Misreading the Moment

Ok, I'll admit it. Sometimes I let my son watch too much television. But it's not my fault! Batman is on television. And when you can't get Batman there are other, slightly less awesome, things! It's hard to resist stuff like that.

But every now and then, even the TV seems to be telling you to read more books. This happened the other day when I found The Mouse and the Motorcycle on Netflix. It's a mid-80s adaptation of one of my favorite childhood books. The special effects are horrible. The acting is ridiculous. My son and I both loved it.

So there I was, a dad with a fun childhood memory that my son also appreciated, and an opportunity to spend some quality time together. We started reading a chapter of The Mouse and the Motorcycle together every night before bed.

Jono sleeps in a bunk bed even though he's an only child. It's awesome because the top bunk is awesome. Also, the bottom bunk sometimes gets turned into a cave. Caves? Also awesome.

Anyway, the other night I tucked Jono into his bed and I lay down on the bottom bunk to read him The Mouse and the Motorcycle. I had one of those moments that parents often have but usually don't admit; the "Wow, I'm such a great parent" moment. You know, that moment where you'd never SAY you're a great parent but you would gladly post a picture of your parenting activities on Instagram so everyone knows what a crafty, fun, motivated parent you are? Here's my picture of that moment (though it never made it to Instagram):

See?! See what a great dad I was being?! We have a dang LANTERN in that bedroom! It's like a CAMPOUT or something! We're reading a book that most little boys love! Whoa! Father of the Year?! I mean, I wasn't going to say it... but sure, maybe Instagram could say it for me!

Well, before I had time to add a filter to my photo, I had to actually read a bit of the book to my kid. Details, right? So we started reading. It was stinkin' magical. I was loving it. I assumed Jono was loving it.

Then I heard a page turn.

I hadn't turned a page.

"Hey, what book are you reading up there?" I asked.

"Uh... nothing." Jono replied.

"What is it?"

"Darth Vader and Son," he answered.

Darth Vader and Son is a hilarious picture book. I love it. Or I used to. 

"Well, I thought we were reading The Mouse and the Motorcycle!" I whined.

"Um... how about you read your book and I'll read my book," Jono said. "To ourselves."

I let Jono finish his book before turning out the lights. I got on Twitter. I avoided Instagram.

Attic Adventures and the Box of Doom

All throughout the past week, my son has been begging me to take him up into the attic. I tried to warn him that it wasn't as exciting as he hoped. I knew what he was thinking. I knew he expected to find buried treasure or dinosaur bones or an antique elephant gun. "There's nothing much up there," I said. But I was his age once. I knew eventually he'd have to see for himself.

Now, it's one thing to discuss climbing into a dark attic. It's another thing to actually do it. I mean, who knows what's up there, right? Sure, there could be treasure. But isn't there a chance there are ghosts? Not to mention rats or skeletons. "Are you sure it's safe?" Jono asked. But his curiosity was much stronger than his fear.

Jono scaled the ladder, cautiously shining his flashlight into the mysterious darkness.

"There's nothing up here," he said.

I thought, Yep. Life's full of disappointment, kid.  But what I said was, "Shine the light in there a little farther. Let's see what we can find."

"STAR WARS!" Jono shouted. He scrambled into the attic and grabbed a box.

And sure enough, we had found treasure. Namely, my brother's Chewbacca/C-3PO Christmas ornament. Judging by Jono's reaction, it may have been made entirely of gold. I was starting to get a little excited about this journey, too.

I had intended to take a quick peek into the attic. I never even thought we'd get off the ladder and climb in there. But there were old coats to examine and a little track for toy race cars. Pretty soon we were both digging through little bits of the past. And that's when I saw something I had completely forgotten. Something I had constructed long ago and had never planned to see again. Yes, my friends. I had rediscovered the Box of Doom.

I built the Box of Doom with my childhood best friend. It was pieced together out of scraps of wood, a rusty door hinge, and an old lock. We spray-painted it grey and added suitable warnings to would-be trespassers.

At this point in our Attic Odyssey, I stopped chuckling at Jono's cute and naive excitement. Things had just gotten real.

"JONO!" I hollered. "This is my BOX!"

"What box?" he asked.

What box? Only the box that sat in my room for a decade or more. Only the box that contained my greatest treasures and darkest childhood secrets. This is no ordinary box, my son. This is the Box of Doom.

And just like that, there ceased to be a man and a child in the attic. There were two children crawling among the rafters. One of them young and adorable, the other old and bearded. Both excited at what they might find next.

The Box of Doom was marked with ancient hieroglyphics, depicting my primitive love of baseball.

The Box's title was clearly written in blood, presumably the blood of my enemies. I was always a very serious child. But best of all, the BoD contained my comic book collection, a series of ancient tomes that had been thought lost to the annals of mankind.

And there was more. Baseball cards were tucked into the box. I found one of my favorite books, a children's version of the Arthurian legends.

I spent many glorious summers with friends in Hutchinson, KS, wandering trails and splashing in swimming pools. But in the quiet and slow hours of the afternoon, I often found a lonely spot and jumped into the magical and dangerous world of King Arthur. And suddenly, a 31 year-old man in his dusty attic had returned to that ancient realm. And he was thinking of taking his son along with him.

I think everyone has a Box of Doom. I mean, not literally. We weren't ALL psychotic children. But we all have real or imagined boxes that hold the most important parts of our childhoods. We can't really go back to those times and places we knew when we were young. But sometimes it's enough just to remember them. Sometimes it's nice to blow the dust off our collected memories of past summers. It's hard to resist the urge to be a better man when you think about the boy you once were. Hopefully the best of you can be passed on to your own children. You can at least hand them your favorite book.

Little League of His Own

Little league is upon us. My boy is learning to play baseball in an instructional league this summer. So far he likes it a lot more than soccer. ('MURICA!)

Soccer is fun, but at the entry level it's just a bunch of kids all running around in a herd trying to kick the ball at the same time. I think Jono likes getting his own turn to step up to the plate. And that's really the essential moment in baseball, isn't it? No matter what happened in the last play, the next batter has to step into the batter's box. Baseball is a team sport but every play starts with an individual opportunity. Batter versus pitcher. It combines teamwork with rugged individualism. Seriously, God bless America. I love it.

As Jono has started to enjoy baseball, we've started watching more games together and even watching some baseball movies. A few weeks ago, I decided A League of Their Own would be a film the whole family could agree on. It has baseball for the kid, baseball-in-history for me, and women's issues/baseball/relationships for my wife. Plus, it has Tom Hanks. And everyone knows that Tom Hanks is the best at everything. If you don't agree, just stop reading this blog. Seriously, what's wrong with you? You need Jesus.¹

To be honest, I didn't think the movie made much of an impression on my boy. But, as usual, I was wrong.

Last night at baseball practice, an adorable four-year-old shortstop sustained an injury. (Don't worry, it wasn't anything career-ending.) He started sobbing. And he just wouldn't stop. My son walked over to talk to him. The boy kept crying. Eventually, his mom walked out onto the field and calmed him down. Play resumed.

After practice, I asked Jono what happened to the other little boy.

"He fell down on his knee," Jono said.

"But it wasn't because you pushed him or anything?"

"No."

"Well, what were you trying to say to him when he was crying?" I asked.

"Well, he was just breaking the rules of baseball," Jono replied.

"What do you mean?"

And then, in a decent impression of Mr. Tom Hanks, Jono said...

"There's no crying in baseball!"

I think I might wait a while before I show him Field of Dreams.

---

1 This is actually true. You need Him. We all do. Talk to me sometime for details.^↩

Entertaining Angel

A few nights ago, my son invented a fun new game. Well, I say “fun.” For him it was all about imagination. For me it mostly involved figuring out what game we were playing.

It all started when he was allegedly taking a shower. I was in the room next door, laying out pajamas for him. 

I heard a voice from within the shower.

“Hey, um…. Where am I?”

“What?” I asked.

“What is this place?”

“You’re in the shower,” I offered helpfully.

“Oh. But where is that?” he continued.

“You’re in your house, with your mom and dad.”

“Oh,” he said, seeming to grasp a new concept. “What color is the house?”

I told him.

“And… what's a ‘mom?’”

“Well,” I said. “It’s the woman who gave birth to you.”

“What does my mom look like?” he asked,

“She’s got curly hair and she likes to smile.”

“Oh! Okay!”

I was glad to see we were getting somewhere now.

“And what about you?” the shower stranger asked. “I suppose you’ll need a name, too. How about ‘Matt?’”

“I like it.”

He continued this act throughout the shower. Problems arose when we turned off the water and tried getting him ready for bed. 

You see, at some point during the bathing process, my son had been replaced by a new person. I learned over the course of the next fifteen minutes that this person was new to Earth. He had just recently arrived from Heaven. (Please don’t ask me how he got here. He was very vague on those details.)

You’d like to assume that heavenly visitors would be helpful additions to your evening. Turns out they are quite the opposite. Have you ever tried putting an angel to bed? I’ll bet you haven’t. Well, don’t be jealous. It’s no picnic.

“Hey, Heaven Stranger,” I began. “You’d better go to the bathroom before you go to bed.”

“Oh, sure,” my mystic visitor agreed. “But… where do I go to the bathroom? What is a toilet?”

They don’t have indoor plumbing in Heaven?! (Seriously, this has me a little concerned.)1

“Hey, could you feed Otto?” I asked later.

“Who’s Otto?” Of course. Why am I such a slow learner?

“He’s your pet fish.”

“Oh!” Pause. “What’s a fish?”

Needless to say, bedtime took longer than usual. But in the end, I got my little miracle to lie down and go to sleep. 

Hebrews 13:2 reminds us that we should be hospitable to strangers and mentions that some people, by showing hospitality, have “entertained angels without knowing it.” Somehow I doubt that I was talking to a heavenly messenger that night. But he certainly is a gift from God. And I think we were both entertained.

^{1. [Actually, the problem went beyond plumbing issues and raised questions about basic bodily functions in the afterlife. I was also asked “What is poop?]↩}

Sleeping like a Baby

People without kids just don't understand. Try asking a childless person the following question: "When was the last time you got a really good night's sleep?" They'll think about it for a minute. It might have been a while. They might have gone an entire week without sleeping through the night. But eventually, your child-free friend acquaintance will give you an answer. At that point you have my permission to punch them in the face.

Seriously, if you ask a mother when she last slept through the night, she'll pause to think about it, too. But she's only pausing to CALCULATE THE AGE OF HER OLDEST CHILD! That's because she HASN'T SLEPT A WINK SINCE THAT LITTLE STINKER WAS BORN!

Sure, babies can't sleep all through the night. We understand, babies. It's not your fault. But someday you'll grow out of that, right?

Right.

Unless there are thunder storms. Or bumps in the night. Or if it gets too cold. Or too hot. Or if Dad has just been sleeping a little too peacefully. Then they'll be knocking on your door at 3:30am. They'll be thirsty. They'll be scared. They'll be AWAKE. And so will you.

My son has no problem going to sleep in his own room. He just has trouble staying there. About an hour and a half before my alarm goes off, I'll hear a voice from down the hall.

"Daaaaaaaaaad! Oh, Daaaaaaaaaaaad!"

He never calls his mother. He knows I'm easier to manipulate at this hour.

"Yeah, what's up, buddy?"

"Can I come and sleep in your room?"

"Sure, sure," I say. Somehow in my exhaustion I've forgotten how terrible this idea really is.

The kid climbs into our bed and I start drifting off again. Everything is quiet for thirty seconds.

"HEY, DAD?!"

Oh, my dear, sweet Moses. How is this kid so loud?

"What? What?" I ask.

"Did you know that worms don't have eyes?" Jono asks excitedly.

"Yes."

"AND NO NOSES!"

"I know. Go to sleep," I mumble.

"Just one, big mouth."

"Zzzz..." I pretend to be sleeping.

Everything is quiet for another twenty seconds.

"HEY, DAD!" my future opera singer shouts.

"What?!"

"Can we catch some worms?"

I resist the urge to tell him he'll be sleeping with the worms. I slowly coax him back to sleep. I finally get to sleep myself.

Later, I'm awakened by the pleasant sensation of being kicked in the face. Seriously, why is he sleeping upside down now? Why has less pillow space been appropriated for my head than for his feet? The world may never know.

My alarm goes off early. There's work to be done, money to be made, bills to be paid. I'm up and at 'em before the sun comes up.

When it's time to wake the kid up for school, he's sleeping like a rock. I have to shake him and bellow in his ear to get things moving. You see, he's really tired. He's had a rough night.

I've had a rough six years.

The Gift that Keeps On Punishing

When I was a kid, my mom told me I should never sneak peeks at my Christmas presents before the big day. She warned me that if I ever found my presents before December 25th, the discovered items would be returned to the store. My wife grew up with a similar rule and once had to learn her lesson the hard way. There's no better way to keep a kid honest over the holidays. We've kept up this tradition with our son.

Unfortunately, our boy is a Compulsive Rule Follower. This doesn't mean he's perfect or even exceptionally well-behaved. You can find plenty of ways to be bad without breaking any written or verbal code. But when the rules have been spoken and confirmed, this kid takes them extremely seriously. That's why I caused him a minor heart attack when bringing in some groceries a few weeks ago.

"Hey, pal! Guess what! I just got back from the store and one of the things I got is for yooooooou!"

Boy, I'm such a fun dad. He's going to be so excited.

"What do you mean?" Jono asks.

"I got one of your birthday presents!"

Jono immediately covers his eyes and jumps behind a couch.

"No! Why did you do that?! I'm not looking!"

"Oh, hey, pal... it's okay. I have it all wrapped up. You won't be able to see it."

A muffled voice answers from behind a couch cushion. "No, thanks. I'm staying back here."

I go into another room and hide the present.

"It's safe now, Jono. The present is hidden."

"I won't go in that room. I'll never go in there. Is it in the closet?"

"No," I say. "It's... not like last time. I hid it even better!"

"I'm just going to stay back here," Jono says.

"Behind the couch? Forever?"

Silence greets me from beyond the cushions.

Boy, I'm a fun dad.

A "Little" "Friendly" Competition

My son likes to win. Who doesn’t, right? No one likes losing. But some people handle losing better than others. I’ve been a Royals fan my entire life and haven’t seen them in the playoffs since I was two. I have an incredible ability to deal with losing. In that way, my son is nothing like me.

This kid has to win at everything. He has to be the biggest and the strongest. Once he told me that no human could beat up a gorilla. No human but him, of course. Now, unless the competition involves spelling or nose-picking, my kid will not beat a gorilla. But if you try to tell him that, he’ll flex his muscles and assure you that a gorilla fight wouldn't be a problem.

But his need for victory isn’t limited to imaginary fights with wild animals. He has to win in day-to-day life, too. Here’s an example of a typical moment in our house:

Me: “Jono, let’s go downstairs and get your hair brush out of the bathroom.” (I start walking toward the stairs.)

Jono: “Um… WAIT! Wait… uh… just a sec. (Jono quickly runs to stand on the step directly in front of me.) “Ok, let’s just walk kinda slow, ok?”

Me: (Trying to squirm my way around him on the stairs) “Uh, yeah, let me just…”

Jono: “No! HAHA! WAIT!” (Jono runs as fast as he can down the stairs and into the bathroom.) “HAHAAAAAAA! I WON! I TRICKED YOU!”

Me: “Yes, you’re very smart.”

Were we racing for the hair brush? No. Well, I wasn’t. Jono is always racing for everything. 

When I ask him about school, he likes to tell me about his victories on the soccer field at recess. He’ll say, “We won at soccer today!” Or maybe, “We lost but tomorrow we will NOT lose and we'll beat EVERYONE!”

The kid also likes racing in cars. For example, sometimes we wind up with two cars at church on Sunday mornings. (I know… we’re Americans and we hate the environment.) When it’s time to leave, Jono will usually get to pick which car he wants to ride in. This is a typical ride home from church:

Jono: “I wanna riiiiiiiide wiiiiiiith… uh… Dad!”

Me: “Ok, let’s go.”

Jono: “Okaaaay! HAHA! We’re gonna beat Mom!”

Me: “I dunno. Mom is pretty fast.” [She is. And somehow she never gets speeding tickets. I think it’s because she’s gorgeous.]

Jono: “She’s not as fast as us!” (We climb into the car. Mom pulls out ahead of us.)

Jono: “Go faster, Dad! OOOOOOH, HOHO! We’re catching up! GoFastGoFastGoFast! Fasteeeeeerrrrr! WE WON! (Car door opens) WE BEAT YOU, MOM! You were NOT as fast as us! HAHA!”

Usually these “games” are amusing. But problems arise when Jono thinks we’re having some sort of ongoing Intelligence Competition. For instance, if I try to tell him how to spell a word, he realizes that I knew something he himself did not. This is heresy.

“No, that’s not how you spell it,” he’ll say.

“Uh, yeah. It is, son.”

“No, you’re not telling the truth.”

Yeah. I have so much to gain from this deception. And this conversation is definitely worth it.

He just hates to be outdone. Sometimes we have competitions to see who can be the most stubborn. (Here’s a hint: I can.)

Years ago I took upon myself the household title of “Big Kahuna.” When Jono would throw a fit or disobey, I’d tell him to remember that I was his boss. I was the Big Kahuna. At this point, it became a battle of wills. If he would submit to the Kahuna’s will, all would go well with him. Otherwise, he would be pinned in a wrestling hold and forced to confess my title and authority. 

Tantrums decreased. 

We bought him this shirt.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m a big bully and a jerk.

Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh, right. My son is competitive and I’m not.

THE END

Parental Savant Syndrome

When I was a kid, I noticed something strange about my parents. Sometimes they seemed to know EVERYTHING.

Once I was reading the Bible and my dad asked me to read it out loud. I read, “The proverbs of Solomon, son of David, king of Israel: for gaining wisdom and instruction…”

“Ah, Proverbs 1,” my dad said with a nod.

“How did you know that?!”

“Well, I’ve read the Bible before.”

Wow. He had read the whole Bible! Maybe more than once! He knew which chapter I was reading just by listening to a few words! I figured the guy must be a genius.

And one time, when Mom was sending me to my room for a nap, I tried to smuggle a contraband toy in there with me. As I walked past--suuuuuuper casually-- Mom said, “Nope. Put that toy away.”

“How did you KNOW?!”

“Because I’m a mom and I know things.”

Wow. It was getting creepy.

I remember asking Mom and Dad about pretty much everything. They knew what every word meant. They knew how everything worked. They knew about historical events and how the government worked and what things were made of and why we can’t breathe under water and how to get to space and how you SHOULDN’T try to get to space by making a cardboard-box-spaceship and lighting the bottom of it on fire! They knew it all.

But here’s the rub: they knew nothing about Ninja Turtles.

I know. It’s taken me years to admit it to anyone. 

They were completely ignorant on the subject. They couldn’t even NAME all four turtles! And if you tried to tell them the names, they thought you were talking about classical artists or something stupid like that!

And don’t even get me started on their Batman knowledge gaps! My mother still calls this guy “Half n’ Half.”

These lapses were embarrassing. But as I grew older, I started to realize that my parents weren’t uniquely disabled. It seemed that everyone had a father or mother (or both) who were very intelligent but incapable of understanding important things like comic books and cartoons. 

How does this happen? When did the epidemic begin? Can it be stopped?

Perhaps the most frightening moment of my life was when I realized that I, myself, was beginning to exhibit symptoms of this disorder. It happened when my son was discussing one of his favorite television shows, The Octonauts.

In the image above, do you see a little Penguin guy? That dude’s name is “Peso.” (Yes, like the Mexican currency.) Peso is a doctor. I doubt he's a surgeon because I don't see how that would work with flippers. But that's neither here nor there.

Well, the cat-pirate dude is NOT named Peso, he’s named Kwazii. He’s a pirate cat. (I don’t know what other information you’d need.) 

Anyway, I once called Kwazii by Peso’s name. My son gave me a look that oozed confusion and pity.

“Dad, that’s not Peso. It’s Kwazii.”

Pause.

“You were just joking.”

But that’s the thing. I wasn’t joking. Not even a little.

I have Parental Savant Syndrome. It's the ability to know a lot of things while being a complete dunce when it comes to cool kid topics.

My son asks me about everything, just like I used to ask my parents. We’ve discussed astronomy, theology, geography, zoology, history and politics. I’m usually able to answer his questions satisfactorily. And I like to think of myself as a “with it” kind of parent. I mean, we watch his shows together and we talk about what he likes to do with friends at school. We talk about his favorite characters, animals and athletes. I'm "with it," right? I know what's up! But you know what? I’ll bet MY parents thought they were “with it,” too!

So now I’ve started to notice little comments and corrections from my son.

“No, Dad. That one isn’t the Gup D, that’s the Gup V!” (Both are types of fictional submarines, by the way.)

“No, that’s not the dog’s name. Were you joking?”

“I’m not being a REAL gorilla, Dad! I’m one of those guys that uses a power suit to give him gorilla powers!” (Okay.)

It’s always hard to admit you have a problem. But I think admitting it is a good first step toward coping. 

My name is Matt and I have Parental Savant Syndrome.

There may not be a cure for PSS, but the symptoms can be managed with proper Google searching. Try typing "what are the names of all the Octonauts?" or "how did Kwazii lose his eye?" or "where does a penguin even go to medical school?"

I'm writing this blog post to raise awareness on the subject of Parental Savant Syndrome. Let's hope that when our children are grown, someone will have discovered the cure. Until then, just nod your head a lot and try to seem like you're down with whatever they're saying. What could go wrong?

Retention of Awesomeness

For me, one of the joys of parenting has been finding things that I loved as a kid that my son also loves today. Some things just work. And kids of multiple generations can agree that they're awesome.

Not everything is like this. There are many fads from my childhood that just don't cut it anymore. In fact, looking back on them, you have to wonder how they seemed like a good idea to any generation. Here are a few examples of fads that have gone the way of the Dodo.

Things that did Not Remain Awesome Were Never Awesome

                                                                 Pogs

This was a game that encouraged young children to hoard worthless pieces of cardboard. Neat.

                                                            Furbies

Do they still haunt your dreams?

                                                           Tickle Me Elmo

Um...

                                                           Dragon Ball Z

If you still like this show, please stop reading. I don't want to hold you up while you're getting ready for your hot date. Heh.

Yes, it was a dark time in many ways. Will Smith thought he was a rapper and "every man did what was right in his own eyes." Chaos reigned.

Awesomeness that Abides

Fortunately, some things were awesome in spite of the darkness of those days. Some things have been awesome forever and will continue to be awesome as long as the sun shines. In those things, my son and I can find common ground. Those things are...

Star Wars

You knew it had to be first. It will always be first. Honestly, I don't know who likes these movies more, me or my son. And I'm not talking about the newer films or the slew of cartoons that followed. The original, simple, awesome movies. I showed Episode IV to Jono and he was pretending to be a droid before Darth Vader even captured Princess Leia.

Speaking of Leia, I don't know who Lucas originally planned to cast in that role, but if that's her picture in this early artwork, he obviously changed his mind. Carrie Fisher never looked that cool. Also, Mark Hamill never had those abs.

Super Mario Brothers

When I was a kid, Mario looked like this:

Now he looks more like this:

But the basic awesomeness is the same. Jono and I could play Mario together for hours if left unattended. Please pray that we won't be unattended all that often.

Pretending the Floor is Lava

We all did this as kids, right? And kids are still doing it today.
The trick is to use the couch cushions as little islands.
Never forget that.

Poop Jokes

Deny it if you want, but these are still hilarious.

Fishing

This is fun for the whole family. (Bright red Crocs optional.)

Camping Indoors

Camping Outdoors

And last, but certainly not least...

Batman

Always! Forever! In every reincarnation, Batman is the coolest. Before there was Chuck Norris, there was The Batman. Seriously, Batman retains a level of coolness that cannot be destroyed no matter how many Ben Afflecks threaten to portray the character. Batman is unstoppable! In every animated and live-action manifestation, Batman oozes coolness. My son knows this. I know it. It's about time you people knew it, too.

Come to think of it, I'm going to wrap this post up with a Batman montage. You don't even have to thank me. Because, good people of Gotham, a hero doesn't ask to be thanked.

But still. You're welcome.

Geography Lesson

Throughout the school year, my son has been learning about different countries and their cultures. I think it's great. I've always loved learning about other places and people. It's been fun to see (a) what his teacher decides to tell the class, (2) which parts of that lesson Jono retains, and (D) how he describes it.

I usually try to entertain, but today’s blog post is purely educational. And so, here are a few things Jono would like you to know about the world at large.

[Bracketed comments are my own and are far less important.]

Peru

Peru is a country that has llamas. You have to be careful around llamas because they’re like camels and they spit.

[Jono failed to mention the vast, historic empire of the Incas and the majestic archaeological remains of their civilization, some of which can be found at Machu Picchu. Llama spit is important, too. I’m just saying.]

Mexico

In Mexico, people like to hit piñatas until candy comes out.

[Mexico also has a rich history and interesting culture. But sure.]

England

In England, the queen is named “Elizabeth.” They call cookies “biscuits.”

[This is completely accurate and I have nothing to add.]

Alaska

There’s lots of snow in Alaska. Eskimos live there and so do Moose.

[Some people are offended by the term “Eskimo.” But people can’t seem to agree on a politically-correct term that covers all the indigenous people in the region, so I’ll allow it.]

[Moose are great. I have some on my favorite pajama pants.] 

[I know Alaska isn't a country. I’m not sure if Jono does. We’ll work on that.]

Italy

Italy has something like the Eiffel Tower except it's round.

[I have no idea.]

The Netherlands

People who live there wear wooden shoes called “CLOMPERS!”

[The Netherlands is a conglomeration of various historical states with a complicated history full of political and geographical changes. They have hilarious shoes.]

If you enjoyed this lesson and would like to learn more about various cultures, please consider babysitting my kid some Saturday evening.

Debatable

My son is a really sweet kid. I just want to say that up front. He's usually nice and caring. He's always hilarious. But he gets on these bossy kicks where he'll argue everything you say and tell you that you're wrong and try to correct your every word.

It's... um... well, what's a nice word for "Poke-Me-In-The-Eyeball Infuriating?"¹ That's what it is.

It's not all the time. It comes in waves. And those waves cause me severe sea-sickness.

Let me give you just a little taste of this habit. This weekend, we did a lot of family stuff out and about. Throughout everything we did, Jono kept correcting me.

"Dad, that girl told a lie."

"No, I think she just made a mistake."

"No. Grandma said it. She was lying." (Disclaimer: Grandma may not have said this.)

We agreed to disagree on this one.

Then we went to lunch. My wife explained to Jono that he needed to eat all his food.

"I think I only have to eat a number of bites. How many bites do I have to eat?"

"All of it."

"How did you say that? I just eat a number of bites."

"No, all of it."

This time we did NOT agree to disagree. He ate his food. Well, actually, he only ate until the point where he said he felt like he might get sick. And it even seemed legit. We allowed him to forgo the last couple of bites to avoid public vomiting.

Yeah, we don't mess around. We force our kid to eat to the point of illness. We're good parents.

We went to a museum and a toy store and we had lots of fun. Jono was great most of the time but every now and then he would start to get bossy. We kept warning him that this behavior needed to stop. It would stop for a while but then start to creep back in.

On the drive home, Jono dropped one of his toys. He asked if we could get it for him. On this particular day, I had left the Batmobile in the garage and we were driving the minivan. So I wasn't able to use the auto-pilot feature. This meant (annoyingly) that I had to remain in the driver's seat the ENTIRE time I was driving. This (unfortunately) made it impossible to retrieve toys from the back seat.

"We'll have to get that toy when we get home, Jono."

"I was talking to Mom."

"Well, Mom's busy, too. We'll just have to get it at home."

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to Mom."

At this point, I lost my cool a bit.

"Jono, stop being so bossy! It doesn't matter who you were talking to. I'm answering! And you just have to wait! Do you see me driving this car? If I stop to help you, wouldn't we CRASH? You just need to be patient!"

The van got quiet; the peaceful silence of a grumpy father who shall not be pestered again. The silence... of a few brief moments.

"Hey... can you take this?"

A quick scan of the rear-view mirror showed that my son was trying to pass his drink up to the front seat where it fits nicely into our cup holder. I reached back and took the cup.

"... I wasn't talking to you."

Ok, remember how I said I lost my cool a bit? The thaw was complete at this point.

"What?! Seriously, Jono, it doesn't matter who you were talking to! Stop being so bossy!"

Silence.

And then...

"I just don't want to crash."

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1 Grammarians generally agree that this word is "Belieber."^↩