story

We went to a They Might Be Giants show today, and you loved it. It was pretty much the same as a grown-up TMBG show, right down to the puppet-to-human ratio on stage.

This evening, in the car:

You: If you see a blue light, say “aaaahhh! there’s a blue light!”

Me: [Seeing some blue in a nearby neon sign] Aaaahhh! there’s a blue light!

You: No, a round blue light.

Me: Oh, I don’t see one of those.

You: They’re on the red light and the green light. [Probably-accurate translation: there are traffic signals with blue lights about somewhere.]

Me: Ok, wait. If a red light means ‘stop’, and a yellow light means ‘the light is about to turn red’, and a green light means ‘go’, what does a blue light mean?

You: It means “look out! there’s a blue light!”

We have been reading the Jungle Book for the past few nights. Despite coming to the book after repeated viewings of the Disney movie, you insist that Shere Khan is female, and you correct me every time I say “he”.

We’re only reading a few pages per night, because you have lots of questions and there are no pictures to distract you from asking them. So we’ve only just reached the hunting-song of the Seeonee pack. It comes only a couple of pages after the pack’s tiger-corrupted youth rise up and drive Mowgli out, and when the song is read in the kind of voice you use when reading to someone who is 18 inches away, it sounds lean, angular and dangerous.

You had me read it twice more after the first time through, and you would have had me read it again if I hadn’t insisted on moving on. You acted like you’d never heard anything like it. And maybe you hadn’t.

Hunting-Song of the Seeonee Pack

As the dawn was breaking the sambhur belled

Once, twice, and again!

And a doe leaped up, and a doe leaped up

From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup.

This I, scouting alone, beheld

Once, twice, and again!

As the dawn was breaking the sambhur belled

Once, twice, and again!

And a wolf stole back, and a wolf stole back

To carry the word to the waiting pack,

And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track

Once, twice, and again!

As the dawn was breaking the wolf pack yelled

Once, twice, and again!

Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!

Eyes that can see in the dark—the dark!

Tongue—give tongue to it! Hark! O hark!

Once, twice, and again!

Today I discovered that you already know at least two things that I had thought you might learn from me. First, you can point out which rectangles are squares and which are not, although you have not so far articulated what the difference is. Second, you know the Peanut Butter Jelly Time song. I’ve been meaning to share that with you for like a year, and just never got around to it. But it’s like in Jurassic Park—the Peanut Butter Jelly Time song will find a way.

[Reader’s Tip: Exhibit C is the best Exhibit.]

Exhibit A: The other day, while walking down the sidewalk, you told me that you only wanted to hold my hand while we were crossing streets. When I dropped your hand after we crossed the next street, you said “thank you for listening to my conscience, dad.”

Exhibit B: Later that night, I was going for a glass of water before bed, having just finished reading “The Call of Cthulhu”. As my foot hit the squeaky spot in the darkened hall outside your room, you let out one, fully unrestrained “yeargh!” It wasn’t a scared sound. It sounded like adrenaline, and it got my heart racing. Nothing followed.

So I’m settling back into bed after having some water and I think maybe I hear the sounds of little feet hitting the floor. The following internal colloquy ensues:

Ok, maybe that’s evidence that I’m weird.

Exhibit C:

Yesterday afternoon, I was listening to the Wait Wait … Don’t Tell Me (“the NPR news quiz”) podcast in the car. You told me you’d rather listen to music right about the time they were starting the “bluff the listener challenge”.^* I told you we’d change to music after that segment was over (because it’s sometimes really funny). The panelists were Mo Rocca, Roy Blount, Jr. and Faith Salie. You talked and sang to yourself through most of the segment, but were getting antsy near the end. I was trying to string you along until we found out which story was true, and I asked “which story did you think was the best one?” Your reply: “Um… Mo Rocca’s.”

Dude, WTF. You’re not supposed to be so aware of what’s going on around you. Frankly, it’s a little unsettling. Your Ralph Wiggum moments,^** while not infrequent, are giving way to surprising insights. We’re still planning your third birthday party, and I’m worried that you’ll know me better than I know myself in just a few years. That’s probably not such a hard thing to achieve, but I figured I had until at least your late teens.

Now we just need to figure out how to get you to wake up at night when you need to pee.

UPDATE: Right after I posed this, I saw that MR had just posted the following, by Penelope Lively, on Facebook:

The lives of children are mysterious, opaque even to those who know them best. Parents, existing cheek by jowl with their offspring, feel them to be almost an extension of themselves — their bodies, their habits, their speech and mannerisms so familiar that they seem to require no further consideration. This is not so, of course; much is going on there that would be startling and alarming if decoded. Mercifully, this alternative existence of children is also impenetrable.

That would be merciful.

^* This is a game where a contestant calls in and the three panelists (usually writers or commedians) describe three wacky news stories. One of them is real, and the caller’s job is to pick the right one.

^** That reminds me (because of how Ralph Wiggum said, after eating some poison berries, “they taste like burning!”): later in the same ride, while we were waiting for Arica to come out of her building, you asked for and received a taste of my diet root beer. After making faces and trying to wipe your tongue off, you said “I don’t like that, daddy; that makes my tongue turn orange.” I don’t know what that means, but you were emphatic.

We went to the Botanical Gardens today.

They have these giant leaves on the wall in the new entrance pavilion. And there’s plenty of parking now, which is awesome.

Other than the Henry Moore sculptures, the exhibit right now is scarecrows. I liked this guy.

I don’t know why I can’t stop taking pictures of the green man, but I can’t.

Diversity on display among the kids in our party.

Sg and Arica.

Sg prepares to go down the slide.

Sg’s all like “Who wants to feel the sting? You? You want some?” I didn’t tell her, but this bee—without legs, a stinger or even wings—is plainly an evolutionary dead end.

Check out Sg’s pumpkin bowling form! Look at that follow-through. And it was her first time ever pumpkin bowling!

So this BMW blew up across the street. At least, I think it blew up. I heard a bang, but didn’t go out to look until I heard people shouting. Sg got pretty excited when the firetruck arrived. “The firemans! The firemans are here!”

When I was in high school, Little Five Points in Atlanta equaled cool. Now I live just down the road, and, consequently, drive through on the occasional weekend night. The traffic light here gives you a left turn arrow (turning East onto McLendon from southbound Moreland) if you so much as breathe on the sensor before the crossing light turns yellow. A decision has been made (I like to think) that people turning into my neighborhood are more important than those headed North into Little Five or to Virginia Highlands. It’s like being guest-listed.

Moreover, the turn arrow turns green a little less than a second after the through-lights turn green. So if you’re on the border of triggering the arrow, there’s a half-second or so of doubt about whether you’ve made it—and the doubt is always resolved in your favor. It’s all as if to say “naw, I’m just kidding; go right ahead sir, and have a fine evening.”

It’s a small thing, but I will miss it when the City of Atlanta re-times the light (which will inevitably happen, whether it needs it or not).