Good idea, sounds like fun: Signing up your 7-year-old son for a baseball clinic with the Mount Mercy College baseball team.
Becomes a sanity/endurance check when: Clinic day arrives -- in late April, no less -- and it's barely above freezing, with a stiff northwest wind.
We went to the clinic. It was well-run and probably taught our son a lot.
But it was COLD, man. Bitterly, harshly, bone-numbingly COLD.
I know, I'm whining. But our 3-year-old son is a pretty good barometer of these things.
He insisted on going along to the clinic, of course, even though he was too young to sign up. And we even got permission from the organizers to let him participate in a fly-ball drill with the older kids.
But after one round, he came running off the field and pronounced, matter-of-factly, "I'm done. Too cold. Time to go home."
If HE's backing out that early, you KNOW it's cold.
Mom took the 3-year-old home, since he's still recovering from a vicious ear infection. But our 7-year-old and I, we stuck it out. I'll give him credit, he stayed tough out there -- winter coat, stocking cap and all, going through all the paces.
And me? I kept telling myself we were getting our $10 worth.
But it seemed so unnatural, so -- well -- INSANE.
Hey, it's part of the parent gig. Just wish I'd worn a sweatshirt or something.
I mean, it was COLD.
Our 3-year-old has a vocabulary well above most kids his age. We've heard the same from family, day care and school, so it's not just us who think so. His grasp of syntax and grammar seems truly remarkable.
Except for pronouns, that is.
If he's asking me whether Mom can come sit at his bedside, here's his sentence: "I want she to sit with me."
If it's food: "Mommy can get my snack. I want she to do it."
And for clothing: "Those belong to Mommy. They're she's slippers."
It makes sense, in a way. He seems to understand what pronouns are all about. Just can't seem to pick the right ones from his available list.
Honestly? It's the kind of thing I'll really miss as he gets older. He won't see the innocent charm of his misstatements.
But I'll always have the legacy -- right here.
Bob Kames, the man who invented the chicken dance -- the ultimate all-in wedding bootie-shaker and party ice-breaker, for kids and grown-ups alike -- has
passed away.
I mean, how could you ever be really sad when you're pantomiming a clucking hen's beak with both hands, then tucking those same hands into your armpits and flapping your fake wings -- all to an accordion-soaked polka accompaniment? C'mon, now, that's the very essence of fun. And there's no cause for self-consciousness, either, since EVERYONE looks like a complete GOOF doing it. It's the great social-class equalizer.
Let's all dance in his memory tonight.
All together, now:
Got THIS on Thursday night ...
AIGGGHH!
This means I have to dig out the kids' hats and mittens AGAIN!
So I vowed not to shovel the stuff, as a form of protest. (That's right. I took a bold stand.) And by Friday night, the stuff was essentially gone.
"Mother Nature!" our 7-year-old said en route to school Friday. "Stop joking with us! It's not funny any more."
He was kidding. But I think we could all use a little more spring. And a little more quickly, please.
In that vein, we're hitting the road on Sunday. Heading to the Grand Harbor Resort in Dubuque for a bit of R&R. Escapism, I think they call it.
Go do some spring! I'll check back in next week sometime.
Why, indeed? It's a plaintive cry, but one that likely will never have a conclusive answer.
Stories like THIS defy reasonable explanation. That's because there's nothing reasonable about it. Can't make sense of the senseless.
That someone could do this to a family they professed to love -- horrifying. Let's all hug our spouses and kids a little tighter tonight.
Godspeed to the Sueppel family.
This was one of the more enjoyable Easters we've had in recent years.
We spent time with a family with which we have a great deal in common -- two young kids per unit, exciteable and engaging, with never enough time on our hands.
We had fun. A lot of it. And we had a great meal, courtesy of ham from Polehnas, our local Czech meat market, and a pair of pies from Kathy's Pies.
If it sounds like a feast, it was. The kids even ate the ham, which is an achievement of sorts in itself.
Now that our visitors have gone home again, the house seems sadly quiet. I think it may miss the ruckus, just a little.
Oh, and our egg hunt? Indoors. But it came off without a hitch. Turns out a house with excessive clutter also provides many egg hiding places.
I'm submitting our yard for federal protection, though. It really is a mess, especially the back yard. The kids want to get out there and romp, now that the weather is warming up, but it's not gonna happen, at least for a few more days.
It'll come around. Hopefully.
Enough topics here? I think I'll stop now, before I veer off topic again.
We've got some friends from Illinois staying with us for the weekend, and last night was ... well ...
LIVELY.
Our friends arrived around 9:30, after a post-work 4-hour drive (quite an undertaking in itself). So, after the drive, their 8-year-old twins -- one boy and one girl -- were not remotely interested in bedtime. They'd been in the van for a while, and they were (understandably) jazzed.
So their two kids and our two kids, who all get along very well, were bouncing off the walls, almost literally, until the early morning hours.
It's begun. Our home is no longer our own. The kids rule the roost, and everything in it.
I hope the house can survive the impact. Or, more accurately, the IMPACTS.
It's all kinds of fun, don't get me wrong, and we count this family among our closest friends.
And hey, maybe the kids can entertain themselves for a while, and the grownups can talk as friends, about non-kid stuff. Novel concept.
And then we'll do all the Easter stuff on Sunday. Egg hunt, too, though probably not outdoors. As our winter slowly ebbs away, I'm thinking of just turning our backyard into a permanent marshland.
Nighttime is a fine time in our world.
Just not so fine if you're actually looking to sleep.
Our 3-year-old has developed a strong slumber aversion. Actually, it's not sleeping he minds so much. He'll do it willingly -- on his own schedule. Midnight to around 10 a.m., perhaps.
Seems he'll explore every opportunity to avoid the land of nods. Thirsty. Need a hug. Need a kiss. Need another hug. Snack time. Leg hurts.
Here's my favorite, from the other day: "My bones are too big."
Mine, too.
He's little, I know. And he has had strep this week, so he's not completely up to snuff.
But the three- and four-hour bedtime routines -- they get a little rough after a while.
Sleep comes. It always does. Just not always on parents' schedules.
A moment I wish I could have back ...
Last night, as I was helping our 7-year-old ready for bed, he caught a glimpse of "The Biggest Loser" on TV.
As I explained the show's concept to him, he eagerly chimed in: "You could lose some weight, too, Dad."
Bang. That one hit a little too close to home.
I then said something I immediately regretted. I won't repeat it here, but suffice to say it brought him to tears.
Not a good dad move. Not good at all.
We worked it out. But sometimes, as a dad, you wonder: Just what are you thinking?
Parents aren't perfect. That was an imperfect moment.
OK, that title might be a bit of a stretch. But the kids have now reached the ages where imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Our 3 1/2-year-old has decided that he should be doing whatever his 7-year-old brother is doing. And by everything, I mean (almost) everything.
Big Brother just got a new (old) Nintendo 64 for his birthday. Little Brother insists on playing along -- but has no idea what to do on Mario Smash. (To be fair, I don't either, but we're all learning.)
Big Brother took his snowpants to school this week, as it finally got warm enough for outdoor recess. Little Brother had to take his snowpants to day care, too, even though I don't believe they had an outdoor event all week.
And Big Brother has finally gotten used to sleeping in the top bunk -- dare I say, he's actually enjoying it. Thus, Little Brother wants to snooze, and play, up there too.
It's even extended to reading. Big Brother is a couple of grades advanced on the literary front, so Little Brother is striving to keep up -- and can now read simple passages aloud on his own. Remarkable.
So far, though, the copycat trend hasn't extended to the potty training front. Too bad. That's one area where I'd like to see a bit more imitation.
(This one isn't ours,
but it's the same model) |
We've moved into the world of stacked slumber.
Well, maybe.
Our home only has two "civilized" bedrooms, both on the main level, so now that our 3-year-old has effectively grown out of his day bed, we decided to use part of Uncle Sam's re-gifting (i.e. our income tax refund) to invest in a set of bunk beds for the kids' room.
The idea actually surfaced some time ago, and the kids were excited about it all along. They were excited when we decided to buy a bed. They were excited, again, when Slumberland called to say our bed had arrived and was ready for pick-up. And they were excited when they came home and found it assembled, ready for duty.
Their excitement faded when it came time for bed, replaced by fear and trepidation. That bed became the enemy of rest and relaxation.
Our first night was a long and stressful one, but I'm chalking it up to an adjustment period. And, I'm trying to stress to our 7-year-old the raw adventure of sleeping four feet off the floor.
He's not fully on board, yet. I'm confident he'll get there. Problem is, now our 3-year-old now wants to sleep up there, too. Not so fast, says the bed's manufacturer. Gotta be 6 or over to sleep up top.
And of course, they both like climbing up and down the ladder.
Hopefully we won't have to separate the beds and put 'em both on the floor. We got bunks in the first place, of course, to save space. Separating 'em would defeat the purpose.
We're giving it time. I have confidence.
The harsh winter (54 inches of snow, and counting) hasn't kept us inside.
Quite the opposite, in fact, over the last week. And therein lies the painful point.
We had our son's 7th birthday party this past Sunday at Super Skate, our starkly retro (read: decor hasn't changed in decades) roller-skating rink on Cedar Rapids' northeast side. And because of yet another snowstorm, we had the place virtually to ourselves.
And I, revisiting my teen years, strapped on the rental skates and glided around the joint for nearly three full hours. Felt like a kid, I did, and we all had a great time.
Then when we got home, it was time to crank up the snowblower, for the second time that day, and tackle another round of heavy, wet snow. Except the snowblower couldn't handle the slushy mess at the driveway's mouth. So out came the shovel for snow removal the old-fashioned way.
Then, of course, school was cancelled Monday, for the fifth time this winter, so the kids and I needed something to do.
Hello, Pump It Up, an "inflatable party zone" with an obstacle course, slide and the like. So we rolled, rocked, tumbled and tore around the place for about an hour and a half that day.
Since then, I've been feeling every day of my nearly 43 years. But the aches and pains are good. They mean I exerted myself.
Actually, I think they mean I need to do it more. The kids wouldn't mind, that's for sure. They had a blast, both days.
And they went to bed early, both nights. Bonus.
Snow? Again? Don't EVEN get me started.
Our first winter "weather event" this season wasn't even snow. It was a truly messy ice storm, in early December. We struggled, but got through it.
Then came our first snow of the year, just a few days later. It was greeted with giddy glee by all of us. Winter had unofficially "arrived." We'd have a white Christmas. All was as it should be in Iowa in December.
Then came the second snow, and the third, and the 20th. Throw in another insidious ice storm, and ... well ...
We get it, OK? It's really, REALLY winter, already. Let's not belabor the point, Nature Lady.
Our friends at KCRG had an interesting set of stats last week:
- In the 77 days since our first winter storm, it's snowed, at least to some extent, on 40 of those days.
- Our longest snow-less period of the entire winter has been 6 days.
- We had a stretch of 5 straight snowy days in December.
Oh, we've had our fun with the frozen precip. We've been sledding on the remarkable hill at Roosevelt Middle School, plus a brief excursion in our own back yard. We've had snowball battles. We've rolled around in it, made snow angels in it, touched it to our tongues to feel the sweet bite of crystallized perfection. (Haven't made a snowman yet, but that'll be our next goal.)
Now, I think, even the kids have had enough. The snowpiles are growing ever-higher, and we've not had a significant melt in the last few weeks (and only one all winter), so most of the snow we've gotten is still here.
We're running out of places to put the stuff, and I'm close to running out of patience with the whole affair.
Maybe another sledding trip with the kids will change my dour demeanor.
C'mon, spring. We're more than ready for ya.
There are no trophies to show from our first Pinewood Derby this weekend. But that takes nothing away from our debut performance on the mighty incline track at our school gym.
"Reddy," as our ride was so appropriately dubbed, won its first heat race -- in fairly convincing fashion, no less.
"Where'd THAT come from?" I exclaimed. Meant to keep it inside, but it just tumbled right out.
I was honestly surprised how quickly the car glided down the track. I was even more surprised, though, how excited our 6-year-old was about the whole affair.
A month ago, he wasn't even sure he wanted to participate. But as we moved through the design phase, to the roughed-out chassis, to the refining strokes of ever-finer sandpaper, and eventually to painting, ornamentation and wheel attachment, he got a little jazzed.
We ended up 2-2 in our four heat races, and just missed qualifying for the finals. But we were competitive in all four heats, with our two defeats coming by less than a car-length.
And we won an award, too, for best paint job. Works for me. Reddy just had two coats of latex enamel, applied with a sponge brush, and a coat of car wax. But I think it came out pretty well.
(Like those stick-on metal bits? Makes 'er look all Formula One, eh? And yes, I know they're technically in the wrong places. Daddy design flaw.)
I think there are a few ideas brewing for next year's car, too.
I'll admit, I'm recalling my own Derby history fondly. Didn't win in those years, either, but it was fun building the cars.
Here's hoping we can build a few of those same favorable memories. I'm betting we can, too -- especially if we don't postpone the build until the week before the race.
We slapped the first coat of paint on our Derby car today, our 6-year-old doing most of the heavy lifting in that department.
We're brushing it on -- bucking the trend, apparently, of most Derby competitors -- because our work is being done in the lower level of our home. Thus, excessive paint fumes/overspray could be an issue.
It's looking all right, though. It'll be a car. Soon.