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.
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.
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!"
If I should suddenly disappear one of these days, you might want to check the backyard.
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?
Here you go. Now back to the TV list. :-)
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Gee, Papa Elephant. There's another one of those safari trucks."
"That's right, son."
"Looks a lot like the other 23 that have passed this way in the last hour."
"Yup."
"Following the same route as all the others, too."
"Uh-huh."
"Kinda strange that they'd all follow the exact same path, out here in the open plains of Africa, huh?"
"Um, we need to talk, son."
OK, so the safari was pretty cool. But frankly, the rest of the day at Animal Kingdom was one missed opportunity after another: a missed show here, a way-too-long line there, Dad Fast-Passing the wrong ride over there, you get the picture. Yeah, we got to see the Lion King show, the Pocahontas show, the 3D bug thing inside the giant tree, even a dinosaur ride that ripped off Dumbo even more blatantly than the Aladdin ride. But the highlight of my day was probably this dino-themed play area. Not because it had a slide, mind you, but because the slide had stairs. I love stairs.
Did I mention Pocahontas? She came out, along with some real woodland creatures and a fake-looking talking tree, to tell all the kids about how people who cut down trees and destroy green places for their own purposes are selfish and evil and have no souls. Except, apparently, the Walt Disney Corporation. I guess those countless miles of pristine Florida wetlands had it coming.
OK, now we're talking. We had dinner at the Grand Floridian resort with Cinderella's crew, and let me tell you, C-Rel was into me. I got her autograph in my little book, and though I can't read yet, I'm pretty sure she wrote down her number. Now if I can only ditch the 'rents tonight, it's a magical castle of good times for me.
Look at this pathetic loser. He thinks he's going home with C-Rel tonight. I told him his little royal hottie only digs guys with Pooh bibs and marinara all over their face, but he just smiled and nodded vacuously. I don't think he understood me. Must be all the royal inbreeding. I got his autograph too, but just to make him go away.
OK, so the date didn't go well. Turns out C-Ho left with that royal pain after all. That's all right, though. I found solace the following morning, eating breakfast at the Magic Kingdom with the gang from the Hundred Acre Wood. Eeyore was my favorite. Have you noticed he's a little pissy about life in general? I didn't mind. I found him refreshingly frank. We just shot the breeze for a while, ragging on faithless princesses and sighing mournfully. Then he left for another table. I'm tellin' ya, Eeyore's the man. I mean, the donkey. I think.
Near the entrance to the Magic Kingdom, they had set up a spot where you could have your picture taken with Santa. Only, Santa was never there whenever we passed by -- just a sign saying he had gone to feed his reindeer. I'm not sure how they made the big flight after eating so much. Gastric bypass, maybe. Anyway, I wanted to sit in the chair, so in place of Santa, I had my picture taken with Dad. Seven or eight years from now, I will find this delightfully ironic.
Later that night, we returned to the Magic Kingdom, where I got to ride the race cars with Mom. We loaded up, pulled out, did one lap, and then had to pit again. I told Mom we should have changed all four tires.
Look at her. Just look at her. I'm totally enjoying the SpectroMagic parade, and then look who has to roll up, all hoity-toity and waving from her friggin' pumpkinmobile. Oh, look! It's not even midnight, and she's already changed back into a skanky, heartless tramp! Not that I'm bitter.
No, there weren't any fireworks between me and the princess. But we all got to see some pretty neat ones later on over the little harlot's castle. Too bad her bedroom didn't catch fire. I'd like to add that Mom and I enjoyed the show more than Dad, who spent way too much time sprawled on the ground, trying to take artsy photos. Dad, if I find out that the princess ditched me because you're too embarrassing to be around, I swear, I'll grab your nose. Harder than I already do, anyway.
What a day. I need a cold shower.
Hello, everyone. Nate here. Um, I’m a little annoyed at Dad. He knows that I, being only 20 months old, am quickly going to forget much of what we did at Disney World this month, yet he’s waited almost a week to let me on the computer to blog about it. I hope I get the details right as we delve into Day 1, during which we discover flying elephants and terrifying, huge-ass bears.
Outside the Magic Kingdom, some of my favorite characters arrived by train to open the park with a hail of music and brightly tinted confetti. Look, Mommy likes sparkly things! Notice our long-sleeved clothing, by the way. It may be Florida, but it’s still December. Also notice my face, which is still patient, open to new experiences, and not completely overwhelmed and cranky. See Days 4 and 5 for further clarification of this comment. At this pace, Dad should get to those posts around, oh, maybe April.
If anyone still forgot what month it was, the decorations gave it away. Here are thousands of people marching up Main Street USA to storm Cinderella's castle. (Torches and catapults would have been a nice touch, but they have this thing about discouraging injuries at Disney. Wusses.) Anyway, we were headed toward the castle, too, because on other side, Fantasyland awaited. And Fantasyland means…
…Dumbo. Sweet, sweet Dumbo, which turned out to be my favorite ride in all of Disney. Here, I’m checking out some preschool chick and impressing her with the graceful swoops and dives of my state-of-the-art flying elephant. I yelled over and asked her what she thought of my aerial maneuvers. She said, “You were in The Little Mermaid”? I didn’t get it.
Look at me on the carousel! I’m totally riding on my own. Seriously. Mom and Dad aren’t even on the ride. They’re like 50 feet away. No photo staging here at all. No sir.
Ah, yes. It’s a Small World. Apparently, it was redesigned a couple of years ago, so these days, not quite so many people are fighting the urge to drown themselves halfway through. It’s actually not bad, if you're into puppetry, animatronics, and feel-good diplomacy. Near the beginning, Dad actually whispered to me, “and here are two more countries that aren’t as great as America.” But by the end, he was all like, “I just love everyone in the whole wide world!” He was like Kofi Annan, but without all the coddling dictators, ignoring African genocides, and Oil for Food.
OK, this isn't one of my finer moments. It's just that I have this little stuffed Pooh who lives in my crib at home. At the moment this photo was taken, all I could picture was Pooh's crib, and the distinct possibility I was about to be put there forever. So I just focused on the swirly yellows of Mom's sleeve until the horror subsided.
As it turns out, Pooh does have a "crib," in the sense that he has a laid-back recreational area, where kids can climb and slide and parents can take a deep, reflective breath. As for me, this was about the only sliding I did, because I found a flight of stairs, and that pretty much occupied me until what seemed to Mom and Dad like the next day. Hey, lay off -- I like stairs, OK? Dad likes crappy music, but you don't hear me complaining about sharing blog space with that.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before the crankies kicked in. Mom was riding Space Mountain at the time, thanks to an obscenely selfish feature of the Magic Kingdom known as the "baby swap," which ensures that I -- the entire reason for this trip, mind you -- don't get to go on the coolest rides. Well, the coolest rides besides Dumbo. Man, I love that elephant.
Are you there, God? It's me, Nathan. Yeah, I just got up from my nap, and Mom and Dad hauled me back to the freaking Magic Kingdom for more overstimulation. We're having dinner in a few minutes, but they thought they'd get a little more riding in beforehand. Yeah, God, it's the Aladdin ride, which is supposed to be a thrillingly original experience, but it's basically Dumbo without the elephants. Pretty lame, actually. I mean, who's ever seen a carpet fly? That's just stupid.
We had dinner at the Liberty Tree Tavern, which was the first of several frankly outstanding meals we had to reserve months in advance. It took awhile, but I began warming up to the giant characters who kept visiting my table. You have to understand it was an adjustment, seeing huge versions of cute critters I had previously seen only on TV. It would be like Mom seeing a ceiling-high Tom Brady running a quarterback sneak right into our living room, or Dad visiting Miami and encountering a 10-foot Kat Von D waving a giant tattoo needle around. On second thought, they'd probably like those things. Except for the needle.
I'm not exactly sure why Dad wanted me to post this picture from dinner. Something about letting Uncle Jeff know that the pudding was outstanding.
You'll be happy to know that my good spirits had returned by nightfall, as we took a few more spins on some favorite rides, including the carousel and, of course, Dumbo. Enjoy my delightful expression while you can, though. You'll be seeing less of it as my vacation diary continues with the Day 2 installment, tentatively titled The Animal Kingdom Can Go Scratch. Let's hope Dad lets me get to it sometime this year.
1. I didn't think my finger was broken this morning; now I think it is. I guess I'll let an X-ray decide, if I can get one tomorrow. It could be my first-ever broken bone!
2. It's my left index finger, and it hurts to type, even if I use just the middles. Weird.
3. Really, who slams their own finger in a car door?
(With apologies to the Man in Black.)
I see the tractor comin'.
It's rollin' 'round the bend.
I ate apples on the hillside
'till it was time to descend.
But they crucified a scarecrow
just to watch him die.
Good thing it wasn't nighttime,
or else I might have cried.
That night we decked out pumpkins.
I think I missed the mark.
Next morning, I did better
when we visited the park.
