On a recent night I was alone downstairs with the kids.  I think Jacob and I were watching a football game while Shelby played a computer game nearby.

When Shelby’s bedtime came I went over and kneeled to watch the game she was playing for a minute.  When she finished the game she leaned over, put her arms around my neck and gave me the best hug she’d ever given me.  I said something like, “Wow!  I sure wasn’t expecting to get such a great hug right now!”

Very matter-of-factly, she said, “I’m just looking for transportation.”

I pulled back and we looked silently at each other’s face for a moment while I tried to figure out what in the world she was talking about.  This is not an uncommon situation in our house.  We often ask her to translate into English the language of whatever alternate reality she currently inhabits.

It turns out that she was simply tired and ready for bed, and was looking for an easy way to get out of the high-armed chair she was sitting in at the computer.  She figured if she latched onto my neck, when I stood up I would automatically lift her up and out of the chair.  Transportation.  She started giggling as she explained it to me, realizing how funny it was that I mistook her scheming for a simple hug.

We shared a good laugh and I let her ride piggyback upstairs to her room.  So my seven-year old daughter successfully used false affection on her hapless father in order to gain transportation.  I never would’ve imagined anything like this could happen.  I mean, at least not until she turns sixteen.

After my last post telling the story about Shelby and the “pork loin” versus “porcelain” incident, I joked to somebody that I should probably quit my blog and just start one for Shelby to do herself.  It would be more entertaining than mine and I could serve as financier, editor, and technical support.  But for the time being I’m just going to keep using her material until she’s old enough to want her dad to quit telling stories about her (like I’m going to do again today).

Jacob and Shelby just returned from a week at my parents’ house.  If only I had realized as a kid how much fun my parents must be, considering how thoroughly they entertain our kids.  Jacob did a lot of fishing and other summertime activities good for a twelve year-old boy.  Shelby did a lot of Shelby things, e.g. writing stories, drawing pictures, making characters out of paper towel tubes, napkins, etc.  She also composed a photo essay about the adventures of a chicken named Sally.

Let me explain.

When Jacob was little we got hooked on reading him little board books by Sandra Boynton.  If you have toddlers in your household you either know Sandra Boynton already, or you need to.  Hers are not your standard blasé board books.  I find them hilarious in their offbeat simplicity.  (For you aficionados, my favorite is Blue Hat, Green Hat).  This is hard to explain, but I find her little animal characters inherently funny, instead of just funny looking.

Shelby also loved the characters and has stuffed animal versions of many of them.  My favorite Boynton character is the chicken.  Shelby has a stuffed one that she named Sally.  Sally went on the recent trip to visit my parents.

What you are about to see are the results of what happens when a creative little girl takes her stuffed chicken to the park with her grandparents, and Grandpa has his camera.  The photos were named by Shelby herself.

The Adventures of Sally the Chicken

Sally on the swing:

Sally goes down the slide:

Sally runs on a treadmill:

Sally learns about her own species:

Sally climbs in Egypt:

Sally explores new heights:

Sally claims Mt. Chicken Broth:

Sally behind bars:

Sally gets a driving license:

Sally slips while skydiving:

Sally discovers a new fossil:

Sally goes to roost:

I think poor Sally earned some time to rest.  So did my parents.

I have forever ruined a word for at least one friend.  It happened when years ago I pointed out that every time I hear the word “meteorologist” my brain hears it as “meaty urologist” and imagines a stocky physician ominously stretching a latex glove over his hand.  Now my friend’s brain does the same thing.

So while a writer shouldn’t be in the business of “ruining” words for people, I can only hope that if I do so the entertainment value is worth it.  Today’s example is courtesy of my daughter, Shelby, and involves words looking alike instead of sounding alike.

Shelby was shopping with her grandmother (my mother-in-law), whom my children call “E.”  This is not an abbreviation to protect her identity.  They really do just call her “E.”  I should explain this at some point.  Stories about how kids name their grandparents amuse me.

Shelby and E were in a store and Shelby reported that she had just seen a beautiful doll.  Here is where I should point out that Shelby taught herself to read when she was three.  By the time she was five I noticed that when she read to me she would process whole sentences so fast that sometimes she would read them aloud using different words but maintaining the meaning.  For example, she might be reading a sentence that ended with “the kids gave their dog a ball” but by the time her mouth could speak those words her eyes would already be looking at the picture so she’d just say something like “the kids gave their ball to the dog.”  She wasn’t just mixing up the word order.  She was reading, comprehending, and then paraphrasing so she could look around while her mouth caught up with her eyes.  Fascinating to watch.

The point here is that she is long past sounding out many words, but sometimes she will blaze right past a new word because it looks like something else if she’s not giving it full attention.

This is how she reported to E that this beautiful doll she had found was called a “Pork Loin.”

Now E is no stranger to dolls as my wife had more than her share of different kinds growing up.  But a Pork Loin doll was a revelation.  I guess if we can have Cabbage Patch Kids why not Pork Loin Dolls?  They would probably be licensed by whatever trade group makes the “other white meat” commercials.

So E went to investigate the mysterious Pork Loin doll.  I guess growing up with me around makes a child is more likely to be familiar with pork products than fine ceramics or artistic pieces of china.

Porcelain.  It was a porcelain doll.  And now every time I see one I will smile.

So what do I say about the man who taught me the following important life lessons?

1.  The best way to clean under your fingernails is to wash your hair
2.  The best kind of fishing includes a bucket of KFC

Of course Dad taught me many more important things, but those are two of my everyday favorites.

I wish I had a dollar for every dollar Dad has saved other people by fixing things for them.  I guess I do have a dollar for every dollar he’s saved fixing my cars.  Family and friends call him up and ask his opinion on some problem they are having, and he cheerfully gives advice or offers to have a look at it himself.  Do you remember that sentimental scene in Apollo 13 when Jim Lovell’s mom comforts his children by saying, “If they could get a washing machine to fly, my Jimmy could land it.”  Well, if you can put an engine on it, Dad can make it run.

I once put an after-market cruise control on a pickup truck.  It worked, but only barely.  I’d lose ten miles per hour going up a small hill.  The next time I was at my parents’ house (arriving late at night) Dad came outside in his pajamas to greet me.  I mentioned the problem so he asked me to pop the hood.  Using only his bare hands and a golf tee he diagnosed a vacuum line problem and fixed whatever mistake I’d made in about 5 minutes.

I like to think I’m pretty handy with home and auto repairs, but it’s only because I picked up maybe half of Dad’s ability.

Was Dad influential in other areas of my life?  He’s an electrical engineer.  So am I.  I used to tease him about how my college GPA was 0.1 higher than his, but realized that wasn’t fair considering that while he was in school he married Mom, then they had me, AND (oh by the way) he worked a full-time job.

During my first electrical circuits class I has a professor who was a sharp guy with almost zero teaching aptitude, and interpersonal skills to match.  I struggled with circuits right off the bat and was frustrated.  Then my parents came for a visit and I showed Dad the stuff that had me confused.  Ten minutes later, I understood completely.

Dear Dr. Brown,
Remember me?  I’m the one you smirked at when you found out I was on the track team.  You told me that athletics and engineering don’t mix.  You once taunted me for missing both problems on a pop quiz and getting a zero.  If your memory is in fact good enough to remember me, maybe you’ll also remember who ended up with the highest grade in your class that semester because his Dad taught him what you could not.  Not that I am bitter neener neener neener.
Mark

So now Dad has been retired a few years.  He teaches Sunday School and still plays on the church softball team.  Does he have any other activities that might keep his engineering and handy-man skills sharp?  Check this out:

I should mention that he built that plane himself.  Those who know him best won’t be surprised to hear it runs like a top.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Somebody turns seven today.  Here’s hoping she has a great birthday.  If you’re wondering how many times she’s got me wrapped around her finger, the answer is pretty much as many times as there can be.

I have read that as we age, it is healthy for us to engage in activities that keep the mind stimulated.  Think crossword puzzles.  If true, I may be in big trouble (unless college football counts).

Most of the time I have no interest in any kind of mental challenges outside of those required.  Life in general keeps my mind fully occupied.  On car trips Laura likes to work those Sudoku puzzles.  I’m a math guy and I haven’t even bothered to learn the goal of a Sudoku puzzle, much less work one.  (Perhaps any pent-up need to commit math is satisfied by my day job).  Crossword puzzles turn me off.  When I go to Cracker Barrell I want to drink coffee, eat breakfast, stare at the fire, and maybe breathe through my mouth.  Why would I want to frustrate myself maneuvering colorful golf tees about a wooden triangle?  I have enough to think about without taking on artificial challenges.

I do strive to meet the minimum level of mental gymnastics to parent our kids.  I’ll do the occasional Mad Lib, for example.

Our son, Jacob, learned to play chess when he was about six or seven.  I came home from work and he told me he knew how to play.  I think my father-in-law taught him.  I proudly sat down to play a chess match with Jacob, which I won mostly by accident.

Then we played again.  He won.  I didn’t exactly let him win, but I didn’t really focus on the game, either.  I enjoy letting our kids win games, but I usually try to win enough myself just so they know that losing is a part of life and can accept it when it happens.  So when we played the next game I knuckled down.

And he beat me even faster than he did before.

Maybe the reason I don’t enjoy mental challenge games is that they are too much of a mental challenge for me.  Over the next few weeks we played enough that I learned I was indeed a superior player, but frankly not by very much.  We haven’t played in quite a while and I assume he has surpassed me, seeing as how he’s getting smarter and I’m (at best)  holding steady.

Today I came home from work to find Jacob, now twelve, teaching our daughter, almost seven, how the chess pieces can move.  I’m not sure if they were playing for real.  Shelby was giggling with each illegal move she tried.  I think she was doing it on purpose to try to frustrate him, which sisters sometimes do to brothers (or so I have heard).

At one point Jacob said, “No, Shelby.  Pawns can only be moved forward.”

So Shelby gets up, walks around to his side of the table, and moves her pawn to the exact square she had just tried, except now (being on the other side of the table) she was indeed pushing it forward.  Problem solved.

Why make things harder than they have to be?

That’s my girl.

For Mother’s Day I could write about what a great mom Laura is to our kids (and she is).  I could write about how blessed I am to have the mother-in-law that I have (and I am blessed).  Maybe I’ll tell a story about one of them if I’m still doing this in 2010.  But this year I’m telling a story about my mom.

I was heading out the door to attend a football game with my dad.  Mom stopped us at the door to ask about what I was wearing.  She thought I would get too cold dressed like I was.

I was about thirty-two years old at the time.

I recall thinking to myself that maybe mom should accept that I am a fully responsible adult capable of dressing myself.  And by thirty-two I had been for many years.  Out of respect for her I kept such thoughts to myself and grabbed a heavy coat out of the closet to throw in the car “just in case.”  Probably she could tell that I didn’t think I needed the coat.  I figured it was best to just take it with me so she wouldn’t worry, but I would just leave it in the car.

Holy frijoles was it cold when Dad and I exited the car in that windswept parking lot.

I wore that coat zipped all the way up to my chin, the entire game, and I still almost froze to death.  If I had somehow had access to an unlimited supply of that coat I cannot reliably determine how many coats I would have been wearing by the end of that game.  At least one on each leg and maybe three on top.

And to think I almost didn’t even have the one.

So I learned that no matter how old I get, I should always listen to Mom.  Love you, Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day!