Over the past two days, I think I've figured out why long term memory doesn't develop in humans well past age two. I, personally, only have very vague memories of anything that happened before about the time I started kindergarten--just a few glimpses of events or special occasions that obviously made a significant impact. I imagine it's the same way for most people.
And I've been keeping pretty close tabs on the things that Gabe remembers--because approaching the raising of my children from an observational standpoint, so that I can at least pretend that I'm learning about the development of the human brain, is one of the things I tell myself I'm doing to help keep myself sane. Periodically, I ask him about events or people that he experienced or met in the increasingly distant past, just to see if he still remembers. And I can say with moderate certainty that he really only started storing things long-term about last Christmas (so at about two and a half). He can still vividly remember the Christmas parade that Libby took him to, where Santa was saved by a fire engine from the top of the old movie theater here in town. Other memorable events--Halloween, our vacation last August, that sort of thing--he doesn't seem to recall well if at all (not surprisingly, the only aspect of Halloween that he seems to brighten up at the mention of is the candy, because the boy has a one track mind when it comes to sweeties).
I imagine the exact period when a child starts to remember things probably coincides with other notable cognitive developments, with language development probably playing the most major role since it's probably difficult to remember something if you don't have a way to describe it, even if it's in your own head and you're only trying to explain it to yourself.
I think the reason we don't remember much before age two is something that evolved in us along with our abnormally slow developmental processes. I think it's a self-defense mechanism. If we remembered all the trauma that we went through before we gained substantial control of our motor skills, I think there is a good chance that every person in the world would suffer from some form of post traumatic stress disorder.
I say this because I've been watching Norah the past few days and reflecting on what this stage was like when Gabe went through it, too (though, being tough as hell, he really never cried unless he smashed a finger, and Norah cries if her hair hits the ground too hard). She is to the point now where she is crawling freely, and she is trying her best to climb up on just about everything she can--which usually ends in disaster since she doesn't have the balance or leg strength to keep herself from toppling over one direction or the other (which is why I also haven't gotten a picture of her standing yet, because, by the time I get the camera, she's already crying from whatever she hit on her way down). In addition to this, infants approach the world face and fingers first. Anything that they can do to hurt their hands or faces, they will. She hasn't managed to slam her finger in any cabinet doors yet, but she has managed to catch them in the toy box lid and pinch them in the accordion gates. And everywhere she crawls, her face is the first thing that lets her know she's reached her destination.
In the last two days, she has injured herself in the following ways: she has fallen from her leaning-stand position at least a half dozen times, usually knocking into something; she has high centered herself on one of Gabe's big trucks, ending up with her face planting on the other side of it with her hands trapped underneath it so she was effectively trapped; she has thrown her head back--while sitting, thus throwing herself onto her back--in one of her little mini-tantrums twice, both times landing on something hard that was lying on the floor behind her; and she has pulled one of our living room lamps down on herself (if you're reading this before you come home tonight, Libby, yeah, she busted the shade on the lamp by pulling on the table behind her activity saucer)--she mostly missed herself with the lamp, but the shade bounced off her head on the way down.
And then there is the damage that Gabe has helped to inflict on her. Though we try to keep a pretty close eye on them when they're playing together (because Gabe tends to treat her either like she's as coordinated and tough as he is, or like she's just another one of his toys that can be messed with however he sees fit), I also think it's important that they have moderately unstructured playtime--I want them to work as much out about the best ways to get along as possible since they are bound to remember more if they are learning it themselves than if I'm just lecturing them endlessly. Since yesterday, he helped her meet the entertainment center face first while they were playing with some pillows (yeah, it sounds harmless enough, doesn't it? What could be safer to play with than a few pillows?) and he's bonked her on the head while tossing his toys around. The good news is that, whenever she starts to cry from being hurt, Gabe invariably starts to cry too, which I consider an encouraging sign that he feels bad that he's done something to hurt her.
None of her bonkings and thunkings were anything like severe, mind you, though you'd certainly never believe it if you heard the way she wailed. She had two light bruises last night and both seem to be gone today already (before anyone thinks about calling child services for neglect or something). Realistically, with the way she's getting around now, the only way I could conceivably prevent her from hurting herself would be to either follow her, six inches behind, the entire day so that I could catch her instantly, or for me to wrap her in bubble wrap and strap a helmet to her head. Neither of those options seems particularly workable to my way of thinking, though.
Anyway, back to my point. Now, imagine that YOU had been put through such a physical ringer in just the past two days (well, 32 hours, really), and imagine how that would affect you. Now imagine doing that for a solid six months or so straight. There's no way you'd come out of that unscathed emotionally or mentally. Thus the need for our mind to develop long-term memory skills that much more slowly. I'm sure this isn't groundbreaking news to anyone who's spent some time thinking about how the brain develops and why, but, since I hadn't, at least about the early childhood aspects of it, I thought I'd share.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Art of Lying Pt. 2
Over the years, I developed something of a skill for lying thanks to nearly constant practice at home. As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I pretty much hated growing up on the farm, and there was a very specific reason that I hated it: the work. Always there was work to do. Since we raised cattle AND farmed, the year was pretty much consumed with something going on (whereas a person who only farms could, for the most part, find a second job from fall until spring and cows are pretty low maintenance from spring through fall), and I did everything in my power to get out of that work. My farm equipment had more "breakdowns" than anybody else's. Eventually, the family started to catch on so I had to work some minor sabotaging skills into my repertoire as well so my lies were technically truths.
Anyway, the next Big Lie I told--and the first one that I remember getting away with--came my sophomore year of high school.
Since I went to a small school, there were only three sports offered over the course of the year: football (volleyball for the girls), basketball, and track. I hated all of them on principle, but I hated basketball the most because, well, it's a stupid sport--nothing but endless running and throwing a ball at a metal ring attached to a piece of plywood, what could be less fun? As such, I went out for football and track (again, to get out of work, since playing in sports was an acceptable excuse to get farm kids out of doing farm work, and I was willing to play a stupid sports game in order to win the getting out of work game).
Just about everyone went out for the sports that were available because there's not much else to do out there, but the kids who didn't were able to ride the Pep Bus to an away game if another ride didn't present itself. Usually, if I went to one of these away games, I rode with someone who had a car or, when I could drive myself, drove myself because, let's face it, Pep Buses are lame. But one time, several upper classmen and I (mostly them, since they were seniors and I was just kind of along for the ride, so to speak) devised a brilliant plan. One of the finest aspects of going to an away game was the getting liquored up part, but that meant either driving home drunk or having a designated driver. How could we ALL get drunk and not run the risk of killing ourselves or getting arrested?
The Pep Bus! We could be chauffeured to the game and back home while we partook in our beverages of choice in the very back seats!
It was ground breaking in its stupidity, of course. School buses in the winter are not what you'd call well-ventilated. If someone farts in the front row, before too long, everyone in the bus gets to share in the ass-airy goodness. To make matters worse, we chose the stinkiest of alcohols: bourbon. Everclear we might have gotten away with. Bourbon, not a chance.
Our plan sounded like a good idea when we discussed it initially. We brought a half case of soda and a big ass bottle of Wellers with us. We drank the soda down a third of the way or so then we topped it up with the bourbon. Of course this only served to "breath" the liquor more and spread the smell of it throughout the bus. We were scarcely twenty miles from our home town when the chaperon and the bus driver started actively scanning the bus for where the smell was coming from.
Long story short, despite the fact that we managed to sneak the bottle of bourbon out of the bus with us and throw it away, we didn't think to bring the empty cans, which still reeked of booze, along with us, so we got busted. But, then, considering we were stupid enough to try it in the first place, it wasn't too surprising that we compounded our stupidity later on.
We all got in school suspension for it because one of the kid's moms ratted out everyone involved instead of just letting her kid suffer the consequences. I, however, didn't get into too much more trouble at home because I lied to my folks. I swore up and down that I didn't drink any of the bourbon, but I had helped them sneak it onto the bus because I was the only one carrying a bag that day. There was an ounce of truth to this lie, which made it all the more believable. I told them I didn't drink because I had to pee almost as soon as we left town (and I have a notoriously small bladder that my folks had to stop for probably a thousand times while I was growing up). So they bought it. I still got grounded for being a dumbass, which I deserved, but it was a fairly mild grounding compared to what it would have been if I'd been busted for actual drinking.
Note: Actually, I didn't drink that much on the bus because, after the first can of soda-booze, I DID have to pee really bad, but I did drink, so I did lie and I did get away with it. Finally, about five years ago, I admitted to Mom that I had been drinking on the bus, too, but by then she couldn't really do much more than laugh about it. In your face, Mom!
Eventually, lying became something of a game for me thanks to the concept of Excused Absences in college. Most of my teachers only allowed us one or two unexcused absences over the course of a semester, and I hated morning classes and did everything in my power to figure ways out of them without hurting my grade too bad. But I couldn't just keep calling in with fevers or really bad colds (which are hard to fake on the phone anyway) all the time. I had any of a number of non-fatal ailments while I was in college, as far as my teachers were concerned. But, before long, that grew boring to me and I began a contest with myself to come up with the most believable excuse that I possibly could that was complete and utter bullshit.
The trick is to pick something that nobody would ever doubt you were lying about. Admit to something that nobody would ever admit to, and people will believe you. I had some doozies.
But I will just share my crowning achievement. The best lie I ever told that was completely believed by the person I was telling it to (at least as far as he ever said anything about it to me, anyway). It got me out of a choir practice, of all things, so in that sense it was totally wasted.
My choir director knew my parents were farmers--he had grown up on a farm, too, so he had a pretty good idea of what went on there. I used this knowledge to craft the most perfectly believable but utterly ridiculous balderdash lie ever. I told him that a shipment of bull semen was coming in for my dad at the airport during class time and he had a cow with a prolapsed uterus at home that he couldn't leave to make the trip into town. So I had to run to the airport to pick up the jug of sperm. For this lie, I got to go back to bed for one hour. Win!
I love that lie for all its many parts. It is my crowning achievement in life.
You can't see me now, but I'm bowing to the crowd of adoring fans gathered around me. Thank you very much.
Anyway, the next Big Lie I told--and the first one that I remember getting away with--came my sophomore year of high school.
Since I went to a small school, there were only three sports offered over the course of the year: football (volleyball for the girls), basketball, and track. I hated all of them on principle, but I hated basketball the most because, well, it's a stupid sport--nothing but endless running and throwing a ball at a metal ring attached to a piece of plywood, what could be less fun? As such, I went out for football and track (again, to get out of work, since playing in sports was an acceptable excuse to get farm kids out of doing farm work, and I was willing to play a stupid sports game in order to win the getting out of work game).
Just about everyone went out for the sports that were available because there's not much else to do out there, but the kids who didn't were able to ride the Pep Bus to an away game if another ride didn't present itself. Usually, if I went to one of these away games, I rode with someone who had a car or, when I could drive myself, drove myself because, let's face it, Pep Buses are lame. But one time, several upper classmen and I (mostly them, since they were seniors and I was just kind of along for the ride, so to speak) devised a brilliant plan. One of the finest aspects of going to an away game was the getting liquored up part, but that meant either driving home drunk or having a designated driver. How could we ALL get drunk and not run the risk of killing ourselves or getting arrested?
The Pep Bus! We could be chauffeured to the game and back home while we partook in our beverages of choice in the very back seats!
It was ground breaking in its stupidity, of course. School buses in the winter are not what you'd call well-ventilated. If someone farts in the front row, before too long, everyone in the bus gets to share in the ass-airy goodness. To make matters worse, we chose the stinkiest of alcohols: bourbon. Everclear we might have gotten away with. Bourbon, not a chance.
Our plan sounded like a good idea when we discussed it initially. We brought a half case of soda and a big ass bottle of Wellers with us. We drank the soda down a third of the way or so then we topped it up with the bourbon. Of course this only served to "breath" the liquor more and spread the smell of it throughout the bus. We were scarcely twenty miles from our home town when the chaperon and the bus driver started actively scanning the bus for where the smell was coming from.
Long story short, despite the fact that we managed to sneak the bottle of bourbon out of the bus with us and throw it away, we didn't think to bring the empty cans, which still reeked of booze, along with us, so we got busted. But, then, considering we were stupid enough to try it in the first place, it wasn't too surprising that we compounded our stupidity later on.
We all got in school suspension for it because one of the kid's moms ratted out everyone involved instead of just letting her kid suffer the consequences. I, however, didn't get into too much more trouble at home because I lied to my folks. I swore up and down that I didn't drink any of the bourbon, but I had helped them sneak it onto the bus because I was the only one carrying a bag that day. There was an ounce of truth to this lie, which made it all the more believable. I told them I didn't drink because I had to pee almost as soon as we left town (and I have a notoriously small bladder that my folks had to stop for probably a thousand times while I was growing up). So they bought it. I still got grounded for being a dumbass, which I deserved, but it was a fairly mild grounding compared to what it would have been if I'd been busted for actual drinking.
Note: Actually, I didn't drink that much on the bus because, after the first can of soda-booze, I DID have to pee really bad, but I did drink, so I did lie and I did get away with it. Finally, about five years ago, I admitted to Mom that I had been drinking on the bus, too, but by then she couldn't really do much more than laugh about it. In your face, Mom!
Eventually, lying became something of a game for me thanks to the concept of Excused Absences in college. Most of my teachers only allowed us one or two unexcused absences over the course of a semester, and I hated morning classes and did everything in my power to figure ways out of them without hurting my grade too bad. But I couldn't just keep calling in with fevers or really bad colds (which are hard to fake on the phone anyway) all the time. I had any of a number of non-fatal ailments while I was in college, as far as my teachers were concerned. But, before long, that grew boring to me and I began a contest with myself to come up with the most believable excuse that I possibly could that was complete and utter bullshit.
The trick is to pick something that nobody would ever doubt you were lying about. Admit to something that nobody would ever admit to, and people will believe you. I had some doozies.
But I will just share my crowning achievement. The best lie I ever told that was completely believed by the person I was telling it to (at least as far as he ever said anything about it to me, anyway). It got me out of a choir practice, of all things, so in that sense it was totally wasted.
My choir director knew my parents were farmers--he had grown up on a farm, too, so he had a pretty good idea of what went on there. I used this knowledge to craft the most perfectly believable but utterly ridiculous balderdash lie ever. I told him that a shipment of bull semen was coming in for my dad at the airport during class time and he had a cow with a prolapsed uterus at home that he couldn't leave to make the trip into town. So I had to run to the airport to pick up the jug of sperm. For this lie, I got to go back to bed for one hour. Win!
I love that lie for all its many parts. It is my crowning achievement in life.
You can't see me now, but I'm bowing to the crowd of adoring fans gathered around me. Thank you very much.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Kids Stand Up for Jell-O
Just a quick interruption. Last week, Gabe decided that he loved Jell-O, so he pestered me until I ran to the store and bought a pre-made tub of "parfait"--chunks of Jell-O mixed up with a Jell-O/whipped cream mix--for him to eat. Then, after one serving, he decided he wasn't all that interested in it anymore. So, being the loyal garbage disposal that I am, I've been working on it periodically.
Just a little bit ago, I pulled out the tub and a spoon and sat down to watch Monday's episode of Chuck (Gabe's still sleeping and Norah is too young to complain that my shows are boring, so it's tough being a baby). Seeing that I had food, Butts crawled her way over to my chair and started doing her little bobbing-up-and-down-while-kneeling-in-front-of-my-chair begging that she usually does when she sees I have food. I gave her a taste of the Jell-O, and apparently she liked it. Since I was still watching Chuck, I wasn't really paying much attention to her. Instinctively, I scooped her out a tiny portion of Jell-O to share and moved it to her mouth . . . which seemed higher than it had been a few moments earlier.
Lo and behold, she wasn't kneeling anymore, she was standing!
So, mark it on your calendars. Not only did Norah reach the milestone of being able to pull herself up to a standing position today, but, for the first time ever, I actually managed to log the day for all posterity! Hurray for both of us!
Sorry, no pictures. She promptly fell down as soon as she had a mouthful of Jell-O to appease her and then hasn't gotten back up again since (probably because I put the food away).
Just a little bit ago, I pulled out the tub and a spoon and sat down to watch Monday's episode of Chuck (Gabe's still sleeping and Norah is too young to complain that my shows are boring, so it's tough being a baby). Seeing that I had food, Butts crawled her way over to my chair and started doing her little bobbing-up-and-down-while-kneeling-in-front-of-my-chair begging that she usually does when she sees I have food. I gave her a taste of the Jell-O, and apparently she liked it. Since I was still watching Chuck, I wasn't really paying much attention to her. Instinctively, I scooped her out a tiny portion of Jell-O to share and moved it to her mouth . . . which seemed higher than it had been a few moments earlier.
Lo and behold, she wasn't kneeling anymore, she was standing!
So, mark it on your calendars. Not only did Norah reach the milestone of being able to pull herself up to a standing position today, but, for the first time ever, I actually managed to log the day for all posterity! Hurray for both of us!
Sorry, no pictures. She promptly fell down as soon as she had a mouthful of Jell-O to appease her and then hasn't gotten back up again since (probably because I put the food away).
The Art of Lying Pt. 1
Ben's comment on my post yesterday set me to thinking about some of the finer lies I've told in my life--and some of the terrible ones that helped me become the accomplished embellisher that I have become today. And since I'm thinking about it, I figured I might as well share.
As Ben mentioned, I have something of a sordid history of "storytelling." Ben, of course, isn't really one to cast aspersions for such storytelling as he, himself, has been caught in a few doozies in his time as well. I seem to recall one time when he came home drunk, in high school, and tryed to convince Mom that he was entirely sober. Because I am old, I can't remember most of the specifics anymore, but I think there was something about him wearing his jacket upside down (or maybe it was inside out) and repeating some line or other over and over again while trying to convince her that he wasn't drunk. Crap I wish my memory was better. Hopefully he'll feel obliged to set the record straight and reply to this post with an accurate reminiscence.
Anyway, the first "big" lie I remember telling happened when I was about six or seven years old. Or maybe I was five or eight. Who knows. Without some sort of definite landmark event like a school event or a vacation, all of those early years sort of meld together. I was young, though, I know that, because I was still naming the calves I was tasked to take care of things like Flowers and Stick and Red (Flowers and Red actually stuck around in our herd for quite some time--Red even making it well into high school or early college when another cow, also named Red, would replace her as My Cow [each of us would be given our own cow until the time Dad gave up on cattle all together]). If memory serves, Red was the very calf that I was supposed to be feeding on the night of the Whooping.
Perhaps just a touch more build up is required. Just about as early as was feasibly possible, all of us boys were assigned Chores that we were to do on a daily basis--usually once in the morning and once in the evening. These Chores tended to center around whatever young animals we had that needed special care--rabbits or sheep when we were showing these in 4-H or, more usually, baby calves that, for one reason or another, needed to be fed formula bottles until they were old enough to wean (an interesting side note, baby formula actually smells almost identical to the stuff that we used to feed calves, so ponder on that for awhile). Often we were also responsible to feed some alfalfa or grain to some cows or other as part of these Chores, and it was one such responsibility that I decided to shirk on the night in question.
Despite the fact that the Chore was really rather simple--put about four inches of grain in a bucket and dump it in a trough--I decided that I didn't want to do it. As dark approached, Dad asked if I had done my Chores and I claimed that I had. At first, it seemed like I'd gotten away with the lie because Dad left it at that, but about five minutes later he found me and asked again if I had done my chores. I stuck with my story and he notified me that he knew I was lying. Apparently, it's pretty easy to tell when a cow hasn't been fed when it is standing expectantly by the gate, waiting for food, AND none of the buckets or grain show any signs of being disturbed since the last time Dad had used them earlier. How was I to know that Dad was actually paying attention to things? Stupid observations.
Anyway, he gave me a chance to get my story straight, which I stubbornly declined, and then I received the Whooping. I received many such whoopings as a child, because I was a bit of a turd, but this is really the only one that sticks to memory. Perhaps it was the story that went along with it, or perhaps it was the setting--a cool, spring evening. More than likely, it was the one inch thick yard stick that Dad used to administer my punishment. It was a freebie from a booth at the State Fair--and I've spent much of my adult life trying to find a replica of the thing for my personal collection of obscure reminders of my youth, without success--and from that point on it would be my least favorite measuring stick in the world.
Upon reflection, I'm sure Dad didn't whoop me THAT hard. There was no bruise afterward, but I do remember stripping down and looking at my bare ass and seeing a red mark there shortly after the incident. So it was a substantial whooping. Regardless of its actual intensity, it was a Whooping that stuck with me, and from that day forward I went from Casual Liar to Accomplished Falisfier for fear of future retributions--as NOT lying was clearly not an option. I made sure to think through my options as clearly as possible before trying to lie my way through any given situation. And, for the most part, it's worked out pretty well for me.
To date, I've never again been caught in another big lie (though, really, there is only one other Big Lie that I can think of, and that will be a story for my next post).
As Ben mentioned, I have something of a sordid history of "storytelling." Ben, of course, isn't really one to cast aspersions for such storytelling as he, himself, has been caught in a few doozies in his time as well. I seem to recall one time when he came home drunk, in high school, and tryed to convince Mom that he was entirely sober. Because I am old, I can't remember most of the specifics anymore, but I think there was something about him wearing his jacket upside down (or maybe it was inside out) and repeating some line or other over and over again while trying to convince her that he wasn't drunk. Crap I wish my memory was better. Hopefully he'll feel obliged to set the record straight and reply to this post with an accurate reminiscence.
Anyway, the first "big" lie I remember telling happened when I was about six or seven years old. Or maybe I was five or eight. Who knows. Without some sort of definite landmark event like a school event or a vacation, all of those early years sort of meld together. I was young, though, I know that, because I was still naming the calves I was tasked to take care of things like Flowers and Stick and Red (Flowers and Red actually stuck around in our herd for quite some time--Red even making it well into high school or early college when another cow, also named Red, would replace her as My Cow [each of us would be given our own cow until the time Dad gave up on cattle all together]). If memory serves, Red was the very calf that I was supposed to be feeding on the night of the Whooping.
Perhaps just a touch more build up is required. Just about as early as was feasibly possible, all of us boys were assigned Chores that we were to do on a daily basis--usually once in the morning and once in the evening. These Chores tended to center around whatever young animals we had that needed special care--rabbits or sheep when we were showing these in 4-H or, more usually, baby calves that, for one reason or another, needed to be fed formula bottles until they were old enough to wean (an interesting side note, baby formula actually smells almost identical to the stuff that we used to feed calves, so ponder on that for awhile). Often we were also responsible to feed some alfalfa or grain to some cows or other as part of these Chores, and it was one such responsibility that I decided to shirk on the night in question.
Despite the fact that the Chore was really rather simple--put about four inches of grain in a bucket and dump it in a trough--I decided that I didn't want to do it. As dark approached, Dad asked if I had done my Chores and I claimed that I had. At first, it seemed like I'd gotten away with the lie because Dad left it at that, but about five minutes later he found me and asked again if I had done my chores. I stuck with my story and he notified me that he knew I was lying. Apparently, it's pretty easy to tell when a cow hasn't been fed when it is standing expectantly by the gate, waiting for food, AND none of the buckets or grain show any signs of being disturbed since the last time Dad had used them earlier. How was I to know that Dad was actually paying attention to things? Stupid observations.
Anyway, he gave me a chance to get my story straight, which I stubbornly declined, and then I received the Whooping. I received many such whoopings as a child, because I was a bit of a turd, but this is really the only one that sticks to memory. Perhaps it was the story that went along with it, or perhaps it was the setting--a cool, spring evening. More than likely, it was the one inch thick yard stick that Dad used to administer my punishment. It was a freebie from a booth at the State Fair--and I've spent much of my adult life trying to find a replica of the thing for my personal collection of obscure reminders of my youth, without success--and from that point on it would be my least favorite measuring stick in the world.
Upon reflection, I'm sure Dad didn't whoop me THAT hard. There was no bruise afterward, but I do remember stripping down and looking at my bare ass and seeing a red mark there shortly after the incident. So it was a substantial whooping. Regardless of its actual intensity, it was a Whooping that stuck with me, and from that day forward I went from Casual Liar to Accomplished Falisfier for fear of future retributions--as NOT lying was clearly not an option. I made sure to think through my options as clearly as possible before trying to lie my way through any given situation. And, for the most part, it's worked out pretty well for me.
To date, I've never again been caught in another big lie (though, really, there is only one other Big Lie that I can think of, and that will be a story for my next post).
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
True Confessions of a Three Year Old
Gabe has been really working on his lying skills the past few weeks. For instance, just last week, he spilled a mess of jelly beans on the floor and I got all up in his business about it.
"We have to pick those jelly beans up off the floor. They're too small for Norah. If she gets a hold of one and puts it in her mouth, she might choke," I chastised.
He gave me one of his serious, frowny looks and said, "I didn't spill jungle beans (that's what he still calls them, for reasons known only to him). DADDY spilled jungle beans."
Now, obviously, he's starting to show some promise in his skills. He's beginning to grasp the concept of blaming someone else for something that he's done. Unfortunately for him, he doesn't really have anyone to blame that is believable (a problem I shared with him on Sunday when I ate one of the cupcakes Libby bought for later that night, and, when she found out, I had to claim that Norah got into them because it was only the two of us in the house at the time of the incident), but as that circumstance changes, I will have to use my not substantial deductive skills to try and keep up with his story telling.
Anyway, despite this growing proclivity, his natural inclination is still to tell the truth. This is something I've tried to encourage by desperately avoiding getting angry or showing him that he's in big trouble when I ask him about something that he's done and he admits to it. It stands to reason that if he gets in more trouble for getting caught in a lie than for telling the truth, he'll naturally choose to tell the truth when he gets busted and take the lesser consequence. At least this is the working theory. In reality, all it will do is make him a better liar--as it is infinitely better to take NEITHER consequence. But I suppose that's not a bad skill to teach a child, considering the best liars in the world also tend to be the most successful people. I don't like that truth, but I have to accept it, and I should be doing all I can to give my kids a leg up in the world.
Sometimes, though, he'll start spouting off confessions, more or less out of the blue, for no good reason that I can discern. Perhaps he has the three year old equivalent of a guilty conscience. Or maybe, as I think was the case today, it's just something that he's thinking about and the pathways between his brain and his mouth are like new freeways--completely unobstructed by the hazard, reconstruction, and repair obstacles created necessitated by decades of use. Whatever the reason, while he was eating his lunch and I was sitting in the other room feeding Norah, he made an interesting admission, which I was able to coax out of him again in front of the camera.
Obviously he wasn't too concerned about this little tidbit of information. And it came as no surprise to me, either, as I've seen him perpetrating various versions of these crimes several times. He's still a notorious everything taster (over the weekend Libby caught him carefully picking sand off his tongue, which he openly admitted to having just eaten). I'd say it's proof that he's a slow learner when it comes to foods that are and aren't good to eat except he'll remember foods he doesn't like instantly and after only one tasting. Probably it's just a "weird" thing.
"We have to pick those jelly beans up off the floor. They're too small for Norah. If she gets a hold of one and puts it in her mouth, she might choke," I chastised.
He gave me one of his serious, frowny looks and said, "I didn't spill jungle beans (that's what he still calls them, for reasons known only to him). DADDY spilled jungle beans."
Now, obviously, he's starting to show some promise in his skills. He's beginning to grasp the concept of blaming someone else for something that he's done. Unfortunately for him, he doesn't really have anyone to blame that is believable (a problem I shared with him on Sunday when I ate one of the cupcakes Libby bought for later that night, and, when she found out, I had to claim that Norah got into them because it was only the two of us in the house at the time of the incident), but as that circumstance changes, I will have to use my not substantial deductive skills to try and keep up with his story telling.
Anyway, despite this growing proclivity, his natural inclination is still to tell the truth. This is something I've tried to encourage by desperately avoiding getting angry or showing him that he's in big trouble when I ask him about something that he's done and he admits to it. It stands to reason that if he gets in more trouble for getting caught in a lie than for telling the truth, he'll naturally choose to tell the truth when he gets busted and take the lesser consequence. At least this is the working theory. In reality, all it will do is make him a better liar--as it is infinitely better to take NEITHER consequence. But I suppose that's not a bad skill to teach a child, considering the best liars in the world also tend to be the most successful people. I don't like that truth, but I have to accept it, and I should be doing all I can to give my kids a leg up in the world.
Sometimes, though, he'll start spouting off confessions, more or less out of the blue, for no good reason that I can discern. Perhaps he has the three year old equivalent of a guilty conscience. Or maybe, as I think was the case today, it's just something that he's thinking about and the pathways between his brain and his mouth are like new freeways--completely unobstructed by the hazard, reconstruction, and repair obstacles created necessitated by decades of use. Whatever the reason, while he was eating his lunch and I was sitting in the other room feeding Norah, he made an interesting admission, which I was able to coax out of him again in front of the camera.
Obviously he wasn't too concerned about this little tidbit of information. And it came as no surprise to me, either, as I've seen him perpetrating various versions of these crimes several times. He's still a notorious everything taster (over the weekend Libby caught him carefully picking sand off his tongue, which he openly admitted to having just eaten). I'd say it's proof that he's a slow learner when it comes to foods that are and aren't good to eat except he'll remember foods he doesn't like instantly and after only one tasting. Probably it's just a "weird" thing.
News flash! I started this post while both of the kids were sleeping and they woke up when I still had a few paragraphs left. I brought them down and set them to work watching Dora so I could come in here and finish. Right after I uploaded the video, Gabe came up to the gate between my office and the dining room and said, "Baby got something something something." "What?" I said. "Norah got something something something" (we still lean heavily on context to put together much of what Gabe's saying at this point, and without that, I had no idea what he was trying to say). So I got up and went into the living room to see what he was talking about.
Forgetfully, I left a little bowl filled with peanut shell remnants (my favorite snack because I'm an old man) sitting on the end table, well within Norah's range. As she's wont to do, she pulled it down and then went ahead and spread the shells all over much of the living room carpet. While I was cleaning up the mess I figured I'd make it a teaching moment by saying, "Oh, no. Daddy did a bad thing. I left something messy in Norah's reach. I know better than that."
To which Gabe replied, "Daddy did a bad thing. You need to go to time out chair."
"Oh?" I said. "How long do I need to sit there as punishment?"
"Three hours," he stated plainly. Obviously we've got a little more work to do on our time recognition. Either that or he really wanted me out of his way for the rest of the afternoon.
Forgetfully, I left a little bowl filled with peanut shell remnants (my favorite snack because I'm an old man) sitting on the end table, well within Norah's range. As she's wont to do, she pulled it down and then went ahead and spread the shells all over much of the living room carpet. While I was cleaning up the mess I figured I'd make it a teaching moment by saying, "Oh, no. Daddy did a bad thing. I left something messy in Norah's reach. I know better than that."
To which Gabe replied, "Daddy did a bad thing. You need to go to time out chair."
"Oh?" I said. "How long do I need to sit there as punishment?"
"Three hours," he stated plainly. Obviously we've got a little more work to do on our time recognition. Either that or he really wanted me out of his way for the rest of the afternoon.
Friday, April 23, 2010
A Mystery
Button woke up about 7:00 this morning (yeah, in addition to not sleeping during the day or going down when she's supposed to at night, now she's getting up early in the morning, too), and promptly went about the three minutes of cooing and playing that she'll do in bed before she gets bored and takes to exercising her lungs until we go get her. So I went up and got her.
When I got in there, she was kneeling up in bed, looking at me with a big smile. She was holding something in her hand that I couldn't quite make out, so I carefully pulled it away from her for closer examination.
It was a munged up chunk of fruit bar.
I have no idea where it came from--or where it COULD have come from. It was still freshish. She HAD eaten a fruit bar last night. And, admittedly, it's not unusual for her to have bits of food about her person. She's a notoriously messy eater and, I think, she likes to slobber up food and purposefully stick it to parts of her body so that she can pick them off and eat them later, but that couldn't have been the case with this bit of food. She'd had a bath and a fresh outfit put on her right before bed last night, and though she might have voluminous folds to hide food in, being a baby giant, I find it highly unlikely that we could have missed such a sizable chunk of fruit bar in the bath. Where else it could have come from, I have no idea. She hadn't had any other fruit bars this week, and we just washed her bedding last weekend. A mystery. A gross, sadly typical mystery.
In other news, I feel sorry for Gabe. There is a good chance that his life is going to be one of constant torment by his younger sister. For the past few months, nothing has pleased Norah more than to mess with Gabe. Her favorite game--which we caught a bit of in the video below--is to mess with the boy. But, even when Libby isn't controlling the activity, Norah will go out of her way to torture Gabe. Say he's lying on the floor for a diaper change. No matter where she is, Norah will quickly make a beeline straight for Gabe--while he's lying there, exposed and vulnerable--and start climbing all over his face. She makes it LOOK like she's just trying to get at his binky or whatever he might be holding onto, but the fact that she does it even when he's not holding anything or using his binky pretty much proves to me that she does it just because she derives great pleasure from his pleas for mercy. Life should prove interesting with these two around.
When I got in there, she was kneeling up in bed, looking at me with a big smile. She was holding something in her hand that I couldn't quite make out, so I carefully pulled it away from her for closer examination.
It was a munged up chunk of fruit bar.
I have no idea where it came from--or where it COULD have come from. It was still freshish. She HAD eaten a fruit bar last night. And, admittedly, it's not unusual for her to have bits of food about her person. She's a notoriously messy eater and, I think, she likes to slobber up food and purposefully stick it to parts of her body so that she can pick them off and eat them later, but that couldn't have been the case with this bit of food. She'd had a bath and a fresh outfit put on her right before bed last night, and though she might have voluminous folds to hide food in, being a baby giant, I find it highly unlikely that we could have missed such a sizable chunk of fruit bar in the bath. Where else it could have come from, I have no idea. She hadn't had any other fruit bars this week, and we just washed her bedding last weekend. A mystery. A gross, sadly typical mystery.
In other news, I feel sorry for Gabe. There is a good chance that his life is going to be one of constant torment by his younger sister. For the past few months, nothing has pleased Norah more than to mess with Gabe. Her favorite game--which we caught a bit of in the video below--is to mess with the boy. But, even when Libby isn't controlling the activity, Norah will go out of her way to torture Gabe. Say he's lying on the floor for a diaper change. No matter where she is, Norah will quickly make a beeline straight for Gabe--while he's lying there, exposed and vulnerable--and start climbing all over his face. She makes it LOOK like she's just trying to get at his binky or whatever he might be holding onto, but the fact that she does it even when he's not holding anything or using his binky pretty much proves to me that she does it just because she derives great pleasure from his pleas for mercy. Life should prove interesting with these two around.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Norah! Norah! Norah!
Sigh. I'm a little sad that I had to use that title already. I'd been sitting on it for, well, about as long as we've had Norah, and now I've used it. And I feel like it's wasted. I mean, how many other moderately obscure movie titles can I directly reference with one of my kids names? I could do Gabe and Norah's Infinite Play Time (or something to that effect). And there have been several movies named "Gabriel," but here's how an allusion to that title looks when it's typed out. Gabriel. Come on! Don't you get it? It's a reference to the movie! Philistine! But that's about it. So I sat on Norah! Norah! Norah! for quit some time, and now I'm using it because I don't have anything better coming to mind for a title. Double sigh.
Anyway, Libby tells me that there is a demand for more pictures of Norah. So I'm obliging. And a video of her (and Gabe) playing in the sand box a little while ago. You're welcome.
Less than a week ago, I realized that we hadn't yet taken any pictures of Norah sleeping in her bed. We had taken several pictures of Gabe doing the same by the time he was about a year old. And we felt a little guilty. Then I remembered the reason WHY we were able to take so many pictures of Gabe--once he went to sleep at night, he stayed asleep for at least four hours and nothing short of a few minutes of urgent jostling would wake him up. So we could go into his room on our way up to bed and look at him sleeping and "ooh" and "ahh" at how adorable he was while asleep.
Not so with Butts. Getting her to sleep--at night or at nap time--is becoming more and more of a chore every passing month. She still wakes up three or four times every night, same as always, but now she also won't go to sleep until about the third time we put her in bed (or if Libby rocks her or snuggles with her for an hour). I'm lucky if I can get her to sleep an hour during the day, and we're both lucky if we can get her to go to sleep by 10:00 at night. PLUS, she wakes up at the tiniest little sound most of the time. So, yeah, we've not taken many pictures of her sleeping because, as tough as it is to get her to that stated, we're not taking any chances waking her up.
But, then, these past two days, I've had two opportunities to take pictures of her while asleep. Yesterday, her nap didn't take until the fourth attempt, and by that point it was past 2:00 in the afternoon (with the first happening around noon, when Gabe is pretty much done), so she was absolutely zonked. She went down hard and actually managed to sleep for two hours (which we paid for last night when she didn't go to sleep until nearly 10:00). She might have slept longer, but I decided that I had to wake her up at 4:00 or she'd be awake until it was time for Libby to go to work the next morning. I went up to her room and turned on the light, which usually wakes her up with like a charm, but she didn't even budge. So I brushed the hair away from her eyes (don't get me started on the hair in her eyes, it has been a point of contention between Libby and her "never going to cut her hair" theory and my belief that not giving children bangs is cruel and unusual since they don't know how to keep it out of their eyes--and she DID eventually relent last week and snip some uneven bangs, but there are still hairs that hang into her eyes), and not even physical contact woke her up. So I grabbed the camera.
This is usually how she sleeps, like a wino cuddling up with a stray dog. She's even got the rosy cheeks like she's been hitting the bottle pretty hard.
That "singing," as Libby calls it, is ambient Butts noise. Several times a day, for up to a half hour at a time, she will make this noise, pausing only for breath. To be honest, I didn't even hear it until Libby commented on it, such is my ability to completely ignore the noises around me.
Anyway, Libby tells me that there is a demand for more pictures of Norah. So I'm obliging. And a video of her (and Gabe) playing in the sand box a little while ago. You're welcome.
Less than a week ago, I realized that we hadn't yet taken any pictures of Norah sleeping in her bed. We had taken several pictures of Gabe doing the same by the time he was about a year old. And we felt a little guilty. Then I remembered the reason WHY we were able to take so many pictures of Gabe--once he went to sleep at night, he stayed asleep for at least four hours and nothing short of a few minutes of urgent jostling would wake him up. So we could go into his room on our way up to bed and look at him sleeping and "ooh" and "ahh" at how adorable he was while asleep.
Not so with Butts. Getting her to sleep--at night or at nap time--is becoming more and more of a chore every passing month. She still wakes up three or four times every night, same as always, but now she also won't go to sleep until about the third time we put her in bed (or if Libby rocks her or snuggles with her for an hour). I'm lucky if I can get her to sleep an hour during the day, and we're both lucky if we can get her to go to sleep by 10:00 at night. PLUS, she wakes up at the tiniest little sound most of the time. So, yeah, we've not taken many pictures of her sleeping because, as tough as it is to get her to that stated, we're not taking any chances waking her up.
But, then, these past two days, I've had two opportunities to take pictures of her while asleep. Yesterday, her nap didn't take until the fourth attempt, and by that point it was past 2:00 in the afternoon (with the first happening around noon, when Gabe is pretty much done), so she was absolutely zonked. She went down hard and actually managed to sleep for two hours (which we paid for last night when she didn't go to sleep until nearly 10:00). She might have slept longer, but I decided that I had to wake her up at 4:00 or she'd be awake until it was time for Libby to go to work the next morning. I went up to her room and turned on the light, which usually wakes her up with like a charm, but she didn't even budge. So I brushed the hair away from her eyes (don't get me started on the hair in her eyes, it has been a point of contention between Libby and her "never going to cut her hair" theory and my belief that not giving children bangs is cruel and unusual since they don't know how to keep it out of their eyes--and she DID eventually relent last week and snip some uneven bangs, but there are still hairs that hang into her eyes), and not even physical contact woke her up. So I grabbed the camera.
This is usually how she sleeps, like a wino cuddling up with a stray dog. She's even got the rosy cheeks like she's been hitting the bottle pretty hard.Then, today, I put her down at noon again and promptly had to go back up and get her five minutes later as she started shrieking (which made Gabe decide that, if she was going to be awake, he didn't have to nap either, so he refused to take a nap, too) and brought her down. I told Gabe that he could stay up for one episode of Yo Gabba Gabba and then he had to go back to bed (he did go back, but still refused to sleep, which always makes for a long afternoon because if he doesn't get a nap, he's a mess the rest of the day). I put Norah in her activity saucer with a few graham crackers and a bottle of juice, and I excused myself to the office for a little bit to read emails and waste some time looking up movie titles that have "Norah" or "Gabe" in the titles.
Fifteen minutes later, both kids were being VERY quiet, so I went into the living room. This is what I found:
"Gabe," I said, "look at the baby. She's asleep in her gym." Gabe looked away from the TV and laughed and laughed. He thought it was hilarious. He hadn't noticed her up to that point, even though he was lying on the couch not twelve inches away from her head. Such is the power of television, people. She wasn't even resting her head on anything, she's just leaning back with absolutely no support, balancing in her sleep. Put her in a comfy bed with a bottle and Mozart playing and she screams. Put her in her baby gym for fifteen minutes with a graham cracker to smear all over her face and giant puppets singing about their love of balloons and she's out while leaning against the air. Kids are weird.
Fifteen minutes later, both kids were being VERY quiet, so I went into the living room. This is what I found:
"Gabe," I said, "look at the baby. She's asleep in her gym." Gabe looked away from the TV and laughed and laughed. He thought it was hilarious. He hadn't noticed her up to that point, even though he was lying on the couch not twelve inches away from her head. Such is the power of television, people. She wasn't even resting her head on anything, she's just leaning back with absolutely no support, balancing in her sleep. Put her in a comfy bed with a bottle and Mozart playing and she screams. Put her in her baby gym for fifteen minutes with a graham cracker to smear all over her face and giant puppets singing about their love of balloons and she's out while leaning against the air. Kids are weird.And, then, the sandbox stuff. Butts is actually progressing pretty nicely in the sandbox. She didn't even put a handful of sand in her mouth this time. That's always nice.
Not what you'd call an "action" shot, but pretty cute.
Not what you'd call an "action" shot, but pretty cute.That "singing," as Libby calls it, is ambient Butts noise. Several times a day, for up to a half hour at a time, she will make this noise, pausing only for breath. To be honest, I didn't even hear it until Libby commented on it, such is my ability to completely ignore the noises around me.
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