Half a world apart

Though I know from our many years of marriage that he would prefer to spend next week pulling trout out of the Kootenai River, Mr. T has elected to make his sixteenth voyage to China tomorrow. His record at Old Company was five trips in one year (four of those trips occurred in four months). Fortunately, this will probably be his only trip this year now that he is at New Company, which still manufactures most of its products here. But he does have to make this one trip.

The Kid is at an age where he has affixed himself firmly to his dad, and resents any attempt at separation. This has gotten so bad recently that, when Mr. T leaves to go to work, The Kid has been known to fling himself onto the carpet, weeping. The Kid is the clownfish to Mr. T's anemone.

It's a unmistakable sign of the pettiness of my character that I am mildly pleased at this turn of the tables. When The Kid was a wee pup and reacted to my departures in the same way, Mr. T didn't really get how badly it sucked. Now he does. But this does present a problem for tomorrow's international trip, and as is customary, it's my job to deal with the fallout. So I've booked The Kid's favorite babysitter for Sunday and Monday, and then on Tuesday I am going to spend four hours on a plane so I can deposit The Kid with my mother, sit on the couch and press a cold cloth to my forehead. When I recover, I will execute my always carefully planned tour of favorite restaurants, accompanied by various home friends. The various members of my family will, each in their turn, annoy the living shit out of me. That is the routine. That is how it goes. It has been and ever will be thus.

My babysitter has agreed to superintend my ill-behaved herd of canines during my absence, which probably means she won't be speaking to me when I get back. The good news is that my mother actually got high-speed internet since my trip there in December. Which means that I might even blog.

For his part, Mr. T won't be too lonely. He and friend/commenter Tony, who has taken over Mr. T's former job, will find themselves in the same obscure south China city, in the same hotel, along with our Chinese friends O and P. It's almost enough to make me wish I could be there with them.

From Trailheadquarters

At dinner last night, the Kid said:

"I'm looking forward to turning six. So I can drive."

What's ten years to the DMV but a minor detail, really?

The Kid wants to know

Actual conversation tonight:

Mr. T: Sit down while you have a sucker in your mouth, please.

Kid [continues jumping around]: Why?

Mr. T: Because I choked on a sucker that way when I was little.

Kid: Did you die?

A traveler makes his way back home

From last week.

Dispatches from Stinkbug Ranch

You know how, on television and in popular culture generally, fathers are portrayed as benevolent doofuses when it comes to childcare and their wives are portrayed as sensible types who always have it together with respect to the kids? It's sort of an Everybody Loves Raymond model. That crap has always irritated me, and not just because it offends my feminist worldview. Even more fundamentally, I just don't recognize anyone I know in that model, least of all my own family.

Which would explain why I realized on Thursday night that my son had not bathed since Sunday. You see, my husband always does that, and he's been overseas since Monday. It just didn't occur to me until The Kid announced that afternoon that "hey-- my feet stink!" (He quickly backpedaled on this assertion when he realized he would have to take a bath without Daddy. Fortunately, his grandmother bribed him into the tub with some pumpkin soap.)

Patricia Heaton's character totally would have remembered to give her kid a bath. It seems I have become the benevolent doofus. I guess this means I have to grow a penis or get kicked out of the club.

The weather has been moody this week, as you can see from some of the photographs I've gotten. But I've stolen little bits of light here and there.

As for pictures, I offer you the main road:



Blogger won't let me upload the other two pictures of the gravel road up to the house, so to hell with it. I'll do that later.

Calgon, take me away

I'm having a rather rough day, and during the worst part, I actually googled "how to get kid to leave me alone" just to see what would pop up. This essay burbled up, and was like freshly split aloe on a sunburn, I tell ya. Reading that was a helluva lot better than perpetual self-flagellation for not being able to stop myself from yelling at my kid.

It's just sex, after all

Welp, I got the question tonight. The unvarnished, unadorned, completely straightforward, no wiggle-room question: But how do the mommies and daddies make the babies?

I need some time to consider how much information to give him, and in what way, so I dodged a bit. Fortunately, it was bedtime, so I did what I always do when he asks a question just before bed. I told him we'd look it up and discuss it the next day. I've heard some good things about certain books, which will at least help provide a framework for the explanation.

This topic doesn't freak me out, and I've made a practice of being somewhat matter-of-fact about these types of questions. What bums me out the most about this landmark is that I know he won't be able to keep this fascinating new information to himself. I can look forward to him discussing the nitty-gritty of baby-making with his classmates, teachers, my mother and the server at the next restaurant we patronize.

And then I'll have to tell him that's not a topic for public discussion, and then -- no pun intended here -- the seed has been planted. Sex is something mysterious and dark that freaks people out, just like death. (No honey, it's not really nice to tell your grandfather you thought most people died before they got to be as old as he is. I know he laughed. But really.)

Plus, my baby is growing up. Maybe that's what really tugs at me.

I call this the pull-it-out-of-your-ass phase

Actual conversation in the car tonight:

The Kid: Mommy?

Me: Yes?

The Kid: Do you want to make brown sugar mustache cookies?

Me: What are those?

The Kid: They're cookies that you make with brown sugar, and they're hard cookies, and if you eat them you'll never get sick, ever.

Me: Oh really?

The Kid: Yeah. And they're really big. But you can't eat too much, or you'll get sick. (Pausing to realize he just contradicted himself.) It's only if you eat a little bit that you'll never get sick. They have good sugar in them, not the kind that makes you hyper. You want to make them tonight? They're really, really yummy.

Me: I see. Have you ever had these cookies before?

The Kid: Yeah.

Me: Where?

The Kid: At the Logging Restaurant. You know what that is?

Me: What?

The Kid: A restaurant with logs on it. There are three. One in Montana, one in Portland, and one in...[thinks for a long time] Kalispell. [Of course, Kalispell is in Montana.]

Me: Huh.

The Kid: You guys have to try these cookies. They're yummy. Do you want to make them tonight?

Mr. T: Well, not tonight. It's bedtime when we get home.

The Kid: How about tomorrow? Do you want me to show you how to make them tomorrow? Because you both have to try them. They're super yummy.

Me: Yeah, sure.