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.