We watched Supernanny last night, which, for parents, is a bit like C.O.P.S.. As Kathleen Madigan says, ‘At least I’m not a drug-dealer in curlers running down the street at four a.m.’
Last night’s episode featured a stay-at-home mother of three—soon to be four—whose children were slowly tenderizing her with their fists. A large problem, of course, was the father. He would come home, say ‘hello’, and run upstairs to ‘change clothes’ for forty-five minutes.
Kelly and I have one quite well-behaved three-year-old boy. If I were ever to disappear for forty-five minutes after coming home, I’d hope that I’d have the sense never to come down again.
But—and I’m not excusing this father’s behavior—there’s something women need to know about their husbands: we know can be stupid. We know we can be lazy and selfish and uncommunicative. However, we don’t always know when we’re being stupid. We’re too busy being stupid.
Though it was painfully obvious to the rest of us that this man was walking on very thin ice, he himself had no idea. His wife had never said anything to him.
When he was a boy, a former boss of mine worked at a butcher shop. One day a customer returned, complaining that his chicken tasted strange. My boss told the customer that he, too, had noticed the odd taste the day before. When my boss brought the problem to his manager, the man simply stared at his employee. Then he raised his arms and shouted, ‘Dumb!’
Dear wives and mothers, if your spouse is being stupid, please don’t assume he’s doing it on purpose. Have mercy on your husband and yourself, and tell him.
On My First Sonne
By Ben Jonson
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy
Seven yeeres tho’wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I loose all father, now. For why
Will man lament the state he should envie?
To have so soone scap’d worlds, and fleshes rage,
And, if no other miserie, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, say here doth lye
Ben. Jonson his best piece of poetrie.
For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
To the Candyman of Chip’s Chocolate Factory:
Thank you, kind sir, for patiently and happily answering each and every one of my son’s urgent questions, most of which had nothing to do with either chocolate or the making of it. Explaining the basic principle behind a chimney was beyond the call of duty.
Thank you for throwing fudge so high into the air, and thank you for giving my son a sample, even though he could’ve been more polite in asking for it.
And thank you for your decorum in ignoring the other boys’ comments, even though the cooling fudge did look quite a bit like poo.
All the Best,
Jared
This morning, I’m getting the dishwasher ready to run. I hear footsteps thudding toward the kitchen, and Ian’s unceasing, interminable, stream-of-consciousness line of questioning comes to a sudden halt, mid-why. I turn around, and his mouth is open wide; he’s cradling his hand against his stomach. But he’s not crying.
‘Are you okay, buddy?’
He nods. ‘I bonked my hand on this sharp thing.’ He points to the latch on the kitchen door. He pauses, lets his hand drop to his side, and glares at me, accusingly. ‘See! That’s why I don’t want anything sharp!’
He thrusts a finger toward the offending door. ‘That’s why you can’t put doors here! I don’t want any more doors!’
I have to admit, country music is growing on me. I’ve never really disliked the genre, I just didn’t think I could relate. But as I’ve grown older—found faith, gotten married and started a family—country music makes more and more sense. Which, I think, says a lot about the artists.
Plus, I don’t think you can be a country-music singer and not have talent.
I’d never heard of Rodney Atkins before this morning, but his song Watching You has been number-one on Country charts for the past three weeks. No broken-down trucks or girlfriends leaving, but there are chicken nuggets and a four-year-old son.
Sentimental? Yes. But no less true.
(Thanks, Wes!)
Just for This Day
By Sally Meyer
…
Just for this afternoon, I will unplug the telephone and keep the computer off, and sit with you in the backyard and blow bubbles.
…
Tony raises a very good point: why allow my son to watch Mr. Bean, when he can’t even watch Dora the Explorer?
The short answer: because Dora hurts my brain.
But Tony’s concern is that, from time to time, for surprisingly various reasons, Mr. Bean’s antics leave him quite nude. After falling from a diving board, Mr. Bean emerges from the water only to find his swimming suit floating several feet away. A little girl runs away with them, and—after ensuing hilarity—Mr. Bean finds himself starkers in front of a group of shocked and appalled women. And my hand doesn’t even twitch toward Ian’s eyes.
Am I a hypocrite? Well, yes. But that’s beside the point.
The reason Kelly and I don’t have a problem with Ian seeing the lighter side of Mr. Bean is because he’s simply naked. And? So are we all, from time to time. Ian’s seen me naked, his mother naked, and he’s been naked in public more than he’d like me to say.
The nudity of Mr. Bean isn’t lewd or lascivious. It’s not intended to thrill or tempt or earn a stricter rating from the MPAA. It’s the furthest from sex as nude can be, which is where nudity usually is. The point of Mr. Bean’s nudity isn’t that he’s naked, but the situation in which he finds himself.
I’ve no problem with Mr. Bean as I’ve no problem with breastfeeding mothers, or the Bathers, or little ones running naked through the yard. Usually, naked is naked, and we move on. Adam and Eve danced through Eden, naked as God made them, and even He didn’t raise an eyebrow.
It’s an important distinction for our children to learn, I think. I’m not about to join a nudist colony, and I don’t go out of my way to find naked statues to show my son. Modesty is important, too. But I feel our shame is misplaced in this country. We fill our shelves with Bratz and have convinced girls that a bare midriff is the way to a boy’s heart, yet people glare at the father changing his son’s diaper in the park.
Won’t someone please think of the children?!
I don’t know why I remembered, or how I forgot, but last week it came to me. The tweed suit, the lime-green mini, the red tie. And the nostrils.
I’m going to admit something that, if trendy parenting styles are any indication, may land me in the middle of a torch-bearing, pitch fork-wielding mob: we let our son watch television. Movies, too. Please note, this is in addition to, not to the exclusion of, reading, crafts, toys, painting, running, and/or interpretive dance. Ian watches some TV.
We have one television, which means that what Ian watches, we also watch. This is why Dora the Explorer, Go, Diego, Go!, and Max and Ruby have been banned from our household. And though Kelly and I enjoy (or tolerate) Spongebob Squarepants, Sesame Street, and Noddy, after a long day, the last thing we want is to relax in front of The Goodnight Show. Am I honestly supposed to find that star soothing?
But there’s precious little ‘family’ left in television. When NBC’s Heros first aired, I was watching an episode as I was getting Ian ready for bed, sometime around 8 o’clock. One of the ‘heros’ can paint the future—but only when he’s mainlining heroin. What would Dr. Huxtable say? We thought Everybody Loves Raymond would be relatively safe, and would have been, if not for the Barones’ casual swearing.
Back to the nostrils. Last week I was wondering what we could watch that—as much as we love them—wasn’t Dirty Jobs or MythBusters or Good Eats. And suddenly, for some reason, I remembered…Mr. Bean.
For those who don’t know, Mr. Bean is a British comedy from the ’90s. Think Charlie Chaplin, only in color and with more tea. It’s simply an awkward man being silly, and sticking things up his nose. Right up a three-year-old’s alley.
Ian can’t breathe for laughing. When Mr. Bean stops to take a pebble from his shoe, he puts his shoe on top a parked car…which promptly drives away. And we follow Mr. Bean as he hops after, chasing his shoe though the city center(re).
Last night, we watched the episode just before putting Ian to bed. Upstairs, as I was getting his toothbrush ready, I heard Kelly talking to Ian about ’silly’ Mr. Bean. And she guffawed. It takes a lot to make my wife guffaw (so unladylike!), and I had to see. ‘Ian,’ she said, ’show Daddy Mr. Bean.’
Ian bent over, and slid a hand along his foot, grasping something. ‘Bpsh!’ He put the something on the ground. And then he started hopping around the landing, on one foot. Arms splayed, he made exaggerated motions and even did a fair impression or Mr. Bean’s elastic facial expressions. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, voice lowered, ‘I’d like to buy this shoe.’
I couldn’t breathe for laughing.
If you need a refresher course for CPR, the University of Washington School of Medicine has a site with information guides and video demonstrations for CPR and choking first aid. All ages are covered, from infants to adults. There’s also an FAQ about choking and CPR.
The first (and last) adult CPR class I took was in high school, and since then the American Heart Association now teaches thirty chest compressions, instead of five. The same goes for children.
There’s a lot of good information here, but it’s obviously no substitution for licensed instruction. Visit the AHA to find a CPR class in your area.
(Thanks, Lifehacker!)
