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Trick Questions
Still at the beach, seem to finally have my silly website fixed, and am still too busy picking sand out of the kids' necks to write a post of my own. So today, you get a guest post from my friend and employer Marshall. You can thank me at the end, he's much funnier than me.
AND OTHER TRICK QUESTIONS
by Marshall Karp
Whenever I asked my father a question about baseball, he always had an answer.
When I asked him why the sky was blue, he told me to look it up in the encyclopedia.
And when I asked him anything else, he's say, "go ask your mother."
Modern fathers are not allowed to cop out quite so fast. Fathering today means more than the physical act of procreation. It is no longer acceptable for a man to father a child, roll over and go to sleep. Men have to "be there" for their children
So we learn things like how to change diapers, how to stuff screaming two-year-olds into snowsuits, and what to do when the baby eats the carpet sweepings. It's not that difficult. Any man who's ever had a puppy can get the hang of it.
The tricky part comes when, unlike puppies, the kids start talking...and asking tough questions. Most men are totally unprepared. Certainly our fathers never trained us to discuss anything deeper with children than "keep your eye on the ball, son." Or "that's a pretty little dress you have on today, Princess."
Don't despair. A little preparation helps. Here then, are some questions I have fielded from my own kids. As you run through the list you may wonder how old the inquisitive child will be when he or she asks that particular gem. A safe bet is to remember how old you were when that question crossed your own curious little mind.
Then subtract five.
On Divorce
Q. If you and Mommy get divorced, who will I live with?
A. We won't get divorced.
Q. But what if you do?
A. Then you'd live part time with me and part time with Mommy. You'd have your own room and your own toys in each house.
Q. That sound O.K. Do you think you'll ever get divorced?
A. No. We can't afford it
On Physical Differences
Q. How come you have hair there?
A. All men have hair there. It's the law.
Q. Will I get hair there?
A. Do you want hair there?
Q. No.
A. Then you won't get any.
On Racial Differences
Q. How come some people have black faces and some people have flesh colored faces?
A. I'll tell you when we get out of the elevator.
On Language
Q. What's a bastard?
A. It's a bad word.
Q. I know, but what does it mean?
A. It's a person whose mother and father aren't married.
Q. Are they divorced?
A. Ummm...it's more like they never got married in the first place.
Q. You mean you can have a baby even if you're not married?
A. Only if you don't eat your vegetables.
On Trust
Q. Is there really a tooth fairy?
A. How do you think the money gets under your pillow?
Q. Gregory said your mother and father put it there.
A. Did he ever actually see his mother and father put money under his pillow?
Q. No.
A. Then there's a tooth fairy.
On Relationships
Q. Guess who I met today?
A. I give up.
Q. Marcy's Mommy's boyfriend's first wife.
On Breast Size
Q. How come that lady has big boobies and Mommy doesn't?
A. What lady?
Q. The one you've been staring at.
A. Oh...how about if Daddy buys you some ice cream?
On Animals
Q. What are those two dogs doing?
A. They're practicing to be acrobats. If they get three more dogs and they make a pyramid, they'll get a job in the circus.
On Economic Status
Q. Are we rich or poor?
A. We're middle.
Q. What's middle mean?
A. It means we can afford ESPN on cable, but Mommy's gonna have to drive the Toyota for another year.
On Parental Restrictions
Q. How come I can't see that movie?
A. You're too young.
Q. How come Jeffy's father let him see that movie?
A. I told you yesterday, Jeffy's father is totally irresponsible, morally corrupt and has no idea how to raise children in today's world.
Q. I told Jeffy's father you said that, and he said he's coming over to talk to you right after his karate lesson.
On Sex
Q. Did you and Mommy do it before you were married?
A. Never.
Q. Not ever?
A. Absolutely not. Daddy wouldn't lie to you about something like that.
On Idols
Q. When I grow up, can I dress like Amy Winehouse?
A. Over my dead body. Next question.
That was just a small sampling. There are a million and one other questions a father should brace himself for. Some of those include:
What happens to people after they die?
What does God look like?
How come people in Chinese restaurants have crooked eyes?
If smoking is bad for you, how come you do it?
What's a hooker?
If I'm not allowed to pick my nose in public, how come Uncle Phil can?
Do you and Mom still have sex or did you stop after I was born?
How many times a week do you do it?
If you believe in God, how come you never go to church?
Did you ever cheat on your income taxes?
What does S&M stand for?
Did you and Mom ever smoke pot?
The questions will come at you fast and furious. Even when you're tempted to lie, don't try it. Today's kids are much too smart. Better to be prepared with some stock answers, which work for almost all occasions. These include:
Shut up and eat your broccoli.
Have you done your homework tonight?
Daddy's busy now.
Here's twenty dollars. Go to the mall.
I'll tell you when you're older.
And finally, when push comes to shove, there's always Old Reliable.
You're sitting on the sofa watching a football game, and your cherubic little five-year-old climbs onto your lap and says, "Daddy, how do you make a baby?" you can always do what I did.
Reach deep down into your male heritage, and like your father before you and his father before him, turn gently to your child and say, "Go ask your mother."
Last minute is my middle name
Where do you buy those temporary tattoo things in wide-eyed cartoon character and pretty flower varieties, other than individually from vending machines? Please note how quickly I have moved from "My, I find fake tattoos for children so distasteful" to "I need 500 of those sumbitches with which to plaster the children at the beach next week."
We leave for a week at the beach tomorrow. (Dear Potential Robbers, the blue rug in the living room is by far the most valuable thing in the house. Bring a friend. And a hand truck, that thing is heavy.) Anybody want to guest post for me? Leave a comment or email and I'll get back to you.
Owen, Addendum
Sweet Owen,
Your last letter did not do you justice. Here's my attempt to make good.
You sing two songs. You do "Choo-choo choo choo up the railroad track" and "Bubble bubble bubble bubble pop," both complete with appropriate hand motions. You repeat almost any word you hear or sign you see. On Tuesday, it was looking in a mirror, being asked "Where's Owen?" and pointing to yourself and saying "Owen." Yesterday you wanted another veggie chip, I asked you to say please, while signing it, and you repeated both the word and the sign.
You can answer almost any question you are asked. Yes, you want to go outside. Yes, you want to go to the pool. Yes, you can go get the blue ball and give it to Mia. No, you do not want to take your shoes off, you most certainly do not. You even tell me just before you need a diaper change, but then spend ten minutes running away from me once the need is actualized.
You are slowly discovering the joys of swimming (splashing, floating, splashing, toys, splashing), can sit and play with your sister (when she will tolerate it) for surprisingly long stretches, and love above all things to run away from me while giggling madly. When I take you to the pool, you spend most of your time picking up girls. I keep telling you that you are too young, but you don't care.
You are incorrigible, you never met a "no" you couldn't ignore, an obstacle you couldn't scale while your mother shrieks in horror, or an object you couldn't bash your head firmly against. Last night you pitched head first off the bed, howled for a minute, and then demanded "up, up, up" to do it again.
When the phone rings you put your hand over your ear and say "hi." Everything is a phone to you, your shoes, the monitors, toy cars. You love to open and close things, hide, play peek-a-boo, give hugs and sloppy open-mouthed kisses and skin-tingling high fives. The world spreads out before you like a never-ending playground, and you are in constant motion trying to discover every inch of it before another despised naptime or bedtime rolls around.
Love,
Mama
I'm boring. Don't say I didn't warn you.
My new iPhone just left Anchorage! The kids and I will be sitting at home all day tomorrow awaiting delivery. Did you know that new iPhones are being individually FedEx'd from Shenzen, China? It seems like there should be some more efficient way to do that, doesn't it? Like ship them all to Duluth and then go from there?
I was thinking that I was finally going to be ever so slightly cool with my fancy new iPhone, but then my twelve year old babysitter told me that most of her friends have iPhones. To which I replied "Are you fucking kidding me?" so now I need a new babysitter as soon as she tells her mother. But that is ridiculous, yes? And also proves that I am still not cool, but at least I have the new one and most of the twelve year olds probably have the old model.
But the thing that does make me cool is that I finally have some lovely, amazing, hard-core drugs for the fucking miserable dyshidrosis on my hands, and it took all of a day and a half to give me a new lease on life. If I ever start to waver on the third child thing, I think I will just have to remind myself about the possibility of another two years of my hands turning to hamburger with no access to steroids and that will cure me. I've even been wearing my wedding ring, which I haven't done for more than an hour at a stretch since I was five months pregnant with Owen. The dermatologist even told me that if it gets really bad again, I can go in for a shot of prednisone. My response was "You know, that is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me." People are no longer eyeing my hands and sheltering their children when they see me in public, and it makes me happy.
(Every time I mention the dyshidrosis, I get a couple of helpful and kind emails from people sending me the same two or three links to non-steroid treatment options with the sometimes veiled and sometimes blatant expression of horror that I would even consider steroids when a couple of nice herbs would clear me right up. And I appreciate that you people are so kind and so helpful, but I had 20 solid months of this crap without a single day of relief while pregnant and breastfeeding so therefore banned from steroids. I tried that. I tried that too. Yes, I promise you, I even tried that. Holistic, organic, ancient Chinese secret, crackpot, potentially dangerous, just plain stupid, I was desperate and I tried them all. I'm blissfully happy with the drugs.)
No Fools
Mia, almost four, abides no fools. As evidence, I present the following:
Mia has a doll that she received as a gift the Christmas before Owen was born. His name is Baby Herman. Baby Herman spends months neglected on the floor of her closet, and then experiences a surge of popularity and is treated like a real human child for several days before he is again abandoned. Last week was a Baby Herman week. He ate with us, slept with Mia, was dressed and undressed and bathed and napped and patted and so on for several days. One night after dinner, Mia was walking around the kitchen, holding him by his outstretched arms, and "teaching Baby Herman to walk." Since Baby Herman was naked, I warned Mia that she had better be careful that he didn't tinkle on the floor. "Mommy," she said, rolling her eyes and smirking, "he isn't real."
Two days ago while tucking Mia into bed, she requested that we talk about lions. I covered the basics, live in Africa, live in groups called prides, hunt animals to eat, sleep a lot, etc. And then I said "Hey Mia, do you know how to tell the difference between a boy lion and a girl lion." And she said "Yes!" And I said, "Well, how do you tell?" And she said, "A boy lion has a penis."
Not quite what I was going for, but I couldn't argue the point.
SKORT!
Wore the skort yesterday, and I discovered that the real problem with skorts is one that none of you warned me about. You think you are wearing a skirt, so every time you go to pee you yank the thing up and give yourself a major skort wedgie.
Forewarned is forearmed.
Dishwasher, Reprise
People, I'm sorry. A lot of you seem to really have problems centered on the dishwasher. And the fact is that I don't. I unload the dishwasher every morning while the kids are having breakfast (Owen has to be strapped onto something while I do it or else he tries to "help," so i opt for using the high chair instead of duct taping him to the couch. And ok, I do have one issue with the dishwasher. Actually, it is Chris's issue. He gets very upset when he puts something in the dishwasher and I move it. He feels that I am criticizing him, trying to make him feel incompetent, some crap like that. I cannot make him understand that I am just trying to load the dishwasher in a way that will result in fitting as much as possible into it and all of those things getting clean and that I constantly move things that I loaded into the dishwasher myself with the same goal in mind. I reload the dishwasher, and it makes my husband very angry.
I thought it was going to be blatantly clear that this post was not actually about unloading the dishwasher. Actually, I still think it is blatantly clear that it is not actually about unloading the dishwasher, but the vast majority of the people who were kind enough to comment never got the slightest inkling that I was referring to anything other than unloading the dishwasher. Unloading the dishwasher was meant to be a... well, I don't know what to call it. Not a metaphor really, perhaps a surrogate? Yes, a surrogate for some other situation where you and your spouse discuss issue X, you and your spouse jointly decide that the appropriate response to issue X is for your spouse to take action Y, which action is something that should be completed in a timely fashion to avoid inconvenience or other undesired results, and then your spouse frequently claims to be just about to complete action Y while never actually doing anything about it.
(If you want to know exactly what I am talking about, you can get clued in here.)
And I feel sort of bad about it, that I got so many of you riled up about the dishwasher or other annoying ways in which your household responsibilities and your partner's household responsibilities are unbalanced. But I also want to thank you, because so many of the comments on that post are unintentionally hilarious that I have been laughing my ass off for two days. So I am sorry that I lead you astray, but I appreciate the steps you took to unwittingly improve my week..
(And I've decided to keep the skort.)
