Ghost Train

There were a few hundred people lined up outside the entrance to the train yard. Stupidly, it had never occurred to me that a spooky ghost train ride running for a scant few nights around Halloween in a big city like Los Angeles might attract a crowd. So the Bean and I would just have to wait it out. This was the first sign of trouble.

The Bean’s excitement at riding the train carried us through for a little while. He had spent the majority of the day exclaiming, “Oooh, I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” (I was pretty excited about it too.) The Bean was also curious about being up past his bedtime. He didn’t yet have a solid grasp of time, so as we waited the conversation went like this:

The Bean: If we were at home, what would I be doing right now?

Me: You would be in the bath, complaining about having to wash instead of getting to play.

(Five minutes later…)

The Bean: What would I be doing now?

Me: You would be drying yourself off and running naked around the house, refusing to put on your pajamas.

(Five minutes later…)

The Bean: What would I be doing now?

Me: You’d be halfway through your first game of Mario Kart, bouncing around on the couch like a maniac and whining that you weren’t winning.

Twenty minutes went by and we had barely moved. Since we were now officially past the Bean’s bedtime, our conversation had subsided. He remained excited about the train ride, but was getting a little antsy. I didn’t have anything for the Bean to do but watch the kids who’s smart parents had brought glowsticks and lightsabers. I attempted to keep the kid busy by “timing” how fast he could run to a nearby tree and back. That didn’t last for very long.

It took us an hour before we reached the entrance to the train yard. The Bean was growing tired, but was steadfast in his wanting to ride the train. Then I noticed the second sign of trouble: what was usually a small straight line from the ticket booth to the train was now an unruly queue made up of a couple hundred people that snaked back and forth four times. Though he was deflated and yawning consistently, the Bean insisted that we stay. At least inside the yard there were Halloween decorations to look at.

We slowly moved our way past one of the displays that turned out to be the third sign of trouble: a mannequin bathed in a black light with a woman’s face projected on to it hung on a wall, creating a ghostly visage. It was a cheaper version of the effect used to bring Madam Leola to life in the Haunted Mansion. And even though the Bean had been in the Haunted Mansion a plethora of times with absolutely no problem, this freaked his head off. I tried to diffuse the situation by showing him the projector and telling him how the trick was done but the Bean was still afraid. At this point, we had been waiting for nearly an hour and a half.

As we zigged and zagged through the line, the Bean alternately complained about being scared and being tired. I asked him if he wanted to go and he gave a sharp, firm no. He was going to ride that train. Then he spied a picture that was projected onto a makeshift frame hung above the train platform. It was an old-timey person that slowly transformed into a zombie—another trick he’d seen at Disneyland that wigged him out here. He slid behind me and covered his eyes.

I became convinced that the ghost train was going to break my son. I mean here was a kid who claimed to have gotten spooked by a scene from Dinosaur Train. I gave the Bean every out imaginable. Yet the kid was determined to let anything keep him from riding the train that night. I wondered how long it would take me to save up for his therapy bills.

We had been waiting for two hours by the time we reached the front of the line. The Bean was practically asleep on his feet suddenly became excited boarding the train. I, on the other had, was incredibly nervous.

Thankfully the ride was fairly mild, favoring goofy scares over true horror. And even though there were some images a little more severe than not-Madame Leola, the Bean wasn’t bothered by any of it and we both had a spooky good time. Even though it was two hours past the Bean’s bedtime, the ride acted like a caffeine shot and he was bouncing all over the place after we arrived home, unable to contain his excitement as he told his mom of his adventure on the Ghost Train.

Molasses

The speed at which Sprout headed toward the toilet stood in direct opposition to the urgency in her voice when she said she needed to use the potty. Her movements were painfully lethargic.

“I’m moving in slooooow motion,” Sprout said to me. There was a mischievous smile directly underneath the brunette curls of hair that has spilled down over her eyes. She didn’t care that we were in a hurry.

The expression “like molasses on a cold day” often pops into my mind when it comes to my daughter. No matter what Sprout is doing, she does it with painstaking methodical deliberation. Even when there is urgency to her action, like the potty or needed to spit toothpaste into the sink, she is at a snail’s pace. This flies in the face of the ultra-fast, always running late, trying to herd cats pace of day-to-day life in our house.

Naturally, this drives me crazy. Sprout knows this drives me crazy, which is why she is sometimes slow on purpose. When an already slow child decides to be even slower, the result can be excruciating. Moving like a glacier she will carefully pull her shirt over her head, all the while smiling at me. “I’m slooooow,” she says in a voice that sounds like a cartoon turtle.

There are times when I am flummoxed that this child can be three years-old. She seems way too smart and way too manipulative. On those mornings when both kids have school and WonderWife™ is feeding them breakfast and preparing lunches and I’m working on getting them ready for the day and Sprout is operating at the speed of a dial up computer trying to download a movie, I have to fight back the urge to throttle. I try reasoning instead. In some cases, I’m not above begging. But it’s no use, she’s slow even when she’s not doing it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the Bean buzzes around like a caffeinated hummingbird.

These are my mornings. These are my children. This is my life.

Musings At Bedtime

Amongst the students enrolled in Sprout’s pre-school class, there is a bear. Peyton is a fluffy, light brown stuffed animal. His neck is adorned with a big red bow. Like a slacker who spends his first year out of college surfing the couches of his friends, Peyton goes home with a new student every few days. The kid is meant to care of the bear and report all of Peyton’s adventures back to the class upon his return. This weekend was Sprout’s turn.

Sprout took her role as Peyton’s caregiver very seriously. With the exception of her bath, Sprout kept Peyton by her side for the entire evening—even bringing his special blanket into bed with her so Peyton wouldn’t get cold.

Not so deep inside that rambunctious, precocious, stubborn little girl of mine is a very sweet, nurturing person.

___________________________________

Something unexpected happened while tucking the Bean into bed for the past two nights. The routine started out the familiar way, with stories (currently the 7th reading of Diary of a Wimpy Kid). I got up to read and turn off the lights. The Bean didn’t ask for it (it being me singing Mary Had a Little Lamb while spraying “scary spray” in each corner of the room. I decided to make a test of it and didn’t mention it. In the past when I’d forgotten to sing, the Bean would come out of his room a few minutes later and let me know my error. Time passed and he didn’t come out. The next night, same thing: I didn’t sing. He didn’t ask.

It could very well be that my boy is growing up.

The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Volume 7

Just because the Bean is getting older doesn't mean he's going to stop dropping knowledge on us like Zeus drops lightening...

After getting very angry: "[At my birthday party] I’m going to give you a goody bag with boring stuff. It’s going to have rice. It’s going to have a knife. A pie in the face. A pie in the ear and muddy water that will go on your wiener. Can I say wiener?" (4/11)

"How big is ‘yea’ big anyway?"  (4/11)

"I have a penis and my penis wiggles." (4/11)

Me: "How many hours in a day?"
The Bean: "What season are we talking about?" (6/11)

"You’re not winning you know, you’re just in first place."  (7/11)

"This hole where my tooth used to be is like a door into my mouth." (7/11)

"If you have an anchor tattoo, that means you’re really strong." (8/11)

Upon getting a bag of Skittles: "I got some S&M’s!!" (9/11)


Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Volume 6
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition

Magic Shel

Having grown tired of reading The Giant Jam Sandwich to my daughter every night for the past two weeks, I went foraging for some new books. Digging through the box in the back of a closet, I stumbled upon Where the Sidewalk Ends and stashed it on the bookshelf.

The book was sitting on Sprout’s bed when she climbed in. She looked at it quizzically and then at me, silently asking if this was my doing. I told her I was going to read some poems from the book for one of her stories. She happily obliged and snuggled next to me as I began to read. She adored the book and happily drifted off to sleep moments later. I said goodnight, tucked the book under my arm and closed her door.

The book was sitting on the Bean’s bed when he climbed in. He looked at it quizzically and then at me.

“What’s this?” the Bean asked in a tone of voice that sounded almost insulted.

I told him I wanted to read some poems from the book for one of his stories. The Bean’s eyes got moist (he’s prone to crying fits when he’s tired). I told him that he would still get to read two stories of his choosing, but I wanted to read this one as a bonus book. That pacified the Bean and his eyes dried up.

I lured the Bean into the book by first reading him “Captain Hook” (Captain Hook must remember/Not to scratch his toes./Captain Hook must watch out/And never pick his nose.) He giggled. We read some more. And some more. He was enraptured.

Finally, I closed the book and prepared to tuck him in.

“Can you? Can you read that last one again?”

“The one about the outlaws and pirates and watersnakes and cannibals and eagles?”

“Yeah,” he said wide-eyed. “Please!”

I read the poem again. After I tucked in the Bean, I could not take the book with me because he refused to go to sleep until he flipped through the whole thing himself.