Day 1280 - Sundae School

At preschool, when it is someone's birthday the kids get a special treat.  It's usually cupcakes, ice cream or cookies.  My mom was pretty strict about the sweets, so when it was my birthday she sent me to school with rice balls, tempura, or slide rulers.


The last time Emma and Andrew got ice cream at school, they devoured an entire Drumstick cone.  Since we have always given our kids frozen yogurt, this ice cream cone gave them a little bit of a stomachache.  And please do not generalize and assume our kids are lactose-intolerant because they are Asian; they are not.  And by that I mean our kids are half German -- or at least I think our postman is German.


So an unusual thing happened at preschool today.  It was a teacher's birthday, and she made little ice cream sundaes for all of the students.  As she was scooping out the ice cream, Emma went up to the teacher and said, "The last time we had too much ice cream, we got a tummy ache.  So we just want a little bit ice cream."


And Andrew chimed in, "Yah.  We got a tummy ache."


The teacher gladly listened to our kids and gave them a teeny-weeny bit of ice cream. 


I suppose most parents would be proud of their three year old children to display this amount of self-control and maturity.  It is an example of seeing your children developing a more complex understanding of cause and effect. 

But when Lisa told me this story, all I could say is, "WHAT THE F*^% IS WRONG WITH OUR KIDS?"  If I was a kid and I was getting a scoop of ice cream, my response to the teacher would be, "Bring it on, biatch!"  Too much ice cream can always be solved with a toilet and 20mg of lipitor.

Despite my immaturity and sweet tooth, I am pretty pleased that our kids were smart enough and outgoing enough to speak up to their teacher.  Although they have only been in school for three months, Emma and Andrew are really starting to enjoy it and developing into individuals.  Albeit, nerdy and teacher's pet individuals.

Day 1278 - Conversations with Andrew

Each night when we tuck Andrew into bed, he asks Lisa to check on him.  There's not a whole lot that happens for us to check on.  Maybe the sheets are askew.  A monkey doll might be dangling precariously off the bed.  Or a drunk hobo might be doing shadow puppets above his headboard.  I usually hope for the askew sheets.

On this one particular night, Lisa checked on Andrew after she took a shower.  As she tip-toed into the bedroom, she kneeled next to Andrew to give him a little kiss.

"You check on me, Mommy?" asked Andrew.

"Yes," said Lisa.  "I'm checking on you."

"What you do?  You take shower?"

"I just finished taking a shower," said a stankless Lisa.

"Why your hair not wet?" wondered Andrew.

"I didn't wash my hair tonight," answered Lisa.

"Hmm," thought Andrew as he touched Lisa's hair.  "Well, it stinky.  You have stinky hair."

Day 1276 - Picture Friday

Play-doh + O.C.D. = Two hours of fun!

"I'm going to be in big trouble if I have to carpool..."

I know Andrew lost a toy, but I'm afraid to ask Emma where she found it.

Before pillaging a village, Pirate Andrew packs his quiche in a pink, felt lunchbox.

Have a great weekend!

Day 1275 - Stapled Out

Last weekend, we were invited to our friend's 40th birthday party.  Although I have not hit this milestone birthday, I'd rather be known by my maturity age:  six.  Or better yet my I.Q.:  four. 

Our friend's wife invited all of his friends to a Los Angeles Clippers game in a private lounge at the Staples Center.  At first, I was only going to go to the party because we had no babysitters, and I'm such a fan of office supplies (Imagine my disappointment...).  But our friends insisted we come, so they were kind enough to send us tickets for Emma and Andrew too.

The day of the party, Andrew did not take a nap.  So of course he falls asleep just as we pulled into the parking garage.  Before I continue with this blog entry, you need to understand how soundly Andrew sleeps.  Once he's asleep, nothing will wake him up.  Emma crying in the middle of the night?  Nope.  Me crying obscenities at the television set while playing Uncharted 2?  Nope.  Lisa badly singing an aria from Aida?  Actually, yes...

As we exited the parking garage, Lisa carried Andrew and I carried Emma.  Luck would have it that the up escalators were out of order, so we had to trudge it upstairs with our high heel shoes on (What?  Can't I look fancy too?).  I could tell as we got to the top of the stairs that Lisa wouldn't be able to carry a kid any more.  So I convinced Emma to walk, and I carried Andrew.

Do you know that feeling when you're driving and that mountain on the horizon doesn't seem that far away?  But it takes an hour to actually get to the mountain?  That's the way it felt like when I saw the Staples Center from a crosswalk.

It's amazing how a thirty-one pound toddler can slowly morph himself into the cumulative thirty-one hundred pound cast of The Biggest Loser.  I wouldn't call myself a muscular person, but I've more than held my own in the past when I've had altercations with the elderly and disabled.  Yet, carrying Andrew for almost thirty minutes put a real strain on my body.

Once we made it to the Staples Center, we had to take an elevator to the fourth floor and then literally walk around half of the complex to reach the private room.  I collapsed on a sofa as Andrew continued to sleep on top of me.  He eventually woke up, and as Lisa carried him away, I noticed that half my body was soaked in sweat and the other half in pee (75% Andrew's and 25% mine).

Although it was exhausting to bring the kids to a basketball game, Lisa and I were glad that we were able to be there for our friend's birthday party.  Emma and Andrew now have a memory of their first basketball game, and Andrew has a better understanding of which balls are appropriate to play with.

And just to make things clear, here is a little graphic of what we walked:


















But this is what it actually felt like:

Day 1273 - Conversations with Emma

Every morning I help Emma brush her teeth.  As I helped her squeeze toothpaste onto her toothbrush, I once again forgot how muscular and manly I am because Emma squeaked, "Ouch!"

"Did I squeeze your hand too hard?" I asked.

"Yah.  That hurt!" Emma exclaimed.

Fast forward about fifteen minutes.  I'm driving the kids to school, and Emma asks me, "Daddy.  How did you give me an ouchy?"

It took me a few seconds to remember which ouchy she was talking about.  The iron mace?  The butane explosion?  Oh yes.  The toothpaste squeeze.

"I squeezed your hand too hard this morning," I answered.

"Oh yah," Emma recalled.  "I'm going to tell the teacher you gave me an ouchy."

Holy social worker!  What did she say to me?

"Why are you going to tell the teacher I gave you an ouchy?" I nervously asked.

"Because it was a bad thing to do," she stated smugly.

"But I didn't mean to do it," I pleaded.

"It was not nice to do, Daddy," she replied as I glared in my rear view mirror and imagined a seventeen year old Emma smoking a Virginia Slim.

"But it was an accident," I said as my closing statement.

Emma shook her head and simply stated, "It STILL was not nice to do.  I'm telling on you."

Fast forward fifteen hours as I ask my blog readers if they could recommend any good lawyers for myself.

Day 1271 - Enunciate!

Sometimes it is a little difficult to understand Andrew.  He might slur his words, speak too fast, or use words like "onus" that I do not understand (Isn't an onus the poop chute?).  Although he is always improving with his speech and enunciation, he has always been a good three to four months behind Emma. 

During dinner, Andrew was babbling on about this television show he was watching.  He was telling me how funny it was and then he ended his description with a word I could not understand.  It sounded like pansy or patsy or penis.  But he kept on saying the word over and over again until he began to get frustrated with me.

And then I heard Emma interrupt.  "Daddy," she said.  "Andrew is saying 'panda'."

"Oooh.  Panda!"

"No, no, no," she corrected.  "Daddy.  First say 'pan'."

I said, "Pan."

"Now say 'da'."

I said, "Da."

"Now say it together.  Pan...da.  See!  It is easy."

As Emma continued to eat her meal, I slowly processed what just happened to me.  It's uncomfortable and irritating enough to be spoken to with such condescension, but it takes on a whole new meaning when it is spoken by your three year old daughter.

She spoke to me like I was some sort of idiot.  Even worse, an idiot who she took pity upon.  I wondered where she learned to speak like this, but more importantly I wondered how she became so perceptive.  How was she able to see through my subterfuge of Japanese geekiness and see me for what I really am:  a simpleton dumbass.

I smell the influence of the wife.

Day 1269 - Picture Friday

 "The thermometer says that you're a germophobe and excessively naggy."

"Don't worry, Poppa.  This won't hurt anymore than knowing both of your children are freelancers in extremely competitive industries."

 "Plastic...food...is...hard...to...chew..."

  What Andrew thought was a deserted island was just a piece of stray poop in the toilet roll.

Have a great weekend!