A Two-fer

Story 1.

Koko asked me why I wasn’t as wrinkly as Grandma. I told her it’s just that I wasn’t that wrinkly yet, but she wasn’t listening because I had hardly said as much when her eyes lit up with the epiphany. “Oh!! I know why!” she said,” It’s because of that spray you use that you keep in the bathroom.”

For those who know me, or who have surreptitiously looked through my medicine cabinet, know – I don’t stock up on youth serums or cremes and such, so I, too, looked at her for further clarification.

“You know, that wrinkle spray!! That wrinkle release spray!!”

I had to tell her that unfortunately that spray only cheats you out of needing to iron, not anything more exciting, like aging. But I guess I’ve never tried it for other means, so maybe I shouldn’t knock it till I do.

Story 2.

John and John John and I were talking about the fact that giraffes and humans have the same number of neck bones, and that somehow turned into did you know you can eat chicken feet? No you don’t eat the bones, just the cartilage and maybe skin. John John let us know that he thought that was disgusting, and the only thing he would eat that was like that was a pig’s butt.

I did almost spit out the beer I was having. John started questioning him – where have you seen that?

“Oh, at the butcher shop,” he answered.

I had to excuse myself from that conversation – as I walked toward the restrooms, I heard John continue, “Which butcher shop?”

“Galvans,” I heard John John’s reply in the distance. I tried to imagine our local butcher shop selling any kind of off cut like that. I mean, I knew people ate it, but it seemed a reach for our neighborhood full-service butcher shop.

I was relieved that the topic had been dropped by the time I came back to the table. We were watching the US Open on the big screen at the brewery. There were some sets that came and went. John leaned over to me.

“He meant pork butt,” he shared.

I knew I had to memorex this along with the Downy Wrinkle Release story, as Kathy V. urged me to do. They won’t be this age forever.

I mean, cheese IS the best…

At Sensoji Temple there was a large Daibutsu sculpture – enlightened Buddha – and I told Koko it was a sculpture of Buddha meditating. I told her he meditated until he attained enlightenment.

A few minutes later she asked me why did Gouda (I started laughing then, which interrupted her); why did he meditate until lightning struck?

She’s our girl…

Solace in the Solidarity of Strangers

Adolescence? Pre-adolescence? Childishness? Growing-pains? Boundary-pushing? All of this and more? Whatever the reason, going to the grocery store as a family on the weekend has become the most dreaded event of John John’s life. And he isn’t shy about sharing his feelings before we leave, as we are leaving, on the way, while at the store, and again when we’ve returned. It’s not a question of if he will be mad about it, it’s a question of how mad. And, for how long.

For last weekend’s trip, the answers were “very” and “end-to-end”. At the grocery store, as we weaved through the aisles, he was so mad that he stayed just out of range the whole time. Never straying too far away, but always far enough to let us know we were being ignored.

Happily, by the time we were ready to checkout he seemed ready to acknowledge our existence and was there to help put our items onto the check-out conveyer. But he started putting things up while the lady in front of us still had a few items in her cart. I asked him to wait until she was done. The scowl I got in response told me I was pushing my luck giving directives. But the woman – a nice lady, in her late 60s or so – invited him to go ahead and put our items on. She would just put her few remaining items in front of our plastic divider. But it was too much. John John grumped, not exactly at her, but in response to her offer, then huffed out of eyeshot.

“I’m so sorry,” the nice lady said, “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

I assured her that it wasn’t her; he’d been upset before.

She looked at me with empathy in her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she said to me, “it starts getting better after they turn 26.”

canni-who?

We recently got rid of all our subscription streaming services and instead doubled down for Hulu to watch live sporting events this fall – we got to watch the World Series, and have been in with basketball, hockey and now even World Cup fun. John John and John are the main audience, but I watch my fair bit and Koko will pop in from time to time, too. And with Live TV comes ads, and with sports programming, those ads aren’t always targeting young kids. There is a new show on some platform whose commercials are making the rounds – seems like a teenage love drama except the teenagers are cannibals. John John was pretty freaked out by the whole thing. But, he hasn’t needed to sleep in our room. Yet.

Anyway, today on our drive to John John’s soccer game in Alameda, we found ourselves driving through downtown Oakland. It was Sunday morning, so mostly desolate. I was making my way to the Webster tube when John John pipes up, “What’s ‘cannabis’?!”
There was just a beat before John answers simply, “Marijuana.” I wait for the onslaught of follow-up questions.

“Oh, PHEW!!” John John says. John and I look at each other.

“Why?” we ask him.

“Because the store was called “Have a Heart” and I got worried.”

It took us a second to figure it out, but I’ve been laughing all day!

Like Like

John John just finished 3rd grade but was home sick from summer camp today. Not “sick” sick, but, like, taking-antibiotics-for-a-rash sick. 

So at the lunch hour,  I took him with me to the little deli where John and I have been getting sandwiches on the regular. It’s in a strip mall convenience store run by the cutest couple. I’ve seen their kid there before and she seemed around John John’s age so had no hesitation to take him with me. 

We ordered. We waited for our sandwiches to be made. The wife made them and eventually brought them to the counter to ring us up. “He looks just like you!” She commented. He and I were both wearing masks but even with the limited exposure it was clear to her. “Yeah, people tell me all the time that he’s my mini-me.”

She showed him his sandwich to let him know that that one was his. It said “BLT” in sharpie and had a smiley face drawn next to it. The other sandwiches were unmarked, so smiley was special for the kid. So sweet. 

Back at the house, we were eating our lunch and telling John about the excursion. “What did you think?” John asked. “It was fine,” John John answered with almost-nine-years-old nonchalance. 

“The wife made our sandwiches,” I told John. Then, remembering how nice she had been, I asked John John, “Did you like her?” 

“NO!!!” he erupted. 

His tone was that saved for only the most onerous of offenses.  Like when his honor is being challenged by the accusation of ‘Liar’ from someone of dire import, like his sister. 

I was stunned to silence. 

“No, I didn’t “like her”!” he emphasized with a touch of sarcasm. 

I began to unravel. And as I realized I was unraveling, I caught John’s eye. There was a glint. I lost composure. 

The idea that he thought I was asking if he “liked” liked this lovely sandwich lady was just too, too much. I was slain. 

But now that I’ve regained composure, the question is, in light of the illumination above, what the hell meaning did he read into that smiley face?! 

I can’t ask, I won’t ask. But, I’m not sure if we can go back to that place en famille again…

I get knocked down, but I get up again…

John John is almost 6 and the world of knock-knock jokes has arrived unceremoniously on our door step. I vaguely remember some David Cross bit that had to do with hating family gatherings because of all the knock-knock jokes he had to endure from his nieces and nephews, and I only am thinking about it for the first time because we are literally under assault.

The thing is, knock-knock jokes are by nature totally lame. How could they become even less tolerable? By kids thinking that the structure of the joke is the joke, so as the adult we are forced to part-take in meaningless set ups like, “Knock knock,” “Who’s there?” “Truck.” “Truck who?” “Truckee,” (then child laughs maniacally) or whathaveyou. I made that one up to represent because the actual versions I’ve been told, which have been so so many, are so unmemorable I cannot even recall a single one. I believe that today alone I have endured dozens. Literally zero made the recall grade. I really tried but, nothing.

However! There can be a silver lining to such inanity. Especially if you are married to John Hoppin! At breakfast today, we were both indulging John John as he was bandying about his new found craft. We even told him some vintage knock-knock jokes of the “orange you glad I didn’t say banana” variety. But it went on so long and knock-knock patience was wearing thin….when John turned to John John and said:

“Knock knock,”

“Who’s there?” said John John, delighted that Papa was playing the game.

“Your father.”

“Your father who?”

“It’s your father,” said John, “Open the door.”

I immediately started crying from laughter, which made John start crying from laughter. For minutes we were laughing so hard no sound came out, wiping our eyes in a feedback loop of hysteria. John John got so mad at us, partly because he didn’t understand what was so funny, but mostly because we were no longer being his knock-knock pawns.

It’s been hours and I still can hardly write this out because it is cracking me up so hard. Either it was hilarious or my brain has been cracked by too much child humor; I can’t tell.

Teach your parents well…

Koko is now big enough to be trusted to walk next to me through a parking lot. She won’t run off putting herself in harm’s way because she knows the rules and mostly abides. Number one rule, of course, is holding my hand through the parking lot. But when we are holding hands through a parking lot, old habits have a way of creeping in and I still instinctively make the pinky-thumb-wrist-lock on her sometimes. You know, the kind you do when they are newly ambulatory babies prone to breaking from your handhold, rushing off to certain danger. It is not conscious and I would not have even noticed I do it, except for the little voice recently.

“Mama, you’re hurting my ankle.”

I looked down at Koko, confused. Her ankle appeared fine. “Your ankle?”

“You’re hurting my…little ankle,” she said, hesitating. “My ankie?” she added, helpfully.

At this point I realize she is referring to her wrist and just about melt from the cuteness.

She still refers to most any joint as an ankie lately – shoulder, elbow, you name it. But I am trying not to put the lock on her hand ‘ankie’ anymore lest I cause discomfort, to say nothing of preventing her from being the big girl she is.

The Fluidity of Language and Meaning For Children

It’s such an amazing journey to watch the kids as they work through understanding and the English Language.  John John just started Kindergarten and is being exposed to the wide wide world outside of his relatively sheltered pre-school existence.  He knew about things in pre-school, like Star Wars, and Power Rangers Ninja Steel, and Ninjago, but “knew” in a way that’s like he’s the fourth person in a game of kid-culture telephone.  But now, he’s at Kindergarten.  He is around kids his age through 8th grade.  They “know” things and he’s impressed.  He’s learning and trying his best to hold his own.

We have a small fake game boy in the house.  It’s not the height of modern technology, but it has a color screen and a ton of games, at least by what the box says.  I won it at Christmas though still haven’t opened it or powered it up.  But John John loves to look at the box.  The box says it’s for ages 8+.  He knows he’s too young to open it to play (plus, it’s mine – right?) but is holding out till he is old enough.

So, he comes home from school the other day asking me, when he turns eight, can he also play Fork Knife.  His question was in such earnest, I had to turn away to crack my smile at the cuteness.

But this episode reminded me of a few things that I have been meaning to write about and need to do it before too much more time passes.

Story 1:
It was a weekend morning, and we were at the breakfast table.  The kids were getting rowdy due to hunger and I was making toast.

“I’m hungry!” the kids complained.

“The toast will be done in a minute,” I said, as I took the pieces out of the toaster and began buttering them.

“That toast is bad,” John John declared.

“What do you mean? It has butter and jam.  It’s going to be good!” I said in exasperated tones.

“No, it’s bad,” John John assured me.  “It’s not kind.”

I have so many questions.

Story 2:
John’s sunglasses case is on the kitchen table waiting to be put back in the car.  John John saddles up to the table and starts messing with the case.  “Papa, your glasses are on the table,” he informs us.

“We know,” says John, “just leave them alone.”

John John picks up the case and starts messing with it again.  Not being super rough, but what is the purpose of touching something like that – it’s only going to potentially damage the contents.

“Be gentle with them,” says John, quickly followed by, “John John, yuk! Stop kissing my glasses!”

Koko’s on her own trip, with much influence from her big brother.  Right now she’s on a Mother Goose kick, her favorite rhyme being “Humpty Humpty.”

I can’t wait to see what comes next.

CSN Said: Teach Your Children Well

John John was recently sick – high fever, general malaïse.  You know.  Sick.  Of course, as soon as he was getting better, Koko came down with the same symptoms.  Unfortunately, I’d run out of those ear thermometer shields by then, so had to go pick some up from the pharmacy and took John John with me.

We walked in to the Walgreens and went straight to the cold and flu aisle in search of those shields.  They were, happily, easy to find and our shopping excursion was blissfully brief.  “Let’s go,” I said to John John, who was rubbernecking all around the medicinal displays.

One in particular had drawn his attention.  It was a little card jutting out from a cold product, calling you to come and buy it for congestion relief.  The poor cartoon woman on the ad looked miserable.  Red nose, watery eyes rolling back in her head, a tissue in hand, and corks up her nostrils.  I’ve felt just that way before.

“Why did she have corks in her nose, Mama?” the ever-inquisitive one asked.

We were walking toward the check out already, and there was a line at the counter.  A perfect chance to kill some time while simultaneously growing some empathetic reasoning and logic in the boy, my parental-self thought.

“Well,” I asked, “How would you feel if you had corks in your nose?”

He considered this with some seriousness and thought.

“Angry,” he finally replied.

Then, “Mama, why are you laughing?  What’s funny?”

Nothing, my dear.  Absolutely nothing.

CSN also said: Teach Your Parents Well.  Clearly that is happening.