Category Archives: inscrutable

Sometimes I Just Don’t Know

Posted on August 6, 2010 | 4 Comments

There are times when I think maybe Michael might be an alien.

Sometimes I just can’t figure him out; what his motivations are, what his thought processes are, where his road is taking him. By this, I mean that he often does and says things that I simply cannot reason out.

A few weekends ago he and his mom were working in the front yard, watering plants. Each time he got wet, even slightly, he deemed it necessary to do a complete wardrobe change. Because God forbid he should ever have to endure moisture of any sort.

Couple this with the fact that in just one short summer he’s become a swimming lessons champ, moving from the A class to the C class in record time. He took to water like he’s part seal, showing no fear and gladly holding his head under water from day one.

He will fairly regularly attempt front flips and pratfalls off the couch in the immediate vicinity of the very hard and corner-profuse brick fireplace hearth, showing no concern that his head might actually meet up with unyielding stone in a violent manner. The lessons from previous episodes resulting in contact with bricks seem to have been forgotten.

Just a couple of days ago we were driving along in the car and I noticed a large pile of dirt at a construction site. “Wouldn’t that be fun to play on?” I asked.
“Well, yes… but it’s too high to be safe for children, and you’d get all dirty,” he replied after careful consideration of my suggestion. I have some fond memories of playing on such a dirty pile as a child, and I do not recall even considering the notion of “dirty”.

Some kids are happy to receive a toy in a large box, and will play with that toy as it is intended. Most other kids would be more happy with the box itself. Michael would ask a parent to cut holes in the box and draw pictures on it with Sharpie markers, and while that was going on he’d crawl after the cat and see if he could antagonize her into scratching him.

Now, I remember my own childhood and a billion goofy things I did as a kid: terrorizing my brother’s models by throwing them out the window (I told him they were bombs); putting toys in the piano keyboard cover and playing “mailbox”, closing the cover and being amazed that the toys would be gone when I opened it again; climbing up in the tree in the back yard and painting the limbs with shoe polish; good times… goooood times…

So I have some understanding about being goofy. My daughters did some goofy stuff as little children too (by the way – happy 17th birthday to sister B!), but it was all stuff I could relate to.

Michael, I haven’t figured out yet.

Not long ago I tried buying old junk at Goodwill that we could take apart. He was happy to watch me take stuff apart, for a little while, but he’d soon lose interest and start shoving pennies in the cracks of the kitchen table or poking holes in the placemat.

Once in a while he’ll ask to play with the walkie talkies, but one of the first things he’ll do with them is start pushing buttons and changing the frequency so that they can’t communicate. If not that, he’ll continually press the “call” button so the other walkie talkie just rings without end.

Occasionally I’ll sit down with him and we’ll use letter tiles to spell things out. Either I’ll ask him to spell something, or I’ll spell something and ask him to sound it out. This quickly dissolves into his inventing new words and asking me what they spell, and then him becoming tearful in frustration that he can’t make a word.

The things that motivated me, that interested me, that kept me occupied throughout my childhood are not the things that keep Michael interested.

I have to accept that fact, because he’s not me. He’s Michael, and he has his own style and speed.

My prayer is that I can learn how to meet him where he is, and help him channel his energy into something more productive than bothering the cat.

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Posted in inscrutable, michael, ponderings

At Least That’s What I’m Going to Tell You

Posted on July 22, 2010 | 8 Comments

Michael is now employing the “truth hurts so I’ll lie” method to handling new and different foods.

He says “I love it,” meaning “that was vile, but I get in trouble for being brutally honest about how disgusting certain foods are so I’ll say what I think you want to hear so you’ll leave me alone.”

For instance, last week his mom picked up some rice bread for him to try. This was the only bread she could find that didn’t have milk and/or soy in it.

After lovingly crafting a PB&J sandwich from this new bread, she handed it to Michael, who took an exploratory bite.

He made that face: the one that looks like he just licked something he thought was chocolate but it turned out to be a moray eel, but he’s too cool to allow a genuine emotion to spread across his visage.

“Well?” his mom asked, expectantly. “How is it?”

“I love it,” he said, on his fiftieth chew of the one bite, his nose wrinkled ever so slightly while he strained to hold his breath and to keep his tongue from actually contacting the masticated wad, lest he taste it.

“Great!” his mom said. “Finish that up then and we can go on our errands.”

“Uh, I’m done with it. I’ll just save it for later,” he said, putting it down. The “later” of which he speaks is no doubt coincident with the end of the Mayan calendar.

For several weeks now Michael had been pestering me to get Brussels sprouts for him to try. He happily eats broccoli and many other vegetables, so this wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. It’s just that Brussels sprouts are infamous as the nemesis of children’s palettes everywhere, throughout all recorded history. Legends have sprung up over tales of stubborn children sitting for days, staring at their plate of uneaten Brussels sprouts until their parents finally cave in or grow too old to fight.

So for him to actually request them was nothing short of a miracle in my mind. And I couldn’t help but be a little proud, since I actually like them myself.

However, I resisted the first few requests, having previous experience with children and their unusual culinary requests (miniature bananas, edible flowers, Mexican hot chocolate, etc.) that ended up shoved to the back of the refrigerator to become fungal substrates.

On his continued insistence, I eventually broke down and bought some.

I made eight of them. A simple recipe: clean them, boil them in salt water, serve warm.

He was so delighted to pack into this “little cabbage” the way he chows down on the “little trees” of broccoli.

I knew things weren’t going well when I saw him take an exploratory nibble and make that staring-straight-ahead, corners-of-the-mouth-curled-down-slightly sort of chewing face.

“Hmm… not so much?” I said.

“It’s good,” he said, unconvincingly.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, unconvinced.

“I love it,” he said, still chewing the microgram of Brussels sprout he had in his mouth.

“Michael, you don’t need to lie to me. If you love it, eat it all and have more.”

He cut the sprout in half and forked half into his mouth.

He chewed on it for the better part of 45 minutes.

“Well? Do you still love it?”

“Yes,” he said, finally swallowing. “But I’m full.”

“Mmmkay. I’ll eat the other seven,” I said.

“Okay. They’re really good.”

“Maybe we can get more tomorrow!” I said, brightly.

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “We can try something else.”

“But you love it, right?”

“Oh, yes. I love it. Can I have a treat now?”

“I thought you said you were full.”

“Well I am full of Brussels sprouts, but…”

“Yeah. Eat your dinner.”

If nothing else, I do admire his adherence to the maxim: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.”

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Posted in food, frustration, inscrutable, michael

Booster Seat Driver

Posted on July 8, 2010 | 6 Comments

My wife and I have noticed recently that Michael has taken to questioning our driving abilities.

Just about anywhere we go, seconds after we’ve left our neighborhood, Michael will begin loudly casting doubts upon our course:
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“I don’t think this is the right way.”
“We’re getting lost.”
“You’re definitely going the wrong way.”

It doesn’t matter that in every instance we actually arrive where we intended to.

It doesn’t matter that we take the same routes to the same place, every time, and that the landmarks don’t change.

It doesn’t matter that he himself still struggles with getting his shoes on the right feet.

In his mind, we’re all clueless.

And aside from the gloom report, he’s started to become a nagging alarm as well:

“Don’t hit that dog!” (when passing a dog that is thirty yards away, on the other side of a concrete barrier)
“Watch out for that cone!” (while slowly negotiating a turn around an orange pylon that is a good ten feet from the side of the car)
“You’re too close to the edge of the road!” (from the middle lane)
“Don’t forget to stop at the light.” (because Lord knows I love running them)
“You can go now. What are you waiting for?” (light just turned green, but there are twelve cars ahead of me)

I’m not sure where this comes from, aside from perhaps his listening to my own tirades against other drivers, or maybe even as the result of some experience he had while we were in the car in which I got us lost (which, to my memory, has never happened).

In any case, I’ve decided that since I cannot stop it, I’ll bend like a reed in the wind and just play along:

Michael: “Are you going the right way?”
Me: “No. I’m just driving around aimlessly.”

or

Michael: “I don’t think you know where you’re going.”
Me: “That’s true, I don’t. Aren’t we having fun?”

and

Michael: “Are you sure this is the right direction?”
Me: “Hmmm… I don’t know. Do you know which way is the right direction?”
Michael: “No…”
Me: “Then I guess it doesn’t matter which way we go.”

He doesn’t like it much, but it makes me feel better.

What I’m really looking forward to is when his older sisters start learning to drive. If they give me any trouble I’ll just threaten to make them drive with Michael behind them.

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Posted in dad, frustration, inscrutable, michael

But wait! There’s more…

Posted on July 4, 2010 | 4 Comments

Same stepdaughter in an exchange with her mom:

Mom: “So what’s your schedule tomorrow?”

S: “I dunno.”

Mom: “Aren’t you going to the movies with your friends?”

S: “No, I’m not!” (delivered with the sort of derisive tone only a teen girl can properly construct)

Mom: “But didn’t you tell me yesterday you were going to see a movie on Monday?”

S: “I’m going to see The Last Airbender on Monday.”

Mom: “I just said that!”

S: “No, you asked if I was going with friends.”

Sister S has been a world-champion hair-splitter since she was very young. We believe she has a future as a prosecuting attorney.

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Posted in daughters, frustration, inscrutable, mom

Oh, that.

Posted on July 4, 2010 | 2 Comments

Step daughter is standing in front of the refrigerator, staring blankly in to it.

After a moment or two I ask what the issue is.

“I’m looking for something to eat,” she says.

“I made blintzes this morning. There is one left.”

“Really? Where?”

“Right in there,” I say, pointing inside at the top shelf.

“I don’t see it,” she says.

I take a closer look inside, and notice that the foil pouch containing the last blintz is not where I’d left it.

“Huh, that’s funny. I put it right there just a little while ago.”

“Where?”

“On the top shelf. I wrapped it up in a little foil packet.”

“Oh, that. I already ate that,” she says.

Long pause.

I stared at her, not sure where to begin. “So, when I mentioned the blintz, and you said… aah, forget it.”

Kids often say we don’t understand them. I have to concede that point.

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Posted in dad, daughters, inscrutable

Safe, Shmafe

Posted on June 30, 2010 | 8 Comments

It’s morning, and Michael is once again in mommy & daddy’s room making sure we don’t do anything crazy like sleep past 6:00 AM.

He’s chattering at his mom as she quietly puts together his outfit for the day, all the while giving ear to the morning news in hopes of hearing a positive weather report. I’m nearby, getting myself ready for the work day.

On the news, a story comes on about the dangers of illegal fireworks.

At the mere mention of fireworks, Michael’s attention is suddenly riveted to the television. The reporter describes the scenes we’re watching with an ominous tone, as mannequins are substituted for ignorant, idiotic pyrotechnics enthusiasts practicing highly unsafe techniques. The first one has his head blown clean off by a mortar shell. The second has his arm blasted into splinters by an M-80. The third has an eye shot out by a Roman candle. The message is very clear: illegal fireworks are extremely dangerous.

“See, Michael?” his mom says.

Michael pauses for just a moment, obviously still trying to absorb the gravity of the images he just saw.

“We… should… GET THOSE!” he says.

Gravity not absorbed.

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Posted in inscrutable, michael, moments, morning

Words Fail Me

Posted on June 28, 2010 | 6 Comments

Like any good husband, I try to make sure to let my wife know that I love her in different ways.

But sometimes the question comes to mind on the spur of the moment and she needs to ask. And on those occasions I like to have a romantic answer ready for her. She’s a dialog ninja, though, and sometimes my best efforts fall flat.

Recently we were driving to the store, and she asked:

“Do you love me?”

“Absolutely I do. Only more today than yesterday,” I said, thinking I’d given her a good one.

After a microscopic pause came the response: “How come you didn’t love me that much yesterday?”

I think she just loves to see me slap my forehead.

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Posted in inscrutable, marriage, moments

But Of Course

Posted on May 19, 2010 | 6 Comments

Wednesday night is usually one of not-well-organized chaos. After picking up Michael, I come home to a house overflowing with teenagers, as my own girls are with us for dinner. They’ve usually got a huge stream of updates for me.

This night was no exception. Just before dinner, my 14-year-old daughter L came running up to me with great excitement: “Daddoo daddoo daddoo look!”

She then quickly retrieved one of her boots from the entryway and upended it over her other hand.

Out drops a large plastic fish.

“You had a fish in your boot,” I say, pointing out the obvious, not sure where to begin with my attempt to grasp exactly how or why she went through the day carrying a doggy chew toy of that size inside her footwear.

“It’s my husband,” she says without missing a beat.

“All righty then,” I say, and put all questions out of my mind.

Knowing sister L, this is entirely within the realm of normal. For her, “normal” is a vast, expansive realm.

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Posted in daughters, inscrutable, moments, teens

Silence, please!

Posted on May 15, 2010 | 6 Comments

We’re watching “Shrek The Third” at Michael’s request.

As usual, he’s watching it mainly with his mouth:

“Why he’s green?”

“What’s the cat doing?”

“Where are they going?”

“The donkey is mad.”

“Shrek has a big hand. He’s loud, too.”

And on, and on, and on. From the first frame, Michael continued to make observations, ask questions, and make his internal dialog very loudly external.

Finally, sister S had had enough:

“Michael! Can’t you be quiet for just one minute?”

“SHHHHH!” Michael scolded her. “I’m trying to concentrate!”

Yeah. How rude of his sister to interrupt his concentration.

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Posted in inscrutable, kids, michael

Pits

Posted on April 30, 2010 | 8 Comments

This morning Michael and his mommy were having a tickle war.

Michael launched a neck assault, and his mom countered with an arm pit fusillade.

“Hey, no fair!” Michael said.

“What, I can’t tickle your arm pits?”

“I don’t have arm pits,” he said, suddenly serious.

“You don’t?”

“No. Not until I grow up.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t come in until you’re older.”

“So what’s this under your arm?”

“I don’t know.”

Coincidentally, Michael has his first loose tooth. Apparently he figures whatever that thing that connects his arm to his shoulder is going to come loose as well.

So once his arm pits come in he and I are going to have to head to target so he can decide whether he wants to go with Speed Stick or Old Spice.

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Posted in inscrutable, michael