Triple the excitement

Paolo has had a big week. First, he moved up to the Scholars' Room at daycare, which is the last class before the kids head to kindergarten. Paolo was supposed to move up in September, but the teachers wanted to move several kids at a time rather than uproot an entire class at once. Paolo was in the first group of three to move up because--and my head is totally floating six feet above my shoulders right now--he's really smart, and the teachers felt sure he could handle the more challenging curriculum. As it turns out, they are not messing around with the kindergarten prep in that class. I have a sheet at home with six words to work on sight-reading this week: this, the, and, at, if, it, is. This kind of learning is a big jump from coming up with a handful of words that start with a certain letter. I've been working on sight-reading with Paolo, but our words are simpler: stop, go, no, play, a, I, red, blue, C-3PO and R2D2. Those last two count, right? They may not seem easier, but they are words that either he sees all the time or knows how to spell from a song. I don't know how to teach the words on the list. I've been racking my brain since Monday for a way to explain "the." Here it is Friday, the end of the week, and we haven't reviewed any of the sight-words due to my mental paralysis. And now my son is going to fall behind. It all starts here, you know. He can kiss that college scholarship goodbye.

This was also the first week of Paolo's swim lessons. They're going well, except that he refuses to get in the water without me. Parents aren't supposed to be in the water during class; the kids hang onto the side of the pool. I swore I wouldn't be that mom who hovered unnecessarily. However, by the second lesson, I had to come to terms with the fact that either (a) I get in the pool, or (b) we pack it in. Stubborn, thy name is Paolo. Once I'm in, I hang back out of the way, looking like a bobber in my maternity swim get-up, and Paolo participates in the class...for the most part. It's still a struggle for him to be comfortable in the water, but if there's a way to swim without getting one's face wet or moving one's arms at all, he's practically there.

We had a houseguest as well, which only added to the week's excitement. Sam's and my best friend from college came for a visit. It's probably weird that both Sam and I were such good friends with the same person, but there it is. Behold the power of Neal. Neal and Paolo instantly bonded, which makes sense considering that Paolo is genetically predisposed to find Neal vastly entertaining. Also, Neal presented Paolo with a cap gun. A gun. A gun with caps, little pellets of gunpowder. That explode. To a four-year-old. To MY four-year-old. Am I babbling? It would be an understatement to say that Paolo thinks the cap gun is the most wonderful toy ever and would like it to be surgically attached to his right hand. Before you call Social Services, you should know that my condition for allowing this most inappropriate gift (and I'm not offending Neal; he meant to make my eyes roll back in my skull) was that, once Paolo uses up all the caps, the gun has to disappear. This is a limited-time toy whose time is almost up. Neal, come back and see us anytime and, while I appreciate that other Arkansas children are already hunting by age 4, maybe a toy truck?

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report 6/22/07

7:59 a.m. A caller in Tontitown reported someone taking fence posts and bringing them back damaged.
Dammit, Cletus, I told you that wood wasn't strong enough to fix the floor on the trailer. Haul yourself out of that hole and take it back.

11:41 a m. A woman at 400 S. Futrall Drive reported a man got out of a vehicle with no pants or underwear and asked two girls at a pool if it was a community pool.
Because if it were a community pool, he'd have to put some shorts on. Great, let's party.

5:02 p.m. A man at First Baptist Church, 1709 Johnson Road, reported a man in a vehicle pointed a shotgun at him.
Did Jesus call the police when he was persecuted?

9:01 p.m. A caller on Turner Street reported a man kicked a woman in the buttocks during an argument.
I can just imagine the desk jockey taking this call: "And where did this assault take place?... He put a boot in her a...Thank you, sir, but I mean where are you calling from?"

10:57 p.m. A caller on East Randall Road reported 20 people fighting with baseball bats.
11:05 p.m. A caller on East Randall Road reported a man hit with a baseball bat.
Out of twenty bat-wielding rednecks, only ONE person connected? Swing it like you mean it, Dirty.

You can't always get what you want.

I've started the neurotic nesting thing, where I'm cleaning things with a toothbrush and re-folding everything in the linen closet. I worked hard on Saturday (after the fabulous pony party), and I worked even harder on Sunday. In the afternoon, Paolo refused to nap and Sam went on a bike ride. Me, I wanted to sit down, read the paper, and do the crossword. And I didn't just kind of want to do this; I really wanted to do this. I'm not sure why, but that 30-minute break between cleaning and starting dinner would make or break my satisfaction with life, and it hinged on the crossword. I pulled out Paolo's town rug, helped him pick out cars and trucks to run along its roads, and I sat on the floor with my paper and pen to be close by while he played.

Paolo thought it would be a lot more fun to crawl all over me, flick the paper, and generally be a complete nuisance. I coaxed, I demanded, I begged, I bellowed; he would not leave me alone. So the mature adult in the room crumpled up the paper, kicked it, and stormed into the kitchen to start dinner prep. The Menace followed me, repeatedly asking if I was happy and if we were friends. After the hundredth time I answered in the negative, he launched into a steady stream of how he was not happy, he was really just not really happy, and he was not my friend anymore. Once his chatter escalated to rudeness, Paolo got a scolding about the proper way to talk to one's mother and went to the living room to pout.

With all the extra prep time, dinner was pretty wonderful. I made fettucine with shrimp in a tomato cream sauce, an artichoke with lemon-butter dip, and blueberry cobbler for dessert. The not-quite-apple-of-my-eye, aka the Crappy Eater, had never eaten shrimp before. Not only did he eat the pasta without complaining, which is a tropical vacation in itself, he raved about how great it was. Then he wanted to try the "leaves" Sam and I were enjoying. We showed him how to peel a leaf off the artichoke, dip it in butter, and scrape the tender bottom with his teeth. And he did it, and he loved it. He declared artichokes to be his favorite food forever and asked to have them again and again. He thanked me for the tasty dinner and put stickers on my hands for doing such a great job.

I did finish that crossword much later, Paolo and I ended the night the very best of friends, and I got to see him take another step toward a life of food appreciation.

You get what you need.

Watermelon Walter

(Flipping through coupons in the Sunday paper)
Me: Check it out. You can customize a bag of Dum Dums for your kid, like Anna Banana, or Butterscotch Brian. What would be a good lollipop name for Paolo?
Sam: Pukin' Paolo
Me: What??
Sam: Punkass Paolo
Me: Oh, shut up

Bad license plates

1. 1PLY. This may not be your fault. You paid $40 to get a University Alumnus license plate, which consists of one number followed by three letters. Chances are you didn't choose this, but you should have kicked that back immediately at the DMV. Honestly, I buy generic toilet paper, but even I spring for 2-ply. What does your license plate say about you? You're a cheap bastard, possibly named Scott, and you better wash your hands twice.

2. KEMO. Okay, maybe your name is Keenan Moses or Kelly Monique, and you or your friends thought it would be hip to J-Lo your name. But didn't anyone at any time point out to you that it's a bad nickname and a terrible thing to put on your personalized plate? Hey, dawg, call me Kemo; all my homies do. Chemo?? Yeah, but with a K, so it's cool. No, dude, no it's not cool. Or maybe you're a really twisted radiologist.