Guest of Honor

How concerned should I be about this email from a school friend's mom that references my 7-year-old daughter:

My son came home today begging me if we PLEASE can invite Molloy to his party on Friday.  As you see from the invitation it was supposed to be a "boy" birthday, but he would love for Molloy to be the female guest of honor.

I know this is very last minute notice, but I hope it works out.

Is there some kind of scientific formula I can use that takes the amount of worry I have today and uses it to calculate the amount of worry I'll have when she turns thirteen?

Rescuing Zasha

Never let a family member say, "Let me just go meet the puppy and see if I like it."  That is code for, "I'm bringing home a dog."

With Kerrie longing for a child that wouldn't talk back to her, she embarked on a tour of the internet to find a rescue puppy.  I agreed to expand the family under the following three conditions:

1. The dog can't shed
2. I get to name it (Kerrie grew up with cats named Snowball, Snowball II, and Snowball III)
3. We will not spend money for a dog (not that I don't think it is worth it, because after having witnessed all the effort and costs my mother-in-law expended breeding dogs, I understand the importance of everything she did and the value it brought; but our checkbook won't be convinced just now)

Her cousin, Kenneth, is an accomplished veterinarian who came across a rescue that he felt would be right for our family, and after that fateful introduction of emotionally vulnerable wife and cute frolicky puppy, arrangements were made to bring her home.

Zasha, and the "Z" on Her Back

A week later, we packed up the family truckster with the kids and headed to Kenneth's.  The kids were excited;  images of themselves rolling on the floor with giggles pouring out in lackluster avoidance of wet, licking kisses danced in their heads wearing twinkle-toed ballet shoes.  Meanwhile, images of pee, poop, fur, barking, and chewed up shoes marched through my mind wearing muddy boots.

We discussed her name on the two-hour drive.  I fended off the kids' suggestions of Fluffy, Snowy, and Spots (not Spot, mind you, but Spots), thankful I had pre-negotiated the naming rights.  I wanted something that resonated the kids Russian heritage and equally reflected that our family is made up members that do not come to us in the traditional way (with birds tweeting and bees humming).  It had to also reflect my limited knowledge of the Russian language.

I settled on "Nasha", which sounded Russian and meant "Ours".  The kids settled slowly on it, without full submission, but I kept using it in an attempt to firmly plant it in their minds.

We got to Kenneth's office and meandered into the back room, which was filled with caged, barking dogs waiting for surgery or healing from some unfortunate illness or injury.  There was our Nasha (is that redundant?) sitting peacefully in a cage with a nameplate above: Cherry.  What?!?!? she already has a name?!?!  Do not let the kids see that one!!

She was a gray, fuzzy, four-month-old, some-kind-of-dog with many black markings across her body.  Kerrie pulled her out of the cage and hugged her against her black shirt and when she set her down outside, I saw that half the dog remained on her shirt.  So much for condition Number 1.

She bonded quickly with the kids out in the parking lot, but they never did get comfortable with her name.  Molloy noticed that one of her markings looked like the letter Z and felt we should give her a name that began with a Z.  With cute little daughter holding cute little puppy, I caved into naming her Zasha.  Everyone liked that and no sooner had we been with the puppy for 5 minutes; condition Number 2 was now also gone.

So as we packed her up and before we left I see my wife writing out a check for $250.  What's that?  The fee for the rescue organization; but I said NO FEES!!!.  It was the third condition!

OK, let me be clear; I'm not complaining that we were paying $250 to an organization that finds these neglected, abandoned animals and gives them a happy home instead of sending them to their demise...especially when I also got some very expensive free vet care from Kerrie's cousin including a check-up, shots, microchip, and spay (we're talking surgery).  I'm upset because within a 5 minute span I saw all three of my reasonable conditions evaporate before my very eyes.  If my negotiating skills at the office were this effective I would be out of work.  Oh, well.  Such is my life.  I guess the price for a happy home-life is to first make me think I am getting what I want and then taking it away from me; only to be left with the things that give me a happy home-life.

On the ride home, Lev is suddenly reminded of a book I bought him about a year ago of a Russian family during World War II that finds a stray German Shepherd at a time when Russians hated the Germans so much that they even killed their dog breed.  The children secret the dog away until circumstances arise that allow for the knowledge of the dog to become safely known.  The title was "Saving Zasha" and with a little help from my friend Mr. Google, I later learn that Zasha means "people's protector".  I smile warmly to myself.

We brought Zasha home on a Sunday, but after two days she became sullen and somewhat unresponsive.  She wasn't eating or drinking and then started walking in circles.  By Tuesday morning, we became so worried that Kerrie rushed her back to Kenneth, with Lev coddling her in the back seat all the way (Daniel and Molloy stayed in school).  Kenneth spent two days identifying a brain virus but could not get the medication right in time, and by Thursday...Zasha was gone.

It fell to me to tell the kids what had happen to Zasha.  I sat them down on the sofa (I think this is the real reason sofas were invented; to sit kids down and tell them how cruel the world can be sometimes.  That, and to watch TV...to see how cruel the world can be sometimes.)  I explained to them that we did, indeed, rescue Zasha.  We found her, we took her into our home, and we loved her, if only for a short time.  We gave her the best medical care she could have found anywhere on the planet and her best chance was with us.  And in those few short days, she felt our love and especially felt Lev holding her and protecting her, making her feel safe, all the way to Kenneth's.  Unfortunately, she didn't make it.  But it is important to always remember that we did rescue Zasha.  (A pretty good speech if I do say so myself.)

All I could do now was sit back and see how they reacted.

Daniel: "When can we get another puppy?"
Molloy: "Can we get a gerbil, one with long hair?"

Lev seemed to be a little more affected, asking an occasional question over the next few days.  Probably because he is a little more emotional and he was the one who held her for two hours when bringing her back to Kenneth's.

But Kerrie mourned for over a week.  I playfully complained that she was crying more heavily about Zasha than if it were me who passed.  When I go, I told her, she will likely sit the kids down on the sofa with serious tones and explain to them how life will be different from now on.  With Daniel's following question, "When can we get a new dad?" and Molloy adding the exclamation point, "One with long hair?"  But Zasha gets the crying and the sobbing.  It did draw out a quirky smile from her.

But I understood.  She sobbed at the incessant thought of Zasha alone in a crate in the dark hours of the night while Kenneth tried to solve an unsolvable problem, only to finally succumb in loneliness.

But please always remember, Kerrie, we did rescue Zasha.

The Four Questions

I'm sitting on the sofa minding my own business, when Molloy comes frolicking over and sits on my lap for a little Daddy time.  But before I talk about the ensuing conversation, let me just say that frolicking is an underutilized and underrated activity.  If all of us would just frolic a little more, the world would be a much better place.   We could schedule frolic time into our Outlook calendars and iPads; we could frolic alone or in groups, with friends or with strangers, indoors or out.  Americans should frolic, French people should frolic (folatrer), Italians should frolic (divertirsi), the Chinese should frolic (欢闹 ), and even Isreali's should frolic, or is it cilorf? ( עליזות).  Either way...FROLIC MORE, PEOPLE!!!

Back to the sofa.

Now that I had my charming daughter's undivided attention, I thought I would try to make the best use of it.  I prefaced by explaining to her that the world is a very big and complicated place with lots of different countries and lots of different kinds of people.  There are oceans and deserts and trees and animals and plants and machines, and even other planets and stars in the universe.  Then I asked her if she had any questions for me, things she was wondering about that if she asked some questions it would help her understand it all a little bit more.

So if you are a parent of a 6-year old girl and are wondering what is really keeping her up at night staring at the ceiling, I give not only The Four Questions, but also the answers: 

1. How much is the Earth's gravity? 
Quite a surprising opening from those innocent little eyes, but there we were...game on.  I explained to her that we don't necessarily say how much the Earth's gravity is, but rather we use the level of the Earth's gravity as a comparison to other gravities.  For example, the gravity on the moon is less than the Earth's gravity so we would say the Moon's gravity is about half of the Earth's gravity.  In other words, the Earth's gravity is 1. 

2. How did people make the Earth? 
Yikes!  Where to begin.  I explained to her that the Earth was here long before people were.  The Earth was somehow created by some very complicated forces in the universe many, many, many years ago.  Then little organisms formed and grew and changed, and grew and changed some more, until after many, many years, in fact billions of years of growing and changing, the first person was formed.  So you see, people didn't make the Earth, the Earth made people. 

3. How did the first person stay alive...without any parents to take care of them? 
By now, I'm thinking I'm in over my head here, but I trundled on.  I explained that when people are put into very difficult situations, they do whatever then can to figure out a solution, because they otherwise don't have any choice.  And the fact that you and I are here today is proof that people continue to figure out solutions to complicated problems.  "Like on Man vs. Wild?" she asked.  "Exactly," I answered.  "He teaches us things that he's figured out when it comes to surviving in difficult situations."

After a long pause, I asked her if she had any other questions. 

4. Can I go now?
Please.

And off she frolicked.  Leaving me up all night staring at the ceiling.

Because I Just Like Looking at Her

Rus-skies

Well, ski season is just about over so let's see how we did.

We started by renting skis, instead of buying, because the kids are young and their skiing ability and body size will change quickly over the years and we rented for the season so we won't have to go through the time and effort of outfitting 4 people every day we want to hit the slopes (Kerrie has her own equipment). So let's describe the ski gear, shall we?

You start with designer footwear that was developed by the Mafia for use on short boat trips with unwanted passengers. Had they only patented the design they would easily have enough money to abandon any other illegal activities. The boots are large, heavy, clunky, moon-boots that make walking on flat surfaces seem like you are walking across boulders. Next, you need the actual skis that are nothing more than long, thin planks that you strap your boots into. You don't put them on your feet, but rather put your feet into them. Once you put them on you are committed to moving in only a single direction for the rest of the day...and I don't mean "forward", I mean "down". Now you need a helmet. The kids have one helmet for biking and a different helmet for hockey, but apparently safety scientists (let's call them "marketing majors") have determined you need yet a third type of helmet for skiing and you should not be using the other helmets for head protection. These we buy because they are adjustable and should last longer than the skis we rent. Although, in order for their heads to grow I would imagine their brains would need to grow and I can assure you, that is not happening. Lastly, you need weapons. Most sports like hockey, golf, and baseball require you to carry only one weapon at a time, but here is where skiing tops them all. You actually get to carry one long, sharp, pointy stick in each hand that can easily be used to fend off rocks, trees, and brothers.

Last year, we put the boys in one lesson and then I have been teaching them since. As indicated in prior posts, the higher up the mountain we went, the more nervous they became but those fears have since subsided and they can ski with relative ease now, although it is important to note that Bretton Woods is not a very challenging mountain. Molloy has shown to have very little interest or ability in sports to date and either becomes mentally exhausted very quickly (in minutes) or just doesn't have the concentrative ability on the physical side of things (you are allowed to make up words like "concentrative" on a blog, mostly because the word "blog" itself is a made up word. It comes from shortening the combined words of "web log", in case you didn't know.) I'm not worried as she is generally very coordinated, she just hasn't learned how to apply it yet. So Molloy hasn't yet been skiing for more then 15 minutes until a more recent lesson had her on the mountain for the day.

For the most part, the boys ski all day with images of $3.00 hot chocolates dancing in their head. They like to claim they are going down black diamonds, which they are, but a black diamond at Bretton Woods is not the same as a black diamond in Aspen. A black diamond at Bretton Woods means that there is a large rock off the side of the trail. In Aspen, it means the trail is a large rock.


But now it is a year later and we thought we could put them in a lesson again. We step up to the counter with the boys in tow and carefully explain to the instructor their current skibilities (I like blogging!). The instructor is a gnarly looking kid with long, straggly hair seeping out of his winter hat. It looks like he bought a Halloween pirate costume that came with the hair attached to the hat. I think if I looked behind the counter I would see that his feet are still strapped into a snowboard.

I explain to him that Lev is a very methodical skier, highly concentrating on where he will make each turn, how he will make each turn, and whether he can make each turn. Daniel, on the other hand, puts his skis in the traditional V shape and points them straight down the mountain. He travels at a frightening velocity with no hint of a turn or any abatement of his speed. I follow behind him scared he is so out of control that one little bump will cause him to crash and explode into a scattered mess of clothing and equipment which will make him the featured outtake on ABC's Wide World of Sports and force me to have a yard sale right there on the side of the mountain. But in his own mind I know that he thinks he is in complete control, will ski to the bottom of the mountain with great skill, right through the front door of the lodge with an outstretched arm, snatch a hot chocolate, and keep on going right out the back door.

The instructor simply says, "A Careful Carver and a Death Wedge. Got it."

I walk away highly confident the instructor knows his job well.

Molloy also gets a lesson with a gaggle of cuties and makes great improvement. She now travels straight down Peanut Butter, Jelly, and Fluff with ease...but it is a straight bee-line to the bottom of the hill and the only thing that stops her is she is so light-weight that there is not enough pressure on the snow to cause her to slide any more, as she doesn't otherwise know how to stop. It will be a while longer before we bring her up higher on the mountain.

Meanwhile, with the kids in private school (Okay, it's not those expensive Greenwich academies but it is all we could afford), Kerrie and I have a ski date for the full day up on the mountain; she being the Careful Carver and I employing the Death Wedge.

Call to Arms

There's nothing more spiffy than a man in uniform, and so now the boys have joined Webelos. For Daniel, we expect at some point he will attempt to redesign the uniform by replacing the hat with a hood, his favorite fashion accoutrement.

They tell us that Webelos is an acronym for "We'll Be Loyal Scouts", but if you ask me it sounds more like a form of ebonics. Anyway, I would argue this is a bit confusing to a child because translating the acronym tells you that you are a scout, whereas using the acronym tells you that you are a Webelo. Now, given that the reason kids join the scouts in the first place is to find some form of identity in their lives, it seems a bit odd that they would start by giving you a confusing reference as to what you are called.

We started with the annual turkey shoot, which is not actually shooting turkeys, but rather shooting things that are meant to look like turkeys. We started by shooting arrows at big plastic gobblers, followed by shooting BBs at pictures of turkeys with bulls-eyes on their chests (not turkeys-eyes), followed by shooting garbanzo beans with slingshots at tinfoil plates that I guess were supposed to be imagined as turkeys.

I'm sure you know that turkeys are well known for hiding behind abandoned tires in their natural habitat, which makes them generally easy to spot in the wild.

Lev finally got to fire a gun, even if it was only propelled with just a puff of air, and slingshots have certainly become more technologically advanced. Notice the wrist brace extending halfway up the forearm.

With their appetite for weaponry finally satiated, we can now move on to the more benign badge activities, like Aquanaut, Showman, and Traveler.

Just Say No

As the winter chill approaches and we prepare for the long hard drudge of snow storms, driveway shovelings, and power outages, we also prepare for our new winter life up north in Bretton Woods. Ski season approaches and I reflect on the first attempt of the kids this past March.

But first, let me explain that we work very hard to teach the kids how to speak correctly, because lord knows our teachers won't do it. It's not "You and me", but rather "You and I". It's not "Do it quick", but rather "Do it quickly". It's not "I gut it", but rather "I have it". And it's definitely not "nope", but rather "no". These are all just habits that need to be reinforced over and over so they learn and speak appropriately. (Actually, I just want them to get the answers correct - or answer correctly - on their SATs. I really don't care how goodly they speak.)

But I have to now admit that every once in a great while, speaking a little bit incorrectly is a better and more efficient way to convey a proper message.

Anyway, back to skiing. We had rented skis and the all-important helmets. We dropped the boys into a lesson where they swooped down trails with frightening monikers like "Peanut Butter" and "Jelly". Meanwhile, I walked Molloy separately over to an unnamed area that I affectionately dubbed "The Grassy Knoll". I would carry her up about 50 yards and turn her sideways, then walk back down and encourage her to maneuver downward. She would then come cruising down the slope with all the grace of a battleship steaming stiffly through the Pacific, at which point I would catch her and walk her back up. That lasted about 20 minutes.

Ski Bunny in Progress

The next day, it seemed like a good time to graduate them from Blue Circles to Green Squares (Ah...they grow up so quick...er, quickly!). Lev was excited for a greater test while Daniel was a little tentative. We took the lift up about three-quarters of the way to the top of the mountain, slipped out of the chair, and slid down the ramp. Daniel turned the corner, took one look down, and said simply, "Nope."

You know when you are coming up a mountain on a ski lift and every once in a while you see someone coming oddly alone down the other side? That was Daniel.

But Lev pressed on, slaloming down with big, slow, cringing arcs...berating me all the way.

Rare, but Well Done

Baseball has the triple-play. Golf has the hole-in-0ne. Hockey has the short-handed goal. Football has the "Hail Mary" pass. Every sport has that special component of the game that is so rare, that to witness it makes for a very special event, indeed.

Which brings me to soccer, which has its very own rare moment; it's called the "goal". Goals are about as rare as a government surplus and I think they should change the game to just "first goal wins". That will also help us know when the game is over because as it is now the game clock is never right and you never know the game is over until the referee goes home.

But Daniel has become quite the player; scoring two goals last week and another this week. He really enjoys this game and plays very hard. We sent him to a soccer camp for a week this summer and he has come away with some real ball-handling skills

Although he still has fewer goals than Larry King has had wives, the season isn't over yet.

And speaking of rare events, let's talk about Crusher football. The second team defense has seen as much action this season as O.J. Simpson has seen his in-laws. Trailing 19 to 0 with 4 minutes left to go in this week's game and the opposing team's second string offense on the field, the Crushers played their first team defense to the final whistle. The picture below shows Lev getting some good game experience on the sidelines. He's number 18; the one without the growth spurt.

Molloyisms

• Molloy's Father's Day card was signed, "All my love, Molloy."

   

  Dad:  All your love?  I get to have ALL your love?  What about mom, she doesn't get any?
  Molloy: Well, you get all of half my love.  And at the next Mother's Day I'm going to give her all my love.
  Dad: So then I won't have any anymore?
  Molloy: It's going to be new love.
  Dad: Really? Where are you going to get all this new love?
  Molloy: From friends and family.
   
• Molloy: Have you ever been a secret agent?
  Dad: I can't tell you because it's a secret.
  Molloy: Have you ever been an agent?

• Dad: I didn't buy it because I only have so much money.
  Molloy: But if you have SO MUCH money, why didn't you buy it.
  
• Dad (in a sing-song voice): I'm the best daddy.  I'm the best daddy.
  Molloy: What about your dad?
  Dad: Well, I guess they're all kind of good.

• Molloy: I need some thinking lessons.

• Dad: Once Mom and I were married we could start our family.
  Molloy: And then the babies come that same day?
  Dad: No, they come after that.
  Molloy: The next day?
• Dad: Make sure that when your boyfriend wants to marry you that he comes and talks to me first.
  Molloy: But you'll be dead, I think.
• Dad: When you have your own holiday tree, what will you put on the top?
  Molloy: Love.
• Molloy: Does the tooth fairy trust god?
  Dad: Huh?
  Molloy: It says, "In God We Trust"
  
  She was reading the money she had just received from losing her first tooth.

• Molloy: Dad, my name is not Molloy.Dad: What is it then?Molloy: It's SqueakSqueak.Dad: I see.Molloy: My other name is Squawk. It's Squawk SqueakSqueak.Dad: So shouldn't I call you Squawk?
  Molloy: No. Squawk is for Svetlana. We don't use that.Dad: Oh, I get it.Molloy: But you can call me Squeak.
  


• Molloy (in a restaurant): "What kind of milk do they have?"Dad: "Let's see, they have cow's milk, goat's milk, cat milk, elephant milk..."Molloy: "Wait a minute, elephants don't lay milk."


• Dad: "What's that?"Molloy: "A medal."Dad: "Wow, what did you win?"Molloy: "A medal."


• Molloy: "Dad, you're good at ironing. You're good at all flat things.Dad: "Really! What other flat things am I good at?Molloy: "You're good at checkers.


• I'm trying to think of something but the channel in my mind keeps changing to bagels."


• To Dad: Can I trade one of my stuffed animals for YOU?


• Dad: Molloy, please don't sled over that edge of the hill.
  Molloy: Why? There's no dying things down there.


• Dad: What do you think your husband is going to be like?Molloy: I think he's going to be like you.Dad: [Smiles broadly!]


• "Standing on one foot next to someone is hard...if they're loud!"


• "I'm the slowest poke."


• "I know how to spell DVD."


• Dad: What do you think the sun is made of to keep us warm?
  Molloy: Hot water?
  Dad: No. Can you think of something else that is hot?
  Molloy: Hot stuff?


• "I can say "fast" really slowly."


• Molloy: Dad, I love you so much.Dad: Really!Molloy: So much that I can't even stop loving you.


• Molloy to her Grandfather, Bubba: Why is your face all cracked?


• Dad: Molloy, stop running in the restaurant!Molloy: I'm not, I'm speed-walking.


• "Dad, can you be all polka-dotted?"


• "Dad, can you draw heaven for me? I don't know what it looks like."


• "Two words, Dad: I like you. No wait...three words: I love you."


• Dad: I'm glad you're in our family
  Molloy: I'm glad you married Mom, and I'm glad Mom married you.




• Dad: I just asked you a thousand questions and you didn't answer any of them.Molloy: That's because I'm a lady.




• Mom: Why can't everyone be like you?Molloy: Because I need brothers.




• Molloy: Can I be a surfer when I'm 19?Mom: Yes.Molloy: With both feet?


• "Dad, why did Mom name you Steven?"


• "Daddy, I love you. I wish you could fly."


• "My tummy has a headache."


• "I have tons of nothing!"


• Dad: Ahhhh!!! It's a monster!!Molloy: I'm just your kid, Dad.


• "The toilet is not flushing. It needs new batteries."




• Molloy: Dad, will you read to me?Dad: I can't. I don't have my brain with me right now.Molloy: Here it is! I kept it in my heart for safety.


• Cheering for her brothers during hockey clinic: Go hockeyers!


• "I've got to be kidding me!"


• "How old are my tippy-toes?"


• Molloy: Is Mom married?Dad: Yes, she's married to me.Molloy: Are you married?Dad: Yes, I'm married to MomMolloy: (Giving me a big hug) I'm also married to you because I give you hugs and kisses.


• "Dad, do you know what color my brain is?"


• "Why do we have shoulders?"


• That's COLD heat!"


• "Do oranges have teeth?"


• Molloy: Are you going to tickle me?Dad: Yes.Molloy: Is it going to be all tickly?Dad: Yes.Molloy: Am I going to laugh?Dad: I hope so.


• Dad: Lev, if you do that again I'm going to spank you.Molloy: Yes, do that!


• "Mom, you're a really good driver. I'm not. I crash into cars and trucks."


• When Dad was fitting Daniel's hockey helmet: Is that so he won't bonk his head and hurt his so cute nose?


• "Why don't Dads have hair?"


• Molloy: Dad, when am I going to be dead?Lev, interjecting: We don't know. You'll find out when you die.


• Molloy: Dad, will you play with me?Dad: I'm sorry, Sweetie. I have to work all day today.Molloy: Forever?


• "I'm Superdog. You can be Superdog Daddy and mom can be Superdog Mommy, and I'll be Superdog Sister."


• "I don't say "um" anymore. "Um" is for yoga."


• "I have to put my hood on so my brain won't get chilly."


• Molloy: Dad, I like you because you're different.Dad: Different how?Molloy: Because you have pee on your back. Not real pee, but P of the letter.Dad (wearing nothing with any letters): Oh...OK. Thanks.


• With arms stretched out in front of her; "I'm Super Molloy!!!"


• "Why don't I have just one leg?"


• Mom: You weren't alive yet when we bought our house.Molloy: Was I killed?


• When asked to leave the bathroom so she wouldn't see Daniel's bottom when he showered, "But I've seen his highness."


• "When I was a baby, I was small, like my leg."


• Mimicking Gilligan before diving face-first into the sand at the beach, "I'll save you, Skipper!"


• "Don't be 'dicalous!"


• Standing naked in front of her open dresser: "I'm looking for cute stuff."


• Molloy: Can I go to America?Dad: You're in America.Molloy: Oooh! I like America!


• "If I could, then I could. If I can not, then I could not."


• With her shirt pulled up over her head: "I'm Woman-in-Hood!"


• "I LIKE melted water!"


• "I'm Teflana Molloy"


• Petting our dog, Lila, after she came in out of the rain: "Her fluffy is wet."


• "That boy was hiccing cups."


• Molloy: I have a boo-boo. See the little dot on my finger? I need a boo-boo bandage.Dad: It's OK, there's no blood.
  Molloy: It is blooding! I'm going to blood. Why are you laughing? I'm going to blood later.


• Dad: What's your name?
  Molloy: Molloy.Dad: It's Svetlana. Svetlana Molloy.
  Molloy: And your name is Svetlana Dad.


• Molloy (pointing to Dad's foot): Dad, is that your foot?
  Dad: Yes, that's my foot. But this other one isn't mine. I don't know whose it is.Molloy: It's Nana's foot.Dad: Oh, I must have taken it with me the last time we were there. I'll bring it back when we go visit her again.
  Molloy (pointing to Dad's zipper): Is that your pee-pee?
  Dad: Please don't touch my pee-pee.
  Molloy: It's Nana's pee-pee.


• Molloy: I'm a how-a-do-it.Mom: You KNOW how to do it.Molloy: Not NO how-a-do-it, I'm a how-a-do-it!


• While getting dressed and putting on her underpants, she exclaimed, "I'm like a superhero!"


• "Mom, my pee is hot! Please fix my hot."


• Molloy: Dad, will you bring me up a bed?Dad: I'll bring you up TO bed.
  Molloy: I have ONE bed!

Bear Market

Let's just say that anything you might want to buy at the Mt. Washington hotel is priced to cost you an arm and a leg...or an ear. But I would submit to you that whatever they collect in dollars from their patrons is at the expense of no less than their dignity.

In the basement of the hotel is a quaint little gift shop filled with quaint little things and staffed by a quaint little clerk. In a barrel they had a collection of little plastic animal heads on a stick and at the bottom of the stick is a small trigger that operates the mouth. How could this useless little toy not be worth the $5 asking price? Molloy really wanted one and she was willing to spend all her $5 vacation money to get one. But among the giraffes, lions, tigers, and mooses (mices? meeses? moosi?) was a lone bear that she had her heart set on.

I tried to discourage her from wasting her money by asking her what she would use it for and without missing a beat she replied that she can use it to pick up things off her bedroom floor and thereby keep her room clean. The genius of her to give me a reason why I would want her to have it, let alone why she would want to have it!

But alas, the bear was broken and missing an ear.

As we sat outside the store, I laid out her options: Buy the broken toy for $5, choose a different animal, or not buy it at all. She wasn't happy with her options and neither was I. But then I thought, "what would I do?" and settled on a fourth option that I had to explain to her.

I suggested she go back into the store and offer the clerk $2 for the broken bear. She pondered that for a moment and turned around and marched back into the store leaving Kerrie and I wondering just what type of monster I was about to create. With her $5 bill in one hand, we could see her take the bear out of the barrel and then disappear from view as she sidled up to the counter. Kerrie and I looked at each other in deep curiosity as our 6-year-old daughter was taking this task on alone.

Minutes went by that seemed like, well, minutes. I thought of trailing in behind her to see what was happening but really wanted to see how this turned out without my involvement. After about 10 minutes she came out with the bear and change back from her $5. What courage.

But then I notice two coins clinking together and I asked her how much the bear cost and she said $2.50. I was horrified that this little old lady working extra hours to supplement her social security check actually had the gall to negotiate with a 6-year-old bundle of cuteness for $0.50 on a broken toy that she had put into her inventory. I mean, could you negotiate with this....?

Bubba Squeeze

Gone Fishing

We took our last summer vacation with the kids and went up to NH for a wide variety of activities. One that the boys, and now Molloy, have fallen for hook, line, and sinker is fishing. For some reason, fishing is called "angling" and fishermen are called "anglers", but I would argue that "tangling" would be more accurate terminology.

We rented three fishing rods and went to the local redneck store for a container of worms and moseyed on down to the ol' fishing hole. It was nice to see that the fishing industry had branched out from their usual marketing base and now sells the perfect tool for a 6-year-old girl...a pink plastic fishing rod.

I was sure to make the kids bait their own hooks so they could experience the full composite of activities associated with the task, no matter how unappealing. Oh, and the worms were too yucky for me. They did a surprisingly good job of casting, even Molloy, but had no success at snaring an unsuspecting trout. The fish just weren't biting. I think more than anyone, Lev just wants to catch a fish, as he has been fishing many times the last few years without so much as minnow.



The One that Got Away

But fishing takes a lot of patience, and I'm not talking about the dad who has to suffer through watching the debacle of lost bait, tangled lines, territorialism on the banks, bad casts, hooks caught in the tall reeds, and dodging errant golf balls from the nearby course. Finally, Molloy could take it no longer, she stripped down to her skivvies, and took a more direct approach by meeting them on their own turf, or rather, surf. She climbed down into the water and went after them with the net.

But they all got away.

I returned to the rental shed two hours later with two broken rods and three broken hearts.

Little Shoplift of Horrors

Say it ain't so!

After leaving a store yesterday, Daniel suggested that Molloy had taken something she shouldn't have. She was asked what was in her hand and she responded by lifting it up and unfolding her little fingers like flower petals slowly greeting the day. But alas, it was not joy in her hand, but rather evil, despicable, demonic SIN! SIN I SAY!!! My little 6-year old had absconded with a Hershey's kiss.

Kerrie escorted her back into the store to return it and apologize; something she seemed quite scared to do. But with mom's help she managed to get through it, only to break out in sobs when getting back to the car. "I'll never do it again!"

Later, when entering a restaurant for dinner, she asked Kerrie to hold her hand; not for comfort, but "so I don't take anything else."

Cramping My Style

This week we went to Santa’s Village in Jefferson, NH. Why someone decided to put a children’s amusement park in the middle of upstate New Hampshire, a place that has no more geographical significance other than it is in the middle of upstate New Hampshire, I have no idea. Its Christmas theme was pleasantly muted and it allowed us to get down to the business at hand…exhaust the children with speed, spins, and silliness.

The most important observation of the park is that you must be taller than 42 inches to ride without the accompaniment of an adult. And with Molloy being shorter than the font size used to write the number 42 on the sign, I had to accompany her on almost every ride. But the diabolical aspect of the rides' designs are that you have to actually be smaller than 42 inches to fit; which adults most certainly are not. So, while daddy bends, contorts, and sometimes breaks, he finds a way to pack his frame into a satanic confinement only to say, “OK, now gimme the kid.” Molloy is handed into my arms to be squashed into any remaining space the way cartoon characters stomp on foes that are too large to fit into the hole. Just when you think you are good to go, a pimply-faced iTeen comes by to ensure your seatbelt is fastened securely. It is only then that you realize what that sharp lump under your butt is. So now you have to figure out how to get it from under you to above you without the ability to move and then buckle it across both you and your giddy, yet smothering daughter. After a Christmas miracle, you manage to snap it closed around you, but now the safety bar has to come forward and lock into place. I would argue there is nothing safe about adding yet another layer of immobility on a fast moving vehicle, but apparently their insurance company thinks otherwise. So I inhale, the bar snaps into place and I start to consider the length of time I can hold my breath.

As the ride pulls out of the bay, I now see the sign that says Keep All Arms and Legs Inside the Car, to which I don’t know whether to laugh or cry...where the heck else am I supposed to put my arms and legs? I feel like a Jack in the Box and if some one dares to open the lid I’ll spring out with arms and legs akimbo.

But to make matters worse, the park is not crowded on this Tuesday afternoon (in the middle of upstate New Hampshire) and we don’t need to exit the ride when it finishes and so we go around again…and again…and again.

And so the day went; with the kids racing around the park dialing up the speed and daddy adding his chiropractor's phone number to his speed dial.

Big Behind

Molloy: Dad, I love you more than you love me.
Dad: Really? That can't be true.
Molloy: It is.
Dad: How much do you love me?
Molloy: I love you all the way up to Jupiter.
Dad: Wow, that's far. Well...you know that place that's right behind Jupiter? That's how far I love you.
Molloy: Well I love you all the way to Mars.
Dad: Mars even! Well you know that place that's right behind Mars?
Molloy: Long Island?
Dad: No. Right behind Mars is the place I love you.
Molloy: Well I love you behind the place behind behind behind behind behind that place.
Dad: That is far. Well you know where I love you? Right here next to me.

Beachcomber

It's that time of year again: when we head back down to the yacht club and pretend we are sailors.

They opened the club for the season recently and I thought it only appropriate that I go down with the kids and help the other members get the club boats ready for the water. If we were going to use them, we should participate in the work that goes with it. And of course, the reason most people don't own boats is because of all the work that goes with it.

So on a pre-designated clean up day, down I went with Lev, Daniel, and Molloy (Kerrie has enough on her plate already that I don't think we need to add "hull sanding"). When we got there, I cannot adequately share with you how deep my secret joy was when we got to the parking lot and saw no boats. All we had to do now was go into the clubhouse and pretend we were cleaning with everyone else; a little dusting here, a little Windex there, and just hold out long enough until the pizza came. But somehow I got roped (I think that is a nautical term) into a job that apparently only I was suited for.

I was handed a tool that I didn't think was even available in the yachting community: a rake.

My assignment was to rake the beach, I kid you knot (just trying to use all my new nauticisms). I spent about 5 hours alone out on the seashelled dunes raking all the dried sea grass that had accumulated through the winter and bagging it. Molloy was a very big help, following me around with the camera documenting my effort, while the boys found the boats in a different parking lot and hung out with some other kids there.

I did hear later that I got a special mention at the recent monthly meeting for spending all that time cleaning the sandbox. I think they are secretly using the Karate Kid training program to teach me to sail; sand the floor, paint the fence, rake the beach...wax on, wax off.

I feel that promotion to Captain coming any day now.

Rock On

If you ever find yourself with a son named Lev, and that's really hard to do, be sure to never take him to a Jewish cemetery.

After many years of talking to my children about their grandmother (my mother) who passed away long before they were born, I finally got to take them to see her grave in the hopes of etching a more solid connection. I was in Massachusetts with the kids and found myself only a few miles from the cemetery where she is buried.

We were having lunch in a restaurant and as soon as I mentioned where we were going, Lev began collecting rocks in the parking lot because he is well aware of the Jewish tradition of leaving small stones on the top of headstones, representative of a prayer. So with pockets full of rocks we ventured over for an experience that I was curious to observe.

Once within the cemetery fences, Lev started running between the grave markers like Eli Wallach in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, stopping at every name that shared his. He found Levin, Levine, Levinson, Levenson, Levinsky, Levitz, Levitzky, Levinthal, Levy, and Levi. And let's just say there wasn't only one of each.

We finally stepped up to my mother's grave and all the kids carefully placed their stones on top and got to actually see her name in print on the granite face, which I think made it all the more tangible in their minds as opposed to me just repeating her name for them to learn it.

It was far from a sad visit, if not almost pleasurable, and Daniel summed it up best:

"I wish she were still alive, because then we would have two Nanas and they could both spoil us."

Danielisms

• Dad: We have to take the new dog to "doggie school"Daniel: Will there be desks?
  
• "I'm riding his cocktails."


• "Do you still have all your molars, even the smart ones?


• Daniel: Dad, have you ever cried when you were over, like, 40?
  Dad: I don't think so. Why do you ask?
  Daniel: I was just wondering. To see if you've had any disappointment in your life.


• "Dad, I wish your mother was still alive. Then we would have two Nanas and they could both spoil us."


• While Practicing his Violin: Dad, I'm having trouble with my G-String.


• Commenting about the actors in a movie that was not animated: They're in skin.


• Daniel: Did the British wear red?Dad: Yes, they wore red coats and that's why they were called Redcoats. But the colonists didn't wear uniforms.Daniel: Did they wear barrels?


• In the midst of Dad reading Old Yeller: We should call Dad Old Yeller. He's old and he yells a lot.


• Seeing wild turkeys in the yard fly up into a tree: I thought they were flightless birds.


• To Mom as they are passing a Dunkin' Donuts: I don't want the dunk, I just want the donut!


• Dad: I want to have a lesson with you today.Daniel: Not this morning. I'm working on some serious inventions.


• Daniel: I hate brushing my teeth.Dad: It's important to take care of your teeth. Remember that Bubba wears dentures? It's because all those teeth fell out.Daniel: How much money did he get?Dad: What do you mean?Daniel: Didn't he put them under his pillow?Dad: I don't think so.Daniel: He should try that.


• February 24, 2009, Daniel lost his first tooth: "Dad, do I need to brush this one?"
  

Look Away

My chores sure have been piling up lately: paint this, paint that, fix this, replace that, and get a new of the other thing (and I don't even know what the other thing is). She keeps asking me to do more and more around the house (actually, it just seems like more and more because the list gets longer and longer when things don't get crossed off it)...so what's a lazy husband to do?

Buy another house.

We decided to take advantage of the down market in a place we love and made an offer on a vacation condominium at Bretton Woods, NH, anchored by the beautiful Mount Washington Hotel. To our surprise, and chagrin, the seller accepted our lowballed offer and Kerrie and I looked at each other and said in dejected unison, "Oh, crap. Now we have to buy it."

Our intent is to rent it to families with quiet, well-behaved, non-destructive children during the calmness of their adolescent years and keep it as an investment property, but also use it for our family when it is vacant...which should be quite often if we stick to the above criteria. There's skiing, golfing, hiking, swimming, horseback riding, sleigh rides, zip lines, rock climbing, and the ever popular "paying of money".

But now Kerrie is so distracted and busy buying this for that and that for this, and redecorating new rooms that I don't think she realizes I'm thinking I may have gotten a reprieve on all my other chores at home. Best distraction ever!

(I sure hope she doesn't follow my blog.)

A Woman's Right to Choose

I was putting Molloy to bed this evening and was in a bit of a silly mood.

Dad: Do you want a hug, or a kiss?
Molloy: Both.
Dad: You can't have both because I only have one, so you'll have to choose.
Molloy: Well...I have both.

And she gave them to me.

Worm Hole

Every once in a while, a father has a bonding experience with his son like no other.

Daniel had been complaining about an itchy bottom for a few days that eventually required some action. At first, I tried to assuage him with a topical joke about the woman with a dog named Itchybottom. When the dog escaped off the leash and went running down the street, the poor woman cried, "My Itchybottom, My Itchybottom!" Until finally her neighbor exclaimed, "Well for goodness sakes, lady...scratch it!" He got a kick out of the punchline but my plan to have him laugh his butt off didn't work. A more sensible motherly intervention was required.

A trip to the doctor suggested we test for pin worms. Apparently, pin worms live inside your intestines and come out at night to lay their eggs before retreating in the morning. (Let's just say they leave through the back door and lay their eggs in the back yard.)

Here's where the fatherly task came in, a task a mother need not even dare. After prepping him for what to expect before he went to sleep, I returned for a 5:00 am launch time. Under the cover of darkness, I woke him, peeled back the covers, and lowered his pajama bottoms. Next, I had to turn his full moon into two half moons and take a sticky swab and...well...swab. The tricky part was to swab in the correct location in the pitch dark and with minimal movement because, apparently, these worms will quickly retreat if they sense the presence of parents wielding sticky swabs. And since there was no way I could visually confirm a proper splashdown, I had to have him confirm my mission had been accomplished. A morning inspection of the test tube by Nurse Mom identified the intruders which meant return trips to the moon were not necessary.

A simple prescription and he is now worm-free.