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!

The Great American Icon

“Papa,” he asked John excitedly. “Do you know what our country’s animal is?! It’s the Bald Eagle!!”

That was my fact du jour to John John but not before I asked him if he knew what our national animal was. He was very excited about this concept and came at me rapid fire with his thoughts.

Question: What is our country’s official animal.

John John’s reply: Tiger?! Cheetah?! …Dinosaur?!

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.

Two Things John John

Item One:

John John is a bit of a fraidy cat. Example: He’s been sending his little sister to go turn on lights in dark rooms since she was about 2 1/2. When I say ‘boo,’ his screams echo far longer than Koko’s. There are no two ways about it – brave in that way, he is not.

Recently at dinner, he was recounting some scary experience he had had recently, nay, shared with Koko recently. Maybe it was something on TV that he thought was scary. The actual item is unimportant.

“Koko and I are both scardey-cats, right Papa?” He asks John for confirmation and reassurance.

“Well, yes,” says John, it seems the ever obliging dad. But no.

“Except Koko’s is a function of her age.”

Stated so matter-of-factly that the meaning is totally lost on John John, who just agrees, “yeah.”

Meanwhile, I’m busting a gut over in the corner by myself trying not to draw any attention.

Item Two:

John John has requested some fruit after finishing his meal, and he is allowed. He departs to the kitchen to choose said fruit, and wash and clean it for consumption. This latter period is taking some time.

“Is everything OK back there?” I ask worriedly.

“Yes, and you will all be so amazed at what I am making to share with you,” he lets me know.

The time finally comes, and he bring out a bowl of nectarines and peaches which he has cut up for everyone in our familiy’s consumption. They are, certainly, delicious.

“Aren’t you happy that I’m sharing so well?” he asks me in a weird reverse humble moment. Just as I am busy eye-rolling John across the table, John John pipes in with his other wisdom:

“Peaches are mammals.”

A better parent than I would not have laughed as hard. I did try to keep it in, long enough for him to eek out, “I know, because of their fuzzy hair.”

I either aged 10 years, or got back the same. Not sure which, not sure that it matters.

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.