Archive for July, 2011

Mark, USDA inspector

So we’re at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History (and yes, we were visiting all our favorite Pittsburgh spots this week before we move, thanks for asking), in the gift shop at the end of our visit.

We’re checking out.  The clerks have taken pity on me and they’re both helping.  Either that or they recognized Mark as the potential bull in their fancy little china shop and are trying to get him out as fast as they can.  At any rate, they’re both swiping and bagging.  The little boxes of candy are strangely cheap, and all three younger kids had money burning their pockets.

Sam:  “I’m hungry.  When we have lunch?”

Me:  “As soon as we get back to the car.  We left our lunch there.”

Mark (suddenly alarmed):  “We left it IN THE CAR?  It’s HOT in the car.  Won’t we get food-poisoned?”

Both clerks shake with laughter apparently inappropriate for their fancy little china shop.

 

Pep Talk

So we’re at the Carnegie Science Center, at Sportsworks, where they have a rock climbing wall that Mark’s never managed to master.

Until now.

He’s half way up when he stalls and glances down.

But before I can say anything encouraging, I hear him chanting under his breath:  “I’m a five-year-old.  I can DO this.”

I pick up the cue.  “Go, Mark!  You’re a five-year-old!  You CAN do this!”

But I’m not sure he either hears or needs it.  Muttering his own personal St Crispin’s Day speech, he skitters like a spider up the rest of the wall.  The last bit requires a BIG stretch, but he makes it and slaps the button to ring the bell, announcing  his success.

He lets the rope lower him to the ground.  Then, starting his affirmation mantra again, he goes up once more.

Then it’s off to the trampoline, where he flirts with high school girls while he’s waiting in line and then shows off for them when it’s his turn, doing backflips from a standstill on the guy ropes, counting as he goes.  When he gets to eight, the girls pick it up and count with him.  By the time he’s at thirteen, they’re pressing their stomachs in sympathetic pain and complimenting his abs.

What did I expect?  He’s a five-year-old now.

 

Relative Vocabulary

So we’re at Kennywood.  There are a family of ducks in the pond, dodging paddle boats and wheedling treats from visitors.  Some are the itty-bittiest baby ducks you’ve ever seen.

Me:  “Look, Mark.  There’s some ducklings.”

Mark:  “Yes, I see the dabbling ducks.”

Me:  “Ducklings.  Those are ducklings.”

Mark:  “Look!  Over there!  More dabbling ducks.”

I have no clue why Mark decided to rename ducklings, but he stuck to his guns about it, each of us diplomatically correcting the other for the rest of the day.

Actually, I suspect I DO know why he feels like it’s his prerogative to change something’s designation at will.  He hasn’t taken over the world YET, but in his mind it’s only a matter of time, so might as well get started.

 

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