Dad Entry #73

Megan asked Sara recently, “Mommy, do teacher’s have birthdays?” Interesting question. The logic and reasoning framework inside a 4-year-old’s head is still rickety, or under construction, and I love to see its flimsiness exposed. This is not an indictment of my children. My kids are brilliant. For their age. So back to Megan's question: do teacher’s have birthdays? Well, teachers are strikingly human – which would imply a birthday – but they’re also figures of authority. Are they too rigid, too stuffy, to party? Are they somehow immune to the attraction of presents and fun, unlike children who are drawn like moths to light? Could a normal person ever forget or ignore their own birthday, or - gasp! - refuse the attention and gluttonous gift-giving? No way! A single step down that thought path would short-circuit a young brain. It's inconceivable. Mommy and Daddy have birthdays, so it isn't taboo or against the law or anything for adults. Was Megan's question triggered by an incomplete understanding of biology, birth, or age. No, it was more about parties and presents. But Megan loves her teachers; I don’t think it’s a reflection of whether she sees them as fun. They are kinda serious, though; would they throw a party for themselves with cake and balloons, candles and pointy hats with painful elastic chin-strings? Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Jake are teachers. And she knows they are really nice and fun and they celebrate birthdays. They party. So maybe this is one of the connections, one of the joists or beams, still missing from her basic logic structure, from this analogous edifice I guess I'm referring to here, the brick and mortar of which is a child's experiences, ruminations, and conclusions.

Yes, I know I'm way over-analyzing Megan. But I love her. And it's fun. So here’s another example of 4-year-old logic. This one illustrates the twists and turns, not so much the disconnects, of young thought and argument. I fed the kids buttered noodles and fruit, and I was thinking they could use a little protein. So I offered them some slices of cheese off of a nice block of Monterey Jack. Michael said, “Sure,” because he’s an awesome eater. Megan said she doesn't like cheese. This, of course, is not true. She loves cheese; if we have tacos she wants to shove nothing but handfuls of shredded cheddar into her mouth. So I decided to press. I said, “Honey, I’m pretty sure you like cheese. Do you like cheese pizza?” Megan said, “Yes.” Then Michael jumped on my examination of the witness. He said, “Well if you like cheese pizza then you like cheese.” But Megan countered, rather coolly I recall, “You know what Michael, I like cheese on crust better than cheese on nothing.” Michael and I were momentarily stumped as we both, no doubt, had to rearrange her logic in our heads. Or decipher her logic, or decide if it even was logic. It’s like the dreaded double-negative, it takes translation, it takes time to process, and while your gears turn you lose that instant for a quick-draw comeback! Well done, Megan. It was a fair enough statement but I know she likes ‘cheese on nothing’ also. She could’ve just said, “Not today.”

I was fussing with Megan at bedtime recently. She wouldn’t pick two books to read so I made the usual threats, hurry or you only get one book, that sorta thing. She was exhausted and especially feisty. She came back with, "Okay, then you're not my daddy anymore. I'll go to Texas, I'll go all the way to the airport. I don't like you. I want Mommy. I want Mommy to read to me anyway." I dealt with the situation which escalated even further until Megan got zero books. And Daddy's approval rating fell to zero percent. But I know it's not a popularity contest. Or a democracy. There are no elections. Those are important lessons I learned from my parents. Later I told Sara about Megan's comments. She smiled and assured me that Megan has insulted her in a similar fashion before.

I have decided that Pokémon is a plague; it has descended upon our home like millions of buzzing locusts, a smiting from the Old Testament God. Every penny is greedily devoured by the swarm. New cards do nothing to satisfy it; they only expand its reach and appetite and the swath it cuts every day through our otherwise peaceful lives. Birthday money is spent on cards; anything that is earned is spent on cards; Michael would sell Megan - and vice versa - for a Wailord. Cards are traded, searched for on eBay, and constantly stacked, admired, and moved in and out of binder pages. We find cards under furniture and in our beds, drawers, and cars. If I find cards in random places, I keep them. Like when I need a fork, or a pair of socks, and oh, here’s a Torterra and did you know he does 30 damage to his opponents? Then I trade them back to the kids. Yes, I am part of the problem.