Saturday, October 23, 2004
Out of the mouths of babes...
I love interviews. People are endlessly fascinating, and I enjoy hearing someone talk about what matters to him, what makes him tick. Interviews can reveal as much about the person asking the questions as the person anwering them, and I sometimes find myself tuning into the interviewer's subtext more than to anything the interviewee has to say. In my opinion, good interviews educate and entertain us, and great interviews elicit a deeper awareness of our common humanity.
Max received a raft of presents for his birthday. The assortment of large dinosaurs, the elephant that blows paper butterflies out its trunk, and his first Cranium board game became instant favorites with Max. Other presents languish already on the closet shelf, emerging only for occasional use. But one of Max's presents stands out not only because of its popularity with Max, but also with me.
It's a microphone. Red and yellow plastic. Remarkably effective at magnifying sound. Not a battery or electrical cord in sight. Amplifies purely by virtue of its design. Pretty cool.
Around our house, we use the microphone in two ways. With a step stool as his stage, Max employs the mike to perform one-man shows of songs and motivational speaking. I use the microphone to conduct interviews with Max. I've discovered that interviewing Max is a practical and delightful way to learn what's been registering with him lately. Some day, when Max becomes the interviewer, I imagine it will be illuminating to see what kinds of questions he asks me. For now, though, I'm the initiator, and Max, being three, is an uninhibited respondent. Here's the content of our interview this evening:
Max, what is your favorite thing to do?
Eat.
What is your favorite thing to eat?
Apples. Apples and pears and oranges.
What is your favorite color?
White.
What is your favorite thing to do at school?
Read books and take naps. (Naps?? Ha!)
Who is your favorite teacher?
Mrs. Foltz.
What is your favorite thing to do at the ranch?
Ride the tricky trike. (The tricky trike is an antique tricycle with metal tires that used to be "decor." Now Max has returned it to its original purpose.)
What is your favorite thing to do at the farm? (meaning at Ronnie Nettles' place, where we keep the horses)
See all the horses and different animals.
What is your favorite thing to do at the zoo?
See all the zoo animals.
What is your favorite thing to do with Babee?
Build things, like my house.
What is your favorite thing to do with me?
(Silence. Max looked at me, quizically, as if this might be a trick question. How many hours a day do I spend with him, and Max cannot come up with any answer to this question? This bothers me. A lot. We're going to work on this.)
What is your favorite thing to with Daddy?
Play outside with the tennis ball on the string. (With a piece of string and duct tape, Lee has suspended a tennis ball from the patio ceiling so that Max can practice forehands with his new racquet.)
What is your favorite thing to do with Boo?
Crawling.
What is your favorite thing to do with Karen? (our housekeeper Araceli's daughter)
I don't like to share.
You don't like to share? So what is your favorite thing to do with Karen?
Pushing.
What is your favorite television show?
The Wiggles. And Dora and Blues Clues.
Where is your favorite place to go to sleep?
In my room.
What is your favorite animal?
Lions. And tigers. Rrrrrrrrrrr!!!
What is your favorite part of your body?
My penis.
Max received a raft of presents for his birthday. The assortment of large dinosaurs, the elephant that blows paper butterflies out its trunk, and his first Cranium board game became instant favorites with Max. Other presents languish already on the closet shelf, emerging only for occasional use. But one of Max's presents stands out not only because of its popularity with Max, but also with me.
It's a microphone. Red and yellow plastic. Remarkably effective at magnifying sound. Not a battery or electrical cord in sight. Amplifies purely by virtue of its design. Pretty cool.
Around our house, we use the microphone in two ways. With a step stool as his stage, Max employs the mike to perform one-man shows of songs and motivational speaking. I use the microphone to conduct interviews with Max. I've discovered that interviewing Max is a practical and delightful way to learn what's been registering with him lately. Some day, when Max becomes the interviewer, I imagine it will be illuminating to see what kinds of questions he asks me. For now, though, I'm the initiator, and Max, being three, is an uninhibited respondent. Here's the content of our interview this evening:
Max, what is your favorite thing to do?
Eat.
What is your favorite thing to eat?
Apples. Apples and pears and oranges.
What is your favorite color?
White.
What is your favorite thing to do at school?
Read books and take naps. (Naps?? Ha!)
Who is your favorite teacher?
Mrs. Foltz.
What is your favorite thing to do at the ranch?
Ride the tricky trike. (The tricky trike is an antique tricycle with metal tires that used to be "decor." Now Max has returned it to its original purpose.)
What is your favorite thing to do at the farm? (meaning at Ronnie Nettles' place, where we keep the horses)
See all the horses and different animals.
What is your favorite thing to do at the zoo?
See all the zoo animals.
What is your favorite thing to do with Babee?
Build things, like my house.
What is your favorite thing to do with me?
(Silence. Max looked at me, quizically, as if this might be a trick question. How many hours a day do I spend with him, and Max cannot come up with any answer to this question? This bothers me. A lot. We're going to work on this.)
What is your favorite thing to with Daddy?
Play outside with the tennis ball on the string. (With a piece of string and duct tape, Lee has suspended a tennis ball from the patio ceiling so that Max can practice forehands with his new racquet.)
What is your favorite thing to do with Boo?
Crawling.
What is your favorite thing to do with Karen? (our housekeeper Araceli's daughter)
I don't like to share.
You don't like to share? So what is your favorite thing to do with Karen?
Pushing.
What is your favorite television show?
The Wiggles. And Dora and Blues Clues.
Where is your favorite place to go to sleep?
In my room.
What is your favorite animal?
Lions. And tigers. Rrrrrrrrrrr!!!
What is your favorite part of your body?
My penis.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Dialogue
This week's homework assignment from my memoir class is about dialogue. We're charged with writing dialogue that conveys a story, without the benefit of explanatory or transitional phrases. Here's what transpired between Max and me on the way home from school. When I picked him up in the carpool line, he was soaked with sweat, hair plastered to his head, cheeks rosy pink. Whatever he'd been doing, it was evident that it had been vigorous.
"Max, how was your day at school?"
"Fine."
"Have you been playing outside?"
"Yes, but I didn't paint."
"You didn't paint? Have you been riding the tricycle?"
"No, I didn't ride the tricycle."
"So what have you been doing, Max?"
"Hugging."
"Hugging? Whom have you been hugging, Max?"
"All of my friends."
"Do you have a special friend whom you like to hug?"
"Yes, Brennan."
"You like to hug Brennan?"
"Yes, and I'm the daddy."
"Oh, you're the daddy. So is Brennan your little girl?"
"No, she's the mommy, like you're the mommy."
"She's the mommy?"
"Yes, and I'm the daddy, like Daddy is the daddy."
Got it.
"Max, how was your day at school?"
"Fine."
"Have you been playing outside?"
"Yes, but I didn't paint."
"You didn't paint? Have you been riding the tricycle?"
"No, I didn't ride the tricycle."
"So what have you been doing, Max?"
"Hugging."
"Hugging? Whom have you been hugging, Max?"
"All of my friends."
"Do you have a special friend whom you like to hug?"
"Yes, Brennan."
"You like to hug Brennan?"
"Yes, and I'm the daddy."
"Oh, you're the daddy. So is Brennan your little girl?"
"No, she's the mommy, like you're the mommy."
"She's the mommy?"
"Yes, and I'm the daddy, like Daddy is the daddy."
Got it.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Dinnertime
So much material; so little time to write.
Tuesday afternoon was our annual flea extermination appointment, a high priority in our house. After the treatment, I'm required to keep everyone out of the house for an hour. Since I'm still not keen on taking both boys out by myself, my choices were limited. Max was begging to go to Patisserie, which is exactly where I would have loved to go. We all had to settle for the Starbucks drive-through, where I could get a cookie for Max and a much-needed latte for me. And then we drove.
As I write this to you in Seattle, it's occuring to me what a quintessentially Texan kind of thing this is to do. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. It was over 90 degrees. I had both kids. So we remained in the air-conditioned bubble of the car. I actually use this as a tactic now, driving aimlessly around Houston until Max nods off, then coming home and carrying his limp body to his bed. Perplexed by my random detours (since he knows, more or less, how we get from one place to another), I have to fend off his inquiries as we drive round and round: "Where are we going, mommy? Are we going home, mommy?" And eventually, if I'm lucky, Max succumbs to sleep.
On Tuesday, I was fortunate. Max was out at around 5:00. Two hours later, when Lee and I were ready for dinner, Max was still asleep. Because the following day was a school day, and Max would have to be up early, Lee woke him for dinner. He showed up in the kitchen looking dazed and grumpy. Initially he demanded that his dinner be served at the island, not the kitchen table. That was fine with me. Then when the rest of us sat down at the table, he wanted to join us. That, too, was fine with me. Here's how the rest of the meal unfolded:
Max: I want some ketchup on my meatloaf.
Me: Look, Max, there's ketchup right there on top of your meatloaf.
Max: No, mommy, I want more ketchup. (Max is a true ketchup-lover. Sometimes I think he likes french fries because they are an efficient delivery mechanism for ketchup.)
Me: Okay, Max (I squirted ketchup on the side of the meat).
Max: No, I want it on the top.
Me: Okay (squirting more on top).
Max: No, mommy, I want some more.
Me: Okay, Max.
Max: Feed me, mommy.
I cut a bite-sized piece of meat and held it in front of Max's mouth.
Max: No, mommy, not there. I want it with ketchup.
Me: See, Max, there's ketchup on this bite.
Max: No, mommy, I want it from the top.
Me: Okay (I try to wrest a ketchup-laden piece from the top of the slice)
Max (beginning to disintegrate): No, mommy, not like that. Like this. (He makes a sweeping motion across the top of the meat.)
Me: Okay, Max. (I try to emulate his motion.)
Max (with more whining): No, mommy, not like that. Like this.
I try again, to no avail.
Max (overflowing with rage): No mommy! Like this!
Me: Max, I'm frustrated and confused. I'm trying my best to give you what you want, but I just don't know how. Now you'll have to do it yourself. (I relinquish the fork to him.)
Max (eating his pineapple): Mommy, I need more meat.
Me: You have meat on your plate, Max. Eat that meat first.
Max: No, mommy, I need more meat. This meat has too much ketchup.
And with that, Lee and I exploded with laughter.
Tuesday afternoon was our annual flea extermination appointment, a high priority in our house. After the treatment, I'm required to keep everyone out of the house for an hour. Since I'm still not keen on taking both boys out by myself, my choices were limited. Max was begging to go to Patisserie, which is exactly where I would have loved to go. We all had to settle for the Starbucks drive-through, where I could get a cookie for Max and a much-needed latte for me. And then we drove.
As I write this to you in Seattle, it's occuring to me what a quintessentially Texan kind of thing this is to do. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. It was over 90 degrees. I had both kids. So we remained in the air-conditioned bubble of the car. I actually use this as a tactic now, driving aimlessly around Houston until Max nods off, then coming home and carrying his limp body to his bed. Perplexed by my random detours (since he knows, more or less, how we get from one place to another), I have to fend off his inquiries as we drive round and round: "Where are we going, mommy? Are we going home, mommy?" And eventually, if I'm lucky, Max succumbs to sleep.
On Tuesday, I was fortunate. Max was out at around 5:00. Two hours later, when Lee and I were ready for dinner, Max was still asleep. Because the following day was a school day, and Max would have to be up early, Lee woke him for dinner. He showed up in the kitchen looking dazed and grumpy. Initially he demanded that his dinner be served at the island, not the kitchen table. That was fine with me. Then when the rest of us sat down at the table, he wanted to join us. That, too, was fine with me. Here's how the rest of the meal unfolded:
Max: I want some ketchup on my meatloaf.
Me: Look, Max, there's ketchup right there on top of your meatloaf.
Max: No, mommy, I want more ketchup. (Max is a true ketchup-lover. Sometimes I think he likes french fries because they are an efficient delivery mechanism for ketchup.)
Me: Okay, Max (I squirted ketchup on the side of the meat).
Max: No, I want it on the top.
Me: Okay (squirting more on top).
Max: No, mommy, I want some more.
Me: Okay, Max.
Max: Feed me, mommy.
I cut a bite-sized piece of meat and held it in front of Max's mouth.
Max: No, mommy, not there. I want it with ketchup.
Me: See, Max, there's ketchup on this bite.
Max: No, mommy, I want it from the top.
Me: Okay (I try to wrest a ketchup-laden piece from the top of the slice)
Max (beginning to disintegrate): No, mommy, not like that. Like this. (He makes a sweeping motion across the top of the meat.)
Me: Okay, Max. (I try to emulate his motion.)
Max (with more whining): No, mommy, not like that. Like this.
I try again, to no avail.
Max (overflowing with rage): No mommy! Like this!
Me: Max, I'm frustrated and confused. I'm trying my best to give you what you want, but I just don't know how. Now you'll have to do it yourself. (I relinquish the fork to him.)
Max (eating his pineapple): Mommy, I need more meat.
Me: You have meat on your plate, Max. Eat that meat first.
Max: No, mommy, I need more meat. This meat has too much ketchup.
And with that, Lee and I exploded with laughter.
