Nutty

Okay, I'd been warned. Kiddies Northern Preschool is a Nut Aware Environment.

But, being the carefree, devil-may-care rebel that I am . . . I sent my son to school with Ritz cracker cheese sandwich snacky things. And you know, at the grocery store, when I bought them, I even checked to make sure they were the cheese variety and not the peanut butter ones. I try to be a good Nut Aware kinda guy.

But yesterday, when I picked up Sonwun from preschool, he announced that his cracker snacks were still in his Lightning McQueen lunch box. Oh, said I, didn't you like them?

"They have peanut butter in them," he said.

"What?????!!! Who told you that?"

"Teacher."

Well, was I embarrassed. Clearly I'd read the package wrong. Coulda sworn it said "Crackers with Real Cheese" on the front. No mention of the peanut butter.

So . . . we got home. I opened the lunch box. Taped to the offending snack food was a note, printed on Caution Orange paper.

"DUE TO LIFE THREATENING ALLERGIES WE CANNOT OPEN THIS SNACK AT PRESCHOOL THIS PRODUCT CONTAINS NUTS OR IS MADE IN A FACTORY THAT CONTAINS NUTS.

THANKS FOR YOUR COOPERATION
KIDDIES NORTHERN PRESCHOOL STAFF"

Yeah, it was in all capital letters. Kinda like they were yelling at me. At least they didn't write "Yo, butthead. Thanks for the ticking time bomb you thoughtlessly lobbed into the middle of a group of preschoolers. Nice move, you insensitive turd."

So, I took a closer look at the ol' time bomb from the good folks at Christie. I looked at the label: Yup. Crackers with Real Cheese. I looked at the substance between the crackers. Yup. Cheese. Orange in colour. I looked at the ingredients . . . no mention of peanuts, peanut butter or peanut oil.

And then, there it was, in tiny red print: "WARNING: MAY CONTAIN TRACE AMOUNTS OF PEANUTS."

Okay, fine, I screwed up. I sent my son to preschool with a snack that may contain trace amounts of peanuts. But, to be fair, I had no idea I'd committed this crime. And I simply do not have time at the grocery store to seek out the fine print on every product I buy.

I had no idea that this peanut allergy thing was so strict. I mean, seriously? Because peanuts are present at a factory, the snack is forbidden? Seems like we've gone a little overboard here.

I suspect that half the kids who show up at school on any given day "may contain trace amounts of peanuts." Toast and peanut butter for breakfast . . . unless a post-breakfast chemical decontamination is part of your daily routine, odds are pretty good your kid "may contain trace amounts of peanuts." I'll suggest slightly more than trace amounts on some of the less hygiene-inclined kids.

But, you know, even if I manage to get every trace of peanut butter off Sonwun before school, I can't escape the fact the HE was "made in a factory that contains peanuts."

Oh well, live and learn. I am now more nut aware.

Have a great Friday.

A Note from Preschool

I am bringing fruit. Or so I've been told.

Last week when I went to pick up Sonwun from preschool, one of the teachers walked up and handed me a note. I was a little worried about opening it, as the previous week, a teacher came and told me Sonwun had earned his first "time out" at preschool. Proud moment.

So I opened the note:

"It is your turn to provide a snack for our upcoming party. Please be sure to read all labels and prepare food carefully as we have a number of children with severe allergies. Thank you in advance for your contribution. Each class has 20 children. You are asked to bring (and then hand-written) fruit."

Okay, he hasn't been expelled. Good.

After reading the note, I had a couple of quick questions. First one being, when is the party? Second: What are we celebrating? Superbowl? Louis Riel Day? (Don't get me started). Ground Hog Day? Our Fourth Freakin' Month of Winter? WinterFest in Thompson? A birthday? The really dumb kid got his driver's licence?

I was told the party is Thursday, but I forgot to ask what we're celebrating. But I guess with fruit, it really doesn't matter. I'm not cutting cantaloupe in the shape of a groundhog or a traitor.

I suspect, but am not sure, that they gave "daddy" fruit because it's easy. Which is fine with me. Sure, I could have baked a cake (oh, it's for Valentine's Day by the way) and it would have been great. But they gave me fruit. Kind of like when you're the only guy at the office pot luck and they ask you to bring "buns" or "chips." You're a man, you're incapable of cooking. Meh, whatever.

Anyhoo, rather than spend an afternoon cutting fruit, I'm probably just gonna pick up a fruit tray at Safeway. Maybe 2. How much fruit will 20 kids eat anyway?

I have set up my computer to send me an email on Wednesday afternoon to remind me, on Thursday morning to remind me again and an alarm will sound half an hour before preschool, to remind me one more time.

When you mess with my routine, I get confused. And with the truck out of commission, things are already a little messed up. But I think I've got it covered. I will bring fruit.

Have a great Tuesday.

Stupid People Give me Gas

Well Happy Tuesday.

And Tuesday means . . . anyone? Right, preschool for Sonwun. You're learning the schedule.

Anyhoo, I will admit dropping him off makes me just a little tense. And it's not because I think he's going to have any problems or not enjoy himself. It's the temporary parking that we preschool parents must employ for drop-off and pick-up.

It's really not complicated. I would guess there are about 15 vehicle-sized spaces in the little roundabout area near the preschool door. Everyone must park on the right, as there is not sufficient room for parking on both sides. And there are about 25 students in preschool. So yeah, generally there are more cars than spaces, but it usually works out okay as parents arrive and depart at different times in the 10-minute drop-off window.

Now I should point out that stupid people give me gas, migraines, occasional sleeplessness, hammer toe, pain when standing, runny discharge, pain when sitting and a tendency toward violent thoughts. And there are a few stupid people on this planet.

I almost ran into one last week while attempting to park, but I didn't want to dent the truck. I was pulling in to the preschool roundabout and noticed there was one big space left, between two trucks, with plenty of room for two more cars; three if we packed 'em in tight. As I pulled in, there was one white car ahead of me. No problem.

The driver of this white car, however, decided that the best place to park would be right smack in the middle of the remaining space, leaving not quite enough room for one more vehicle in front of her and not quite enough room for one more vehicle behind her. We're talking dead centre.

I stopped myself just (and I mean just) short of unleashing a string of words that my four-year-old son need not be familiar with, stopped, and just stared as this large woman struggled to free herself from her vehicle, gathered her child and clomped off toward the school.

Now I realize it was partly my mood, but it just really pissed me off. And it nearly caused a stroke when she did the exact same thing at 3:15, pick-up time, after preschool. Fortunately, at that time, there were other spaces available.

My point? I don't have one. It's just what's on my mind this morning.

Have a great day!

Artistic Evolution II

So it's official. Sonwun has entered the system. He is now colouring inside the lines . . . or at least he's making the attempt. Or is he?

Throughout his art career, he has never been one to follow in the footsteps of others. He's a trailblazer. He makes his own lines and then promptly colours through them. He cuts paper with scissors not, as society demands, to create realistic representations. No, he cuts with wild abandon and then, and only then, decides what he has created.

"The Beaver"

But it all seems to be changing. Yesterday, he came home with three objets d'art. The first two made my heart stop. The most horrifying piece was "The Beaver." With construction paper as the mileu, Sonwun had correctly assembled, and glued, the pre-cut pieces. The eyes, the ears, the nose and the teeth were all present, relatively symmetrical and, worst of all, there was not an abundance of glue. It was clear that another hand was at work in this piece. My faith was mildly restored, however, when I noted Sonwun had chosen two different eye colours for his beaver. The artist was alive, but clearly on life support!

"Color these things that are purple"

The second work "Color (WHY ARE WE USING AMERICAN SPELLING?????) these things that are purple," opened a window to the mind-controlling, art-killing techniques of preschool. It was clear that Sonwun had been asked to monochromatically decorate five objects; grapes, a flower, a skirt, a dinosaur and, I'm gonna say a plum.

And it was clear that he'd been pressured to stay within the lines. Sure, there were some feeble efforts at self-expression as he snuck outside the societal norms with his purple crayon, but it was clear that he was losing the battle. And to make matters worse, there was a "Making Progress" sticker at the top. A reward, if you will, for following suit, for falling in line, for taking orders and executing them to meet another person's world view.

But the final and most telling work, "Teddy Bear," renewed my hope and my faith that Sonwun had not entirely caved. To the uneducated critic, it looks like a standard preschool teddy bear art project. The bear, again assembled from pre-cut construction paper shapes, is mounted on a brown paper plate. Almost all of the elements are in their anatomically correct locations. But I see the subtleties, the rebellion and the free spirit that marked Sonwun's earlier works in dot-to-dotism and scribblism. The artist is alive!!

"Teddy Bear"

Now some might dismiss the fact that the bear has 12 eyes as mere motor skill issues, poor marker control. But they would be wrong. I know that Sonwun is crying out through his art. He's saying that he's watching. He's aware of all that is going on around him. He knows what they're trying to do and, in his own subtle way, making them believe they're succeeding.

And then there's the ears. I note that only one has the requisite pink piece of construction paper glued in the middle. Again, the uneducated critic would say "poor glue technique . . . we'll work on that."

But I know what's really being said here. Sonwun is saying that, yes, I'm hearing you. But I'm not listening. I am aware of what you want from this piece, but you need to know that I will do it my way.

And finally, the most telling element in this objet d'art. The reverse paw. Once again, the uneducated will tell you that it was merely an oversight. The artist didn't recognize that the end with the little thumb needed to go on the outside, not on the shoulder. See? He got it "right" on the other side. It's just a technical glitch.

What the critic fails to note, and this is critical, is that Sonwun chose the left arm to invert. The little paw is not, as most would observe, glued to the shoulder. The tiny paw is actually covering the teddy bear's heart. It is Sonwun's final volley in the war to maintain his artistic freedom.

He's saying, you may force me to use your pre-cut, pre-concieved tools for my art, but you will never destroy my artist's heart. Your attempts to alter my path with peer pressure and "Making Progress" stickers has failed. My body may be here in your classroom of conformity, but my spirit is free.

Sonwun: 1

The System: 0

Food is the Answer - What's the Question?

So let's talk snacks.

Are they necessary? How often? Must I lug something from each of the four food groups with me every time I leave the house? Can the boys not survive an hour or two without eating?

I'm asking these questions for two reasons:

1. Sonwun is required to bring a snack to preschool. He's there from 1 to 3:15. He wouldn't get a snack in that time period in my house. He just ate his freakin' lunch. Why does he need to eat at preschool? I'm not paying you to monitor him at feeding time.

2. Playgroup runs from 9:30 to 11. So many of the moms bring snacks. Some of them highjack the little picnic tables and lay out a freakin' buffet. Seriously, six different bowls of food. Again, the kids just had breakfast. (Or maybe the didn't and you just choose to feed them breakfast at playgroup). But for the rest of you, why do we need to feed them every half hour?

Oh, and as a side note to the buffet . . . Would you people please not leave the food out the entire time. You and your kids walk away, giving any child the chance to sneak up and help themselves. And yes, I realize you don't mind, but I DO. I don't know you, I don't know your kids. But I do know that communal food bowls are the perfect place to share whatever disease, virus or plague that is going around. So knock it off. You want to feed your little butterball, do it. But recognize there are other little people in the freakin' room and keep it to yourselves.

And a special note to the mom who brought sugar-coated Timbits as a snack for her child and left them out for all. When my 18-month-old tries to help himself, don't encourage him. I don't want him to have that. Especially the one that already had a fucking bite out of it. Keep your crap for your own kids. That's your decision. What my son puts in his mouth is, generally, my decision.

Now I will admit up front that I'm still relatively new at the parent gig. But I want my boys to eat a good healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner. Filling their little bellies every hour during the day with crackers, or cheese or fruit or whatever happens to be lying around at Playgroup, tends to make them a little less enthusiastic about cleaning their plates at meal time. And I don't need that.

By nature I'm an observer. Can't help it. I think that's why I fell in love with photography. And I can't help but notice that some people think that whenever a child makes a negative noise of any kind, it's a cry for food. And, based on my admittedly limited experience, IT'S NOT! A hug, a diaper change, a little attention is often all that is required. Yeah, I know, it's easier just to shove a Timbit in the kids' mouth and continue your conversation with the woman beside you, but I just don't think that's a good idea.

In this age where we, apparently, are all consumed with the childhood obesity "crisis," maybe it's time to take a look at the out-of-control snacking. Are we teaching the kids that food is comfort, food is love, food is the answer to every question?

Are you unhappy little one? Here, have a cookie. Here, have a poptart. It will make you fell better. I don't think that's a great message to impart on a little sponge-of-a-mind.

And, you know, to each their own, I guess. But when a snack is "mandatory" equipment for preschool, I have to question it. Granted, at least they insist the snack is approved by Canada's Guide to Healthy Eating. But maybe there should be a Guide to Healthy Eating Habits and Attitudes to go with it. Every childhood problem is not solved with a snack - even if that snack meets with the approval of the Canadian government.

And every child does not need food between 1 and 3:15 each day. I recognize that there are some children who don't get a healthy snack at home and the most nutritious thing they eat is the little snack at preschool. But does that mean we must make them all sit down together and eat something? No peer pressure here. I mean, what if I choose to send Sonwun to preschool without a government-approved snack? Will he have to sit aside, by himself, while the others graze? I must assume so.

I repeat two things I've said in previous posts.

1. I need to know why. Why is the snack mandatory at preschool? My kid can go two hours without eating. Is that really an issue for so many others? If so, we have other issues we need to deal with.

2. I don't want to be "one of those parents" that makes life miserable for those charged with my sons' care, but see #1. I need answers. These boys are my most prized possessions and I'm interested in everything they do, say and eat.

And if that makes me a pain in the ass, so be it.

Now, all that being said. If my kid needs a snack, he'll get one. Sonwun is almost four. He can ask for a snack if he's hungry. If the request immediately follows lunch, I know he's not really hungry but is looking for attention. If he asks in a whiny voice, it usually means he's looking for attention. If he asks 10 minutes before supper, it ain't happening. He gets what he needs based on my experience, the things I've read and the time of day. He doesn't always get what he wants.

Sontoo is just learning to speak, but I am intimately familiar with the noises he makes. I know there is one for sleep, one for attention, one for food, about six for "my brother's teasing me" and, when a diaper change is in order, he has already started climbing the stairs toward his bedroom to let me know. If I don't catch him in time, I'll find him sitting on the change table. He's quite a climber. And when it comes to snacks, he too gets what he needs based on my experience, the things I've read and the time of day. He doesn't always get what he wants.

Rant over. Have a great Thursday. I must go prepare Sonwun's snack for preschool. And remember, Kiddies Northern Preschool is a "Nut Aware" environment. Who comes up with these names? Bah, that's a rant for another day.

I'm Taking Orders

Well, that wasn't easy. But I didn't think it would be.

For the first time in my life, and, more to the point, for the first time in Sonwun's life, I have dropped him off somewhere and left. I don't like the feeling. Even though it's nap time right now and he'd be sleeping if he were here, I miss him.

I console myself in the belief that he is pretty happy right now. He has been talking about going to preschool now for a week. And it's always in glowing terms. He couldn't wait to put on his coat after lunch and head for the van. He had no idea where he was going, but he wanted to get there.

He didn't know where, geographically, the school was, but he knew there was a slide, crafts and kids his age to play with. The latter is the biggie. Due in part to our RCMP lifestyle and, in part, to having lived "out in the country" at our last post, Sonwun has not had a neighbourhood full of kids to hang out with. At preschool, he does and it's a good thing.

Bah! Enough about the past and whining.

So, the first thing I'm handed upon arrival is our first fundraising assignment. I think this goes to Neomom. She's got an office full of victims and I sure as hell am not going door-to-door with this one.

Sure, I'm relatively new on the fundraising front, but the package they handed me pisses me off. It's basically an order form and some descriptions of items the victims are supposed to order. No pictures of the product, no catalogue. Just read the paper and buy something, okay?

So I'm a little curious as to what we're expected to hawk on unsuspecting friends and co-workers. When in doubt, check on line. One moment please.

Okay, I expected a web page for Scoop-a-Lot Fundraiser. (Oh, and considering that most of the stuff on the product is not usually considered "scoopable" I assume the name refers mainly to the 40 per cent profit the preschool is supposed to scoop up. Which doesn't leave me much faith in the product.)

Honestly, I was hoping for a website with pictures of the merchandise. Something to which I could refer potential victims. But no. I can find only a Yellowpages listing and a google map to the headquarters in Beausejour, MB. Didn't even find any reviews on the products or the company.

I went through this fundraising fiesta once before, when I signed Sonwun up for skating lessons. The first night, they handed me a box of chocolate bars and chocolate-covered almonds. No please, no thank-you, no explanation. Just go sell this stuff and return the cash. Go. Now!

Fine, I guess it's part of the game. But at least with the skating fundraiser, it was a one-time transaction. Here's the product, here's the price, you decide. At the time, I was tending bar, so I just set the stuff up there on the bar and sold my share in no time. The dope-smokers on poker night cleaned out the box in no time. No problem.

But I really don't like this order-form shit. Um, I can't show you a picture of the product, I know nothing about it, but order something and it'll get here, um, sometime down the road. I realize you've got the munchies NOW, but I can't help you with that.

In any case, the products range from specialty teas and coffees to spices, marinades, popcorn seasoning, soup and gravy mix, pre-portioned cookie dough and frozen stuff like croissants, pork chops and lean ground beef. They pretty much cover the grocery list and then some. Looks like just under 300 different products. Take your time, look it over, I'll just stand here in your front hallway for half an hour while you decide.

I am just not impressed at all. Oh, and to top it all off, at the top of the order form: "Thanks-A-Lot from Kiddies Northern Pre-School."

I'll let the "Thanks-A-Lot" go as a play on the "Scoop-A-Lot" products, but "Pre-School???" It's Preschool dammit! It's not hyphenated! You're supposed to be educating my child. Put a little fucking effort into it. Please!

Okay, I'm cooling off. Forty-five minutes to go until I pick him up again and, hopefully, hear all about his day. I really am looking forward to it.

And, you know, I don't want to be the annoying parent who doesn't simply go along with the program. But the further we go into "the system" the more I find myself being exactly that. I mean really, could we not find another, more simple fundraiser? Could we not do something just a little less time-consuming and a little less annoying?

I've lived in this city now for just under four months now. I've had numerous kids at my door selling crap for this organization or that school. I've had kids show up at my door with catalogues. I don't want to order anything for your fundraiser. I'd like to help, but I'm not putting out a bunch of money for something I'm not going to see for a month and don't really need in the first place. I'll buy your freakin' chocolate bars, again, because I want to help and, mostly, because it's a couple of bucks and it's done. End of story. And someone here will eat the damn chocolate.

Okay, I'm done. Rant complete. Blood pressure returning to normal.

Have a nice day.

I Need to Know Why

Let the authority issues begin anew.

Got a call yesterday from the preschool I wanted Sontoo to attend in September. Our name came up on the waiting list and . . . he's in. Beginning in November, he will attend two afternoons a week.

I have mixed emotions about this, but I'll save them for another post.

Today, it's about "the system" and about my family finally reaching an age where we must enter it. It's not just about Sonwun going to preschool. It's about all of us and the preschool experience.

Before we venture further into this topic, I should point something out. I have always had issues with authority. Haven't been to a shrink, so I can't necessarily and definitively explain why. I have a few suspicions, but we'll leave those alone for now. Suffice to say, authority and I have not been the best of friends since I started school many years ago.

Part of it, I realize, is from my need to know "why?"

"Yes sir, we need your phone number and address before we can process your purchase of this pair of socks."

"Why?"

"That's just our policy."

"Keep your freakin' socks."

I have a big issue with "policy" as a tool to hide behind when there is no logical answer or a better solution. That has, at many times in my life, been interpreted as an aversion to authority.

And I can't say it ended with school. When I had to spend a few days at the RCMP Depot in Regina, for the wife's graduation celebration, my skin never stopped crawling; all those uniforms, marching, order, unquestioned obedience - brrrrrrr! Trouble just seems to find me in these environments. To make a long story short, I joined my wife for lunch at the Depot cafeteria, didn't wear (because I didn't know) a collared shirt as was protocol, and then I sat at the Officers' table, again, because no one was sitting there and because it was not labelled. How was I to know?

This authority aversion, and the need to understand "why" is probably why I ended up as a news reporter (I CAN ask the questions and, if I don't like or fully understand the answer, I can ask more until I fully understand). Not sure how I ended up marrying an RCMP member, however. But I'm sure it's tied in there somehow.

But I digress.

During the phone call, I was told by the preschool director that I need to pickup and fill out a registration form and that Sonwun needs to bring a change of clothes, indoor shoes and a snack "that meets Health Canada guidelines," to each day of preschool.

So I guess I should probably look those up. Hold on a sec . . .

All righty then. Under "Smart Snacking" on the good ol' government website I see that the best choices are "foods from the four food groups in Canada's food guide."

Okey dokey, hold on a sec . . .

Super! He needs vegetables and fruit, grain products, milk and alternatives and meat and alternatives. I'm sure they list proper alternatives, but I'm bored already and don't feel much like working through this government website any longer.

Fine, healthy snack. We do our best to feed our children healthy food, so it's not really an issue for me. The issue is having someone inspect and approve the food I wish to feed my child. Don't feel I need your fucking approval. But I'll play your game on this one.

Although (and here's the authority aversion sneaking back) I have an overpowering desire to send him to preschool with a can of coke, a poptart and a big ol' Toblerone, just once, just for fun. (We, by the way, have none of the above in the house.)

Now then, let's talk a bit about the registration form. Got a few problems here. A few "whys" if you will. For example, why do you need to know my dog's name and my cat's name? Not a big issue really, not a national secret, but I'd really be interested to know why.

Further along on the registration form, my authority issues collide with my privacy concerns. I am asked to initial a number of requests, that are asked, apparently "in accordance with the privacy act."

(First off, Privacy Act, if it is indeed an actual Act of some level of government, should be capitalized and, second, it should be preceded by the level of government responsible. Federal Privacy Act? Provincial Privacy Act? A privacy act we made up on our own? Come on people, you're supposed to be educating my child here. I need to know you're up to the task!)

I realize this rant is longer than usual, but bear with me.

In any case, according to this act, I need to give them permission to put Sonwun's first name on the little cubby where he will store his coat and hat. Really? Okay, no problem.

Permission to have his pertinent medical info in the emergency handbook. No problem.

Permission to allow "appropriate photographs and/or videos of my child to be taken by therapists, work experience students and/or by educational or regulatory observers while they are there." Um . . . no. And why?

Permission for "appropriate photographs and/or videos to be taken by (name of preschool) employees of for (?) their personal records. Um . . . hell no! What is that about?

Permission to allow representatives of the media, or of any granting organization to photograph for use in any media coverage, article or promotional materials. Um, no again.

You know, I understand maybe a little pic for the local paper, but I have a problem with any media coverage or promotional materials. He's not there to sell the program or be a model for your brochures. I'm not giving blanket coverage. Tell me what's happening, each time, and I'll make a decision. I don't want to see his face on the front of some NDP brochure promoting Jack Layton's latest hair-brained plan for mandatory daycare beginning at age 2.

Now, the first step, they say, is admitting you have a problem. And I know I do. But bear with me here. Apparently I'm supposed to sign away Sonwun's rights under this Privacy Act so that he may attend preschool. It states right at the bottom of this list that failure to sign this thing may exclude Sonwun from, among other things, attending this preschool as some of them are "licencing requirements as set by Manitoba Child Day Care."

So, I just gotta ask, why does Manitoba Child Day Care require that I sign away some of my child's rights under the Privacy Act in order to attend preschool? Is that actually legal? Does it make sense?

I am honestly going to try to be a good parent and a reasonable parent. I will be meeting the preschool director early next week and I hope she has the patience and intelligence to listen to my questions and answer them with something other than, "that's just our policy."

God help me, that's just not good enough. As always, I need to know why.

Tomorrow, maybe we'll talk about the Parent Policy Manual - should be an interesting read.

Why?

So, six days until mommy comes home. The light at the end of the tunnel is growing brighter.

I have done my best to keep up with the vacuuming, laundry and general cleaning. But with two kids, a cat and a dog, I will have to put in a little extra effort this week to create the illusion of cleanliness upon her arrival.

It has also been a goal/tradition to attempt to complete at least one project in her absence and this time it's the shower.

Ever since we moved in, mommy's been unhappy with the plastic folding doors on the shower. She'd prefer a shower curtain. Fair enough. The doors make it difficult to bathe the boys as they don't fold out of the way. Fully folded, they take up about a quarter of the space on each side of the tub, leaving only half the space to access the children.

So, with Sonwun in tow, and Sontoo playing happily on his own, I attacked the problem. Sonwun was eager to help and eager to learn. In fact, for the past month or so, he has been "eager to learn" about everything under the freakin' sun. It's a phase, they tell me; the "why?" phase.

For each and every one of my actions, from dawn to dusk, there is a question. What are you doing daddy? What is that daddy? Which came first, the chicken or the egg? What colour is the mirror? What is the sound of one hand clapping? Daddy, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it . . .

You get the idea.

And as if this preschool-inspired PHD test was not enough, each answer I provide is now followed up with a "why?" So it's not just a multiple choice test, the professor wants essay answers. I hated those exams.

In any case, back to the bathroom.

"What are you doing daddy?"

"I'm taking off the shower doors."

"Why are you taking the shower doors off?"

"Because your mommy doesn't like them."

"Why doesn't mommy like them."

"Because they make it hard to bath you guys."

"Why does it make it hard?"

"Because they're in the way and you guys might bump your heads on them."

"Why would we bump our heads?"

"Because the doors are in the way."

"Why are the doors in the way?"

And on and on it goes. It's not long before I begin to notice the signs that he isn't really paying attention to the questions, or the answers. He's just inserting the word "why" in the second half of my answers and repeating. At the same time, he's trying to tie all of the bathroom drawers together with hair ties.

And so, in an effort to end the questions, save some hair ties and make Sonwun feel part of the process, I hand him a spare screwdriver and invite him to help.

"What's this daddy?

"It's a screwdriver."

"What's it for?"

"It's for putting in screws and taking screws out."

"What are screws?"

"They are these things here (employing a visual aid) and we need to take them out so that the shower doors will come off."

"Can I help?"

"Yes, why don't you start on the ones on that side and I'll work on these over here."

This buys me about 30 seconds of work before the questions start again.

And so, while I work, I answer every possible question about tools, showers, shower curtains, shower curtain rods, screwdrivers, screws, screwing, unscrewing and bath mats.

At which point, Sonwun loses interest in "helping" and decides he'd rather wander about the bathroom with "his" screwdriver singing, and I quote, "I love to screw, I love to screw, I love to screw."

I did my best to avoid laughing. And it wasn't too difficult, because all I had to do was imagine where this will come back to haunt me; checkout line at the grocery store, playgroup, during a visit from friends, during a visit to the wife's detachment surrounded by police officers.

But I digress.

I don't ever want my boys to stop asking "why?" It's the only way to learn, the only way to challenge what you've learned and to challenge those that are teaching you, daddy included. It's the only way to gather information that will help them make decisions, big and small, for the rest of their lives.

When evolution is presented as fact, I want them to ask why. When they're offered drugs, I want them to ask why. When they are tempted to shoplift, I want them to ask why? When they're invited to church, I want them to ask why? When a preacher tells them their daddy is going to hell, I want them to ask why? And hopefully, by that time, they will have asked why enough times to have put together a pretty decent database of information that will enable them to make solid decisions.

As for right now, as I said, mommy's home in six days. And that, my friends, will provide my one of my favourite answers to most of Sonwun's questions: "I think your mother knows that one. Why not ask her?"

Sharing, Taking Turns

Well, isn't Playgroup the gift that keeps on giving.

On Wednesday, Playgroup gave Sontoo a fat lip. I think I mentioned that. He was climbing the stairs on the little slide, slipped and smashed his little mouth on the steps.

Apparently angry over the incident and his newly acquired facial feature, he head-butted me that evening, right in the mouth. So now I've got a fat lip. What is with kids at 18 months? Why must they head-butt everyone and everything? And why the sucker punch aspect? You're holding this darling blue-eyed child, he's smiling, you're smiling . . . and then WHACK!

I'm getting better at seeing them coming, but he still gets one through once in a while and this last one was a doozy!

But back to Playgroup.

On Friday, at Playgroup, Sonwun was running up the slide (even though I'd told him not to) and, because he was wearing socks, he slipped and did a face-plant into the side of said slide. Fat lip number three.

So at least we all match. And I'm working on responses for anyone who dares to ask what the hell happened.

"Yeah, well you should see the other toddler, preschooler and stay-at-home dad. We messed 'em up real good."

Or perhaps:

"Well, if you don't get them into mixed martial arts early, they'll never make the UFC."

"Rodeo Clown Preschool ain't for sissies."

Or if I'm really grumpy and am sensing an "attitude" from the person asking:

"Doctor's waiting for lab results . . . Hey, who's up for a play-date?"

But back to Playgroup.

One of the main reasons for attending is social development. Your child learns to take turns, to cooperate and to share. He learns to be part of a community. And now, we've learned that at least one of the 50 kids in the Playgroup community Friday was sick. And this child, or children, was kind enough to share his or her disease with Sonwun.

And that, my friends, is the reason I've enjoyed three hours sleep. It's now 5:39 a.m. and I don't see much sleep in my future. Sonwun has been fighting an almost croup-like cough, sore throat and runny nose on and off throughout the night. We spent half an hour in the bathroom, hot shower running and that seems to have calmed things for now. And even though he is not yet a fan of sharing with his younger brother, I know Sonwun will be sharing this little gift with Sontoo. Who knows? I may even get to share.

But we'll survive. So far it just looks like a cold. No fever, pretty good attitude and appetite. Hopefully, they'll both be over it in a few days. If not, I haven't decided whether we'll return the favour, bring something to Playgroup to "share", and let some other children and parents "take a turn" at a few sleepless nights. After all, isn't that what playgroup's all about?