Wonderland

The snow that fell last night was foretold by the Patriots game earlier that evening. I went outside and brought the car into the driveway, wondering if it was going to hit us as hard as it looked to be hitting the Boston area. I started the day with a peak out the window just to see how much fell during the overnight. Not much, was the answer. The green of the grass was still the predominant colour of the ground although the cars in the driveway were shrouded in white. Even though there wasn't much of it around, I figured there was someone in the family who would get pretty excited over seeing snow on the ground.

He was awake earlier than I was this morning. When we came down the stairs, I asked him if he'd seen outside yet. We went to the window, peered out in to the morning darkness and he squealed with delight, running from the window directly to the kitchen. Standiong before the calendar, he got me to point out today's date and asked for a pen. I gave him a pencil, and he scrawled with a six-year old's uncertain penmanship the letters "W S" in the box for today. I had a good idea that the S stood for snow. The W had me baffled.

Boy: You know what the W is for?

Me: No. What?

Boy: "Welcome."

Son, of God

The first day of Sunday School.

The Boy was reluctant about going; he figured between regular school and piano lessons, that must surely be enough. But off he went, returning an hour later much more enthused about the whole thing than when he left.

Mamma: ... and he knew some things that the other boys didn't know who'd been there for weeks.

Me: Yes?

Mamma: He knew whose birthday it was on Christmas Day.

Me: Who's that?

Boy: JESUS! But I didn't say his last name.

Me: His last name? What's his last name?

Boy: Crisis.

Things To Do Before Bedtime

Mamma came downstairs at 8:10 and I realized that I hadn't said "goodnight" and "I love you" to the Boy. I started upstairs despite Mamma's warning that he might already be asleep. As I cautiously approached the door, I heard a little whispered, "...dadda...!" and I come into the room to give him a hug and a kiss. Our conversation is in whispers.

Boy: Why did you come up, Dadda?

Me: To say goodnight and I love you.

Boy: aahhhhh!

Me: You were so good last night, a really big boy sleeping in your own bed, you try to stay in your own bed again tonight again, okay? Daddy is so proud of you when you can do big-boy things like that.

Boy: Okay. I'll try.

Me: Okay. Goodnight sweetheart. I love you so much.

Boy: Can you go brush your teeth now?

But Can He Hit a 1-Iron?

The Boy is in the white van that drives him from school to the after-school daycare. It's a month and two days before Christmas and visions of sugarplums seem to have started their dance in his head. He's talking with his friend Peter. The driver overhears their conversation and relates it to me later.

Boy: Santa Claus must be really rich.

Peter: Santa Claus is richer to infinity.

Boy: Santa Claus is richer than Tiger Woods.

It's What's Inside That Counts

Halloween is two weeks in the wrong direction. Vestiges remain. There is a big box of leftover treats downstairs. They belong to a Boy and daily test my willpower. There are three pumpkins on our front step: one was for the house, one came decorated as a present for the Boy's birthday party and another was required to decorate at the Boy's after-school center.

Every day I come home I expect to find one or all of them smashed on the road (rotten teenagers). But they survived. Until yesterday, when Mamma told the Boy to put them all in the green bin. This he did with my help as we got ready to go skating.

On the walk to the rink, only two houses down, there's the splatter of someone else's smashed pumpkin in the roadway. The Boy wants to collect up the seeds to plant in the garden.

Mamma: You want to grow your own pumpkin for next year?

Boy: Yes, please!

Mamma: Well we'll buy some good seeds. These ones are all run-over and no good.

Boy: You mean the little pumpkin inside is all squished?

Frankenpoker

There's nothing like a hard losing streak in the on-line poker world to suggest that maybe you're forming an addiction.
And there I was again on Friday night and my luck started to turn back. I won a really big pot, my biggest one yet, and the next morning I told the story to a Boy.
Me: So I was dealt Jack, Three and then somebody raised before the flop and I decided what the heck, I'd stay in and you know what came on the flop?
Boy: What?
Me: Jack, Three.
Boy: Ooo!
Me: So I made a big bet to try to scare everyone away and take the pot for myself but they didn't fold! They called! So I went all-in. And you know what came out on the river? Another Jack!
Boy: You had a full house!
I'll play and the Boy will often sit on my lap and "advise" me. He's also learning the game pretty well as the previous little vignette illustrates. We were playing together yesterday afternoon and I'm out of the hand; the two of us are watching how the others around the table are playing. The five cards showing on the table are three, Jack, five, ten, four. The guy on the top left makes a big bet after the river card is turned. The Boy says to me:
Boy: That guy has Ace, Two.
The players revealed their cards, and the guy turned over Ace, Two.
Six years old, I'm thinking. I've created a monster.

Concerning Venus and the Absence of All-Bran

It was a weird day at the grocery store yesterday.

I like my grocery store. And not just because I was in a commercial for it once. See, one day I walked through the doors and there's Mr. Lahey from the Trailer Park Boys with his video camera interviewing folks as they came in. In real life he's John Dunsworth, a long-time casting agent for the area. He recognized me as an ACTRA member, shot the bit and I got picked to do the commercial.

But enough about me.

Yesterday, because it was getting really close to supper time, the Boy and I are trying going through the store as fast as we can...

(Dash: As fast as I can?!?)

(Helen: As fast as you can!)

... and I keep having to call back home to Mamma to ask her what she wanted, either because it wasn't clear on the list or because the item wasn't in the store and I need to know whether to buy something different or wait until next time. There are about four or five things on the list that aren't in the store. Very unusual. So I ended up calling home about three times, taking out my cell phone, clicking the voice activation button and saying the keyword that automatically dials home: "Stinkbucket".

The Boy gets a kick out of that.

On the way home, in the commencing evening dusk, the planet Venus appears in the windshield, shining pure white in the clear blue sky. I point this out to the Boy and we have a little chat about Venus. I tell him, you know how the Earth has clouds around a lot of the planet? Well, Venus has clouds around all of the planet and that's part of the reason it's so bright with the sun bouncing of all those clouds. We have a little talk about the sun too. He wants to know if it's as hot as a burning tree and I tell him that it's hotter that if the whole planet was burning and he's very impressed by that. He then turns the subject back to Venus.

Boy: Daddy, why don't you say "Venus" into your phone and we can call it.

Lest One Forget

The Boy, Mamma and I are walking up the street on our way to the Sunday family skate when the Boy pipes up out of the blue: Boy: Do you know what Novembrance Day is? Me: Novembrance Day? Boy: It's November the 11th.

Later That Night...

Having collected Mamma from the airport, we're on the highway, almost home. It's a clear, dark, starry night. The Boy is up way past his bed-time, riding in the back seat, gazing through the window up into space. There's another plane on approach to the airport, its landing lights blazing a horizontal line in the sky. The Boy spots it first.

Boy: It looks like a hot dog.

Mamma: The plane looks like a hot dog?

Boy: Yeah. With a glow-in-the-dark bun!

The Biggest, Happiest Thing

After a week of living with his Dad, the Boy misses his Mamma. I'm pretty sure it's because she gives better cuddles. Day 7 dawns and the Boy's feeling a bit owly. A bit sad. A bit mopey. But Mommy's coming home this evening. We'll be going out to pick her up at the airport. This will be the big event in a day that's filled with stuff. So I said to a Boy:

Me: Hey. You can't be sad today. We have a whole lot of happy things that are happening today.

Boy: What are they?

Me: Well, I can think of three. Can you think of anything?

Boy (sadly): No.

Me: Well, it's Saturday. What happens on Saturday?

Boy: We go to music class?

Me: Right. And who are we going to meet there?

Boy: Olivia?

Me: Right. So that's one thing.

(Olivia is his best friend who just this last year moved away and so no longer lives right next door.)

Me: And what else are we going to do today with Olivia.

Boy (glum):  Go to a movie.

Me: Right and what's the third thing.

Boy: Have popcorn and spicy drink?

Me: Yes. Right. I hadn't thought of that one. So there are four things. What else?

Boy: Go to lunch with Olivia and Guy?

Me; Yes, that too. Five things.

(At this point I'm really starting to feel like I'm in a Monty Python skit...)

Me: What else? What's the big thing, the happiest thing for today?

Boy: I don't know.

Me: I'll give you a hint.

We're standing in the kitchen next to the refrigerator. On the fridge, held by one of those magnet thingies, is a collection of three holiday pictures from our trip to Florida. I point to the middle one which I took in a beach-side restaurant. The Boy and his Mom are having a hug and smiling at the camera.

I point to the picture. It's a give-away, pointing at his Mamma who's coming home tonight. The biggest, happiest thing.

Boy: We're going to a restaurant!

Oh Say Can You See Spot Run

It's time for bed and I ask the Boy to go pick out the story he wants for bed time. I'm very surprised when I get in his room that he's picked out the Dick and Jane compendium that I got him for Christmas last year and that he wants to read it to me. I bought it because I wanted him to learn to read something in English to complement all the learning he's getting in French (I notice that when he's doing homework and writing out words that he spells in French, Ee for I, euh for E). He races through the first number of chapters, reading very well. I'm very impressed and proud. 

Boy: "Look at Baby. Oh look. See Baby. Oh oh see." Hey! That's a French word. Aussi!

Fries With That?

Mamma has left us for Newfoundland to help her mom pack up and move from the family home in Corner Brook to a new condominium in St. John's. I said to her half-jokingly as she left that the Boy and I would be having supper at Mike's on Monday, Subway on Tuesday, Pizza Delight on Wednesday....

As of last night we're still waiting for the jokingly part, because there we are, a Boy and I out to a restaurant for supper. We're both having burgers. He has the kid's version and I have the grown up version.

Boy: That's not a Wendy's Bacon Mushroom Melt.

Me: Of course it isn't.

Boy: Because I can see the lettuce.

Me: That, and we're at the Dairy Queen.

Boy: Oh. Yeah.

Battlestar Galactica

Yesterday was Sunday and it rained and it was cold. Sunday is supposed to be golfing day for the Boy and me but the last three or four in a row have all been the same: heavy rain. Cold.

Time is running out. The golf course closes after Halloween. That means there's exactly ONE Sunday left for us to play.

So instead we spent the day inside. The TV was on.

Battlestar Galactica came on at 7:00, but I think it was from watching a preview where the Boy got a good look at Tricia Helfer who plays the Cylon credited as "Number 6". She's completely gorgeous, if you'll allow me an understatement. There's a picture following the link under her name ... it's a somewhat risqué, PG-13, children must be accompanied by an adult, look if you dare picture. I'll wait.

Beautiful, blonde, plays a role that is sexy, smart and deadly, a body that men would go to war for. Former Victoria Secret model. Canadian.

So the Boy (still barely six years old) sees her on TV asks me:

Boy: Why didn't you marry a girl like her?

Now, there are a lot of incorrect ways to answer this question.

Like, "Beautiful, blonde and killer body, yeah, why didn't I marry a girl like her?" or "Because I married your mother instead" both would probably rank right up there near the top. I stifled a laugh and told him "Well, if I did, you wouldn't be here." I don't know whether he understood what I meant, but he seemed satisfied with it.

(Hope his mommy is too.)

Later in the evening we're watching the the E! Hollywood True Story about William Shatner, on Space. Inevitably, they run a commercial for Battlestar Galactica. In keeping with the style of the Galactica's opening, the commercial is frenetic and frantic half-second cuts between all the different kinds of action, fighting Cylons, space battles, love interests, characters being chased through the rain, characters being chased through the ship, characters chased through space. Included in this montage were a couple of shots of not-my-wife Number Six, showing her from the back, nude from the waist up. The commercial ends.

Boy: It's about kissing and naked and shooting.

Belated Birthday

What the heck is going on this year?

In years past, the Boy was lucky enough to enjoy two or three birthday parties per birthday. He'd have one on the day and, often as not, we'd be off visiting someone somewhere in August and they'd have a birthday party for him as well. One year I think he had three. Maybe it was the year he turned three. Three for three. Yeah, that sounds about right.

So this year he's six.

And no birthday party.

He had a cake and presents and balloons and streamers and celebrated on the day with his Mommy and Daddy, but no friends. No party.

There was always going to be a party; we were just waiting for a weekend when there wasn't something going on.

So it's October, almost two whole months late, and still no party.

The Boy has been making plans though, and one day some weeks ago showed me a coloured scrap of paper where he had (to the best of his ability) written down the names of the boys and girls he wanted to invite to his party.

So that's done. Another week passes. And still no party.

Last week Mommy and I finally got our scrapers in gear and organized the fete. We booked the room and put down a deposit on the day and got the customized invitations. Like anywhere else, the place required a minimum of ten kids at the party (at $15 per kid). Mamma and the Boy started going through the names of friends and classmates. After listening to them for a while I interrupted, asking him:

Me: Didn't you already write down who you wanted to come on a piece of purple paper?

Boy: A purse of people paper?

Aye, There's The Rub.

A lot of what I write here comes from stuff the Boy says when he and I are driving in my car. I think of them as the Back Seat Conversations.

So we're driving home from his after-school place and suddenly he tells me:

Boy: Daddy, my bad dreams are getting scarier.

Me: Oh no, how come?

Boy: You want to know why?

Me: Yes, why?

Boy: Because it's getting closer to Halloween.

It's The Best Game You Can Name.

When just a baby in utero, Mamma was convinced the child was a girl. She even had the name picked out: Mary Rose. The baby's namesake was planted in the backyard.

When to her great surprise the doctor proclaimed, "It's a Boy!", what Mamma thought was, "Oh no. Hockey."

The doorbell rang the other night around supper time. It was the next door neighbour come to ask if we had any plans that night. It was just me and the Boy; Mamma was working. The neighbour had two tickets to the local major junior hockey game and other plans. The Boy indicated that he'd like to go. The game started at seven o'clock but would end somewhere around ten - way past the Boy's bed-time. I wasn't sure how he'd like it, but agreed that we'd go until he got tired but then come home.

We arrived in time and bought popcorn and Minute Maid orange spicy drink. We sat almost directly behind the visitors net, just eight rows up and the home team players came out of a tunnel just about ten seats to our right. The home team won by a shutout scoring a goal in each of the three periods; the one in the middle stanza came right in front of us. In the third period, the camera guy who during play was down where the players had streamed past, turned around and got a beautiful picture of the Boy which appeared on the giant screen on the score clock for all (including the Boy) to see.

After each period I asked if he was feeling tired, if he wanted to go home.

No way.

The night was a great success.

A couple of days later, the tickets are sitting on the step and I point them out to the Boy wondering if maybe he'd like to put them somewhere as a souvenir of a great night out.

Me: Do you want to keep the tickets?

Boy: Yes! We can use them to see another game!

Circular Reference

Part of the school day routine is that when it's over, you ask the Boy how his day was and he'll reply (in a thoroughly bored tone) Guuuud. And then you ask him what he did or what he learned and he'll tell you that he doesn't remember. Which is when Daddy usually says, "Then what the heck are we sending you to school for?" which usually prompts a giggle.

Sometimes if you get the conversation going right, you can mine that little brain and you come up with diamonds. Schooling miraculously becomes apparent. And then there's the conversation the Boy had with Mamma:

Boy: Did you know that the Earth is a rock? We live on a rock?

Mamma: It is? Then how do all the grass and trees grow?

Boy (full of grade one attitude): The rock's on the inside. And it's not a circle, either or you'd drive right off it.

Mamma: What is it?

Boy (still full of grade one attitude): Don't you know your shapes?  It's a spear. Not un sphere, because that's francais and we're talking english.

Mamma: A spear?  Like a spear you chuck?

Boy (puzzled): Like an egg?

Mamma (now also puzzled): What? An egg?

Boy: You said chucky egg.

I figure that somewhere up in heaven, Lou Costello has his TV set permanently tuned in to watch my family.

What's French for "Fambly"?

As a parent, I discover that it's more fun doing homework when it's not you doing the homework.

The Boy's weekly exercise is to read his two french books and then when he's done, to write a sentence in his "cahier". It can be a sentence straight from story or the child can be more imaginative and write down a thought that was suggested by the story.

So it's a late afternoon and the Boy and I and the sister-cats are home alone having finished the pitiful little supper that we usually have when Mamma's at work and Daddy cooking (if'n you call peanut butter sandwiches "cooking"). The Boy finishes reading his story called "Ma Petite Soeur" which is about all the things a big sister does with her little sister. Je mange avec ma petite souer. Je lit avec ma petite souer. Je joue avec ma petite souer. Like that. He finishes and I start a little discussion hopefully to prompt some thoughts about the sentence he'll write. I say that since he's an only child he does all those things with mommy and daddy. Hoping maybe Daddy gets a plug in the sentence? Maybe. So, I ask. What does he think he wants to write as his sentence?

Boy: Ma petite souer est un chat!

A Strong Stomach.

Yesterday, I saw my shadow.

Unfortunately, this didn't mean that we were going to get an extra 6 weeks of summer, it only afforded me another view of my protruding front porch of a stomach. Getting old sucks, by the way.

After my half-round (which didn't go well) I picked the Boy up from his after school program. We pulled into the driveway and there was lots of stuff to take into the house. And the Boy left his window down. So in all I made two trips to fish stuff out of the car. The Boy watched me from the front door of the house. When he started talking, I had a pretty good idea where the conversation was going to end up.

Boy: Daddy, you have a really strong bum.

Me: Yeah? I do?

Boy: Yes. When you sat down in the car I saw it go way down and when you got out I saw the car go up again.

What's In A Name

The Boy is becoming more aware of golf and the different Tours. Today he advised me that he'd have to come home from school early because he saw on TV that coverage of the Canadian Open starts at one o'clock. I had to be the one to break it to him.

This past weekend he was listening to the results of the Deutsche Bank Open. The commentator said that the winner was Olin Browne.

Boy: His name is Olin Browne but he should be named Holin One.

The Bathing Suit Conundrum

For his few weeks of swimming lessons, Mamma bought the Boy a brand-new Roots bathing suit for the summer. The bathing suit was around for only a little while before it suddenly and mysteriously went missing. Days passed. Weeks. A month. Mamma was baffled as to where that swim suit could have gone. Weekly she asked if anyone had run across it. She described over and over what she was doing leading up to the discovery that it was gone. I described the last time I'd seen it: putting it into the washing machine. She confirmed having taken it out and then doing .... what? What was it? Where was that suit?

Over the labour day weekend, the Boy decided he wanted me to inflate this wading pool I'd bought from Canadian Tire several years ago. He (meaning I) would get it all set up and invite his friend over. So I got the pool out and got it blown up, and then the little inflatable basketball net, then the other smaller deeper pool. He got it all.

I was in the storage room where we keep all the suitcases, my drums, the freezer, the tools and assorted junk when the boy picked up my drumsticks and started banging on the drums.

Boy: Look Daddy, I can play on these.

As I'm rummaging through the shelf I note that whatever he's hitting now has muffled the sound of the drums. I turn and look, and he's tapping on the Roots bathing suit which is sitting there on top of the floor tom.

Me: Oh. My. Goodness. Go take those and show them to Mommy.

The Boy rushes upstairs with trunks in hand.

Boy: Mamma! Look what Baby Bird found!

Mamma: Oh my goodness! Where did you find them?

Boy: On Dadda's drum!

Mamma: I looked everywhere for those!

Boy: Not on the drum.

The Tooth, the Whole Tooth and Nothing But the Tooth

It finally happened. The tooth that has been so loose finally came out. I was frantic to keep him from always wiggling that tooth, because once it was out, that was forever the end of that beautiful little smile. Baby teeth smiles, especially his baby teeth smile, are very cute and beautiful. I was desperate for it to last for as long as it could.

But like the song says, nothing beautiful lasts, and there he was one day out on the swing at Poppa and Granny's house, I was nowhere in sight (playing golf) and there he was, wiggling it again, pulling on that tooth again - when to the Boy's great surprise and excitement, it painlessly and bloodlessly came out in his fingers.

When I came home, he craned his little neck back as far as he could and grinned his biggest grin so that I could see the new hole in that beautiful little smile.

You could see that the new tooth, the grown-up tooth, the tooth he'd have as an adult, was already coming in.

But despite that new tooth, he's still just a little Boy. So we wrapped that small little tooth in some tissue and put it under his bed at night and the next morning the Tooth Fairy had left two dollars.

It prompted some inspired discussion around the breakfast table.

Granny: I wonder what the Tooth Fairy does with all those teeth?

Boy: I don't know. Maybe she saves them and gives them to little babies who don't have any.

Birthday at 25,000 Feet

Circumstances being what they were, the Boy was traveling on his birthday. He and Mamma were off to spend a few days with Nanny M. They flew over and back using Mamma's Provincial Airline tickets that she'd won in a silent auction some months ago. How the word got to the cockpit, I'm not really sure but as they were cruising along, the pilot came on to say what the weather forecast was, thanks for flying with him and:

Pilot: We'd also like to send along birthday greetings to Mr. (The Boy's name) in seat 7F who's six years old today. Happy birthday!

Boy (eager for more presents): What is he sending me?

Love, Death and the Afterlife

On the first Thursday of this month, the Boy's maternal grandfather collapsed in his home in Newfoundland. He was resuscitated 15 minutes later, but really, the only benefit of that was that most of the family was able to gather around him and keep vigil, waiting for the inevitable to happen. Mamma was on a flight within an hour and a half. The Boy was promised a swim in the community pool, so we fit that in before we flew out later that evening. We spent a late night traveling  by air and taxi to get to Nanny and Gidi's house in Newfoundland. "Gidi", by the way,  is Arabic for "grandfather". Gidi would call the Boy "a little king". I remember him saying once to the Boy when he was not yet a year old, "Remember, your roots go all the way back to the desert." So when I produce and edit home movies about him, I called them "Desert King Productions".

We get to the house and I get him into bed. We have a little talk about death and dying before I go to the hospital to wait with Mamma. We would have several talks about death and dying over the next couple of days, and I realized that while most adults talk in cookie-cutter platitudes, it takes a five-year old to really ask the fundamental and honest questions that explore your faith. Such as that first night:

Boy: Why do people have to die anyway?

Me: It's just the way we're made, I guess.

Boy: Do people's bodies go to heaven?

Me: Well, it's more like their spirit, their soul that goes to heaven.

Boy: Oh. Is that like your imagination?

And:

Boy: When people get to heaven, can they walk?

Me: Yes.

Boy: Can they talk?

Me: Yes.

Boy: When you go to heaven, are people glad to see you?

Me: Yes, they sure are.

Gidi didn't die that night. He hung on until the next morning. His wife, three daughters and two son-in-laws were with him at the end. Three of his five grandchildren were back at the house, Gidi's son and family coming all the way from the States being the only ones who hadn't yet made it to Newfoundland. As the group of us walked the three blocks from the hospital to the house, the sisters talked solemnly about how they would get the children together and as gently as possible, tell them that Gidi had died. When we got back to the house, the children were downstairs in the playroom drawing pictures and having a little art competition. So when we all showed up, the first order of business was to present and describe to us their respective pieces of art. As this began to wind down the Boy piped up quite cheerfully:

Boy: Is he dead yet?

And that was that. Mamma told him yes, and the children went back to playing.

The next day was Gidi's wake, and the family went to the funeral home to say a last goodbye. I think the Boy was a bit confused. He had been told that Gidi had died, but there he was in the casket; a half-open casket that showed only his upper body. At bed-time, he had some more questions.

Boy: Does Gidi have a new face in heaven?

Me: Yes, I suppose he does.

Boy: Does he have a new body?

Me: Yes.

Boy: Do they match?

You Have The Right To Remain Silent

It was an interrogative kind of day. Questions, questions, questions. Amusing and exasperating at the same time. Well, truthfully more and more exasperating as the day went on. Questions about just about everything you could imagine. And every answer deserved at least one or two (or more) follow-up questions.

We're driving in the car, going through Gros Morne National Park and after another slew of questions I finally burst out to the Boy:

Me: Holy cow, is there a question in the entire world that you haven't ask me today?

Boy: Is there?

Two

Today, with exactly thirty days left as a five-year-old, the Boy made a birdie, his first, from the red tee box on the first hole at the Links at Montague.

Pretend Golf and Adverbs

Summer is finally in full gear!

... and the Boy and I are inside, down in the basement (where it's cooler), rediscovering the addiction that is Sony Playstation. Lately we've been into playing Hot Shots Golf 3 ... it's summer after all. The Boy is getting incrementally better but keeps asking me to win tournaments for him. I'm trying to let him find out how much better it feels to win things for yourself, but he keeps pressuring me to play a tournament. I compromise by playing in "Versus" mode, where you are set up against a computer player for match play. If you beat him (or her), you unlock the player and can use her (or him) the next time you play in a tournament. The players get progressively better. So the more players you win, the farther you can hit the ball and the better chance you have of winning a tournament.

So I recently won the player called "Toni", a sixty-ish looking Mafioso type in a black suit and red tie. He speaks with a weird accent that the Boy has a hard time understanding. For example, when Toni makes a birdie he declares, "One above the rest!", one of a few Toni phrases that the Boy has yet to interpret.

Yesterday we were setting up to play a tournament (I was there only to "caddy") and the Boy selects Toni as his player.

Toni (ominous grumble): You chose wisely.

Boy (turns to look at me): His name is "Wisely"?

Prefered Vehicles of Soccer Moms.

Boy: Daddy, I want us to get a van.

Me: Why?

Boy: Because you can have a person in the back and another person in the back and two people in the front.

Me: But we have that now in our car.

Boy: No I want to get a van. They're more fun. And what if we have more people?

Me: Well, I don't have enough money for a van. And it wouldn't fit in the driveway with Mamma's car.

Boy: What about a jeep?

Me: Same thing. Too expensive, not enough room.

Boy: What about a car?

Me: I have a car. This one. I like my car.

Boy: But I want us to get a van.

Me: Well I told you. Daddy doesn't have enough money to buy a new van.

Boy: We could have a yard sale...?

The Favour

Our city hosted the Canadian Women's Open this past week. I volunteered as part of the team and ended up being a walking scorer all week. With Mamma working for most of the weekend, the Boy spent Friday and Saturday night with his grandparents in the Annapolis Valley.  It's not his first sleepover and he was doing very good until Saturday evening when I called to see how his day was, tell him goodnight and I love you.

Boy: Daddy, are you sad?

Me: A little bit, because I miss you.

Boy: Can I do you a favour?

Me: What's that?

Boy: You go into my room and get one of my grr-animals (stuffed toys), either Teddy or Pierre, and you can sleep with them and then it will feel like you're sleeping next to me.

Sleepless (?) Summer Storms

After a very miserable spring (wet, cold) summer has roared in with soaring temperatures and high humidity. The nights have been hot and sticky lately. Perfect conditions for thunder-boomers. I awoke last night to the sound of thunder (how far off, I sat and wondered). The thunder grumbled and rumbled from far away from the sound of it; the storm never did get right on top of us. The lightning flashes were fairly frequent and at one point  the skies opened up and you could really hear the rain pounding against the house and the road.

Beside me, the Boy slept on.  I only had the vaguest recollection of him coming into the room.

In the morning he slept through the alarm. I turned it off, got up, shaved and showered. Coming out of the shower, there was that sleepy little face beaming up at me. He sat on the toilet to have a happy pee and I started to towel off.

Boy: Daddy, did you hear the thunderstorm last night?

Me (surprised, I thought he'd slept through it): Yes. Did you hear the thunderstorm?

Boy: No.

Me (baffled): Then how did you know there was a thunderstorm?

Boy: I saw it on the Weather Network.

He's his mother's son all right.

Who's Who.

Once upon a time...

... there were two little girls from Newfoundland. These little girls were sisters. In fact, they were (as they say in Newfoundland) a twin. Their favourite movie was a Disney venture called "The Parent Trap", oddly enough a movie about a twin, Hallie and Annie. Their parents had seperated shortly after the birth of the twin and now they lived apart, one with Mom, one with Dad, one in England, one in the good ol' U.S. of A. Neither of the twins knew of her sister. So through the magic of Hollywood, they meet at summer camp, switch places, and the parents get back together for happily ever after. As my high school English teacher used to say, "Glass slippers everywhere."

The real life twin from Newfoundland come to visit their cousin in Nova Scotia and pretty soon, The Parent Trap is playing at a Boy's house six or seven times a day as the three of them watch.

You may or may not know that as an eleven year old, Lindsay Lohan won raves for her performances as both sisters in the Disney movie. 

In an unrelated story, the Boy is a day away from finishing his first year of school. Since the penultimate day of school is actually a day off (Marking Day ... capital M, capital D, why hasn't Hallmark cashed in on this one too?), he and his after-school mates are going on an organized trip to watch Herbie: Fully Loaded.

I had asked him about the movie previously, and now, driving with me and his mom to visit my parents, the Boy was recounting his movie-going experience to his mother.

Boy: Did you know that the racing girl was in Parent Trap?

Mamma: Was she.

Boy: Yeah! She was either Hallie or Annie, one of her.

Lost & Found

Saturday and the weather is beautiful. We all go for a walk on the Salt Marsh Trail. In amongst the trees, the sun beats down on us, exiting the trees and walking through what used to be a salt water harbour, the wind cools and picks mischievously at your headgear. At least a dozen people were out in the shallows digging in the muck for fresh clams.

By the time I was out to start the BBQ for supper, it had started raining. It rained hard. One of the cheeseburgers dropped onto the deck. In the rain, my jaw clenches and my teeth grind together. The remaining burgers are saved, cooked and brought inside. Only the tray of grilled vegetables remains. In the process of trying to get the dangerous-hot tray from the BBQ to the kitchen door, the tray of grilled vegetables tips and the whole lot is spilled to the ground.

I lost it. An angry, impulsive kick sends the nearby deck chair up and over the deck railing where it smashes into the lilac bush below. I clench my fists in frustration and wisely but belatedly remove myself from the family setting, going inside and upstairs to calm down. It was a less than admirable display of self-control. In about ten minutes I'm okay to come downstairs and have my supper like a civilized person.

Come the Boy's bedtime, all is well. Recalling the maxim that "It may be that your sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a bad example", I set out to apologize to the Boy and let him know that Daddy acted badly.

Me: Daddy lost his temper today. Did you see that?

Boy: Your temper?

Me: Yes. I lost my temper. That means I got angry. Daddy's sorry about that.

Boy: That's okay.

Me: Thank you, sweetheart.

Boy: Did you find your temper?

I Beg Your Pardon.

You can pay money to get your child enrolled in organized soccer ($85), baseball ($75) and golf lessons ($125) and his favourite sport is ...

... throwing a Fisher Price basketball up onto the sloping roof and then catching it when it falls off.

So the highlight of yesterday afternoon was playing the game. The Boy was getting pretty good at catching it on the bounce. I was pretty good at saving the ones that were about to go off the elevated patio deck and down onto the backyard. I missed two. The first one the Boy went to get, the second one he insisted Daddy go and get. I was in my slippers and declined.

He continued to insist and I continued to decline which ultimately resulted in a Boy getting angry and Daddy calling an end to the game. Frustration and sadness follow. Mommy takes over. Boy goes up for his bath and Daddy goes down to watch Seinfeld.

Everyone's happy again by the time bath time is over, and I go upstairs to help get him ready for bed, read a story, say the prayer, rub his back, kiss him goodnight. Before all that, I'm drying him off by the tub.

Boy: You should forgive me now.

Me (puzzled): What for?

Boy: Because you didn't go and get the ball.

Me: And you're still mad at me for that.

Boy: Yes.

It occurs to me that what he wants is for me to apologize.

Me: So I should forgive you.

Boy: Yes.

Me (hugging him close): Then I forgive you.

And then all was well.

Rotundity & Innocence

The time between Christmas and Easter has been an orgy of chocolate. Toblerone bars, Pot of Gold, Cadbury Easter eggs, mini-eggs, Tim Horton's Cafe Mocha. Chocolate and more chocolate. It has resulted in an unfavourable personal expansion. That is to say, I have not enjoyed the picture of me in the mirror. So having neglected going to the gym for some time now, I have been forced to face up to my flabby physique and get myself back to working out on a regular basis as well as trying to curb the intake of all that junk.

I have also been conscious of the Boy's habit of eating the minimum at suppertime and then spending the rest of the evening asking for snacks and treats. Finally, with my own issues clearly in mind, I confronted him about his evening eating habits. You're not supposed to do this, I know, because it can create the seeds of an eating disorder, but I told him that if he keeps it up eating treats all the time in the evening he was going to end up with a fat belly.

Boy: Like you...?

Me (deep inward sigh): Yeah. Like me.

The Only Other Certain Thing In Life.

Tax time has come and gone except, there I am, papers strewn over the dining room table, using the last day of the Victoria Day long weekend to do what I had resolved to do early this year.

It's been a horrible weekend, again.

The Boy and I have our golf day every Sunday when the course has "Family Day" and the youngsters get to play a pretty expensive course for free.

Outside the wind pounds the rain against the dining room window. It's rained the last four out of four Sundays. Last week the weather was just marginal enough for us to go out and play. That makes us a depressing one-for-four since the golf course opened. Today, Monday, is no better. The forecast for the rest of the week is cloudy, rain, rain, rain, rain. And cold. Make that, continuing cold.

The silver lining is that I'm finally getting my taxes done. The Boy and I have been playing Crash Bandicoot (which he now insists on calling by its proper name - Crash Nitro Kart) and Roller Coaster Tycoon all weekend. I pried myself away telling him I would need a couple of hours to do my income tax.

An hour or some later, he's up to see if I'm ready to come back and resume my fatherly duty of playing video games. He asks if I'm finished ... something it sounded like Frankentax, which I thought was pretty funny.

Me: Am I finished what?

Boy: Are you all done with your inky tax?

I Swear I Didn't

Mamma: When you play rollercoaster tychoon, do you swear?

Me: What? 

Mamma: When you're playing the game and make a mistake, do you ever swear?

Me: No. Why? What's he said?

Mamma: He's playing down there when all of a sudden he says, "Sheet."

Mamma's Day

Mother's day rolls around again, and Daddy's having a hard time figuring out what to get for a present. There's the live lobster that was bought for the supper (which turned into an interesting life-lesson for the Boy - "Is it made dead yet?"), and the brunch has been planned, but although Momma has been asked a few times what she wants for her present, she hasn't responded with anything specific.

On Saturday, the Boy, the reason for the day, makes a suggestion.

Boy: What about ... what about...

He stumbles and searches for the words, finally coming up with:

Boy: What about a fer ghis ticket?

So we go to Tim Horton's and, as per the Boy's idea, we buy a whole bunch of gift certificates.

Nick(laus)names.

My son (the 5-year-old golfer) and I were watching the early coverage of the Masters and I was trying to impress upon him the significance of what Jack Nicklaus has accomplished through his career.  I also told him that I almost named him John after my grandfather ... who naturally was always called "Jack". After all that, I told him that, if he wanted, maybe Jack could be his nickname out on the golf course. Then his brow furrowed. Little thoughts entering his head.
Boy: But I thought I already had a nickname.
Me: What was that?
Boy: Stinkbucket.

When You Wish.

It's past the mid-point of our brief Florida vacation and we go to Dunkin Donuts to get bagels and muffins for breakfast. The shop is in a kind of strip mall and there's an open air section and an .. it's hard to describe - acoustic bubble of some kind, a giant upside down bowl painted blue as the sky which has the pleasantly surprising effect of amplifying and echoing your voice as you move and speak underneath. It took me quite by surprise. The other thing there is a fountain and the Boy asks for change to make a wish. We all throw in some change and (against the superstition), compare wishes.

Me: I wished for more vacations like this one.

Boy: I wished for palm trees to have ice cream on top. But I almost wished for you not to watch Sportscenter every morning.

Which Way to the Beach?

We're on a mini-vaction in South Florida. I think the Boy's enjoying himself. I think he likes it here. As we all get ready to go out to the beach, naturally the first one ready is the Boy - because Mamma and I spend our initial energy getting him all geared up. It doesn't take us long to get ourselves ready, but there's the Boy at the motel room door, hopping anxiously from foot to foot, eager to get going. 

Boy: Are you ready yet?

Me: Yes.

Boy: Then let's rock!

Master's Week In Florida: The Back Side

He's developing into a very cuddly Boy. Loves to have his back rubbed. It's an integral part of the going-to-bed process now. The other night as I'm out golfing under the lights in South Florida, and the Boy is being put to bed with Mamma, he took it up a knotch.

Boy: Scratch my bum.

Mamma complies.

Boy: No, the other one.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles - Part 2

About a week ago I was in the car being grilled from the back seat about the relative speeds of different modes of transportation. What's faster? A car or a plane. How about a plane and a train? And so on. I told the Boy that planes were the fastest but then went on to say there was such a thing as a high-speed train in Tokyo that might almost be as fast as a plane. That was the end of the discussion until we got on board our flight to Florida. Wouldn't you know, leafing through the En Route magazine - there was a picture of the high-speed train. I showed it to a Boy. He looked at it for a long time and asked:

Boy: Is that the one in Pinocchio?

It was only after asking him to repeat that a few times before I figured out that he meant "the one in Tokyo".

Planes, Trains and Automobiles - Part 1

Mamma and the Boy were excited about the prospect of our trip to Florida. It was a business trip for me, so I wasn't quite as enthused as they were. The trick for them was that while my flight was confirmed, they were going to be traveling "Standby" with all the inherent risk. We had to let the Boy know what was coming up but at the same time let him know that if all the seats filled up, he and Mamma might not be able to get on the plane.

Boy: Couldn't we take a boat?

A Lot of That Going Around

The Boy has had a bad cough lately. We had it checked and turns out he's either got bronchitis or walking pneumonia. He's on medicine to knock out the infection and hopefully he'll feel better when we leave later this week to go to Florida (another business trip for me; alas, no movies).

Last week I'd noticed a few nights in a row that he was running a fever around bed-time. One afternoon around supper time he complained to me that he wasn't feeling very good, gave instructions to take his temperature (to see how sick he was) and presented his own diagnosis.

Boy: I think I have the chicken pops.

Open Invitations

I went away for a brief business trip to the Big Smoke. Business trips. Boring presentations. Except this time, I was the one giving the presentation. I decided rather than do the usual boring old thing, I'd show a movie, my home-made kind rendered from my own PC.  It was, in the words of one who saw it, entertaining and inspiring. I was pleased. Part of the middle segment was introduced, sort of, by the Boy. I filmed him on the back deck against the flower box saying, "And now for a brief NQI criteria review". Well, what actually came out was:

Boy: And now a kick I criterey view.

When I got home the next afternoon, flushed with my own success, I picked the Boy up from Daycare and told him how everybody oohed and ahhed about his part of the movie and that people all over the room were saying how cute he was.

Boy: Well, why don't they come and visit me?

Scores!

There's no hockey this year, which somehow makes the football playoffs more significant. Because once the football is all over, there's just going to be wall-to-wall NBA.

Yuck.

The two semi-finals were held a weekend or so ago and I tried to get the Boy a bit interested. I told him who was playing and asked him who he thought would win. He picked the Eagles and the Steelers. He got one right.

In that he spent the afternoon watching Treehouse TV upstairs, my plan to spend the day with him watching the game didn't exactly work. I would give him some updates during the game when the Eagles scored (the late game was on too late). I told him the final results the next morning.

Boy: So are the Eagles going to play the SuperGoal?

A Yen for Sony

My mom says it was those darn Joneses, the ones you're always trying to keep up with. On New Year's Eve we visited with our former neighbours who have moved onto (and into) a much grander house. We had the tour, ate pizza (and our livers) and played PlayStation, which was a great time. I said if the Boy says he liked it, I'd get one. He did, so I did. I've since wondered if I did the right thing. I since wondered, what the heck was I thinking. Every waking moment, the Boy is either playing PlayStation or asking to play PlayStation. Okay, that's a bit of an exageration. And you should know (whoever you are) that I enjoy playing it as well. But tonight, anxious for a bit of a break, I said no to the inevitable PlayStation request.
Boy: But Daddy! My hands are really in the mood to play!

Again, Suddenly from the Back Seat....

Boy: Daddy? When I'm a granddad ... will you be dead?

Nocturnal Emissions.

In the middle of the night I was awakened either by coughing in the next room or the urge to go pee ... one of the two. It was the Boy who was doing the coughing and I was a little alarmed since when he gets sick and throws up, it is usually preceded by a round of coughing similar to what I was hearing. I got up and went around the corner to look into his room. He looked peaceful enough laying there. He looked asleep. Until he said:
Boy: Daddy, what are you doing there?
Me: I was just checking to see if you were okay. Do you feel sick?
Boy (getting up and coming over to see me) : No. I mean, maybe yes. I have drips coming from my eyes and I'm not even sad.