The Metaphors of Four Year-Olds (OK, so they're actually similes but it didn't sound as good)

So I just found this Father’s Day card that Primo made for David last weekend. He made him a lovely, labor-intensive cray-pas card that had written inside of it “Dear Daddy: I love it when you make up pretend stories. Love, Primo” and this card went along with a clay mask he molded of his face in art class (one of the perks of Montessori is that you get reeeeeally nice craft presents on holidays). But this other card I found today was like a secondary, back-up card, that he quickly jotted off with his speech therapist one day.

As you see, the card consists of a Xeroxed clip art picture of an armchair, complete with bag of “Tater Chips” and a large remote conPost Optionstrol. Attached to the bottom of the armchair is a long piece of paper with fill-in-the-blank sentences for which the child is supposed to supply the answer. They are all dad-related similes. Here is how my son’s card reads:

He’s as handsome as a prince.
He’s as smart as an owl.
He’s as tall as a Frankenstein.
He’s as funny as a little bunny FooFoo.
He’s as happy as a clown.
He’s as strong as a bull.
He’s as hungry as a monster.
He’s as nice as a doorman.

We don’t even have a doorman, folks, But that’s how much of a city kid Primo is. Nice as a doorman. It’s what every father aspires to.

We Stoop to Sell (and Conquer)!

Our stoop sale on Saturday, which coincided with the street's block party, was a total, balls-out Stoopapoolooza. Bubbles, sidewalk chalk, kids on bikes and trikes and scooters and skateboards. Selling lemonade. Selling my mother's accounting textbooks from 1971. Playing beach ball on the asphalt. There is no more simple an equation for joy as closing a street to traffic and letting the kids loose. As my son said over and over again, "This was the bestest block party ever!"

See for yourself.

Unique New York

These pictures are brought to you courtesy of Pixmaster King, AMAM's resident dad photoblogger. He's got an eye, I tell you. I should know, he was my high school boyfriend.

Wierd sisters, wacky accents, and a poem so good its like nitrius oxide

It’s Poetry Thursday and I offer to you another selection from my favorite anthology, Poetry Speaks to Children. This one is beloved by both my kids, but especially by Seconda who holds it so dear that she has ripped the page that features this poem to shreds.

Every time she opens the book to this, her favorite page, taped back together is four different places, she does the same routine. First she shrieks, “Oooooh Isabel!! It’s my FAVORITE!” Then she makes her faux-sad face and says, “I hope I didn’t rip it!” Like someone’s been slipping her, too, AmbienCR on the sly and she’s performing strange acts of destruction at night that she has no knowledge or memory of. My daughter is what Shakespeare liked to refer to as a “weird sister.”

So here is Odgen Nash’s “Adventures of Isabel.” It is almost a crime to post this without a recording of Nash reading it because he has got, hands-down, the best poetry reading voice in the history of mankind. He was raised in Rye, NY and Savannah, GA and I can’t tell where the hell his accent is from, kind of a Louisiana/ Boston blend with a pinch of wacky thrown in. But with his accent the title sounds like “The Ahhhd-vaaan-tures of Isabaaaal.” It is so friggin’ delightful to hear him describe how she met an enormous “bea-yare” – seriously, its like taking nitrous oxide. But here’s the text to start. Read it to your kid. I think besides being funny it’s got a healthy dose of grrrrrl power.

Adventures of Isabel
By Ogden Nash

Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor

Demon Children Redux: or how to achieve peace, love and understanding

So if you read my post about demon children you will know that toddler music class is a fraught time for me. I’m not going to say that it is totally unenjoyable – there are sporadic moments of delight and humor – but it is by no means a walk in the park. Seconda is not what you’d call a joiner.

Let me amend that. Her brother -- who spent a full year of Montessori drawing at a nearby table while the class conducted circle time -- is not a joiner. Seconda loves joining, but on her own terms. She’s just a nonconformist. So she’s totally up for circle time, but neither hell nor high water will make her sit. Instead she runs around the perimeter of the circle, shrieking suggestions at the teacher and lightly touching children on the head, like there’s a big game of duck duck goose in session but she’s the only one playing.

Our current class is more dance-oriented than the last and there is a part where all the adults and kids run over to one wall and bang a rhythm on it with our hands, our feet, our heads. Then, at the teacher’s command, everyone runs over to the other wall en masse and repeats the sequence there. What makes this game a game at all, as opposed to just banging on a wall, (which incidentally I can do for free at home) is the uniformity of it. But my daughter, who literally goes against the grain, refuses to be a part of our collective movement. Instead, while everyone’s banging on one wall, she’s banging on the opposite one, and when the teacher yells “Other wall!” she speeds full force into the oncoming throng, with her head thrown back in laughter. And she stands alone on the wall we’ve just abandoned, banging her little heart out.

Despite the fact that is it inconvenient and somewhat embarrassing, I actually love the fact that Seconda marches to the beat of her own drum and to be quite honest, I consider it an indication of her budding genius. The problem is, no one else in the class does. I can tell the other moms have pegged her as a “problem” kid. And it’s not just that she grabs the parachute out of the teacher’s hiding spot before the appointed time, but the fact that she also tends to get a little -- how should I put this? -- physical with the other kids.

I wouldn’t call her behavior “aggressive,” per se. It’s not hostile or anything. She just likes to make an impact on the world around her and often the easiest way to do this is through physical contact – say, by swatting a child on the arm or bear-hugging them so they topple over, or very vigorously caressing their hair. She’s a bit of a wild card. But I’m on top of it. I am SO on top it, in fact that my soundtrack could be the Police song, “Every Breath You Take,” because every move she makes, I am WATCHING her, all right.

So, we were at our last toddler dance class last week and we got through nearly the whole class without incident which was almost too good to be true. Sure, Seconda didn’t follow any of my instructions (Don’t touch the egg shakers! Put that boy’s sippy cup down! Don’t you want to sit down with everyone else! This wall, Sec, THIS WALL!) but still, there were no attacks.

And then, when everyone else is compliantly singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and making the corresponding gestures, my daughter walks over to another little girl, just about her age. First she caresses the girl’s hair in an “Awww, cute” sort of way. Then, with no warning whatsoever, she gently places her hands on either side of the girl’s collarbone. She’s not squeezing, or applying any pressure at all, she doesn’t look mad or mischievous, in fact the two of them are just regarding each other calmly, like “Everything’s cool, we’re just getting to know each other over here,” -- but still, she has her hands around the kid’s NECK.

While mentally tallying up how many parents are going to go straight home and call Social Services, I take action. I quickly move Seconda’s hands and say, in a relaxed tone, “We don’t touch our friends’ necks, honey. You could hurt her.”

Of course, as soon as I advise her not to pursue a course of action, you can bet your bottom dollar that she will continue at all costs. So her hands slide back up to the girl’s neck. And then, while I am reaching to grab her away, I hear a voice in the crowd say, “That’s kind of scary.”

Dear readers, I am a peaceable person in general, and not prone to fits of violence. But I nearly pivoted on me heel and went ape-shit on those mofos. I wanted to find the snide woman who the voice belonged to and school her, Brooklyn-style: “Scary, huh? I’ll show you scary, you chickenshit sanctimommy be-yatch!”

I mean, don’t get me wrong, she was right, it was cuckoo for coco puffs and I certainly could have made that observation. Any of my friends or family, proven supporters of my babycakes, could have made the observation, and we’d have had a hearty chuckle. But these ladies aren’t my friends no way no how. I’ve been going to dance class for five weeks and no one’s said a word to me, during or after class, which could be counted as even nearing amiable. In that context, calling my kid “scary” is just fucking rude, the kind of rude that I simply cannot abide.

But since I don’t feel like spending my kids’ formative years in the clink, and because it’s just not great modeling to use the word "co*ksu#ker" in front of your children, I did abide it. Anger management, folks, at its best.

However, one of the many uses of the blog is to air the thoughts you can’t quite voice in the real world. So now I'll say what I would have liked to say to SnideMom at dance class. Imagine me, standing beside my two year-old in cheerful strangulation pose with another consenting two year-old, facing a mob of sanctimommies, delivering this monologue:

“Is it too much to ask that you have a heart? I mean, aren’t we all in this together? Doesn’t it take a village? Am I to believe that your little ones are so perfect that you don’t need to be spared the judgment yourself? Don’t TELL me this one never tried to strangle someone in a Mommy and Me class.[At this point, I point to a tiny little pipsqueak with hair in perfect pigtails, sporting a spotless red gingham sundress]. All I’m asking is that you give a girl a break. Give both us girls a break. And I’ll return the favor. And what will follow will be nothing less than peace love and understanding.”

First everyone will applaud. Then SnideMom will apologize and confess that she’s really just jealous of Seconda’s nonconformist leanings since it’s clearly a sign of super-high IQ. Then we’ll all hug and end the class with "Kumbaya" in harmony. While Seconda runs in circles and shouts the lyrics to “Bungalow Bill.”

All the King's Horses

Have I ever mentioned that my daughter loves Humpty Dumpty? She’s particularly fond of the climactic moment where the innocent if reckless egg shatters into a million pieces. Irrevocably. That’s the kind of girl she is. I’ve talked about her schadenfreude before here, and frankly, I don’t mind it. I think it’s kind of cool she’s brave enough to face the harsh realities of existence. What I do mind is when she brings the nursery rhyme to life in my kitchen.

These things always happen in the morning. That’s because my daughter is clever and she knows that first thing in the morning is the best time to undertake her shenanigans because I am half-dead with exhaustion since I’ve usually been up with her two or three times a night. Peculiarly, these same night-wakings have no sedating effect on her.

So yesterday, I’m taking the first few sips of my coffee (trying to drink as much as possible before she dunks a crayon or chunk of Play doh in it) and I’m flipping through the Tivo to put a Miss Spider episode on for Primo, so I can have the time to make breakfast, when I hear a strange, ill-boding sound come from the kitchen. Hard to describe the sound – kind of a squishy yet crackly plop! followed by Seconda announcing, “Uh oh. I made a big mess.”

“What did you do?” I ask, still flipping through the Tivo. She’s my second-born after all, and if I dropped everything whenever she caused a weird noise in the other room, well, I’d never get anything done.

“Humpty Dumpty broke is a MILLION pieces!” she explains.

I walk in the kitchen and of course, there on the floor is a 12-pack carton of eggs smashed to varying degrees, and oozing out their yolky gooey mess.

“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men—“ Sec starts.

“Yeah, I know, they can’t put him together again. And neither can we,” I inform her, getting down to her eye level like Super Nanny advises, “Sec, look, you can’t touch the eggs. Not for kids. You get it? Do. Not. Touch. Eggs.”

The fact that this has happened two more times will indicate to you how effective my parenting is.

Father's Day

This Father’s Day I didn’t fret about what to get my husband. I didn’t make him a photo book on Snapfish or have Primo paint him a piece of pottery. I didn’t unearth the phone number for this tiny store in Kauai that we stumbled upon during our honeymoon and make arrangements with the manager to send a tiny figurine that ended up having special meaning for us, in time for the big day. I didn’t make him his favorite German chocolate cake. All those gifts were thoughtful, if I do say so myself, and well-received, but they weren’t what he really wanted.

For Father’s Day my husband only wants one thing. From me, at least.

I bet you can guess what it is.

(If you’re averse to TMI or related to me you may want to stop reading now)

I’ll give you a hint. It’s not a palindrome but it starts with a B and ends with a B. It’s free. Requires no shipping, only handling.

It’s what my husband wants for every holiday, in fact – his birthday, our anniversary. Christmas. Its not like these occasions are the only times he’s the beneficiary of such pleasure, but it’s not the sort of thing you can ever get enough of, I guess. Its like as a kid you probably got spaghetti and meatballs pretty regularly but that didn’t preclude it from becoming your favorite food and being what you requested when it was your turn to choose. If I’d realized sooner that sex acts were not only a perfectly good present for my spouse but actually the perfect present, the non-pareil, the piece de resistence, I could have saved quite a bit of cash by now.

But that’s what marriage is -- learning how to communicate, Men-are-from-Mars-Women-are-from-Venus style.

“Why don’t you like the Starry Night tie I special-ordered for you?”

“Because I wanted a BJ.”

Oh.

Simple.

Progress.