block, and then pops it into his own mouth. I suppose they could have Spot chew on it for awhile to further enhance the gum's social value.
Oh, there's bubble gum and snuggle gum and plain old sugarless gum, but whatever kind of gum is in play, it invariably falls out of the child's mouth. When it does, it bonds chemically and metaphysically with its polyester pals in carpet, clothes, sidewalks, dining room table tops, Aunt Martha's antique chaise lounge, car seats and, of course, the draperies.
"Honey, I know it was an accident, but mommy can't come to help you clean the toilet seat right now, I'm trying to get this gob of gum out of the carpet," mom said in her most outwardly calm voice. She grabs the portable phone from her belt and calls Mrs. Been There.
The phone rings and the caller's voice is panting, it speaks quickly. "Of course you were right. It's only been a week since his birthday and I'm going nuts trying to get the gum out."
"Did you try scissors," Mrs. Smug said from the other end of the line.
"Had to on the dog. Nothing like a black Lab with a bald spot on his haunch. Carpet's something else. I tried paint thinner...."
"Me too."
"Then carpet cleaner.”
“Me too."
"Then some upholstery cleaner I found in the the trunk of the car. And then some stuff called Gunk that takes battery acid stains off the garage floor. I tried lacquer thinner, green soap, yellow soap, dish soap, Krazy Glue de-bonder, Liquid Wrench, Spot-not, ink eradicator, straight prayers and prayers with curses. Nothing worked. Maybe dynamite. Heloise says put the wad in the freezer or, if the thing the gum is sticking to is too big like, say, a sofa, put ice on it til it's hard and then scrape it off with a spoon, spray pre-wash on the back of the cloth and then launder. Nah. Can't get the carpet in the freezer. But then I found it. Clorox 2 with Cascade, like we talked about before, but with just a hint of lemon juice and hydrogen peroxide. The gum comes out along with the color, but it smells good when it's through reacting."
Distant shrieking comes over the line. "Omigod, I left him in the john... just a minute." Mere moments pass when the breathless one returns. "Gotta go. He's smearing gum on the toilet seat. Bye."
The So Sad Death of Miss Piggy The Piñata
It was a party, a blowout, a magnificent event in the early chronicles of this child’s life. Why, then, did she dissolve in tears and why did I feel like the Grim Toy Reaper? It is, of course, because I could not foresee how the party’s major entertainment could be misconstrued by the three year-old mind.
How can you go wrong with a pig party in Texas? We’re a beef place and so we feel free to take pokes at all other edible animals from sheep to ducks to pigs. But my sweet little girl is in love with pigs. Everyone she loves is called “Piggy.” And how we ever turned a little girl with blonde ringlets and big blue eyes into a pig for Halloween, I still can’t fathom, but that’s what she wanted to be.
So when it came time for her birthday, we made up a pig party.
I should point out that in this part of Texas (that part north of the Rio Grande and south of Oklahoma), we have a certain Mexican influence. At virtually every kid’s party, there is a piñata, that papier maché effigy that hangs from the ceiling and gets beaten by kids with a stick until it yields candy. It made sense, at least it did to mom at the time, to have a pig piñata. And not just any pig, but Miss Piggy, the television star.
We should have seen problems coming when little Blondita found the piñata in a closet about a week before the party. It was love at first sight. She wanted it in her room. Then in her bed. She carried it all around the house. She had major conversations with it, shared tea with it and introduced it to all her other toys. They bonded. Of course, Miss Piggy was invited to the birthday party. What party could possibly be complete without the presence of a major new friend?
I think you can see this coming.
We did the games. We did the cake. We did the presents. Then it was time for the piñata. My daughter watched, mystified, as I hung Miss Piggy from the rafter. Curiosity turned to horror as the first blindfolded child swung at the precious porker with a baseball bat. The second swing hit home, sending a cardboard ham hock across the room. Not only did Blondita not want to take a turn, she desperately wanted to stop everyone else from playing as well. But one does not interrupt a process involving determined children with baseball bats in Texas. So the next kid took a swing and missed. The third kid whacked it right in the baby back ribs with a loud “thwock” and the toy yielded its treasure at the expense of Miss Piggy’s major corpus. Most of the children scrambled madly for the candy and gum, but Curly had just witnessed the merciless bludgeoning apart of her newest friend and was traumatized out of her party mood.
There was no feeling like this one, where so much thought and care had been put into making an event that should have been a joyful childhood memory, and have it turn into an indelible child’s nightmare. Both her mom and I felt seriously stupid at our lack of foresight and we were still beating each other up in the finest tradition of side-comment sniping when, a few days later, Blondita said, “You know that pig that got whammoed at my party?” We nodded at the recollection. “Well, Mrs. Grinstead says she was a bad pig anyway and she deserved to get whacked.” Mrs. Grinstead is a frequent doll tea party guest.
“Oh, how so?” Dad managed to ask.
“She always hogged the conversation whenever we were together. Mrs. G. called her a real ham. She always made that snarking sound when she laughed. She smoked and was always picking on the other dolls for their lack of taste. We all thought it was pretty morbid when she said, ‘I’ll be gone someday and all you’ll have left is my squeal.’ So I guess it was a good idea to give her the center of attention at my party. It just goes to show, some toys were meant to be broken. Thanks for the party, Dad.”
“Thank your mother, Pumpkin.”
Beyond the Why Game
Surely, at some point along your parenting path, you have encountered The “Why” Game. This is where your young offspring discovers the joy of being able to annoy you and make you feel guilty and stupid all at the same time. It goes something like this:
“Mommy, why is the sky blue?”
“That’s the color of outer space as seen through the air we breathe.”
“Why?”
“Because outer space isn’t really black, it’s an elegant tone of deep navy blue.”
“Why?”
“Gosh, I guess you’d have to ask the Interior Designer of the Universe that question.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t begin to know why space is blue instead of orange or purple or brown.”
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t my decision, that’s why.”
And so on. It is annoying because the game has no end. It makes you feel guilty because you really do want an educated child, you feel it is your role, yet here you are in conflict, feeling annoyed at having to deal with what appears to be curiosity but which you recognize is just another attention-getting device designed to annoy you. It makes you feel stupid because eventually, no matter how well educated you are, your answers will lead to questions you cannot answer, at which time you assume you are a total failure as an information resource for your little sponge.
But all things evolve. After three years of pre-school, endless hours in front of Professor Television, exposure to stacks of books, the “why” game has actually turned to curiosity for some children. This is good news and bad news for parents. The good news is the game isn’t as annoying because it tends to be information-based instead of irritation-based, and therefore does not end in screaming. The bad news is, answers require more information and you can look even more stupid if you don’t have it. Here’s a typical dialog:
“Mommy, how did that baby get into your tummy?”
“Well, mommy and daddy had a meeting and we decided to put it there.”
“Could Daddy put the baby into his tummy?”
“No, dear, only mom
s are equipped to do that job.”
“Well, how does the baby eat inside of there?”
“The baby has a tube from my body to his and he gets all his air, food and water through that tube while he’s inside. It’s called an umbilical cord.”
“Does the baby need its biblical cord when it come out?”
“No, the baby eats and drinks and breathes just like you and me when it comes out.”
“What happens to the biblical cord?”
“It dries up and falls off. When your cord fell off it left you a belly button.”
“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
“Well, mommy? How come the sky is blue?”
Most parents can handle this level of dialog. But be prepared. It isn’t long before the conversation delves into the photosynthesis of the turning leaves, the geopolitical maneuverings of world despots, anything in Scientific American, whale or bug anatomy, and the quantum physics of skateboard or bicycle dynamics. If you are expert at making complex science sound simple, then you are exempted from the “why” game. Congratulations. For the rest of us, here are some conversation stoppers that hopefully will extricate you from the “house of why” before the boiling point is reached:
Return a question with a question that cannot be answered by yes or no. When you get your answer, respond with “why?” For example:
“Mommy, why is the sky blue?”
“I’m not sure. Why do you think it’s blue.”
“Because it’s supposed
Toddler Tales: An Older Dad Survives the Raising of Young Children in Modern America Page 12
