Three Year Old Christmas

Perhaps it was the fact that they had been waking up every day at 7am asking us if it was Christmas day, maybe it was the spontaneous singing of Santa laden songs, or maybe it was telling the boys to get away from the wrapped presents over the past several days; but it was hard to sleep on Christmas eve. Now, we had struggled with a three hour time difference since we landed in Boston four days earlier. Everything we wanted to do was either too early, or too late—breakfast was lunch, early morning cartoons were over, and going out to play ended when it got dark (which is around 4pm in Maine).
Of course, when I say we I mean Katie and I (especially for early morning cartoons) and not necessarily Ben and Sam who found waking at 7am in Maine no different than waking at 7am in California. Although we got to bed a little late (well, it was 10pm for us), I went to bed expecting an early wake up.
At 5am—nothing.
At 6am—snoring.
At 7am—there was a little turning.
At 8am—more snoring.
At 9am—I could not longer wait and was about to poke Sam until he woke up and remind him what day it was when Ben popped up: “I'm going to pee.” No sooner said then we were running upstairs. By the time Ben was done Katie and Sam had come up the stairs looking for us.
The rest went as expected, but I will say that this was the first year the boys really had a grasp of the joys of Christmas which consists in getting toys from Grandparents. They did not understand that opening one present (i.e. a rocket that launched into the air when stomped on) required immediate opening followed by several minutes of dedicated play. In fact, it became difficult to tear them away from certain toys. If it had not been for the mystery of the wrapped gift, we may still be before the tree in our pajamas.
All their gifts were a success, especially the last one which Sam recognized right away and provoked the joyful squeal “Optimus prime!”

On Raising Post Modernists

My sons are fans of the show Word World on PBS. For those few of you who are unfamiliar with the show, the basic premise is that words form the objects they spell. (ex. The character “Frog” is composed of the letters F, R, O, G).

As disturbing as this concept may be for those derridians and other flavors of post-modernists out there that strictly separate signifier and signified, I believe my boys redeem some of your basic dogma.

We have a set of alphabet fridge magnets the boys often play with. It was at one time a complete set from A to Z, though, sadly, I believe some of the less essential letters like B and E are less present than people who want to form words with them would like. Luckily, Ben and Sam cannot read.

Just like the three year olds they are, they took some of their playing cues from TV and built a rocket using mentioned letters. Naturally, A is the top of the rocket because it is pointing and shaped like the front of the rocket. M is the end for similar reasons. R stands on the side looking at the rocket, along with J. And all they other letters are already on board.

Take that semiotics!

Where Everyone Knows Your Name

About a year ago, when Ben and Sam were around two, we started a tradition of going to a restaurant with them. This may sound very nice and even a bit snobbish, but please refrain your judgments until I have explained.

The tradition really started when Katie left me alone with the boys one Saturday afternoon as she attended to some job obligations as courtyard advisor. In her absence I walked with the boys about two blocks to the nearest restaurant—Jack in the Box. It was the first time the boys sat for an entire meal outside the home. That settled it for me.

Some may argue that labeling Jack in the Box as a restaurant is a little misleading. After all, this is fast food we are talking about. I respond that those same people are a little snobbish themselves, and despite indications to the contrary, I am not so concerned with snobbery that I am above teaching young children to eat food that is prepared in under 15 minutes.

Since that day, we have regularly (I would say religiously, but this particular word no longer implies frequency) walked down to Jack in the Box. As a result, at our most recent outing the manager on duty now recognizes the boys and greets them with a smile. (In our defense, though there really is no defense necessary for deliciousness, he does greet everyone with a smile. On this occasion he introduced himself as Shawn, but I digress)

This all amounts to the fact that we now have a little family tradition we will all look back on someday and a place where they may not know our names, but they do know we will come back.

Another Lesson in Humility

In the month of February last year I ended my nearly ten years of retirement from running (well, exercise in almost all forms but slow, leisurely walking) that had begun when I entered the MTC. Along with my dear wife, we began a program that alternated walking and running. Finding time to go was the hardest part the first few weeks, but we did pretty well.

Eight months later I am still at it and my goals are slightly more ambitious. In fact, I was able to run several miles at almost eight minutes per mile the other day. I was ecstatic. Eight minutes! I started to dream about not just running races, but running them faster than other people. Running so fast that I actually won. Indeed, I was already a champion, amateur runner in my mind's eye.

Within the human psyche, I have come to realize that there is a great struggle between the impulse to remember and the impulse to dream. One, rooted in the past forms much of our identity, the other stretching for the future drives and directs us. But while dreams tend to distract us from reality, memories have a funny way of deflating dreams.

I first realized that in high school I was unhappy if I ran slower than six minutes a mile, which in a distance run is almost an eternity and even then I was never close to finishing first. This, in fact, is the true purpose of high school—periodic humility starting at the first experience and than forever after haunted by the ghost of the younger self (thus explaining Uncle Rico). So much for the next distance champion of the world.