pididdle!

It's my job as a mom to teach my kids the basics.  Stuff like how to pick up after themselves, how to pour milk over cereal prepare a meal so they don't starve to death, how to tie their shoes, how to pray.  I'm also their source of cultural knowledge, bringing them places, reading them stories, singing them songs.  Sometimes, for a special treat, I teach them the stuff I learned when I was little.  One night in the car I taught them this song:

My baby fell out the window
We thought her head would be split.
But that day good fortune was with her
And she fell in a pile of 
Shhhhhhhhhhaving cream.
Feel nice and clean
Shave every day and you'll always feel clean.

You people out there in the audience
You've very nice places to sit
But all they gave me here to sit on
Is a great big 'ol pile of 
Shhhhhhhhhhaving cream.
Feel nice and clean
Shave every day and you'll always feel clean.

 I've taught them a variety of jokes and sayings, including my impressive repertoire of  "What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in a _______?" jokes.  (I know over 20 of them--in a pot, on the floor, in a hole, in a lake, on the wall...)

I've taught the boys jump rope rhymes, how to play all sorts of games from cat's cradle to cribbage, and even this cheer that I learned when I was in 3rd grade:

Strawberry shortcake, banana split
We think your team's a pile of 
Shhhhhift to the left!
Shift to the right!
Stand up, sit down FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!
(Totally awesome cheerleader motions optional.)

Last week we were driving home from the dojo in the dark.  A car came towards us and I noticed it had one headlight.  Flashback to my teen years:

We used to drive around at night looking for beer parties something fun to do and we were fond of punching each other in the arm every time we saw a VW Beetle (Slugbug red!) or a car with one headlight burned out (Pididdle!).  Back in the 80's there must have been a lot of burned out headlights because I almost always had a sore arm.  Then, for the longest time, I never noticed any "pididdles."  That may have something to do with how often I drove around at nighttime or improved LED technology or even a better economy.  Anyway, of late, I've seen more cars with one headlight and Mr. B happened to be sitting next to me so I lightly socked him in the arm and said "Pididdle!"

Mr. B turned to me.  "What was that for?"

"I saw a car with one headlight.  If you see a car with one headlight you're supposed to yell 'Pididdle' and punch them in the arm.  Kind of like 'Slugbug.'  It's a car game."

"What's 'pididdle' mean?"

"I don't know.  'Car with one headlight' I guess."

"Oh."

A couple minutes later, he reaches over and punches me.  "Pididdle."  There are no other cars on the road.

"Where do you see it?" I ask him.

"Well, the one from before."

"It doesn't work that way.  You can only say one 'pididdle' per vehicle.  First one claims it.  Otherwise you'd just be punching each other all night."

"Oh."

A little later we're coming into town and he hits me again. "Pididdle!"

I crane my neck and look around.  "Where do you see it?"

"Behind us!  See?  You can only see one headlight!"

I look in my rear view mirror.  "That car has two headlights."

"But you can only see one because it's behind another car."

"That doesn't count.  It has to be an actual car with an actual burned out head--you know what?  Forget it.  It shouldn't be this complicated.  No more pididdle."

"Pididdle!"  Punch.  "Pididdle!"  Punch.  "Pididdle!"  Punch.  "I like this game, mom!"

Spill it, reader.  What necessary cultural knowledge and wisdom do you try to impart?  And are your kids as thick as mine?

Read More

we'll save the yeti for monday and discuss circumsicion today

Disclaimer: I was ambivalent on the decision to circumcise our sons, but Mr. D had strong feelings on the topic. Evidently boys' locker rooms are hostile places and a little nip/roll goes a long way in protecting male self-esteem in American culture. Because I wasn't born with a foreskin, I deferred to my male compatriot in this matter.

About a week ago Mr. O showed us this huge, sharp, metal-bladed sword. His brother had bought it. For his sister's new baby. A little baby and Mr. O's brother's idea of a great gift is this swashbuckling weapon. Mr. O thought it was funny and showed the sword to the class (sister had given it to him, wisely believing a baby had no business with a sword, but a 3rd degree black belt might know how to handle it appropriately). I cracked, "Did it arrive in time for the bris?

Cue the laughter and a lot of confused looks from the rest of the room. What's a bris? one kid asks.

It's a name for the Jewish circumcision ritual, I explained.

Did I have one? Mr. B asked.

Yep, you did. In fact, most of this room had one I bet.

More laughter and then we moved on to practice our sword form.

A week later...

Mr. B and I are at karate where we worked on our sword form during class. After class ends, Mr. B asks me where his sword is. What sword? You have it in your hand.

No, that other sword you got me.

What other sword?

The one you said you got me last week.

Buddy, I have no idea what you're talking about. You have a sword. It's in terrible shape because you don't take care of it and leave it outside. I'm not buying you another one until you're older and show more responsibility.

No, Mom! You said in class last week that I had another sword. Just like the one Mr. O's brother bought for the new baby.

OH! No, sweetie. I was referring to your circumcision. You had a circumcision, not a new sword.

What's a circumcision?

You know how you plan those "talks" with your children? I always felt I'd gotten off the hook having boys instead of girls--no menstruation conversation, no breast buds, instructions on inserting tampons, etc. I sort of figured that little cut when they were a day old would never come up because all the other boys had it done and they'd assume that was the norm and never question it.

Well, it's a thing most people in Western cultures do to their baby boys. You know how your penis looks kind of like a mushroom at the end? Well, there's this bit of skin--it's called a foreskin--and the doctor snips it and pushes it back and that's what a circumcision is. Just cutting and rolling back that foreskin.

Reader, if I could describe the look of horrified betrayal that kid gave me.

You did WHAT?

Yeah, it sounds bad when you say it out loud like that.

Did it hurt? Mr. B's brow is furrowed with concern.

I imagine it did. I wasn't there. They took you to another room and Dr. K did it. When they brought you back in, there was a little blood.

I remember Mr. T's indignation when we changed Mr. B's diaper the next day and he saw the blood. He was furious that we'd cut a baby. And concerned about how it felt. And mad that we did it to him without his permission.

Why? Why did you do that to me? I was a baby!

This is the point of the conversation where I totally threw Mr. D under the bus. Guy stuff, not my turf.

I can't believe you guys did that to me.

Honey, everyone does it. It's just something parents do to boys.

Well, I'm sure glad I had it done when I was a baby instead of as an adult. If you were an adult it would really hurt.

That happened a week ago. Last night we discussed apocalyptic events on the ride home, like zombies taking over, or apes taking over, or the world turning into a giant fireball that no water could extinguish, but then we'll all be with Jesus. And how do zombies become zombies, how could apes take over humans, did I ever see a movie about haunted houses, how many haunted house movies have ever been made and what's the scariest. Important stuff that weighs on the mind of a nine-year-old boy clearly not traumatized in any way by last week's conversation.

Read More

we love puzzles, NPR & George

Every Sunday morning en route to church in the Momvan, Team Testosterone and I listen to the Weekend Edition Sunday Puzzle on the Air on NPR. Granted, their answers aren't the most accurate (Mr. G will shout out guesses like "stupid!" and "skeleton" to answer questions like "What President's name is found in the word hairdresser?" and Mr. T and Mr. B get demoralized by how much they don't know sometimes.) But it's good, clean fun and I generally feel intellectually superior to my fellow Americans by the time we pull in the church parking lot.

The prize is always the same each week, but it's presented by the celebrity guest that Liane Hansen has interviewed. Mr. T asked once why the prize is always the same--I tried to explain that the Puzzle on the Air isn't about the prize, it's about getting to play. Another time he asked about the "weekend lapel pin." What is that? Well, a lapel pin is a little pin, like a piece of jewelry, that you wear on your collar. Why do they only get to wear it for a weekend? There's much to be learned from that Sunday morning program!

Team Testosterone encourages me to get on the show every week after we finish our audience participation, they think their mom is pretty smart. Trouble is, to enter you have to figure out the qualifying puzzle and that's usually wicked tough. I've been able to do it exactly twice--and the second time happened this week. Mr. B helped me figure out the answer and Team Testosterone made me promise (using pinkies) to submit my entry to get on the show. Well, I've done it--and if Will Shortz calls me this Sunday morning, we'll all be over the moon with excitement! (I'm still pretty jacked that I figured out another answer--Will Shortz makes up tough puzzles.)

We love our NPR, we love our PBS. It's the only news source we've found that's based on facts and analysis instead of scandal and slander. It's the only culturally enriching, family friendly and intelligent entertainment we can find with any regularity. When every other station or channel offers up loud, bawdy and divisive, NPR and PBS provides a sanctuary of educational (To the Best of Our Knowledge! Arthur! Sesame Street! Curious George!) and thoughtful (Masterpiece! This American Life! Frontline!).

One of the quality controls for public broadcasting is the funding--it's not dependent on commercials. It's funded by the public, through taxes and donations. If you love your public broadcasting, or even like it a little bit, join the movement to preserve funding by clicking here. The House of Representatives has already voted to eliminate funding--$1.35 per person is the public's support for this national treasure. Contact your state representatives and senators TODAY if NPR and PBS matter to you.

Spill it, reader. Do you love your NPR and PBS?

Read More

country justice on Crap Corner, WI

There's a pretty farm that I pass a few times a week while en route to the grocery store/dojo/post office/hardware store/library. It's a dairy farm owned by a very clean and tidy Dutch farmer--he's been on this property for decades.

Isn't it a sweet little farm?

If you look closely at his cornfield by the nearest intersection, you'll note this gigantic pile of cow manure.

The big brown blob is the hill o' feces.

Across the intersection is a supper club--it has served Friday night fish fries and hosted wedding receptions and banquets for decades, too. It used to be the Starlite club, but new owners came along a few years ago and began making upgrades. They added a patio to the back of the building to accommodate smokers. They've pushed the "bar" by adding concerts in the back parking lot, annual hog wrestling, and most recently, cage fighting.

Green Girl still thinks the place is a dive, even though she's only been there once in the last 5 years.

This sudden influx of loud noises on sultry summer nights makes the farmer mad. He objects to the late hours, the obscene language of the cage fight announcers, and, I suspect, the traffic pulling in and out all week long. In protest (after going to a town hall meeting to complain), he's piling up cow manure along his property line--directly across the road and behind the club's parking lot.

A view from the Momvan of the edge of the club's back parking lot. That second pile of manure keeps getting bigger and bigger.

Every day I drive past and hold my nose and chuckle. And I wonder what will give out first--the club owner's patience and creativity or the farmer's stubborn will? One thing is certain: the farmer's stockpiles of manure won''t give out as long as he's got cows in his barn.

Read More

like a bad habit

I cannot just leave this dang blog alone for a whole week. So. We arrived a day ahead of schedule because Mapquest and the GPS had different conclusions about how long it would take to travel 828 miles. We swung by the Corn Palace before checking into our lodging in Rapid City. Today we did the faces of South Dakota.

Mount Rushmore was as grand as I remember it from my childhood visit. We ate at the cafeteria on site (great food--you cannot go wrong eating at national monuments) and saw license plates from all over North America. Putting a particular poignancy to our visit was a Naturalization ceremony that afternoon. We recognized the future citizens by the fact that they were dressed to the nines for their special occasion. I kind of choked up at the idea of these people becoming citizens. FYI: Thomas Jefferson is my favorite of the four presidents up there.

We hit Crazy Horse next. It has changed quite a bit since my last visit in 1978 (or thereabouts). Much more commercial. The armpit and face are more defined. They barely got a caterpillar through the armpit when I last saw it and the face wasn't even started yet. When I went last time you really had to use your imagination to see the face and horse head in the mountain. And today I confess to not having any love for Indian (Native American? They say "Indian" here but if you were to travel to Oneida Nation north of where I live they'd get their dander up, so what to say?) art. The beads, designs, colors, all of it does NOTHING for me at all. Consequently, I found the Crazy Horse museum one giant yawn. I have no interest in seeing more beaded eagle/turtle/wolf necklaces, thankyouverymuch. We left carrying a couple of rocks blasted off the side of the mountain. Whew. Sorry, folks, but taste in art is subjective and this Western stuff is NOT my cup of tea.

Nor are the Great Plains. We drove through some of the most desolate, empty, wide open land to get here. Not for millions of dollars would I want to live here. It creeps me out, all this vast flat nothingness of plains before the mountains begin. I much prefer my forests of trees.

There appears to be some devastation of the pine trees around here, not sure. Huge swaths of land in the Black Hills National Forest/Park were either brown or cut down for some reason or another. Beetles? That's my guess.

And we ended our first day at Bear Country U.S.A. where we saw the bears getting fed (shovelfuls of bread) and lost Mr. G. We found him at the far end of the park making friends with a bear cub. We escaped that tourist trap with a coffee mug for Mr. D.

Now, after running Team Testosterone totally ragged at South Dakota's largest indoor water park (a shadow of what we're accustomed to, living near the Wisconsin Dells), we're waiting for dinner to be delivered and bedtime...my legs are so tired from walking hither and thither and yon all day. Tomorrow: horseback riding, a wild west show, caves and Reptile World. As they say in the Wild West, "Hold your horses! We're in for a wild ride!"
Yee haw!

Read More

apparently he doesn't think their tractors are sexy

While watching a plane swoop and veer back and forth across a cornfield yesterday, Mr. B remarked to me, "Look at that crazy plane. I wonder why he's flying like that."

Me: "That's called a crop duster. Farmers use it to spray their crops."

Mr. B: (with a giant grin) "Wow! I never knew that farmers were cool like that--having planes! I always thought they were boring."

Me: "Buddy, farmers are some of the coolest people around."

Then I proceeded to tell him all about the lasers they use to cut corn and the special night-vision goggles for milking at 4 a.m.

Spill it, reader. For fun. What super-cool power tool would you give someone with a "boring" profession? Bonus points if you give a super-cool power tool to an accountant!

Read More