Toddlers are honest.

 

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 The best comedians in the world are small and sweet, without an agenda.

They say what they are thinking, no matter how inappropriate.  Their thought processes are increasing, one synapse at a time.

 Being a good daddy

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 Stuff like this make me giggle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do not turn your back on a toddler.

      

So, are children currently becoming more verbal than ever thought possible. Oh, there were always some tantrum and manic out bursts. But this? Oh, hell no.

 

Linda? Poor lady. And putting a fellow toddler in a headlock?  Oh, baby.

 

 

Verbal skills are off the charts.  Great determined spirit. Never give in to someone who is not in charge.  You can do anything, girls.   

Just keep an eye on these charmers. 

 

Praise be to God! Halloween is over!

 

 

Halloween is over…Praise be to God.

Starting at 6:00 pm, they came in waves: low tide, heavy surf, high tide…

Little princesses, little super heroes with proud parents holding them…Shy, little first-timers are so shy.

Mixed in the low tide were toddlers and pre-school delights, walking uncertainly to the door.  “Tank you…”

 

The golden delights (eight to twelve yr. old) boldly stride to the door.  “Triggertree” they said, with their plastic pumpkins held out.  Parents waiting on the sidewalk talk and look at the watches.  “Thanks…” Parents smile and wave.  Some respond to a sign on the door.

Heavy surf.  

Teenagers charge the door, running from house to house.  Demand “Triggertree!”  No parents this time.  Should have been, but no.

Shock hits when they see the bold sign:  No Adults or Teens.  ‘But I’m…I’m…only …ten. Hands, feet, and teeth always tell the truth, and they walk away.

  High tide. 

Huge vans pull up under the street lamps, offloading streams of parents and kids, all ages, people not from this community or even this town.  These  triggertreeders are out trolling for more candy.  Exhausted children are dragged along with these adults who expect to harvest the candy from their kids.

This neighborhood is mostly retirees, their lights were off. The cuteness factor of the low tide is what matters.

Oh-God-Please!-not these!  Time is 8:25, about ten minutes to lights off. We originally put up 8:30, just easing away from the door.

Hoards hit the door, but brake to read the signs: 

Candy is for children only; No Adults and Teens; and, Donate to Wounded Warriors (with a five-gallon water bottle, containing change and dollar bills).

Parents, dressed in tutus and ghostly sheets, are confused, walking away with evil eyes. Small kids step up “Triggertree”, holding out pillowcases, heavy with candy.  Most said Thanks.

Teens announced they are twelve—nice try.  One tall boy looks confused; he doesn't speak English.  ‘Say you’re twelve’ he is told, but he announces ‘diaz’. No.

Only one little boy asked about the signs.  “Candy is for children only…candy costs money…can’t afford it…” he is told.

Finally 8:35 pm arrives.  Signs come down. Lights go off.

The water bottle holds more and more change.  From which wave?  It did not matter.

We collected about $125.

The waves settled into calm water.  Praise be to God.

What do you think?  Check out these sites:

 Are adults too old to go trick or treating alone, without children?

Is there an age at which an adolescent should stop trick or treating?

Needs of the Day

 

Children and tantrums

At one time or another, very young children need to express themselves, using their words, while other children throw themselves on the floor. The dropping to the floor and high wailing is irritating , if not infuriating. But we are the adults. We are the ones in charge.

These future adults are honing their skills in action and in words.

This video is 6 minutes long, worth every second!  This man is very wise.

From America's Funniest Video, about 1:30.

I wonder what became of this boy?

Remember: you are an adult. You do not throw tantrums. You do not stomp off and slam doors. You do not throw yourself on the floor.  You control yourself.  How is this working out for you? Oh, go ahead, cut loose!  

Confessions of an Alektorophobian

 

Robert and me sitting on the back porch. He was 2.5 yrs. old and I was 1.5 

It is a humbling thing to admit to one’s fears, especially when they seem silly.  I suffer from “alektorophobia”, which is a fear of chickens.  Yes, chickens.  Fortunately, I can trace the source of my fear to a childhood event that spurred and shaped the rest of my life.

When I was born, we lived on a remote farm where my parents raised Angus cattle and chickens, lots and lots of chickens.  Mom collected the eggs; once a week ‘the egg man’ would come by and pay her for the eggs.  She also made butter, so perhaps she sold that as well. 

Every day, my brother Robert and I would toddle along with her to the barn where the free-range chickens laid their eggs.  Robert held onto Mom’s skirt, and I held Robert’s hand.  It was a train, but it had flaws. 

Barn interior

Robert was 3+  years old, and I was 10 ½ months younger.  So that put me at 2 ½ years old at the time of this event.  Most will question the validity of being able to recall events from such a young age, but the trauma of this event has made the memory indelible.  Add to that, my mother confirmed certain facts, ending with, “You remember that?  Why, Susie, that was just a silly chicken.”

As we entered the barn on that fateful day, I let go of Robert’s hand, the flaw in the train mentioned earlier.  I was wearing a brand-new red-and-white gingham dress, of which I was very proud.  I remembered the sun shining through the clouds, and my dress looked so bright.   

Our train had moved on, but I could still see Mom’s back.  There was an old corn bin next to me, so I crawled up into it because I noticed a pile of shelled corn.  I plopped down beside it and began filtering my little fingers through the pile.  The corn showered down to the pile, over and over, and I laughed at the golden kernels.

Corn on cob, not yet shelled

A shadow filled the doorway through which I had climbed, the only way in or out of the corn bin.  I glanced up, and then looked up with real fear.  It was a rooster that stood taller than a little girl who was happily sitting in a pile of shelled corn.  The shelled corn was the chicken’s food, I was to find out later, and I was sitting square on top of it all.

Malevolent, evil rooster

The rooster came closer, cocking its head this way and that, the way chickens do.  It had evil eyes, malevolent eyes that were angry at me, a little girl in a new red-and-white gingham dress.  

By the time it was only a few feet from me, I could see its angry red cockscomb and razor sharp beak.  It was about ten feet tall now, and I burst out in screams.  I probably wet my pants as well.  The rooster responded by flaring out its feathers, and came even closer.

Mom arrived, my dear brave mother who scooped up the rooster and tossed it out of the corn bin.  In her own mother-hen way, she soothed me and hoisted me up on her hip.  Robert stood waiting outside the bin with the rooster, both looking at me with confusion. 

We made our little train, only this time Robert was the caboose.  We toddled back to the house.

My fear has manifested itself only a few times, but with enough vehemence that I pull up that memory and I shudder.  I do not wet my pants.

Sidenote: In my farming youth, processing chickens was on my list of things never to do again.  I was a feisty teenager with a long list.

I wrote and posted this right after Mom died in 2011.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame!

It is that time of year.  Red Sox, Yankees, Blue Jays, Rays, and Orioles are battling it out as the American League Eastern, along with other parts of the country doing the same.  

The fans are passionate, really passionate.  There are sports jerseys on fans of all ages and sizes.  Being clueless, I did not even know there was any sort of competition at all, except sport bars showed little else.

Baseball passion goes deep.

How 3 year olds play ball

A three year old  races to home base.

22 month old at the practice cage

That's my boy! 

Indeed, baseball passion runs deep and it also starts early.  Toddlers are the best of any team ever.

Fire in the Snow

Snow happens.

When cold blows in from Canada, pushed up by warm wind from Texas, snow happens suddenly and furiously.  Only older siblings, big enough to sink only to the knee and then leap into the snow face first, could rejoice.

For two small children, enjoyment was peering out through icy panes and wishing.  Mom…Mom…Mom…Can we go outside, too?  Mom? Mom?  Mom relented only when Mom became unbearable.

Two and four years old, Mary and Bill were wrapped, bundled, booted, and mittened, then given instructions:  Stay on the porch.  Both nodded solemnly.

Mom stood at the kitchen door, staring through the lacy ice crystals at five children enjoying the snow.  Then Bill launched off the porch into deep white sea. Bill, she sighed. 

Stomping out the door, Mom grabbed him by scruff of his coat and pulled him up.  Then Mary whispered, “Mommy!  Mommy!  Look!  Fire in trees!  Fire in snow!”

Fire in the trees?  In the snow?  She beheld glorious cardinals perched in bare trees.  Fiery cardinals with black masks.  Brave cardinals in frigid air.

Mom hollered, “You kids get in here.  Been out long enough!”  But she continued to watch until fire became scarlet birds winging over snowy horizons.  

Fire in the Trees


For those bloggers in the beginning of a long winter, this story is about the snow of 1958, which has been called the mini-ice age.  Keep warm, enjoy the beauty as much as you are able, and Merry Christmas.

Dance, I say!

Source  We did not attend this event.

Being able to dance is a wonderful.  Being able to dance skillfully and gracefully is truly a gift.  

Manzanita used her skill and love of dancing for the 2013 A-to-Z Blogfest.  Every day she shared a new dance and her experiences.  They were marvelous.

For one whose dreams alone allow me to dance, I confess that I am rhythmically impaired.  Two steps and I am lost.

But that does not take away the joy of dancing, of watching dancing.  The best dance ever done took place on New Year’s Eve, 1979. 

Our daughter was about 4 ½ and our son “Johnny” had just turned one.  We always threw a ‘big’ party with our small children on that day.  We let them stay up until almost 10 PM and eat all manner of party foods.  We put on our favorite music albums and artists, cranked the music up loud, and we danced.  We danced all over the house.

It was the Fleetwood Mac album when the real dance began. 

While still not too steady on his feet and clothed in a simple diaper, Johnny was stunned by “Tusk”.  He held onto the coffee table, and he danced.  And boy, did he dance!  Perfect rhythm, into the music, shaking his head, singing as only a toddler can!

When the  sorta-free form drum solo kicked in, he stopped and waited for it to be over.  Then the music started again.  And Johnny broke into dance.

I have never looked at dancing the same.  And I still like the Tusk album.

p.s.  Johnny is now a man, a talented pianist, with perfect pitch and rhythm.