Tag: the lass

The lass achieved the childhood milestone of learning to ride a bike this morning.

It was particularly sweet because she’d been pretty discouraged about bike riding because she just hasn’t been able to figure it out. The Wife and I have been trying to motivate her in various ways. The Wife, in particular, has been taking the boy on rides at a local bike path to try and give the lass something to shoot for.

This morning, for a change, we all went to the bike path and the Wife volunteered to stay with the lass and work with her while I went on the path with the boy. My ride with the boy was nice, if not a little wet. It poured for about 10 minutes half-way through the ride, soaking us both thoroughly. It didn’t bother the boy and we finished the ride without any incident.

When we got back, it looked like the lass was close to figuring out the whole riding thing. She was gliding around with her feet off the pedals and just out to the side. She was pretty wobbly, but there was a hint that she might be on the verge of a breakthrough.

Rather than stopping and possibly pressuring her, I continued on the path past where the Wife was working with her. I hadn’t gone far when I heard the Wife let out a “WAAHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” That’s pretty much the universal parent word for “My kid just figured it out!”

When I got back, sure enough, the lass was wobbling along. She was having a little trouble starting and the rain had slicked her shoes so she was also having some trouble keeping her feet on the pedals. But there was no denying that she was in fact riding a bike.

Now, she can hardly wait for the next time Mom goes for a ride on the bike path. It won’t be just the boy going along anymore.

The lass made a strange request of the Wife tonight. The lass asked her to help her brush her teeth. She was afraid of missing some spots, I heard her explain.

If her regular visits for cleaning are any indication, the lass has done splendidly in maintaining her teeth. She has no cavities and no warning signs resulting from neglect.

The question was one of a variety I’ve noticed the kids ask every now and again. They will ask for help with some personal thing or a chore that we all know full well they are competent at. Almost like they want to temporarily revert to an earlier age when we had to help them.

As to motivation, I can imagine any one of a number of possibilities including hoping to get away with a freebie, too tired to want to bother, or some form of reassurance. Though, typically, the question is stated with just the right combination of earnestness and innocence that I get the very strong impression that it’s about reassurance.

The Wife didn’t help her, and gently told her that she was perfectly capable. That’s how we typically deal with the sort of question when it comes around. The lass, for her part, didn’t argue the point and finished brushing her teeth on her own.

I don’t have any real insights regarding the behavior. More than anything, I’ve noticed it enough times now that I thought it worth jotting down. Perhaps it’s an act we all do throughout our lives, hoping someone else will take care of something for us despite our own capacity for handling it. Perhaps that’s a difference between adults and children- one knows the answer without having to be told. The other one just wants to make sure.

“Get off me!”

The boy was upset. He was playing on his DS and the lass had come over to watch him. If you’ve ever seen a DS, then you know that it’s not exactly and iPad. Heck, it’s not even an iPhone. So in order to watch someone play, the other person has to almost become a Siamese twin. It makes for an amusing spectacle when multiple kids are around watching some Mario-warrior to their thing. Five or six kids all crowded around another, all of them squinting at a sub 3-inch diagonal screen.

The lass was in Siamese twin mode, almost sitting on her brother watching him play. It was hot today so the boy demanded was clearly being unreasonable when he asked for a little space. The lass let him know about his unreasonableness by not moving.

The Wife then chimed in by telling her to go do something.

The lass, never one to be shrugged off so easily, commented “I don’t know what else to do.” She didn’t move either.

So now it was my turn. Luckily, the lass had provided for me them means of her undoing. I said “Well, let me tell you something not to do: watch your brother playing the DS.”

That did it.

With a great harumph and display of annoyance she got up and stomped away, muttering dark murmurings about “nothing to do around here.” The Wife rolled her eyes. I shrugged. The boy played.

The lass fumed.

She left the room, no doubt figuring to punish us with her absence.

After about 30-minutes of tranquility, I got up to check a batch of refreshed starter and figured I check in on what she’d been doing. I found her in the front room. Lying on the couch. Sleeping.

A good cure for grouchiness.

Well, the day finally arrived. After years of waiting, the lass had her graduation today. We were so proud.

The ceremony was really nice, with a slide show highlighting moments from their past year of school. Pictures of them doing cooking projects and field trips and cuddling with rabbits. After that, they called the kids up one by one and handed them their diplomas.

The lass was so serious when she got hers. Looking like this was only the beginning of her long journey into the world. “I’m going to accomplish big things” the look said, er, looked. Then we all went to the cafeteria to have a pot-luck dinner. Followed immediately by 40 kids riding a sugar high. WHEE!

Yep, the lass has graduated. Now she’s on to first grade.

I decided it was finally time to setup our pool in the backyard. It had taken a fair amount of effort to set it up last year, excavating the site by hand, leveling it and then spreading a tarp and sand to finish off the ground prep. When it came time to close it down in the Fall, I chose to leave the sand and the tarp, figuring I’d rather not redo all the work again come Spring time. Besides, if it snowed it would all end up buried by snow.

Of course, we got no snow this Winter, so that part didn’t pan out. But, it is time to set up the pool again and all that was required was to level the sand again. So I purchased 5 more 50 pound bags of sand to help get the job done.

The lass, upon realizing what was going on, was more than a little eager to help. Both kids have been asking about the pool for awhile now. The moment had finally arrived.

One way we’re fortunate with the kids is they both like to help. We’re unfortunate, for the moment anyway, in that they are not terribly capable. Time and a little experience will take care of the latter problem. So today was a chance for the lass to help a bit.

She appeared after the new sand had been laid down the sand and roughly spread around. She wanted to help. Unfortunately, this was an area where she couldn’t do much because it required some precision and patience. The former not being a trait a 6-year-old possesses and the latter not being something the lass possesses. None the less, an opportunity to help was promised, but she had to wait for the work with the sand to be completed. While waiting she kept absent mindedly wandering onto the sand and I asked her a couple times to watch what she was doing and not walk on the sand.

That led to the moment where I snapped a bit at her. No resulting disciplinary laryngitis or anything, but I jumped on her because I’d just finished leveling and smoothing the sand when she once again wandered onto it. (They do have a sandbox, BTW. Too bad they don’t use it more…) Now I had to redo work because she hadn’t been paying attention.

I knew I’d hit a nerve because she assumed the position: eyes staring off into the middle distance, lower lip protruding, somewhat hazy look in her eyes. She then silently and slowly turned her back on me and walked over to a somewhat private spot under the deck.

She was crying a little and didn’t want me to see.

As she did so, I gave her a bit of time and went about fixing the work she’d botched on me. I didn’t want her to think her help wasn’t welcome, but she needed to wait for a moment where her she could assist and I told her so.

She recovered quickly and when it was time to place the pool liner, she was able to help. She also helped unfold it and smooth out the wrinkles so the pool bottom would be smooth. She also helped a bit with the garden hose during the initial pool fill up- you know, making sure the water went into the pool and all.

So she got over her little moment and was able to help out. It’s not a pleasant site when you’re child reacts like that to the force of your words. But it has to be kept in mind that they did something to provoke the response. Otherwise, the logical outcome is that you’re constantly adjusting to living in their world (because you modify your behavior in order to not hurt their feelings). I don’t think that’s a place any parent should be.

I’d starting making up the dough for another loaf of the family favorite, white bread. Actually, it’s my own version of Wonder Bread and it really is quite good.

The lass came up and took a look at the dough and wanted to know what kind of bread I was making. After I told her she asked “When are you going to make the sourpatch bread?”

Technically speaking, I’ve never made sourpatch bread. Googling also reveals that no such bread exists. None the less, I’m pretty sure I know what she’s talking about, but rather than correct her I rolled with the punch. “Because I don’t have any sourpatch starter,” I explained.

“You don’t have any sourpatch?” she asked. I guess she wanted confirmation.

“In order to make sourpatch bread you need to make sourpatch starter. I don’t have any of the starter,” I explained in more detail.

“What’s a sourpatch starter?”

Oh boy.

“It’s just some flour and water that’s been allowed to sit around for awhile. It gets a sour taste. That’s why it’s called sourpatch.” No mention of yeast or it would have to become a full blown chemistry course. Or biology.

“How do you make it?”

“With flour and water,” I deadpanned.

“No, I mean…how do you make the sourpatch stuff?”

“With flour and water,” I repeated.

She thought about that for a couple seconds.

“Are you going to make some?”

“I’ve been trying to but haven’t been able to make a batch that works well,” I told her.

“After you make the starter you’ll be able to make the sourpatch bread?”

Back to where we started. I think that’s good because it probably means this line of questioning has just about run it’s course.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Daddy, I like sourpatch bread.”

This is news to me. Since it’s been awhile since I’ve been able to make it, I have my doubts she knows what she’s talking about. But that’s OK.

Now I just have to make up some Sourpatch bread.

Didn’t get around to this yesterday, but it was Opening Day here. The boy chose not to do baseball this year. The lass, in contrast, could hardly wait. The fact that I’m coaching the team is gravy for her.

Compared to previous Opening Days, this one was more efficiently run and better for the kids, as far as I’m concerned. In previous years, after the players and coaches were introduced for all of the Tee Ball, Coach Pitch, Minor League, Minor’s Softball and the Major’s baseball and softball teams there would be a long procession of talking that really made it tough on the kids. Their strength is in movement, not sitting and listening to people talk about things they don’t care about.

This year, they eliminated almost all of that, stripping the morning down to the bare essentials of the introductions, singing the National Anthem and having the players and coaches recite the Little League Oath. It was a welcome change since it allowed us to get right to the games. It was doubly welcome because it was cold yesterday morning. Probably in the 40’s or so with a nasty wind that made it colder. The kids were troopers, but they were definitely getting stretched to their limit.

As for our games, we played 2 one-inning games. Our guys hadn’t even had much practice at hitting and running the bases, since I’d only had our first practice this past Monday. Never-the-less, they performed well. They all hit the ball and ran the bases and, generally speaking, caught on quickly. They took a bit to figure things out in the field, but once we started getting the swarm defense going in getting after the ball, I knew we were right on schedule. I was even able to get them to throw the ball to 1st base a few times.

The lass did fine as well; although, since she played at third base, she didn’t get any balls hit her way. But she hit the ball well and, when we were done for the day, she got to yell “BATS!” for our team cheer. So she left with a smile on her face.

They tell me that’s what it’s all about, so score one for the good guys.

The lass brought this home a couple of days ago. It’s an essay she wrote in class. I have preserved all punctuation and spelling.

How The Cat And Mouse Became Friends
The cat liked the mouse. The mouse did not like the cat. The cat gave the mouse ches. Then the mouse relist tat he was being not mean and tay becam friend.
The End

In case you couldn’t figure it out, “relist” is supposed to be “realised.” And I guess it’s more of a paragraph than an essay. But, hey, they’ve got to start somewhere.

The lass comes downstairs this morning after waking up to find the Wife preparing her morning cup o’ Joe. She proceeds to inform on the boy:

“Mom, my brother didn’t wake up this morning until he farted and scared the cat off the bed.”

Now, what exactly are we supposed to do with that information? Personally, I laughed.

The Wife has been outfitting me with some new clothing lately. I guess she’s tired of my, uh, well worn wardrobe. She ordered a bunch of shirts for me to try on and they all arrived today. Coincidentally, the lass had arrived home only a little earlier, so she was present to watch me try them on.

One of the shirts is a green color. Upon seeing it, the first thing the lass told me was “Dad, you can’t wear green- your not an Irish person.” The Wife and I started laughing. Her declaration was correct as far as me being Irish, but we didn’t have the faintest clue what that had to do with me wearing green.

She went on to explain that because I didn’t wear green for Leprechaun’s Day, I couldn’t be Irish and therefore can’t wear green.

I suppose that’s reasonable when you’re 6.