Squeak, squeak

The kids took a class on mice this morning at a local park, and I don't know whether to be amused or ashamed by the conversation when the instructor asked the ten or so four- and five-year-olds to share what they knew about mice.

KID #1: "They're gray."

KID #2: "And fuzzy."

KID #3: "They like cheese."

VINCENT: "Hawks like to eat them."

KID #4: "Mickey Mouse lives in Disneyland."

VINCENT: "Owls like to eat them, too."

KID #5: "They go squeak, squeak."

VINCENT: "And eagles eat them."

KID #6: "They have whiskers and long tails."

VINCENT: "Eagles grab the mouses with their sharp talons."

KID #7: "I want a pet mouse."

VINCENT: "And then they rip them apart with their beaks."

At that point Dominic took a face plant off the chair so I had to leave the room. Just as well. In Vincent's defense, we just finished studying owls and saw two owl presentations by rescue groups (very cool). The highlight of the morning was being able to pet a mouse, although both kids expressed dismay that it was dead and stuffed, not real.

And that there weren't any hawks around to eat it, I suppose.

Growing ducks

Just when we were wondering what to do on a lazy Friday evening, Aunt Kristen called and asked if the kids would like to see some ducklings.

That's like asking if they want popsicles. Turns out that the mama duck had been H-I-T by a C-A-R (please nobody tell the kids the truth). One of Luke's co-worker's daughters had rescued the two orphaned ducklings but couldn't keep them, so Luke packed up the ducklings, called Kristen and told her he had a big surprise. Now that they're married, evidently surprises take the form of ducklings, not shiny new cars.

The kids couldn't get ready fast enough.

Luke and Kristen had bought the ducks premium duck food and set up a little habitat in a cardboard box, complete with a John Deere water bowl. From the door their dog Bruce drooled and probably wondered why he wasn't being allowed outside to eat his fuzzy little dinners. Immediately Catherine called dibbs on the yellow chick, and Vincent sat very still as the brown one pecked at his T-shirt. I was surprised they both did so well. I figured we'd have a replay of the fishing episode and that they'd both run shrieking as soon as the ducklings actually touched them.

But I was most impressed by Dominic. I expected him to pile-drive the ducklings in their box; instead he busied himself feeding them. I relaxed. Maybe there is hope for the child after all.

Then we realized Dominic was feeding the ducks fertilizer pellets from a potted plant.

It wasn't until we were on the way home that the kids started to ask questions about the ducklings' provenance. I concocted a story about how the mama duck was lost and how Kristen was going to look for her this weekend. That's when it all started to fall apart.

CATHERINE: "But how will she know where to look?"

ME: "She'll look in the place where the ducklings were found."

CATHERINE: "But what if the mama duck isn't there anymore?"

ME: "Ummmmm.... I'm sure Kristen will find her."

VINCENT: "But all mama ducks look the same. How will Aunt Kristen know which one is their mommy?"

ME: "Ummmmmm.... she just will."

VINCENT: "Does she speak duck?"

ME: "No, but Uncle Luke does."

I'm thinking that this might be the year that Santa Claus gets questioned into posterity.

Eventually the ducklings will make their way to a wildlife refuge. But for now, they've got two doting owners and occasional visitors who force-feed them fertilizer.

Maybe Dominic was just trying to help them grow so that next time it'll be a fairer fight when he pile-drives them.

Violent storms and the second coming of Oscar Wilde

Last night we had some serious storms roll through -- the kind that are violent but short-lived. And as any parent knows, you're not going to make it through a storm without some added baggage in the bed, kid-form. So around 1 a.m., Catherine paraded into our bedroom with all 7,569 of her stuffed horses under her arms, knocked over a water glass, and cried out, "I'm scared!"

Well, geez. I'm scared too when I get woken up out of a dead sleep by some shadowy giant-bat-like figure knocking over a cup of water. She and her menagerie curled up with us, and when the storm had passed, from my two inches of bedspace I whispered to her, "Storm's over, kiddo. Back to your own bed."

With her animals sprawled around her, Catherine replied, "Nah. That's okay. Besides, I just got here." Snore.

No pictures of that, but here are a few from this past week.

This is Vincent after I told him he may absolutely, positively, unequivocally NOT ride his bike in the rain. Apparently I wasn't clear enough.

And finally, this is what happens when I ask Catherine to get Dominic dressed. Repeat after me: He is not a doll. Not a doll. Nor is he Oscar Wilde.

Vincent lands the big one

Fish should come in pairs, like popsicles. That would have made our evening of fishing at Lake Crabtree a little more equitable, and I wouldn't have had to listen to Vincent's self-satisfied little voice on the ride home reminding his sister that, "I caught a fish and you didn't, Cat-rin." As soon as he set her to wailing I ordered him to stop talking, so he said, "Fine. I'm just going to be a fish, then," which sounded like a fine idea (fish are silent, right?) until I realized that his impersonation involved gurgling water with his head tilted back, choking on it, and spewing it all over Catherine.

Great.

The kids have been wanting to learn to fish for a long time, and the program at Lake Crabtree was the perfect opportunity because the park staff provided the fishing poles and bait and also the person to touch all the yucky stuff (I shall henceforth refer to him as The Very Nice Man). Plus, it was free. The kids could not have been happier when they were allowed to select their own rods: Vincent grabbed a Toy Story pole, and Catherine confiscated a neon pink one.

The Very Nice Man demonstrated how to cut the nightcrawlers and thread them on the hook (really, he needn't have bothered; I have zero plans to ever bait a hook). Then he pulled out some chicken livers. Again, instructions for proper chicken liver preparation were really not necessary.

Both kids learned fairly quickly how to drop their lines and watch for the bobber to bob, even if they were rather affronted that the fish didn't immediately grab their offerings. All the while I held Dominic tightly so he wouldn't practice cannon-balling off the dock. Instead he practiced his rapidly-expanding vocabulary by hollering "BOAT" at the squadron of Sunfish sailing in the dusk. Encouraged, I pointed at a plane and asked, "What's that?"

"BOAT."

I pointed at his brother. "Who's that?"

"BOAT."

I pointed to the worm dangling from Catherine's hook. "And what's that?"

"BOAT."

Then it happened: Vincent's bobber went under. He shrieked. Catherine shrieked. I yelled for The Very Nice Man, but The Very Nice Man was reeling in his own catfish. Since Vincent was on the verge of running for his life I grabbed his pole and yanked it up. There, sparkling with water and dappled sunlight, was a bluegill. It was up to me to one-handedly maneuver it onto the dock, all while the kids continued their histrionics of terror and Dominic lunged delightedly from my headlocked arm toward the fish, yelling, "BOAT! BOAT! BOAT!"

The second the fish was landed I thrust the pole at Vincent and told him to RUN and ask The Very Nice Man to take it off the hook.

"I'm not touching the pole! There's a FISH on it!"

"BOAT!" yelled Dominic.

So we paraded the pole and fish to The Very Nice Man, and The Very Nice Man explicitly explained and demonstrated how to squeeze the fish so it doesn't gill you (or fin you, or something) and how to extract the hook from its lips (again, not necessary, as I will never be performing such a task). Then he chucked it back into the lake.

From down on the dock where she was fishing alone, Catherine was screaming, "Somebody come HELP ME! I'm scared I might catch a FISH!"

You know, maybe it's just as well that fish don't come in pairs.

The Lorelle Batallion takes Frog Hollow

Having conquered all the nearby territories, we loaded up Lewis, Clark and their Indian guide Sacajawea to cross the Great Plains (aka I-40) into the wild woods of Frog Hollow (otherwise known as West Point on the Eno). I confess that when Roger threw out "Hey, let's take the kids canoeing today!" I didn't react with the same enthusiasm that Lewis and Clark did when President Jefferson sought volunteers to go battle the buffalo and find out what was on the other side of this great land. I sort of swallowed, considered the physics of three kids and two adults in a canoe, and then decided, What the heck, they can swim. Bring on the buffalo! 

One of the first things we saw at the park was a sign saying "Don't bother the snakes. There are no poisonous snakes on the Eno." The second thing we saw was a snake. As it slithered by I leaned in to take pictures and a guide called out, "Er, I wouldn't do that, ma'am." At the same time Roger said, "Isn't that a copperhead?" Time to take down those signs. 

Many minutes of life-jacket-buckling later we were situated in a silver canoe and pushing off into the water. While Lewis and Clark, I'm sure, asked Sacajawea plenty of questions along the lines of, "Are those Indians going to scalp us?" our kids had their own sets of fears. As we paddled up the river the conversation went something like this:

CATHERINE (shrieking and pointing at rocks sticking out of the water): "Is that a crocodile???"

VINCENT (whimpering): "I think the canoe is tipping over. Are we going to hit an iceberg?"

ROGER: "Let's go look at those turtles on the log."

CATHERINE: "Are they going to eat us?"

ME: "Yes."

Meanwhile, Dominic had his arms locked in a death grip around my neck. If we were going down, we were going down together. 

The experience brought on a new appreciation for the explorers and Sacajawea, whose infant son Pomp was with them. No wonder it took them so long to find the Pacific. Luckily, we only had to find the place where our canoe suddenly ran aground on some rocks before we decided that it was time to turn around. As soon as we stepped out of the canoe Catherine twirled a paddle and exclaimed, "That was so much fun!"

And it was. Truly. 

We ended the scouting expedition with root beer floats. Because if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that Sacajawea took Lewis and Clark to the nearest Dairy Queen to celebrate as soon as they spotted the sparkling blue Pacific.

Tuesday Night Lights

Catherine started swim team this year, and it occurred to me that I have now been on all three sides of the swim team triangle: I've been a swimmer, a coach, and a parent. Let me state for the record that the least fun side is the parental one; you stand around for a while, explain to your sons why they can't swim, stand around some more, chase a son or two, explain again why only swim team members are allowed to swim, and finally give up and buy all the hot dogs your kids can eat.

Incidentally, thanks, Mom and Dad, for sacrificing so many Tuesday nights of our youth to stand poolside. And for the hot dogs.

Anyway, Catherine was super excited about time trials and her fifteen yards of fame. She is decent at freestyle, although breaststroke and backstroke are unrecognizable. Roger and I really built up the idea that this was for fun and that winning did not matter. And even though Catherine is the type of kid who wants to do everything perfect the first time around (she can't paint a sunflower without comparing herself to van Gogh) she seemed to buy into it.

Let me confess that although I spouted the party line of "Have fun! Who cares about winning?" I held in my prideful parental heart high hopes that she would cut through the water and soar to the finish line ahead of her competitors. What parent doesn't secretly want his or her child to excel?

So when they called Six & Unders I walked her over to the Clerk of Course and sat her on the miniature green benches with all the other swim-capped goggled girls. She grinned up at me. "Just have fun," I told her.

"I know. And it doesn't matter if I win."

"Not one bit."

Seconds later she climbed onto the block like a little spider, all gangly appendages and bobbing head. She crouched (she jumps, not dives) and when the buzzer went off she looked at me. "Should I go now?"

"Go!" And win! 

But the second she cannonballed into the water something strange happened; I wanted to laugh and cry at once. She wasn't just lunging off the block; she was lunging into the world of competition, a world that will become more and more her home as she ages. Until now she has been our baby, number one in everything. But now she is out there, in some ways alone, and she will not always win. She will learn that in everything there are winners and losers, that sometimes a race or a game is painful. She will understand that as you stand aloft victorious there is pain for others; you cannot win without making others lose.

It was over quickly. Her strokes were strong. To breathe she had to interrupt her windmilling arms and doggie-paddle as she gasped for air. Then the catcher reached for my little girl and I could read his lips as he told her "Great job!" and I knew by Catherine's look of delight that she believed him. Then he carted her to the other side of the pool, far away from me.

I found her accepting accolades from her adoring fans (Daddy, Gaga and her brothers). With her cap and goggles still in place, cocooned in a hot pink towel, she turned to me. "Did I win?" she asked, but the words were delivered with a child's curiosity, not with angst or expectation.

I thought back to the race. I had watched only her; somehow, in a flurry of splashes, I had forgotten about her competitors. "I don't know," I answered, but I don't think she even heard me because already Daddy had picked her up and she was giggling. I realized then, as the starting buzzer trilled yet again, that for one of the last times, winning truly did not matter. Not to my daughter, and not to me.


We were too busy having fun.

Thomas Jefferson, Sleeping Beauty and birds of prey

Sleeping Beauty wants her freedom from King George.

If only this were a post about TJ and birds of prey joining forces to eat Sleeping Beauty! Unfortunately, it's not. This is just a summary of a few cool things we've done over the past week.

First, we flubbed yet another rocket launch. This is one of those vinegar-and-baking soda contraptions, and the first time we launched it it went up 70 feet -- cool! But subsequent launches have been not so cool, and Roger has ended up a few times with wet baking soda all over his clothes.

On Saturday I took the kids to meet some raptors, which are birds of prey. We learned the following: 1) that female birds of prey (like hawks, ospreys, eagles, falcons, owls, etc.) are larger than males because they do all the hard work, 2) that vultures are the smartest birds of prey (owls are actually quite dumb), 3) that the Eastern Screech Owl can play dead when it is in danger, even slowing its heartbeat to an almost standstill, and 4) that the most common cause of injury to raptors is being hit by cars. Why? Because people throw their food garbage out the car window, squirrels and other little animals (i.e. raptor food) scurry out to get it, and the raptors swoop in. Bam! So no more throwing apple cores and banana peels out car windows, folks.

And finally, Thomas Jefferson and Sleeping Beauty. In honor of Memorial Day we read through the Declaration of Independence and practiced writing with a quill pen like the Founding Fathers. Catherine immediately rushed to put on her Sleeping Beauty dress and colonial bonnet while Vincent buried gold doubloons in the backyard and used his compass to find them. Apparently his compass erred, because he ended up on the deck looking over Catherine's shoulder and asking, "What are you doing?"

To which Catherine replied, "Oh, just writing the Declaration of Independence."

FAIL!

Pirate Vincent stomped his boot-clad feet and threw down his compass. "You can't!" he yelled. "Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration, and you're not Thomas Jefferson!"

"That's right," replied Sleeping Beauty. "But I'm a princess, and I can sign the Declaration if I want to."

I wonder what Thomas Jefferson would say about that.