Polo the Goat

"Mom, I'm going to tell you a story," said Ian as we started our walk.

This ought to be good, I thought. The tale that follows is more or less what came out of Ian's mouth as we walked from our apartment to his school, crossing the park which was littered with leaves, and bundled against an uncomfortable pre-winter breeze. Mom edited (only slightly) for some continuity in the story, but it's basically his.

Polo the Goat
by Ian
Polo the Goat lived in Manhattan with his brother, his sister and his baby. He also had a Mommy and a Papa. They lived in a big, green house that was next door to a church.

Polo had a bedroom that he shared with his brother and his sister. They slept in a bunk bed that had three beds on top of each other. It was a three bed bunk bed. Polo didn't jump on it [Ed. note: No, I'm sure he didn't]. Polo's baby slept in the bedroom with Mommy and Papa.

Polo was six years old. His brother was five and his sister was four. [Ed. Note: Boy, that Mommy goat was awfully busy.] Polo never hit them, he was always nice. Also, Polo never cried because he was already six.

Polo went to a big boy school and liked all his friends and liked everything he did in school. When he wasn't in school, Polo liked to go swimming. He didn't need to take swimming lessons because he was a very good swimmer. He didn't need any help.

Other times, because Manhattan was next to Spain, Polo went to Spain. He walked first to his car, then drove his car to the airport, then got in a plane, then flew to Spain. He liked to be in Spain with the other goats there. Polo had a goat family in Spain that he liked to visit.

One day, Polo would be 38 years old like his Mommy Goat, but for now he's going to finish being six, because 38 is too old for a goat.

[Editor's Note: Before agreeing to publish the above, the Editor checked for "Polo the Goat" on Google and Amazon. She wondered if there were any stories about Polo already. It appears not (though if you find some, please let the Editor know). The search, however, did lead the Editor to information about an ancient Asian sport, still played in Afghanistan, called Dead Goat Polo, in which the game is played with a headless dead goat instead of a ball. The Editor is not making this up. (Thanks, Dave Barry.)]

The Food Pyramid We Would Wish For

"Mom, if I eat candy I'll have big muscles, right?" Ian asks from under his umbrella, barely audible to me as we trudge through the rain. I'm sure I didn't hear that right and ask again. Yep, candy = muscles. Don't we wish.

"Well, Ian, actually you get muscles when you eat protein."

"What is protein?"

"Protein is a, um (I'm searching...), a nutriet that's in certain foods, in meat. Chicken has protein."

"I love protein!" he says. "Mom, can I have some protein chicken tonight?"

Papa made some homemade chicken nuggets on Sunday before leaving on his business trip this week and Ian loves them (and yes, my husband does have a brother, but unfortunately he's also married. Sorry girls.)

There are wet leaves all over the sidewalk as we head through Brando's park (see the first post). Logically, Ian says, "Mom, if the leaves ate protein they'd have big muscles, too, right?"

"I guess they would, Ian, sure," I say, splashing as I walk. The hand I'm using to hold Ian's with is soaked from the elbow down.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Does macaroni and cheese have protein?"

Don't we wish. Splash, splash, splash...

Cake and Copters

Yesterday, while his younger brother took a nap (an unusual moment of calm in our apartment), Ian assembled a Lego helicopter with his Papa. But this wasn't any old Lego helicopter: it had tiny rubber antennae that could attach to a single node of any brick, doors that folded up and down, and complicated joint pieces that allowed other pieces to move. I didn't pay much attention. After all, this was clearly a toy designed for father-son time. After about 30 minutes, actually, it seemed a toy designed solely for father time as Papa became engrossed in perfecting the helicopter's assembly. But Ian was observing his father carefully all that time, so on the way to school today, I got an earful about helicopter design.

"So, Ian, tell me about the helicopter you built with Papa."

"It's cool, Mom."

Of course. I had no doubt. "So how does it work?"

"It has these flat parts that go around and keep it up. What are they called, Mom?"

"Propellers?" I ask.

"No, Mom, these other things, these flat things?" he asks, with both palms up and a perplexed and insistent expression on his face. You must know this, Mom.

"I don't know, Ian. That's my best guess. Does your helicopter have a man inside?" I asked.

"It has two mans. It has one who drives and one who jumps."

"Oh, a jumper. That is cool. Where does he jump?"

"He jumps down in the water but he's inside this little thing and so the shark can't get him."

A shark? This was sounding more and more like that climactic scene in Jaws when the helicopter coming to rescue Chief Brody and the kids is gobbled up - rotors, pilot and all - by the giant fish.

"What thing is he inside of? Is it a pod?"

"Yea, it's a pod, yea." He clearly had no idea what a pod was, but was glad to have the new word in his vocabulary, as it figured prominently in the rest of his narrative.

"Yea, he's in a pod and so he stays there and the shark can't get him. The pod has windows, so he can see the shark, but it can't get him. (Just in case I missed that point.) And the man driving the helicopter goes up and up and doesn't fall down." Yes, I knew, that was thanks to the unnamed propeller-like things that were not propellers.

"Ian, if you had one in real life, would you have a helicopter that was big and slow (I'm imagining Platoon-like transport choppers) or small and fast (I'm thinking Miami Vice, with that 80s percussion playing as it skims low over the azure water of south Florida)?"

"I'd have one that is big and fast!" he says, triumphantly, skipping towards the crosswalk.

Of course he would. Wouldn't we all? Next lesson: why you can't have your copter and eat it, too.

Dear Superman,

We had to stop by the mailbox on our block this morning to drop in a movie that Mom and Dad had rented from Netflix. There was a large, white-haired dog (our neighbor's dog actually) tied up outside the post office, looking hungrily at Ian as we came closer. Ian managed to become one with my right leg as we slinked past him, and Ian, relieved, said, "Mom, he didn't eat me because he was waiting for his mommy." My, don't Mommies prevent all manner of disaster.

After dropping our movie in the mailbox, I explained to Ian that with a mailbox he could write a letter and send it anywhere in the world, and he said... "Yeah!! Even Batman could write a letter and send it to Superman!" This would be the letter, as dictated by Ian on our way to school:


Dear Superman:

Hi. I'd like to play with you. Can you play? I think we should play and watch TV. But first, you have to eat your dinner. Then you have to put on your Batman clothes. Then you have to brush your teeth. Then we can play and watch TV. See you later.

Batman


I learned that Superman and Batman also have addresses. Batman lives on 46 Street and Superman lives on 46-7 street. "You mean 47 street?" I asked. No, it's actually a street called 46-7. Ian had Batman riding his rocket ship over to Superman's place until he realized the proximity of those addresses to each other and said, "I guess Batman could just walk over there."

And how would Superman get over to Batman's if they wanted to play there. Disgust and impatience from Ian. Why was it so hard for Moms to catch on? "Mom, Superman has a caappp, he can fly there."

"You mean a cape?" I asked. No, a cap.

And poor Spiderman doesn't even figure into the play date planning. Maybe he's waiting for his Mommy, too.

Ker-Chow!

Today, every parent's perennial fear: I was tested to the point of not knowing the answers this morning, and it sent me to Wikipedia immediately upon dropping Ian at school.

What did I not know the answer to? I did not know the name of the little blue car, who was Lightning's girlfriend in Radiator Springs, in the movie Cars. He was carrying her in his pocket on the way to school and planned to show all his friends, and I didn't know her name.

I also did not know the name of the blue car with the big fins who always wins the races. You know, Mom, the Dinoco guy. Wasn't that his name, I thought, "Dinoco Guy?" (I'd never make it in Hollywood.)

I also did not know the name of the police car, though I thought I did, commencing a small argument between Ian and I as to whether or not his name was Doc. I was sure it was Doc. He was sure Doc was the name of the green car in the opening race, which I was sure was Chick something or other.

Having had the movie on so many times at home, I was mildly concerned by the lack of attention I seemed to have been paying. But thankfully, Wikipedia has helped me fill in the gaps, and then some:

Lightning's girlfriend was named Sally Carrera, a royal blue 2002 Porsche 911 Carrera. Little Known Facts: Aside from being the town's lawyer, Sally also runs the Cozy Cone Motel, and she and Lightning later opened the Wheel Well Motel (when was this happening?). In the UK cars magazine Top Gear, Sally was named one of the top 10 sexiest cars in the World. California license plate 301PCE.

The car with the blue fins who always wins the races was - ah, of course! - Strip "The King" Weathers. Little Known Facts: The King's car is based on NASCAR veteran Richard Petty's 1970 Plymouth Superbird, and also bears Richard Petty's number 43. The voice is also done by none other than Richard Petty.

Then, I'm thinking, who was "Doc?" He was not the green car in the opening race, who was called Chick Hicks (Ah-HA!), but he was also not the cop, who seems to have just been called "Sheriff" (that's the best they could come up with?).

In a section of the Wikipedia entry for Cars called "Radiator Springs Populace", I read that Doc is currently a doctor (apparently a doctor of internal combustion) as well as the town's judge as well as a washed up racer from old Piston Cup Days. Little Known Facts: Doc holds the record for most wins in a single season- 27 in 1952. His car is based on the real Hudson Hornet driven by NASCAR racers Herb Thomas and Marshall Teague. And the voice is done by Paul Newman (I didn't know this, but I'm probably the only one.)

As the wealth of factoids goes on and on... I scroll around and look for some bits on my favorite character, Luigi ("Luigi follow only the Ferraris"):


His Voice: Tony Shaloub

His Car: 1959 Fiat 500 ragtop

His Moment: When a real-life Ferrari comes into his shop, voice done by Formula 1 star Michael Schumacher (really!?)

His License Plate: 445-108, which is the latitude and longitude of the Ferrari factory in Modena, Italy


Man, this movie is deep. Ker-chow!

Spiderman Dethroned

To be honest, as the mother of two boys and a house full of superhero character pajamas, I never thought I'd hear the day when any disparaging word would be uttered against our dear, ever-present Spidey, but today was the day.

As we cross the street in front of our apartment building, Ian solemnly informs me that "Batman is more badder than Spiderman." (Boy, do we have some work to do on the grammar. I correct him - "worse" - and he gives me a look like - "yeah, more badder").

Curious, I probe as to why. It turns out there are a plethora of reasons, and any aficionado of superheros would have seen this coming. First, Batman can fly and Spiderman can't, he only has this web thingy that he shoots out from his hand. Ding. Second, Batman can run super, super fast and Spiderman can't, he can only swing around (visualize Ian spinning his arm violently in circles above his head) on the aforementioned web. Ding. Third, Batman has a car, Spiderman doesn't (Mom thought of this one; Ian is shocked that he didn't come up with it). Ding. Fourth, and perhaps most important, Batman has a cape and - you see where this is going - Spidey only has that skin-tight webby underwear, head to toe Speedos, and nothing more. Big ding.

As we cross the park contemplating the many detractions we have lodged at Spiderman, I watch the tangled tuft of fine blond hair on the back of Ian's head as he looks straight down at his shoes. Red lights are blinking energetically with every step, the shiny black sneaker pleather beaming, and visible on the top and both sides are tiny red spiders casting webs over his arch, heel and across his toes. I can hear his thoughts clearly: how could I have ever left the house with these shoes on? So begins years of affronts to one's coolness that Ian will have to endure, but he seemed to handle it well. No demands to turn back for home to find the Batman shoes, which we don't have, but are now on my shopping list.

Animal cannibals

We head out, Ian handing me a small plastic tiger that he instructs me to keep in my pocket. I do so. He's carrying a large plastic tiger and he keeps it out, hopping it through the door frame of our apartment, into the elevator, out onto the sidewalk with an energetic pounce. I'm hoping he's not expecting the same out of my small one. My imagination leaves a little to be desired when there are witnesses around.

"Mom, you have a baby tiger and I have a mommy one."

He continues: "But mommy tigers don't eat their babies or the babies would cry."

Wha? My mind races: where did I do or say something that would make him think about mothers eating their babies and babies crying? What is he going to tell his teacher? Honestly, I'm still ruminating on this question as I write this hours later. To do at home: search all books, videos, TV programming for content about mothers eating babies. It can't possibly have come from me.

In Case of Emergency, Break Glass (or a Trident Wrapper)

Today, tears. I don't want to go to school! I don't want to go to school! He throws his head back while we walk, face tearstained, his pleas rising to the heavens. I'm not really caring about anything at the moment except my 9:30 meeting. Have I told people where we're meeting (have I even booked a room in the corporate maze of meeting rooms?) Do I need to prepare anything? Why didn't I think about preparing anything yesterday? Will I be on time? Who do I need to Blackberry if I'm late? My arm is yanked half out of its socket and I focus again on the agony of my first-born.

"Ian, c'mon, this isn't fun for Mom," I plea on my own. I don't know why I think this should carry any weight with him, but I plea anyway. I'm sure that there is a chapter in some parenting book somewhere in which "seeking sympathy from your child" is in some kind of "don't" column.

I sit him down under a tree to calm him down. He heaves and cries and gasps some more. Strategy, strategy, I need a strategy. I go into my purse. What's there that could be a distraction? I dig out my last piece of Trident. "Ian, do you want some gum?"

Sudden calm. "Sure," he says, as if he hadn't been close to self mutilation a mere 30 seconds before in a last-ditch attempt to avoid school.

He pops it in his mouth and smiles broadly (is he kidding me?). He carefully folds up the empty paper, opens his coat pocket and tucks the paper away for later. I taught him to do this so he wouldn't hold out the chewed up gum and expect the palm of my hand to be a permanent depository for it. I was so proud. My child can now dispose of his own gum, if it occurs to him not to swallow it, which it usually doesn't, but we're getting there.

Birthday Dinosaurs

When we walk today we talk about his friend Katie's upcoming birthday party. "What do you think she would like as a present?" I ask.

Contemplation from his end. Then:

"A dinosaur!!" he says, and jumps in the air as the idea comes to him, still holding onto my hand as it pumps and waggles up and down, attached to his.

I decide, against my better judgment, to enter into a debate on this one.

"Are you sure she would like that? What about a doll or something?" I'm a little sorry about reinforcing girl and boy stereotypes, but figure it helps my argument, so let it go.

"No way, mom. Girls like dinosaurs, Mom, sometimes they really do like them."

"What kind of dinosaur?"

"I think a T-Rex, a REALLY BIG ONE! She don't like little dinosaurs." (We're working on the verb tenses still...)

"Is it a mommy dinosaur or a baby one?"

"It's a mommy one, a big mommy one."

And with this point, he looks ahead very satisfied and I follow, deciding he'd won. Maybe they do.

School Days

My son, Ian, is 4 years old and he just started pre-school. I walk him to school almost every morning, and while this started as a bit of a chore on the to-do list of never-ending to-dos, I have started to discover that both he and I are different people during that 15 minutes. I am not the disciplinarian Mom and he is (mostly, we'll see if it holds up) not the mercurial and whiny pre-schooler.

Our walk is brief, but long enough for some laughs and nuggets of wisdom, mainly from him. On a historical note, our walks take us through a park in the center of Hoboken that was the setting for a scene between Eva Marie Saint and Marlon Brando in the movie "On The Waterfront", and as we cross the street to approach his school, Frank Sinatra's high school stands nearby on the edge of the park. The park hasn't changed very much since Brando's walk there - the trees are large and leafy, large green-painted iron lamposts line the sidewalk and here and there someone is lounging on a bench watching the commuters. Even during "rush hour."

A few weeks ago, on our first day out, a quiz on seasons:

"Ian, what season is it?"

"I don't know," he says.

"It's Fall - what happens in Fall?"

Silence, and just as I'm about to help, he blurts out - "The leaves fall down!"

Then a follow-up question from him (this is usually the best part): "Mom, who puts the leaves back?"

I explain how the leaves change colors, fall and blow away, and in the Spring new green ones come out. He looks at me disbelieving.

"You watch," I say. He squeezes my hand and we cross the street together.