Primal Instinct

I have a firm belief that clichés and stereotypes exist because for the most part they are true. The Mud Puddle continues to embody this theory (and thereby encouraging me to come up with even MORE theories and share them with people at random) much to my delight.
Men are stereotypically hunter/gatherers. Or so anthropology would have us believe. The Mud Puddle has lit up that strand of DNA in full force.

A little history for you: My parents have a cabin on a lake (I call it “Sanctuary” and it is my happy place, my favorite place in the world. When I was having the Mud Puddle removed it was what I thought of to try and distract from the discomfort of passing a nine and a half pound elephant out of my gut) and it sits next to a nice little cove. In all the years they have had the camp (20 years? HOLY CRAP!) the number of fish caught in said cove and surrounding lake area can probably be counted on one hand. I myself spent three days, $25 worth of night crawlers and countless expletives to catch a 3” fish once. Back in the summer of 2001. Yup, my one and only catch at camp. Fishing at camp has become more about spending time doing nothing but casting and reeling in then actually providing food for your family.

That all changed this past weekend. We were at camp for our annual snowmobile ride/freeze our butts off (40 below with the wind chill! The current 24 above is downright BALMY in comparison) hang out fest. Scott and I went for the good part of the snowmobile ride (From car to lunch to collection of ‘swag bag’) while Grampy and the Mud Puddle decided to ‘ice fish’. I put this in quotes b/c seriously, there was no delusion on anyone’s part that a fish might actually be caught.

It was all about cutting a hole in the ice, baiting a hook and watching the flag from the comforts of camp with a cup of hot chocolate. But then the amazing, improbable occurred. The Mud Puddle caught a fish. And not some dinky 3” like me. It was a good 15” long brook trout. And he helped pull it out of the water (it flew out of the hole apparently at break neck speed). He watched while Grampy cleaned it and reminded us to cook it up that evening.
We all had a bite and in my opinion it was delicious. And I wasn’t in a fishy kind of mood.
The Mud Puddle then was all high energy I think in large part to the protein boost and adrenaline rush of fulfilling his instinct of providing for himself and the rest of us. In addition to the fantasy of his future as a Major League soccer player, stand up comedian, and hockey player I can now daydream about his Big Bass special on the Outdoor Network.

Road Trip

We have just returned from a fun-filled, sun soaked mini vacation to Georgia/South Carolina. Scott’s sister and her family (some of my favorite people in the world) live down in SC so we went down to visit with them.

The Mud Puddle is a world class traveler, I believe in large part to all of the miles he logged in-uetro (I tell him he HAS been to Florida, it was just in my belly) and the first year and a half of his life (driving everyday to daycare in the city was about an hour and a half round trip).
I can only relate some of his antics second hand as I flew home on my own the day before the boys. I had been praying that any weather related delays (Ice Storm ’07 dun, dun) would effect my travel as I have spent plenty of hours ‘stranded’ in an airport and am actually pretty good just hanging out (as long as I have a book, magazine or journal handy). Wouldn’t you know that my travel was met with no delays whilst the boys took about 11 hours to get home.

The story I was told was that even in the midst of sitting around the terminal or on the plan on the tarmac, the Mud Puddle was actually pretty well behaved.
First, he didn’t want to leave Georgia. And really who can blame him? It was sunny and 70, we were in a hotel with a pool, he got to jump from bed to bed and make pillow volcanoes (which he shot Ellie out of – poor Ellie) and spend time with family that he adores and rarely gets to see.
He did get on the first plane with little fuss then however decide that he liked Detroit and wanted to live at the airport. Scott of course told him no, you can’t live in the airport to which the Mud Puddle responded ‘but they have food’. Oh ok, then by all means shack up in the Motor City and see how well that goes for you.

On the way down he was a peach, and this was after being awoken at 4 bloody a.m. to catch our 6 a.m. flight (I can count on one hand the number of people I would do THAT for). First half of the journey he looked out the window, we read an I Spy book (he likes me to look with him and give him hints when he can’t find the thing) and just kept each other entertained. The second flight – he was out like a light before we were wheels up. I was out ten seconds after that.

Traveling with a small child is, like everything else in Parent Land, is a crap shoot. What if this is the one time he decides that he has to scream his head off all the way to wherever you are going? I remember one flight I took to Orlando (eight times in one year, not my idea of the happiest place on earth) there was a little girl who literally screamed the entire three hours.
Seriously. The child screamed herself hoarse and there wasn’t a damn thing her parents could do to calm her down. It was unbelievable. And whenever we start planning a trip (he has flown a whopping two times in his life) I think about that little girl and her poor parents. Business people, as a rule, are usually already cranky about flying and having that on top of it? You have got a plane full of well dressed angry men.

We have talked about flying to Hawaii for a vacation (if you ever get the chance, do it) but even though he is the best flying four year old I have met, it is hard to imagine 12 hours or so on a plane with him. That would be pushing our luck a little too much I think.

Lost and Found

I apologize for a lack of a post last week. Work was busy, we went to South Carolina and I started my first Master’s class (getting my learn on!). And this week’s will be brief. I promise to do better once I get this whole homework thing under control.
Onto the blog!!

My question is this: How do you lose your winter coat? Given the fact that you only own two coats (that you wear on a regular basis) and you have an ‘out and about’ radius of three places: home, daycare, the bookstore.
Sure it has been unusually balmy here but I can’t imagine how you lose your coat. Clearly if he had it on, it was needed. And I am nothing if not diligent about having him properly clothed for the outside temperature.

The Mud Puddle was not at all concerned about the missing coat. I, as you can imagine, was flipping out. Because of course we didn’t notice it missing until we actually needed it.
So that morning I had to bundle him up in a jean jacket/fleece combo and put on his usual mittens and hat. He looked like a hick of the highest order.
I then promptly trucked my cookies to Target and bought a new winter coat (at half the cost of the original dontcha know.).

My conventional wisdom was that as soon as I procured the second coat, the first one would show up. No such luck. I have searched the house top to bottom three times and no coat. The Mud Puddle (even with the promise of a pink frosted cookie) could not be bothered to look. Which makes me wonder if he got rid of the coat somehow. I would have no idea why he would but then I have given up trying to apply reason and logic to the actions of a four year old.

The real kicker (or ‘wicked pisser’ if you are from Boston) to all of this? I had made a point to attach his mittens to the coat so he wouldn’t lose the mittens (He lost seven mittens last year at daycare – that would be fourteen pairs of mittens) and so the mittens are lost with the coat. Nice.

Sneaky AND Independent - a troubling combo

So the Mud Puddle is off to a great start this New Year. He was exposed to the over indulgence of his grandparents for three wonderful days (we all had a great time) and he was barely spoiled when we arrived back home. He still talks to me like I am his personal secretary/maid/whipping boy but at least it wasn’t any worse after being coddled, canoodled and allowed to jump on furniture.

What truly amazes me about him is just when I think I have seen ‘as bad as it can get’, it reaches a new low. I THOUGHT I had this ‘willful independence’ streak all figured out (my mother continually points out I was the same way – man, she is SO loving me being on the parental receiving end). But apparently not. Now is he not only independent, but sneaky about it to boot.

An example: The Mud Puddle has two pair of safety scissors he has access to. I have told him repeatedly if he wants to use the scissors he has to ask, and someone will get them for him. He is not allowed to just go get scissors out of the drawer. He has to ask permission and have Scott or I (or another semi-responsible adult) hand them to him.

Of course when we are ‘busy’ and don’t respond to his barely-spoken-above-a-whisper request in three nano-seconds, he goes for them himself. Now, if it were anything else, say a marker or a cookie – I wouldn’t have such a problem. But an instrument designed to cut through paper the thickness of skin? Urm, NO. So I put them up a shelf ‘out of his reach’ and told him he has to ASK to get them and now he can’t reach them. Man, I am an IDIOT.

I am going about my business – doing laundry or something and I hear him say something under his breath, drag his stool across the kitchen floor and then……silence. That kind of silence that strikes fear in the hearts of mothers everywhere. That silence that is SO quiet, you know they are up to something.

I go to the kitchen and lo and behold he has reached the scissors on the high shelf with help from his stool (that is always under foot b/c he never puts it back) and he is cutting some paper out at the table. Seriously. What the heck am I supposed to do with this predicament? Props to him for being resourceful but shame on him for disobeying direct orders (the mumble I heard was him ‘asking’ for the scissors. Who exactly? The dog that was acting as his look out? I certainly didn’t hear him and I have the hearing of a bat when I want it). So I took the scissor back and made him ask for them again. Then when we was done with them put them on a higher shelf – pretty much ensuring he will break his leg when he tries to sneak those down.

The funniest part about all of this? My scissors are still in the utensil drawer, easily accessed by little hands. But he doesn’t use them. Why? I can only guess it is because they are not ‘his’ and rather boring looking compared to his kid scissors with the orange racing stripe.