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
Showing posts with label w1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label w1. Show all posts
09 July 2005
06 July 2005
"I Hated You";"Thank Gosh, You're Here!"
"I Hated You."
It took four years, five months, and twenty-four days. Today, my son told me for the first time, "I hated you." He still has to work on the tense, and his tone was all wrong (a pitiful plea), but I know we have crossed into a new stage in our relationship. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would, but I was disappointed none-the-less.
"Thank Gosh, You're Here!"
I overheard this on one of my son's TV shows. It reminded me of the old definition of "heck" as "eternal separation from gosh". This was not a PBS show (I think it was Disney). If I had thought that they were doing it to avoid violating the third commandment then I would have been impressed and a little amused, but I am certain that the word was edited to save offense to those who are offended by any public mention of the word "God". On another note, is it just me or is the theme of all PBS kids' programming, "Believe in yourself"? I am certain I have heard it in songs on at least four different shows. 4 Boy Dad had some interesting observations on educational programming here.
Peace
It took four years, five months, and twenty-four days. Today, my son told me for the first time, "I hated you." He still has to work on the tense, and his tone was all wrong (a pitiful plea), but I know we have crossed into a new stage in our relationship. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would, but I was disappointed none-the-less.
"Thank Gosh, You're Here!"
I overheard this on one of my son's TV shows. It reminded me of the old definition of "heck" as "eternal separation from gosh". This was not a PBS show (I think it was Disney). If I had thought that they were doing it to avoid violating the third commandment then I would have been impressed and a little amused, but I am certain that the word was edited to save offense to those who are offended by any public mention of the word "God". On another note, is it just me or is the theme of all PBS kids' programming, "Believe in yourself"? I am certain I have heard it in songs on at least four different shows. 4 Boy Dad had some interesting observations on educational programming here.
Peace
30 June 2005
Life's in the Toilet, Part 2: The Battle of Kennesaw Mountain
Last week I took my four-year old son for a hike up Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield Park, north of Atlanta. It is a place where Sherman, frustrated by his need to perform complex maneuvers to out-flank Johnston’s Confederate army, launched a frontal assault in searing summer heat against Confederate troops in prepared positions. It was a minor disaster for the Union. End of lecture. Now it is a place where suburban Atlantans, frustrated by their own obesity, launch assaults against their frontal fat and allow their dogs to defecate where brave men died. I want my son to get an appreciation for the past and its meaning to today without having to force it down his throat.
He did very well on the climb up the mountain (it is a mile long hike with a moderate grade). He hoped to see animals. Counting the ant and three birds, we only saw four. He also hoped to get high enough to touch the sky. After starting up the trail, he queried, "Where's Momma?"
"At home."
"Where's ... [his sister]?"
"At home with Momma."
"Why?" (He has recently entered the "why" phrase. This would be fine except that he uses it completely inappropriately about 60% of the time. Example: "Would you like a Pop Tart for breakfast?" "Why?" or "Did you enjoy your walk?" "Why?")
"Well, today is sort of a guy's day out."
He was quiet for a moment before asking, "Women can't come here?" Then I realized that we had only seen about five other people on the trail at that point; they had all been men.
We snacked on some mixed nuts and bottled water while sitting on a bench about halfway up. He talked about his hopes of seeing an eagle. We continued up the mountain. He only brought up the possibility of Daddy carrying him when we were almost to the summit. I told him no, and he let it go.
We had a good time at the summit until he suddenly wanted to leave and go home. At first, I was flummoxed. I had thought that he was having a fine time. Uh oh, too much water. He had to go. There is no bathroom at the summit. That means a hike down the mountain and the use of a public bathroom. Reluctantly, I tried to talk him into the use of a tree (despite my respect for the site, bladder emergencies of four-year olds trump all. I think this is different than purposely bringing a dog, knowing what will probably happen). He had just christened his first tree the previous week in the back yard (see my wife's account here). I might have succeeded if the trail hadn't been so busy.
The trooper bravely led the way down the mountain in what would be called by future historians, the 2nd Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. The commanding officer could barely keep up with the advance of the trooper. Though morale was low, the trooper never complained or even acknowledged what the problem was, but it was clear with every step that he was in anguish. After chatting his way up the mountain, he descended in an almost impenetrable silence. At one point, stepping down off of a rock, he paused with a pained expression on his face, "Wait" he said. His courage was waning, and I wondered if he could hold off the enemy. The crisis passed, and he pressed on to bottom at a record setting pace.
The real struggle began at the base of the mountain. The trooper has a fear of public restrooms. Well, so does high command, but for much different reasons. He hates loud noises. Many of the toilets in public restrooms are equipped with a small ramjet capable of flushing waste into another dimension. Some are equipped with motion sensors that automatically flush the toilet. Put the two together and you have a possessed porcelain beast in the eyes of one small trooper who is barely taller than the commode.
At this point, the trooper flagged and sounded the retreat, but retreat was not acceptable to the commanding officer. With an inspiring speech about the possibility of a juice box upon completion of the mission, he rallied the trooper into the restroom without bloodshed. Command pushed open the door of a stall, which immediately set off the motion sensor and, thank God, a reasonable, almost peaceful, flush. It was a beautiful sound. Still skeptical, the trooper asked, "Is it loud?" He entered the stall while the commander prayed that the motion sensor wouldn't set off another flush. If it did while the trooper was in an awkward position, it could set the cause back for years. Mercifully, the toilet waited until the trooper stepped away to pull up his pants before it flushed. The trooper began evasive maneuvers even though his uniform was not properly arranged. Knowing he was too concerned with the toilet to finish dressing, the commander helped him get arranged. While standing in the stall door, it went off for the third time. The trooper looked at his cold nemesis and said with a tone of complete exasperation, but not fear, "Again?" It was a challenge. The trooper had won, and he knew it. The battle was over and he had vanquished the foe. He got his juice box for valor in the car on the way home.
My petition to the National Park Service to erect a historical marker at the base of the mountain commemorating the charge of the light bladder has, so far, been ignored. Offers to pay for a plaque on the door of the stall where so much was shed have been met with silence.
He never saw an eagle.
Peace
He did very well on the climb up the mountain (it is a mile long hike with a moderate grade). He hoped to see animals. Counting the ant and three birds, we only saw four. He also hoped to get high enough to touch the sky. After starting up the trail, he queried, "Where's Momma?"
"At home."
"Where's ... [his sister]?"
"At home with Momma."
"Why?" (He has recently entered the "why" phrase. This would be fine except that he uses it completely inappropriately about 60% of the time. Example: "Would you like a Pop Tart for breakfast?" "Why?" or "Did you enjoy your walk?" "Why?")
"Well, today is sort of a guy's day out."
He was quiet for a moment before asking, "Women can't come here?" Then I realized that we had only seen about five other people on the trail at that point; they had all been men.
We snacked on some mixed nuts and bottled water while sitting on a bench about halfway up. He talked about his hopes of seeing an eagle. We continued up the mountain. He only brought up the possibility of Daddy carrying him when we were almost to the summit. I told him no, and he let it go.
We had a good time at the summit until he suddenly wanted to leave and go home. At first, I was flummoxed. I had thought that he was having a fine time. Uh oh, too much water. He had to go. There is no bathroom at the summit. That means a hike down the mountain and the use of a public bathroom. Reluctantly, I tried to talk him into the use of a tree (despite my respect for the site, bladder emergencies of four-year olds trump all. I think this is different than purposely bringing a dog, knowing what will probably happen). He had just christened his first tree the previous week in the back yard (see my wife's account here). I might have succeeded if the trail hadn't been so busy.
The trooper bravely led the way down the mountain in what would be called by future historians, the 2nd Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. The commanding officer could barely keep up with the advance of the trooper. Though morale was low, the trooper never complained or even acknowledged what the problem was, but it was clear with every step that he was in anguish. After chatting his way up the mountain, he descended in an almost impenetrable silence. At one point, stepping down off of a rock, he paused with a pained expression on his face, "Wait" he said. His courage was waning, and I wondered if he could hold off the enemy. The crisis passed, and he pressed on to bottom at a record setting pace.
The real struggle began at the base of the mountain. The trooper has a fear of public restrooms. Well, so does high command, but for much different reasons. He hates loud noises. Many of the toilets in public restrooms are equipped with a small ramjet capable of flushing waste into another dimension. Some are equipped with motion sensors that automatically flush the toilet. Put the two together and you have a possessed porcelain beast in the eyes of one small trooper who is barely taller than the commode.
At this point, the trooper flagged and sounded the retreat, but retreat was not acceptable to the commanding officer. With an inspiring speech about the possibility of a juice box upon completion of the mission, he rallied the trooper into the restroom without bloodshed. Command pushed open the door of a stall, which immediately set off the motion sensor and, thank God, a reasonable, almost peaceful, flush. It was a beautiful sound. Still skeptical, the trooper asked, "Is it loud?" He entered the stall while the commander prayed that the motion sensor wouldn't set off another flush. If it did while the trooper was in an awkward position, it could set the cause back for years. Mercifully, the toilet waited until the trooper stepped away to pull up his pants before it flushed. The trooper began evasive maneuvers even though his uniform was not properly arranged. Knowing he was too concerned with the toilet to finish dressing, the commander helped him get arranged. While standing in the stall door, it went off for the third time. The trooper looked at his cold nemesis and said with a tone of complete exasperation, but not fear, "Again?" It was a challenge. The trooper had won, and he knew it. The battle was over and he had vanquished the foe. He got his juice box for valor in the car on the way home.
My petition to the National Park Service to erect a historical marker at the base of the mountain commemorating the charge of the light bladder has, so far, been ignored. Offers to pay for a plaque on the door of the stall where so much was shed have been met with silence.
He never saw an eagle.
Peace
29 June 2005
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
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
28 June 2005
Going Commando: What are They Thinking?
I noticed something unusual the other day. Two pair of male underwear were on the floor of our downstairs' bathroom. One pair was Spiderman; the other was Thomas the Tank-Engine. Because I knew that my Spiderman underwear was safely in my dresser drawer and that these were several dozen sizes too small for me, I knew they weren't mine. I put them in the dirty clothes hamper and assumed that there was a story behind the occurrence, but neglected to follow up on it with the management.
Time went by, and I continued to find underwear on the bathroom floor. Thomas and Spidey and Blue and generic trucks all ended up on the bathroom floor. The evidence was piling up that something was amiss. An investigation undertaken by the management now proves that my son has taken up a disturbing habit. He will go into the bathroom, do his business, and return to play sans underwear. Oh, he will still be wearing pants, but he has availed himself of the opportunity in the bathroom to remove his underwear. His explanations as to why he does this have not been satisfactory. Apparently, he likes the freedom of the commando style (al la Cosmo Kramer). Even worse, my explanations as to why it is a good idea to wear underwear have not been satisfactory either.
Of course, it is entirely possible that his observation of the boy down the street (who frequently rides his bike in nothing but his underwear and on occasion, without any clothes at all) has put ideas into his mind. My son greeted his female cousin last week by standing at the top of the stairs, shouting her name, and throwing up his hands in greeting; he was wearing only a t-shirt.
Peace
Time went by, and I continued to find underwear on the bathroom floor. Thomas and Spidey and Blue and generic trucks all ended up on the bathroom floor. The evidence was piling up that something was amiss. An investigation undertaken by the management now proves that my son has taken up a disturbing habit. He will go into the bathroom, do his business, and return to play sans underwear. Oh, he will still be wearing pants, but he has availed himself of the opportunity in the bathroom to remove his underwear. His explanations as to why he does this have not been satisfactory. Apparently, he likes the freedom of the commando style (al la Cosmo Kramer). Even worse, my explanations as to why it is a good idea to wear underwear have not been satisfactory either.
Of course, it is entirely possible that his observation of the boy down the street (who frequently rides his bike in nothing but his underwear and on occasion, without any clothes at all) has put ideas into his mind. My son greeted his female cousin last week by standing at the top of the stairs, shouting her name, and throwing up his hands in greeting; he was wearing only a t-shirt.
Peace
26 June 2005
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
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
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