Kung Fu Master

Rowan is on the path to becoming a Kung Fu master. It's a slow path. The previous eight weeks of Friday evening classes have all led up to today's big test, held at a middle school in a neighboring town, after which Rowan will add to his curriculum vitae the title of "Kung Fu White Belt."

I thought he'd get the white belt on the first day, like they'd just hand them out and then work on the first real belt. You're alive and your dad paid the $79? Here, kid, tie this around your waist.

In actuality, white belt means you've mastered a series of blocks and punches that'll allow you to survive an attack by another white belt. The infinitely patient instructors would demonstrate a move with perfect form, and then they'd shower praise while their charges flailed around like little flamingos. Then they'd do it again. And again. Week after week. And the kids got better at it.

Last night, I told Rowan not to stuff his uniform in the hamper; he'd need it today for the test.

He's ready. He's in the zone. It's ON. Jackie Chan, you've been warned.

Luck o' the not-very-Irish

Julie texted me a warning: Both kids left their bedroom doors open this morning so that a leprechaun would have no problem sneaking in to leave magical treats and surprises.

Previous St. Patrick's Days have yielded zero leprechaun visits to our house. I am 1/8-Irish, and Julie is 1/4. That makes our kids (carry the 2, square root the whatever) 3/16-Irish, in other words unlikely to attract the attention of anybody named Seamus, let alone a leprechaun. I explained this to them in the car.

"But a leprechaun left candy in Hannah's room and also turned her toilet water green," Lyla pointed out.
 
"We'll check our rooms just in case," added Rowan.

"Yeah," said Lyla.

"Yeah," said Rowan.

"Yeah," said Lyla again.

"Okay, but seriously, you're not going to find anything from a leprechaun. There are childhoods that involve leprechaun visits and elves on shelves, but those are not your childhoods. I'm sorry."

It was silent as we drove up the hill and turned onto the street before the street before the street we live on. Then Lyla asked if we could order pizza and Rowan asked if they could have an Ice Breaker mint. I said sure, and fine cheer was restored.

As I type this, Rowan is turning an empty Kleenix box into a leprechaun trap. Just in case.

New Material, Girl

The book Lyla picked for me to read to her and Rowan at bedtime was something by Madonna.  I hadn't seen it before, but I suspect it came from last Saturday's gift opening marathon with Julie's side of the family.  A children's book written by the singer of "Like a Virgin" will be a perfect gift for a kindergartner, someone thought.

Spoiler alert in case you plan to read this book yourself, but it's about a group of girls who shun another girl because they're jealous of how she's perfect in every way.  Then there's an Ebeneezer Scrooge-like dream in which a fairy godmother shows the four of them--simultaneously, because they're all, like, having the same dream at the same time--that the shunned girl's life really isn't so perfect after all.  Among other things, the girl's mother is--oh boy.  I closed the book.

"Uh, I'll be right back."  I headed downstairs with the book and found Julie.

"Julie!  This Madonna book is about a girl whose mother is dead.  What do I do!?  I'm halfway through the book and the kids are waiting."

"I think it's fine."

"Seriously?  I don't think it's fine."

"Well, then you're going to deal with the kids' wrath."

Back upstairs, I told the kids I didn't want to finish the book because of something sad in it.  They could pick any other book as a replacement.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" they replied in unison.

Earlier this year, my friend, a mother of two who blogged here, died of cancer.  I admit that perhaps I overreacted to this children's book due to the rawness I still feel about her.  But I wasn't prepared for what Lyla said next.

"Daddy!  We know the sad thing is that her mom is dead!  We know!  Can you please just finish the book?"

Rowan chimed in, "Yeah, Daddy.  We know she's dead."

So I finished the book.  Lyla and Rowan listened intently, and then they went to bed.  And of course I came to the simple realization that by trying to protect them, I was really just protecting myself.

Thanks a lot, Madonna.

Wardrobe malfunction

On Monday, Julie and I took the kids to daycare so we could live a day in the throes of childless debauchery, a spiral of destructive, overindulgent behavior glorified by the dumbest rappers.  I'm pretty sure Lorde's writing a song about us as we speak.  It's called "Ceiling Fan Shopping in the Suburbs."

Later, we picked up the kids and found Rowan in the midst of a significant wardrobe malfunction.

"Nice legs, buddy."

"Yeah.  I don't have any pants on."

"Indeed."

"Yeah.  I peed on dem at nap time."

"Got it."

A teacher walked over.  "He just woke up.  And he doesn't have any backup pants in his locker, so I was about to put him in these."

Light purple fleece girl pants.  I did not smack them out of her hand, but I thought about it.  See, here's how they sent him home a couple months ago:

Look again at the photo.  Those are capris.

"So, the light purple fleece girl pants are the only option in the communal pants box?"

"Yep."

I glanced at Julie, who then uttered a five-word day-saver.  "What about his snow pants?"

Brilliant.

$10,000 in the swear jar

"Man, Lyla, your sheets are totally--"

I almost said they were totally fucked up.  As a child who grasps new words quickly, Lyla would've started calling everything fucked up.  "Daddy, your nostrils are fucked up."  Not good.

The trouble is Julie and I have always described imperfect bedsheets as fucked up.  I don't know why.  Julie says it's the only accurate phrase.

"Dan, you fucked up these covers."

We've assigned one of the most vulgar expressions in the English language to one of the most ordinary situations.  Perhaps we need more excitement in our lives.

"I did not fuck them up."

"You and your big galoot legs fuck up the covers every night."

"Woman, do not accuse me of these crimes.  You are this bed's chief fucker-upper."

Secret #1 to marital happiness: talk sweetly to one another.

The other day, Lyla helped Rowan make his bed.  Five-year-olds are terrible at bed-making; best case scenario involves the sheets going from catastrophically fucked up to pretty fucked up.  But you have to praise the effort.  Otherwise they might go to daycare saying fuck.

Where is my timid, cautious toddler?

Julie and Rowan arrived at the train show and found a very different situation from what was advertised.  Rather than a Thomas the Train festival with wooden train tables, snacks, and life-size characters to hug, it was a locomotive trade show for old autistic men.

Meanwhile, I took Lyla to Edinborough Park (a giant indoor play structure covered in microscopic fecal matter) and found a very different Lyla from the last time we were there.  Where was my timid, cautious toddler, and who was this chimpanzee?  I made the mistake of trying to follow her through the labyrinth for awhile.  Height difference alone meant I had to crawl while she sprinted, so it was ugly, and I was lucky to get out of there with limbs, if not dignity, intact.

Afterward, we ate at People's Organic, her favorite restaurant for reasons known only to God ("Why is it your favorite restaurant?"  "Uh...I don't know.").  It took forever for the food to come out, but Lyla waited with patience and good cheer.

Back at home, the spoils of Christmas continued to delight.

"Daddy, did you see that!?  This car is out of control!"

"Want me to teach you how to steer it?"

"Uh, sure."

In ten years, we'll have that conversation again. 

Non-bath-night bath

We've been parents for five years now and have never won a single award for the cleanliness of our children.  "My, your children are clean," a stranger has never said. 

But this evening, Rowan requested a non-bath-night bubble bath.  He wanted to relax after a tough day, perhaps, like every romantic comedy's female protagonist.  So Julie sat up there with him while he splashed around.

After 10 minutes or so, he stood up and announced,  "I wanna det out now."

Julie put down her magazine, rinsed him off, and grabbed a towel.

"I want you to mate me into a ta-toe."  (Making him into a taco involves wrapping the towel around him, neck to toes, like it's a tortilla and he's a slippery piece of chicken.)

"Okay, buddy."

Then he changed his mind.  "No, Mommy.  I want you to mate me into a baby buwwito."  (Making him into a baby burrito involves exactly the same procedure.)

Tomorrow Julie's taking him to a train show at the River Centre in St. Paul.  Smart money says the instant he sees Thomas the Train, he'll aggressively release his bowels and negate the bath.