That Dad

Moving day

richard.pratt — Thu, 29 May 2008 19:19:00 GMT

OK, it's time to head out.

If you've gotten used to reading my blog here, you'll want to go here now:

That Dad at Wordpress

Hope you enjoy. Thanks, CS, for the last two years. But it's time to step up.

One remarkable gift

richard.pratt — Wed, 21 May 2008 18:18:00 GMT

Had a birthday recently (we won't discuss the exact chronology, but let's just say I'm closer to retirement age than high school graduation), and it was a genuine pleasure.

Got a couple of really nice gifts -- better than I deserved, and exactly what I wanted -- but there was one that literally made me laugh out loud. This one:

Let me explain.

A few months back, I had an unfortunate incident with my cell phone. It got a little, shall we say, damp. All right, it got soaked. It went through an entire cycle in the washing machine, hitching a ride in one of my front pants pockets.

And if that wasn't enough, it tumbled for about 10 minutes in the dryer before I heard the racket and put the mental pieces together.

So, that was pretty much the end of that handset (miraculously, it powered on, but would not function as a phone), so I went to a backup phone for a while.

I then made it abundantly clear that I'd like a replacement phone for my birthday. In fact, it was the only "big" thing I asked for. And everyone in the family knew it, including the kids.

But I underestimated the keen wit and observational powers of our 7-year-old. He obviously heard me whining about not having a decent cell phone, and took matters into his own hands.

So he took it upon himself to draw the phone you see above. He then placed it in the box that originally contained the laundered phone, wrapped it carefully and presented it to me as a legit birthday gift.

So, when I opened the box and found his handiwork, I laughed. Hard. He got me. And it was brilliant. So I'm still carrying it in my wallet -- just in case something happens to my new phone.

Gotta love birthdays with little kids in the house -- yours, or theirs.

Motor mouth

richard.pratt — Wed, 14 May 2008 19:05:00 GMT

(Once again, my apologies for an extended absence. I know, what were once vices are now habits. I'll try to do better. This is a start.

Our 3-year-old is aggressively chatty. It's virtually a non-stop verbal stream, interrupted only by food, television and sleep.

And yes, I know this is endemic with kids, but trust me -- it seems he NEVER stops talking.

I'm guessing he just likes hearing the sound of his own voice. And that notion was reinforced this week when I asked him, "Do you really have to be talking all the time?"

"I can't help it, Daddy," was his reply. "It's what my body tells me to do."

Aha. So it IS organic, buried somewhere deep in his DNA. It's not a conscious decision to chatter nonstop. So, I'll go with it, because I understand its origins.

But there ARE times ...

Stop the insanity

richard.pratt — Thu, 01 May 2008 00:00:00 GMT

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.

Pronoun confusion

richard.pratt — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 20:55:00 GMT

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.

Chicken dance, RIP

richard.pratt — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 00:27:00 GMT

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:

Not done yet ...

richard.pratt — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 22:41:00 GMT

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?

richard.pratt — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 23:59:00 GMT

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.

Post-Easter lull

richard.pratt — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 20:44:00 GMT

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.

Slumber land

richard.pratt — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 16:21:00 GMT

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.

Shuteye avoidance

richard.pratt — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 20:28:00 GMT

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.

Dumb dad

richard.pratt — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 19:50:00 GMT

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.

Hero worship

richard.pratt — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 19:01:00 GMT

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.

Bunk mates

richard.pratt — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 00:29:00 GMT

(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 action zone

richard.pratt — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 21:15:00 GMT

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.