Pointless Drivel

Family Portrait

Okay, I'll be the first to admit it, this is one of those things that, really, can only be appreciated by the parents of a three-year old (well, and maybe her grandparents and a few select aunts and uncles).  Still, I'm so proud.  Here, I give you, the first family portrait as drawn by The Shmunkin.  Well, the first where we can sort of tell what it is.

You'll have to excuse the gray shaded spots.  The paper was quite wrinkled, due to Shmunkie's unexplainable compulsion to roll/fold things up and put them in her pockets.

Turning Minds Into Mush

The Shmunkin was sick all last week.  Something called RSV, which is a kind of a virus kids get that provides all the hits of childhood sickness:  Sniffling, sneezing, high fevers, horrendous cough, trouble sleeping, trouble waking up, general crabbiness and iritability, and, of course, projectile vomiting.  On Wednesday, I took her to the doctor, who said she doesn't have pneumonia, but that she wouldn't surprized if she did get it.  It also might be the first indications of a life-long asthma issue.  On the bright side, we are also now the proud owners of a Pari ProNeb Ultra II S Nebulizer.  So it goes without saying, if anyone would like me to nebulize something, let me know.

Anyway, she stayed home all week from that germ factory we call Big Girl School, which meant someone had to be here to watch her.  I was the chosen person on Tuesday and Wednesday (The Mother drove up on Monday and Friday, for which we are extremely grateful, and the Ways and Means Committee was able to rearrange her patient schedule to stay home on Thursday).  The point is, I was exposed to a whole lot of childrens' programming I had never seen before.

Now, I'm not going to pretend to be one of those uppity parents who have decided that all television is bad.  That would be hypocritical.  I love TV.  We do try to limit The Shmunkin's exposure -- made easier by our schedules, which results in about thirty minutes a day available for watching television -- but when she is sick, can't get any more sleep, and doesn't feel like playing or listening to stories, it is either make her sit by herself staring at the walls, or let her watch the Magic Box. 

Our cable service is the most basic one can get -- broadcast channels only (plus CNN, because you can't do anything these days without getting CNN).  But we did opt for the digital cable with the DVR (digital video recorder), which lets us record everything we want to watch, and play it back later, skipping through commercials.  It also gives us access to the On-Demand channels, meaning we can turn to the On-Demand Kids channel, and have our choice of a number of programs.  Which leads me to my point:

What the hell are we letting kids watch these days?

Most of what The Shmunkin watches on a regular basis is pretty tame, and pretty much the same as what I watched as a kid.  Namely, Mister Rogers.  And some Curious George.  Both are very calming, relaxed shows. And I did find some shows on this On-Demand thing I think are pretty good.  There's Angelina Ballerina, which is great for life lessons.  Ditto Berenstain Bears.  And I really like Blues Clues, which is educational, despite the host, a nice young man who recently overdosed on Ritalin.

Then there's Barney, the big purple dinosaur, whose purpose I simply cannot fathom.  And The Wiggles, who, as the name implies, can't stop moving.  We saw The Wiggles for the first time last year when in Phoenix.  We flipped on the TV to entertain Shmunkin for a few minutes while we got ready, and I swore I would never turn it on again.  Seriously, that much stimulation just can't be good for kids.  Nor can the opposite:  "Boobahs."  If you've never seen these, it's a group of colored blogs that move around bumping into each other, and every once in a while you hear the almost breath-like "Boobah" spoken.  If you have seen this, you may agree with me the only possible way someone could watch it is after taking acid.

Thankfully, The Shmunkin is now feeling better, as evidenced by the seven or eight absolute fits she has thrown the last two days (Shmunkins who don't feel well are much more compliant) so she will be returning to Big Girl School tomorrow. 

Wonder what disease she'll catch next.

Mickey It Ain't

Alright, I'll admit it.  We have a mouse problem.

That in and of itself is something of a misnomer.  We probably have a problem with mice -- plural -- but it's hard to tell, since we haven't actually seen any lately.  Just the tell-tale signs.  By which I mean mouse poop.

Not that it's surprising.  We live in an old house, and they find a way in.  Oh, sure, we follow the rules to prevent it.  We keep the house as sealed as we can.  We keep things clean.  We don't leave food lying around.  Much.  But we live in a sixty-year-old house.  It's bound to have some openings small enough for critters, and when it starts getting cold in the fall, they're looking for places to stay.

I had actually thought having a cat would be helpful, but I was apparently wrong.  Oh, sure, our cat, Henry, can catch things.  He's very good at catching things.  Hardly a week goes by in the spring, summer and fall when he doesn't leave a gift for us on our doorstep -- chipmunks, small squirrels, baby rabbits, birds and, yes, mice -- but inside the house he is completely worthless.  Maybe it isn't challenging enough for him, but he just isn't interested.  There was even one time when the Ways and Means Committee saw a mouse peeking out from near the burner on our stove.  She picked up Henry and put him on the stove, as well, and the two of them (Henry and the mouse) stared at each other, then sniffed a bit, then went about their business.  For Henry, that meant begging to go outside so he could catch something.  I imagine the mouse went back to pooping.

There was even a time, in the fall of 2006, when I got just a little peeved at his lack of participation.  After all, he has one job and one job only in this house, and he doesn't do it.  So I started keeping track of the mice Henry caught versus the ones I got.  It was around ten to nothing when he disappeared one day, and wasn't heard from for five weeks, at which point he turned up some forty miles away.

So it has fallen on me to catch the mice.  Which brings me to my question:  What's the best way to do it?  I don't want to use poison.  We do, after all, have The Shmunkin around and it just isn't worth the risk.  Not only because of the poison itself, but also because, as I understand it, mice just aren't very careful about where they die.  I don't want Shmunkie finding that.  Besides, if one of them eats some poison shortly before Henry decides it is finally time to fulfill his catly duties, we could end up with a sick cat.  At best.

Now there's just the question of how best to catch them, without having to deal with something really gross.  I thought about using the live traps.  I'm not a sadist, after all, and prefer not killing things if I can avoid it.  The problem is, what do I do with them once they are caught?  If I release them outside, aren't they just going to make it right back in?

I also don't want to to use the glue traps.  I tried those and they worked, but I ended up with a bunch of live mice, and didn't know what to do with them.  I heard you can use a little vegetable oil and a soft stick to sort of push them off the glue, but that puts me back where I was before.  And I wasn't going to just whack them with something.  I'm not that kind of guy.  So I just dropped them in the garbage bin outside, which also is cruel, especially considering they didn't do anything intentionally against me.  They're just being mice.

So the traditional trap is the way to go.  Sure they kill the things, but at least they go quickly and stay in one place.  Plus they are cheap.  Like, a-dollar-and-a-half for a package of four at Target.  But there is still an issue:  This mouse (or these mice) appear to be smarter than I had expected.  I set two traps last night, speared peanut butter on the little pad that springs the trap, and put them under the stove, which is apparently mouse-central.  When I got up this morning, I checked the traps.  No mice.  In fact, the traps hadn't even been sprung.  Normally, I would consider that a good sign, but the peanut butter had been completely removed.  And, one of the traps had been moved from where I placed it, and was now sitting up on a rail, as if some wily mouse had tried to take it back home with him.  So, I am dealing with a critter or critters that definitely like peanut butter, and have figured out how to get it off the trap without getting caught themselves.

So, now what do I do?

The Sound of Music

People frequently come up to me and ask, "What is that strange growth on your neck?"   And after we hem and haw through he social impropriety of the question, they quickly try to cover by asking, "What you do like best about being the father of a three-year-old?"  And there are certainly a lot of things that I like about it, but somewhere near the top of the list is the feeling of being in a musical.

I'm not a big fan of musicals.  In fact, I am quite the opposite.  The realism just isn't there.  Similar to operas, where some fat German guy will sing for upwards of twenty minutes to observe the moon is full, musicals find people breaking out in song for no apparent reason, and nobody questions them about it.  Let's be real.  Outside the walls of a specialized medical facility, people just don't break out in song for no apparent reasons.

Except little girls.

I don't want to give the impression that The Shmunkin is somehow different.  I've noticed it for years that little girls will just start singing about whatever it is they are doing.  I wish I had been able to record the songs she sings, but I haven't.  I did, however, write down the words to her latest, which premiered during a performance in the bath tub:

• Look at me, I'm cleaning myself
• Clean and clean and clean
• Good for you it's very healthy
• Clean and clean and clean

Okay, so she's not ready for the Met, but it is very cute.  The previous song, an ode to her duck-shaped sponge, was much better, but I neglected to write it down.

So You Think That's Funny, Huh?

The Shmunkin has a thing about wearing mittens.  I'm not sure what it is, but whenever we go somewhere, as soon as we get into the car, she asks if she can take them off.  I suppose it could have something to do with Big Girl School.  At the end of each day, there is a basket of snacks -- crackers and the like -- for kids to take on the ride home, and it's hard to eat them with mittens on.

Normally, when she asks to take them off, I tell her to go ahead, but to make sure she puts them back on when we have to get out again.  And, normally, I have to stand in the cold and put them on for her, because she either forgot or didn't want to do it herself.

So we had dinner with a few extended family members the other day at a restaurant about a half-hour from our house.  When we left, as soon as we were in the car, she asked to take her mittens off.  It was still cold, and I didn't want her hands to freeze, so I said, "No."  This resulted in the beginning of what could have resulted in a pretty major issue -- she was on the verge already -- so I quickly caved, but told her she must put them back on herself when we got home.

The entire drive home, she was quiet, and I figured she was asleep.  As we neared the house, I told her to put her mittens back on.  She said, very firmly, "No."

I said, "[Shmunkin], put your mittens on."

Even more firmly, she said, "No!."

Now I decided to use my Daddy Voice.  I think I have a pretty good Daddy Voice.  I have one of those very low, strong announcer-voices to start with.  Back when I worked in radio, people who met me in person for the first time were very surprised to find out how much younger I was than I sounded.  (Of course, that is no longer the case.  Now, apparently, I sound as old as I am.)  Anyway, I can easily make my voice even lower and firmer when needed, which, combined with slowing the pace, provides the firm, authoritative, serious-sounding Daddy Voice.  So I used it:

"[Shmunkin's full first, middle and last name], Put.  Your.  Mittens.  On.  Now."

To which she replied, in a very (for her) low, slow and serious-sounding voice, as if mocking me, "No." 

So I pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, and turned around, and was greeted with a look very similar to this:

If you've even met The Shmunkin, you will instantly recognize that as the look she gets on her face when she believes she has just pulled off the cleverest, most hilarious gag in the history of time (picture taken at a different time, but it's the same look).  Her hands were up in front of her and, on them, were the mittens.  She had put them back on, and somehow managed to stay quiet about it until the time was right.

I'd like to say she gets her sense of humor from me, but I think she may be funnier.  Of course, being three, she also has attempted the same joke about two dozen times since.  And that is definitely like me.