Naughty? Nice!

The blizzard that could have given us a white Christmas came two days late. The night before last the snow fell and the wind howled through every drafty window. We were quite stuck in the house. My wife didn't get to her shift at the airport for the first time in 15 years.

We had a good day together, bound to our little house. It was an especially good day for a Boy who found an overlooked Christmas present for the second day in a row.

By the time evening came, it was decent enough to go outside to do some shovelling. We have a finicky steet light at the end of our driveway. It somehow turns itself off every three minutes or so and the driveway is dark for about a minute before the light decides to come back on. I used this timing to good advantage, resting in the dark and throwing snow in the light. It took about an hour before the driveway was finally clear. As I was about halfway up the walkway, I heard the plow coming. With gritted teeth, I went back to wait for it at the end of the driveway, leaning on the snow shovel, glaring at the plow as it pushed in a fresh drift of snow.

I cleared out the new drift and went inside, peeled off my wet ski suit hat and gloves and got to washing up the dirty dishes. Our dishwasher was full, but the box of powder was empty. I told the Boy, this was the old fashioned way of doing the dishes.

As I was finishing up, I heard the plow go by again.

The air rang blue with curses.

This morning was the day to finally get out of the house and do some chores. It started with more snow shovelling. The Boy and I worked together. It was good work. The air was crisp, the sky a deep blue, the day fresh and coated a brilliant white. We found the black of our driveway and then off we went to the shops to get some groceries, exchange a present and scout for deals. Near the end of it all, as I pushed the Boy and the cart down the aisle with the dishwasher powder and the cat food, a question came out of that clear blue sky:

Boy: Daddy, did you get all you wanted for Christmas?
Me: Well, mostly, I guess. Not quite everything.
Boy: Oh. I guess you weren't good enough.

On the Subject of Siblings.

We visited Granny and Poppa last weekend. We went up on Friday, and as is often the case with a winter drive to the Valley, we were beset by bad weather. The snow fell in big flakes, creating the illusion in front of the windshield of a star field at warp speed. Paradoxically, it felt like the car wasn't moving, since the only visible reference in the storm was the car in front of us that was traveling the exact same slow speed that we were. Fortunately, nobody went off the road.

The Boy spent the weekend playing with his two boy cousins and had a great time. They are a bit rougher than he is, and we put it down to the fact that they are two brothers in constant competition with each other. The Boy, of course, is an only child - a term with which I take some issue. Friends are always saying that he needs a brother or a sister. Encouraging us like. I don't like that either. The Boy, I tell them, is state of the art reproductive technology. Subtextually that means it was very difficult for Mommy and Me to have the one. We were lucky to get one (and he's perfect). Shut up about having another.

But on the drive home I thought I'd ask a boy what he thought.

Me: Do you miss not having a brother?

Boy: Yeah.

Mamma: Do you wish you had a brother or a sister?

Boy: I already have two sisters.

Mamma: You do? Who?

Boy: Ginger and Zoë. (Our cats, if you didn't know.)

Singing's Thirsty Work

'Tis the season to be sitting in the auditorium, watching all the young'uns up there on the stage, singing their little hearts out. It's the Boy's first Christmas concert. Mine too... as a parent. The thing I realized was that even though there were about four different grades that were singing their songs, they all sing with a single voice. Close your eyes for any of them and it almost sounds like a Peanuts special.

So the Boy was magnificent. Not shy at all and singing his little heart out. I asked him if he was nervous, all those hundreds of parents and family filling the gymnasium, but no, no stage fright at all.

We're driving home and it's late. Way past his bed time. It's a nice drive home from the school past all the houses gaily festooned with brilliant and beautiful Christmas lights. Suddenly he pipes up from the back seat.

Boy: I'm really thristy. Can we stop at a bar?

Santa Clone

Today, the Boy was invited to one of his classmate's birthday party. We spent part of the morning going to the mall to get a present for the party. The parking lot was jammed full with the start of the silly season. We enter the mall from the far end - it was the only parking spot we could find - and who should we see when we went in ... but Santa!

After a bit of gentle persuasion, the Boy decides to go sit on Santa's lap and tell him want he wants for Christmas (remote controlled car). Santa asks him if he's been good and then double checks the answer with me, gives him a candy cane and a book and off we go to get the gift. I wonder aloud about going to another mall to see if I can find Mommy a Christmas present and - whoops - mention about seeing Santa again in the other mall. Umm, Santa is fast and magical, after all. And wouldn't you know (fortune favours the foolish), on our way back out to the car, Santa wasn't there. Daddy, quick as a whip, informs the Boy:

Me: Hey. He must have gone over to the other mall.

Later, we're driving back from the birthday party and the Boy is asking me if he's been good this year because he'd like to get a lot of presents from Santa.

Me: Yes. You've been good. In fact, Santa knows that because he asked you in the mall this morning. And double-checked it with me.

I thought about this for a tick and said:

Me: In fact, Santa didn't need to ask me or you if you were good because Santa knows if boys have been good or bad. He didn't need to ask you or me. That was pretty silly of Santa!

Boy: I think there's two Santas. I think there's a Santa who lives at the North Pole with the Missus and gives out the toys and another Santa who goes to the stores.

Top to Bottom

Part 1: Top

The Boy has been a bit sick the last few days. Poor little shaver has been up in the middle of the night throwing up. This is usually preceded by a bout of coughing. During the day he doesn't seem so bad except that he has a runny nose and no appetite.

We were setting up to play a game of Monopoly Junior when he sniffed and wiped his nose with the length of his long sleeve ... elbow to wrist.

Me: Oh, man. Use a tissue, sweetheart.

Boy (inspects his sleeve): It's all right. There's no snot.

Part 2: Bottom

I'm up early every morning to get ready to go to work. My day runs from 7 am to 3 pm which means, as usual, it's just one side or the other of 6 in the morning when I'm coming out of the shower.

There's a Boy, awake too early, beaming up at me, sitting on the toilet having a poop.

Boy: Turn off the fan so it's as stinky as possible.

Lights, Action!

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

The last month has been very busy on all front; work, home, you name it. We had a nice little break in the middle of November when we took four days and went to visit family in Newfoundland. I actually got out to see a movie. I went to see The Incredibles which was great. The original plan had been to see it weeks early, all of us, the whole family. But the movie is rated PG and my wife had concerns that it wouldn't be appropriate for a 5-year old Boy. So I went. And yeah, there was guns and shooting and explosions and implicit death. Action violence. But it was a great movie.

Yesterday Ann went back to work. Holiday over. The Boy and I went through all our Christmas lights, checked that they were all working, put the white strings up along the back deck, the white coil around the front pillar and the rest were strung in our cherry tree in the front yard. We were all done around quarter after three. I did a check on the computer and found the last showing of The Incredibles started in 5 minutes. But there would be commercials and trailers and ...

Me: Hey Boy. Want to go see the Incredibles?

Boy: Ummmmmm.... nah.

Me: Want to go and we won't tell Mommy?

Boy: O-KAY!

TV InterActive

This small place in cyberspace was reserved for stories I might forget. That was the idea. Witness the incident, write it down. Save and nurture it for present viewing among ... whomever ... and maybe when the Boy becomes the Man he'll get a kick out this.

There's one incident I'll never forget, but I'll write it down here as a precurser to something that happened this morning, if only to make the post longer.

It's three Easters ago and the Boy is still in diapers. He's started to speak. His vocabulary is small but growing. The parental challenge is to interpret the words that come badly formed out of his mouth but which he understands. The beginning of verbal communcation.

We are at my wife's sister's home, a lovely house over looking the water, a "grown-up" house, my wife and I would call it. Large, spacious, "adult". A two-car garage. They had recently annexed some of the garage to create an office for my sister in law, the psychologist. A locked door connected the office with the rest of its former self.

The Boy came trundling in from the office one morning and he was chattering. After a moment, I realized that there was a definite pattern and purpose to his chatter. He was saying the same word over and over again. "Ah-bree, ah-bree, ah-bree, ah-bree." I tried to make sense of what he was saying and couldn't. He was similarly frustrated that I wasn't getting whatever he was saying. I never did get it. My wife was the one to figure it out.

Mamma: He's saying "Abre".

Abre (Ah-bray) is spanish for "open". The Boy had found the locked door to the garage and wanted to go through. This he was communicating to us with "Abre!" that he was pronouncing "Ah-bree!". He (and Mamma) had learned this word from children's TV program Dora the Explorer. On the show there were recurring scenes with doors that only spoke spanish. Want to go through the door? You have to say "abre".

Great, I thought. It's tough enough figuring out what he's saying in English - which is a language I know.

Flash-forward a few years. This morning, the Boy (who is in french immersion and knows words in four languages), is busying himself with the Tinkertoy set, trying to build the stand-up bass from the picture on the front of the box. On TV is an epsiode of Dora the Explorer.

Dora: Te amo! In English, "Te amo" means I love you! Say "Te Amo! Say Te amo!"
Boy: I'm busy, Dora....

The Elusive Secret to Immortality.

Finally revealed:

Boy: If we don't get inside our bum, we're doomed!

(Now you know.)

Time Change

The days have turned bleak and cold and dark. The clocks fell back, the darkness comes quickly and the prospects of more golf likewise grow dim.

And with Halloween over and the treats expanding my waistline, I decide: it's time to get back to the gym.

I pick the Boy up from his after-school daycare and I broach the idea. He's for it. I've got my kit bag in the car, so we'll go directly.

Boy: Daddy, can we stay for three minutes?

The negotiations begin. How 'bout ninety? I ask. There's an hour-and-a-half maximum. He counters with 30. I say 60. He asks me what's between 30 and 60.

Me: Fifty.

We have a general discussion about exercise and how you have to exercise for over a half an hour for it to do any good.

Arriving at the mall, he immediately falls into the same routine that we left a couple of months ago. It's a race to the button (the automatic door opener), a race to the elevator button, a race for the main floor button, a race to the gym. He wins all the races. I marvel that he still is locked into this same routine after all these life changes he's had over the last two months. Going to school. New daycare. The rise of GOLF.

The gym staff "oohs" and "aws" over his Halloween hat, orange with a pumpkin face and jingling bells on the top. We go into the Toy Room and I sign him in, kiss him and say:

Me: See you in 60 minutes.

Boy: No!

(ah the negotiations start again...)

Boy (cont): An hour.

Sugar Daddy Son

The Public Service Alliance of Canada is on strike. It's a stressful time when the money is as tight as it is right now. And there's Christmas and the attendant expenses looming just over the horizon. A submariner died in a fire last week, and out of respect for him, those of us in the Public Service who work for the Navy were exempt from the general strike action that was happening everywhere else across the country. The Lieutenant (N)'s service was held on Wednesday. On Thursday morning, I woke up to go to work, and like the stinkbucket he is, the Boy woke up too early and came downstairs to see me off. You can hear him upstairs as he gets out of bed and his footsteps carry along the upstairs hall. He then tries to sneak partway down the steps where his little face pokes slyly around the bannister. "Boo!" he says but his stealthy approach has failed and I'm already looking up at him. Then, oddly, he asks me:

Boy: Daddy, are you on strike today?

Me: No sweetheart. Not today.

I'm wondering how he's heard of this. The question takes me by surprise. More surprising is when I show up at work and, wouldn't you know, I'm on strike. I and two others in the office didn't get the phone call and we show up for work. There was no picket line at our entrance, so who knew? I was at work for over two hours before I found out why it was so quiet. I leave work and gets lots of chores done during my day without pay, and I go home to verbally fret about losing about $100 a day while the strike lasts. So today is Day One and at the time there's no word to say go back to work tomorrow - that'll be $200 dollars.

It's Thursday evening and I'm in the commode while a Boy is getting ready for bed, the day almost done. His little voice is heard outside the door.

Boy: Daddy, I have money. You can have my money for when you're on strike.

Everyone's A Critic

Today, Thanksgiving's Day, Boy and I went to the movies for the first time in quite a while. We went to see, Shark's Tale. On the way home, I asked him:

Me: What was your favourite part of the movie?
Boy: When I went to the bathroom. And getting popcorn.

And this is what Roger Ebert said. You decide whose review is better.

You Say It's Your Birthday?

Birthdays are big in a Boy's life. Not just his own. Anyone's will do. Today happens to be mine. When it's over, Boy will be keen to know who's next on the list. Cakes and decorations and cards and prizes. It's a delight for him.  He's asked me and Mamma on a couple of occassions how old I'm going to be on my birthday. Well, today it got here and I was serenaded on the phone with a duet of "Happy Birthday". When it was over, Mamma asked the Boy if he remembered how old Dada was:

Boy: It's either 41 or 61.

Trash Talkin'

The rain started to fall as we were making our last putts on the last hole. There were four of us in the group.: Me, the Boy, our friend Wade and Wade's brother. We left the course and sat around a table to enjoy our après-golf - a muffin and a (soft) drink. I mentioned that the Boy had beaten everyone on the first hole with a score of 4.

Me (to Boy):  You played really well today. You made a four on #1 and a four on #4. Good job. Hey! That's two weeks in a row you've made fours on 1 and 4.

Wade: Yeah and you beat me on #1. And last time I played with you you beat me on 1.

Boy: Well, come out next time and I'll beat you again!

Life and Death on the Way to the First Tee.

Some of the best little talks have been on the way to, or coming back from the golf course. They afford me insights to the five-year-old mind that are achingly beautiful in their innocence. On this particular day, the Boy is talking to me about Terry Fox, because his school has had a Terry Fox run. He tells me he did twenty and further discussion reveals that this means he did twenty times around the school or the gym ... I'm still not clear on this part.

And then I get blindsided.

Boy: Terry Fox is in the ground, isn't he.

Me (after pause to reflect and gather myself):  Yes, sweetheart. That's why people do this run. So folks can get money and make medicine for people who are sick like Terry Fox was and they can stay alive.

The conversation continues around this subject for a while, me wondering through the whole thing what's appropriate for a 5-year-old Boy, all this talk about death and mortality. But he's genuinely interested and his questioning is earnest and not frivolous, so I try to be straight-forward about it all, answering what he asks without volunteering more, for now staying away from the "We're all going to die" angle.

We talk about more stuff, then for a while we're quiet. The question from the back seat five or ten minutes later, a signal of the impending breakdown of innocence, a signal that he hasn't yet grasped the finality of death. I draw a blank for the moment it takes me to realize that he's still thinking about Terry Fox, then my heart breaks a little bit for Terry and also for my Boy.

Boy: So they're not working on him anymore?

Reluctantly I answer.

Me: No sweetheart. They're not working on him anymore.

Blue and Other Angels.

Another weekend over. A Boy said last night that he's very happy to be getting back to class tomorrow. I reflected how these dratted weekends seem to be getting in the way of the school week.

We went to the Air Show this weekend. It's the first time I've gone to see it even though it's a long standing event that happens every year. I thought since a Boy had just turned five that he'd enjoy watching all the airplanes and got us two tickets to give to him on his birthday. As it turned out, children 6 and under get in free, so we invited his friend Olivia to join us and gave the extra ticket away when we got to the site. Mamma elected to stay home since she works at the airport, why the heck does she want to come out and see more airplanes.

It was a full day. Breakfast, Roller Coaster Tycoon, Air Show. For me, the only one without a hat, it turned out to be a long day in the warm September sun and I ended up getting a crispy September sunburn. Mamma was nice and went out to the store that night to get a helping bottle of Noxema. The Boy found it on the table the next morning and said he really liked the way it smelled. Later, after I'd put some on to cool my red face, I asked him how I smelled. He had a deep sniff and declared, "Yum!"

The Air Show was great. The only down side was that the line-ups going in and out were long and tedious. It took us an hour to make the usual 20-minute trip to the airport. We had to park on the side of the road since the lots were full and a bus took us the rest of the way to the venue. We stood in line for about 10 - 15 minutes as a fleet of buses went around collecting patrons.

The show officially kicked off with the US Navy's Blue Angels. As they roared, looped and twisted overhead with afterburners on, the Boy screamed out over the noise:

Boy: THIS IS WHAT I CALL A SHOW!!!

Different aerobatic and aeronautic displays went on for the rest of the day and we filled the pauses with tours of all the different planes on the ground. The day's last event was the Snowbirds. Where the Blue Angels are a testo-fest, Tom-Cruise-in-Top-Gun display, the Snowbirds are a ballet in the sky.

After the Snowbirds made their last pass, the crowd of thousands started heading for the gates. Suddenly, there we all were, standing in a huge gaggle, waiting for a bus to take us back to our car. An hour later, most of us were still there. Naturally, for a five-year-old, this would be a restless time. Olivia, the little girl, seemed content to stand patiently. But the Boy was more active, regularly straying out of my comfort zone, moving just a bit too far away from me, venturing a few too many places deeper in to the throng and I'd have to call him back.

Me: Be more like Olivia. Olivia's being very good.

Boy: Am I being good?

Me: Yes, you're being good, but you're marginal.

Boy: What's that?

Me: It means you're being good, but you're almost being bad.

Later (yes even later, tempus fugit at the air show but buses don't) and we're still surrounded by hundreds of others waiting for a bus. The Boy looks up at me and says,

Boy: Am I still being marvelous?

And how else could I answer but tell him, Yes.

Higher Education

On Saturday of our long weekend, my wife announced unexpectedly that her shift on Tuesday starts at seven in the morning instead of her usual noon-ish. So it was that this morning it's the Boy and I heading out together for the schoolbus on this, only his third day of school.

And on this (count 'em: three!), the third day of school, the Boy declares:

Boy: I can't wait until Grade One!

Who Wrote "The Diary Of Anne Frank"?

From my door, mere moments by car and I'm in the parking lot for the walking trail leading to Jack's Lake. As of today, I've been on the trail twice. The first time was with Wife and Boy and was notable because I think it was the only time we actually used the child carrier that you wear like a backpack to take along your infant. So that first time we went must have been at least three years ago, maybe four. The trip yesterday was kind of neat to see all the trees pushed over by the hurricane. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It's such a beautiful day, this holiday Monday and I decide it's too nice to sit inside and play Roller Coaster Tycoon all day, so I propose to a Boy that we go out for a hike. He's all for it. He asks his best friend Olivia, and she's all for it too. Olivia's dad will make it a foursome.

We go outside and start to get everyone piled into the car. The neighbours, Kim, Kevin and their new addition Nicholas are in their driveway as we get set to head off. The Boy wishes to proclaim the good news.

Boy: We're going on a hike!

Kimmy: Oh wow! Where are you going?

Boy: On a hike!

The Dairy Queen Cake Fiasco of Aught-Four

My dad (whom the Boy calls "Poppa") has a closely trimmed beard of snowy white. One year he shaved it off and it was like revealing a stranger, a usurper of the familiar, and he couldn't grow the beard back fast enough.

This has nothing to do with my son's birthday cake.

Every year for the Boy's birthday, I go to Dairy Queen to order a special-made ice cream cake. I give them a picture, something recent, a nice picture, and through the miracle of technology, this picture ends up on the top of the cake. On the day, everyone oohs and ahhs over the picture on the cake.

This year, DQ tells me I have to go somewhere else to get the picture done.

So not only do I get bounced from store to store and end up at the place that is quite possibly the farthest away from my house without actually leaving the city limits, the well-trained Dairy Queen staff of 17-year-olds totally botch the job and give me a very sorry looking cake done in blue when I asked for green, with balloons drawn on the cake where there should have been none, and the picture slapped bumpily over most of the balloons. And the picture is torn.

I seethed.

Took the cake.

Left with the Boy.

Called the manager when I get home. He offered to refund the money. What else could he do? Yet it still seemed hardly sufficient.

A couple of days later the Boy and I go back to DQ to get the our refund. Boy and I have a cone while we're there. He got a dipped cone. Like a Dilly Bar, he said. Most of the soft serve went into his mouth. The rest was like an extra set of lips, white ones surrounding his red ones.

Me: You've got quite the moustache.

Boy (pushing his face all the way into the cone): Now I've got Poppa's beard!

So Says The Daddy Man

Last night was the last night a Boy went to bed as a four-year-old. Daddy said some things to him that, as a four-year-old he may not completely appreciate, so they are reprtinted here for posterity.

Daddy: Five years ago a little Boy was born and Daddy's life has been so much better. Daddy loves you so much it feels sometimes like his heart would burst.
Boy: Why?
Daddy Beacause Daddy's heart is so full of love for you. Daddy has been alive for 40 years and these last five years have been the best ones.

Using Your Headcover

My wife and I talked last night about giving the Boy one of his birthday presents early. I bought him a new driver for ages 5 - 9 and was at the counter paying for it, when my eye spotted an assortment of headcovers. I started chuckling to myself, thinking how cute it would look if there's this little five year old on the course, carrying his clubs, a big headcover on his driver. It was too irresistable and I bought it.

This afternoon, two days before his birthday, we're going out to play. The discussion last night was whether to open the present early, not knowing how many more chances we're going to have before the end of the year. This morning I pull out the present and watch a rapt and happy face as he delightedly pulls apart the wrapping paper. I thought belatedly about my video camera.

He's very pleased with his new golf club. And the dinosaur headcover as well.

Boy: Hey! It's just like Tiger has! Except he has a lion!

Well, You Know My Name Is Simon....

How many other Dads and Moms live vicariously through their children?

I dressed the Boy up in his fancy bathing suit. It's one of thoise UV protective suits and it looks very cool, much like a wetsuit. It's got a black body with sky blue sleeves. We're running down from the parking lot to the municipal pool and folks are smiling and grinning and getting other people to look over at him, he's so cool.

We get to the pool at 3pm and we won't leave until five. At the end of it, he was swimming great distances in the adult pool by himself with no life-jacket. In the adult pool, his feet can't touch the bottom, so this was a huge accomplishment for a Boy this afternoon. His Daddy was very proud. So was his swimming teacher from last year, Lindsey, who was the lifeguard on our side of the pool. I could wax on lyrically all evening about how great he was in the pool. Instead, let me tell you that at some point I noticed that my fingers had shrivelled from being in the water for so long and a Boy was fascinated to see them.

Me (in my best Mike-Myers-as-Simon imitation): I got all prune hands.

The Boy looks and marvels over them.

Boy: They're all wrinkled!
Me: You got all prune hands too.

He looks and is partly astounded to see that his fingers have shrivelled up too.

Boy: Maybe we should iron them.

Blue Suede Shoes (or something like that)

Someone ... and I'm not saying who...thought it would be pretty funny to put blueberries in my dress shoes.

Not the little less-than-pea-sized blueberries, either. The big, fat thumbnail-sized ones.

Wish Lists

If I could have a wish list, I'd wish for him to grow up happy, healthy and helpful to the human race. And somewhere after that, I'd wish for the Boy to sleep in just a little later in the morning. Especially on weekends.

So it's Sunday morning, and the Boy and I are sleeping on the fold-out couch at Granny and Poppa's house. It's early in the morning and I'm half-dozing, happy that he is still in bed and letting me get a little rest. It's not eight o'clock yet. It's around 7:30, somewhere in there. His cousins, one who is six and another who is four, are upstairs thumping and bumping and running around.

Suddenly a Boy is wide awake beside me, awake from the noise, the shoe on the other foot now and all that, and he is put out from having been woken up, commenting with a disgusted voice:

Boy: They sound like Santa Claus up there.

Exit 5A

This weekend we went up again to Poppa's house for the Boy's cousin's birthday party. It's a 90-minute drive that takes us from the city to the Annapolis Valley. About 20 minutes or so up the road is the Town of Windsor. It's an exciting part of the drive because there is a ancient railway yard that lies right next to the highway. About two-dozen old trains rest on the track. For a Boy, it's like Thomas the Tank Engine come to life. We call out the kinds of trains we see: Troublesome Trucks, Oil Cars, Caboose, Passenger Coaches, Diesels. It's only a few seconds of the drive and soon the trainyard is behind us.
Me: Wow, there were a lot of trains there today. Wasn't that great?
Boy: And there was one there that looked just like Mavis!
Me: Maybe it was Mavis.
Boy (in a wry, don't-be-silly voice): No, it wasn't really Mavis! It had no eyes...

The Weather Network & the Michael Family

It's apparently a genetic thing, a meteorological chromosome, passed along by the mother, this love of the Weather Network that runs through my wife's side of the family. Mom-in-law loves it, all her daughters love it - could sit for hours in front of it. It's compelling TV, somehow. And now come to find that the Boy is very keen on the Weather Network too and has learned numeral recognition from channel 30, numbers like 22, 18 and on rarer occasions this year 28. He's got all the icons down and can distinguish between sunny and partly cloudy and more significantly, between light rain and drizzle. Which makes this morning's conversation somewhat more interesting.

Last night the Blue Monkey's played their last regular season game and scored a season high 4 goals. The Boy also scored, giving him four on the season and treating Mamma who hadn't been there on any of the previous games where he'd scored. Daddy wasn't there - off golfing - so Mamma briefed me on all the news when I got home and advised me to be surprised when I heard it from the Boychild's mouth, because he was anxious to tell me himself. She let me know that while they'd scored four times, the Monkeys still lost 8-4. 

Mamma: But you should have seen the Blue Monkeys parents. It was like they'd won the Stanley Cup.

This morning the Boy advised me that the Monkey's had, in fact, tied the game 4-4, but couldn't quite look me in the eye, a harmless bit of revisionism after all. There's one more game to go, but there's two days when it might be played. Tuesday if it's not raining and Thursday if it rains on Tuesday. The scenario required significant explanation. Finally having grasped what was going on, the Boy headed straight for the Weather Network to "check the forecast" (in quotes because it's a specific, favourite expression of his). The local and long range forecast was just coming on.

 Boy: Just in time!

He proceeded to read of the forecast for the morning, afternoon, evening, four-day out look and seven day forecast. He concluded that we were going to be all right for Tuesday because as the forecast showed for the week:

Boy: We're only going to get five pieces of rain.

Yo Soccer Fan.

The story of the Boy's comment in the backseat ("I guess were not going to win the trophy...") made the rounds at the soccer pitch last night. Come to find there is no trophy and that every player will get a medal. The last game is next Tuesday (weather permitting) and there's a kids vs. parents match. I'm thinking maybe it might be the Blue Monkey's first and only victory of the season. 

Last night I was there in my Canada chair and the open air reading my book while the Monkeys practiced in vain. Final score: 7-0. The Boy wanted to help carry stuff from the car into the house when it was all over, and so I gave him my book. He asked me what the book was called.

Me: Catch-22.

Boy: Do you have Catch-21?

Me (smiling): No.

Boy: I think you should start with Catch-1.

Bravest Boy Ever

The Boy will be starting school in a few weeks and the thought of it is terrifying.

For me, not for him.

In advance of the Day, and as a requirement for the Daycare, he was off to the doctor's office today to get his immunizations. Two needles, one in each arm.

Dr. Judy: Do you want to sit on your Mommy's lap?

Boy: No.

So up he hops on the examination table.

Dr. Judy: Do you want your Mommy to hold your hand? Because you have to be very still while I give you your needle.

Boy: No. I'll be allright.

Two needles go in and not a single peep out of a Boy. The doctor was most impressed. In fact she commented:

Dr. Judy: Wow. You are the bravest boy that's ever been here for his needles.

Boy: What about my blood pressure?

Turn of Phrase

Summer, finally summer. It's not been a good one so far, but at last we get some hot days. After being out in the backyard playing by himself in the mid-afternoon the Boy comes back inside and starts to wipe his face with an old baby-blanket that appeared from somewhere.

Me: Is it hot outside?

Boy: No. The sun is sweating me.

Me: The sun is sweating you?

Boy (continuing to towel off with the woolen baby blanket): Yeah. Now I have to unsweat me.

Later on he comes in again after seemingly having made a grand decision.

Boy: Know what I'm going to have for supper?

Mamma: What?

Boy: I haven't decided yet.

Various Tycoons

Once upon a time, this was maybe a year or so ago, there was a promotion with a cereal company where they had different game CDs in their box that you got for free when you bought the cereal. There was Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune and Battleship as well as the Stuart Little 2 movie. We collected almost all of the CDs and the movie for the Boy. I can remember uttering the memorable line as I picked up a box of Lucky Charms with the Battleship game in it:

Me: I wonder if I can get this in a better cereal....

Anyway, the game we've played most together, the Boy and I, are the two Tycoon games; RollerCoaster Tycoon and Monopoly Tycoon (forever refered to in our house as "Monockoly", since that was the way the Boychild says it). They're both games geared not for the 4 year old set, so I do most of the "driving". And that's okay, because I have fun playing both of them. The Boy, when asked which is his favourite invariably replies:

Boy: I like RollerCoaster Tycoon better because people barf.

What Makes Blue Monkeys Blue.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are soccer days for all of this summer of Aught-Four. It always seems to be a rush to get home, get the Boy, get the Boy's supper, get the Boy kitted out and ultimately to get us to the pitch on time. Yesterday I caved in to his request to get supper from the pizza man, and so while I was paying for our supper at the door, I had asked the Boy to get his jersey, shorts, boots, socks and shin pads so we could get away faster and not be late. He got his jersey and his socks, but he couldn't find his shorts. I figured that they were downstairs in the dryer and asked him to go and get them.

He flat refused.

So the power struggle was on.

Me: If you don't go and get your shorts, we're not going to soccer tonight.

Boy: Well, if we don't go to soccer, I'm not going to try to score any goals.

I had to reflect a moment on that. Although an interesting fault of logic, it was too cumbersome to explain for a parent in a hurry.

You should know that the Boy's team is called the Blue Monkeys. Their jersey colour is a deep blue with white trim, "Tim Hortons" on the front, the Boy has number 11 on the back. When suggestions for team names were called for at their inaugural practice, his idea was the Blue Sharks (because sharks are fast!). Most of the other kids thought it was a great name, but the coach's son issued his minority report and the name Blue Monkeys was subsequently adopted. At that first practice (which was really a "fiesta" - an all-day event of drills, pictures, lunch  and crafts) the Boychild was the first player on either side to score, an auspicious beginning auguring a great season.

Well, the Monkeys lost that game 5-2, and it's been one of the closer scores of the season which has so far featured scores of 9-0, 8-0, 11-2 and a host of other consistently lopsided affairs. The Boy has scored two more goals, grand achievements when a good game is one where the Monkeys aren't shut out. At last night's game as the Boy sat his turn on the sidelines, the Blue Monkeys had a breakaway. In fact, it was a breakaway on an empty net. In fact, it was a five-on-zero breakaway to an empty net.

They didn't score.

The ball was dribbled almost the entire way down the field with only five blue shirts around it, no goalie, no defense and the ball was put into touch, slowly, wide by at least five yards. It was almost the perfect encapsulation of the Blue Monkey's season. The final score was 5-1 ... since the other coach was holding his team back.

On the way home, a small little world-weary voice was heard from the back seat:

Boy (quietly): I don't think we're going to win the trophy this year.

Let Children Walk with Nature

The neighbour's cat, Sandy, had to be put down last week. As gently as she could, my wife had to break the news to a Boy.

Mamma: Sweetheart, Sandy died.

Boy: Good. She wasn't a very nice cat anyway.

Carpe Diem

Giving the Boy a bath and talking to him about the day....
Me: What was your favourite part of the day?
Boy: Everything.

Carpe Diem (alternate ending)

Me: What was your favourite part of today?
Boy: My toots. (giggling and considering) Yeah. My toots.

In case you didn't get it, a "toot" is a fart.

"What's a Cubit?"

Last night I did my fatherly duty and abandoned my wife and Boy to go out and play golf at the club where I'm a member, The Links At Montague. It was Thursday night Men's Night. The very first time I'd played, months ago now, the field was depleted by the threat of inclement weather. Actually, I remember that it rained right up until the time I pulled up into the parking lot. Good timing for me and those brave golfing souls of my ilk, bad luck for everyone else.

No one was more surprised than I when the eventual winner of the evening was.... ME! It was like Phil Mickelson after the Masters when I got home. Daddy won! Can you believe it?!?!

Last night there was a full field and great weather and I shot a stroke better than my previous personal best (which had been the score from that first Men's Night). My 3-over last night was good enough for a tie for second.

This evening, Boy looks up at me at the supper table and enquires straight out of the blue:

Boy: How was "Men's Night", Daddy?
Me (surprised): Great! Daddy played his best ever and got second place.
Boy (after a long pause): Is Men's Night ... golf?
Me: Yes, sweetheart, it is.
Boy: Oh. (He giggles sheepishly.) I didn't know that.

Mercedeses Rule.

From the recesses of my recent memory:

We were driving down the local highway which, as usual, was choked with traffic in both directions. As we crawled along, up toward us came a very nice Mercedes convertible, kind of a light olive green in colour. It looked very rich. The Boy took note of it as it crept by us in the other direction.

Boy: That's the car I'm going to have.

Me: Well, that's a pretty expensive car. You're going to have to get a pretty good job to be able to afford a car like that. Are you going to be a professional golfer?

Boy: No, I don't want to be a professional golfer.

Me: Well, what about a professional soccer player?

Boy: No, I want to be an artist. Or I'm going to be a teacher.

I thought, "There goes the Mercedes...." 

Getchyer Feline Freak On.

A horrendous, horrible and terrible hissing and screeching erupted from the front screen door. It was enough to make your heart jump right up into your throat. It was the fluffier of our two marmalade cats, Zoe. The neighbour's cat, Tigger, had wandered saucily up our pathway to taunt our younger girls. His little round feline face gazed boldly through the screen. I stomped toward the door and Tigger turned tail.

Me: Tigger! Go home! Git!

The boy came around from the living and slammed the storm door closed with authority as Tigger dashed back down the path.

Boy: Yes! Go home Tigger! And stop freakin' out!

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

I keep thinking I should save the title for this very brief entry for some other more significant post, but on reflection, it's pretty much the theme to this whole blog. It's purpose is to capture stuff before it goes away for ever. Like this kind of thing.

Mamma: Are you having a good time in PPI, love?
Boy: Mom, it's not P.P.I., it's P. E.I.

And thus passeth the glory of the world.

Somewhere, Lou Costello Smiles.

The motel in PPI was great. It had fridge that we weren't expecting and a pool that we were. A fire pit and a horseshoes pit. A little basketball court in the driveway and "Shirley's", a burger and ice cream stall across the road. That was a new word for The Boy, "Stall" and he used it frequently.

On arrival, he met a few other children swimming in the motel pool. The day was hot, the drive had been long and the pool was a very refreshing welcome. It was a very nice pool and we frequented often including the next morning and again in the afternoon. One of the young folks in the afternoon figured he'd seen the Boy earlier in the day.

Kid: Are you the one from this morning?

Boy: (No answer)

Kid: Are you the one?

Boy (vehemently): No, I'm four and a half.

The Mystery Tour.

My wife's four days off coincided with great summertime weather. We got in the car and headed for Prince Edward Island. Starting out, we had the music CD on again. The Beatles were singing on track 7. The Boychild, remembering our talks about the Beatles when we were driving to my parents place, piped up that the Beatles were also on track 12. I clicked the "Skip" button a few times and sure enough, the Beatles were on track 12.

Me: How did you know number 12 was the Beatles? 

Boy: I guess I'm just magic...

Members Only

It's after his soccer game. His team did very well this night in  that they scored a goal. Make the final 11-1.

What we're talking about is our upcoming trip to Prince Edward Island. When he was very young, he called it P.P.I. So, to this day, we always call it PPI. A holdover from days of extreme youngness and cuteness.

---

Me: In two more sleeps we're going to PPI.

Boy: What's are we going to do in three more sleeps?

Me: Well, will still be in PPI. You and Mommy are going to go to the beach and we're all going to go to Rainbow Valley, and Daddy's going to go golfing. And you know what? In three more sleeps, maybe Daddy and Boy can go golfing together. Because, remember? Daddy called the lady at Rollo Bay. She remembered you from last year and said on the phone that a Boy could come golfing again.

Boy: Is there a lot of places to golf at PPI?

Me: Yes sweetheart, there are lots of places.

Boy: Is there a lot of places for me to golf at PPI?

Me: I don't think so. Most of the golf courses you have to be ten years old before they let you play.

Boy: Like in Bedford?

Me: That's right. Remember they wouldn't let you play and you cried.

Boy: When I grow up I'm going to build a golf course that's only for little boys.

The Beatles With a Half Drop of Lemon

The drive from my house to my parents house takes an hour and a half. I'm going to play in a golfing tournament and maybe also to get The Boy out one evening to play a few holes because he really likes to play. He's been playing for over three years now. I remind you that he's not quite 5 years old. 

We're listening to a music CD I've made of various artists. And even though partially sleep-deprived, staying awake is no problem when there's a little chatterbox going non-stop for the full ninety minutes with questions, questions, questions! Among the gems:

---

Boy: Who's this group?

Me: The Beatles.

Boy: What's their names?

Me: John, Paul, George and Ringo. They play rock and roll. All different kinds of music actually.

Boy: Do the Beatles play a Tango?

(Tango? How the heck does he know about a Tango?)

---

Me: Don't spill your lemonade now. We don't want a mess in the backseat.

Boy: I spilled some. Only a little, Just a drop.

Me: We-eelll.... A drop is okay.

Boy: Is half a drop okay?

Me (considering): Spilling half a drop might be pretty tricky....

---

Boy: (unintelligble ... but one word catches my ear ... did he say,"funky?")

Me: What? What did you say?

Boy: I said look at that cloud, Daddy.

Me: What kind of cloud?

Boy: Look at that funky cloud. Do you think it's going to thunder?

(Funky? Where the heck did he hear "Funky"?)

 

So We Begin

Only 43 sleeps shy of five years late.
A trove of lost quotes. So I better start writing the rest down before they're all gone.

This is a record of the strange, beautiful, wonderfully funny, bizarre observations of the world around us, comments uttered completely guileless by my four-year old son.

Catching up:

Me: I love you.

Boy: I love you more.

Me: I love you to the farthest star and back.

Boy: I love you to empty space.

Me: It's not a contest....

---

From the restaurant:

Boy: Daddy, I'd like more to drink.

Me: Well, ask the waitress, sweetheart.

Boy (shyly): No. You.

Me: It's not hard. Just say "Excuse me, miss. Could you -" and then ask her for what you want.

Boy: Excuse me, miss. Could you take off your clothes?

(Fortunately asked before the waitress had returned.)

---

From the department store:

Boy: What are you going to do when we get home (question asked for the umpteenth time).

Me (exasperated but joking): Give you a kick in the bum.

Boy: What are you going to do when we get home and don't say kick in the bum.

Me: I'm going to give you two kicks in the bum.

Boy (proclaiming for all in the check-out line to hear): Next time you say kick in the bum, I'm going to kick you in the PENIS.

Me (after a pause to the red-faced and tittering check-out girl): Guess he told me.

---

At home:
I had to play bad guy and after several warnings sent the Boy to his room for not leaving Mummy alone when she was sick. Two minutes later (only two) I went up and got him and explained the reason for his little punishment. Following that with little sobs:

Boy:: Mommy's number one and you're number two. I love Mommy to the stars and back. I only love you to the sun.

---

In the car, returning from our Sunday golf game:

Boy: Daddy, what countries have I been?

Me: Well, you've been to Canada and the United States. You've been to Boston, Newfoundland, PEI, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. You've been to Ottawa and to Montreal to see the Expos.

Boy: Where have you been?

Me: I've been to the same places you have. And I've been to Houston and Los Angeles and San Diego. Vancouver and Victoria. Toronto.

Boy: What countries have you not been?

Me (now picturing an atlas in my head): Oh, Poland, Brazil, none of the former Soviet Republics (this last with an inward grin), nothing in South America or Central America.

Boy: Have you been to England?

Me: No. Not to England or Ireland or Scotland or Wales.

Boy: Whales?

Me: I haven't been to Norway or Finland or Denmark or Sweden.

Boy: Where else have you been?

Me: I've been to France, though. And Germany and Austria. I've been to Greece and New York and Charlottesville, North Carolina and Cozumel, Mexico. I lived in Bermuda for three years.

Boy: Daddy, have you been to heaven?

---

Monday 19 July 2004:

Boy: "You're the worst Daddy ever." That one stung a lot.

Later that night going to bed you gave me a hug and a kiss and tweaked my nose.

Boy: "Are you happy now Daddy?"

Me: "Yes, Sweetheart. Now I'm happy."

Boy: "Yay! I made Daddy happy!"