Dream a Little Dream…

Have you ever had a vivid dream that felt so real, when you wake up you have a hard time realizing it didn’t really happen? Sure you have. Of course, it usually only last for a few moments and then the sensation passes. But what about when you were a kid?

When I was a little guy myself, I remember to this day having dreams that it was Christmas morning. I would rush out to find a plethora of presents all with my name on them. Of course, as soon as I went into the family room and saw that there was no tree and that it was actually July, well I knew that it wasn’t going to be Christmas morning that day.

The other day, the little guy woke up and was mean. And by mean, I mean he was about as happy and fun to be around as grizzly bear that joke woke from hybernation AND was kicked in the junk.

“Hey, buddy, what do you want to do today?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You don’t want to do anything?”

“I doesn’t want to do anything with you or mom.”

“Why not?”

“Because I is mad at you!”

Whatever I had done to make him mad, it had to be a doozy. I consulted with the House Mom and she was clueless too as to why he was so mad.

“Are you hungry? Want some breakfast,” she asked.

“I doesn’t want breakfast. I’m mad at you.”

“Do you want a candy bar?” I added.

“I doesn’t want a candy bar either!”

No matter what we tried he was getting madder and madder. The more we tried to make things better, the worse he got.

Finally he got up and went for a walk around the house. He came to his favorite toy and sat there looking at it with a generally confused look on his face. Maybe he just needed to play?

“Daddy.”

“Yes, bubba, what can I do for you?”

“Where did my crane come from?”

“You got it for Christmas fram Santa.”

“No,” He shouted, obviously still angry.

“Bud, you got that for Christmas, don’t you remember asking Santa for it?”

“Where did it come from now?”

“What do you mean, now?”

“Where did my crane come from now? Didn’t they want it?”

“Didn’t who want it?” I was as confused as  monkey in a grocery store.

“The kids; the two boys and the two girls.”

“What two boys and two girls?” The House Mom sat there trying to figure this out like I was.

“The two boys and two girls you made me give my toys to.”

“When did we do that?”

“Last night. You made me give my toys away to two girls and two boys.”

“Honey, we didn’t do that. We’d never do that,” Said the mom. She smiled at me as we both realized what happened.

For the next few minutes we showed him that we didn’t make him give away any toys and in fact, they were all still in the house. The next half hour or so went to trying to explain what a dream was and how dreams aren’t really real.

“Okay, I doesn’t want to be mad at you anymore,” he said.

“That’s good.”

“But you better be nice to me in my dreams next time,” he said with as stern of a tone as his four-year old frame could muster.

I don’t think it’s too strange to wake up and still have some emotional residue from a dream.  The little guy wakes up and sometimes takes a minute to sort things out. And my wife occassionally wakes up mad at me. I try to expain it was just a dream to her, but by then she usually finds another reason.

Wheels Keep Turning

The litte guy’s grandmothers on both sides knew that he has a deep love of tractors. When it came time to buy Christmas presents, it was easy to find him gifts because they could just buy toy tractors. He ended up with a couple of really big tractors that are amongst his favorite toys. One of them has a huge toy trailer to go with it that is roughly the size of a decent-sized shoebox.

“What do you want to do today?”

“Play with my tractors.”

“What are you going to farm today then.”

“I don’t know.” And with that he started looking around the room.

I could see the little wheels inside his head turning as he decided what he was going to do with his tractors. When I was a kid, I was blessed with an active imagination. I had to have one living in the country as I didn’t always have friends coming over to play. My little guy has that same imagnative spirit.

“I’m farming alien dust today, Daddy.”

Both the House Mom and I chuckled at that one. As with many little kids, his favorite movie changes weekly. But for the past few weeks, it has been the 1954 classic War of the Worlds. Great movie. I loved it as a kid too. Still do actually. But farming alien dust? This I had to see.

“How do you farm alien dust?”

“First you need aliens.” And with that, he drove off his tractor on a mission to, I guess, harvest aliens.

“Got one!”

He drove his tractor back out into the living room with one hand holding the alien life form in the trailer. This vicious alien was covered with orange and white hair-like extensions, had a long, slithering tail and spoke in a strange language that sounded like something from a Meow Mix commercial.

He then dumped the alien into a big, red bucket and hauled that into the kitchen.

“Where you going with your alien?”

“I need to shake the alien dust around the house so the other aliens will stay away.”

“Okay, just be nice to the poor ittle alien. He doesn’t look happy.”

“He’s an alien, this is how they are happy.”

May I never be an alien.

So he traveled around the house, spreading alien dust to the corners of each room. Occassionally the alien would make a break for it, but the little guy would catch it rght away and shove it back in the bucket. Aliens are sneaky, you know.

A short while later, I noticed the little guy was  playing with a few other toys.

“How’s the fight against the aliens going?”

“I not fighting aliens, Daddy.”

“Okay, what are you doing now?”

“I doing construction,” he said while looking at the couch. I see that he has a hammer in with his toys.

I should intercede, but I never really liked that couch.

I Just Want to be Mad

The other day, I was moving some furniture around and couldn’t get the one piece through the door like I planned. No matter how much pulling, wiggling or fanangling I tried, it wasn’t going to work without my taking it apart. I was mad.

“Why didn’t you just take it apart in the first place?” my wife said from the couch.

“Just be quiet and leave me alone.”

“You don’t have to be a jerk.”

“I just want to be mad for a few minutes, okay?”

I just want to be mad.

Earlier today, my wife was mopping in the kitchen when the bucket dumped over. Dirty water spilled everywhere. She had spent nearly all morning making the kitchen look nice and pretty and here she was with a huge mess.

“Want some help?” I asked from the couch.

“No, no honey, you sit right there. I’ll clean it up.”

“Hey, I was offering to help.”

“I know, I know. I just want to be mad for a while.”

She just wants to be mad for a while too.

Tonight, the little guy was in bed. He looked so cute laying there. At his feet was his kitty, Tiny, which is a shock in itself as during the night Tiny is usually finding the noisiest thing in the house he can play with and going at it until I hit him with a shoe or a brick or something. Tiny is a saint among cats. For whatever reason, he takes everything a four-year old will dish out, and he answers with a purr. Curled up next to the little guy was Molly. Molly is my dog that I’ve had for going on ten years now. She’s part beagle, part spaniel, and what she lacks in brains, she makes up for in smell. But she’s cute and lovable and generally nice to have around.

So here was the little guy sleeping on his bed. He rouses and starts yelling, which has me running over to see him.

“What’s the matter, bubba?”

“I’m mad.”

“Why are you mad?”

“I don’t know.”

Now, I know enough to know that he’s had a nightmare and instead of waking up scared, he’s mad. Maybe he dreamed of not getting something he wanted, or breaking a toy. Who knows? But the little guy is mad.

“Come and give Daddy a hug.”

“No. I doesn’t want to.”

At this, Tiny decides he can hep and comes up on the little guy’s lap for some petting/abuse. He got the abuse alright. The little guy shoved him off the bed. Molly was the next to go after she tried to lick his face.

“What’s the matter buddy? What can I do to help? Do you want some more brown [chocolate] milk?”

“No. I just want to be mad.”

He just wants to be mad.

I felt like the evil scientist who runs to the edge of the cliff and shouts into the night sky, “What have I done? Oh, what have I done?” All the while the scientist’s monster ravages the town below.

While I have having this moment of reflection, I heard a sputtering noise from beneath the sheets. My cute little grouch had what is known politely as a rectal gas emission.

“He he he, Daddy. I farted,” he giggled.

“Yes you did,” I replied with a chuckle of my own.

I guess it is okay to be mad once and a while. That is as long as you remember the golden rule that gas is funny.

I’ll have to try that the next time the wife is mad at me.

The Nice Card

Recently the little guy was out playing in the mountains of snow pushed up from plowing the driveway. He played and played, using his snowshovel for both good and not-so-good things. After over an hour of this, he came back in the house to warm up.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah,” he said. the red cheeks smiled as he sat while I took off his boots and snowpants.

After warming up in a blanket and some cartoons, he took off after the cat. When that didn’t turn out the way he wanted, he tore into the piles of toys his grand mothers bought him for Christmas. That pile grew and made the living room a total mess.

“Hey, you need to pick up your toys.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

And with that, he ran off to the next room.

“Hey,” I said, going after him, “you need to go out and pick up those toys.”

“No, Daddy, I don’t want to.”

With this, I brought out the big guns. Namely the House Mom…

“Pick up your toys NOW,” she said in a tone that made me want to go pick up anything that might be considered my toys.

“I can’t.”

“Why can’t you,” she asked.

“Because.”

“Because why,” I asked.

“Because I not a nice boy anymore.”

“Why aren’t you a nice boy anymore?”

“Did your Nice Card fall out or something while you were playing,” she asked.

“Yeah, my Nice Card fell out. I naughty now.”

“Do you need me to make you a new one,” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said somewhat dejected.

With that, my wife made a small card and wrote “NICE” in big, bold letters across it. She took it over and put it in the little guy’s back pocket.

“Hey, I nice now. Daddy look, I have a Nice Card! I am a good boy!”

And just like that, he went out and picked up all of his toys.

All this time, I had no idea.

My wife, however did NOT find it funny when I made one for her.

I didn’t even show her the other card I made for her.

Oh well.

Christmas Wishes

I remember when I was a kid. The greatest thing about fall was watching for the mail to come, knowing that eventually there would be something life altering there. I speak, of course, about the Sears and JC Penney Christmas catalogs.

There was no greater thing than to see Mom walk in with the mail and see that the catalog had come. I would grab it as soon as I could and pour tirelessly over the toy displays, dreaming of what I would ask “Santa” for and imagining playing with the toys.

But those days are gone, sort of. Okay, those catalogs have been replaced with Cabela’s catalogs and I still pour through them tirelessly thinking of what I’m going to get. But Sears and Penney’s no longer do the massive catalogs. The little guy wil never get to experience this. Or so I thought.

Enter Mills Fleet Farm. For those of you that don’t know, Fleet Farm stores offer just about everything under the sun and every year around Christmas time, they set up the center of the store and pile the shelves with toys galore. They then send out a special catalog with all the toys offered so parents can plan their buying seasons. Then after a few weeks, they open the Toylands up and mass shopping ensues.

“Daddy, come quick!”

“What is it buddy?”

“Look at all these tractors!”

“Wow, those are cool.”

“Yeah, I need that one.”

“Well maybe Santa will bring it too you.”

“And that one…”

“Well, you’ll just have to see.”

“And that one too…”

“Okay buddy, which one do you like best?”

“Daddy, I don’t like it. I need it.”

“Okay, which one do you need the most?”

With this, the little guy set off to determine which of the toy tractors covering the four pages of toy tractors offered he needed the most. With extreme care, he looked at each toy and you could see the wheels turning.

“Daddy, the combine is my favorite.”

“You need the combine bub?”

“Yes, I need it. I don’t have one and I need it.”

“Just got to have it, huh?”

“Daddy, I have tractors, but I don’t have a combine. How can I farm with no combine?” He had me there.

Later, he came back to me, catalog in hand.

“Daddy, I have a problem.”

“What is it, honey?”

“I looked at all the toys in this book.”

“What’s the problem?” He was pausing, trying to find the words.

“Daddy, I want a lot of the toys in here.”

“I know you do.”

“Well, I know I can’t have them all.”

Wow. He’s four, you know. I didn’t expect that.

“Can you please call grandma and let me tell her which ones I want?”

“You want to tell Grandma?”

“Yeah, if I tell everyone which ones to get me, then I can have them all.”

So Grandma’s… Get ready. He’ll be calling.

I’m just happy that he gets the same amout of joy I did when I was a kid. I’ll sign him up to get the Cabela’s catalogs too. Might as well get an early jump.

Marshmallows falling from the sky

We’ve been having some wonderful fal weather as of late. Call me nuts, but I like the wet, cold, overcast days of fall when most people want to be cuddled up in front of a fire or something. Today was kind of rough though.

“Daddy, come quick!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I couldn’t rush as well as I would have liked due to a sprained ankle and some other issues going on in my foot.

“Daddy, look!”

“What is it?”

“There are marshmallows falling from the sky?”

“What?” This I had to see.

Sure enough, there were puffy looking white lumps falling from the sky. Of course I knew that they weren’t marshmallows.

“That’s called hail, buddy.”

“Hail? What’s hail?”

“Hail is little pieces of ice that can fall like rain when the weather is really stormy.”

“Why is it hailing, Daddy?”

“It must be pretty nasty outside.”

“It’s not that bad out.”

That’s when I knew that the little guy takes after me. He likes the rainy nasty days just as much as I do.

Shortly there after, mom drove up the driveway and came inside the house.

“Mommy, Mommy! Marshmallows fell from the sky!”

“They did? Really?”

“No, it was just hail.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Marshmallows don’t fall from they sky Mom, they come fro the grocery store.”

The Great Reese’s Caper

Unlike most kids, the little guy only likes one kind of candy bar, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Anything else just makes him mad. For his birthday, he got a bag of the single snack size candy bars, and we let him have a couple. He was a happy boy.

The next day he didn’t want to eat. He instead tried diving back into the bag of candy bars. Can’t say as I blame him, but being the responsible type, I told him he was cut off.

“No candy bars until you eat a good lunch.”

“But I want them.”

“I know, but you need to eat real food first and then you can have ONE.” I stressed the “one” part heavily.

“Okay,” he said begrudgingly.

So I set the candy bar bag aside and made him a real lunch. He slowly but surely ate it while we watched cartoons. After lunch, I set off to doing some work while he played with the plethora of toys he got on his birthday.

A few moments later, I heard the bag rustle.

“Hey, I said no more candy bars!”

“You said I could have one.”

“Oh, that’s right. You can have one.”

“Thanks,” He said and I saw him take ONE from the bag. I then took the bag and put it in the cupboard.

I then went back to my project at hand which was the sink of dishes from the day before. A few minutes later the little guy came out with a ring of melted milk chocolate around his mouth.

“Will you please clean my face?”

“Sure thing buddy.” I grabbed a wash coth and wiped the chocolate from his face and hands. I then went back to finishing my task.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, I went into the living room and there he sat on the floor, toys in hand and a dark brown ring of suspicious material around his mouth.

“What’s that on your face?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Did you sneak a candy bar?”

“Nooooo.”

He couldn’t have snuck one. I would have seen him. I chose to wait and see what was going on. Sure enough a few moments later he got up and went to his room. I followed and found him going to a secret stash of candy bars he had hidden in his closet.

“Hey, why do you have hidden candy bars?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.”

“I just wanted them and you took the bag away.”

“So you stashed some in here before I did so you’d have candy bars when you want one?”

“Uh huh.”

I am in for a lot of trouble as he gets older.

Presents of mind

In a couple of days, my little guy will turn four years old. It seems like ony yesterday I was rushing my wife to the hospital to give birth to him and here he is turning four. He seems to understand that his birthday is coming up and he is getting very excited about it. Well, he is getting excited about parts of his birthday. Mostly the wrapped kind.

It started when we took him shopping and told him to show us what he would like for his birthday presents. He thoughtfully examined every toy in the toy department at Walmart, much to the shagrin of his parents.

“Let’s get this,” He said as he put the toy in the cart.

“Now, we’re not buying anything today. Just show us so we can get ideas.”

“But it’s my birthday.”

“It’s not your birthday yet.”

“Oh… But I’m a good boy.”

“I know you’re a good boy, but we’re not going to buy it today.”

“Okay.”

And with that, the discussion was over. I know, it shocked me too. This past weekend, we were planning on getting his present, but for some reason, we got it when he was with us. My wife thought we could sneak it in the cart.

“Hey, what’s that?”

“What is what?”

“That tractor… in our cart.”

“There’s a tractor in our cart?”

“Yeeeaaahh.”

“Must have fallen in by accident. I should put it back.”

“No, I want it.”

“But it isn’t your birthday yet.”

“But it is almost my birthday.”

Trying to hide it did no good. Burying it under other stuff did no good. He knew it was there and that it was a birthday present. He circled it like a hungry wolf looking at a sheep.

Wrapping it when we got home had little effect either.

“Is that my birthday present?”

“Yes, but you can’t have it until your birthday.”

“It’s a tractor.”

“I don’t know what it is. It is all wrapped up.”

“It’s a tractor and  I get to have it on my birthday.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“Daddy, is it my birthday yet?”

“Buddy, I’m not ready for it to be your birthday yet.”

Metal Head

Occasionally, my wife works from home. I like this because I get to see her more and the little guy likes it because Mommy is home too. I don’t think she is always prepared for how we spend our days though.

“I want to dance.”

“Okay, honey, I’ll turn on some music,” said Mom. She then turned the TV to the Siirus stations and left it on “Kids Music.”

“No, Mommy, not that!”

“Here, you keep working. I’ve got this one.” I jumped in and started turning it to the right station.

“What do you listen to for dancing?” I asked.

“Hair Nation.”

“What is Hair Nation?” My wife asked.

“Show her, Bubb…” And with that, he held up his pinky, thumb and forefinger and stuck his tongue out.

“Heavy metal?” she asked, slightly disgusted.

“This is my rocker face, Momma.”

“What are you teaching him?” she asked, the sounds of a Whitesnake song drifting through the living room.

“Can I help it if the kid has taste?”

The little guy set off bouncing around the living room and spinning in great circles to the beat of the music, only stopping occassionally to cure the onset of dizziness. The dogs ran for cover and the cat hid behind the couch.

“Are you still okay to work?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“He can’t usually dance for long. The dizziness gets to him after a few minutes and then he calms down.”

“How did he get to like this kind of music?”

“Came on the radio one day in the kitchen and he really liked it, so I put it on in here.”

“Great, one more thing he takes after you on.”

I just smiled.

I’m a big boy now

It was as if a switch had been thrown, or something. One day, he was my little boy who needed my help all the time. It all started with the potty. I remember it like it was Monday…

(This is the point where the image gets all wavy as we time travel back to see what transpired on Monday. Bet you didn’t know we could do that in a blog, eh?)

I was busy washing dishes, cooking dinner, doing a load of laundry, ironing my wife’s cloths, writing a story for the website, and teaching our son math and English. Yep, I was doing all that on Monday. That’s a typical Monday for me. I was definitely not sitting on my butt in my pajamas playing on Facebook. Nope. Too much to do.

“Daddy, I need a little bit of help here.”

“What’s wrong, big guy?”

“I need to go potty.”

“Well the light is on in the bathroom, you know what to do.”

“No, I need help with the other potty.”

“Do you need a pull up?” We had already tried to use the potty several times with no success. He had done his #2 business before in there, but was still unsure.

“No, I’m okay now.”

This is never really good. I know he had to go and didn’t want him to make a mess in his pants. Kids hate that.

About fifteen minutes later, he came running back to the office where I was, uhhh, folding laundry, yeah.

“Daddy, I did it.”

“Did what?”

“I pooped!”

“Where?” I thought I had a mess to clean up.

“In the potty!”

I had to see this for myself. Sure enough, he had used the potty. I was very happy and proud.

(Here comes the wavy stuff again. We’re flashing back to present day.)

So here it is Thursday and I’m, uh, cleaning the house and doing laundry again, or something. He has used the potty like a big boy all week. He is also drinking juice from juice boxes.

“Hey, do you want a cup of chocolate milk?”

“No.”

“You don’t want chocolate milk?”

“Daddy, I drink juice boxes now. I’m a big boy. I poop in the potty.”

Next thing I know, he’ll be borrowing the car.