A day at the ballpark

And the highlight, of course, is the team's cute teddy bear of a mascot

Natural selection

It was a lazy Sunday morning and we were late for church. We slipped into the back of the chapel, and stood while we waited for a good opportunity to slip into a pew.

While we waited, an adorable toddler girl stood nearby, staring at us. She wore the cutest little fuschia dress and she had a big smile.

I pointed her out to my son, who stared back then hid behind my leg.

"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Mommy, I'm shy to girls."

Honestly, I found that confusing because in his 5 years, he has never shown that kind of shyness before. Sometimes, it takes him a minute to warm up to people, but once he's comfortable, he acts his normal, talkative self. And he has friends who are girls, and even once claimed to have a girlfriend.

I decided to explore the matter further.

"But honey, you're not shy with me, or with Nana."
The difference was simple. "Mommy, I'm shy with little girls. I'm not shy with big girls."
"But why are you shy to little girls?"
"Well, if I was a girl, I would be shy to boys."

The first lesson

Two days of school and my son is doing well, it seems.
He's at a table with 4 other boys, including one who used to live on the block.
He had his first gym class and his first music class.
I don't have many details because, being a typical boy, he's not offering much.

There was this one interesting exchange at bedtime, though.

As I've noted in past posts, my son has designated some of his stuffed animals as "babies", which require much care throughout the day, including regular diaper changes.

Last night, it was time to read a bedtime story and my son stood in front of the babies and presented a book for the evening.
He held it up in front of his chest explaining, "Babies, this is a book about volcanoes. Anyone who wants to hear the book about volcanoes, raise your hand."

Seeing a lack of response from the babies, I raised my hand. And then my son did too.

The Big Day

We had been building up to this moment for weeks. Months really.
And then it happened on Wednesday.

My son’s first day of Kindergarten.

We did everything we could to ease his transition. My husband and mother-in-law started taking him to the school every couple of weeks, on their Tuesday open houses at the media center, so he could meet the librarians and explore the book shelves and walk around campus.

We talked about his “big boy” school and how proud he should be. All our neighbors and friends did the same and he understood this was a big step. He felt some of that pride, I think.
Then we all went together on orientation day, to meet the teacher and let him explore his new classroom. He immediately started playing with the toys and books.

Tuesday night, the stress finally hit. Bedtime was approaching fast and I declared that computer time was over. He pitched a fit, demanding one more game on the PBS Kids website. No, I said. We’re done.

I held firm to my ground, knowing that if I gave in, then it would only teach him that temper tantrums work. So he rarely ever gives me a temper tantrum and when he does, it never lasts long.

His shouting was ferocious, as he begged and pleaded for this one last computer game. I tried to comfort him, tried to reason with him. The hour was getting late and I really needed him to go to bed.

Would one computer game have made a difference? I’m not sure. It may have satisfied this one request, but I think he would have vented his frustration in some other way. It might as well be this.

I left him in his bedroom to his shouting. Soon, I heard toys crash and bang. His plastic hamper fell and the door suffered some abuse.

Finally, Daddy came home and played good cop to my “bad cop”. The shouting continued for a while, but eventually, my little boy had to surrender to bedtime.

He persisted in his rebellion, though, and refused to get into the bed. So he fell asleep in the rocking chair.

The next morning, he complained when Daddy woke him up. I braced myself for another temper tantrum but he was too tired to fight. We got into our routine, of changing clothes and serving up a Lego waffle.


He picked out a nice “church shirt” for his first day of school. We walked outside and at first, he frowned at the picture taking. Then I asked him for a nice smile. And I actually got it.

The three of us drove to school and we escorted him to his new classroom. We took a picture of him with his new teacher. Daddy waved goodbye and I tried not to linger, but I had to give him a kiss. He smiled and sat down in his chair.

Overheard at play

One of my son's buddies came over recently and I caught this conversation between them while I was in the kitchen.

My son: "So where is your dad?" (Their fathers had taken a quick trip to the beach)
The buddy: "My Paul is with your Don"

I actually understand why this boy answered the question this way.

My own son has begun to accept that we are Mom and Dad to him but the rest of the world uses our actual names. Every now and then, he will use my first name but I make it clear that I prefer Mommy.

Maybe the boy thought saying your dad and my dad didn't seem right, and so he figured that since my son knows his dad as Coach Paul and the boy knows my husband as Mr. Don, he would use those names.

4-year-old logic. Gotta love it.

Holy Cow!

Sometimes, a celebrity dies and with that death, you say good bye to a piece of your childhood.

NY Yankee shortstop and longtime TV broadcaster Phil Rizzuto passed away and as I read his obit today, a memory resurfaced.

I am 6 or 7 years old, it is the dog days of summer, a lazy Sunday afternoon, and my dad has the Yankees game on WPIX, Channel 11. My baby sister and I are playing, I don't even remember what. But some Yankee hit a home run and as Rizzuto called the game, he called out his trademark phrase "Holy Cow" as that ball finally landed in the stands. I can replay his voice in my head and it brings me back to that time of my life.

Rest in peace, Scooter. You will be missed.

The job that I wish I had

And the story I wish I had written.

Though I might not actually miss the WWN, I'm glad the venerable Washington Post had enough of a sense of humor to properly chronicle its demise.

At least we still have The Onion, America's Finest News Source.

The meaning of four

Lately, my son has been feeling his age.
Or at least, the limitations of it.

One reason that life with a 4-year-old is easier is that sometimes, you can actually reason with them. So it is, that I logically deal with questions that arise when my son wants to do something that he is not ready to do.

As my husband finished his reading of Harry Potter 7, my son asked for his chance to read. Then we explained that he couldn't read it yet, maybe when he turned 8 or 9.
And the Harry Potter movies? Not til he was much older.

Now he understands this hierarchy is inherent in everything in his life. G-rated movies are OK, but some PG movies are not OK to watch. And PG-13 is out of the question. (I think this distinction came up because the transformers movie is PG 13. Then I had to explain what that meant.)

He's passing along this vital lesson to all his stuffed animals, of course. He's had a chat with some of the animals, who have been designated as "babies."

Lectures run like this:
"Baby Elmo, you're only 2 years old, so you're still a baby and you can't watch Speed Racer. But when you turn 4, you can watch it."

One night, he brought out his big turtle toy to Daddy.
"Daddy, this turtle is 15, so he can watch the Harry Potter movies."
My husband couldn't agree more.