FatherGoof has the flu. I like it more than I should because MamaGoof takes such good care of me – making me soup, bringing me tea, fluffing my pillow. I may never get better. I know I’m lucky, but I’m also not used to this. My mom didn’t do sick. She would always say, “I’m no Florence Nightingale.”
True enough, more like Florence Meaningale.
Schools wouldn’t let us attend with fevers. So, forced to keep up home, my mother would leave us home, with nothing but broadcast television and flat gingerale. (The healing powers of old episodes of Bewitched and My Three Sons have not been adequately explored in medical research – after a couple hours of that I couldn’t wait to get back to school and fail a couple of quizzes.)
I believe this kind of treatment would now, in these gentler and more civilized times, result in the children being placed in the productive custody of social services. The irony being that my mother was a social worker with social services. But, as a good Trotskyite, she no doubt felt nursing ill family members was a bourgeois affectation. Her children, with the many advantages of their class had no need for extra treatment, whereas her impoverished charges at work required her ministrations. Besides, it was a chance to do some fieldwork for the cause. (I’m sure exposure to the Marxist dialectic helped a lot of kids get better, I’d guess 10 minutes of Marx equals an episode of The Little Rascals in healing properties).
Besides, mom would tell me, all illness (clearly the product of poor proletariat working conditions) would be eliminated after the revolution came.
So being sick as a grown-up is better than it should be. But because it is the flu I am trying to stay away from my kids. I really miss them and my daughter is upset that she can’t hug me. That really makes me want to get better.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Friday, October 09, 2009
Tragedy Averted: A Tale of Arms
The other day my daughter hurt herself on the monkey bars (with
evolution you win some and you lose some – she cannot swing like our
hairier forebears.) This entailed professional consultation with
doctors (we decided to skip the lawyers and not sue.)
But I had class, so my wife had to take my son with her to the medical
center – thankfully he has gone through the reading transformation.
As long as he has an interesting book – he isn’t bored. I rushed
over from school and found my son waiting outside the X-Ray room,
grinning. I went in to see his unhappy sister and my also unhappy
wife. GoofGirl wouldn’t move her arm in the desired positions for the
X-Ray. This is very bad. First, I don’t want my daughter suffering.
Second, if she has actually broken her arm our life becomes much less
good until it heals. Baths, meals, everything will become
twenty-times the hassle it already is – and we are talking about a
five year-old girl here, so everything is already a hassle!
I walk out grimly, and tell my son about my concerns. He looks at me
with a smile and says, “Dad, there’s one good thing.”
“What’s that,” I ask distracted.
“Remember when you first met mommy and you told me she worked in a
building with labs and that some of the labs had radioactive
material,” he hasn’t paused for a breath yet, this is how little boys
talk, “and you kept asking mommy if she could get you into the lab to
lick something radioactive and get super-powers and mommy wouldn’t let
you even though you showed her Incredible Hulk comics to prove
it?”
“Sure.”
“Well here we are,” he said and pointed at the radiation sign on the
door of the X-Ray room, “Now you can get your super-powers.
And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed. I couldn’t help but join in.
Mom sent us upstairs to get flu shots – as long as we were there.
This took the edge off of his humor. While sitting in the waiting
area I told him my cel-phone could freeze time. He said it couldn’t. So I would press a button and tell him I had just stopped time, but he couldn’t tell because he had been stopped with it.
We spent a while arguing about whether or not he needed a flu shot.
“Remember the time we both got sick and we played temperature buddies?” I asked.
“Yeah, that was great.”
“Not for me it wasn’t, you are getting a flu shot.”
I went first. While the prepped me he chatted about football with the technician. When I was ready he kept looking at the rather long needle. “Don’t look at the needle, look at my face. You will see that I barely react because it doesn’t really hurt.”
He was skeptical – any needle that long and nasty has to hurt. He watched the needle anyway but when it was his turn he went through it without a whimper. Then we went back to the waiting area. We could have gone home, but he wanted to wait and see if his sister was ok. Also, the The Jetsons were on the TV.
His sister bounced out, having been examined and getting her flu shot. She said her arm hurt – but not because of the monkey bar incident – because of the flu shot. Apparently while manipulating her arm to get the right X-Ray angle, something popped back into place.
At home it was late and the kids had to go right to bed. They said they were too tired to get into their pajamas, so I had to do it manually. While doing this, they laughed and said it was just like on The Jetsons. A new inside family joke is born.
evolution you win some and you lose some – she cannot swing like our
hairier forebears.) This entailed professional consultation with
doctors (we decided to skip the lawyers and not sue.)
But I had class, so my wife had to take my son with her to the medical
center – thankfully he has gone through the reading transformation.
As long as he has an interesting book – he isn’t bored. I rushed
over from school and found my son waiting outside the X-Ray room,
grinning. I went in to see his unhappy sister and my also unhappy
wife. GoofGirl wouldn’t move her arm in the desired positions for the
X-Ray. This is very bad. First, I don’t want my daughter suffering.
Second, if she has actually broken her arm our life becomes much less
good until it heals. Baths, meals, everything will become
twenty-times the hassle it already is – and we are talking about a
five year-old girl here, so everything is already a hassle!
I walk out grimly, and tell my son about my concerns. He looks at me
with a smile and says, “Dad, there’s one good thing.”
“What’s that,” I ask distracted.
“Remember when you first met mommy and you told me she worked in a
building with labs and that some of the labs had radioactive
material,” he hasn’t paused for a breath yet, this is how little boys
talk, “and you kept asking mommy if she could get you into the lab to
lick something radioactive and get super-powers and mommy wouldn’t let
you even though you showed her Incredible Hulk comics to prove
it?”
“Sure.”
“Well here we are,” he said and pointed at the radiation sign on the
door of the X-Ray room, “Now you can get your super-powers.
And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed. I couldn’t help but join in.
Mom sent us upstairs to get flu shots – as long as we were there.
This took the edge off of his humor. While sitting in the waiting
area I told him my cel-phone could freeze time. He said it couldn’t. So I would press a button and tell him I had just stopped time, but he couldn’t tell because he had been stopped with it.
We spent a while arguing about whether or not he needed a flu shot.
“Remember the time we both got sick and we played temperature buddies?” I asked.
“Yeah, that was great.”
“Not for me it wasn’t, you are getting a flu shot.”
I went first. While the prepped me he chatted about football with the technician. When I was ready he kept looking at the rather long needle. “Don’t look at the needle, look at my face. You will see that I barely react because it doesn’t really hurt.”
He was skeptical – any needle that long and nasty has to hurt. He watched the needle anyway but when it was his turn he went through it without a whimper. Then we went back to the waiting area. We could have gone home, but he wanted to wait and see if his sister was ok. Also, the The Jetsons were on the TV.
His sister bounced out, having been examined and getting her flu shot. She said her arm hurt – but not because of the monkey bar incident – because of the flu shot. Apparently while manipulating her arm to get the right X-Ray angle, something popped back into place.
At home it was late and the kids had to go right to bed. They said they were too tired to get into their pajamas, so I had to do it manually. While doing this, they laughed and said it was just like on The Jetsons. A new inside family joke is born.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Holiday Meals with Love
The Goof clan has survived Rosh Hashonah yet again. Welcome 5770.
A high point of our holiday was Mama Goof's quiche. It is always such a hit, that as a public service I have written up (and embellished) the instructions and put them online.
Nonetheless, do not necessarily expect similar results. Mama Goof (now joined by GoofGirl) insist the secret ingredient is love. Ironic that a love-based dish is so bad for the heart.
Quiche non-Lorraine
(Terms that are underlined and in italics refer to the royal we)
Required Supplies
• Pastry shell
• 1 1/4 cups (about 6 oz.) diced or thinly sliced swiss cheese (remember when measuring to take the holes into account)
• 4 (four) eggs – chicken preferably – do not use ostrich eggs (the baking process could cause them to mutate and hatch creating a horrible lactosaurus)
• 1 1/4 cups whipping cream (make sure to pronounce the h in whipping, whipped will also work, but who wants sullen cream?)
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1-2 cups of frozen chopped spinach or sliced mushrooms (if you wish – we find it quite tasty)
• Some people include nutmeg, some people believe the universe rests on the back of a giant turtle – neither applies to us nor should it apply to you
Directives
i. Evenly distribute cheese (and mushrooms or spinach if you choose to include them) over the bottom of the baked pastry shell
ii. Beat eggs (mercilessly – but don’t enjoy it, that’s creepy) until blended then mix well with cream and milk
iii. Pour over cheese (ingest lactase enzyme tablets)
iv. Bake at 325 degrees for about 40 minutes or until custard appears firm when pan is gently shaken (amongst the chichi quichey circles this is known as “Custard’s Last Stand”)
A high point of our holiday was Mama Goof's quiche. It is always such a hit, that as a public service I have written up (and embellished) the instructions and put them online.
Nonetheless, do not necessarily expect similar results. Mama Goof (now joined by GoofGirl) insist the secret ingredient is love. Ironic that a love-based dish is so bad for the heart.
Quiche non-Lorraine
(Terms that are underlined and in italics refer to the royal we)
Required Supplies
• Pastry shell
• 1 1/4 cups (about 6 oz.) diced or thinly sliced swiss cheese (remember when measuring to take the holes into account)
• 4 (four) eggs – chicken preferably – do not use ostrich eggs (the baking process could cause them to mutate and hatch creating a horrible lactosaurus)
• 1 1/4 cups whipping cream (make sure to pronounce the h in whipping, whipped will also work, but who wants sullen cream?)
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1-2 cups of frozen chopped spinach or sliced mushrooms (if you wish – we find it quite tasty)
• Some people include nutmeg, some people believe the universe rests on the back of a giant turtle – neither applies to us nor should it apply to you
Directives
i. Evenly distribute cheese (and mushrooms or spinach if you choose to include them) over the bottom of the baked pastry shell
ii. Beat eggs (mercilessly – but don’t enjoy it, that’s creepy) until blended then mix well with cream and milk
iii. Pour over cheese (ingest lactase enzyme tablets)
iv. Bake at 325 degrees for about 40 minutes or until custard appears firm when pan is gently shaken (amongst the chichi quichey circles this is known as “Custard’s Last Stand”)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Too Much Shofar
We are preparing for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year – which initiates a period of contemplation but also of joy.
My wife is barefoot in the kitchen (but not pregnant – leaving the trifecta incomplete – but I have no complaints she’s making brisquit.) My daughter has a friend over and my son is giving them lessons on how to blow the shofar – it sounds like an oboe but with less pitch.
My son got a new shofar from a class trip to the shofar factory. The new shofar has the twin virtues of being much easier to blow and of stinking like a ram’s horn processed with lye (because that’s what a shofar is and how it is made). My daughter’s friend, a little girl in pink, has a surprising knack for getting a bleat out of the shofar. It is a trick, you don’t really blow – you sort of purse your lips and spit. No doubt my training my son in flatulence noise impressions has helped to prepare him to become a shofar prodigy.
My daughter’s friend’s surprise talent has two consequences. First, my son, under the guise of “teaching” issues multiple, lengthy blasts of sound and urges his pupil to follow his examples. It is kind of like dueling banjos but without the snappy tune.
The second consequence is that GoofGirl hides under the dining room table sobbing loudly that she can’t do anything right – a vocal accompaniment that is appropriate to the cacophony. Also, the living room is starting to stink as each blast from GoofBoy’s shofar showers the room in the smell of dried marrow and lye.
Defusing the Shofar
OK. First, I disarm GoofGirl’s friend – the accelerator in a volatile situation. It isn’t her house, so she is inclined to be obedient. Then I need to stop my son, the trigger if you will. I tell him we cannot talk sports if he keeps blowing his shofar. I will pay for this later.
Now for the detonation mass: my daughter is under the table sobbing. I get down to her level and begin telling her a story:
“Who wants cookies?”
Everyone sits down and my son begins, “Dad, do you want to know how I think the Orioles should change their line-up?”
Not really, but I am trying to be a better person…
My wife is barefoot in the kitchen (but not pregnant – leaving the trifecta incomplete – but I have no complaints she’s making brisquit.) My daughter has a friend over and my son is giving them lessons on how to blow the shofar – it sounds like an oboe but with less pitch.
My son got a new shofar from a class trip to the shofar factory. The new shofar has the twin virtues of being much easier to blow and of stinking like a ram’s horn processed with lye (because that’s what a shofar is and how it is made). My daughter’s friend, a little girl in pink, has a surprising knack for getting a bleat out of the shofar. It is a trick, you don’t really blow – you sort of purse your lips and spit. No doubt my training my son in flatulence noise impressions has helped to prepare him to become a shofar prodigy.
My daughter’s friend’s surprise talent has two consequences. First, my son, under the guise of “teaching” issues multiple, lengthy blasts of sound and urges his pupil to follow his examples. It is kind of like dueling banjos but without the snappy tune.
The second consequence is that GoofGirl hides under the dining room table sobbing loudly that she can’t do anything right – a vocal accompaniment that is appropriate to the cacophony. Also, the living room is starting to stink as each blast from GoofBoy’s shofar showers the room in the smell of dried marrow and lye.
Defusing the Shofar
OK. First, I disarm GoofGirl’s friend – the accelerator in a volatile situation. It isn’t her house, so she is inclined to be obedient. Then I need to stop my son, the trigger if you will. I tell him we cannot talk sports if he keeps blowing his shofar. I will pay for this later.
Now for the detonation mass: my daughter is under the table sobbing. I get down to her level and begin telling her a story:
When the Jewish people were freed from Egypt the saw Hashem at Mt. Sinai. They could only look for a few minutes because Hashem is so great, powerful, and awesome.My daughter had a retort – but my wife, cut my “Father Knows Best” schtick short with a flanking maneuver.
How can you see Hashem daddy?
You can see Hashem in everything, but this time, thousands of years ago the Jewish people saw Hashem directly – not through something else. The sound they heard was like a powerful shofar, so that is a very special sound for us.
But, the rabbis say…
Are you a rabbi daddy?
No, you know that. But listen anyway, even if it’s just me telling you. The rabbis say that the most important thing about the shofar isn’t to be able to blow it – it is to hear it. Because the shofar is a call for us to try to be better people, grow up a little bit more in the coming year (even if you are already a grown-up.) Anyone can learn to blow the shofar with a little practice. But being a better person is really hard. I know you are upset, but you are also being a little jealous. You should be happy for your friend that she has a talent.
“Who wants cookies?”
Everyone sits down and my son begins, “Dad, do you want to know how I think the Orioles should change their line-up?”
Not really, but I am trying to be a better person…
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Talk
My wife was telling me about what her colleagues at work say about discussing the "birds and the bees" with their children. This is something I would be happy to put off as long as possible. I've already decided to keep GoofGirl in a burqa. GoofBoy, by comparison, should be easy to handle. I know how to keep girls away from him. I'll give him time-tested advice. I will tell him every technique, trick, and move I've got (mostly stolen from Seinfeld episodes). If that doesn't keep the girls away - far away - I don't know what will.
At least that's how they worked for me.
At least that's how they worked for me.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Incentives for Play
My son wants to play sports, any sport, all the time. His sister would be a perfect opponent, except for a crippling lack of interest in any sport at any time (except for boxing – an interest I strongly encourage because one day she will be fifteen.)
After breakfast, my son invented pajama dodge. That is they throw their pajamas at each other. This is the kind of sport GoofGirl can go for, at least for a while. She enjoyed the novelty of throwing her clothes around. But my son really wanted orderly tournament level play.
GoofBoy is also a wonderful big brother (most of the time) and he has been known to give his sister massages (yes he will undoubtedly make some girl happy in a decade or so – assuming I let him live that long.)
So he gave his sister an incentive to really play, offering her massages when she wins. It worked. GoofGirl focused and bore down. Grunting as she hurled balled up pajama bottoms and tops at her brother. Her brother, though older, stronger, faster, and more experienced was cornered. He tried to counter with psychological warfare (trash-talking.) But his sister was nonplussed, yelling, “I’m just doing it for my massage.”
After a bit more battering GoofBoy conceded and paid up. As he worked on her back and feet (kindergarten is pretty stressful) she smiled and sighed. My son smiled too, he wanted a worthy opponent and he created one.
After breakfast, my son invented pajama dodge. That is they throw their pajamas at each other. This is the kind of sport GoofGirl can go for, at least for a while. She enjoyed the novelty of throwing her clothes around. But my son really wanted orderly tournament level play.
GoofBoy is also a wonderful big brother (most of the time) and he has been known to give his sister massages (yes he will undoubtedly make some girl happy in a decade or so – assuming I let him live that long.)
So he gave his sister an incentive to really play, offering her massages when she wins. It worked. GoofGirl focused and bore down. Grunting as she hurled balled up pajama bottoms and tops at her brother. Her brother, though older, stronger, faster, and more experienced was cornered. He tried to counter with psychological warfare (trash-talking.) But his sister was nonplussed, yelling, “I’m just doing it for my massage.”
After a bit more battering GoofBoy conceded and paid up. As he worked on her back and feet (kindergarten is pretty stressful) she smiled and sighed. My son smiled too, he wanted a worthy opponent and he created one.
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