I'm Probably Better Than Their Shortstop, Right?

Last week I skipped out to catch a ballgame at the stadium. When I mentioned to Fiona that I'd been to see the Yankees, she got very excited:

"Did you hit the ball?" she asked.

It seems it had never occurred to her that people sometimes just go to watch ballgames. Come to think of it, I can see why that would seem extremely peculiar to a three-year old.

And she hasn't quite figured out how American professional sports work anyway. When we watch a game on TV, I've started explaining to her that there is a pitcher and a batter. Fiona's most common question regarding the pitcher is:

"Is that pitcher a boy or a girl?"

Ila Borders efforts in independent league baseball aside, this isn't a question you'd think to ask after a certain age. There's something admirable about not having had all the innocence pounded out of you just yet. Of course, in Fiona's mind, girls get to do all the cool stuff anyway.

I should add that it's a lot easier to answer that question when we're watching TV together than when she points at somebody as we walk down the street and loudly inquires as to that person's gender. I don't know if it's better or worse when she asks it about somebody who is very obviously one or the other (I mean, I definitely have seen some people where I couldn't figure out which chromosome set they used, but I'm rarely confused by a 6'3" businessman in a tailored suit).

Mastering Prepositions

Yesterday morning, we had our typical routine: Fiona crawled into bed to watch Sesame Street while Mommy and Daddy chugged coffee in a desperate attempt to function at Fiona's level first thing in the morning.

Fiona looked up at us, and with a big smile announced "I'm sitting next to... between."

And that evening, as we had a little family time on the couch before bedtime declared "I want to sit between."

It's fun watching her learn how to use a new word (even if she hasn't told us yet who she's between); Fiona makes it seem like it's the best thing in the world, picking up a new trick.

That Bad Big Rock

On Saturday we finally got around to that most quintessential of activities for a New York child: we took Fiona to the Museum of Natural History. In the morning we asked her if she wanted to go see some dinosaur bones, and she gave an excited "yeah!" Then we had the following exchange:

Fiona: How about if we go see some real dinosaurs?

Daddy: There aren't any real dinosaurs around any more, honey.

Fiona: Why not?

Daddy: They all died.

Fiona: When?

Daddy: A long time ago. Before there were even any people.

Fiona: They all died?

Daddy: That's right.

Fiona: Who did that?

I explained about the asteroid, which I later modified to "a big rock hit the Earth," and how it changed the weather. Later that day, Fiona started telling her mother about the dead dinosaurs, saying "who did that? A big rock!"

So we headed off to Manhattan on a sweltering June morning, transferring twice thanks to some track work, but Fiona remained in good spirits throughout. When we reached 81st Street, Fiona found herself in heaven. The subway station beneath the museum is decorated with images of dinosaur bones, fish, butterflies, grasshoppers, lady bugs, and just about anything else that might count for natural history. As she saw each one, Fiona ran toward it exclaiming "Mommy, look at this one!" It took us ten minutes just to get out of the subway station.

Once we arrived, our first stop was the hall of African mammals, and Fiona ran from display to display as quickly as she could. We quickly discovered that when you escort Fiona to a museum, you have approximately three seconds to read the notes on any individual display before you're being pulled on to the next one -- not out of childhood boredom, but because she's so excited she wants to take everything in as quickly as possible.

Having made a lap of the African room, we realized we hadn't picked up a map, so Andrea headed back to the lobby to procure one. I held back with Fiona, and asked her if she liked the museum so far.

"Yeah," she said. "This place is cool!"

There's not much more to say other than that; the Museum of Natural History is pretty cool, and for a parent watching his or her child it's instantly worth the price of admission. We checked out the dinosaurs, plus some of the extinct species, and then made a return trip to the African mammals at the end. I'll just leave you with this picture of Fiona next to the arm bone of an apatosaurus. As always, you can click on any picture on blogger to bring up a bigger image.

I Can Take a Hint

The first thing I ever really learned to cook was pancakes, and I still make them--from scratch, thank you very much. Fiona loves them, mainly because they function as a maple syrup delivery system, and when I make them on the weekend she likes to set the table and choose everybody's plates (we all eat off of her zoo pal paper plates for pancake breakfasts) and orange juice cups.



This morning I claimed "birthday" rights and slept in while Andrea took Fiona -- my birthday is actually on Monday, but I doubt my boss wants me to sleep extra late on Monday morning, so I slumbered on Sunday instead -- and when I finally wandered out of my bedroom this morning the following sight greeted me:


Hmmm... I wonder what Fiona wanted...

Catch-22

Imagine for a moment that you're three years old. You've been phasing out of your midday slumber, but you still need one from time to time, and you've had a very busy few days. Lunch comes and goes, and your parents announce you need a nap. You disagree.

You could:

A) Nod your head, agree that "a nap would do me well," and trundle off to bed for a peaceful respite.

B) Break down in tears at the very thought and blurt out between sobs that you don't need a nap.

If you choose path A (and you never do), you wind up taking a nap. If you choose path B, your parents look at each other and nod knowingly, declaring "if you're crying like that you're obviously very tired," and you wind up taking a nap.

How exacty is a toddler supposed to win?