Getting Funny

Last night as we struggled to get Fiona to put her pajamas on, I made a comment about how at the rate we were headed she was going to finish putting her pajamas on around the time I was pouring juice for her the next morning.

Now, I don't think that comment really ranks among the top dozen funniest things I've said even in the past two months, but Fiona dissolved into hysterics. "Pouring juice in the morning!" she giggled. The reason this is significant: it's the first time I can remember Fiona getting a word-based joke.

Fiona's always loved to laugh, but up until now it's been mainly silly faces and silly voices. She knows a few knock knock jokes (knock knock, who's there, cargo, cargo who, car go beep beep), but she doesn't really understand why the knock knock jokes she knows are funny.

But in the past few weeks it does seem that her sense of humor is starting to kick up a level. One Friday night at dinner we were talking about what we were going to do the next day, and I announced that we were going to sit in the corner staring at the wall all day, because that was the most fun thing I could think to do. We play these sorts of games with Fiona a lot, and usually she responds with a big smile and a "nooooo, that's silly." But this time she fake cried; it was the first time we'd seen her play along with a joke.

We're probably still not ready for the Python or Marx Bros. DVDs, and I've got nothing against silly faces, but it's fun to see Fiona learn new ways to laugh.

Her Boss Would Probably Approve It As An On-Site Visit

Fiona's learning about letter V this week, which meant tonight we had a lengthy discussion about what begins with the letter V. Vegetables, violet, violins...

"What's another instrument that starts with V?" I asked. "It's like a violin."

"Viola!" Fiona shouted. "Aunt Kathy plays the viola." She knows that well; Aunt Kathy's even let her pluck the strings on occasion, which is closer than any of the rest of us would ever be permitted to get to her pride and joy.

"That's right. A lot of children know about the violin, but they don't know about the viola. But you know about violas."

Fiona nodded, and then hit upon a solution: "I can tell my class."

"Sure," I responded.

And then she hit upon an even better solution: "They have to meet Aunt Kathy!"

Makes sense to me. You've got two days left in the preschool week, Kathy. By the time they hit W, your moment will have passed.

Maybe She's at Stage Three Already

During dinner tonight I was telling Andrea about a book I've been reading which talks about three stages of critical thinking ability. To summarize briefly:

1. The individual assumes all questions have a correct answer and that if you consult an expert or authority you'll find out what it is.
2. The individual realizes that some questions do not have a single answer and thinks that this means that all opinions are therefore equal.
3. The individual understands that while some questions cannot be decisively answered, you can differentiate between options based on the level of reasoning used to support that option.

That's really brief, obviously, and not really the purpose of this post, except that it's how we segued into the main part below. I was making the point to Andrea that a lot of our institutions gets frozen at stage two, with the prime example being the way the mainstream media will frequently claim objectivity by presenting two opposing viewpoints on an issue, whether or not those opinions are equally valid ("one group says the Earth orbits the sun, while the other group says that the Earth orbits a mechanic named Fred...")

At this point, Fiona looked up from the pattern she was making in her ketchup to ask "what's an opinion?" (I was surprised she was paying attention at all).

"It's what you think," Andrea replied.

"Do you like onions?" I asked, bringing up the foodstuff we're constantly having to pick off of her plate.

"No!" she grimaced.

"Well, I do," I replied.

"In your opinion onions are bad," Andrea explained. "But in Mommy and Daddy's opinion they're good."

"Do you like pink clothes or black clothes?" I asked, picking another easy one.

"Pink."

"And I like black," I said, being the good New Yorker who knows which color's going to hide the dirt best.

"But you're wrong, Daddy."

"What?"

"Pink is better."

Hmm. She didn't seem to be quite getting it.

"Do you like blue or green?" Fiona asked, taking the lead.

"I like blue better," I replied.

"That's wrong. Mommy, do you like blue or green?"

"Green," Mommy replied.

"Very good!" Fiona declared. "You get a star!"

So: I stand corrected. Onions are bad. Pink>Black and Green>Blue. Apparently ALL opinions can be assigned a value judgment. In Fiona's world, anyway.

I Was Twice Your Age When I Figured That Out

Tucking Fiona into bed tonight, I ran through the highlights of her day:

"You had a good day," I said. "You went to the park with Mommy and got to play at the playground, and help Mommy pick out stuff at the green market, and you rode the subway, and you played a lot. That's a good day."

"Did you have a good day or a bad day, Daddy?" Fiona asked.

"I had a good day, too," I replied.

"But you had to work today!" she protested. "You had a bad day."

Touché.

This Town Ain't Big Enough for Two

So, this morning, Fiona dressed herself in her usual fancy manner: Pegasus and rainbow shirt, flowery-patterned skirt, pink snowflake leggings, and sneakers. Her fashion coup-d'etat was the addition of a new pair of purple heart sunglasses. I happened to mention that she looked "stylish," and, in concordance, Fiona batted her eyes oh-so-winningly.

On our way out the door, I topped my own fashion ensemble (jeans, sweater, sneakers) with sunglasses, and Bill happened to mention that I also looked "stylish," to which Fiona responded, "Mommy's not stylish...I'M stylish." "Well, we can both be stylish, can't we?" I asked. "No," Fiona replied. "Only I'm stylish...you're not stylish." We continued this back and forth down the stairs. Finally out the door, I asked Fiona, "Why can't I be stylish?" Her response: "Because I look stylish. You only look like a plain girl."

Well, at least I still look like a girl...

I Feel Like Sisyphus and It's Only 7:15 a.m.

By the time Monday night rolls around, Fiona's been home for four straight days and our home looks it. So I usually try to pick up some after she goes to bed that night, and last night I did a better job than usual. By my standards, anyway; we still had a little clutter, but the floors in the living room were clear of toys.

This morning, Fiona walked out into the living room after waking up and said "Wow, it sure is clean here!"

"That's right," I replied, "Daddy picked up last night."

"I'll probably make it messy again today, though," she said.

I know, I know--it's in her nature.

Baseball

Yesterday was the greatest day of the year, and Fiona and I celebrated by playing a little "baseball" (at 8:30 a.m., but you can see below for that story).

This involves Fiona sitting in a chair while holding a pink toy Padres bat picked up in a ballpark giveaway a few years back. I throw a beach ball at her and she hits it (the beach ball being big enough that even a four-year old can make contact). I field it and hope Mommy doesn't walk into the room right as the ball bounces off the china cabinet.

She swung and missed, and I told her that was called a "strike." The next time I threw, she swung and missed and shouted "yea, a strike!" I then explained that, as the batter, she didn't want to swing and miss.

A few swings later she smacked the ball over the couch. "Home run!" I shouted. Fiona liked that. Now each time I throw she says something like "I want to hit a home run" or "here comes a home run." Or, my favorite: when I catch the ball or smack it down before it can go too far she says "that should be a home run." Hey, it worked once for Jeter.

Later in the day, Fiona and I were playing again when she looked at the ball on the ground.

"Let's play golf," she said. "Make a hole with your hands."

I did, and she tried to hit the ball into the "hole." She missed.

"What game do you like better?" I asked. "Baseball or golf?"

She responded quickly: "baseball."

Good girl.

(Take that, Pop)

Cough Cough

We have our first test since getting Dr. Koumbourlis' marching orders last month, and we got caught off guard. We made a rookie mistake, except we aren't rookies any more: whether due to allergies or illness, Fiona developed a stuffy nose over the weekend, but we didn't think to start her on the program in the naive hope that she wouldn't drip down into her chest.

So Monday morning rolled around and shortly before 6:00 a.m. Fiona started coughing steadily. She wasn't wheezing, but she had a backup, and she wasn't going to kick it quickly. I tried holding her up in a chair for 30 minutes or so, but the problem with a cough waking her up at 6:00 a.m. is that she stays awake, so finally at 6:40 or so I gave in and got up with her.

And she continued to cough. And cough. She complained that her chest was hurting.

Now, we're in a bind in this situation sometimes, because it sure sounds like Fiona doesn't have to cough quite as much as she does, but it's hard to explain to a four-year old the difference between coughing because you really have to and coughing because you have a bit of discomfort. We tried to ask her about it, and she told us she needed to cough. We didn't press the case.

At around 8:30 or so, she started playing (more about that in the post to follow, which you may have read already). And, lo and behold, once her attention became focused on playing... the coughing slowed way down. Almost as if she hadn't needed to cough quite as steadily as she was.

Anyway, we put her on the program, and 36 hours later we're doing much better. I'd still expect to be up at least once tonight, but (knock wood) I'm not worrying about any wheezing or worse. And Fiona went back to preschool today, where Miss Eny said she seemed "just like Fiona." Which is a good thing.