First Argument

Being a parent is one of the great joys in life. It affords one the opportunity to discover how amazing it is to see your son or daughter grow from a tiny fetus (assuming you had an ultrasound) to a floppy little thing with no neck muscles whose head apparently needs to be supported all the time. From there, the growth continues in which the floppy little thing becomes slightly less floppy and a little more interesting, but not quite as interesting as he or she will become. This is mostly due to the fact that he or she is still a little floppy, poops and pees almost constantly, and has yet to develop any kind of vocal utterances beyond "Wah." Granted, they get a lot out of "Wah" and can change the meaning and intensity of it to mean a variety of things ranging from "feed me" to "change me" to "I'm bored" to "feed me again" to "seriously...change the damn diaper".

Eventually the growth process gives the little one the ability to move about by rolling, crawling, flopping, or whatever the child deems best for his or her needs, and things become downright fascinating. Now you have to deal with MBS (Mobile Baby Syndrome) which is one of the most frightening things a parent has to deal with. It is frightening because now your formerly sedate (or at least stationary) youngster has begun to migrate from one place to another. They will roll from one side of the bed to the other and, as I discovered one day, if you are not careful they will roll right off the edge of the bed and utter some form of "Wah" to alert you to their displeasure. Generally the translation for this "Wah" is closer to "What the F*CK, man!" than it is to "feed me."

You can get used to this after a few days or weeks, but the only constant in life with a new child is that there is change. Change continues after the MBS sets in and becomes routine in that your mobile but generally floor bound child stands up and begins cruising along the furniture. He or she will often fall down a lot during this stage. This is quickly followed by the "Holy Crap he's taken his FIRST STEPS!" stage. This is often a humorous and entertaining time in your child's life due to the fact that you now have, living in your house, your very own Weeble. (Remember Weebles? "Weebles wobble but they don't fall down!" was the theme song for the commercials when I was a kid.) Your child is not the "don't fall down" kind of weeble. Your is the kind that will fall down. Often. And generally it is hilarious, assuming, of course, that he didn't just fall down the stairs or off the bed or onto a knife. (Note: remove knives from floor when child reaches this age.) He or she only looks like Weeble most of the time, listing from one foot to the other as he walks across the room. My youngest, Ethan, reminded me of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

After the walking stage comes the climbing stage where he or she will want to be on top of everything in the house, including the bookcase, bed, table, counter, and the dog. (Note: Remove knives from counter at this stage. Also, remove dog from house if dog happens to be a hyperactive Jack Russel Terrier that doesn't like to be ridden.) Ethan is now at the stage where he climbs out of his highchair and onto the table where he plays with whatever he can find up there until we rush over and put him back. As soon as we turn out backs, however, he carefully maneuvers his little self out of his straps, apparently breaking several physical laws to do so - I strap that sucker in TIGHT - and climbs onto the table again.

Soon after this climbing stage comes the talking stage. This is where we are now and this brings me, finally, to the point of this little ramble. Ethan has taken a little while to begin speaking and seems to be making up for lost time by learning tons of new words over the past few weeks. At one point, he learned to say "Ball" which was handy downstairs as he could now declare his intent to ruin the game of soccer that Ryan and I were playing by scrambling over, grabbing the ball, and running with it. "Ball!" he would exclaim as he ran out from behind the couch to grab what was sure to be an amazing goal.

It was about this time that I discovered Clementine oranges. I love Clementines. So juicy and tiny, they make a perfect snack and, since the don't have any seeds, they are easy to enjoy. Ethan had a few slices of Clementine one day while I was snacking and we discovered that he really liked them. Later that same evening he saw a few sitting on the counter and yelled "Ball!"

I replied, "No, Ethan. Not a ball. Orange."

Ethan paused for a second. "Ball!" he said again.

"No. Orange. See?" I then said really slowly, as if it would really matter to a kid who was still mastering monosylabic words, "Cle-men-tine."

"Ball!" he said, pointing at the counter.

"Orange."

"BALL!" He pointed harder.

"Orange. Cle-men-tine." Trying a different tactic, I switched to Spanish "Na-ran-ja."

"BALL!" Now he was really pointing hard. Totally putting some effort into the point.


"Really. It's not a ball. Balls are not edible unless they are of the meat variety."

"Ball. Ball! BALL!" he screams, stamping his feet and pointing so hard that I expect to see a hole spontaneously develop in the orange he is guesturing at.

At this point in time it hits me that he is 16 months old and is probably not going to come around to my way of thinking quite yet. Additionally, I though, who am I to tell this kid what is and isn't a ball? Am I THE MAN all of a sudden, stifling my kids creativity and harshing his vibe? Absolutely not. So I decided that the vocabulary lesson is over and I handed him the little orange.

As soon as he had the thing in his hand, he took a little bite of the peel and made a disgusted face. He then chucked it at his brother, grabbed his pacifier from the nearby chair, popped it into his mouth and toddled out of the kitchen.