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."