Hungry, Hungry Hippos

Sorry about all of the politics/political theory from Thursday. I seem to be writing two different blogs: one political, one personal.

A few weeks ago, I brought home a new game for the kids: Hungry, Hungry Hippos by Hasbro. I thought it would be a good way to teach counting, fair play, rule following, and alliteration. I found it as true with parenting as I have with teaching: the lessons that we intend are rarely the lessons taught, and teaching any lesson involves learning one yourself.

My four-year old boy loved it. He had some difficulty operating his "Hippo" (it is not a well made game), but he persevered and was able to feed his "Hippo" quite a few marbles. He also had a problem with the concept of "winning". He was quite sure that taking turns winning was the proper course of action. So I tried to teach him a lesson.

After a few minutes, I realized that I should have done some more prep for my lesson. I realized that the popular wisdom held by our society is massively contradictory: winners are celebrated, venerated, and paraded as heroes; losers are not. At the same time, we are told that it doesn't matter whether we win or lose, it only matters how we play the game. We are supposed to give it our very best effort, regardless of the outcome. Somehow, playing well is supposed to make us feel good. Anyone who has ever played anything knows that it feels better to win than lose. My son is aware of that already.

I want my son to be content with a "best effort", but at the same time I don't want him to become a "loser". Almost every team I have ever been a part of has lost. I don't mean we lost a few games here and there; I mean we mercy-rule lost; I mean our only victories were often earned when the other team failed to show up. It starts to work on you, the continual losing.

So I found that not only is our society conflicted, I am. I find it hard to rationalize competitive enterprise with a life of Christian service. To begin with, why would I want to elevate myself above another? Does this bring me closer to heart of Christ? Does it, in some way, glory God to use the gifts that God has given to defeat a fellow human being? At the same time, some of the best times of fellowship I have ever had have come while gaming. Does that make it okay? I don't know.

So what did I do about the doubly-hungry hippos? I feed my son all of the well-worn cliches that the world teaches us while we competed to feed our hippos as many marbles as possible. He will have to sort it out later. I think he knows at least that you can't take turns winning. He has tasted the thrill of victory and the sting of defeat.

My two-year old daughter, however, is another story. She also had difficulty operating the hippo. At first she solved this problem by manually holding the hippo's mouth open, but was informed that it was against the rules to do so. So she let down her hippo's mouth and began to scoot the marbles into the mouths of my and my son's hippos. I think my daughter knows something that I don't know; I just don't know what it is yet.

Peace

Life's in the Toilet

My four-year old son can be very methodical. At times this can be a very good thing. At times it can be paralyzing. He always lifts the seat, he never misses (yet), and he always flushes. His dear two-year old sister has taken to rushing into the bathroom (he hasn't learned to shut the door yet) in the middle of his business and flushing for him. She thinks it is very funny. It ruins his day.

It sounds something like this:
Lid goes up.
Business begins.
Sound of rushing little girl feet.
Anguished cry, "No, X [name of sister] no! Don't do that!"
Flush
"He, he, he, he." Sound of rushing little girl feet. Muffled sound of parents laughing.
Jiggling of handle.
"It won't go. X [name of sister]!"
Tank refilling.
Flush.


Peace

Momma Feexed My Nigh-nigh

My two-year old daughter has been sleeping in her crib since she was born. We knew it was time to move her to a real bed but couldn't find the funds to buy one. So yesterday my wife removed the crib, baby-proofed the room, and simply moved the mattress to the floor. Before this, my daughter had to play in her brother's room, but now she has her own room in which to play. She was beside herself with excitement. She played, napped, and spent the night in her room. At dinner she still had the "I'm all grown up now" glow about her. She started to say something. She grew thoughtful, scrunched up her face and fumbled for the rights words to fit her happiness..."Momma...nigh-nigh...my....feexed (fixed)...momma...nigh-nigh...("nigh-nigh" is bed" At last she got it together, "Momma feexed my nigh-nigh" (Momma fixed my bed). It was her most meaningful sentence yet. Her mother was very pleased and proud. This morning when I got up at 6:45, she greeted me at her door, "I'm up! I'm up! I'm up." She had gotten herself out of her own bed and was very proud of it. We are too.

Peace

Fear and the Four Year Old

My wife and I have worked consciously to ensure that our personal fears do not become adopted by our children (4-yr old boy and 2-yr old girl). For the most part it has worked. I hate spiders. Loathe them. No shoe is big enough for the spiders of the world. The existence of spiders has, at times, challenged my faith (how could a loving God create spiders).

My favorite season of the year has always been Autumn, but my growing realization that September is the time in Georgia that massive arachnids choose to stretch their massive webs from tree to tree has made the onset of the season bittersweet. Last September these spiders decided to invade the exterior of my house. They come out at night, stretch their webs, pack up after sunrise and then wait till dusk to begin their evil enterprise again. I leave my house for school before sunrise (or spiderfall as I call it in September). Apparently, the two pines trees in my front yard became the gateposts of a spider hellmouth. They stretched webs from the trees to the front of my house so that their webs would dangle above my sidewalk like a gauntlet of swords' of Damocles. I would run the gauntlet only to find that others had stretched their odious nets across the driveway to the dogwood on the other side, happily bouncing in the Autumn breeze above my car. Having had enough, I went to my local Ace Hardware store (they still have them, I love it, they are friendly, helpful and have all of the unusual parts you won't find at the Big Orange Box or Big Blue Box) and purchased an industrial-strength can of wasp spray, guaranteed to kill up to twenty-five feet. I needed that kind of reach, as some of them were very high in the trees. The next morning I went to work. Before the sun rose I donned cap, grabbed a high-powered flashlight, and completely freaked out my neighbors by performing an elaborate spider-exorcism dance, or so it must have looked to them. I would hold the spider in the center of the beam and then soak it and its web with foam. It was a beautiful death. Each line of the web, coated with foam, gleamed in a poisonous frost. The spider ran excitedly about the web, perhaps thinking that thousands of tiny white bugs had been miraculously, simultaneously delivered to her web by her demon-lord. Then she would drop a bit, the poison sinking in to every pore. She would spin, flinging flecks of the killing foam off in every direction. I would whisper, "Die daughter of Shelob" and hit it again. It would drop another couple of feet as its rate of spin picked up. I would hit it again. This would continue until the great carcass of the beast would lay shriveled and wet in the bed of pine straw beneath the tree.

I went through three bottles of wasp spray last September. I know I got at least fifteen of the buggers. I rationalized the slaughter by telling my self that I was "making the yard safe for famocracy".

All of this was to explain to you my joy, when on Wednesday evening, when, from my office, I heard my daughter saying, "ants, ants, ants". My daughter uses the word "Ants" for any bug so I knew she had spotting something. I came out of my office to the living room and, crawling across the carpet, I saw a small spider. The adrenalin immediately began to flood my system and I prepared to engage in an emergency spider-hunt. I stepped back...no one was panicking. My daughter was assaulting it with a doll's shoe, and my son's weapon of choice was a massive volume of Harry Potter (I wonder where they learned these methods of bug disposal?). My daughter's attacks were vicious, but poorly aimed while my son's were on target, but non-lethal. Neither one was afraid. This was a business transaction. They would make a tag-team assault, withdraw, examine the target with interest, and attack again. I was about to step in and take care of the problem myself when my one of daughter's wild swings finally connected. The spider was splattered, with no fear, no crying, and no calls for help. They grow up so fast. I was so proud.

Maybe this is some kind of anti-PETA website.

Peace