Raggedy Andrew and Raggeda Anna
Halloween 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Five . . .
Ladies and Gentlemen, ten random facts before I go to bed.
Drum roll please . . . insert rim-shots as necessary.
Number Ten:
I just spent the last two hours making a red-yarn wig for Andrew’s Halloween costume. I do not look forward to making a second for Anna.
Number Nine:
The first three games of this year’s NFL season spoiled the remaining games for Bears fans everywhere. After all, the wise among us were fully prepared for a miserable season. Starting off 3 and 0 could not have been more damaging to our mental stability.
Numero Ocho:
Ocho means ‘eight’ in Spanish. Cinco means ‘five.’ Ocho-Cinco, however, does not translate to eighty-five. Sorry Chad . . .
Number Seven:
I seriously think I have some sort of mental deficiency related to remembering names. I spent almost thirty seconds this morning trying to remember my boss’s boss’s name. Don’t let the far-removed hierarchy fool you, I’ve used his name properly every day for the last month!
Number Five:
I also seem to have trouble counting backwards . . .
Number Six:
Mollie, Andrew and Anna are once again off gallivanting about the known universe. More specifically, they’re in Iowa. Some people quote a clever acronym regarding the residents of Iowa. I find the acronym to be three-quarters inaccurate . . . they very rarely “Out Wandering Around . . .”
Number Four:
Walter Payton, Nolan Ryan and Bo Jackson – eternal members of the uber-stud club. Did I miss anyone?
Number Three:
I have eleven bobble-head dolls in my study. When their teams play badly, they must turn and face the wall. Which reminds me, “Mr. Urlacher, about face . . . Don’t you argue with me now. I understand that you are playing well, but all your buddies up there on the shelf don’t even play for the Bears anymore and you don’t hear them complaining when I turn them around! This is a team effort. Don’t give me no lip, son.” . . . smack . . . bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble . . .
Number Two:
Yes, as my profile states, Taco is my favorite word.
(editor’s note: I double checked. My blog profile mentions tacos, but doesn’t say anything about them being my favorite. I really have no idea what online profile makes such a claim. It doesn’t make it any less true, though.)
And the number one random fact for Thursday, October 28, 2010 is:
The giddy laughter ensuing a proofread of numbers ten through two has made typing number one rather difficult. I should probably go to bed!
Drum roll please . . . insert rim-shots as necessary.
Number Ten:
I just spent the last two hours making a red-yarn wig for Andrew’s Halloween costume. I do not look forward to making a second for Anna.
Number Nine:
The first three games of this year’s NFL season spoiled the remaining games for Bears fans everywhere. After all, the wise among us were fully prepared for a miserable season. Starting off 3 and 0 could not have been more damaging to our mental stability.
Numero Ocho:
Ocho means ‘eight’ in Spanish. Cinco means ‘five.’ Ocho-Cinco, however, does not translate to eighty-five. Sorry Chad . . .
Number Seven:
I seriously think I have some sort of mental deficiency related to remembering names. I spent almost thirty seconds this morning trying to remember my boss’s boss’s name. Don’t let the far-removed hierarchy fool you, I’ve used his name properly every day for the last month!
Number Five:
I also seem to have trouble counting backwards . . .
Number Six:
Mollie, Andrew and Anna are once again off gallivanting about the known universe. More specifically, they’re in Iowa. Some people quote a clever acronym regarding the residents of Iowa. I find the acronym to be three-quarters inaccurate . . . they very rarely “Out Wandering Around . . .”
Number Four:
Walter Payton, Nolan Ryan and Bo Jackson – eternal members of the uber-stud club. Did I miss anyone?
Number Three:
I have eleven bobble-head dolls in my study. When their teams play badly, they must turn and face the wall. Which reminds me, “Mr. Urlacher, about face . . . Don’t you argue with me now. I understand that you are playing well, but all your buddies up there on the shelf don’t even play for the Bears anymore and you don’t hear them complaining when I turn them around! This is a team effort. Don’t give me no lip, son.” . . . smack . . . bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble . . .
Number Two:
Yes, as my profile states, Taco is my favorite word.
(editor’s note: I double checked. My blog profile mentions tacos, but doesn’t say anything about them being my favorite. I really have no idea what online profile makes such a claim. It doesn’t make it any less true, though.)
And the number one random fact for Thursday, October 28, 2010 is:
The giddy laughter ensuing a proofread of numbers ten through two has made typing number one rather difficult. I should probably go to bed!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
I Live a Normal Life
Like any good father, I have taken some time to teach my son about the finer things in life. And so it is that occasion will find the two of us, Wii remotes in hand, stomping Goombas and hurling turtle shells our futile quest to save Princess Peach. Not that we’ve enjoyed such frivolities lately. Being a working father leaves little time for the excesses of life, such as Mario, reading for pleasure and children.
Yet on the way home from work this Monday, I was struck with a strange urge to lock the children in a closet and indulge in a munchkinless night out with my wife. Finding all the closets full, I resorted to plan B, nearly exhausting my phone list before procuring a sitter. One trip across town to pick them up and a cooked package of macaroni and cheese later, my pleasantly surprised wife and I were off.
As freedom’s wind blew through our hair, we drove off into the night. Any destination was but a wish away. Movies, dinner, there was so much to choose from. With little to no discussion, I directed our car to our first date-night destination – Menards.
That’s right, with the entire town of Springfield at our beckon call, we could find no destination more alluring than a big-box hardware store. While that may be taken as a commentary on the night life in Illinois’ capitol city, I feel it is more a tale of our life less extraordinary. For the past three months, we have watched as our general contractor has managed a mere single step per week in his painstakingly slow process of building us a porch. Two weeks ago, they poured the front steps. Last week, he got prices for the railings. This week, he’s ordering the materials. Next week, he may get the wiring done and if we’re lucky, he may even install the railings the week after that . . . . . and that’s why our first stop as an unleashed couple was to stop at Menards. After all, picking out lighting fixtures for your front door is not a task that begs to be distracted by miniature humans.
Picking the lights we both liked may have been the easiest decision we have ever made. We found our way to the lighting displays, took two steps down the aisle, when both of us simultaneously pointed and exclaimed, “I like that one!” We were courteous enough to give our due our respect for the other suitors, but it was all show. Our minds were made up and our time at Menards was quickly over.
With Menards behind us, our night took on a more standard date-night feel. We enjoyed a quiet dinner at a fancy restaurant, followed by little boy underwear shopping at ShopKo. Hey, I never claimed to live a normal life . . . ahem.
But these are the things that make up our life. With Andrew finally beginning to understand the concept of staying dry (at least from Sunday morning until about half an hour ago Wednesday evening), we needed more than five pairs to allow the laundry to sit unmolested. And with his sudden understanding of, shall we say ‘when he needs to go’, I had little desire to tempt fate by having to put him back in pull-ups.
It’s amazing how suddenly Andrew seems to have changed his habits. Over the course of one day, he went from contentedly sitting in soggy bottoms to coming out of the bathroom having already done his business before even telling us he had to go. I guess sometimes things just click.
Speaking of clicking, Andrew accompanied me through the bank drive-up the other day. On a previous trip to the Wal-Mart pharmacy, I had tried to explain how there was a tube inside a pillar that took a box from me to . . . well, if you know what I mean, he didn’t. But as I pulled up to the bank, I noticed that the tube was visible. I showed Andrew the canister and explained how I would push a button and air would suck the canister up the tube. He listened intently, then interjected, “Like Mario goes down the tube!” I had to stop short and think about it . . . It was so simple and so beautiful. I answered the only way one possibly can when faced with such crystal clear childhood perception. “Yes, it’s exactly like Mario.”
Yet on the way home from work this Monday, I was struck with a strange urge to lock the children in a closet and indulge in a munchkinless night out with my wife. Finding all the closets full, I resorted to plan B, nearly exhausting my phone list before procuring a sitter. One trip across town to pick them up and a cooked package of macaroni and cheese later, my pleasantly surprised wife and I were off.
As freedom’s wind blew through our hair, we drove off into the night. Any destination was but a wish away. Movies, dinner, there was so much to choose from. With little to no discussion, I directed our car to our first date-night destination – Menards.
That’s right, with the entire town of Springfield at our beckon call, we could find no destination more alluring than a big-box hardware store. While that may be taken as a commentary on the night life in Illinois’ capitol city, I feel it is more a tale of our life less extraordinary. For the past three months, we have watched as our general contractor has managed a mere single step per week in his painstakingly slow process of building us a porch. Two weeks ago, they poured the front steps. Last week, he got prices for the railings. This week, he’s ordering the materials. Next week, he may get the wiring done and if we’re lucky, he may even install the railings the week after that . . . . . and that’s why our first stop as an unleashed couple was to stop at Menards. After all, picking out lighting fixtures for your front door is not a task that begs to be distracted by miniature humans.
Picking the lights we both liked may have been the easiest decision we have ever made. We found our way to the lighting displays, took two steps down the aisle, when both of us simultaneously pointed and exclaimed, “I like that one!” We were courteous enough to give our due our respect for the other suitors, but it was all show. Our minds were made up and our time at Menards was quickly over.
With Menards behind us, our night took on a more standard date-night feel. We enjoyed a quiet dinner at a fancy restaurant, followed by little boy underwear shopping at ShopKo. Hey, I never claimed to live a normal life . . . ahem.
But these are the things that make up our life. With Andrew finally beginning to understand the concept of staying dry (at least from Sunday morning until about half an hour ago Wednesday evening), we needed more than five pairs to allow the laundry to sit unmolested. And with his sudden understanding of, shall we say ‘when he needs to go’, I had little desire to tempt fate by having to put him back in pull-ups.
It’s amazing how suddenly Andrew seems to have changed his habits. Over the course of one day, he went from contentedly sitting in soggy bottoms to coming out of the bathroom having already done his business before even telling us he had to go. I guess sometimes things just click.
Speaking of clicking, Andrew accompanied me through the bank drive-up the other day. On a previous trip to the Wal-Mart pharmacy, I had tried to explain how there was a tube inside a pillar that took a box from me to . . . well, if you know what I mean, he didn’t. But as I pulled up to the bank, I noticed that the tube was visible. I showed Andrew the canister and explained how I would push a button and air would suck the canister up the tube. He listened intently, then interjected, “Like Mario goes down the tube!” I had to stop short and think about it . . . It was so simple and so beautiful. I answered the only way one possibly can when faced with such crystal clear childhood perception. “Yes, it’s exactly like Mario.”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
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Thursday, October 14, 2010
“Not to Go Back is Somewhat to Advance” - Alexander Pope
Efficiency has always been overrated, at least when it comes to watching a child grow up. Why else would parents long for the day their child learns to use a fork? Using one’s grubby little fingers is by far the most effective way to eat. Just ask any professional eater; you never see any of them wasting effort with time-consuming utensils. Why then do so many of us long for our children to use a spoon? No, of course it has nothing to do with the latter method being cleaner; no one has ever complained that a kid was making too much of a mess. Rather, I am firmly convinced the desire stems from an inherent understanding that efficiency is less important than a child’s ability to learn something new.
Take my little girl . . . please . . . Okay, I couldn’t resist borrowing that golden oldie, but as I type, ‘The Girl’ is upstairs in her crib, screaming as though she fears eternal internment within the confines of her crate-like prison. On a recent reprieve from her caged bed, she demonstrated a new-found ability. She cast off her antiquated form of mobility, namely army crawling about the house, and has since been moving about upon her hands and knees. I was so excited to see her ‘properly’ crawling that I got out the video camera to document this marvel. (I have even included a brief snippet for your enjoyment! You will find it beneath this post . . . but only if you read the whole thing!)
Yet this step forward, which I celebrated in the name of progress, came at a price. Her mastery of the army crawl was phenomenal; she could worm her way around the house faster than I could pick up the things she wasn’t supposed to be playing with. Her new skill, however, was a serious impediment upon her mobility. I was in awe of the flailing arms, knees, legs and elbows, all of which resulted in a painfully slow procession across the floor. There was a flurry of motion, yet very little movement. In fact, there were a couple times over then next few days when her pants were so slippery, she would flail about contentedly while failing to move even one inch! Despite my parental joy and wonder I had to ask myself, was this really a step in the right direction?
Other times, however, a child’s wisdom pushes through all the stubborn etiquettes we have engrained upon ourselves and cuts right to the chase. There is no beating about the bush, meandering of thought or lollygagging. (“You lollygag your way down to first. You lollygag in and out of the dugout. You know what that makes you? Larry!” “Lollygaggers!”) While an adult might tame their tongue and hold back a snide comment, a child’s insight has no use for such censorship.
And so it was as I was introduced to a friend of a child of a friend at Andrew’s third birthday party. A brief passing of pleasantries quickly revealed we lived on opposite sides of the Chicago sports world. I invited Andrew over to show off his trained response, “We don’t like the Cubs!” It was not to be. Childhood innocence and insight prevailed as I attempted my set-up. “Andrew, this is (yeah, I’m bad at remembering names, what are you gonna do about it?). He likes the Cubs.” His answer could not have been simpler. It could not have been more to the point. It was the true essence of efficiency. He looked up at the man before him and asked in honest earnest, “Why?”
Take my little girl . . . please . . . Okay, I couldn’t resist borrowing that golden oldie, but as I type, ‘The Girl’ is upstairs in her crib, screaming as though she fears eternal internment within the confines of her crate-like prison. On a recent reprieve from her caged bed, she demonstrated a new-found ability. She cast off her antiquated form of mobility, namely army crawling about the house, and has since been moving about upon her hands and knees. I was so excited to see her ‘properly’ crawling that I got out the video camera to document this marvel. (I have even included a brief snippet for your enjoyment! You will find it beneath this post . . . but only if you read the whole thing!)
Yet this step forward, which I celebrated in the name of progress, came at a price. Her mastery of the army crawl was phenomenal; she could worm her way around the house faster than I could pick up the things she wasn’t supposed to be playing with. Her new skill, however, was a serious impediment upon her mobility. I was in awe of the flailing arms, knees, legs and elbows, all of which resulted in a painfully slow procession across the floor. There was a flurry of motion, yet very little movement. In fact, there were a couple times over then next few days when her pants were so slippery, she would flail about contentedly while failing to move even one inch! Despite my parental joy and wonder I had to ask myself, was this really a step in the right direction?
Other times, however, a child’s wisdom pushes through all the stubborn etiquettes we have engrained upon ourselves and cuts right to the chase. There is no beating about the bush, meandering of thought or lollygagging. (“You lollygag your way down to first. You lollygag in and out of the dugout. You know what that makes you? Larry!” “Lollygaggers!”) While an adult might tame their tongue and hold back a snide comment, a child’s insight has no use for such censorship.
And so it was as I was introduced to a friend of a child of a friend at Andrew’s third birthday party. A brief passing of pleasantries quickly revealed we lived on opposite sides of the Chicago sports world. I invited Andrew over to show off his trained response, “We don’t like the Cubs!” It was not to be. Childhood innocence and insight prevailed as I attempted my set-up. “Andrew, this is (yeah, I’m bad at remembering names, what are you gonna do about it?). He likes the Cubs.” His answer could not have been simpler. It could not have been more to the point. It was the true essence of efficiency. He looked up at the man before him and asked in honest earnest, “Why?”
Annaliese Crawling Video
If it please the court, I would like to submit State's Evidence 'A': A video of the accussed allegedly crawling.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
P is for Puzzle
While it may not be a ‘giant leap for mankind,’ my little boy has once again surprised me with an evolutionary step forward, this time in his puzzle building skills.
I spent the last ten minutes watching just watching Andrew work. This was a puzzle that he and I had done before, but as far as I know, he’d only done it once. In fact, when I came downstairs and found him pulling the pieces out of the box, I had to suppress the urge to demand he put it away and wait until ‘I could help him with that puzzle.’ What else would a normal father think when he foresaw the impending mess? This wasn’t, after all, a small board puzzle with six to ten pieces. Twenty-four pieces was a quantity I would surely be finding scattered throughout the house over the next few months. But being the father I hope I am, I suppressed that thought and merely suggested he move to the coffee table for a flatter surface.
Which leads me off track for a short jaunt. What kind of father am I? Good or bad aside, I’m the guy who has no qualms about sending his three year old to daycare carrying an egg for ‘E’ show and tell. To my credit, though, I was smart enough to boil the egg before entrusting it to my, um, sure handed son. (My efforts were well rewarded a few days later when the egg’s younger brother filled the need of a quick breakfast.)
Back in the living room, Andrew had heeded my suggested relocation. During the few minutes I was gone, he had put two or three pieces together, having matched some of the more distinguishable features of the puzzle. While Boost and DJ had taken shape (anybody here think they’ve seen the movie ‘Cars’ more than Andrew?), the subtle connections between the remaining pieces seemed too tall a task for a three year old. I smugly perched myself on the couch, determined to let the upcoming struggle play out unimpeded.
As Andrew picked up and explored the pieces, he treated many of them as he has always done, taking a piece and trying every possible angle to make it fit before repeating the process with the next piece. But not every piece was managed with such brute force. Every once in a while, he would pick up a piece and try the right place and the right direction the first time. One such success was followed by a victorious exclamation, “The green matched!”
As I watched, I tried to follow the pieces he was moving about. Looking at the puzzle from an up-side-down point of view, I often found myself trying to mentally place the piece he was working with. More than once, I was still turning the piece in my mind as he was snapping it into place.
Having started with individual cars, Andrew soon found himself with two or three large sections. As is often the case for any puzzle maker, he had the left side of the puzzle on the right and the right side on the left. I knew this, but would he notice? I was still wondering about this when he started pushing all the remaining pieces to the far side of the table. A few moments later, he had managed to slide the two largest pieces around each other. He correctly tried to connect them, but one section fell apart as he tried to lift it. Undaunted, he patiently pieced them back together one by one until he proudly exclaimed, “Look what I did!” His puzzle was but a few pieces from being complete!
The last six pieces of the puzzle were probably the toughest. The bottom three were merely shades of gray and the other three were background pieces that didn’t have much to visually tie them to the rest of the puzzle. Understandably, the brute force method was again in use, that is, until he had fit two pieces into the bottom corner. He picked up a piece that I instantly knew belonged up top, and moved it towards the bottom section. Halfway there, he stopped and looked at it for a moment. He then put it down and grabbed the lone remaining gray piece to fit into the empty space.
The last three pieces went together with little hassle and my little boy, still staring at his work, raised his hands behind his head as a broad smile spread across his face. I cannot say that I’ve never been more proud of him, but I did find infinite delight in watching him accomplish something I thought was well beyond his capabilities.
Natural curiosity won over and I eventually checked the suggested ages for this 24 piece puzzle. Andrew just fit the bill, having crossed into the ages 3-7 category just one week earlier. That knowledge, though it did temporarily dash my hopes of retiring early in the wake of a prodigious offspring, did not dampen my spirits. I had witnessed my son using puzzle skills that went beyond the basic plug and chug, skills I and others had been attempting to teach him and up until now, he had failed to master.
This small success amongst the many achievements I have been privilege to witness gives me continuing hope that other lessons may someday find their way home. I anxiously await the first time I see him holding his crayon ‘the right way.’ I look forward to the day he responds to something with a logic that makes me stop and think. But right now, I am most looking forward to the day he again decides baths are something that should be taken without throwing a fit. Oh well. One small achievement at a time . . .
I spent the last ten minutes watching just watching Andrew work. This was a puzzle that he and I had done before, but as far as I know, he’d only done it once. In fact, when I came downstairs and found him pulling the pieces out of the box, I had to suppress the urge to demand he put it away and wait until ‘I could help him with that puzzle.’ What else would a normal father think when he foresaw the impending mess? This wasn’t, after all, a small board puzzle with six to ten pieces. Twenty-four pieces was a quantity I would surely be finding scattered throughout the house over the next few months. But being the father I hope I am, I suppressed that thought and merely suggested he move to the coffee table for a flatter surface.
Which leads me off track for a short jaunt. What kind of father am I? Good or bad aside, I’m the guy who has no qualms about sending his three year old to daycare carrying an egg for ‘E’ show and tell. To my credit, though, I was smart enough to boil the egg before entrusting it to my, um, sure handed son. (My efforts were well rewarded a few days later when the egg’s younger brother filled the need of a quick breakfast.)
Back in the living room, Andrew had heeded my suggested relocation. During the few minutes I was gone, he had put two or three pieces together, having matched some of the more distinguishable features of the puzzle. While Boost and DJ had taken shape (anybody here think they’ve seen the movie ‘Cars’ more than Andrew?), the subtle connections between the remaining pieces seemed too tall a task for a three year old. I smugly perched myself on the couch, determined to let the upcoming struggle play out unimpeded.
As Andrew picked up and explored the pieces, he treated many of them as he has always done, taking a piece and trying every possible angle to make it fit before repeating the process with the next piece. But not every piece was managed with such brute force. Every once in a while, he would pick up a piece and try the right place and the right direction the first time. One such success was followed by a victorious exclamation, “The green matched!”
As I watched, I tried to follow the pieces he was moving about. Looking at the puzzle from an up-side-down point of view, I often found myself trying to mentally place the piece he was working with. More than once, I was still turning the piece in my mind as he was snapping it into place.
Having started with individual cars, Andrew soon found himself with two or three large sections. As is often the case for any puzzle maker, he had the left side of the puzzle on the right and the right side on the left. I knew this, but would he notice? I was still wondering about this when he started pushing all the remaining pieces to the far side of the table. A few moments later, he had managed to slide the two largest pieces around each other. He correctly tried to connect them, but one section fell apart as he tried to lift it. Undaunted, he patiently pieced them back together one by one until he proudly exclaimed, “Look what I did!” His puzzle was but a few pieces from being complete!
The last six pieces of the puzzle were probably the toughest. The bottom three were merely shades of gray and the other three were background pieces that didn’t have much to visually tie them to the rest of the puzzle. Understandably, the brute force method was again in use, that is, until he had fit two pieces into the bottom corner. He picked up a piece that I instantly knew belonged up top, and moved it towards the bottom section. Halfway there, he stopped and looked at it for a moment. He then put it down and grabbed the lone remaining gray piece to fit into the empty space.
The last three pieces went together with little hassle and my little boy, still staring at his work, raised his hands behind his head as a broad smile spread across his face. I cannot say that I’ve never been more proud of him, but I did find infinite delight in watching him accomplish something I thought was well beyond his capabilities.
Natural curiosity won over and I eventually checked the suggested ages for this 24 piece puzzle. Andrew just fit the bill, having crossed into the ages 3-7 category just one week earlier. That knowledge, though it did temporarily dash my hopes of retiring early in the wake of a prodigious offspring, did not dampen my spirits. I had witnessed my son using puzzle skills that went beyond the basic plug and chug, skills I and others had been attempting to teach him and up until now, he had failed to master.
This small success amongst the many achievements I have been privilege to witness gives me continuing hope that other lessons may someday find their way home. I anxiously await the first time I see him holding his crayon ‘the right way.’ I look forward to the day he responds to something with a logic that makes me stop and think. But right now, I am most looking forward to the day he again decides baths are something that should be taken without throwing a fit. Oh well. One small achievement at a time . . .
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Andrew's Third Birthday
I could not in good conscience post this week's Sunday Best without little background information. Last Saturday, we celebrated Andrew's third birthday at a The Pizza Machine. Why we might choose to have a party for 25 people there should be apparent when you consider this first picture. I call it "Wait until you see the pizza for my fourth birthday!"
The second photo is really the one that needs the explanation. You see, I have established a household policy that my children are free to choose their own favorite sports player. While the Blackhawks were busy winning last year's Stanley Cup, when I asked who his favorite hockey player was, he would turn the question back on me. I refused to answer until he chose one for himself. When he eventually chose Antti Niemi as his favorite, I let him in on mine, Jonathan Toews.
Andrew's decision on a favorite football player was a bit of a traumatic family experience. Part of the policy I created comes with the understanding that while favorite player is a free choice, my children’s favorite team is genetically passed from father to son (or daughter). So when a recently two year old Andrew chose Brett Favre as his favorite, the struggle began to distinguish between favorite player and favorite team. (I've received surprisingly little help in this endeavor from Mollie's Minnesota relatives.)
The rule has since been amended to allow a second favorite team, but Andrew is slowly learning that genetics will always win out in a head to head battle. We went to a Braves game while we were in Atlanta. About a month later, we caught a Sox vs. Braves game up in Chicago. Andrew was properly taught that he could like the Braves, but we wanted them to lose when ever they played the White Sox.
As Andrew's third birthday approached, Mollie decided he had enough toys and that clothing was what she wanted to get him. She looked for a miniature Blackhawks jersey, but couldn't find one. The second piece of clothing she sought caused a bit of a stir. I had to bring myself to terms with my own rulings; Mollie wanted to get Andrew a Brett Favre jersey. After much debate, I decided that the jersey was allowed under the household ruling because denying it based on the team logo would negate the freedom of choice I had willed to Andrew. In writing this, I think I've come to the understanding that I might allow an Atlanta Braves jersey, but in the case of team rivals, only a favorite player's number will be allowed under my roof. (It goes without saying that Andrew is unequivocally banned from choosing or wearing anything related to the Chicago Cubs.)
Now that I feel I have fully explained myself, I will share the picture. The jersey is actually an ancillary part of the photo; my sister requested a picture of the birthday cake!
The second photo is really the one that needs the explanation. You see, I have established a household policy that my children are free to choose their own favorite sports player. While the Blackhawks were busy winning last year's Stanley Cup, when I asked who his favorite hockey player was, he would turn the question back on me. I refused to answer until he chose one for himself. When he eventually chose Antti Niemi as his favorite, I let him in on mine, Jonathan Toews.
Andrew's decision on a favorite football player was a bit of a traumatic family experience. Part of the policy I created comes with the understanding that while favorite player is a free choice, my children’s favorite team is genetically passed from father to son (or daughter). So when a recently two year old Andrew chose Brett Favre as his favorite, the struggle began to distinguish between favorite player and favorite team. (I've received surprisingly little help in this endeavor from Mollie's Minnesota relatives.)
The rule has since been amended to allow a second favorite team, but Andrew is slowly learning that genetics will always win out in a head to head battle. We went to a Braves game while we were in Atlanta. About a month later, we caught a Sox vs. Braves game up in Chicago. Andrew was properly taught that he could like the Braves, but we wanted them to lose when ever they played the White Sox.
As Andrew's third birthday approached, Mollie decided he had enough toys and that clothing was what she wanted to get him. She looked for a miniature Blackhawks jersey, but couldn't find one. The second piece of clothing she sought caused a bit of a stir. I had to bring myself to terms with my own rulings; Mollie wanted to get Andrew a Brett Favre jersey. After much debate, I decided that the jersey was allowed under the household ruling because denying it based on the team logo would negate the freedom of choice I had willed to Andrew. In writing this, I think I've come to the understanding that I might allow an Atlanta Braves jersey, but in the case of team rivals, only a favorite player's number will be allowed under my roof. (It goes without saying that Andrew is unequivocally banned from choosing or wearing anything related to the Chicago Cubs.)
Now that I feel I have fully explained myself, I will share the picture. The jersey is actually an ancillary part of the photo; my sister requested a picture of the birthday cake!
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