The other morning my grandson mooned me on Skype.
It was Pooh, so I can't say it was entirely unexpected. The boy has always known how to capitalize on the element of surprise that results when he chooses to unveil certain of his body parts.
Mind you, this is the child whose self-created superhero persona is "Naked Man." You will be relieved to know that, at his mama's insistence, his original image has been modified to include underwear. (This turns out to be a blessing in disguise, as it gives Naked Man a place to stash his sword.)
An aside: No pic with this blog for fear of being arrested by the kiddie porn police. But I have to admit that a picture of Naked Man in all his glory is my current choice showcasing Pooh in the "googery," or gallery of grandkid photos hanging on the wall in the kids' room here at Googie's.
Anyway, the word "bottom" was one of the originals in Pooh's vocabulary, and he understood what it referred to long before he ever said it. This brings to mind a favorite story from the vast annals of "Pooh Lore" we have been collecting for the past four and a half years:
Once, when he was only eighteen or twenty months old, he was sitting on his mama's lap brushing his teeth before bedtime. "Brush your top teeth," Cookie coached, and he did. "Now brush your bottom teeth," she said-- whereupon he stopped abruptly, and you could see the wheels turning in that little head.
Immediately, he turned the toothbrush upside down to brush the seat portion of his fuzzy, footed jammies. I happened to capture the whole incident in a digital camera video, which should make good blackmail material when he is a teenager.
Now that Pooh's repertoire includes other words for "bottom," he continues to interchange them, sometimes with amusing results. Last time he was here, he asked me to retrieve a toy that had sunk to the floor of the swimming pool.
"Where's your water gun?" I asked.
"It's down on the pool's butt."
"You mean bottom?"
"Yes," he said, unaware of any semantic problem whatsoever. "Can you get it for me?"
Although Pooh seems to be the one most preoccupied with body parts, his sisters will occasionally throw in their two cents' worth. Sooby, our own little artist in residence, recently produced a pen and ink version of an anatomically correct horse family, which I was most happy to have shared with me as a text message but which again, for obvious purposes, I hesitate to share here.
And even little Bootsie has coined a term for a woman's upper undergarment with her recent reference to her mama's "booby lids." (Well, it kind of makes sense if you think about it.)
With two other baby grandsons only beginning to talk and another expected in November, I would imagine we are hearing only the beginning of the tome of "body parts" stories we will end up with.
But considering the recent Skype experience, I am thinking Pooh is the one we will have to watch the closest. Unless, of course, we really don't mind being caught as the bottom of one of his jokes.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
The Bosco Jar
Ever since my dad died almost two years ago, my mother has been on a cleaning out and purging mission. In that time she has emptied two outdoor sheds, the basement, the attic, and numerous drawers, closets, and cabinets.
While some of the more meaningful family heirlooms have been parceled out to kids and grandkids, she has advertised her treasures and trinkets by way of radio, newspaper, and phone calls to unsuspecting second-hand store proprietors. In addition, she has had six or seven two-day garage sales in an effort to disperse some seventy years' worth of collectibles, each object somehow representing both a moment in time and a memory.
For me, this process has been like watching my own life rewind in slow motion. As we have dug more and more deeply into the bowels of the house and outbuildings, I have stood at the curb of a nostalgic parade of photographs, keepsakes, and mementos.
The top layer of objects recalls events my own children shared with their grandparents. Further excavation reveals the stuff, some of it long forgotten, of my teen years and childhood--for instance, old glass Pepsi bottles like the ones we used to cash in, at two cents apiece, for a candy bar down at Mary's corner store.
As Mom opened the garage door at her most recent sale, I was just settling myself into the official cashier's chair when an especially unusual object caught my eye:
It was an old Bosco chocolate syrup jar, and just the sight of it triggered a flood of memories and a sweet return, however brief, to the late 1950s. It opened some long-forgotten door to a room where lived a little girl, who, with hair in a ponytail and bare feet, rode a red Schwinn with saddle baskets over the back fender down an uneven brick sidewalk.
She would spend lazy summer days playing paper dolls on a blanket spread in the grass or knocking locust shells from tree branches with a broomstick. Toward evening she would wait patiently on the front porch for the first firefly to flicker, her cue to grab a hammer and a nail to poke holes in the lid of an empty jar--like this one--and prepare for the night's catch.
With nightfall she would perch on an old tree stump, unscrew the jar lid, and watch her orange-bellied quarry take off, one by one, from the open jar's glass lip. Once airborne, each one would give a final flicker and buzz away into the vast, open arms of the night.
They disappeared so quickly, I remembered, like the smoke from a blown-out paper match--there one second and gone the next. Like the last ray of sunlight from beneath the horizon. Like childhood itself.
Maybe this is why I savor this time with the kids--the parties, the stories, the make-believe games. Right now, they can't fathom a time when we won't have these.
But I know that fireflies climb up the inside of Bosco jars and take flight. Their lights grow gradually fainter as they fly further away. You get to have them for only a little while.
While some of the more meaningful family heirlooms have been parceled out to kids and grandkids, she has advertised her treasures and trinkets by way of radio, newspaper, and phone calls to unsuspecting second-hand store proprietors. In addition, she has had six or seven two-day garage sales in an effort to disperse some seventy years' worth of collectibles, each object somehow representing both a moment in time and a memory.
For me, this process has been like watching my own life rewind in slow motion. As we have dug more and more deeply into the bowels of the house and outbuildings, I have stood at the curb of a nostalgic parade of photographs, keepsakes, and mementos.
The top layer of objects recalls events my own children shared with their grandparents. Further excavation reveals the stuff, some of it long forgotten, of my teen years and childhood--for instance, old glass Pepsi bottles like the ones we used to cash in, at two cents apiece, for a candy bar down at Mary's corner store.
As Mom opened the garage door at her most recent sale, I was just settling myself into the official cashier's chair when an especially unusual object caught my eye:
It was an old Bosco chocolate syrup jar, and just the sight of it triggered a flood of memories and a sweet return, however brief, to the late 1950s. It opened some long-forgotten door to a room where lived a little girl, who, with hair in a ponytail and bare feet, rode a red Schwinn with saddle baskets over the back fender down an uneven brick sidewalk.
She would spend lazy summer days playing paper dolls on a blanket spread in the grass or knocking locust shells from tree branches with a broomstick. Toward evening she would wait patiently on the front porch for the first firefly to flicker, her cue to grab a hammer and a nail to poke holes in the lid of an empty jar--like this one--and prepare for the night's catch.
With nightfall she would perch on an old tree stump, unscrew the jar lid, and watch her orange-bellied quarry take off, one by one, from the open jar's glass lip. Once airborne, each one would give a final flicker and buzz away into the vast, open arms of the night.
They disappeared so quickly, I remembered, like the smoke from a blown-out paper match--there one second and gone the next. Like the last ray of sunlight from beneath the horizon. Like childhood itself.
Maybe this is why I savor this time with the kids--the parties, the stories, the make-believe games. Right now, they can't fathom a time when we won't have these.
But I know that fireflies climb up the inside of Bosco jars and take flight. Their lights grow gradually fainter as they fly further away. You get to have them for only a little while.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
The Wristband
I am not too old to squeeze an impressive amount of value out of a carnival wristband. This is the truth I learned this week when our State Fair returned to my hometown for its annual August visit and the kids came for their traditional opening-day trip there.
One of the pleasures of being Googie is that I get to buy the kids, during the week before the Fair arrives, a discount wristband at our local Walgreen's. This little strip of paper adornment entitles them to unlimited rides for the duration of our adventure on the carnival midway.
Last summer I bought the bands for only Sooby and Pooh, since Bootsie, not yet two, was still too little to know all the fun she was missing. But the problem was that Pooh fell a little short of the 36" height requirement for many of the rides that Sooby was more than tall enough for. So I spent my midway time putting one on a ride, then the other, then returning to pick up first one and then the other in an intricately choreographed dance that kept me hopping all afternoon as I tried fervently not to lose a kid.
This year, with the kids 6, 4 1/2, and almost 3, I could see that we would need a total of four wristbands. To maximize the ride experience, it was clear that we would need an adult to accompany Bootsie, and often Pooh, on some of the rides where their little blonde heads backed up against the measuring sign and came up short.
So it was I who occupied the "swing" position when an adult was needed, sometimes with Bootsie and other times with both her and Pooh. As a result, I did five stints standing beside Bootsie's carousel horse and scrunched my long legs into more little trains and cars than I could count.
As the afternoon wore on, it became apparent that Sooby was casting a wishful eye at many of the more daredevil-type rides that only she met the height requirement for. So there came the moment of parting when Pooh and Bootsie went off with their parents while Sooby and I spent the rest of the evening getting my money's worth--and more than I bargained for--out of my wristband investment.
Make that five wristbands at $18.95 each. That may sound like a lot of money, but, I assure you, this year's purchase was a bargain.
It was priceless to hear Sooby cackle non-stop as she tried to maneuver our bumper car and to hear Pooh's exclamations, from the top of the ferris wheel, that the people and other objects on the ground looked "like toys."
Oh heck--give me the extra wristband. Scabs heal with time, and candy apples do survive.
One of the pleasures of being Googie is that I get to buy the kids, during the week before the Fair arrives, a discount wristband at our local Walgreen's. This little strip of paper adornment entitles them to unlimited rides for the duration of our adventure on the carnival midway.
Last summer I bought the bands for only Sooby and Pooh, since Bootsie, not yet two, was still too little to know all the fun she was missing. But the problem was that Pooh fell a little short of the 36" height requirement for many of the rides that Sooby was more than tall enough for. So I spent my midway time putting one on a ride, then the other, then returning to pick up first one and then the other in an intricately choreographed dance that kept me hopping all afternoon as I tried fervently not to lose a kid.
This year, with the kids 6, 4 1/2, and almost 3, I could see that we would need a total of four wristbands. To maximize the ride experience, it was clear that we would need an adult to accompany Bootsie, and often Pooh, on some of the rides where their little blonde heads backed up against the measuring sign and came up short.
So it was I who occupied the "swing" position when an adult was needed, sometimes with Bootsie and other times with both her and Pooh. As a result, I did five stints standing beside Bootsie's carousel horse and scrunched my long legs into more little trains and cars than I could count.
As the afternoon wore on, it became apparent that Sooby was casting a wishful eye at many of the more daredevil-type rides that only she met the height requirement for. So there came the moment of parting when Pooh and Bootsie went off with their parents while Sooby and I spent the rest of the evening getting my money's worth--and more than I bargained for--out of my wristband investment.
In analyzing my evening's experiences, I have carefully identified several desirable changes in my behavior and record them here for next year's reference under the heading "Notes to Self":
- Do not go into the house of mirrors. The only way out is a two-story corkscrew slide that is not conducive to your body size and shape. You should have noticed this before you went in instead of worrying about a claustrophobia attack. The scab on your elbow serves as a reminder of your folly, and the way that man laughed at you explains a similar scab on your ego. Let Sooby go alone all sixteen times next year. She doesn't need you anyway.
- Do not ride in a bumper car with Sooby driving. She nearly killed you more than once. This is why even now, three days later, every bone in your body still throbs, and your neck and back still smart with whiplash. Remember that when the announcer says, "Push down on the pedal and turn the wheel," Sooby does this with a motion that can be described only as "sudden" and "drastic." Your old body was not made to spin in tight circles while being slammed into from every direction. Use some common sense, and send the kid in alone.
- Listen when the announcer says to take nothing with you on the white water log ride. Remember how you had to hide your billfold down the back of your pants and stuff the candy apple under your T-shirt? Sucking your gut in to hide the apple from the ride attendants does not optimize your comfort just before experiencing two drenching, death-defying plunges. Next time, it would be better to leave all your stuff with a total stranger. If that person decides to make off with all your personal belongings, you will still come out ahead.
Make that five wristbands at $18.95 each. That may sound like a lot of money, but, I assure you, this year's purchase was a bargain.
It was priceless to hear Sooby cackle non-stop as she tried to maneuver our bumper car and to hear Pooh's exclamations, from the top of the ferris wheel, that the people and other objects on the ground looked "like toys."
Oh heck--give me the extra wristband. Scabs heal with time, and candy apples do survive.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
In the Interest of Science
When your particular field of science involves writing a grandparent blog, your summer affords abundant opportunity to conduct field research. While some of these raw data are substantial enough to support blog entries, others remain simply random scribbles in a notebook, unrelated to one other and lacking the length or depth needed to stand as posts on their own.
Nevertheless, they capture poignant or humorous glimpses into a kid's unique, creative way of looking at and talking about the world. Or, perhaps, they offer "snapshots" of a moment that, though it may be inconsequential in itself, begs to be preserved. Following, then, is a sampling of such notes from Googie's research log dated "Summer 2013."
"What do you want to hear?" I ask Bootsie, who is wanting to sing at bedtime.
"Fecal, fecal," she answers, matter-of-factly.
My mind races. What could she mean? Then, suddenly, it dawns on me. I smile to myself and begin the well-known children's favorite she has requested:
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . . ."
Sooby is staying a few days with me and I am trying to get her to think about going to bed after an especially busy day.
"It's late," I say. "Your little body needs to rest."
"No, it doesn't," she tells me. "It's aching for action."
Another time, she is on Skype demonstrating how to drop a coin in her piggy bank. She releases the coin with a dramatic flourish, then, in a tone of near reverence, remarks, "It sounds beautiful when it crashes."
Nevertheless, they capture poignant or humorous glimpses into a kid's unique, creative way of looking at and talking about the world. Or, perhaps, they offer "snapshots" of a moment that, though it may be inconsequential in itself, begs to be preserved. Following, then, is a sampling of such notes from Googie's research log dated "Summer 2013."
- "If you shoot a man deer, you get ham."--Sooby on hunting, gathering, and the culinary arts
- "To make lasagna, you need monsterella cheese."--Pooh, on Italian cuisine
- "Here is a whole basket of 'gift tops.'"--Sooby, on discovering a stash of pre-made gift-wrapping bows (in a closet where she shouldn't have been looking).
"What do you want to hear?" I ask Bootsie, who is wanting to sing at bedtime.
"Fecal, fecal," she answers, matter-of-factly.
My mind races. What could she mean? Then, suddenly, it dawns on me. I smile to myself and begin the well-known children's favorite she has requested:
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . . ."
Sooby is staying a few days with me and I am trying to get her to think about going to bed after an especially busy day.
"It's late," I say. "Your little body needs to rest."
"No, it doesn't," she tells me. "It's aching for action."
Another time, she is on Skype demonstrating how to drop a coin in her piggy bank. She releases the coin with a dramatic flourish, then, in a tone of near reverence, remarks, "It sounds beautiful when it crashes."
Pooh has convinced me to let him sip chocolate milk out of a quart jug with a straw.
"You spill that," I warn, "and I'm going to make you eat toenails for breakfast."
He considers this carefully.
"That's too hard," he says, contemplating a compromise. "Maybe I could just go without dessert."
Sometimes I picture these kids rummaging around in "Googie's Attic" in years to come--maybe when they are teens or college kids or even young parents. I may or may not still be around then. It makes me smile to imagine them reading about the things they did or said when they were little.
They are things that, otherwise, they might never know. That is why I record them here. That is why I practice this field of science.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Technology Junkies
My grandkids range in age from one to six and every one of them is a technology junkie. So these days, scenes like the one below tend to be the norm rather than the exception.
Mostly, their parents and I have our iPhones to thank for this. Even the two baby boys, Beenie and Zoomba, use their little forefingers to scroll expertly through my camera roll file. Beenie will stop every time he sees the right arrow symbol that signals a video. He loves watching the clips I have recorded of him and his cousins doing just about everything children do.
The older kids are always insisting that I "take a movie" of them doing this or that. And so, my camera roll is filled with documentation of such things as Bootsie singing the ABC song on the potty and Sooby and Pooh singing "Charlotte Town Is Burning Down" over pancakes at breakfast.
Other equally captivating footage preserves for posterity the fab five as they dance, read, tell jokes, build blocks, laugh, cough (fake), tell jokes, learn to crawl, learn to walk--and the list stretches on.
The other morning Sooby's mama just about spewed an ill-timed sip of coffee out into the living room when Sooby asked me if she could send a text message. (I always hope that Sooby and Pooh won't tell all our secrets, but in the end I usually get caught.) She and I had collaborated on a series of texts to Beenie's mama on an earlier visit.
The handful of games I have downloaded to my iPhone have opened a whole new can of techno-worms to the mix. I once lost a close game of Word With Friends to my son Teebo when one of the kids hit the button that skipped my turn.
During his recent week-long visit at our house, Pooh, at age four, became quite proficient at the game "Temple Run," which the kids all call "Guy." (It was two-year-old Bootsie who first called it this, because the game features a "guy" running through a hazardous obstacle course to escape a flock of demon monkeys.)
With practice, Pooh has gotten good enough to occasionally attain boosts that give "guy" extra speed or make him invincible (Pooh says "convincible") for a short time. These different powers are designated with different colors, so, as he plays, it is not unusual to hear Pooh holler things like "Googie! I got the blue guy stuff."
I try to watch pretty closely when the kids are even in the same room with my iPhone, but once in a while I pay dearly for the sin of slight inattention. Twice now, Pooh has somehow managed to share his "Temple Run" score to my Facebook page. At least his game skills have improved to the point that it doesn't embarrass me that much anymore.
The old Atari system that my own children first knew seems so antiquated now. The later-generation Mario and Luigi could not, in their wildest dreams, have run with the speed and finesse of our beloved "guy."
I never cease to be amazed at the way these kids today seem to embrace and adapt so naturally to the new state-of-the-art technologies. I admire that ability and encourage it because, like it or not, they are the way of the future to which these children belong.
I don't think it is too bad a deal that the kids are technology junkies on a limited basis. After all, we still have our songs and our books and our hugs. There are plenty of other times during the day when we rely on those old stand-bys. Even "guy," in all his high-tech glory, is not always convincible.
The older kids are always insisting that I "take a movie" of them doing this or that. And so, my camera roll is filled with documentation of such things as Bootsie singing the ABC song on the potty and Sooby and Pooh singing "Charlotte Town Is Burning Down" over pancakes at breakfast.
Other equally captivating footage preserves for posterity the fab five as they dance, read, tell jokes, build blocks, laugh, cough (fake), tell jokes, learn to crawl, learn to walk--and the list stretches on.
The other morning Sooby's mama just about spewed an ill-timed sip of coffee out into the living room when Sooby asked me if she could send a text message. (I always hope that Sooby and Pooh won't tell all our secrets, but in the end I usually get caught.) She and I had collaborated on a series of texts to Beenie's mama on an earlier visit.
The handful of games I have downloaded to my iPhone have opened a whole new can of techno-worms to the mix. I once lost a close game of Word With Friends to my son Teebo when one of the kids hit the button that skipped my turn.
During his recent week-long visit at our house, Pooh, at age four, became quite proficient at the game "Temple Run," which the kids all call "Guy." (It was two-year-old Bootsie who first called it this, because the game features a "guy" running through a hazardous obstacle course to escape a flock of demon monkeys.)
With practice, Pooh has gotten good enough to occasionally attain boosts that give "guy" extra speed or make him invincible (Pooh says "convincible") for a short time. These different powers are designated with different colors, so, as he plays, it is not unusual to hear Pooh holler things like "Googie! I got the blue guy stuff."
I try to watch pretty closely when the kids are even in the same room with my iPhone, but once in a while I pay dearly for the sin of slight inattention. Twice now, Pooh has somehow managed to share his "Temple Run" score to my Facebook page. At least his game skills have improved to the point that it doesn't embarrass me that much anymore.
The old Atari system that my own children first knew seems so antiquated now. The later-generation Mario and Luigi could not, in their wildest dreams, have run with the speed and finesse of our beloved "guy."
I never cease to be amazed at the way these kids today seem to embrace and adapt so naturally to the new state-of-the-art technologies. I admire that ability and encourage it because, like it or not, they are the way of the future to which these children belong.
I don't think it is too bad a deal that the kids are technology junkies on a limited basis. After all, we still have our songs and our books and our hugs. There are plenty of other times during the day when we rely on those old stand-bys. Even "guy," in all his high-tech glory, is not always convincible.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
The Missouri Compromise
Anyone who grows up in Missouri or Kansas knows that a rivalry runs deep between these two states. Some speculation attributes this rift to the fact that, during the Civil War, Kansas was a free state while Missouri was a slave state. Others translate this deep-lying chasm in terms of collegiate sports that pit the Jayhawks of Kansas against the Missouri Tigers.
Whatever the case, we on the Missouri side mutter comments about "Kansas drivers" under our breath, while Kansans, I'm sure, have the same or worse to say about those of us who dare to crawl behind the steering wheel of a vehicle and venture westward across the state line. Likewise, we Missourians are quite sure that the only reason anyone would drive through Kansas is because that is the only direct route to the ski slopes of Colorado.
Since four of my grandchildren live in a little Kansas town three hours away from my Missouri home, I find myself crossing frequently into "enemy" territory. But I was never so aware of how far these differences reached until recently when Pooh came to spend a week with me here in Missouri.
He came during a week our local community college was hosting a "Kids' College" course for preschoolers called "Adventures in Science." Thus, he spent a great week learning about dinosaurs, volcanoes, plants, planets, and the like every morning from 9 until noon. For this occasion, his mama packed his travel bag with five clean, nicely matched sets of shirts and shorts.
On the first morning of Kids' College, Pooh and I both woke up excited. We basked in the anticipation of the activities ahead amid a flurry of cereal and fruit and yogurt. We were going along great with our preparations for school when, suddenly, Pooh balked. "But I am in Missouri, Googie," he lamented. "I can't wear Kansas clothes."
Just like that, the boy took on a problem that I thought belonged solely to the teenage girl. He had nothing to wear. The clock was ticking, and I had to think fast.
Luckily, all the grandkids have a little size- and season-appropriate "stash" of extra clothes, mostly from yard sales, that I keep on hand for just such emergencies. Usually, we can scrounge up the likes of underwear, a swimsuit, a pair of jammies, or an extra shirt.
However, there has been a lot going on lately, and I haven't had a chance to restock the stashes. Although there are ample hand-me-downs for the younger kids, my on-hand supplies for the biggest boy and girl are a little slim. To make a long story a little bit shorter, I had plenty of Missouri shirts, but was sadly lacking in the pants/shorts department.
With the situation escalating to crisis proportions (meaning we were about to be late for the first day of school), I had to do some fast talking in my most convincing tone. "Nobody notices your shorts," I told Pooh with my fingers crossed. "They just look at your shirt."
I don't think Pooh bought into this explanation completely, but I didn't really give him a chance. We zipped up his Kansas shorts, threw his Missouri shirt over his head, stepped into his clogs on the run, and ended up in the van, where he was easily distracted by a SpongeBob movie.
It was our version of The Missouri Compromise. It would work, I figured, as long as I remembered to do a laundry load of Missouri shirts about mid-week.
Here, you see Pooh, on the right, instructing his cousin Beenie on the logistics of a shape sorter. Obviously, his Missouri shirt shows up quite well, while the Kansas shorts are barely noticeable. A crisis was averted, and I am now, more than ever, a believer in the value of compromise.
Whatever the case, we on the Missouri side mutter comments about "Kansas drivers" under our breath, while Kansans, I'm sure, have the same or worse to say about those of us who dare to crawl behind the steering wheel of a vehicle and venture westward across the state line. Likewise, we Missourians are quite sure that the only reason anyone would drive through Kansas is because that is the only direct route to the ski slopes of Colorado.
Since four of my grandchildren live in a little Kansas town three hours away from my Missouri home, I find myself crossing frequently into "enemy" territory. But I was never so aware of how far these differences reached until recently when Pooh came to spend a week with me here in Missouri.
He came during a week our local community college was hosting a "Kids' College" course for preschoolers called "Adventures in Science." Thus, he spent a great week learning about dinosaurs, volcanoes, plants, planets, and the like every morning from 9 until noon. For this occasion, his mama packed his travel bag with five clean, nicely matched sets of shirts and shorts.
On the first morning of Kids' College, Pooh and I both woke up excited. We basked in the anticipation of the activities ahead amid a flurry of cereal and fruit and yogurt. We were going along great with our preparations for school when, suddenly, Pooh balked. "But I am in Missouri, Googie," he lamented. "I can't wear Kansas clothes."
Just like that, the boy took on a problem that I thought belonged solely to the teenage girl. He had nothing to wear. The clock was ticking, and I had to think fast.
Luckily, all the grandkids have a little size- and season-appropriate "stash" of extra clothes, mostly from yard sales, that I keep on hand for just such emergencies. Usually, we can scrounge up the likes of underwear, a swimsuit, a pair of jammies, or an extra shirt.
However, there has been a lot going on lately, and I haven't had a chance to restock the stashes. Although there are ample hand-me-downs for the younger kids, my on-hand supplies for the biggest boy and girl are a little slim. To make a long story a little bit shorter, I had plenty of Missouri shirts, but was sadly lacking in the pants/shorts department.
With the situation escalating to crisis proportions (meaning we were about to be late for the first day of school), I had to do some fast talking in my most convincing tone. "Nobody notices your shorts," I told Pooh with my fingers crossed. "They just look at your shirt."
I don't think Pooh bought into this explanation completely, but I didn't really give him a chance. We zipped up his Kansas shorts, threw his Missouri shirt over his head, stepped into his clogs on the run, and ended up in the van, where he was easily distracted by a SpongeBob movie.
It was our version of The Missouri Compromise. It would work, I figured, as long as I remembered to do a laundry load of Missouri shirts about mid-week.
Here, you see Pooh, on the right, instructing his cousin Beenie on the logistics of a shape sorter. Obviously, his Missouri shirt shows up quite well, while the Kansas shorts are barely noticeable. A crisis was averted, and I am now, more than ever, a believer in the value of compromise.
Monday, July 1, 2013
News Flash!
Been waiting for the call since one
O'clock, and now the waiting's done.
Didn't know what next would be
A-hanging on our family tree.
Ultrasound: today's the day
The sex is for the doc to say.
Babies one and three are girls
Who tie bright ribbons in their curls.
Two and four and five are boys
That we love loads despite the noise.
So will we balance three and three,
Or will the girls outnumbered be?
Will there be playing house and dolls
Or teams with boys and basketballs?
Will we have closets filled with pink,
Or blue stuff soaking in the sink?
Will playtime proffer pirate kings
Or pixie dust and fairy wings?
We've wondered ever since we knew
That Teebo's kids would number two;
That Beenie's sib was on the way
To meet us one November day.
If you have read this far, you too
Are just about to know what's new.
I'll tell you this, and be quite blunt:
We'll have to teach him how to punt
And how to catch the ball and then
Run for the goalpost at the end.
No girl has ever gone so far
As being a great football star!
So now you know: there'll be a boy
Who'll bring more special grandkid joy;
Who'll be a little Beenie clone
And wear the clothes that he's outgrown.
So thanks for reading; now adieu;
It's great to share this news with you!
O'clock, and now the waiting's done.
Didn't know what next would be
A-hanging on our family tree.
Ultrasound: today's the day
The sex is for the doc to say.
Babies one and three are girls
Who tie bright ribbons in their curls.
Two and four and five are boys
That we love loads despite the noise.
So will we balance three and three,
Or will the girls outnumbered be?
Will there be playing house and dolls
Or teams with boys and basketballs?
Will we have closets filled with pink,
Or blue stuff soaking in the sink?
Will playtime proffer pirate kings
Or pixie dust and fairy wings?
We've wondered ever since we knew
That Teebo's kids would number two;
That Beenie's sib was on the way
To meet us one November day.
If you have read this far, you too
Are just about to know what's new.
I'll tell you this, and be quite blunt:
We'll have to teach him how to punt
And how to catch the ball and then
Run for the goalpost at the end.
No girl has ever gone so far
As being a great football star!
So now you know: there'll be a boy
Who'll bring more special grandkid joy;
Who'll be a little Beenie clone
And wear the clothes that he's outgrown.
So thanks for reading; now adieu;
It's great to share this news with you!
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