My Three-Year Old’s Definition of Respect and Golf School

You’re talking and you wonder do they get it? They hear me, but are they listening? That happens often in my family.

But then I think about my son and smile. Sometimes he gets it, he hears me and listens …

My son continues his preschool sabbatical and is currently enjoying the teachings of Coach Jeff at golf school. Last week’s word of the day was sportsmanship. He seemed to learn that one quickly as he gave Coach Jeff a high-five and said: “Good game, Coach Jeff.”

This week’s word of the day was respect. He got the ten minute speech at the beginning of class. Coach Jeff  defined the word and explained that you should treat others as you would like to be treated.

Then my son whispers to me: “Mom, what’s treated?”

“It’s your behavior with other people. How you act. Your attitude. Remember good attitude. Good behavior to other people and people will have good behavior to you. Be nice to other people and they will be nice to you. Listen to other people and they will listen to you. Good attitude to Coach Jeff and your teammates, and they will show you good attitude.”

“Oh. Yes. Good attitude. Good behavior. Listen. I treat people, and they will treat me. I behave good, they behave good to me too. Respect.”

“Yes. Always show respect.” 

He smiled and we were off to the driving range. Each kid went to their stall and began swinging away.  They were reminded how to properly hold the club and how to follow through on their swing. My son improved his grip  … well at least for a second, and then he went back to a hockey-style swing, and then back to his golf grip again. It’s a learning process and he enjoys class. He’s smacking them pretty good and I was pretty proud of him.

Then after he finished half the bucket of balls he took a quick two-minute-Goldfish-crackers-and-Gatorade break. As he stood there checking out his classmates swing away. He noticed a couple of boys weren’t really into the driving range thing. They are off jumping like frogs, checking out the grass, or rolling around in their stalls. 

Then one of the kids who was hanging out in the grassy knoll, pretending he was a butterfly picked up a ball and threw it at one of the kids attempting to put Coach Jeff’s teachings in effect. Poor Jay. He had the right grip and the right posture, just as he turned his little three-year old body to begin his swing, in came a flying golf ball and hit him on the cheek.

Coach Jeff was on the other side helping out other kids so he didn’t witness the incident. But butterfly boy’s dad was there, and so was Jay’s.  The dad’s had a little pow-wow about the incident and Jay sat out a little bit until the pain subsided.

“That was not nice, mom. He did not treat Jay. That was not respect. I think he will be in timeout.”

I don’t have to wonder whether my son”gets it”. He hears me and listens. Perhaps when he’s in middle school I’ll begin to worry, but for now he continues to learn lessons.

Green Scooby-Doo Balloon To The Rescue

I thought I had it all. I’ve become accustomed to thinking ahead. That’s what you do when you’ve got kids, or cranky adults. You prepare.

Festival of Books

The Festival of Books. It’s a huge event with massive crowds of book loving people who also like freebies and samples from the corporate sponsors. I’ve gone just about every year for the past eight years. But now that I have a three-year old and a nine-month old. The trip becomes more like a mission to avoid any meltdown from any child.

Coppertone Water Babies UVA/UVB Sunscreen 50 SPF.

Three Cuties oranges.

Two Ziploc bags of Cheerios.

One container of Gerber Puffs.

Two juice boxes.

Three pacifiers.

Two sippy cups of water.

One bottle of milk.

One apple.

One banana.

One Clif Kid Bar Z Crispy Chocolate Chip.

Two Clif Kid Z Fruit Ropes

One peanut butter and banana sandwich.

One diaper bag filled with baby essentials.

I thought I had it all, but it was out of my control.

After a meltdown-free morning of construction, train, and dinosaur book exploring, arts and crafts doing, and music loving under a blistering heat for three hours, we encountered the balloon. We had it for five minutes. The red balloon from the Chinese Dragon stall. Then it popped. Thin layer I guess.

I saw it coming. I got the look and then the shoulders slumped. The eyes got watery, the lower lip did the I’m-about-to-cry pucker. Then his voice cracked, and I knew it was coming.

I forgot to pack an extra balloon.

The crowd at The Festival of Books.

No worries we’ll get another one. After fifteen minutes of weaving in and out through the crowds, we found the stall. Sweet. No one was in line. However no one was in line for a reason. No more balloons.

I got the look and the shoulder slump …

I saw someone with a purple Scooby-Doo balloon. We raced back through massive pedestrian traffic past the Mystery Machine and found the chick passing out the balloons. There was no red. Just Mystery Machine colors.

Scooby-Doo Balloon

“Green. Mom. Green is my favorite. Red is no good.”

So after three Cuties oranges, one banana, one apple, half a peanut butter sandwich, two juice boxes, two bags of Cheerios, one container of puffs most of which trailed behind us courtesy of the baby, one bottle of milk, one Clif Bar Z Crispy Chocolate Chip, and two Clif Kid Z Fruit Ropes, it was the green balloon to the rescue.

We lost one sippy cup and two pacifiers in the process, but the green Scooby-Doo balloon is still in tact.

The green balloon that saved us floats among the crowd.

 

Note to self: pack an extra balloon.

 

My Three-Year Old’s Definition of Integrity and Golf School

Considering that I was a golf widow, I wasn’t going to do it. I thought, why lose another one. But this one would be different. This is my son. He’s awesome.

If you don’t know what a golf widow is, you should check out my post The Golf Widow’s Revenge. If your dude, husband, or partner plays golf, or is even thinking of playing golf, you should definitely read it. An enlightening nice perspective.

Anyhow, since my son’s been on hiatus from preschool, I decided to find some sort of program where he could engage in conversation with other three-year olds. Hang out with his peeps. One friend suggested some Mommy & Me group and I sort of hesitated.

I told her I didn’t have anything against this Mommy & Me group, or her, seeing how she’s the guru of all things Mommy & Me, but when we tried to hang with these chicks when my son was younger we didn’t quite fit in. I think I had the wrong diaper bag, the wrong set of snacks  and the wrong set of shoes.

Heels to a park? C’mon now. 

As for the diaper bag, apparently you can own designer diaper bags. The three-hundred dollar kind. They exist. Id’ rather take that three-hundred and go to Legoland four times. As for the snacks, well, pretzels, cheese sticks, Cutie Oranges, and Gatorade were frowned upon. I don’t know why, seemed pretty good to me. I never understood. 

Whatever. I wasn’t going to go through that situation again, so I decided to stick with my kind of people … sports.

A golf ball directly before the hole (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After searching community bulletins and the parks department services, I found a golf academy that catered to kids his age. I was pretty excited because he didn’t meet the age requirement for The First Tee program, but this program started with three-year olds. Sweet. 

As I geared him up to go to golfing school, he was hesitant at first. Didn’t want to go because he thought I would just drop him off. But after explaining how it worked, he was very excited.

When we got there, he grabbed his clubs, raced out of the car, and ran up the ramp.

He was introduced to Coach Jeff and learned some golf etiquette, well at least tried to learn it.

Integrity. That was the word of the day. He was told what it meant and how he always needed to do the right thing and be honest, especially on the course.

Apparently if you lose a ball into the bushes and can’t find it, you can hit another ball, but you have to call out provisional. Sort of a second chance, but you’re penalized and given another stroke.

I didn’t think he would understand the concept, but he kept repeating the word integrity, the phrase ‘do the right thing’, and the word provisional.

In their little stalls each kid got six golf balls. Six. They were supposed to hit them onto the green, aiming for the circles drawn out near the hole. Once they finished chipping the ball over to the green, they were supposed to run and collect their six golf balls and repeat the exercise.

Scrambling for golf balls.

During one of their scrambles to get their six balls, one kid had seven and my son says:

“Mommy I tell the boy only six balls and he didn’t listen. He did not do the right thing. I tell him. I tell him. He lose his yellow ball and take two white balls … he did not say provisional. He did not do integrity. He did not.”

I smiled. He was awesome and I couldn’t have been prouder. 

 

Seven Days, Two Guats, Twelve Boxes, and My Dad’s Taxes.

The Mission: Seven days. 

Seven days of what?

Hostility. Tension. Dirty Looks. Sassiness. And a lot of coffee. All due to the IRS.

Tax (Photo credit: 401K)

Gas receipts, Costco receipts, plumbing receipts, accounting, pay check stubs, invoices from Diestel Farms and Zacky Farms, deductions for knife sharpening and laundry services, list of tax-deductible donations, and inventory count. Massive inventory count.

Seven days to complete a year’s worth of accounting services always culminated on April 15th. The dreadful April 15 tax deadline. Where was my Dad at 11:59 p.m. on April 15th? At the post office mailing his taxes, probably coming out on the news as one of those people that procrastinate during tax time. Years later when taxes could be filed online, where was he at 11:59 p.m. on April 15th? In front of his computer, hitting the enter button.

My Dad. The Master Procrastinator.

This year the 15th landed on a Sunday, so technically tax deadline usually extends to Monday — a “business day”. If this was the case he’d wait until Monday to file. Somehow time would still escape him.

I used to hate tax week. Every year these seven days haunted me. I’d say the same thing every year.

How come you just don’t do this every month during the year, so we don’t kill ourselves with this paperwork? This pinche paperwork! Why? WHY!

His response was always the same:

It makes it more exciting. But don’t worry next year, next year.

Lies. All lies. Come January, I’d see box one.  He was the Master Procrastinator.

Most people don’t really think about their Dads on tax day. It’s just a day that most Americans paying taxes dread. If you’re getting a refund, well it’s awesome. But if you were like my Dad, a small business owner, the month of April was an unatural disaster wreaking havoc on your sanity.

Sometimesdaily "TAX DAY" (Photo credit: oxmour)

I had 12 boxes, each filled with  monthly binders of daily transactions and business accounting stuff for the shop. My Dad was old school. He did not believe in computerized accounting files. He did not believe in Microsoft Excel until the year 2002.

I did not major in business, economics, or accounting. But I got Guat lessons on the subject matter for over twenty years. My Dad did taxes, my uncle did taxes, my cousin did taxes, my sister did taxes, and I did taxes. We were not an H&R Block office, but we learned how to do our own taxes, courtesy of my Dad. He took a course or something and learned all the ins and outs. Ever since then it’s been twenty. Twenty years of 12 boxes with binders.

image via accountingweb.com

I’d have to complete two boxes a day for mission pay-taxes-on-time to be successful. That week was pretty stressful in The Guat household. I usually had to endure my Dad’s grumpiness and hostility for his laziness throughout the year.

Could I initiate any commentary? No. Not allowed. As part of The Guat Clan, it was my duty to help him out. This is what I did. So it was a tag-team effort. Seven days, two Guats, 12 boxes and my Dad’s taxes. Over twenty years. This was our chaotic routine.

So as I look around, I see no boxes overflowing with receipts and checks. I see no boxes filled with coffee-stained invoices. I see no calculators or No.2 Ticonderoga Pencils. I see no pay check stub book. I see no tornado of papers spread all over the kitchen table, living room, or couch. I see an empty coffee pot, nothing percolating but thoughts of my Dad. I hear no sassiness or hostility. I hear no laughter of two exhausted Guats cracking dumb jokes at 11 p.m. I feel no stress of the IRS. An accountant was hired when my Dad passed away.

Sometimes you miss the things you thought you hated. I miss the chaos. I miss those seven days. I miss those twelve boxes. I never thought I would, but I do. Mission pay-taxes-on-time no longer a go.

 

The Bitch Emerges …

Ever feel like the worst version of you is winning the battle?

The Incredible Hulk: Original Soundtrack Recording (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You’re used to the writer rejections.

You’re used to living on four maybe five hours of sleep at night because you swear your eight-month old has insomnia.

You’re used to your three-year old telling you “no I don’t have to go potty” and then he doesn’t quite make it in time to the toilet so you have to change his Lightning McQueen underwear again. He has 18 pair.

You’re now used to the sandpaper rough exterior of your chick hands that used to be soft, but suffered damage from months of cleaning toilets, washing dishes and constant exposure to Clorox Wipes. You should’ve used gloves earlier, but it hadn’t occurred to you, probably because of your lack of sleep.

You call a couple of friends to vent or join you for quick workout so as to relieve the stress of the human pressure cooker, but all you get is voicemail because they’re busy having a great life.

You reach for your Hawaiian Chocolate, but can’t find the box. It’s supposed to be in it’s usual place, but it’s not.

You take deep breaths and count to ten, but nothing works. You’re on the verge.

So what happened? Why did I snap? Why did the worse version of me — the inner bitch — rise from the depths and reach the surface of my sweet golden Coppertone skin?

I lost it.

By eight-thirty, nine o’clock at night I’m done. I’ve got no patience left.  I’ve spent 13 hours with two kids under the age of three that require 13 hours of constant attention and play time, well maybe 12.5 hours thanks to thirty minutes of the Go Diego, Go distraction so that I can cook dinner and wash some of the dishes.

By bed time, I’m on a zero-tolerance policy.  Patience is gone, and all I need is for them to listen. Just listen. I could use help, but that doesn’t mean I get any. Unwanted and unneeded comments, plenty. But help … not so much. Gray hair emerges. I feel it sprouting from my scalp and twirling down my curls choking out my Guat youth.

All I want is for both kids to fall asleep before Letterman starts. I need to have “me time”. An hour by myself. No washing dishes. No listening to stories. No getting advice. Just an hour to decompress and watch TV. An hour to sit and do nothing before going to sleep.

But that didn’t happen. Battle of the Bedtime sucked and I ended up yelling at my kid to go to sleep or else.

That “or else” didn’t work.

I was literally yelling, you know the type of yelling where the vein pops out and pulsates on the side of your head.

He just wasn’t listening. He was being three. That’s what they do, but today … today I couldn’t handle it.

He kept moving around, jumping around. It’s like someone gave him a box of sugar just before bed. It could’ve happened I was taking a shower and one of the frosted cupcakes we made for Easter was missing. He might have had an extra boost of Betty Crocker and I was in desperate need of “me time”.

 So I lost it. I tried counting to ten and taking deep breaths in order to calm down I tried reasoning, loving, cuddling, talking, even singing to him. But nothing worked. It was getting late and I still had a big pile of dishes and baby bottles waiting for me. I was worried that “me time” wouldn’t make it.

The wrath of The Guat was unleashed and I yelled at him like a crazed fan arguing with an umpire. I yelled like a crazy bitch. He got sad and teary eyed. He says …

I still love you mom.

Ohhhhhhhh. Like a knife to my heart. I felt terrible. I felt like I wasn’ t cut out for motherhood. 

I gave myself a time-out. No chocolate for you, Guat! None

 

Horse Racing, Easter Eggs, and Cemeteries.

Easter brings about different traditions in my family. As I mentioned before, when my uncle was alive Easter was filled with brunches, mimosas, Loteria, egg painting, pool parties, egg hunts, and ham dinners.

He was the glue that stuck everyone together. But since his passing there’d been a rift in the family dynamic — a family feud. But my Dad kept it together and tempers simmered as the family continued gathering.

Easter eggs // Ostereier (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Since we didn’t own a pool or have a back yard big enough for egg hunts and master art projects for the entire family, my Dad and I created a new tradition upon my uncle’s passing.

The year after Uncle Erick died, his daughter really wanted to go egg hunting. We had no idea that a majority of the egg hunts took place on Saturday and not on Easter. We had no kids in the family back then. She was it. So in an effort to keep the Easter Spirit going, we thought we’d take her to the Arboretum for the big Easter Egg Hunt and brunch. We had it all planned out with everyone coming.

We get there … it’s closed. Egg hunt was Saturday.

She looked at me and my dad with those what-the-hell-just-happened eyes. I felt like a jackass. I looked around. The race track was about a mile from there. Seabiscuit? Why not.

Horse-racing Photo credit: Wikipedia

You want to see some horses?

We piled back in the car, bought some plastic eggs at a nearby Ralphs Supermarket, and made our way to the race track. She saw horses, ate funnel cake, found some eggs, and won four dollars. She had a great time and a good Easter – Guat Style. My Dad had a blast. He loved the excitement of betting on the race, got a laugh from the unique names like Limerock Revenge and Warrens Venedalucy, and smiled as the horses powered through. He liked the movie Seabiscuit, too. So we went back every year for more races, more funnel cake, and more good times.We went to the cemetery to visit my uncle. We told him about the day and how much we missed him. Then headed all the way back to my parents’ place for a nice ham dinner.

This tradition continued until my Dad’s passing. The family divide got bigger. Hatfields vs. McCoys Guat style.

So today it was  just party of four at the race track. My cousins are all grown up. My uncle’s daughter is a young adult deciding between University of Southern California and Boston College. We’re a Trojan Family so as you probably guessed we’re leaning toward one particular school. My mom and aunts just wanted to stay home, away from the heat, but they drank coffee — not iced coffee, hot coffee – and ate champurradas. Go figure.

So, it was party of four racing for plastic eggs, (no crazy parents this time), sliding down the ginormous inflatable Lighting McQueen jumper-slide-thing, painting eggs, playing carnival games, and betting on horses like Ralphy Girl, La Chilena, and Shezabigbroad. We lost twenty dollars and drove back for family dinner.

But before heading back, I made a stop to visit the man who started the  new tradition with me six years ago — my dad. I headed to the cemetery ready to talk to him about our adventure at the track. I took him some lilies, Easter eggs, and the racing program.

Now I know the race track and cemetery aren’t the first thoughts that come to mind when you think Easter. It’s probably more like Jesus and Easter eggs. But when it comes to The Guat, nothing is conventional. Horse racing, Easter eggs and cemeteries — this is the Guat  Easter Celebration.

The Crazed Egg Hunter

Look at them … at first glance they look pretty normal — even caring.

But put a golden egg in front of them and they become this crazed, seething hunter trampling on anyone and anything in their way, including their own kid.

I’ve seen parents get a little pushy, but crazed egg-hunter bitches? That’s a whole new level.

Easter eggs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Easter egg hunts happening all weekend long and you’re bound to run into parents like these. Easter egg hunts are supposed to be family friendly. They’re supposed to give kids a chance to get their own eggs, that’s why they split the kids up by age. They should split the parents up.

It’s funny how everyone followed the rules at first. There’s a multitude of brightly colored eggs scattered all over the baseball field. Everyone is lined up in the outfield and along the fence. They tell you to stand back. Don’t start ’till you hear the whistle.

There’s no caution tape. No ropes. No red tape. Just you and the honor system. And everybody follows it. A kid walks out and the parent hauls him back in line and explains that it’s not time yet. Everyone was lining up — waiting for the countdown.

5-4-3-2-1!

A marathon of parents rush the field along with their toddlers and three-year olds. Most follow the egg protocol, where they head to a patch of grass and collect five, maybe six eggs. Kids are happy, parents are happy.

But then there’s the crazed hunter who sees the golden egg, glistening in the sun. Is there something special to it? A dollar bill? A gift certificate? A Willy Wonka Golden Ticket? Yeah, maybe. I dont’ know I’ve never been the crazed parent to get one. But there must be something special because the guy with the microphone said they were special. Plus there were only five of them on the field.

It was these five special golden eggs that created the madness.

So after countdown I see him sprint by, dragging his poor kid past all these rainbow-colored eggs. She reaches for an orange egg during the race, but it’s out of her reach as her dad pulls her toward the golden egg. He picks up speed as he sees another crazed egg hunter sprinting toward the same egg. His daughter’s shoe falls off, but he doesn’t stop. She cries. He runs.

As he sprints to one of the five special eggs, he crushes a blue plastic egg that a kid with a dinosaur shirt was planning on putting in his basket. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He keeps going. It’s a race to beat the other parent.

He finally sees it within his grasp. He bumps into another kid, and sidelines an adult. He notices the other crazed parent is close, but according to his estimate he’s closer. A kid with a baseball cap pops out of no where and it becomes a three-way race. I’m rooting for the kid, but as he stretches his hand out for that special egg the man busts out his Andre-the-Giant hands and grabs that golden egg in one swoop. The kid looks startled, as the man clutches onto the prized egg. The other crazed hunter is upset and continues her scramble.

There are no more eggs on the field. He’s got one. The one. Everybody stares in amazement. He shows the egg to his daughter. She’s angry because she wanted the orange egg. She gives him a dirty look and walks back to the outfield, looking for her shoe.

He calls her name and shows her the egg again. She rolls her eyes and turns around.

I look at my son. He peeks inside his red bucket and smiles. He’s got seven eggs, all different colors. He picked them himself.

 

I’m Living in a Dr. Seuss Book

“And when you’re in a Slump, you’re not in for much fun.

Un-slumpling yourself is not easily done.”

I got schooled by Dr. Seuss tonight. My son’s bedtime routine includes reading three books every night before he goes to sleep. He picks two and I pick one. I often find myself reading Goodnight, Goodnight Construction Site, The Lorax, or something involving trucks or trains three times a week. At least.

We always get new selections from the library, where he’s supposed to be quietly flipping through some books on the lounge chairs while I search for new titles. Does it always happen this way? Of course not. So when I grab books-on-the-go because I’m trying to leave the library without looking like “that mom” with the loud kid that doesn’t have a mute button, and one of those books-on-the-go happens to be pretty cool, it surprises me. 

Cover via Amazon

Even though my son missed out on much of the symbolic underlying themes of the book, he did enjoy the basics — the adventures — of Oh The Places You’ll Go! I had never read that book before, so I thought it was a badass serendipitous moment that it fell into my hands.

It’s basically about the journey — life, graduating to the next step in your adventure, whether it be preschool, college, PhD., astronaut camp or motherhood. It’s about the Great Balancing Act of Life and all the drama, peace, and triumphs that come with it — staying balanced with the ups and downs.

It’s for the people with “Dreamer’s Disease”. I have it. I inherited it from my dad. I hope my son gets it. I hope the baby gets it. Reading this will make sure he’s on his way, or at the very least introduce him to the phases of life.

The book’s got different stages and I’ve been through most of them and continue to visit these places in a crazy cycle that The Guat life provides. I’m currently in a slump, where I’m “un-slumping” myself, and Seuss is right, it’s not easily done. It’s a bitch.

Then there’s “The Waiting Place,” for people just waiting … everyone is just waiting for things to happen. I’ve been passive like that too, but then I snapped out of it and moved on to the next roller coaster ride … “ready for anything under the sky.”

Now I’m living the “Great Balancing Act,” sometimes I fall … off a jagged, cliff and flat on my face. Other times I have badass moments of success, like The Warrior Dash.

And I ride those moments until the next great thing happens … and I remember the most awesomeness place … success. Oh yeah, I’ve been there, but not recently. Prior to the Warrior Dash, the bus hasn’t stopped on that corner in a while, but I remember what it looks like. Dr. Seuss reminded me.

“And will you succeed?”

“Yes! You will indeed! (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed”.

“Kid, you’ll move mountains.”

 Giddy up!

 

 

A Three-Hour Tour … A Three-Hour Tour

 Ever feel the need to kick your spouse, boyfriend, or partner out of the car while you’re driving long distances on the freeway?

Yeah.

It occurred to me as we made our trek to Legoland.

Legoland California (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was supposed to be a joyous occasion and it was in the end … but the beginning tested my patience and we were in what my friend likes to call “silent mode”.

I felt like I was in the car with Gilligan on a three-hour tour … a three-hour tour!

As a mom, I can understand I’m a little neurotic. But there’s a reason for that craziness. Everything I do is for a specific reason. And no … it’s not so I can hear myself talk or give my dude a list of things to do. It’s to avoid THE MELTDOWN.

When you have kids and you’re on a journey that lasts more than one hour in a car your mission becomes avoiding THE MELTDOWN — when your kids lose it, when they cry because of boredom, when they cry because there is no television or video games, when they cry for a ridiculous reason, when they cry in general, when they cry because it’s nap time, when they cry because they’re hungry, or when they cry for no reason.

You do your best to avoid it.

That was my entire plan on a trip that the GPS stated would take an hour and forty-four minutes. However that approximate time did not include meltdowns and unforseen detours.

The park opened at ten and I wanted to get there around that time, give or take fifteen minutes, so my son could thoroughly enjoy all the attractions. Last year we failed to anticipate how long the drive would be, so we arrived after noon, where he was cranky because he didn’t sleep in the car, and the park closed at five. We felt bad about cheating my son out of the full Legoland opportunity, so I vowed that wouldn’t happen this year.

I did everything I thought I could to prepare, but the forces of destiny played tricks on me.

My plan included leaving early … just as the baby takes her first nap. Figured she would sleep all, or most, of the way there and we’d be cry-free for the drive, while my son played with most of the toys or books I packed.

What happened?

We woke up. 

We were supposed to leave around 8:30 a.m., but getting everything together in the morning took longer than usual. So I skipped breakfast, figured we could get some kind of sandwich somewhere. We made it out the door around 9:30 a.m.

Once we were in the car we thought about the coupon. It could have saved us sixty-two dollars. Now for some people, sixty-two dollars isn’t much, but when you have a family of four and you know there’s going to be ten-dollar popcorn and eight-dollar hot dogs, you try to save anywhere.

Did I mention the coupon during the week?

Yeah.

A few times?

Yeah.

Did it happen?

No. 

Frustration.

All he had to do was eat lunch at Denny’s, which is like 20 feet away from his work, and we’d get the free-ticket coupon.

But it never happened.

So he assured me we could stop by on the way there. No big deal, we would eat there. But before that ever happened we had to drop off one of his friend’s cell phones, which took about thirty minutes.

Was it in the opposite direction?

Yes.

Did we absolutely have to drop off the phone that morning?

No. 

Could his friend have waited until the evening for his lost phone?

Yes.

Did he?

No.

Baby crying. Passed nap time. Son anxious and getting cranky. Mom frustrated, no food.  Hypoglycemic — just a nice way of saying bitchy because I was starving and had a headache.

We finally made it to a Denny’s, the one near his place of business, and the baby falls asleep. I suggested we take the food to go, so that the restaurant noises do not wake up the baby.

I got off the car and asked the hostess lady about the coupon special, she told me there were no more coupons. They ran out yesterday.

Ugh.

Forget the coupon, just leave. We need to get something to eat. I’m starving. I’ve got a headache coming and we’ve now been in the car for about an hour. My son’s patience is non-existent. I give him a snack, but he’s still in a crappy mood. He seems to be hypoglycemic too. He asks about Legoland again, for the hundredth time. Again I tell him we’re almost there, be patient.

About fifteen minutes later, my son gets a headache. He begins to complain about the headache. He gets loud.

Baby awake. Baby crying. Pacifier missing.

Baby’s crying intensifies my son’s headache.  We pull over and try to comfort my son and find the pacifier. He stretches his legs for a little bit, then decides he needs to use the bathroom.

After this twenty-minute detour, we get back in the car. Baby still crying. I move to the back seat to try to comfort and distract everyone. Baby settles down for a second, then starts up again.

Oh! There’s a Dennys right there. Driving too fast to make the off ramp.

There’ll be another one down the line.

Baby still crying. Son still cranky and head still hurting.

I continue my efforts to comfort and realize the baby has pooped.

“We need to stop the baby has a giant poop.”

“Can’t you just change the baby while I’m driving. Unbuckle her seatbelt, clean her and slip in the diaper.”

“Are you kidding me?

“What?”

“Pull over.”

We exit. The baby’s poop made its way up her back and all over her clothes.

After changing diapers and clothes, we pile back in the car and drive.

I’m desperately searching the car for ibuprofen. My head is pounding. My dude decided to take another freeway so as to avoid heavy traffic. It’s a loop, but it’ll be faster than the current freeway we’re driving on. We drive the detour and encounter gridlock.

“Are we there yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

After waiting for all those cars to crawl out of our way, we drive thirty more minutes and see the sign: Legoland Next Exit.

Did you see that Legoland next exit?

We pass the exit.

What happened?

I thought you said next exit, not this one.

“Are we there yet?”

Baby cries.

It’s 12:14 p.m.

So envisioning  throwing him out of the car. Tuck and roll, dude. Tuck and roll.

Eventually we  made it to our destination, cranky as hell. But once I saw my son’s eyes light up as we drove into the parking lot, I was ready to rid myself and my dude of that nasty mood and of the three-hour tour … that three-hour tour.

Jellyfish and Testicles

Considering that my son is on a preschool sabbatical due to my economic technical difficulties I decided to expose him to some of the same experiences he would’ve had if he remained in school.

Here Come the ABCs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I didn’t get all crazy home school regiment, but I did apply some of the same guided discovery situations that allowed for play-based, thematic learning zone. The Guat Learning Zone.

Ocean combined with marine life became the first “theme” I explored. So we read books like Eric Carle’s A House For Hermit Crab and The Rainbow Fish by Marcus Pfister. We talked about all the animals the different shapes and body parts like the gills, tentacles, fins, teeth, blowholes, and tales.

We got chalk and drew out all kinds of fish, octopus, whales, and dolphins in the back yard patio. We put on our snorkel gear and went “scuba diving” and then went “deep-sea fishing” with our makeshift fishing poles. Since we don’t own a pool, and I chose not to got to the public urine filled pool that reeks of chlorine, we grabbed our swim trunks and gear and headed to the bathtub. It was a little crowded.

We resurrected the old Discovery Channel jellyfish tank that my son loved so much. It created a mini tidal wave when my aunt decided to move it thus, putting the computer out of commission a couple of months ago (you can read about that little incident here).

image via http://www.aquariumofpacific.org

And then the field trip. The Aquarium of the Pacific. My son was so excited to see the diversity of marine animals live and in action, as well as the water play area that featured life-size oceanic animals squirting water at you. Needless to say, we spent a lot of time in water battles that day.

We experienced the awesomeness of the tropical pacific gallery that featured multitudes of colorful fish and coral reef.

One of our favorite exhibits proved to be the scuba divers swimming in a ginormous tank modeled after Blue Cavern Point, a kelp forest near the Santa Catalina Island Coast. It was a massive tank-like aquarium with scuba divers feeding hundreds of fish species trolling the waters. He was able to name some of the sea creatures and body parts, like their gills and fins. He was excitied about all this fish knowledge he acquired. I was pretty proud.

At the shark lagoon we petted sting rays, which were quite slimy and a couple of bamboo shark. But the best part of the field trip adventure was petting the jellyfish. My son was a little hesitant, but after explaining and seeing the similarity to his jellyfish-like creatures in his Discovery Channel tank, he was up for the adventure.

He pushed up his sleeves and plopped his hand right into the water. As I guided his hand over the jellyfish, he smiled and tripped out on the rubbery and slippery texture.

Image via http://www.nationalgeographic.com

He was not scared, but amazed. He saw them swimming everywhere and yelled:

“Wow … look at all the jellyfishes everybody! They’re swimming. They’re swimming! And look they have many testicles, look at all the testicles, but we can’t touch because they will sting us.”

Amazing fish knowledge indeed.

The Aquarium guide lady and a couple other adults couldn’t help but smile and giggle.

“Yes … I see many tentacles.”

“Yes, mom. Many testicles.”

I smiled. I was still proud.