Sometimes we don't get a lot of homework done in the afternoons.

"Daddy, can I see your face for a second?"

"You need to do your math."

"I will, but I have to check something about your face first."

"Why?"

"I need to see something."

"Finish your math, and then you can check something about my face."

"Just really quick.  Pleeeaaassse, Daddy?"

"Fine."  (Sigh)

"Ok, now just hold still."

"Ok.  Ow.  What are you doing?"

"When I do this to your chin, it looks like a butt."

"You're pinching me."

"When I only do it a little bit, your chin's just a little butt."

"I see."

"But when I do it like this, it's a BIG butt."

"That's really really really interesting.  Now finish your math."

"You have face-butt."

"Thanks for letting me know.  Now.  Math."

"Ok, ok.  Geez."

(Five minutes later)

"Oh, Daddy?"

"YES, Sweetheart head?"

"Can I check something about your ears?"

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Disneyland Edition

I've been blogless since Thursday.  Feels weird.  So what better way to herald a blognaissance than some Random Tuesday Thoughts, courtesy of The Un Mom.  Disneyland Edition.


We took Mini-Pirate to Disneyland for her ninth birthday last weekend.  It's become an annual tradition, and she has a great time, despite the fact that she's a total chicken when it comes to rides.  (More on that below.)

I used to love Disneyland.  In college, I went a couple times a year with a group of friends who were Disney die-hards.  Of course, that was back when I was more patient with crowds, heat, assholes, consumerism and people dressed as giant animals.  As I get older, all those things make The Vein in my forehead throb.  (The Vein has a life and identity of its own.  I'm thinking of letting The Vein start its own blog.)

Still, we had a fun weekend, with more than a couple insights.  Hey!  Which I will now share!


1. Disneyland Before the Child
Going to the happiest place on earth Before the Child meant going with a carload of college friends, and seeing how many times we could get on Space Mountain before getting kicked out of the park at closing time.  It meant daring each other to sneak a flask into the Haunted Mansion and seeing if we could drink without getting caught.  (Ok, that was just one time.  Sidenote: you always get caught.)  It meant saying things like, "Man, this place would be so much better without all these damn little kids everywhere!"

2. Disneyland With Child
Going to Disneyland With Child means spending the day posing with Princesses and Pooh Bears. It means a lot of carousel rides--no roller coasters for you, sir.  It means cotton candy.  Sometimes it means finding a bush suitable for throwing up, if said cotton candy is consumed right before going on the teacups.  It means a morning of exuberance and an afternoon of crankiness.  It means lower back spasms that continue for three days afterwards.  It means feeling every year, every month, every day of your age.

3.  Brain Boil
The boiling point of brain is 106 degrees.  Scientists may dispute this.  But that's how hot it was on Sunday at 2 pm when my brain did in fact melt into a skull-bowl of lava, and bubble out my ears because there's NO GODDAMN SHADE IN TOON TOWN.

4.  Why Foreign Tourists Love Disneyland
I'm sure they enjoy the rides, and getting pictures taken with Mickey.  But what they really love is seeing what they think is an accurate representation of Americans: loud, overweight, often riding a slow-moving scooter (with basket in front for churros/ice cream/popcorn), and oblivious to the fact that they're obstructing everyone trying to get past them.  That's what people from Europe think of when they imagine Americans.  And at Disneyland, it's hard to argue that we're anything else.

5. Nutritional Value

If you want a between-ride snack of carrot sticks and yogurt, you're in the wrong end of the universe, man.

And finally...

6.  Bravery
Mini-Pirate is a big-time wussy when it comes to rides.  I always swore I'd never pressure her to go on any ride she didn't want to try.  I  know some parents bring the tough love to amusement parks, thinking that a little bullying now will help kids love thrill rides later.  But I'm not that guy.  I pick my battles more wisely. Disneyland is not the place I want to break my child down and built her back up again.  It's the Magic Kingdom, not the Marines.  So I don't push.

She does try a new ride or two every year.  Tame ones.  This year looked like it might get interesting, though -- the week before, Mini-P had informed her mother and me that she intended to ride Big Thunder Mountain.

"Really?" we asked.  Saucy was hopeful.  I was skeptical.

"Yep," Mini-P said.  "It's not a super high ride, right?  You said it wasn't that high or that fast?"

"It's not that high," Saucy assured her.  "Or fast.  It's a really good first-time roller coaster for kids.  I bet you'll totally love it!"

Mini-Pirate seemed confident.  Resolute.  When she left the room, and I turned to Saucy and bet her fifty bucks that it wasn't going to happen.  Saucy, apparently new in town and never having met our child, said she thought the kid would go through with it.  Sure, I said.  Absolutely.  So, fifty bucks then?

Mini-P talked the big talk all week leading up to the trip.  And all during the drive up to Anaheim.  And the whole time walking from our hotel to the park that morning.  All the way up Main Street, and into Frontierland.  I was starting to wonder if I underestimated her courage.  Her little chin was set with determination.

And then we got to the ride, and she hears the rattle and rush of the roller coaster.  She looked up at it.  I watched her brave face start to sink.

"Um," she said.

"What's up kiddo?"

"If we get in a line and get all the way up to the front and then I don't want to do it, can we get off?"

"Of course we can.  If you decide you don't want to do it, we can just go out the exit.  It's totally no big deal."

We stood near the entrance for a minute.  She didn't want to make the call, and I didn't force it either way.

"Daddy?"

"Yea?"

"I don't think I want to get in line."

"That's ok, Sweet Girl.  It's no problem at all."

'"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for.  Hey -- you know what we could do?  Go over to the carousel."

"I LOVE the carousel!!!"

Someone owes me fifty bucks.

*

W did have a great weekend, mainly because Mini-P herself had a great weekend.  Every year I keep waiting for her to get tired of Disneyland, since we go there so often.  But every year on the drive back, when we ask if she had a good birthday, she says, "This was the best birthday EVER."

And then she falls asleep.  Or throws up a little.  Either way, she seems satisfied.

Parenting Test #54: Helping With Math!

Hey, parents!  Want to take a test?

Here's how to tell if you're a good parent, or a BAD parent.

Situation: Your almost-nine-years-old daughter is sitting at the dining room table doing her math homework after school.  You're seated next to her, doing some work of your own.  It's a nice, quiet afternoon.  Sunlight is slanting in through the windows.  Why, is that a bird chirping outside?  How pleasant!  Just you and your child, each working peacefully on your own, side by side.

Question #1
As your daughter works her way through her math problems, you start to sense her getting just a tad squirmy beside you.  She's making little sounds of frustration:  "Urk.  Urk.  Hmph."  Like a pouty little bomb, waiting to go off.  Do you:

A) Ask, "Precious, are you having difficulty with that big bad math worksheet?  Can I help you?"
B) Tell her that noise is irritating as hell, and you'll thank her kindly to work in silence.
C)  Gently wrap a sweater around her head, and continue working.
D)  Ignore her.

Let's say, just hypothetically, you choose d.  You refuse to play her game.  You feel that if you jump in and offer help, you'll inhibit her ability to solve problems on her own.  And even though that noise is irritating as hell, it's not good parenting to say so until it starts to make your forehead vein pulse.

Question #2
A few minutes pass.  She keeps making her little urking, hmphing sounds, waiting for you to notice.  Finally, she turns to you and says, "I can't do this.  I need help."  Do you:

A)  Tell her that not only will you help her with all of her math problems, but it's probably just easier if you do them for her to save time, and afterwards, you can both MAKE CUPCAKES!
B) Tell her, "Math's hard.  Life's hard.  Good luck."
C)  Tell her you'll give her the answers for fifty bucks.
D)  Explain that you're 40, which means you don't have to do math anymore.

Hmm.  Is that one a bit tougher?  Ok, let's add one more option:  e) You tell her in the kindest possible way that if she gives that troublesome math problem a good honest try and still feels stuck, you'll help her figure it out -- but you won't do the work for her.

She looks crestfallen and stressed.  You see, your daughter has a Default Setting where, as soon as a task goes from Easy to Slightly Difficult, she gets frustrated, throws up her hands, and tries to quit.  You have NO idea where she got this from!  Certainly not from you!  Ha!  Ha ha ha ha ha!

Question #3
She feebly attempts to puzzle out the math problem again, then looks up, her little face creased with worry and shame:  "I can't do it!"  You take a look at the worksheet.  Hmm.  These math problems are about estimating, and rounding numbers.  Why is this giving her so much trouble?  You clearly remember her learning this last year.  Not only did she learn it, she killed it -- she was rounding numbers left and right.  With ease.  For fun.  Yet she's frustrated now, and her face is getting hot.  Do you:

A) Remind her gently that she learned this stuff last year, and if she just stops and takes a few cleansing breaths, it will all come back to her.
B) Remind her that this is easy crap she already knows, and if she can't remember what to do, then maybe she should do less drugs.
C) Suggest that maybe a snack break will help her regain focus.  Maybe with CUPCAKES!
D)  Suggesting that the two of you look at the problem, and just try to figure out what the first step might be.  Just the first step.

That D sounds pretty good, right?  D is obviously what a kind, patient parent would do.  So let's just say you chose that.

And let's say it doesn't work.

Let's say you try to be patient as your daughter starts huffing and puffing, and slamming her pencil down.  Let's say you realize that she's not even trying anymore; she's just spiraling.  Let's also say that you've conveniently blocked out how you used to do this exact same thing when you had hard homework, and your dad stood over you and urged you onward, and even when he tried to help you, it just made you feel really stupid, and you always hated feeling stupid in front of your father, more than anything.

Let's say you've forgotten all that.

Question #4
Your daughter's eyes are getting damp.  She's about to cry.  This is easy math that she knows how to do, but she's moments away from a total System Meltdown.  You should be feeling sympathetic towards her.  Yet somehow, seeing her like this makes you feel really, really frustrated.  With her.  Do you:

A) Take a deep cleansing breath yourself, and try to remember how you felt when you were a little kid, what it was like to feel frustrated, and embarrassed.
B)  Make some sort of stupid cupcake remark again, as a way of pretending that this whole thing is just a jokey blog post.
C) Let your impatience show by getting short with her and saying, "Listen.  If you can't calm down, I can't help you."  Thereby ensuring that she'll feel even worse.

And... pencils down!

Pass your tests forward when you're done.  I took the test earlier today, and I can tell you that it really all comes down to the final question.  I personally did ok, up until the very end.  My score?

Things I Get to Do on Talk Like a Pirate Day...

...that I'm not allowed to do during the rest of the year.

1)  Call my wife "me fine 'n saucy wench," and/or "me buxom beauty."  (When I do it online?  No problem.  At her firm's holiday party?  Not so much.)

2)  Jump into bed while Saucy is reading and shout, "PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!"

3)  Pound the table at Starbuck's and demand a "steamin' mug of the devil's breath."  Even though it just makes them stare.

4) Engage in appropriate pirate hygiene: brushing my teeth with old grog, rubbing a dead rat under my arms, and trotting out my bottle of Bilge for Men cologne (by Drakkar.)

5)  Make my kid wear an eye patch all day.  It's not child abuse; she's totally cool with it.  Even thought the lack of depth perception makes her hit trees when she's riding her scooter.  Small price.

6)  Ask my saucy bride throughout the day if I can check for barnacles beneath her water line.

7)  Reply to student emails with "Stow yer complainin' unless ye're looking to hang off the yardarm with the other rapscallious little shits."  (Any other day, you can get fired for that.)

8)  Refer to my daughter as "my li'l chumbucket" in public.

To take full advantage of Talk Like a Pirate Day, just go here.

Yes, this is the lamest post ever.  But I felt obligated.
So what're ye doing to commemorate the occasion?

Arrrrrrrr.

Pretend It's Random Tuesday: New Readers, The Limelight, and the Student Email of the Week

It's been unusually post-tacular around here this week, just because a lot's been going on.  I missed Random Thoughts Tuesday (love child of Keely The Un Mom), but decided to Random it up today anyway.  Plus, I'm trying to build up some good blog karma now, in case I end up getting buried by work in a month or so and have to cut back on the amount of eloquent wit, stunning insight, and fuzzy, warm-in-the-pants feelings that Didactic Readers are accustomed to receiving.  So here's a few last tidbits before the weekend:

1.  My New Readers.  I've been fortunate to get a handful of new Didactic Crew members over the last couple weeks.  Thanks for visiting -- you nice.  I hope you keep reading.  We're humble folk here.  We may not be fancy, we may not be famous, we may have a logo that looks like it was drawn in a panic at the last minute by a guy with a Sharpie and a dream, but we got heart.  Plus, we wear Crocs and socks when we take out the trash.

2)  The White-Hot Spotlight.  Speaking of fortunate, the venerable Chris over at Dad of Divas has been kind enough to include me in his ongoing Dads in the Limelight series.  I am unworthy, yet grateful.  The only problem is that when I read over the interview, I'm 85% sure I sound like a pretty hefty-sized douchebag.  It's ok -- you don't have to tell me.  But it's very cool to part of a list that has included some of my favorite Dad Blogs, a bunch of which I actually discovered through the series itself.  (I'd list them here, but I know I'll forget some and feel bad.  Plus, you really should peruse the list over at Chris's site and see them for yourself.)

3) Student Email of the Week Award:

Dear Professor, I know tomorrow is the deadline to add classes, so I am writing to tell you that I really need to add yours to my schedule.  I am a graduating senior who need to graduate in December.  Without your class I will not be able to do so.  Please give me an add code asap.  Also, please inform me about the amount of work you assign for outside the class.  I am very busy and only have time for approximately one hour of work per week for your class.  Please reply asap with an add code and I will look forward to attending your class starting next week.
Sincerely, Darren M********


Yes.  That happened.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go put on pants.  Have a great weekend.

Next, I Try Waterboarding.

Mini-Pirate started fourth grade at a new school last week.  So far we've been trauma-free.  That is to say, she's been trauma-free.  I'm starting to go a little crazy.  Mainly because I have no idea how the last two weeks have gone for her.

I have no information about her class, her teacher, her fellow students, nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  And not for lack of trying.  I've been grilling her every day for some intel.  But she won't give it up.  I don't know why.  She bounces out of school, perfectly happy, into my car.  As we drive home, I employ every interrogative technique I've got... and she replies with non-answer answers, vague and infuriating as a Magic 8-Ball.  I ask an easy question, she sidesteps.  I ask a specific question, she plays dumb.  I get direct, she tries to distract me with unrelated minutiae.  And when I get irritated, of course, she feigns innocence.
It's quite a dance.

Me: So was school Thumbs-Up, Thumbs-Down, or Thumb-Sideways today?

Her:  I don't know.

Me:  Come on.  If you had to pick one.

Her: Thumbs-up.

Me:  Great!  Ok!  So hit me with a couple highlights.

Her (looking placidly out the window, as if preoccupied by clouds or passing unicorns): Dum de dum de dum de dum...

Me:  Kid, I'm talking to you.

Her (innocently):  What???

Me:  I was asking you what was the best part of the day?

Her:  It's fine.

Me:  "Fine" isn't an answer to the question I asked you.

Her:  I don't know.  Everything was fine.  Daddy, what's a crack head?

Me:   What???  Why in world would you ask?

Her:  Ethan called Jeremy a crack head at recess.  What's a crack head?

Me:  Seriously?  Was there no teacher around?  Wow.  I can't believe that.  What are those kids watching on TV at night?  Their parents should-- HEY!  You're trying to change the subject.  Don't do that.  I want you to tell me something about your day.

Her:  I just did.

Me:  Anything other than someone calling someone else a crack head.

Her:  I don't know.  Nothing happened.  School was just regular.

Me:  Well did anything happen today that was interesting?

Her:  No.

Me:  Or fun?

Her:  Not really.

Me:  Or difficult?

Her:  I don't remember.

Me:  I'll give you a thousand dollars if you tell me something about your day today.

Her:  No you won't.  I'm not falling for that again.

Me:  Riley, come on.  You just spent six and a half hours in that building.  Don't tell me that nothing interesting happened.  I'm not buying it.  And when I ask you questions, it's rude to say "nothing" over and over again.  Ok?

Her:  Geez, Daddy.  You don't have to be so mad.

Me (checking the top of my head for rising steam):  Fine.  Fair enough.  But just throw dad a bone here, ok?  Just tell me something.  Anything.  I don't care what.  Anything at all about your day today.

Her (loud sigh of supreme exhaustion):  Fine.  We worked with the computers today.

Me (delighted with this beautiful glistening pearl of information):  Computers!  Good!  Awesome!  That's so cool!  Thrilled to hear it!  Aces!  I bet that was so fun!  I can't believe you didn't mention that before! So what did you guys do on the computers?

Her:  I forget.  Daddy, what's a skank?

Competition

Beautiful Sunday afternoon.  Not too hot, not too cool.  Almost cloudless.  I'm halfway up one of my favorite hike/runs, Cowles Mountain in Mission Trails Park.  It's 1.6 miles from the trailhead to the top, a steep and rocky path all the way .  It may not be a mountain by my homegrown Colorado standards, but it's still a good workout.  The view at the top is breathtaking.  On a clear day, you can see the granite teeth of the Coronado islands protruding out of the Pacific ocean.

I've been doing this hike for fifteen years.  I used to be able to jam up to the top in just over 15 minutes.   And all that time, I've always had one rule:  no one passes me on the trail.

Anyone who starts the climb or the descent after me stays behind me.  It's stupid, I know.  Still.  It's a personal thing.

This was an easy rule to maintain when I was 25, or 30.  But I'm 40 now, and it's gotten tougher.  My compulsion to be competitive is fighting a battle with the reality that I am aging.

I find myself having to push it a lot harder to stay ahead of the young 'uns who bound up and down the trail like mountain goats, these guys with their limitless energy and wings on their heels and immortality.  Me?  I have to be a little more careful now.  Even time I come down hard on a stone I feel the jarring in my knees, the twinge in my back telling me I'm not quite the badass I keep thinking I am.

Like today.  I'm climbing, breathing hard with the sun beating down on my shoulders and each time I hoist myself up over a rock, I hear myself grunting with more effort.

 Still, I maintain a steady pace, close to a light jog, as I round one switchback after another, towards the top.  Every once in a while, the trail mercifully widens into a flat path where I can recover, breathe, and keep moving.  I know this trail.  It feels good to navigate such familiar terrain.

Then, behind me, I hear footsteps.  At the next turn, I glance down and see a young kid, probably 20, leaping up the trail.  He springs from one outcrop to the next on the balls of his feet.  He's barely breathing hard.

I pick up my pace.  I can't help it.

Two more switchbacks up, and I come down hard on a divot in the path.  I don't twist my ankle, but I fucking feel it in my knee, that grinding, like a dry mortar and pestle.

I could just slow down, step to the side of the path, and let him pass.  I should.  Stupid rule about no one passing me.  I shouldn't even care.  It's such bullshit, being competitive.  I read somewhere that people who talk the big talk about being competitive are just hanging out a shingle advertising serious insecurity.

This kid is breathing down my neck as I round the last corner before the summit.  Who the hell does this cocky little shit think he is, anyway?  Doesn't he realize Cowles Mountain is mine?  I try to get angry.  Maybe that'll give me the last bit of fuel I need.

Pathetic.

The last curve of the path is particularly steep, and I take it hard, rounding corners, pulling myself up, trying to lengthen my strides, pretending I'm not a 40-year-old man competing with no one.  And then...

...I round the last bend and I'm at the top of the mountain, San Diego spread out like a quilt in front of me, the ocean a ribbon on the horizon.  The stitch in my side is pulsing.  Sheesh.

Moments later, I see the kid cresting the the ridge.  He's breathing hard too, a small comfort for me.  As he walks up to go touch the official park monument (it's a rule), he nods at me politely.  I nod back.  He goes, touches the Cowles plaque, and then turns and immediately starts vaulting back down the mountain, while I hang back and... uh... appreciate the view for a while.  Until my quads stop burning.

I'd say I won the race, but it doesn't count since I was the only one racing.

The Coolest Guy You Know.

So I'm taking the garbage out to the curb last night, when something happens that makes me realize I am, in so many ways, not the guy I used to be.

I look down and see this.

That's right.  Crocs 'n socks, baby.  All the way.

I'm the coolest guy you know.

Overheard at the Campus Starbuck's: Episode Two

Don't judge me.  I just sit there.


*
Girl #1:  Hey, I think I have the same Writing teacher you had last year.
Girl #2:  You do?  That's awesome because he's awesome.
Girl #1:  At least I think he's the same guy.  Bald?  Talks about his kids a lot?

(Aw crap.  Is it me?  Are they talking about me?  Please don't be talking about me.  This is about to get awkward and there's no way for me to get up and leave without them seeing me.  *hunching down in my seat)

Girl #2:  Yea, and he's like 6 foot 4 or something, with that awesome neck tattoo?  And he talks a lot about his band?

(Oh.  Not me.)

Girl #1:  Yea!  That's totally him!  He seems really cool.
Girl #2:  Super cool.  I really liked his class.  Plus, he's like a really good teacher, actually.
Girl #1:  That's awesome.
Girl #2:  I mean, he's sort of hard, like he makes you work.  But I think I actually became a better writer in his class.
Girl #1:  That's really cool.  I actually want to be a better writer.  Like I've been meaning to really focus more on that.
Girl #2:  Then you'll totally like him.  I mean, you can't skip assignments or anything, because everything's worth points.  But if you're cool with doing the work, it's a really good class.
Girl #1:  I'm totally fine with that.  I actually sort of like to write if I have a good teacher.  Or if the class is interesting.
Girl #2:  That's how I am too!  Like, I like to do it, I just get tired of being told how.
Girl #1: Cool, then.  I'm happy.
Girl #2:  The only thing about him is that he has an attendance policy.

(Long pause)

Girl #1: What do you mean?
Girl #2:  He has a policy and he takes roll, so you have to actually go to class.

(Longer pause)

Girl #1: Oh.  (Opens up laptop)  I wonder if there are any other open sections.

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Back to School Edition

This back to school issue of RTT is inspired, as always, by Keely The Un Mom.  Go bump knuckles with her after you're done here.



1)  My First Week Back: Impressionable Freshmen
My first week back at Big State University was pretty good, thanks.  One of my classes is all Freshmen.  And I have to say, they're already bringing the awesome to class.  They seem enthusiastic and willing to work, yet nervous and eager to please.  That's pretty much exactly what you want in a class, especially if you want to bend them to your will.  Which I do.  To continue building my galactic strike force.  Expect to read about us taking over the planet by Spring 2012.

2)  My First Week Back:  Jaded Upperclassmen
My Juniors and Seniors?  They will likely not be pledging their allegiance to me any time soon.  They're a little too cynical, a little too jaded, and a little too pissy about having to buy the required textbook I chose.  Which is under 20 bucks.  Which makes it the cheapest text ever.  Because I scoured the academic publishing industry to find the most affordable option possible for them.  For weeks.  And yet they're whining.   If ever there was a moment to bust out with a good"Back when I was a student..."  rant in front of them, this would be it.  But I've always sworn I'd never do that.  It gets tougher to hold back ever year.

3)  Mini-Pirate's First Day
... of fourth grade is today. I wouldn't be worrying about it, except it's also her first day at her new school.  We all went to check the place out at the school open house last week, and the vibe was good.  We didn't meet her teacher, but we saw where her classroom was, and there was a picture of Ms. S-------- up on the door.  According to the photo and caption, she's a young, friendly, enthusiastic 20-something who loves reading, teaching and scuba diving.

But how can you know for sure?  The picture of me on the faculty board by my department makes me look like all those things too.  (On photo day, the desk staffers were all, "Why are you posing for your picture in a scuba suit?")  I even have hair in the picture.  It's that old.  So I guess I shouldn't assume anything about Ms. S--------..    We may find out that she's a really a 90-year-old man with a wooden leg who hates children and would rather be playing mah jong in the park.  Fingers crossed, people.

4)  Back to School Accessories
Saucy has outfitted Mini-P very well for school.  Each fashion-forward ensemble this week is a perfect balance of style and functionality, enabling my daughter to go from Studious in the Classroom to Coquettish in the Library, to Breezy on the Playground.   Tim Gunn would rave.  (Thank you, Old Navy.)

I, however, am much more enamored by Mini-P's main accessory: her new lunchbox.

I think back to my own Scooby Doo lunchbox, a whimsical but rattly metal box that clanked at my side like a nervous robot when I walked to and from school.  I like Mini-P's better.  Why?  The verisimilitude!  Note how you see The Mystery Machine from all sides!  Note how Daphne looks fucking crazy in that front view shot!  Do not cross her!

I WILL cut you, Bitch.

5)  And finally...
Truth?  I'm sort of freaking out a little bit about Mini-P's first day.  I don't know why.  She's good at making friends, she adapts to new situations quickly... I just keep wondering: who will she find to play with at recess?  Are there Mean Girls at the new school, and if so, will Mini-P be able to identify them quickly enough?  And what about lunch?  Who to sit with at lunch? And that mysterious Ms. S------!  She could be a mistress of cruelty!  Or a felon!  Or a practitioner of the Dark Arts!


I'll see Mini-P at the end of the day today, and she'll undoubtedly tell me that everything went fine.  But in the meantime, feel free to talk me down from my ledge high atop Irrational Towers.


Happy Back to School, for those of you either heading back, or taking someone shorter than you.  

Do NOT Make Fun of My Monkey.

The following conversation took place in the car today.

Mini-P:  Daddy... I'm worried about something.

Me:  What's that, kid-o-tronic.

Mini-P:  I don't want to say.  I'm embarrassed about it.

Me:  You don't have to be embarrassed about anything in front of me, I promise.

Mini-P:  I know, but... I'm embarrassed about something.  About myself.

Me:  Well, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I promise I would never do anything to make you feel embarrassed.

Mini-P:  Ok.  It's that there's this thing that I noticed about myself.  It's my arms and legs.

Me:  Ok.  Your arms and legs.

Mini-P:  I think.... my arms and legs are very hairy for a kid my age.

Somehow, I knew this was coming.  Not that the kid is weirdly hairy.  She's not.  She has the regular amount of light, downy hair on her arms and legs, just like other girls her age.
Then again... come to think about it, maybe she is a little more furry.  When she was a baby, she did look a little like a rhesus monkey.  Saucy and I called her Hairy-Back Mary.  But only a couple of times. 

Our daughter, 3 weeks old

Oh God.... what if she has some sort of post-utero submerged memory of her parents making jokes about her hairy baby back... and now it's bubbling up from her subconsciousness and next thing you know she's going to have some sort of inferiority complex where every time some kid looks at her funny on the playground she'll burst into tears and I'll have to get a therapist except I can't afford a therapist which means she'll just get worse and worse and she'll grow up hating herself because she thinks she's a woolly mammoth and when she's 18 she'll be unable to answer any questions during her college interview without curling into a fetal position and chewing on her arm hair right there in the Admissions counselor's office, and there's no way she's going to get into Stanford after that.  
Whatever this is, it's definitely my fault.  Time to do some damage control, stat.

Me:  Sweetheart, I promise you that you're perfectly normal for a kid your age.  You don't have any more body hair than anybody else.  You are normal.  Normal normal normal.

Mini-P:  But what if someone else thinks I'm hairy and they tease me?

Me:  Wait.  What?  Did somebody say something to you?  Did someone tease you?  Was it that jerk kid from day camp?  Did he say something mean? DID HE MAKE FUN OF YOU?   Because that kid shouldn't talk -- have you seen his arms?  He's like an 8-year-old Sasquatch!  I bet his parents were gorillas!  So YOU TELL HIM THAT HE CAN JUST GO AND --

Mini-P:  No one said anything.  I said what if they did.

Me:  Oh.  Well.  Oh.

Mini-P:  But what someone at my new school notices and makes fun of me?

*Dad heart breaking.

Me (rational, calm):  Well, we've talked about what to do if someone ever tries to tease you in a mean way.  Do you remember?

Mini-P:  Yes.

Me:  Just walk away.

Mini-P:  I know.

Me:  Do you remember why we walk away?

Mini-P:  "Because if a person enjoys making another person feel bad, that person isn't a person that I want to be friends with."

Me:  That's right.

(She mulls it over.)

Mini-P:  Daddy, whenever you say that, about just walking away?

Me:  Yea?

Mini-P:  You make it sound easier than it actually is.

I know, Kiddo.  I know it's not going to be that easy.  The thing is, you've never really been teased before.  More than that, you've never looked at yourself and seen something you didn't like before.
New tactic...

Me:  You know what?  You're right.  Walking away isn't always easy.  So you know what you should actually do if someone ever makes tries to make you feel bad about yourself?

Mini-P:  What?

Me:  You walk right up to that kid, you shove him into the dirt and you step on his throat and do not let up until he says he's sorry and BEGS YOU FOR MERCY.

Mini-P (face lighting up):  Cool!!!!!

This conversation has been slightly paraphrased.

And starring, in the role of Idiot Dad...

Why should you hop over to Dad Revolution to see my new post there?  Because the first sentence is:

I've recently come to realize that my 8-year-old daughter thinks I'm an idiot.

Right?  Exactly.

Go.  Then come back here and make me feel better.