The kids have recently begun lobbying for a pet. This is a reoccurring theme in our house. The cycle looks like this: Kids ask for a pet. We say no. Kids persist. We buy a hermit crab. The kids are excited for 4 days. Hermit crab (named Colin) dies. We bury him in the backyard. Time passes. Kids ask for a pet. We say no. Kids persist. We buy a cactus at IKEA. The kids are excited for 6 days (they name him Steve). Cactus begins leaning. Then dies. I throw Steve in a smoothie.
This time, since they have so successfully managed pets in the past, they are hot for a dog. Frankly, I think they are psychopaths; they are slyly moving up to creatures of more and more significance to kill. Lori and I are firm on this one. There will be no dog in this house now. And perhaps ever. But we leave the door open and this pacifies the kids (we think). However, perhaps to show their indignation at our decision they are now creating pets. Last week it was an egg. A real, non-hard-boiled egg. "Eggie" was carried around the house and cared for. He did not die. But I'm pretty sure that had less to do with their love of the egg, and more out of fear of their mother if they cracked an egg in the house. Lori is kind and loving until you do something foolish like dropping your pet egg on her area rug. Eggie is now gone. "Has anyone seen Eggie." "Nope, but this omelet is amazing."
A fish occasionally comes into play, but Lori and I quickly dismiss it. I haven't heard anything about a fish recently...until this morning. I walk into the kitchen and see a Ziploc bag on the counter filled with water. Upon closer inspection, I see that there is a single, lonely, floating rose petal in the water. Like the tragic closing scene to an over-zealous indie film, the rose petal taunts me; Nick Drake plays in the background. Perhaps the kids know what a sucker I am for cleverness. I can be fairly stubborn until someone breaks me down with witty humor and/or unquestionable intelligence (being undeniably cute usually gets me too). And in this case, the floating rose petal in the Ziploc filled with water made me want to go out and buy them a pet tiger. And an orangutan.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
say YES! to halitonic
This past Saturday morning as I was brushing Zoe's hair, her facial expressions suggested that she was experiencing some discomfort. This discomfort slowly turned into disgust, and then downright despair. She finally put her hands over her mouth and nose and exclaimed (hesitantly, but confidently), "I can't take it any more! Your breath smells terrible!" I laughed, acknowledging that I was quite sure she was 100% correct, then told her (face pointing away from her, mouth barely open) that it was a bit rude to tell someone they have terrible breath. She quickly responded, "I can't lie, can I?" Dagger. As I have discussed previously, we have worked with Zoe quite a bit to overcome her predisposition to lying. She has done really well...so well in fact, that she now has a keen sense of honesty and dishonesty, and will call us on it regularly ("Daddy, that joke was kind of a lie."). But, does this quest for honesty quell the necessity to "bear it courteously" all the time? Experience tells me...yes.
Many people are liars, and Lori and I are no exception. Zoe gets it honestly, because we both occasionally (all the time?) lie to spare others' feelings, or get out of things gracefully. We end up breathing peoples' breath as the situation becomes more uncomfortable for everyone involved--particularly when that same person walks away with the same hot stinking breath, ready to invade the nasal cavity of his next victim (thereby passing the discomfort along for them to "deal with it" or causing them to lie if they are indeed prone to the same pansiness). A simple, honest response is neglected in favor of overly-complicated commentary which is both rambling and ridiculous (and needless to say, disingenuous). Additionally, these fibs can also backfire with the people who are closest to us. Knowing that we have this tendency, they either catch us in our lies, or mistakenly presume we are lying when really, this time, we are telling the truth. Truthfully. Telling someone their breath smells with a wink and a smile is way less tedious and damaging in the long run, since the hurt feelings (if there are any) are on the front end, and quickly resolve as opposed to the delayed and prolonged resentment which are the always-in-season fruit of dishonesty for both the liar and the lied to.
Human behavior is way more complex than halitosis, but surely honesty--when kindly and sincerely framed--is more than a cover-up mint, it is preventative medicine. Although, (and I don't say this to validate my own behavior) we all know people who say everything they think (who by some definitions are very honest), and are completely unpleasant to be around (maybe because they lack the "kind and sincere" framing I mention above?). So, I'm not quite ready to embrace radical honesty, but I would consider it a huge victory if we can somehow teach this precarious and delicate dance of polite probity to our children. An ideal worth striving for.
As a result of Zoe's honesty, I've begun brushing my teeth with regularity and am extraordinarily careful when breathing around her. And Lori started kissing me again. Now if that doesn't get me to believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent and in doing good to all men, I don't know what will.
_______________________________________________________
*for a hysterical (and mildly profane) article on one man's experiment living by the code of radical honesty, check this out. By the very funny author of "The Know it All" and "A Year of Living Biblically."
Many people are liars, and Lori and I are no exception. Zoe gets it honestly, because we both occasionally (all the time?) lie to spare others' feelings, or get out of things gracefully. We end up breathing peoples' breath as the situation becomes more uncomfortable for everyone involved--particularly when that same person walks away with the same hot stinking breath, ready to invade the nasal cavity of his next victim (thereby passing the discomfort along for them to "deal with it" or causing them to lie if they are indeed prone to the same pansiness). A simple, honest response is neglected in favor of overly-complicated commentary which is both rambling and ridiculous (and needless to say, disingenuous). Additionally, these fibs can also backfire with the people who are closest to us. Knowing that we have this tendency, they either catch us in our lies, or mistakenly presume we are lying when really, this time, we are telling the truth. Truthfully. Telling someone their breath smells with a wink and a smile is way less tedious and damaging in the long run, since the hurt feelings (if there are any) are on the front end, and quickly resolve as opposed to the delayed and prolonged resentment which are the always-in-season fruit of dishonesty for both the liar and the lied to.
Human behavior is way more complex than halitosis, but surely honesty--when kindly and sincerely framed--is more than a cover-up mint, it is preventative medicine. Although, (and I don't say this to validate my own behavior) we all know people who say everything they think (who by some definitions are very honest), and are completely unpleasant to be around (maybe because they lack the "kind and sincere" framing I mention above?). So, I'm not quite ready to embrace radical honesty, but I would consider it a huge victory if we can somehow teach this precarious and delicate dance of polite probity to our children. An ideal worth striving for.
As a result of Zoe's honesty, I've begun brushing my teeth with regularity and am extraordinarily careful when breathing around her. And Lori started kissing me again. Now if that doesn't get me to believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent and in doing good to all men, I don't know what will.
_______________________________________________________
*for a hysterical (and mildly profane) article on one man's experiment living by the code of radical honesty, check this out. By the very funny author of "The Know it All" and "A Year of Living Biblically."
Sunday, January 2, 2011
D! see?
Dear Brennan,
Some day in the future, one of your little sisters will undertake a life transition/adventure which will provide an opportunity for you to assist her. Your presence will calm her, your jokes will buoy her, and your strength will sustain her. Your assistance will be lauded by your mom and me, and while you'll be tempted to let this occur quietly, your need to publicly proclaim your goodness will drive you to share what you have done with the rest of the cyber-world. You are a great brother, and I'm glad you will do this (the service part, not the self-involved proclamation part).
On an unrelated note, last week I drove your Aunt Maggie out to Washington D.C. where she is beginning the next chapter of her life. I carried her suitcase, drove her car, set her up on a date...and in general provided a calming presence, told buoying jokes, and granted sustaining strength *. Here are the mathematics of the trip:
$100 for food
+
Dad's homemade rolls
+
the one-way Mexi-nazi
+
my materialistic fast (ummmm?)
+
Tortilla Flat
+
West Virginia snow storm (not a euphemistic Deliverance reference)
+
Frenchables
+
Comfy bed (me)
+
Sofa (Maggie)
+
Holden
+
Green Juice
+
True Grit
+
Hair * Tights * Men's Bathroom (me being mistaken for a woman)
+
Normal Rockwell
+
sorry, the Ford's Theater is closed (but we're from IL!)
+
Lincoln (we're from IL!)
+
Don Draper
+
The Teen Witch
____________
= Bye, Maggie. Hope you find your husband (in my best Narwhalian voice).
If you need help interpreting any of the obscure references above, drop Maggie an email at maggieafranz@gmail.com. She has some free time in the nation's capital between feeding the dog and protecting the Escalade from bored teenagers. Or, you can just wait for her to blog my praises for selfless and silent service.
* in reality, there was nothing "service" about this trip. I got to hang out with one of my best friends...my sister Maggie. I enjoyed every second of the trip, and I'm lucky to have such smart, cute, and funny sisters. She had to endure me...and that endurance continues as I satirize our cross-country adventure. Love you, Mags.
Some day in the future, one of your little sisters will undertake a life transition/adventure which will provide an opportunity for you to assist her. Your presence will calm her, your jokes will buoy her, and your strength will sustain her. Your assistance will be lauded by your mom and me, and while you'll be tempted to let this occur quietly, your need to publicly proclaim your goodness will drive you to share what you have done with the rest of the cyber-world. You are a great brother, and I'm glad you will do this (the service part, not the self-involved proclamation part).
On an unrelated note, last week I drove your Aunt Maggie out to Washington D.C. where she is beginning the next chapter of her life. I carried her suitcase, drove her car, set her up on a date...and in general provided a calming presence, told buoying jokes, and granted sustaining strength *. Here are the mathematics of the trip:
$100 for food
+
Dad's homemade rolls
+
the one-way Mexi-nazi
+
my materialistic fast (ummmm?)
+
Tortilla Flat
+
West Virginia snow storm (not a euphemistic Deliverance reference)
+
Frenchables
+
Comfy bed (me)
+
Sofa (Maggie)
+
Holden
+
Green Juice
+
True Grit
+
Hair * Tights * Men's Bathroom (me being mistaken for a woman)
+
Normal Rockwell
+
sorry, the Ford's Theater is closed (but we're from IL!)
+
Lincoln (we're from IL!)
+
Don Draper
+
The Teen Witch
____________
= Bye, Maggie. Hope you find your husband (in my best Narwhalian voice).
If you need help interpreting any of the obscure references above, drop Maggie an email at maggieafranz@gmail.com. She has some free time in the nation's capital between feeding the dog and protecting the Escalade from bored teenagers. Or, you can just wait for her to blog my praises for selfless and silent service.
* in reality, there was nothing "service" about this trip. I got to hang out with one of my best friends...my sister Maggie. I enjoyed every second of the trip, and I'm lucky to have such smart, cute, and funny sisters. She had to endure me...and that endurance continues as I satirize our cross-country adventure. Love you, Mags.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
learning my ABZs
a is for appalled, but not quite impaled
A few Sundays ago I was reading to the kids on the floor in the toy room. Brennan was at my side drawing and listening; Zoe was at my feet listening; and Ava was on my back trying to balance (and presumably hurt me a little) as she walked from my feet up to my neck. About halfway through a Shel Silverstein poem about a boy who turns into a TV (Jimmy Jet and his TV Set), Ava fell off my back...onto Brennan...who had paused his drawing and was contemplating his next sketch...with his pencil sticking straight up in the air. Point up. Ava took the pencil in the butt. Upon further investigation the pencil had plunged through her pants, through her diaper, and into her little butt cheek, missing the rectum by about...oh, I don't know, 1/8 of an inch. Awful. The curious thing is that each of her cheeks had a small laceration. Which means that she flexed her butt at just the right moment, stopping the pencil from plunging into her. Fantastic. Quick Ass Ava.
The next morning I took her to the doctor to have them look at the wound and to remove as much of the graphite tattoo as possible. During this process I was up near her head, telling her it would be alright, singing songs, and making her favorite noise (flatulence). To no avail. Ava was not happy. For the first 3 minutes she just cried. But after that, she began to swing at me. Not pawing at me like a helpless kitten, but rather taking great swipes at my nose and eyes. I reminded her that she would be getting a toy after the doctor (in our house, trauma equals toys. We do it equally for all the kids. Ava gets stabbed with a sharp object, she gets a toy. Brennan goes through the window requiring 27 stitches, he gets a toy. Zoe has the hiccups, she gets a toy). However, even the reminder of a toy didn't help Ava this time. She simply continued to hit me while saying, "Toy! Toy!"
In separate but related news, Ava has been throwing up since Saturday night, and I think we've bonded as a result. Lori was out doing some Christmas shopping on Saturday night when the puking began. Over the course of 1.5 hours Ava threw up 4 times. The first one was a full body doozie--in the hair and on the socks (it happened while she was sleeping). It totally grossed her (and me) out. After that, however, she made it to the bowl and simply did her thing. When she was finished, she would glance up at me, and in a soft, vulnerable, stoic little baby voice, she would mutter with matter of fact simplicity, "All done." It was so strong, and I think she knew that I was impressed. I am impressed, Ava *.
b is for birthday
Brennan had a pretty great 8th birthday. Cousins, pizza, new indoor shoes, Brasil jersey (with "Breninho" on the back), his own scriptures, and (still unbeknown to him) his own blog. Our good friend Mel put this together for him and I think it's going to be a big hit. For some time now, Brennan has been threatening to take over my blog. "Mine would be funnier," he claims. He's probably right. And now he'll have the chance to prove it. With a growing son, this bit of reality is becoming more and more apparent--the truth is, he probably will be funnier than me, smarter than me, taller than me, kinder than me, and stronger than me. There is plenty of literature (fiction and non-fiction) which describes this familial friction, but I honestly think it's kind of lovely.
Now I don't want him to murder me for my kingdom or anything, but I'm also not going to banish him to ensure it doesn't happen. I want him to one day cast a shadow on me. A big, brazen, better-than-my-shadow kind of shadow. This process has been described by sociologists as "demographic metabolism." The replacement of the generations creates opportunities for societies (and families) to rethink, and perhaps redefine roles, rights, responsibilities, and rewards. There is some evidence out there that this connection between changes in culture and the gradual and continuous processes of individual aging may even intersect with personality development. And here is where that intersects with what I believe: Brennan is Brennan. He always has been, and always will be. However, as one part of a collective (family, school, Church, teams, society, other kids his age, etc.) he will both change his environment, and be changed by it. An actor to act, not entirely an object to be acted upon.
This makes me happy for the future, because Brennan is an extraordinary kid. He is kind and funny. Smart and social. Strong and polite. He changed our lives when he was born 8 years ago and continues to shape our family for good. We were 23 when he was born--barely able to care of each other, let alone a little boy. But Brenno, you've made it to eight. Despite the shortcomings of your parents (mostly your father, your mom is usually spot on as a mom), you are pretty darn great. Your mom and I love you. Your sisters adore you. Your friends enjoy you. And to all of this I say, demographic metabolism, roll on.
z is for ziti (and other delicious food)
Zoe loves to be involved in things we are doing. Domesticity and care-taking come very natural to her and if the thing we are doing involves either of those elements (which we try to keep to a minimum), she's in the mix. Now, let me back up a minute to discuss the dichotomous nature of this domesticity. Recently I walked into the living room and inquired of Lori where Zoe was. "She's in the bathroom. With Dora the Explorer. Who is stuck in lava." Upon walking into the bathroom, indeed there I found Zoe with her life-size Dora doll, who did appear to be stuck in something. Zoe confirmed that it was lava. Now that I have unfairly characterized Zoe as Kathy Bates in Misery, let me continue. Last night Zoe was helping us make fish. She pulled the fish out of the packaging, put it on the pan, and seasoned it ever so carefully. After it was time to take the dinner out of the oven, Zoe insisted on serving it to Lori and Brennan. She got the plate all ready, then walked it out to Brennan. She put it in front of him, and after taking his first bite, she asked, "Did it blow up your mind?" Mind blown (up). It was delicious.
Zoe's one-liners are pretty fantastic, as I think I've written about before. I posted one such one-liner on Facebook (the one about Mommy "even marrying Daddy with that mole on his face"), and it received 26 'likes' and 12 'comments.' Which says to me that Zoe has pretty broad appeal...and may be saying things that everyone else is thinking. I mean, c'mon. Who doesn't want to see an episode of Dora the Explorer wherein she is trapped in lava and can't make it over to Bubble Gum Island?
A few Sundays ago I was reading to the kids on the floor in the toy room. Brennan was at my side drawing and listening; Zoe was at my feet listening; and Ava was on my back trying to balance (and presumably hurt me a little) as she walked from my feet up to my neck. About halfway through a Shel Silverstein poem about a boy who turns into a TV (Jimmy Jet and his TV Set), Ava fell off my back...onto Brennan...who had paused his drawing and was contemplating his next sketch...with his pencil sticking straight up in the air. Point up. Ava took the pencil in the butt. Upon further investigation the pencil had plunged through her pants, through her diaper, and into her little butt cheek, missing the rectum by about...oh, I don't know, 1/8 of an inch. Awful. The curious thing is that each of her cheeks had a small laceration. Which means that she flexed her butt at just the right moment, stopping the pencil from plunging into her. Fantastic. Quick Ass Ava.
The next morning I took her to the doctor to have them look at the wound and to remove as much of the graphite tattoo as possible. During this process I was up near her head, telling her it would be alright, singing songs, and making her favorite noise (flatulence). To no avail. Ava was not happy. For the first 3 minutes she just cried. But after that, she began to swing at me. Not pawing at me like a helpless kitten, but rather taking great swipes at my nose and eyes. I reminded her that she would be getting a toy after the doctor (in our house, trauma equals toys. We do it equally for all the kids. Ava gets stabbed with a sharp object, she gets a toy. Brennan goes through the window requiring 27 stitches, he gets a toy. Zoe has the hiccups, she gets a toy). However, even the reminder of a toy didn't help Ava this time. She simply continued to hit me while saying, "Toy! Toy!"
In separate but related news, Ava has been throwing up since Saturday night, and I think we've bonded as a result. Lori was out doing some Christmas shopping on Saturday night when the puking began. Over the course of 1.5 hours Ava threw up 4 times. The first one was a full body doozie--in the hair and on the socks (it happened while she was sleeping). It totally grossed her (and me) out. After that, however, she made it to the bowl and simply did her thing. When she was finished, she would glance up at me, and in a soft, vulnerable, stoic little baby voice, she would mutter with matter of fact simplicity, "All done." It was so strong, and I think she knew that I was impressed. I am impressed, Ava *.
b is for birthday
Brennan had a pretty great 8th birthday. Cousins, pizza, new indoor shoes, Brasil jersey (with "Breninho" on the back), his own scriptures, and (still unbeknown to him) his own blog. Our good friend Mel put this together for him and I think it's going to be a big hit. For some time now, Brennan has been threatening to take over my blog. "Mine would be funnier," he claims. He's probably right. And now he'll have the chance to prove it. With a growing son, this bit of reality is becoming more and more apparent--the truth is, he probably will be funnier than me, smarter than me, taller than me, kinder than me, and stronger than me. There is plenty of literature (fiction and non-fiction) which describes this familial friction, but I honestly think it's kind of lovely.
Now I don't want him to murder me for my kingdom or anything, but I'm also not going to banish him to ensure it doesn't happen. I want him to one day cast a shadow on me. A big, brazen, better-than-my-shadow kind of shadow. This process has been described by sociologists as "demographic metabolism." The replacement of the generations creates opportunities for societies (and families) to rethink, and perhaps redefine roles, rights, responsibilities, and rewards. There is some evidence out there that this connection between changes in culture and the gradual and continuous processes of individual aging may even intersect with personality development. And here is where that intersects with what I believe: Brennan is Brennan. He always has been, and always will be. However, as one part of a collective (family, school, Church, teams, society, other kids his age, etc.) he will both change his environment, and be changed by it. An actor to act, not entirely an object to be acted upon.
This makes me happy for the future, because Brennan is an extraordinary kid. He is kind and funny. Smart and social. Strong and polite. He changed our lives when he was born 8 years ago and continues to shape our family for good. We were 23 when he was born--barely able to care of each other, let alone a little boy. But Brenno, you've made it to eight. Despite the shortcomings of your parents (mostly your father, your mom is usually spot on as a mom), you are pretty darn great. Your mom and I love you. Your sisters adore you. Your friends enjoy you. And to all of this I say, demographic metabolism, roll on.
z is for ziti (and other delicious food)
Zoe loves to be involved in things we are doing. Domesticity and care-taking come very natural to her and if the thing we are doing involves either of those elements (which we try to keep to a minimum), she's in the mix. Now, let me back up a minute to discuss the dichotomous nature of this domesticity. Recently I walked into the living room and inquired of Lori where Zoe was. "She's in the bathroom. With Dora the Explorer. Who is stuck in lava." Upon walking into the bathroom, indeed there I found Zoe with her life-size Dora doll, who did appear to be stuck in something. Zoe confirmed that it was lava. Now that I have unfairly characterized Zoe as Kathy Bates in Misery, let me continue. Last night Zoe was helping us make fish. She pulled the fish out of the packaging, put it on the pan, and seasoned it ever so carefully. After it was time to take the dinner out of the oven, Zoe insisted on serving it to Lori and Brennan. She got the plate all ready, then walked it out to Brennan. She put it in front of him, and after taking his first bite, she asked, "Did it blow up your mind?" Mind blown (up). It was delicious.
Zoe's one-liners are pretty fantastic, as I think I've written about before. I posted one such one-liner on Facebook (the one about Mommy "even marrying Daddy with that mole on his face"), and it received 26 'likes' and 12 'comments.' Which says to me that Zoe has pretty broad appeal...and may be saying things that everyone else is thinking. I mean, c'mon. Who doesn't want to see an episode of Dora the Explorer wherein she is trapped in lava and can't make it over to Bubble Gum Island?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
angels, balls, and genes
Here is a look at the recent deductive reasoning that has been swirling in my head: "I hate statistics. I am not good at statistics. However, my grandfather was a fairly talented Professor of mathematics. We share many (presumably) of the same genes. Therefore, surely I must be able to excel at statistics." These thoughts both buoy me and damn me. As in, "Oh buoy, I sure hope I understand the chi-square distribution before Friday's exam...dammit." The fact is, I may have very different mathematical predispositions than my grandfather (apparently there is a decent amount of controversy about the existence of a "math gene." I found this out while doing the obligatory pre-post-wikipedia-research.); my father certainly thinks that this is the case with him. So, my faith in this hoped-for-predisposition may be entirely in vain, right? Maybe not.
Faith is, at its core (and by design in my opinion), irrational. The things we put faith in, are for the most part only valuable to the extent that we make them so. I recognize that this is tantamount to equating Jesus with a four leaf clover (read, Catholicism); however, I am not afraid to state that His significance is a result of deeply personal experiences which are based upon feelings, thoughts, and a bit of irrational hope. And yet, many believe (including myself, most of the time) that He holds tremendous power. And who is anyone to question that experience? Alright, back to Grandpa's DNA.
My faith as it relates to success in statistics boils down to this: I'll pray for divine intervention and hope for genetic adequacy. If indeed the divine intercedes on my behalf, I'd like to make the request that Grandpa Franz be the Clarence to my George Bailey. And Grandpa, if you are headed this way, I'll welcome you with an apology: I'm sorry about that time we were playing catch in the backyard and I threw the baseball at you and it hit you in the testicles and then I proceeded to laugh hysterically/uncontrollably for 5+ minutes.
In the case that I'm saved by DNA, I'd like to thank your aforementioned testicles for making that possible. Either way, cheers to Grandpa Franz. And may my faith be fortified.
Faith is, at its core (and by design in my opinion), irrational. The things we put faith in, are for the most part only valuable to the extent that we make them so. I recognize that this is tantamount to equating Jesus with a four leaf clover (read, Catholicism); however, I am not afraid to state that His significance is a result of deeply personal experiences which are based upon feelings, thoughts, and a bit of irrational hope. And yet, many believe (including myself, most of the time) that He holds tremendous power. And who is anyone to question that experience? Alright, back to Grandpa's DNA.
My faith as it relates to success in statistics boils down to this: I'll pray for divine intervention and hope for genetic adequacy. If indeed the divine intercedes on my behalf, I'd like to make the request that Grandpa Franz be the Clarence to my George Bailey. And Grandpa, if you are headed this way, I'll welcome you with an apology: I'm sorry about that time we were playing catch in the backyard and I threw the baseball at you and it hit you in the testicles and then I proceeded to laugh hysterically/uncontrollably for 5+ minutes.
In the case that I'm saved by DNA, I'd like to thank your aforementioned testicles for making that possible. Either way, cheers to Grandpa Franz. And may my faith be fortified.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
short stories of short people
#1 the incredible inedible egg
Last month at about this time, Brennan made some observations around the house which necessitated a lesson about the menstrual cycle. I gave him a very simplified version of the process, without using the words, follicles, corpus luteum, or ovulation. Basically I taught him that once a month Mommy's body produces an egg that could turn into a baby under the right conditions. If those conditions are not met, the body doesn't need the egg anymore and therefore disposes of it. We also discussed additional consequences of this process; namely, hormones and their effect on mood and behavior (which happened to be one of Brennan's observations). He accepted all of this, took it in as Brennan typically does, and went on his merry way. Tonight as we were preparing for soccer practice Lori was effectively juggling 14 different tasks and it was beginning to wear on her; eventually this manifested itself in a bit of a snippy comment directed at me (which I may or may not have deserved...this is MY blog). She walked into the kitchen. Brennan (who was sitting next to me), looked up at me grinning, and said, "Maybe she's having that situation with the egg." Maybe so, Brennan. But if she hears us talking, there is a good chance that the "situation" and the "egg" will have less to do with the endometrium and more to do with Mommy throwing chicken eggs at us.
#2 drawing cartoons for school (DCFS)
Zoe is getting very good with the marker. She has been waiting for this moment for some time, and now that she can put together a story through pictures, she is quite pleased with herself. At school today her art class creation involved a large circular figure with spiky hair, four ears, a button nose, and a pleasant smile (all in red marker). This character is surrounded by a number of other smaller characters (all in yellow marker) who look rather forlorn. Or scared out of their minds. Think Dr. Seuss meets Wes Craven. It could mean any number of things, so no need to be concerned. She is a creative little girl. Except that it did mean something to Zoe. Something very specific. Something that she told to her teacher so that the teacher (remember, hippie/pacifist teacher) could record it for all eternity in the bottom right corner of the picture.
A monster touched the little boy.
And he is crying.
The family of monsters ate the little boy.
I don't know what disturbed me more...the touching or the eating. I think the touching. Just because I envision Zoe's teacher transcribing this particular statement and almost passing out. I'll let you know how the in-home visit goes. I'll blame it on Shel Silverstein.
#3 the devil wears robeez
Ava turned two on Friday (the day before the day that used to be recognized as my birthday). And Ava is definitely playing the part. Like Daniel Day Lewis staying in character during an entire filming, Ava has embraced being two in a very real and believable way. The only thing is, she has been in character for about 4 months now. She will hit you. She will scream unapologetically in public. And as the nice woman at the park now knows, if you are trying to charm her or admire her cuteness, and she does not want you in her face, she will yell 'NO!' at you very loudly. Her fear of the bathtub is only surpassed in intensity by her love of shoes. Any shoes. Your shoes. Numerous times this summer Lori had to chase Ava into the baby pool because she had heisted a stranger's flip flops and was making them hers. She is also incredibly agile. She has made it down our fairly steep, wooden stairs in: Lori's black pumps, my black chuck taylors, Brennan's Buzz Lightyear slippers, and Zoe's sleeping beauty dress up shoes (daily, sometimes hourly). When we try to remove these shoes from her, she turns into a miniature version of a Darren Star character, simply incredulous that someone could take shoes away from her. I have no idea what the shoes thing means. Maybe this will become an expensive habit. Or maybe she's the first kid to look in our closet, realizing instantly that Lori and I like shoes. A lot. Or maybe (and this is my theory), Ava just wants to be big. She wants to keep up with her brother and sister. She mimics them. She WILL walk a mile in their shoes. And more, if allowed. She wants to be them. And that's ok with us.
Minus the intelligent smart-alecness of her brother and the creative macabre mind of her sister, of course. Actually, throw them in there too. It is because of those things, not despite them, that we love these short people like we do.
Last month at about this time, Brennan made some observations around the house which necessitated a lesson about the menstrual cycle. I gave him a very simplified version of the process, without using the words, follicles, corpus luteum, or ovulation. Basically I taught him that once a month Mommy's body produces an egg that could turn into a baby under the right conditions. If those conditions are not met, the body doesn't need the egg anymore and therefore disposes of it. We also discussed additional consequences of this process; namely, hormones and their effect on mood and behavior (which happened to be one of Brennan's observations). He accepted all of this, took it in as Brennan typically does, and went on his merry way. Tonight as we were preparing for soccer practice Lori was effectively juggling 14 different tasks and it was beginning to wear on her; eventually this manifested itself in a bit of a snippy comment directed at me (which I may or may not have deserved...this is MY blog). She walked into the kitchen. Brennan (who was sitting next to me), looked up at me grinning, and said, "Maybe she's having that situation with the egg." Maybe so, Brennan. But if she hears us talking, there is a good chance that the "situation" and the "egg" will have less to do with the endometrium and more to do with Mommy throwing chicken eggs at us.
#2 drawing cartoons for school (DCFS)
Zoe is getting very good with the marker. She has been waiting for this moment for some time, and now that she can put together a story through pictures, she is quite pleased with herself. At school today her art class creation involved a large circular figure with spiky hair, four ears, a button nose, and a pleasant smile (all in red marker). This character is surrounded by a number of other smaller characters (all in yellow marker) who look rather forlorn. Or scared out of their minds. Think Dr. Seuss meets Wes Craven. It could mean any number of things, so no need to be concerned. She is a creative little girl. Except that it did mean something to Zoe. Something very specific. Something that she told to her teacher so that the teacher (remember, hippie/pacifist teacher) could record it for all eternity in the bottom right corner of the picture.
A monster touched the little boy.
And he is crying.
The family of monsters ate the little boy.
I don't know what disturbed me more...the touching or the eating. I think the touching. Just because I envision Zoe's teacher transcribing this particular statement and almost passing out. I'll let you know how the in-home visit goes. I'll blame it on Shel Silverstein.
#3 the devil wears robeez
Ava turned two on Friday (the day before the day that used to be recognized as my birthday). And Ava is definitely playing the part. Like Daniel Day Lewis staying in character during an entire filming, Ava has embraced being two in a very real and believable way. The only thing is, she has been in character for about 4 months now. She will hit you. She will scream unapologetically in public. And as the nice woman at the park now knows, if you are trying to charm her or admire her cuteness, and she does not want you in her face, she will yell 'NO!' at you very loudly. Her fear of the bathtub is only surpassed in intensity by her love of shoes. Any shoes. Your shoes. Numerous times this summer Lori had to chase Ava into the baby pool because she had heisted a stranger's flip flops and was making them hers. She is also incredibly agile. She has made it down our fairly steep, wooden stairs in: Lori's black pumps, my black chuck taylors, Brennan's Buzz Lightyear slippers, and Zoe's sleeping beauty dress up shoes (daily, sometimes hourly). When we try to remove these shoes from her, she turns into a miniature version of a Darren Star character, simply incredulous that someone could take shoes away from her. I have no idea what the shoes thing means. Maybe this will become an expensive habit. Or maybe she's the first kid to look in our closet, realizing instantly that Lori and I like shoes. A lot. Or maybe (and this is my theory), Ava just wants to be big. She wants to keep up with her brother and sister. She mimics them. She WILL walk a mile in their shoes. And more, if allowed. She wants to be them. And that's ok with us.
Minus the intelligent smart-alecness of her brother and the creative macabre mind of her sister, of course. Actually, throw them in there too. It is because of those things, not despite them, that we love these short people like we do.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
breaking rules. broken heart.
Zoe got into a bit of trouble during her first week of pre-K last week. The teacher's assessment was that Zoe was being "exclusive" and "making other friends feel bad" (friend is code for student...yes, it's slightly obnoxious, but a great school). She almost got suspended for a day. Seriously (stuck up kid + school run by hippies = suspension). We've seen this behavior in Zoe before (shall we call it transparently preferential), and admittedly, we haven't done too much to curtail it. With Brennan, the minute we saw him exhibiting slightly negative behavior, we were all over it. I'll still never forget the day that an innocent 13 month old Brennan intentionally pushed over a neighbor kid of the same age. Lori was convinced he was destined for juvie. We had long conversations about the behavior and began reading Dr. Brazelton's Touchpoints to figure out "what to do next!?". Two naive 23 year old parents, staying up late, hand in hand, worrying about their future anti-socialite. In reality, the neighborhood kid was a skinny little ginger who probably deserved a good push or two (I think she was saying the ABCs at the time...total show off). By the time we got to Zoe, we realized that we had spent most of Brennan's little life overreacting; couple that with her mild-mannered and exceptionally sweet demeanor, (being really cute doesn't hurt) and Zoe didn't get a timeout until she was 4.5 (the same cannot be said for Brennan or Ava...and Ava can't blame overreactions...or a lack of cuteness). She's also been protected from punishments because she's not afraid to lie. For which I blame/praise the XX Franz chromosomes (Kari and Maggie are spectacular liars).
So now Zoe is 5, and we are, for really the first time helping her correct certain behaviors. She is doing fine, but is a bit on edge, and it's breaking my heart. There have been a lot of talks about treating all people kindly (even gingers), what it means to be a "Franz," why lying is wrong (sorry Maggie and Kari), how to respond when someone isn't doing exactly what we want them to do, etc. Yesterday after playing at the park I was putting Ava in her seat and Zoe was playing outside the car (in the rocks...she loves rocks) and I heard a little "ping, ping, ping." The F-150 next to us had little rocks on its foot step, and Zoe was looking up at me expectantly.
Zoe, did you throw rocks at that truck?
*after a brief hesitation where she began to shake her head 'no' she weakly nodded 'yes'*
Just don't get mad at me. Please. I didn't mean to hit the truck (may or may not have been true...again, she's pretty good).
We discussed why not to throw rocks at cars, particularly the F-150 ("the owner of the F-150 is what we refer to as a 'Proud Vehicularist;' they love the truck, they hand wash and wax the truck. This is part of their identity. They don't take a rock-chipped paint job lightly."). She nodded politely, smiled a couple of times, but mostly blinked a lot to keep from crying. It was painfully adorable...so much so that I wanted to throw a boulder through the F-150's windshield, just to show her whose side I was on.
But I can't do that. Zoe has to learn. I'm sure she will. Instead I just blinked a lot as I climbed into the driver's seat. Darn sun. Always makes my eyes water. I too am a liar.
So now Zoe is 5, and we are, for really the first time helping her correct certain behaviors. She is doing fine, but is a bit on edge, and it's breaking my heart. There have been a lot of talks about treating all people kindly (even gingers), what it means to be a "Franz," why lying is wrong (sorry Maggie and Kari), how to respond when someone isn't doing exactly what we want them to do, etc. Yesterday after playing at the park I was putting Ava in her seat and Zoe was playing outside the car (in the rocks...she loves rocks) and I heard a little "ping, ping, ping." The F-150 next to us had little rocks on its foot step, and Zoe was looking up at me expectantly.
Zoe, did you throw rocks at that truck?
*after a brief hesitation where she began to shake her head 'no' she weakly nodded 'yes'*
Just don't get mad at me. Please. I didn't mean to hit the truck (may or may not have been true...again, she's pretty good).
We discussed why not to throw rocks at cars, particularly the F-150 ("the owner of the F-150 is what we refer to as a 'Proud Vehicularist;' they love the truck, they hand wash and wax the truck. This is part of their identity. They don't take a rock-chipped paint job lightly."). She nodded politely, smiled a couple of times, but mostly blinked a lot to keep from crying. It was painfully adorable...so much so that I wanted to throw a boulder through the F-150's windshield, just to show her whose side I was on.
But I can't do that. Zoe has to learn. I'm sure she will. Instead I just blinked a lot as I climbed into the driver's seat. Darn sun. Always makes my eyes water. I too am a liar.
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