Your Bad

It's interesting. With No.'s 2, 3, and now 4(1), we've had to really work one-on-one with them becoming socially capable, competent, and confident. No.3 is where No.2 was two years ago, and No.4 is where No.3 was at two years ago; it's nice to know that (if pattern holds) her bashful nature will, to a certain extent, subside. I remember Ashlee and I being unsure about No.3 beginning kindergarten this past fall (these feelings were about a year ago). However, by the time August rolled around, she had matured so much, there was no doubt that she was ready! Now, looking at her, it's bizarre to think we even discussed waiting on her!
And we see the same thing happening with No.4...gradually. What I find interesting about No.4's particular personality is how embarrassed she gets when she realizes she is wrong. Depending on the mood, she does one of two things:

1) She clarifies what she "meant". This disables anyone from denying her request. For example, she might ask if she "can play Beatles RockBand." If I respond with anything other than "yes", she restates her question with something like, "I mean can we play Beatles RockBand tomorrow." Oh. Well...And since I've already said "maybe not tonight", I can't really say "probably not tomorrow night" either(2). My response, therefore, must be one of one choice: "Yes." No.4 then replies, "Yeah Dad, that's what I meant. I mean I want to play Beatles RockBand tomorrow." So whether it's for today or tomorrow, she walks away with a "Yes."

2) She pulls herself into an imaginary shell, acknowledging nobody. We are dead to her. Or at least, we are invisible to her. Actually, maybe it's more like she is invisible to us. No, you know what? There's nothing imaginary about the whole situation; she just flat-out ignores us. And her brain ignores her body: no matter how badly an arm wants to bend, or a leg wants to stand, her brain is in "Attack" mode: "How do I attack this foreign word No? I must expel it from my being! But how? Only the most logically potent response can dispel No's pithy presence."(3)
And so she will sit there, motionless, for upwards of an hour. I used to think she was simply pouting. No, no, no. Plotting. She is plotting her perfect response: something that makes you wrong, and her right. Something that immediately explains her "frozen screen" mimicry (she saw that screen often on our old PC; thank you, Mac!).
For instance, the other night at dinner was going fine. The children were eating, having a good time. Then No.4 decided she was done. No, you need to finish eating. She didn't even argue--or eat. Just froze. (Yes, I clicked her mouse repeatedly--I even pushed her "Ctrl-Alt-Del" buttons.)
Nothing.
So I just sat there, trying to make eye contact. She avoided me completely.
Our silent non-staredown continued for nearly an hour. My toothpick was pulp. What had started as a "Thinker" pose had slouched to a "(fill in the most boring class you ever took)" pose.
Finally, I said,
"How about I just feed it to you."
"Dad, that's what I was waiting for you to do. I was just waiting and waiting for you to feed me. Hahaha! But you forgot!"
Yes. Yes I did.


1. No.1 has needed no social help. It's a skill I can only dream of having.


2. Yes I could. In fact, I can go further: "Probably not tomorrow dear, or any of the tomorrows after that." But I need to save my No's for important matters--matters that cannot be reversed. Beatles RockBand is not one of those matters.


3. Less-potent counters: I don't want to; Pleeeeease???; My face hurts; I want to play PBS Kids; Andrew Rich did it;(our fish; every fish we get is named after a former BYU football player.); Uh-HUUUUU-uuuuuuh.

It Makes Sense to Them

No.4 and No.5 were walking up to the church doors today. As they passed the closest parking stalls, No.4 directed No.5's attention to the blue sign and said--with complete surety in her insight--

"And there's a man sitting in a high chair."



The thing is, she didn't seem to find it strange that a man would be found in such seating accommodations; she just kept right on walking with No.5.
I wonder what other "strange" things are completely normal to a toddler...

WWRD?

What would Russ do?
I had that thought the other day, while I stared, dumbfounded, at my vehicle.
I felt like a Little Caesar's employee:

Before moving to our current locale, Russ was my go-to guy. Together(1) we cut down a tree; rebuilt a kitchen cupboard (I think that's what he said we were doing); replaced...something...on my vehicle; fixed the doohickie in my furnace; replaced a leaky faucet; and other tasks which are too complicated for any of you to understand.(2)

I didn't really think I'd gleaned much from watching Russ work, but as I stood before my vehicle, I recalled something I had noticed Russ do multiple times: pull harder.

If a nut was too tight...crank it harder. It will come loose. 

If the doohickie in the furnace refuses to budge...pull harder. It will come out.

So that 's what I did: I gauged where exactly I might be able to separate the panel from the rest of the vehicle, and pulled. And it worked. As if Russ had done it himself.

But it doesn't work on everything. Since universally applying the America of fix-it discoveries, I have torn the tabs off four diapers; broken off two keys in a door (same door); cracked a door jamb (I swear it said "PULL"); and snapped my ring finger (ring: still stuck).

Now here I sit, wondering once more: 

What Would Russ Do?

1. Together: adv. Where one or many circle-up to watch one person do something they enjoy or excel at.

2. Yeah, I don't understand the tasks, either.

The Age Card

On New Year's Eve, our children winding down (surely it was 2011 somewhere), I started pointing out the last (toothbrushing, pajama-changing, praying, etc.) of 2010. Except I didn't initially say "2010." The year whose passing I started lamenting was...
1997.
Thirteen years ago.
1997 was the last year I welcomed by name, and targeted as a year worthy of celebration.
1997 was high school graduation.
Everything after 1997 was simply, "after I graduate..."Sure, I knew what I was doing post-1997, but none of those events had a year tied to them as firmly as did 1997: The Year I Graduate High School. I hadn't circled 2001 as the year I would get married; I didn't celebrate 2003 as the Year of the College Grad; and the New Millennium (2000) was not a big deal in my mind, since I knew I would be serving a mission for my church during that transition, and wouldn't be up celebrating anything past 10:30 pm.
But in high school, 1997 had been driven into my mind as an important year, our year. Everything thereafter was, potentially, nonexistent. Even the years preceding 1997 were big deals. 1996: I'm almost a senior. 1995: Driver's license! 1994: High school!!
I didn't always anticipate years this way. Before I matured, I anticipated actual ages.
As a child, age is the pillar supporting self-esteem. Child No.4 has served as a constant reminder of this fact. She is three, but continually plays the Age Card:

"Daddy, look what I can do!"
"Woa! When did you learn how to do an aerial?!"
(Let-me-explain-it-to-you look) "That's because I'm almost four."

However, she can just as quickly use her age to rationalize her actions:

"Hey woa, what'd you do that for, No.4?"
"That's because I'm only three."

I think I will start playing the Age Card. For example, in pickup basketball:

"Hey, nice shot, Josh."
"That's because I'm almost thirty-two."

Or when cleaning the kitchen:

"Daddy, you're not very good at cleaning the kitchen."
"That's because I'm only thirty-one."

Who knows? Maybe I'd start welcoming years by name again.