Mini is now a preschooler — for reals. Four classrooms full of three and four year olds separated by a vast expanse of land — at once infinitely exciting and terrifying — known as The Preschool Yard.

Monday was the first official day. Anxiety had been building the whole weekend, so I thought Mr. Right-Click and I were going to have to stay for at least an hour to ease the transition into the new classroom. Surprisingly, though, it could not have been smoother: Mini immediately found one of his buddies from the old classroom right away, and shortly thereafter he told us to leave. When I returned to pick him up, he didn’t want to leave for another hour. The same thing happened on Tuesday. This morning, however, was different.

This morning, the anxiety was there again, in full force.

As usual, Mini’s experiences are always just an excuse for me to wax philosophical about my own childhood, and I’m sure this is going to annoy him to no end once he’s old enough to realize I’m doing it, but it made me remember that at some point I remember each new school year a rush of excitement happening the first few days and that by the third day there would always be a feeling of anxiety that came when you realized that this was it, you were stuck, and you weren’t going back. All the things that you thought you were sick of, about the year before, the things that made you feel comfortable even if they annoyed you, were gone now, for good. You can’t go home again. Even if you don’t want to. And it makes you a little bit sick to think about it.

Yeah, I know that feeling, buddy.

No, mommy, I just want a walkie-talkie! he sobbed at me. I explained this to his teacher, “You see, this is all about a walkie-talkie. If we find him a walkie-talkie, it will all be fine.” I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a bitch now. Which makes me think it’s a really good thing she didn’t hear me talking to the Mean Girl four year olds who were hogging the loft yesterday, after overhearing their conversation with Mini and two of the girls from Mini’s class:

Mean Girl 1: This is Kindergarten!
Mean Girl 2: Yeah!
Mini’s Class Girl 1: Oh
Mini’s Class Girl 2: Oh, we can’t go up there
Mini: I’m not very good at Kindergarten.
Me: Listen, those two aren’t good at Kindergarten, either, since they aren’t in Kindergarten yet.
Mean Girl 1: This is our classroom!
Me: That’s right!
Mean Girl 2: This is Kindergarten!
Me: False.
Mean Girl 1: But we are older than they are!
Me: I will give you ladies that much.

This morning, I carried Mini around the Preschool Yard in my arms, looking for a walkie-talkie as he petted my hair and sobbed, explaining to him that if he wanted the walkie-talkie that another boy was playing with it was essential that he pretend that he didn’t care about it at all, could he do that? But I DO want it, Mama, he said, and I told him that I knew it, but that it would be our secret, and we would just pretend like he didn’t care, because if the boy knew that he wanted it, then he would never let it go. And he said OK, and when we got back into the classroom his teacher asked if he’d like to help her put away the utensils and he said yes, because that sounded like a great way to seem occupied with something else.

And just then, while he was working, the walkie-talkie was abandoned, and I grabbed it, and gave it to him, and he gave me a big smile, and said, “You were right, Mama!”

If only all things were that easy.

"The Big Leagues" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on September 01, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

Awkward moment at preschool pickup on Monday.

Mini runs up, excitedly, in his Goldmember getup (Cars underwear, sharky crocs, neon orange earplugs, astonishingly sweaty head of blond hair), and announces, “Mama! Look we doing water play!”

What the what? Water play?

They have a distinctive way of wording things at Mini’s school. A formal, uniquely precise manner of wording that — in the wrong hands — can go back around the other side and start to sound, uh, . . . suggestive.

“Mommy, stop touching MY BODY, I don’t like it when you touch MY BODY like that,” Mini would say, back in the early months of his preschool experience. What he was saying was, if anything, the most precise manner of explaining his point — he did not like the way I was touching his body (while I forced him to get dressed and go to school), there was something in the formality of it all that made it sound . . . odd.

Off. Foreign. Something lost in translation.

But it fits, thematically, with the flying Dutchman’s outfit that Mini ends up wearing during these late summer afternoons at school. You know it’s freaking hot when Mini’s out there running around in his skivvies because he is the last one to strip down out of all of those kids, but when he does, it’s like he just got off the plane from Amsterdam or something, with the clogs, the improvised Euro bathing suit and the goddamn freaking water play.

Someday soon, Mini’s going to be too embarrassed — his partially Dutch extraction notwithstanding — to run around like something out of a xenophobe’s nightmare of Northern European hot weather bathing behavior. At some point he’ll start giggling before I do at things like “water play” and the idea of that freaks me out. It wasn’t that long ago we were driving home with him from the hospital and I was thinking, “Really? You’re going to leave him with us?”

But still, “We doing water play?” Come on.

"Schmoke And A Pancake?" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on August 19, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

Mini is a funny kid. Perhaps you’ve picked up on this.

The thing that is changing is that he is becoming self-conscious about it now. To the point that I suspect him of writing bits down on the backs of cocktail napkins. Or maybe working things out to try out at the next open mike night at Caroline’s. Now, given, he’s only three — but still, it can’t be long now before he’s talking about whether or not to go blue for the preschool talent show.

BIT ONE

The other day, I was trying to wrangle Mini for bathtime. As is his habit on occasion, he was selectively ignoring my requests for him to come into the bathroom. So after some time had passed, I started in with the age-old parental technique of counting wherein the parent counts, slowly, and when the parent gets to a certain number, then the kid knows that Trouble will be happening. The conversation when as follows:

Me: One . . . Two . . . Three . . .
Mini: Four, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVE!

BIT TWO

Mr. Right-Click came home from work the other night, and Mini asked him if he’d “care to join us downstairs.” We asked him if an English butler had been teaching him idioms when we weren’t around.

BIT THREE

We continue to go through the dances of potty training with Mini. Though he is mostly trained, there is one exception — he has completely rearranged his life so as to not need to use the potty for “number two” except at night time when, as you might suspect, he is wearing a diaper. And more often than not, he will go ahead and use the diaper instead of the potty for number two, despite the fact that he knows his desperate parents will not only bribe him with toys if he uses the potty, but actually go so far as to *drive him to the toy store that very second* if he uses the potty. Still, when we put him to sleep, we are often greeted, ten minutes later, by Mini at our bedside with the Kirk Douglas face, which means that there’s some kind of wonderful package in his diaper that needs immediate attention.

So, the other night, we were all in Mini’s room negotiating the delicate issue of the pre-bedtime poop.

Mr. Right-Click: So, Mini, Mommy and I are going to leave now, and go in the other room.
Mini: OK, GAGA! [Ed. Note: I should add here that "Gaga" is some kind of all-purpose preschool slang of fluid definition that we don't really understand. "Gaga" can mean something good or bad in quick succession without warning.]
Mr. Right-Click: So basically, your plan is to poop your pants just as soon as we leave –is that right?
Mini: That’s right.
Me: [laughing.]
Mr. Right-Click: Come on, dude, let’s go sit on the potty. Right now.
Mini: No way, GAGA!
Me: [laughing.]
Mr. Right-Click: Your mommy thinks this is hysterical.
Me: I’m sorry, come on buddy, let’s go sit on the potty.
Mini: No way, GAGA!
Me: Come on. Right now.
Mini: No way.
Me: One . . .
Mini: Two . . .
Me: Three . .
Mini: FourFIVESIXSEVEN
Mr. Right-Click: OK, that’s enough.

[Time passes, we return to our room. Mini comes out with the Kirk Douglas face.]

Mr. Right-Click: Did you poop your pants?
Mini: Yes sir, GAGA!
Me: Mini! Why did you do that? Why wouldn’t you just sit on the potty when we asked?
Mini: Because I CAN! GAGA!

And here’s where a visual would really help because the last part was delivered with a Hannibal Lechter lisp, like Mini was looking for some fava beans and a nice Chianti to go with the poop he took in his diaper, just because he could. Gaga.

"Minisms" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on August 12, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

This morning, I asked Mini something and his response was, “I have good news, and I have bad news.”

This made me realize that the day is fast approaching when I will repeat to you something that Mini has said to me and you all will have stopped believing me altogether. There will be accusations that I just make up these conversations to get traffic, because no three year old could possibly be this well-versed in the language of 70s I’m OK, You’re OK street parlance.

But since he mentioned it, about Buzz, I have good news, and I have bad news.

The good news is, Mini is not too upset. Yet. The bad news is, we don’t know where the fuck Buzz is.

Here’s what happened. And I really don’t want to turn into those insane mothers who starts pointing fingers. But what I’m going to do is, I’m going to turn into one of those insane mothers who starts pointing fingers. Because I absolutely did drop Buzz off with Mini yesterday at school. I specifically remember tucking him into the cubby, because I had to smash him down in order to fit him in with all the other crap that was in there. So I go in to pick up Mini yesterday and Mini says, “We don’t know where Buzzie is, Mama.”

And right away the teachers start up with the gaslighting.

Oh, you didn’t bring Buzz in today, they say. And I say, Oh yes I did. But they’re insistent, right? And I’m saying, Oh yes, I did bring Buzz in, I remember, I know I did. And they are saying, Well, he wasn’t here at naptime. And I’m saying, Right. But I put him in the cubby. And all I’ve got is a three year old to back me up, who is talking about — What the fuck are you talking about, Mini? Blocks? Honestly? Can you stay on target here, buddy? We are trying to locate BUZZ.

So we search. We search everywhere. In all of the cubbies. In all of the baskets. Underneath all of the communal stuffed animals. Even in the yard. In the other rooms. We can’t find Buzz. And all the while, they’re still trying to sell this idea that I never brought Buzz to school in the first place, but I know. I know who took Buzz. But I don’t want to say it because I’m not going to be that insane mother who points fingers. So I go through the motions of looking, and I agree to search at home, in my car, even in the parking lot, even though I know that he’s got to be either in that room or in the trash, or gone home with somebody, because he did come to school and besides nobody is talking about the elephant in the room which is the kid who has been known to go into Mini’s cubby and take shit out of it, nobody has taken THAT kid aside and questioned him, or played good cop bad cop on HIS ASS. OH NO. It’s all about, did you check YOUR car? How about the parking lot? Or maybe somebody turned it into the office?

We went home last night and things were quiet. Mini was not too upset about it, though he did mention an incident, involving the kid in question, Buzz, and some blocks. I thought this was a lead, so I called it into the classroom. They told me they would follow up on it, but I am pretty sure they have started throwing my suggestions directly into the circular file. I told Mini that his teachers are continuing to look for Buzz and not to worry. He comforted himself with Bruin Bear and Lamby Lamb last night, and this morning we both went in, hoping that they had managed to find Buzz overnight.

No such luck.

I was talking to one of the teachers about it, filling her in on what Mini had told me about the blocks, and trying to be as diplomatic as possible. She told me, “Well, three year olds can tell you stuff that happened from days ago as if it was today.” And I said, “Yes, I know. It’s just that, well, and I really don’t want to be that parent, the one who makes a big deal, but this is the thing, he does tend to always fixate on Buzz, I’ve seen him do it before, and –”

Just then, I see the same kid running up to Mini with Lamby Lamb — Mini’s Lamby Lamb — and shaking it in Mini’s face, and then running away with it. And then before I know what I’m doing, I’m running over to him, and grabbing it from him, and I’m saying, “No, no! That is Mini’s! You cannot take that out of Mini’s cubby, OK? Do you understand? That is Mini’s!” I look at the teacher and I say, “Do you see? I know that 3 year olds are not reliable narrators, but Buzz went missing yesterday, and I’m telling you about it, and then the very same kid goes and takes the next lovey out of Mini’s cubby while I’m standing here telling you about it!”

And I realize, with horror, that I’m that mother. I’m that horrible mother who makes a big deal about everything, blames the teacher who has to watch eleventy billion kids for one missing lovey. I’m over here picturing Buzz with a knife stabbed through him and a note written in blood that says, “You’re Next!” Meanwhile, Mini doesn’t even really care all that much, in the grand scheme of things, he’d rather have Buzz back but can he sacrifice a lovey? Probably. In fact, if I stop freaking out about it, maybe he will forget that Buzz is gone.

He’s a pretty secure kid. It’s me that is the fucked up one.

Epilogue: We found Buzz! Suspiciously, he was found smashed behind one of the girls’ cubbies. Now, I checked in and behind every single cubby twice, so I suspect somebody is trying to play this girl as a patsy, but whatever, the important thing is that Buzz is home safe. I’m currently fashioning a lock on him to attach to Mini’s wrist so he doesn’t get kidnapped again.

Hey everybody, we’ve got a new featured blogger ad up and running! Please check out the ad for Chag’s (aka Cynical Dad) new project, Culture Brats in the sidebar ASAP! If you’d like to participate in the ABDPBT Featured Bloggers Program, please email me and I’ll put you on the waiting list.

"The [Really Not Very] Curious Case Of How Buzz Went Missing" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on July 28, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

Mini is about to switch yards. This is about as big as shit gets for a three year old.

The yards at Mini’s educational institution are arranged as such: the two classrooms situated closest to the previously discussed gate house the “twos.” One room is for those kids with second birthdays closest to the beginning of the school year, and the other for those with second-and-a-half birthdays at the beginning of the school year. Both are named after small and cuddly land mammals. I would imagine this is a practice replicated in many preschools throughout North America, but rather than tempt fate I will simply let you know that Mini’s birthday could have landed him in either class but he was put in with the smaller of the two animals and, as it happens, the only one that is found native to countries north of the equator.

He has enjoyed his time in that classroom, but at the end of the month, it will come time to move into the Big Boy Yard. This yard is further along the trajectory of the school’s geography, where they name the classrooms after aquatic-dwelling mammals. We found out today that Mini will be placed in the classroom named after the less-intelligent of the two medium sized sea mammals which were possible namesakes for his homeroom. For me, this was merely a momentary setback, as I quickly identified several names on the list of his classmates that I had hoped to see included, and was happy to see others had been excluded that I was sure I wouldn’t miss.

But all of this is nothing compared to what Mini has told me about what it means to move to the Big Boy Yard.

Because they have been taking the kids over a few times a week to try out the new yard, with the big kids, to see what it’s like. And Mini has apparently been making his own set of assumptions based on his time over at the new yard. And one of those things has to do with whether or not he will be bring his lovey, “Buzz,” with him to the Big Boy Yard and the new class.

“Mommy, the boys in the big boy yard, they don’t have Buzz,” Mini told me the other day in the car.
“What do you mean? They don’t bring a lovey to school, like you bring Buzz?”
“Yeah, no Buzz.”
“How do you know, buddy?”
“”Acause I go to that yard, and they, only girls. Only girls have them.”
“Only the girls bring loveys to school?”
“Yeah. Only girls bring Buzzies.”
“Oh. Well, do you mean you don’t want to bring Buzz anymore?”
“No, I bring Buzz. ‘Acause I bring Buzz.”
“I think you can bring Buzz whenever you want, Buddy.”
“Yeah, ‘acause, I go to my yard. I don’t go to the Big Boy Yard.”
“Well, even if you go to the Big Boy Yard, you can still bring Buzz.”
“I go to my yard.”
“OK.”

Now, I’m no parenting expert, but my preliminary assessment of the situation suggested that this was Mini’s anxiety speaking. But just to be sure, I checked with Mini’s teachers, and sure enough, this was something he had decided on his own, I guess based on the fact that he had not seen any Big Boys walking around the Big Boy Yard carrying a lovey. Not that he carries Buzz around His Yard, either, but it’s clear that he had seen a few of the Big Girls openly carrying a lovey, whereas the Big Boys had been more quiet about the use of their loveys, at least while he was around. And from this, Mini had discerned that loveys weren’t something that Big Boys brought to the Big Boy Yard.

As usual, there’s a little bit of ambivalence mixed in with the excitement of the new step. On the one hand, Mini likes the new yard because he can ride his bike way faster on the hills over there, and there is a whole new climbing structure to explore. On the other hand, he has spent the past ten months making this yard his own. I think right now the indecision is being played out on the body of Buzz. I’m a little impatient and nervous to see what happens, to be honest.

"The Politics of Yard Jumping" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on July 22, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

3.25 years in, the mysteries of language acquisition continue to be most fascinating aspects of parenting to me. Which, really isn’t all that surprising, I suppose, when you consider who I am, and what I’ve spent most of my life doing, in one form or another.

This past weekend, we went up the coast to see an old friend of mine who had rented a beach house in Solimar, in one of those houses you see in movies sometimes, that are situated right on the ocean hanging off the side of a cliff. It was a celebration of sorts, and we walked into a room full of people, including a new baby, the niece of my friend R (and also, as it happens, the niece of The Buttchecker of Barnard Way). I pointed out the baby to Mini, who said, “Yes, him has a toy.”

I felt compelled to explain, then, to the entire room, that for Mini, “him” is an all-purpose pronoun — something completely divorced from gender distinctions or niceties of tense. It was important to me, I suppose, that these people understand that he wasn’t confused about the gender of the baby, lest the new mother be insulted. More important, really, than explaining why he doesn’t use the correct part of speech to conjugate the verb, which might really bother other parents, but for me that is far less of a concern for some reason. Mr. Right-Click, for example, will correct Mini every time he says something like this, “She has a toy,” or even, “He has a toy,” he will say, just to encourage him to get the part of speech correct. But I let him say it wrong, only feeling compelled to explain to avoid hurt feelings if it comes up.

Mini, if anything, is hyper aware of demarcations of gender, even if we have tried to push the idea that things like princesses and trucks are gender neutral objects, there are clearly forces much larger than parents at work that program these things into children. Somewhere. I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture, I just know it happens. Because I know that Mini will lecture you about what is “for girls” and what is “for boys” for hours if you let him, in an almost mortifyingly authoritative tone, in fact. And I also know he didn’t get that shit from me.

So there is no question that Mini knew, given her pink sweater, and the barette in her hair, that the baby was a girl. He just refuses to learn? or acknowledge? the different pronouns commonly used in the English language to distinguish these boys from girls and verbs from nouns.

In Mini’s mind, “him” works in all cases — boy or girl, action, person, place, thing, whathaveyou — if one word will do, why use another? Mini is efficient — let’s not forget. He may or may not be suffering from a case of The Knack.

And it’s not just with the pronoun thing, either. Mini’s also got this thing going on with designation of future times. While he clearly understands the concept of tomorrow versus, say, Saturday, he has taken to referring to all future times, regardless of how close or how far they are from us, chronologically speaking, as “next week.” So, for example, he will say, “Mommy, I want to get some crazy string.” And I will say, “You have to poop on the potty to get some crazy string.” (More on the continuing negotiations of that deal later, friends — so, so much more on that later.) And he will then say, “OK, mommy, I will poop on the potty. Next week.”

Which is reasonable, in his mind, because he totally will poop on the potty next week. Given that next week could be any time in the future.

At 3.25, Mini is reasonably comfortable with uncertanties, at least in some aspects of his life. In language, he seems to have no problem, anyway. He knows that if he says “Mayigagar,” and Mr. Right-Click looks at me strangely for a translation, that I’ll say, “He wants to watch Madagascar.” At 3.25, the world adapts to your linguistic peccadilloes. The world, such as you know it, really has no choice. You will throw a tantrum, refuse to take a nap. Poop on the floor.

At some point, we become a little bit more uncomfortable with uncertainty. We want to know exactly what it was — was the baby a girl or a boy? When are you going to reliably start pooping on the potty, and please do not just say “next week” because that could mean anything, given the fact that we don’t know if you’re defining the week on a Sunday or a Monday start to begin with, and besides, you’ve got a track record that suggests that “next week” could mean fifteen minutes from now? When am I going to get a promotion? When are you going to propose? Am I going to be a good parent? What is the best career path to take? Who is the best person from whom to take advice? Am I a good person? Does my life have meaning?

Maybe Mini has it right with delaying the certainty. I think I will put off the correcting him a bit longer.

"Certanties and The Lack Thereof" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on July 20, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

Occupationally speaking, it has been my biggest fear that Mini would grow up to become an engineer.

And look: I don’t want you to tell me about all the fucking wonderful engineers you know, OK? Or about how you are an engineer and how you shit golden bricks. Because I get it, I get it. My brother is a nuclear engineer, OK? And we are thick as thieves.

No, I am talking about that other kind of engineer, like the undiagnosed Asperger’s engineer. The kind of undergraduate I was saddled with in a Shakespeare class who would say, “I don’t understand why there’s an English Literature requirement.” This is the kind that has stricken fear into me of the engineering profession.

Even with all the liberal arts people in my family, there’s enough of an engineering strain for Mini’s love of machines and robots to scare the shit out of me. I will do anything to downplay it. I’ll be like, “Hey look, buddy! Look at these books over here!” Or “Look at the flowers!” Or even, “Do you want a cookie?” to get him away from the gears and tools and shit. And dear god, the trains. In other words, the electric neon signs that are pointing to THIS KID WILL BE AN ENGINEER TO SPITE YOU.

Except lately, even more disturbing professional signs have been creeping up. And these signs are perhaps the only possible thing that could be worse than engineer because they don’t preclude engineer but merely compound the problem of engineer. Those signs are suggesting middle manager.

Witness the following conversations we have had recently:

Conversation Snippet 1

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, buddy, I didn’t mean to do that.”
Me: “It’s OK, Mamma. Take a deep breath.”

Conversation Snippet 2

Mr. Right-Click: “Mini! We’re going to go get a haircut today! WOO HOO!”
Mini: “Calm down, Dada.”

Conversation Snippet 3

Mr. Right-Click: “Look at this, Mini, you’ve spilled water all over this pillow!”
Mini: “No, look, Daddy, this side is fine. This side is good as new.”

Conversation Snippet 4

Me: “Wow, look at this, Mini — two police cars blocking off this road. That’s weird. I’ve never seen that on this street before.”
Mini: “It’s OK, Mama. We just need to be patient.”

Conversation Snippet 5

Mini: [eating strawberries] Mommy, what are these new food containers about?
Me: What do you mean what are they about? They’re for your lunch.
Mini: You need to take these back to the store.

Now is this, or is this not somebody who is ripe for training in the profession of managing expectations? Or of getting people to do things for other people with a minimum of grousing and raging against the injustice of it all? Or, most disturbing of all — of looking at the decisions of an underling and deciding, after the fact, that they are faulty, and requiring them to do them over, for no apparent reason other than to exert his own authority?! And what if it’s not merely an engineer or a middle manager? What if he becomes an engineer AND a middle manager? What if he’s a middle manager at an engineering firm?

[Rending garments]

Of course if you ask him, Mini will tell you that he wants to be a rock star. This doesn’t lessen my worry much, but it does make for better party conversation.

"Early, Yet Disturbing, Signs Of Mini’s Career Aptitudes" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on July 14, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

This past weekend we went to San Diego (pronounced San Dee Yo-Go) on the train.

We went to the San Diego Zoo, which is disputably the best zoo in the entire world. Not to be confused with The Los Angeles Zoo, which indisputably is the worst zoo in the entire world. Interesting, because both cities kind of suck donkey dicks in the peculiar way that only Southern Californian cities with nearly perennial perfect weather can — unfriendly people, crappy service, horrible food, bad hotel beds, a near perfect lack of intellectual culture.

To that degree, San Diego sucks to a greater degree than Los Angeles, in my opinion, having lived for considerable time in both places, but their zoo is far superior. They do not have a basketball team, though, and though their Nordstroms tend to be far better stocked than the ones in Los Angeles, I would much rather live up here — Hollywood trailer trash and all — if for no other reason than for a slighter degree of provincialism and the distance from John Birch Society runoff from all the military bases.

I digress.

We he had some truly astonishingly good luck with animal encounters whilst at the zoo. Astonishingly good. Of course this was pretty much lost on Mini. I think the train ride was the biggest thrill, followed closely by the Sky Tram (the gondola thing that dangles you across the park).

That, and the danish that the conductor gave him on Amtrak. Because ever since the one time that Mr. Right-Click took Mini on a train ride one Saturday morning and a conductor randomly gave him a danish, Mini has decided that handing out danishes is somehow connected to the normal course of duties for a conductor. The conductor is supposed to take a ticket, punch out holes in it in the shape of your name or an inspirational word or character trait in which you are supposed to work, perform an elaborately choreographed hot chocolate dance routine, yell “All Aboard!,” and (don’t forget) hand out danishes.

On a similar note, Mini is apparently not taken aback by being in close proximity to large wild animals. Take jaguars, for instance. Because of Mini’s extensive experience with the viewing practices of Nick Jr., he thinks that baby jaguars are regularly in the habit of serving as companions to boy explorers and animal rescuers in South American rain forests.

Therefore, when Jacob, the zookeeper in charge of big cats at the San Dee Yogo Zoo brought out an adolescent jaguar, Mini informed me that this was just like DeeYogo’s baby jaguar companion, as you can hear him do on the following video, as said jaguar is being fed an amuse-bouche for our benefit, before she goes outside to decimate an already dead rabbit (mercifully not caught on film). Though, if you look carefully, I think you can see in her eye the thought that perhaps Mr. Right-Click would make a far tastier meal.

Overall, the trip was a grand success, but for that conundrum that always happens with the with-kids vacation: coming home a little bit more tired than when you left. But then, I don’t remember having this much fun at a zoo before, either. I guess last time, I was the one who didn’t quite get what was so cool about it.

"Just Like DeeYogo’s Jaguar" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on June 02, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.

“Hi, Mama!”
“Hi, buddy!”
“I have a ‘uprise for you. Inside.”
“You do? Cool!”
“Uh, Anna?”
“Yeah?”
“He had . . . he wasn’t really . . . himself today. He kept saying that he wanted to go to the toy store. That he wanted you, and that he wanted you to come back.”
“Oh no. Really?”
“Mama!”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“He took the family picture of you guys with him to nap time.”
“Oh no!”
“It wasn’t constant.”
“Oh dear.”
“Just, on and off. We couldn’t figure it out.”
“See, Mama? Is for you.”

“Wow, thank you buddy! Did you draw this for me?”
“Yes. It’s a gate.”
“It’s a gate?”
“Yes, a gate.”
“Like that gate, buddy? The one where I come when I’m going to pick you up?”

“Yeah, mama, like that gate.”
“I missed you today, buddy. Did you miss me?”
“Mommy, I want to go get my milk.”
“OK, you go get your milk, and I’ll sign you out, OK?”
“OK.”

+++++++++

“So, today, buddy, maybe you can draw a picture of when you ride bikes with your friend, Jackson, or something, OK?”
“No, Mama.”
“Why not?”
“‘acause.”
“Because why?”
“‘acause I draw crying.”
“Because you’re going to be crying?”
“No! I not going to cry! I not going to be crying!”
“Oh, good. Why would you draw crying, then?”
“”acause I draw you. I draw Mama.”
“You’re going to draw me?”
“Yeah, I draw Mama. ‘Acause I draw Mama crying.”
“But why am I going to be crying, buddy?”
“‘Acause you going miss me, Mama.”
“Ohh. You’re right. I am going to miss you, Buddy.”

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"The Gate" was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on May 26, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.0. All other rights reserved.