Nostalgia

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My Son Says I’m Paul Ryan (And My Dad’s The Gorton’s Fish Sticks Guy)

August 26, 2012 at 2:38 pm , by 

21 months.

As far as my son Jack knows right now, I am running for Vice President of The United States of America.

Last Saturday while I was turning on the TV to set upSesame Street for him, a few seconds of the news was on, featuring coverage of the 2012 Presidential race.

Onto the stage walked Paul Ryan, who is Mitt Romney’s running mate.

“Dada.”

It was a statement; not a question.

There was no hesitation in my son’s voice as he looked up at the screen and proclaimed that I was both sitting in the room with him and on the TV at the same time.

Turns out, I am not Paul Ryan and I’m not running for office.

But my son, in all certainty, believes Paul Ryan and I are the same person.

Similarly, Jack thinks that every man with a grayish white beard and hair is my dad, who he calls “Papa.”

From the Gorton’s fish sticks guy to Santa Claus, if my son sees a picture that resembles any likeness to my dad, he dubs that man as Papa.

What’s really interesting concerning my son’s perception of people is the way he sees himself.

I can be pushing him in the jogging stroller around the neighborhood and every time we see another kid around his age, he says, “Baby.”

Other toddlers are “babies” to Jack.

At least he’s consistent. Recently I showed him a picture I had just taken of himself; one where he didn’t realize he was the one in the picture.

His response: “Baby.”

So I guess Jack understands that he is a baby. He is self-aware like that.

Meanwhile, I am Paul Ryan and my dad is the fish sticks guy on the yellow box.

(It is possible to assume I am attempting to subliminally convince you to vote for Mitt Romney and to make Gorton’s fish sticks for dinner tonight. Just keep in mind: I am both a Libertarian and a vegetarian. But man, I do sort of miss fish tacos.)

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The Oregon Trail Game Vs. Actual Car Trips With Kids

August 20, 2012 at 8:21 pm , by 

21 months.

Looking back over 20 years later, that green-and-black “educational” game we played during computer class was not only not really all that educational, but it somehow completely glamorized the turmoil of those Americans who actually made the trek to Oregon.

(Sort of like the way 16 and Pregnant does with teen pregnancy, but that’s a whole other story I’ve already written about.)

The Oregon Trail made you not really mind so much when a member in your wagon died, due to a snakebite, dysentery, cholera, typhoid, exhaustion, or measles.

Even if it was morbid and I’m just now realizing it, I suppose it was fun to get to write on the fallen member’s tombstone.

And boy was it exciting to hunt my own furry food: squirrels, rabbits, bison, deer, elk and bears. If my aim was really good that day, I would kill over 200 pounds of meat and not be able to fit it all on the wagon. (Bragging rights!)

If only driving your kid around in the car was that much fun.

I suppose, though, if they could make The Oregon Trail such a glorious and engaging game, they could do the same thing with take a road trip with your kid.

Just like in The Oregon Trail game, you would have to pack enough clothes and food before you even head out.

While it’s not likely that anyone in the car would die of a snakebite or dysentery, it’s possible I could die of annoyance because my son keeps pretending to drop toys in the back seat, then cries when I don’t pick them up for him, causing me to explain that as long as the car is moving, my job is to keep us all safe by paying attention to the road.

As the parent who drives our kid around almost exclusively, I know how challenging and nerve-wracking the process is. My 30 minute drive to and then back from work each day used to be my “reflection time.”

Now the only reflecting that goes on is me looking in the review mirror to see my son dousing his shirt in water from his cup and stuffing his shorts full of Goldfish crackers.

 

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My Son, The Todfather Tells Me What To Do (Like A Baby Boss!)

August 19, 2012 at 8:41 pm , by 

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I Kind Of Have A Man Crush On My Son

August 1, 2012 at 8:43 pm , by 

20 months.

I don’t envy new dads.

There’s that token “I’m holding my kid for the first time” picture on Facebook that automatically gets like 53 comments and “likes.” I know, because here’s my version of that picture posted 20 months ago.

And then comes the culture shock and the learning curb.

Months later arrives the anger resulting after someone pulls you aside and tells you that it’s normal for an infant to start sleeping through the night at 3 months old and that “crying it out” is just a natural part of it.

“You mean all three of us could have been getting sleep this whole time?!”

Even worse, no one really tells you how to get your baby to sleep through the night, anyway. Meanwhile, the extreme parents try make you feel guilty for even exploring the idea.

Again, I don’t envy new dads.

Hallelujah, I am well past that stage now! I’m no longer a “new dad.” I’m a father of a toddler.

New dads, I am writing you this from the future. It gets better.

A lot better! It took me a while, but I’m finally at that point where I can proclaim, “I LOVE being a dad!”

In fact, I kind of have a man crush on my son.

I add him to my current list of man crushes: Ron Paul, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Bruce Springsteen.

What really propelled me into this state of fatherhood nirvana was probably this past weekend.

There was nothing monumental about it: We took Jack to swim lessons, and on a wagon ride, and just hung out a lot with him.

But the whole time, he was cool. Not high maintenance, not needy in an annoying way, just chillaxed like Jack Johnson.

Sure, it’s easier to feel good about myself as a dad when my kid behaves well the entire weekend. But his 48 hours of perfect behavior which allowed our family to have fun and stay in good moods was largely a result of my diligence with him.

I love to see those moments of “it paid off!” in parenting.

What topped off this perfect weekend was when my wife handed him over to me to put him to bed for the night. He ran right up to my face as if he was going to awkwardly kiss me like Paul Rudd or something.

Instead, he gave me an “Eskimo kiss.” (My wife has been working on teaching him to do that.)

I can’t explain it. But that somehow melted my heart… but in the most manliest of ways, of course.

 

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What My Kid Really Hears When I Read To Him

July 17, 2012 at 11:16 pm , by 

20 months.

My son Jack has been learning to read for several months now. At first, “reading” consisted of him going through his books,  pointing at and saying the animals he knew the name of.

These days, he has added some filler:

“Sah-soo joop mah loo kit. So so so top. Elmo. Guhpo took toe. Bird. Fah lom moosey…”.

In other words, he confidently speaks Gibberish (or maybe it’s Thai?) until he recognizes something on the page he recognizes.

For those familiar items, he speaks them slowly and clearly. Then back to kellee goo soss jot.

What this shows me is how he hears my wife and I when we read books to him.

It’s like Charlie Brown’s teachers and their “wahmp-wahmp-wahmp…” until we say a word he knows.

One of Jack’s new favorite books is Arlo Needs Glasses. It’s one of those 3-D pop-up books, which obviously Jack can appreciate, as well as, depreciate; when he accidently tears an item off the page in all his excitement.

He likes to try on the 4 sets of glasses that come with the book, which are intended for Arlo, the protagonist of the book.

And despite Arlo not being the household name that Elmo is, Jack definitely knows who Arlo the dog is:

“Fop dit yoof bog. Arlo. Dog. Whee! Siwween vox boey. Arlo…”.

Yes, I am simply Charlie Brown’s teacher at this point.