Tag Archives: little man

Advice to My Kids as They Begin Their Education

Next month, the Little Man will start Kindergarten. He has been in pre-school since he was 15 months old, spending his days from 7 am – 4 pm at the school (as does the Little Miss) and so he is used to the long days, but this will be at a new school, and it will be the real beginnings of his education. This got me thinking about my own schooling, which in turn got me thinking about what advice I’d offer to my kids as they started out with their own education. It didn’t take me long to come up with 4 things to pass along:

1. It is okay to make mistakes, get things wrong, and occasionally fail at something, so long as you try to learn from those mistakes.

The Little Man in particular gets frustrated when he makes a mistake, or when he doesn’t win at a game. I’m not sure where this comes from because I’m of the opinion that mistakes are how we learn. Natural geniuses aside, learning is rarely easy. I can remember how halting I read when I first learned to read. I had to sound out every word, mangling half of them. It seemed to take forever to get through one page. But one day, I no longer noticed the words. Instead, I noticed the story that they told. It took practice (a lot of practice!) but I got there.

Even failing at some things shouldn’t get you down. We can’t be expert at everything. In college, I took a macro economics class. I attended every lecture. I did all of the assigned reading and homework. I ended up with D in the class. To this day, macro economics stumps me. In many respects, the earlier you learn your trouble-spot, the better you are.

The most important thing is to try to learn from the mistakes you make, in school work, and socially as well.

2. Write in your books!

I wish I had done this more. Write in your books! When you are reading, write your thoughts in the margins as you go. Include your opinions (“This passage is wonderful!”, “Was Doyle on crack when he wrote this?”). This will say you work when it comes time to talk about what you’ve read. But by writing in your books, you also make the book uniquely your own.

Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Winston Churchill are just three people who wrote in the margins of the books that they read. You will be in very good company.

3. It is okay to have an opinion about things; it is okay not to like something you have read for school.

Through about 7th grade, I went through school thinking that every book I was assigned to read had to be good, because otherwise, why would it be assigned. (The notion of learning what not to do by reading a bad book was foreign to me.) Sometime in 8th grade, however, we had to read Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. I read it, and loathed it. Looking back on it, I just think I’m not a fan of the loquacious Victorian style. What bothers me most, in retrospect, was that I was afraid to express my opinion of the book in class out of fear that I’d get in trouble for not liking the book.

At some point (probably in 10th or 11th grade) I did express my opinions about books in class. What I found was that my teachers seemed to like this. Looking back on it, I think it is because it was clear that I read the book and formed an opinion about it.

There will be things that you read that you won’t like. Read them anyway, learn what you can from them, but don’t hesitate to express your opinion about them. It is part of the joy of reading.

4. It is okay to go beyond what you are learning, if you find it interesting.

If you find yourself interested in something you learned in class, or read about for class, by all means, pursue it. Don’t feel like you have to be hemmed in by what you are given in class. If you read about Soviet-era Russia in a social studies book, and want to learn more, go to the library and check out a history book. If your science book spends a few paragraphs on black holes and you want more, go to the library (or online) and learn more.

It is okay to go beyond what you are learning in class if you find it interesting. You can also use what you learn later, and if you are entertained while learning, that is all the better.


The main problem with advice like this is that it usually has be learned from experience. That may be so, but this is the advice I would pass along to the Little Man and the Little Miss as they begin their journey through school.

Blood-Sucking Ticks and Clocks

We seem to have a tradition for the Fourth of July that goes beyond spending the holiday in the small town of Castine, Maine. Last year (2013), the Little Man, slipped coming out of the bathroom, and cracked his head on the floor. He didn’t require any stitches, but there was a good deal of blood and crying. Fortunately, my cousin is a doctor and he took a look at the wound and said it would be okay. This year, I jokingly told him I’d make sure the Little Man avoids any slips or spills. And to his credit, the Little Man did not fall on the Fourth of July.

But after the morning parade, I got a text from Kelly. I’d walked back to the house with the Little Miss, while Kelly took the Little Man on a firetruck ride. She texted with the gleeful news that the Little Man had managed to acquire a passenger: a small tick, which found a comfortable spot on his head. Not wanting to freak out the Little Man, Kelly said nothing to him, but when they returned to the house, my cousin, the good doctor, took a look, and, as Dr. Seuss once said, with great skillful skill, and with great speedy speed, successfully removed the tiny hitchhiker.

Jump-cut ahead to a few days ago. The Little Man was taking inventory  of his many wounds, tiny scratches that he has on his legs, for instance, the kind of scratches and scrapes that all five year old boys and girls collect. He called the more prominent of these scrapes “blood holes” which sounds gruesome until you actually see what he is talking about–and then it takes all of your will not to smile or laugh. He was explaining why he needed one snack or another.

“It will make new blood,” he said, “to replace the blood that came out from the blood holes.” We’re talking volumes of blood measured in microliters, picoliters, even.

“You really didn’t lose that much blood, buddy,” I said. “Those are very small scrapes.”

“But Daddy,” said he, “I also had the clock.”

I stared at him, utterly baffled. “The clock?”

“Yeah, the clock. Remember, in Maine. It got on my head and drank my blood.”

I stared at him some more, thinking I’d stepped into some alternate reality populated by blood sucking clocks, à la Salvador Dali. I had no idea what he was talking about. I just stared, mouth agape.

“Remember, Daddy? At the parade?”

And then it dawned on me and I couldn’t help myself. I burst into laughter. “A tick!” I said. You mean a tick?”

“Yeah!”

This, of course, was yet another insight into the mind of a five year old. After the tick was removed, we showed it to him and told him what it was. A tick. Five year olds know nothing of ticks, except that they are half the sound made by–you guessed it–a clock. In this case, a blood-sucking clock.

I have a feeling I am finally beginning to understand from where Dr. Seuss derived much of his inspiration.

An Excerpt From “Conversations at Our Dinner Table,” Ep. 1

Toward the end of our pasta dinner this evening, the Little Man looked at the kitchen table before and pointed to something.

“What’s this, Daddy?” he said.

I looked at it. “Looks like a stain in the wood.”

“No, because feel it.”

I felt it. “Maybe it’s a stain from food. Probably maple syrup from one of your waffles, don’t you think?”

“No!” the Little Man said, “It can’t be from one of my waffles, Daddy. I never eat my waffles at the kitchen table.”

I thought about how he sat in the rocker in our bedroom in the mornings, eating waffles while he watched Disney Junior and could offer no response because his statement was unanswerable. He was absolutely right.

The Little Man Turns Five

The Little Man went to bed excited last night, because today is his birthday and he couldn’t wait to be five years old. And so he is. It’s pretty crazy how quickly the time goes by. When he went to bed last night, I was thinking about the evening, five years earlier, when Kelly and I tried to get a good night’s sleep, knowing it would be our last for a long time. (The Little Man was delivered via a planned C-section, so we knew he was coming and there was no dramatic rush to the hospital the following morning.) Looking back on that morning, everything seemed calm.

Five years later, the Little Man is a week away from graduating from the Montessori school he’s been attending for the last 4 years.  In late August, he will start Kindergarten. He has seen (and loved) all of the Star Wars movies. Indiana Jones, too. He has more Legos than I ever had, and he builds cool things. He is creative and is constantly drawing pictures for me, Kelly, and the Little Miss. He’s curious. He’s funny. And he has a good heart.

Another strange part of seeing the Little Man turn five is that turning five is the first birthday for which I have fairly clear memories. Certainly, I can remember going to Kindergarten, and so the Little Man is entering an age which I remember myself.

The Little Man had a birthday party on Sunday to which all of his friends came. He is bringing cupcakes to school today to share with his classmates. And this evening, a few friends are coming over to celebrate with pizza. He is overflowing with excitement, and that is just delightful to see.

Happy birthday, Little Man!

Building a Block Airport with the Little Man

I did something amazing last night. Together with the Little Man, I built a block airport. When I was the Little Man’s age, I loved playing with blocks. And since many who read this may be digital natives, unfamiliar with the term “blocks” in this context, I’m not referring to ASCII drawings or anything that involves a computer, or even electricity for that matter. I’m talking about plain ol’ wooden blocks.

Some of my clearest memories of playing when was four or five years old concern these wooden blocks. I’d make roads with them, after being in the car with my parents. If we visited a restaurant, I’d come home and build a restaurant with them. The long cylindrical blocks would be ketchup bottles. Three square blocks stacked one atop the other would be a hamburger.

A while back, Kelly picked up a tub of used wooden blocks for the Little Man, and last night, he and I build a block airport. As a former pilot, I modeled the airport runway layout on one of my favorite airports to fly into, Santa Barbara airport.

Aerial view of our airport
Aerial view of our airport
Another aerial view, with the control tower
Another aerial view, with the control tower
The Little Man makes an adjustment
The Little Man makes an adjustment
A cropduster lands on runway 09L
A cropduster lands on runway 09L
A twin-engine lines up on runway 02
A twin-engine lines up on runway 02

I had a blast building the block airport with the Little Man. I think he might have had some fun, too. It was one of those strange, harmonic episodes where I could see myself at his age, doing exactly what he was doing with me.

Being A Big Brother

We slept in later than usual for a Saturday. The Little Man, almost 5 years old now, came into our room sometime before sunrise and got into bed with us. Sometime later, after sunrise, we heard the Little Miss, 2-1/2, calling for us. We both wanted to sleep in1 and in an act of small miracle, the Little Man got out of our bed, walked into their shared room, and greeted the Little Miss.

The morning routine involves the Little Miss using the potty before she comes into our room. We both lay there, waiting for the call, “Mommy, Little Miss needs to go potty!” But it didn’t come. We lay there and listened in wonder as the Little Man took charge.

“Do you to go potty, Little Miss?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s go. You want me to help with your pajamas?”

“I can do it,” the Little Miss said.

We could hear her unzip her feetie pajamas and sit on the potty. We could hear her start to go. What we heard next was one of those things that, as a parent, melts your heart. The Little Man said, “Little Miss, I’m very proud of you for going potty.”

He helped her back into her pajamas and then walked her into our room and into our bed, where the four of us lazed around for a little while longer. The Little Man might have been proud of the Little Miss, but we simply beamed with pride at what a good big brother he has become.

Notes

  1. I’ve found, as I’ve gotten older, that “sleeping in” is a relative term. Anything after 6 am feel like sleeping in, even on a Saturday. Anything past 7 am feels almost lazy. We slept past 7 this morning.

Playing Trains with the Little Man

Last night, the Little Man and I played trains. Usually, he plays with his trains down in the family room where all of his various tracks and tables and paraphernalia are located, but yesterday, he was feeling Puckish, perhaps thanks to his pink-eye, and brought a basket of wooden tracks up to my office. Together, we build a fairly elaborate, a completely random track layout.

Playing Trains

We took a break to eat dinner, and then returned to drive our trains around the track. To add atmosphere to our play time, I put on this song, which I remember seeing on Sesame Street or Electric Company or something like that when I was a kid. The Little Man had seen it many times before, too, but it made the game all the more fun:

We both had a blast. Later that evening, when we were finishing playing and the Little Man had his bath and it was time for me to put drops in his eyes, I managed to get the drops in quickly and easily without the panic or tears1 that had come on previous attempts.

I blame it on the train.

Notes

  1. From him, not from me, although I can understand the confusion.

Inherited Traits: Or, What I Have Passed on to the Little Man and Little Miss

When you have kids, you kind of expect there are certain things they will inherit: eye color, hair thickness (or thinness), etc. These are all physical characteristics, and our kids have a good mixture from both of us. But I’ve noticed more and more non-physical things that they have inherited from me.

The Little Man has inherited my ear for lyrics and music. He remembers all of the songs I sing, and I sometimes find him singing them to himself. I’m not talking about children’s lullabies, either. I’m talking things like R.E.M.’s “Superman” or Bing Crosby and Louis Armstrong’s “Gone Fishin’”.

The Little Miss has inherited another of these traits. I have this strange ability to quote from any episode of M*A*S*H, and do so frequently when in the company of willing conspirators, much to Kelly’s chagrin. Sometimes, when an episode of M*A*S*H is on TV, I’ll often say the lines just before the actors, which I know can be very annoying–but I just can’t help myself. The Little Miss seems to have inherited a version of this peculiar talent. Except, instead of M*A*S*H, she quotes lines from Caillou–often immediately before the character says the line. I noticed this for the first time a few nights ago and it was slightly disconcerting. She has done it more than once, since, but I think she does it now because she knows how proud it makes me. She will be a very good TV episode quoter, just like her dad.

When I Need Perspective and Relief from Stress

When I put the kids to bed at night, we listen to about 10 minutes of what they call “rain music.” This is really an album of white-noise tracks of thunderstorms and rain storms. It is very calming, and I often listen to this while writing when there is other noise in the background. The Little Miss does not want to sleep in her room at the moment, so she, the Little Man and I go into the Little Man’s room. He climbs into his bed and I tuck him in.

The Little Miss then points to the beanbag chair on the floor next the Little Man’s bed and said, quite firmly, “You sit, daddy!”

I drop into the beanbag chair and she crawls in beside me with her entourage of stuffed animals and baby dolls. We turn off the lights, I turn on the rain music, and the three of us lay there in the darkness, listening to the sound of rain and the occasional gentle rumble of thunder.

Sometime, the Little Man wants to hold my hand while we do this. So there I am with both of my kids, holding the Little Man’s hand and with the Little Miss nestled in the crook of my left shoulder and it is just wonderful. I’m not sure there is anything that acts as quickly as a stress reliever than laying there for 10 minutes with the kids falling asleep around me.

The Little Man’s Little City

I was in my office doing some work. Kelly and the Little Miss were at the grocery store. The Little Man wanted to go downstairs. He would have preferred if someone had gone down with him, but he was okay with me just turning on the lights and putting on the TV for him.

I went back up to my office and worked. I noticed that it was pretty quiet down in the office and that sometimes makes me nervous. But I figured I’d leave the Little Man alone. Eventually, he came up to tell me to come look at his city. Turns out, he’d been so quiet because he was focusing intently on building a rather elaborate city.

Little City

It reminded me of a time when I was not much older than the Little Man, when I decided to build a wall around our family room. I used my building blocks and it seems to me I was able to build a wall pretty much all the way around the room (my memory might be playing tricks with me). Of course, the wall was only about 3 inches tall.

The Little Man’s First Knock-Knock Joke

Last night, while putting the Little Man to bed, I decided to teach him his first Knock-Knock joke. It was such an epic failure that all I can do is attempt to reproduce the transcript of what happened. I felt like I was in a Laurel and Hardy skit, only it was no skit. It was this:

Me: Okay, now let me tell you a joke. It’s called a knock-knock joke and you have to say some things.

Little Man: Okay, Daddy.

Me: I say “Knock-knock” and then you say, “Who’s there?” okay.

LM: (Nods).

Me: Knock-knock.

LM: (Looks at me, slightly confused.)

Me: Now you say, “Who’s there?”

LM: (Still looking confused.)

Me: Knock-knock.

LM: (Staring at me)

Me: (Sotto voce): Who’s there? You say “Who’s there?””

LM: Mommy?

Me: Huh?

LM: Mommy?

Me: No, you say “Who’s there?”

LM: Mommy?

Me: No, you just repeat what I am saying. Who’s there?

LM: (With sudden realization in his eyes): Who’s there, Mommy?

Me: No, buddy, you don’t tell me who’s there. You say who’s there. Wait. No. All you have to do is say “Who’s there” after I say knock-knock, okay?

Me: Knock-knock.

LM: Mommy!

Me: No, Mommy is sleeping. You don’t say Mommy, you say who’s there? Okay. Knock-knock.

LM: Daddy?

Me: Why are you saying Daddy?

LM: Because you’re there. (Pointing).

Me: It’s not who is really there, buddy. It’s just part of a joke. I say knock-knock and you say who’s there.

Me: (Deep breath. Truthfully, I am no longer interested in the joke and just want to go back to my room.)

Me: Knock-knock.

LM: Who’s there?

Me: Oh! Yes! Very good, buddy! Very good. Oh crap. Um, “Little Man!”

LM: What?

Me: No that’s part of the joke. I say knock-knock, then you say Who’s There, and then I say Little Man.

LM: I’m tired.

Me: Knock-knock.

LM: Little Man!

Me: Eh-huh? No, you say “Who’s there.”

LM: Daddy!

There was more, I think, but I blacked out at that point. The next thing I knew Kelly was wiping my face with a damp cloth.

And overnight, my ability to tell knock-knock jokes completely withered away.

“Everything’s Normal Again…”

Last night when I put the Little Man to bed, he asked for an extra hug. While his arms were wrapped around my neck he said, “Daddy, I’m glad everything’s back to normal again, now that you are back from your trip.”

Awwwwww.

It’s not like things deviated far from normal. Kelly worked like a champion while I was at Launch Pad, maintaining as much normality as could possibly be managed.

But it was still nice to hear the Little Man say that. I think what he meant by it was, “Daddy, I’m glad you are home.” So am I.