Tag: the lass

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Family

The Shotgun Wars: The Well

When last we wrote about The Shotgun Wars, the lass and the boy were locked in strategic gamesmanship, trying new tactics and countermeasures. Sadly, there have been no new tactics deployed of late and we’ve settled into some uneasy steady-state conditions.

I say “uneasy steady-state” because even though nothing new has developed, the prized passenger seat in the car is still hotly contested. Take this morning as an example. The boy was easily the first out the door. The lass was already in a bad mood and, realizing she’d be relegated to 3rd-world status sitting in the back, she tried to get me to referee. She wanted to know what car we were taking to school.

I simply replied it didn’t matter. I’m judging by the sound of her footsteps and the way the door opened and closed, my answer didn’t suit her. I called after her to just get in whichever car her brother was in, but I’m fairly certain she never heard me. It’s also quite probable she was just ignoring me.

Yes folks, even at the tender age of 7 she’s doing it. She’ll be a master by sometime this Summer, I predict.

So when I came outside, there was the boy in one car and the lass in the other. Nothing new there. I trudged around to the driver’s side of the car the boy was in. One more thing to irritate the lass this morning. Clearly, if she had me on her s**t-list, I wasn’t going to be off it anytime soon. (Even though she doesn’t know what it’s called, doesn’t mean she doesn’t have one. Her brother’s name is written in permanent ink.)

Once in the car, we had barely begun to move when the lass declared to her brother “This means I get to sit in the passenger’s seat on the way home.”

The boy voiced his opinion succinctly: “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m not listening to you.”

In a nasally, squeaky voice the lass snapped back “Nyeah nyeah nyeah ny-om not listening blah blah blah”. I can picture her head tilting back and forth which each syllable.

And so it goes.

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Family

A Cold First Game

I didn’t get to stay for the entire game, but today was the lass’ first. They played against a neighboring town’s coach-pitch softball team. The game time temp was a balmy 42 degrees Fahrenheit. The lass and all her teammates were wearing multiple layers. The Wife and other parents were wearing winter coats and hats and shivering in the stands.

I was there for the top of the 1st inning. I hadn’t intended to stay that long, but found it wasn’t the sort of thing I could step away from in the middle, so I finished it off. Luckily, there are other parents willing to step up and contribute.

I had an insight today of sorts, while warming up with the girls. We were doing some throwing drills to warm up and, naturally, there are some that throw better than others. Having coached boys as well at a similar age, I saw the same phenomena. Then it occurred to me, there really is no such thing as “throwing like a girl.”

Rather, it’s like the old saying “There are 2 kinds of people in this world…” In this case, we get “Those that can throw a ball properly and those that can’t.”

Not that it matters much at this age.

Today’s game was called after 2 innings. I’m not sure if the parents revolted because of the cold, or if it was the prudent choice because interest was waning. According to the Wife it was a bit of both. Still, the girls out shined some of their male counterparts. A number of boys’ games were cancelled today because of the cold and damp.

Perhaps we’ll finally start getting warmer in May.

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Family

What Are They Thinking?

The Wife made a purchase this weekend. She bought some new deck furniture. Nothing super fancy, mind you: a few Adirondack chairs (plastic) and a couple of little deck tables for setting drinks on. The Adirondacks are nice because they have a built-in lumbar support, so they are more comfortable than their straight-backed counterparts.

They weren’t on the deck 24-hours before the kids got together and graffiti’d them.

The only saving grace here is… well… there is no saving grace. I mean, the boy wrote names on the chairs in an attempt at assigning seating so it’s not like we have gang-banger Adirondack chairs on the deck, or even something with a nice landscape. Rather, we have chairs with names on them because, apparently in the boy’s Universe, it made sense.

The Wife was none too pleased with the gesture. Nor was I, though I wasn’t as upset as the Wife. When I heard, my first question was “Where did you write the names?” hoping he’d labeled the underside.

No such luck- he put it prominently on the front of the backrest.

My next question was “With what did you write it?” hoping it could be washed off.

No such luck- he wrote it with a Sharpie.

They tried to scrub it off, but their efforts were in vain.

I never really got a satisfactory explanation for why he did it. He claims it was because there was one for each of us- a very literal translation. It didn’t occur to him that “one for each of us” might just mean there was the same number of chairs as family members and we could use whichever one we sat our derriere’s into.

The boy too, seemed perplexed. To him, it was the most obvious thing in the world. He was doing us a favor. That we were a bit upset with his lack of judgment was his own mystery to contemplate. Assigned seating! No fighting over chairs! What’s not to like?

But why those chairs? He hasn’t done that with other chairs in the house. He hasn’t even mentioned it. There’s no assigned seating anywhere else in the house, though we all have our go-to spots. Was this part of a larger plan? If it had gone over well, would he be Sharpie-ing up the house? Who gets what toilet? Would we have assigned walking paths?

Perhaps it’s best to not think about it. He did it. It was a mistake. Won’t happen again. Maybe we can laugh about it later.

Maybe.

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Family

Booby Traps

The house looks like we have a mysterious, insanely large spider crawling about starting to spin a web and then abandoning it, only to retry again in some other spot. This “spider” seems to have a preference for doorways and other portals for passing from one room into another. Typically, the web is attached to a piece of furniture on one side of the opening and then runs across the opening. Where possible, the web is wrapped around something as a form of attachment. Otherwise, a piece of tape is used to attach it.

The boy and the lass have been fascinated with the notion of “booby traps.” I think it’s because of all the Scooby Doo episodes they’ve taken in recently. It’s a newer version and the Fred character is obsessed with setting traps to an extreme.

Unfortunately, most of the boy’s traps are, well, anything but. Since they’re usually strung across the middle of the doorways, they aren’t even trip lines. Which, actually, is a good thing for him. How long would he survive if I and the Wife were tripping our way through the house?

The best one they’ve set so far is what I’ll call an “ankle trap” they set outside. It’s a shallow hole that the boy dug and then covered over with leaves to hide. It’s perfect for breaking some poor sap’s ankle. Fortunately, he dug it in an out-of-the-way area of the yard; otherwise, someone likely would have broken their ankle. I told the boy to fill it in before that actually happened.

Innocent as it all is, this whole episode isn’t without its casualties. The Wife’s supply of cooking twine has taken a pretty severe hit. So too has my supply of duct tape.

I have gained some insight from this whole thing. Originally, I assumed the “booby” in “booby trap” referred to the people the trap was sprung on. Now, I know differently.

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Family

The Lass 1, The Boy 0

When I got to the car this morning, the boy was in the back seat antagonizing the lass by flipping some straps on the back of the passenger seat. Mind you, this had little affect on the seat- he wasn’t jerking on the seat or kicking it or in any way directly affecting the lass. Merely flipping the straps on the back of the seat had the desired affect- annoying his sister.

The Boy 1, The Lass 0

About half-way to school this morning, the lass began reaching up to the boy’s window. The window on that side is broken at the moment- the track on the bottom of the window is broken off so the lifting mechanism doesn’t attach to it; thus, the window was sitting down about 3 inches this morning.

The boy couldn’t stop his sister from reaching up through the window since he couldn’t close the window. As with the boy earlier, the lass wasn’t doing anything directly to her brother. The mere act of reaching up through “his” window was enough to drive the boy crazy. He even yelled at her for “playing” with the window.

The Boy 1, The Lass 1

Upon arriving at school, we were the 4th car in line for drop off, set back a ways from the entrance door. There is no formal drop-off procedure for the mornings. Basically, it’s wherever the parents and kids feel comfortable getting out. Typically, being in the 1st or 2nd position is when kids hop out.

While we sat waiting for the line to move up, the lass decided to hop out of the car. It’s not that far a walk and I have no issue with them getting out that far back.

“Bye Dad!”, she chirped. She cast a couple of quick backwards glances at her brother to see if he was in hot pursuit. He was not.

“I’m not getting out,” he declared.

But then the line continued not to move and his sister was halfway to the door. There was no way that waiting for the line to move would allow him to beat her to the door. I remained silent the whole time. Waiting.

Waiting…

Waiting…

“FINE, WHATEVER!!!”

Finding the circumstances untenable, the boy flung the door open and hopped out. He then half-walked, half-ran in pursuit of his sister. His sister, having checked and seen that he was out of the car, picked up her pace a bit. She had a comfortable lead, but she wasn’t about to rest on her laurels.

At that point, the line start flowing and as I drove past, the boy was closing the distance but was clearly going to be second to the door.

Final score: The Lass 1, The Boy 0

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Family

Remembering the Bad Times

Yesterday during breakfast, the lass was excited because her dance costume for her upcoming recital was going to be in so she’d get to try it on. She’s actually in 2 different routines for the recital and in one of them, her group of dancers will be dressed up as Disney princesses. She’s going to be Merida from Brave.

In the course of discussing this, the lass made the comment (I’m paraphrasing) “She’s the princess who’s always getting yelled at.”

Cut to the Wife, who was visibly affected by the comment. While I’m a strong believer in not underestimating kids’ intelligence and ingenuity, I have a hard time believing that the lass was implying anything by the comment. At her age, kids tend to say exactly what is on their mind, as opposed to making thinly veiled broadsides. The Wife didn’t share that view, as it was clear she had taken the lass’ comment personally.

So, for the sake of argument, let’s say the lass was that clever. Or, more plausibly, some subconscious part of her mind identifies with Merida for the reason that she thinks she’s getting yelled at all the time. Should I or the Wife take this to mean anything?

I don’t say “No”, I say “HELL NO!”

It’s a known psychological quirk of the human species to remember negative experiences more sharply than positive experiences. Kids are no different. Indeed, add a dollop of immaturity and a pinch of child-tendency-for-drama and there’s a perfect recipe for them concluding Mom and Dad do nothing but yell at them. Heck, they might view Gitmo as a vacation getaway.

But a skewed perception does not a reality make.

Kids screw-up, all the time. Part of being a parent is figuring out which screw-ups require intervention for corrective purposes. Obviously, when a kid touches a hot stove, they don’t need to be yelled at. They’ve received all the corrective information required in the form of a nice, painful burn.

But how many times do they have to be asked to pick up their rooms? My limited experience informs me that it is exactly as many times as a parent is will to ask them. I ask once. Politely. If they don’t respond, Hell follows. Most of the time, I only have to ask once. The Wife is cut from similar cloth. I’ve watched the parents who ask. Then ask again. And again. And again. While their patience is impressive, it’s not the way I, or the Wife roll.

So the kids are going to get yelled at. They make different sorts of mistakes all the time, or variations of the same one all the time. Like when they start fighting and disturbing the household with their antics. They get a chance to work it out and if they don’t I, or the Wife, work it out for them. Sooner or later they’ll realize it’s better that they work it out.

My point is that it’s baked into the cake that kid’s are going to get yelled at. It’s also baked into the cake that they’ll remember those times quicker. Probably a result of some evolutionary survival quirk. It’s not good for survival of the species if Grog keeps running into tar pools or eating poison berries.

The fact that they get yelled at doesn’t mean that’s all that happens. Last night I was rolling around on the floor, wrestling with the boy. He was giggling the whole time. The lass shared a tea-party with the Wife earlier this week. There are all the books and stories we’ve read together. Day trips to zoos and museums. Trips for ice cream and to the beach. Tee-ball, soccer, karate, hockey. Time spent helping with homework.

There are, in summary, no end to all the good or positive experiences we’ve all shared. They easily outnumber the negative ones. That is reality. Those aren’t the things that swirl at the leading edges of their memories. Unfortunate, but also reality.

It takes a sober second of consideration and reflection to remember. Kid’s don’t have that ability, it’s part of what defines them as a kid, an inability to see the larger world around them in any sense. Parents are adults, and we are not hampered by the same affliction. Therefore, we shouldn’t fall prey to our kids perception of their little world.

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Family

The Shotgun Wars- An Addendum

My last entry in the Shotgun Wars was quite well received, with a number of people impressed at the lass’ ability to think outside the box. Her inventiveness is to be expected. She is physically inferior to her older brother and if she wants to compete, she has little choice but to resort to creativity. In general, we all play to our strengths and both of them are doing exactly that.

The boy is not without his own moments, though. For instance, take the lass’ ruse the other day where she attempted to fool him. He was suspicious enough that he came back into the house to check with myself. He knows his sister too well.

There was also a moment a week or so ago where he made a desperate, failed bid to beat his sister out. She was well ahead of him, within a few steps of the car. (I should note that the walk to the car from our front door is short, perhaps 25 feet from the door. When shotgun is on the line, however, 25 feet can be a long way.) I was behind her and the boy, at that freeze-frame moment of time, was still in the house.

What happened next took place in about the space of 3 seconds worth of time. The boy came flying out of the house in a dead-sprint. As I took my next step, the boy pulled even with me and I could see there was a sort of maniacal grimace on his face. In the next second or so, he was at the car and in the car through the rear passenger side door. He had arrived at the car more or less simultaneously with is sister, but he was in before her.

His plan was now clear, he was attempting to end run his sister by getting in the backseat and then climbing into the front seat from inside the car. It might have worked, but the lass recognized what he was doing and she quickly mobilized to get herself into the passenger seat. Even so, it was a close call and I heard the two of them giggling as they jostled a bit over the seat. She was in superior position, as he’d only gotten about half-way into the seat before she’d climbed in and she laid claim to the prize for the ride in to school.

So the boy is capable of some creative moments as well. He just hasn’t been pushed as much because he’s a little more on the ball when it’s time to head to the car. You don’t apologize for not successfully coming from behind when the majority of time you’re winning from in front.

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Family

The Shotgun Wars- The Art of Misdirection

Things have been heating up on both fronts since my last entry. The boy continues to use his superior physical assets to attain the prized position. The lass, in the meanwhile, has resorted to being quicker on the draw- if she’s at the car well ahead of her brother, he won’t try an all out frontal assault. My guess is he innately understands the Pyrrhic nature of such a victory.

Of the two, the boy does a better job of maintaining his composure when he loses. He betrays how deeply he wants it though with his running commentary to the effect that people younger than himself shouldn’t be allowed in the passenger seat. He also likes to poke the back of the seat.

The lass, for her part, wears her emotions on her sleeves. Well, no. Her mouth. She screams or whines or cries or some hideous combination of the three.

Heading out for errands today, it was a draw to the car. I had lagged behind because I was gathering a few things in preparation for heading out.

I must have taken longer than I thought, because the lass popped her head in the house.

“Dad, which car are we taking?”

I told her we’d take the big car, since we were going to be grocery shopping, amongst other things. The big car has the most room- otherwise it wouldn’t be the “big” car just the “light blue” car or something else mundane. As I finished up pulling things together, I had a fleeting thought: was the lass clever enough to pull a head fake?

Several seconds later, the boy poked his head in the house.

“Dad, which car are we taking?”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Why, didn’t your sister tell you?”

“Yeah, she said we’re taking the little car.”

It was all I could do not to laugh.

When I got outside, they were both struggling at the “big” car. So I walked straight over to the smaller car and got in.

The lass’ screams are still echoing throughout the countryside.

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Family

A Surprise for the Lass

The Wife and I had agreed awhile back on our approach to the Harry Potter movies: the kids would have to read the books before we would let them see the movie. We agreed on this shortly after I had read them the first book, back when the boy was in kindergarten or 1st grade. We’re well aware there are ways our plans could get foiled but we wanted to make the effort.

With the boy having just finished the 2nd book, and now rapidly progressing through the 3rd, he was making no bones about his desire to see the movie. That was fine- he had earned it. The problem was the lass. Generally speaking, she’s going to be around when he is and thus get the opportunity to freeload off of his efforts.

We held the boy off through the past weekend until today because we realized an opportunity would present itself. The lass would be at her dance lessons for a couple of hours, during which time the boy could watch the movie.

The plan went off without a hitch, for a change. But the lass made it known she didn’t like the circumstances. When the Wife started bringing her home, the lass gave me a call to let me know they were on the way. Then, she asked what her brother was doing.

Rather than make up some kind of white lie, I opted to see how she’d handle the news. Her first response was to see if we could start the movie over again when she got home so her and Mom could see it too. When I told her “No, you can’t watch the movie yet” one of two things must have happened. Either she was completely stunned at the turn of events or she was so upset she couldn’t speak, because the phone went silent on the other end. And where the lass is anything but silent.

She finally recovered and proclaimed that the situation was “unfair.” That word again. I explained to her that it was perfectly fair. Her brother had read the book and had earned the right to watch the movie. She hadn’t read it yet, but when she did she would be allowed to watch the movie. I told her it didn’t get any more fair than that.

She… disagreed.

To her credit, she didn’t become hysterical. She just didn’t like that her brother had done something that she wouldn’t let her do as well. She even protested that she didn’t want to read the book, just see the movie. Not sure how she thought that would help her case, to be honest.

So, for now, the situation has been dealt with. But the boy is working his way through the third book and it’s going to come up again. A parent’s work is never done.

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Family

PTC’s

We had parent teacher conferences over the past week over with the kids’ teachers. Both of them are doing well and there aren’t any real complaints from either teacher.

But both the Wife and I couldn’t help but notice how much the lass’ teacher loves her. I mean loves her. At one point she said she didn’t need a teacher’s assistant because she had the lass.

Meanwhile, the Wife and I are both thinking “Come over for coffee one morning…”

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Family

Freeloading

There are any of a myriad of way the lass annoys her older brother. The one that bothers him the most, I think, is also the one I’m most sympathetic to him regarding, but also not willing to cut him any slack over. It’s when his sister freeloads off of him.

The easiest example is meal times. Both kids are capable of pouring their own milk. But 9 times out of 10, it is the boy who gets up and takes the initiative to take care of himself. Of course, the Wife and I are quite pleased that he no longer sits there whining “What can I have to drink?” But the lass sees no reason for her to get up and pour herself some milk since her brother is already on the job. So she asks him to pour her some milk as well. Multiply that by every day, or just about, and you’ll stretch the patience of any emotionally immature 8 year-old. Which is to say, all of them.

It’s one thing when this happens every now and again, it’s another when it’s day in and day out. It’s quite clear the lass knows what she’s doing and come mealtimes has demonstrated she is quite content to sit and wait her brother out.

Now, the boy has balked at this on any number of occasions. “She NEVER pours her own drink!” he as lamented on any of a number of occasions. He’s even tried simply ignoring her.

Neither the Wife nor I let him get away with that. We are quick to remind him of how many times we have poured them milk or fixed their food without any complaints on our part. We both feel it’s the courteous and proper way to behave and, as time has gone on, he has come to accept that in this scenario being first isn’t always best. The phrase “no good deed goes unpunished” is truly apt here.

This is just one scenario, but there are others I’ve noticed where the lass benefits from the boy’s initiative. Again, in these she seems to be a serial offender. So I’ve become more sympathetic to his complaints in this regard.

There is a difference in age to be accounted for here. The boy is about 18 months older, so there is definitely a developmental difference still at their current ages.

Yet I’m loathe to make too many excuses for the lass. I think we’ve always pushed them regarding taking care of themselves and perhaps this is a sign the Wife and I have to take a little more initiative ourselves to intervene quickly.

For example, rather than waiting for the boy to take care of the drink at a meal, we need to simply request that the lass take care of pouring drinks for herself and her brother. The issue isn’t so much an issue of fairness; rather, we want to make sure that some sense of entitlement isn’t adopted by the lass.

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Family

Leprechaun Hunting

Being St. Patrick’s Day, what better way to spend it than hunting for leprechauns?

They scoured the yard for clues. They were hoping for just a glimpse of a guy with a beard or something. They kept wondering how big a leprechaun would be and if I or the Wife had ever seen one.

The boy even googled around to see if there were any “HowTo’s” for catching a leprechaun. No such luck, though he did read that they can be found in fields and woods. Oh, and apparently they’re nocturnal.

So after dinner, we trudged off to the corn field which sits behind our house. As a bonus, the field is lined by woods so their hopes were high. The lass brought along 2 lacrosse sticks and a sand-sifter to help catch the leprechaun. The boy wanted to bring some of our corned beef and cabbage dinner along with us to try and lure one out. We gently dissuaded him from that course of action. He ended up bringing along his boomerang. He was hoping he might accidentally hit it in the head and knock it over long enough for them to catch it. He figured he could practice throwing his boomerang as well since we were going to be in a big field.

They met with disappointment, though they had a grand adventure looking. They traipsed all over the field, looked in all of the nooks and crannies they could find. I had the dogs along with us, for protection.

After we got home, they talked to Grandma, who gave them another idea. She suggested that leprechauns like beer and peanuts. So before bed time, the boy set a bowl of peanuts, a can of Guinness, a pencil and the following note on our front porch:

Mr. Leprechaun can you please sign here if you axualy came.

Sincerely, The Boy

If you want to can you leave the book that is on Ultimid Scribble Nauts. If you don’t no what I’m talking about is is the book you can spell whatever noun or ajective you want.

I signed it “Thanks Laddy” and left some coins on the porch for him.

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Family

Tales from the Shotgun Wars

A few weeks ago, we started allowing the lass to ride shotgun in the car. I knew that the decision would result in clashes with the boy, but that’s the price parents pay. Or something.

In truth, I expected a lot more fireworks right out of the gate. Instead, there appears to have been a feeling out process where each has tried to figure out the other’s tactics for attaining the prized shotgun seat. For instance, at the pickup line after school, the lass figured out that timing and position was everything and she could gain the seat by making sure she was closer to the front of the car than her brother. The boy, realizing this tactical advantage, adopted the strategy for his own. The boy has figured out that his sister likes her morning cartoons a little too much and thus gains the advantage by being first to get out the door in the mornings. The lass has yet to adjust.

Still, there really hadn’t been much in the way of arguments about one or the other always sitting in the passenger seat. Until the last couple of days, when the lass has begun to let her frustration’s boil over. She groused for the ride home in the car yesterday because the boy had out-dueled her for both the ride to and the ride from school.

So this morning, when I announced it was time to go, the boy was off like a, er, shot for his coat and backpack. The lass accused him of rushing “just to get the front seat.” The boy responded by taunting her, of course. I was the last one out the door by several seconds and when I looked up, I witnessed a new tactic in the Shotgun Wars.

Since the boy had been the first out the door, he was already climbing into the passenger seat for our Highlander. The lass had decided to allow fate to decide who would get shotgun this morning- she went to our other car and was climbing into the passenger seat as I started down our walk. Thus, it was up to me to decide would win this morning’s battle. A risky strategy on her part; but a clever one if I do say. Realizing she had surely lost if she climbed into the back of the Highlander, where the boy already sat, she gambled by forcing me to pick a car.

My first thought was, “Damn, I wish we had a 3rd car.” In the end, fuel economy won out this morning, and so did the lass. Much to the boy’s consternation, I’m sure you’ll be surprised to learn. His turn to grouse in the back.

I expect the boy will be asking which car they’ll be riding in tomorrow morning.

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Family

Perspective

All I did was ask her to feed the dogs this morning.

A bystander might have thought I’d asked her to sacrifice a finger.

Pint sized hissy fits would be cute, if they weren’t so blisteringly infuriating. To me, it’s the mindset I figure the kids assume when they embark on this path- one of entitlement. Apparently, they should just ipso facto have uninterrupted cartoon time simply because they, the couch and Netflix exist. How dare I interrupt her with so trivial a thing as feeding the dogs.

Because I’m practiced at dealing with these things, she was in the corner almost as quickly as her attitude flared up. One second, I’d asked her to feed the dogs, the next moment I told her to go to the corner and stand there awhile. She complained the whole way, stomped a bit for good measure, then folded her arms across her chest with a “HARUMPHH!”

I waited a few seconds, then I mosied on over to the corner, fixed her with a good stare and gave her The Speech:

“You, have no right to complain about being asked to feed the dogs. Your Mother and I feed you, give you rides to school, buy you clothes, take you to dance lessons, wash your clothes, clean up after you, pick you up after school, take you to Girl Scouts, help you with school work and that’s just what I can come up with off the top of my head. I’m sure if I actually thought about it for a bit, the list would get much longer. So I will not stand here and listen to you complain about being asked to do something so simple as feeding the dogs. Do I make myself clear?”

She broke eye contact with me about half-way through the list. She didn’t break down and cry (nor was that the object) but her demeanor changed noticeably. Humbled, is the word I would use- she appeared humbled. As I walked away, she muttered an “OK, I’ll feed the dogs.”

And that was it. It was all done.

Somehow, I think I’ll be using variants of this speech for awhile.

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Family

Hockey Season Ends

I penned a similar in spirit post last year when hockey ended, but this year’s post will be nothing like last year’s post.

Last year, when hockey ended, the boy was done with hockey. When I say “done” I mean like I was sure he would never play the game again.

Oh the difference 8 months can make.

While both kids are glad to have their weekends back, they’ve both stated their intent to play again next year. It will be a year of change for them both, as they both will bump up to the next level of play based on age. Should make for some interesting weekends for us. But that’s all in the future.

As far as today goes, both kids finished their respective seasons well. The boy and his team rebounded from yesterday’s bitter defeat to finish their year with a win and an overall 3rd place finish. The boy had a goal and, after a slow start, played well in his final game. I didn’t think it was as good as yesterday’s effort, personally. His coaches disagreed. Winning tends to smooth over a lot of rough edges though.

The lass finished her season with a tie against the other team at their level of play. She didn’t score any goals this year, but she hustled, kept after the puck and gave herself a number of opportunities as a result.

Her game was hugely entertaining. The stands were packed with friends and family of all the players. Parent’s were urging all the kids on, cheering the goals, the shots and the nice defensive plays; laughing at the zaniness that comes with 6 and 7 years zipping around on a slippery surface with sticks in their hands; enjoying the culmination of a long season. When it was all done, the coaches had the kids give the families a well-earned bow.

Now, for a time, we get our weekends back. Even when baseball season starts up for the lass (the boy has declined to play), the mornings will be a little easier to deal with. Plus, the weather will be a bit more pleasant. But in the meantime, we’ll enjoy not having to do anything or go anywhere we don’t want of need to on Saturday and Sunday.

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Family

No Championship- Today

Today was the 2nd to last day of the hockey season. Once again the Wife and I were up too early to fix breakfast for kids, also up too early, so they’d be ready to go for hockey.

For the lass, it was another practice. She spent her hour doing drills she won’t have to do again until next season. For the last 20 minutes or so they played a game. She’ll play in a final game tomorrow.

The boy will also play in a final game tomorrow, but not the one he wanted. They had a semi-final playoff game today against the “Blue Team.” There are only 4 teams in the league, thus the semi-final designation. They were playing for the right to play the “Green Team,” whose been nicknamed the “Green Machine” because they haven’t lost all season. The “Green Team” had beaten the “Orange Team” in the hour prior to the boy’s game. The boy’s team is the “Red Team,” just to complete the color ensemble.

The boy’s game was, simply put, a gem of a game. Neither team ever led by more than a single goal. It was well played, as these things go, and even better contested. In my not-so-unbiased opinion, the boy was a star for his team today. He scored their first goal less than a minute into the game where simply outskated everyone else on the ice. It was a shot of adrenaline for his teammates and they all played fantastic for the remainder of the game. The boy also had an assist and was involved in a couple other scoring possessions. It was, by far, his best effort to date.

Unfortunately, it was not meant to be. They ultimately lost 5-4. They couldn’t tie it up, even with pulling their goalie in the final minute or so.

Kids aren’t interested in life lessons, but that’s what this day will have been for him, in the scheme of things. He cried when it was over, and we let him. When he finished crying, we told him how well he’d played, as did some of the other parents of his teammates. We told him we were proud of how much effort he’d put into it and I told him that if he kept giving that kind of effort, he was certain to have days with better endings.

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Family

Puppet Show = Funny

The lass hand crafted a couple of paper bag puppets earlier this week. She made a cat and a person puppet. The cat was complete with a tail and collar while the person had arms. Lots of detail in both which she accomplished on her own.

Earlier this evening, she regaled us with a one-of-a-kind performance that, quite simply defies words or description. Really. I don’t even no where to begin, other than I laughed, the boy laughed and the Wife laughed.

We cried a little too…

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Family

Lucky Her Head is Attached

The lass had recently come into a little money. Mostly, it had to do with Valentine’s Day and a little birthday money. She had placed the cash in an envelope.

And then, she didn’t know where the envelope went.

So we set her to looking because, while she wasn’t going to be financially secure for the rest of the life off of it, it was not insignificant enough to just shluff it off as gone for good.

So, after 30 seconds of looking, she plopped down in a huff and declared the envelope lost.

At which point the Wife got up and said “It has to be over hear somewhere because you haven’t taken it anywhere else.” She walked over to the breakfast bar a, literally, said “Found it!” after a second or so of looking.

Which prompted the lass to exclaim “How did you find it so fast when I was just over there LOOKING!?!” Then, she stamped her foot for more emphasis. Or something.

The foot stomp prompted me to get in on the act: “Because unlike you, your Mother went over there and actually looked for a red envelope. She didn’t go over there, stare at the ground, shuffle her feet for a few seconds, flap her arms a few times and pretend to look for it and then declare ‘It’s not here, I’ve looked.’ She wasn’t relying on the envelope to jump up and say ‘HELLOOOO! I’M RIGHT HERE! UNDER THE PILE OF PAPER WHERE YOU LEFT ME!’ She wasn’t relying on it to jump up and do a jig either.”

The lass got a kick out of the idea of an envelope talking or dancing to get attention. She didn’t get her envelope back right then though. The Wife took it into her care until such time as the money is either spent or stashed in a bank.

For the time being, this seems to be one of the lass’ gifts. It could be her favorite comb, some article of clothing, her lunch box, or a toy. But she manages to lose it in such a way that she can’t find them. And she can’t find them because, even though she searches, she doesn’t look.

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Family

Resorting to Drama

The boy still gets frustrated with his homework. Actually, no- that’s not quite right. The boy gets frustrated with the Wife and about his homework when he asks us to look over his work.

We point out errors in his math his brow starts to furrow. We point out mistakes in his reading comprehension and his shoulders slump. We point out grammar problems in his writing and there’s an audible thump as he drops his head onto the table.

Then he says something like “I must be the dumbest kid in the entire world.”

Welcome to drama, the boy style.

The lass is getting dressed for her hockey practice. She grumbles as she puts on her shin guards. She complains when she pulls her hockey socks over her legs. She whines as she pulls on her shoulder pads. Finally, at the rink, she puts on her helmet and roars “STUPID HELMET! IT DOESN’T FEEL RIGHT!” She’s near tears now.

Welcome to drama, the lass style.

Both kids seem to have hit a patch here where the Wife and I are constantly dealing with these sorts of exaggerated crises or bouts of self-pity. There isn’t any real predictor for when it will happen, though fatigue or low blood-sugar are definitely correlated. The fits can come over just about anything: clothes, food, sports, school, homework, chores.

For all its unpredictability, there are several body language signs that one of these fits of drama are imminent. For one, they’ll become sullen and verbally unresponsive. For two, they’ll often become very reluctant to move and any exhortations to get them are met with increasingly hostile looks.

Anymore, the Wife or I simply walk away from this stuff or completely ignore it. We’ve come to the conclusion that it’s mainly for show and attempts to short-circuit it generally end up intensifying the behavior. We were initially concerned about the boy’s lines like above where he states “I’m the worst ever!” about one thing or another. But we’ve come around to the thinking that it’s at best an attempt to vent frustration, at worst an attempt at gaining sympathy. So we leave it be.

And wait for it to pass.

Most of the time, the moment does pass. Though sometimes we will have to tell the offender to walk away from their problem for awhile, if feasible. If not, we might occasionally try to refocus them and then come back around to whatever has been frustrating them. When they become overly emotional about any given source of angst it’s all but impossible to reason with them. For that matter, that’s why the Wife and I tend to ignore them when they get to that point- it serves as a subtle hint for them to settle down that they’ll respond to sometimes, depending on how far down the rabbit hole they’ve gone.

I will say it isn’t always easy to deal with them when the get in this state. When I find myself arguing with them or getting sucked into their world in those moments, I often find myself thinking “Be the adult.” A scary thought, for sure, when I’m the one thinking like that.

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Family

Tattoos

The kids made their own “tattoos” tonight.

They’ve been fascinated with them from the very start- their very first one. Those little fake tattoos that come in cereal boxes and the like. The Wife or I would cut them out of the sheet, then the kids would pick the spot to place them on and finally we’d hold a sponge on their arm for awhile. If everything went right, the image would stick to their skin and voila! They had been pseudo inked.

I suppose the ease of the process lent itself to them enjoying it. It quickly became a process they could do with minimal supervision. After a few minutes, there would be a trail of little wet paper pieces on the floor from the table to the sink, multiple sopped sponges would be laying wherever, surrounding the wet pieces of paper were puddles of water and the kids would have pictures of animals and spaceships and whatever on any free area of skin.

So tonight, they decided to kick it up a notch. They wanted to make their own. The asked me how it’s done, but I told them I didn’t know. Then they asked if using wax paper would work.

Maybe? Possibly? How the heck am I supposed to know? I suppose I could’ve googled it, but I had other … motivations at that moment. Like not wanting a massive wet-paper project developing 30 minutes prior to bedtime.

Several minutes later, the squeals of delight made it apparent they’d had some success. It turns out that normal paper colored with marker and then using a soaked sponge will indeed transfer the ink to their skin. After a couple more minutes, they were trying different designs- the boy had an asterisk on the back of his hand, the lass had some kind of … purple blob on the back of hers.

With their process all worked out, they declared that they were open for business. No, really. They want to put a sign up at the top of the driveway advertising their tattoos. They were already talking about ramping up production and the boy was trying to figure out pricing. At one point he commented “They aren’t that good yet, what do you think Dad, are they worth 25 cents?”

All I can say is this planning stage was priceless.

Then, the boy had another thought. Would they have to get permission from “the governor or something like that” to sell tattoos? I tried to explain as simply as possible that they might need to get some kind of license from the government. He was a bit deflated at that point. Good ol’ government, killing free market ideas one at a time…

Then they decided that they could just keep it in the family. That’s when he handed me a tattoo they’d made just for me- a green ‘D’ for my college alma mater. Guess I’ll end up being their first customer.