behavior, so we didn't get into any trouble with our waitress, but she made a few people from a neighboring table stand in the corner. They were blowing straw wrappers at her. I'm gonna have to try that at home.
The evening portion of our MGM day turned out a lot better than the morning. For one thing, I was actually enthralled by a couple of shows (The Little Mermaid and Playhouse Disney, where Pooh made an appearance). Then, a couple of the backlot streets were decorated with possibly millions of lights (the photo doesn't do it justice), which blinked in sync to Christmas music as fake snow fell. Dad got all festive and tried to dance with Mom during "Feliz Navidad," but she got out of it by getting him to dance with me instead. Yeah, my Dad's kind of lame, but we love him.
Day 5. Decompression time. We decided against any park action and just relaxed at Downtown Disney, where I got to play in some more water fountains and shared a train ride with Dad. He was terrified, but I kept telling him it would be over soon. Look at the brave face Dad put on for Mom! I'm really proud of him.
That night, we headed to the Wilderness Lodge for dinner at a cowboy-themed restaurant called the Whispering Canyon Cafe. Nice resort, I guess, but I was kind of preoccupied by the bridge in the lobby, which I traversed 478 times while waiting for dinner. Which was at least 100 times more than the other boy who joined me for a time. Little kids love bridges, almost as much as stairs. They have a simple appeal, really. You go up, you go down. Like Tony Romo's career!
This was Mom and Dad's favorite meal of the week. In one of the dinner highlights, the cowboy waiters had all the kids grab stick horses and "ride" around the dining room, all hootin' and hollerin'. I was excited for a different reason: I thought my horse was a broom, so I started sweeping the floor, like I do at home. I love sweeping. Not as much as stairs and bridges, of course. Or apples. But housework is cool.
Final night at Port Orleans. Me and a plate of red grapes, which is pretty much the only food I could be counted on to eat consistently all week. Six nights was plenty, considering this was my first time in Florida, and I had been getting a little punchy as the week wore on. After I downed my grapes, Mom read me a bedtime story, Dad washed some of my cups for the road, and I fell off to sleep in the Pack-and-Play, dreaming of my doggies and home.
Hey, cool! Jet Blue has these cool TV screens, so I can sit back and relax with the Wonder Pezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
The day after returning home, Mom took me to a nearby playground, where I rode an exciting bouncy car, which, frankly, was just about as much fun as Dumbo. Explain to me why we spent all that dough going to Florida?
Oh, yeah. So Cinderella could break my little heart. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Disney Days, Part 2: I'll Never Love Again
Nate signing in again. Welcome to the second and third days of my recent trip to Disney World: a time filled with magic, romance, and gnawing, aching bitterness. Let's begin, shall we?
On Day 2, we visited the Animal Kingdom, where we had to fend off a series of wild critters, starting with Goofy, who was seriously contemplating whether to steal the breakfast that the chef individually prepared just for me, because of my peanut allergy. All I know is, if Goofy goes through with his insidious plan, and I have to grab pancakes off the buffet that might have been touched by peanuts, then Goofy had better know how to use an Epi-Pen. And also have a good lawyer.