Watching the Winter Olympics with the youngling...
“Ooh figure skating!”
“Ug,” says the child.
“Think about it this way: she’s pretty much wearing knives on her feet and he’s throwing her up over his head like that.”
“Really?”
“Yup. He could get decapitated. You never know.”
“Huh,” he says, considering. “But they’re professionals.”
“True. But these guys get injured all the time. They practice everyday.”
“Really?”
“Oh sure, blood and gashes and stitches and bruises. You name it.”
Loosely related to yesterday's post, I was in the car this afternoon, between the bus stop and piano lessons, humming along to my new local Irish playlist.
Suddenly a footstep on the stair
Who could it be but Reilly after slaughter
With two pistols in his hand
Looking for the man who shagged his daughter
I've been struggling with a javascript application at work.
I didn't really start programming until I met python. I love python. We understand each other. It's a very direct language. It runs in order, expects you to be specific, and cuts you no slack. It's very efficient and it loves making lists. I love making lists too. Python and I have a lot in common.
My son came home from school several weeks ago brandishing a permission slip to join an after-school geography club, which I thought was pretty cool. (I'm a geographer by trade myself.) He thought it was pretty cool too, so I signed the form.
The first day he came home from geography club, I asked him what he'd learned that day, and he said something like, "We learned the capitals of the states."
"Huh. Okay." I'll admit I was a little puzzled, but I do remember being forced to do that myself at about his age.
My eight-year-old niece is learning to knit. She had about 6 inches of a scarf hanging off plastic needles at a family gathering on Saturday. In the midst of said gathering, I grabbed my sister and headed off on an excersion to the local yarn store.
"Kiddo, do you want to come to the yarn store with us?" I asked her.
"What for?"
"For yarn."
"What would I need more yarn for? I have yarn in my bag."
Last week I was at a family camp retreat with, not surprisingly, my family, amongst others. We go on this particular retreat most summers and this year I volunteered to keep the kids entertained for a hour every day. I got a group of four kids, including my own, that were all in the 7-9 age range. I've volunteered for this job many times over the years, and this time came in armed with a plan that we would do science experiments.
My son and I were walking down Main Street. I was still singing the song that had been on the radio in the bookshop we just left, a catchy tune that suggested that I should shake, shake, shake my booty.
"I don't think that's very appropriate," said my eight-year-old.
"Which part? The lyrics to the song, or the fact that I'm singing it out loud in public?"
"A little of both, actually."
"Hmm..." I replied. "Would it be more appropriate if I danced while I sang it?"
I proceeded to demonstrate, dancing in the manner the song suggested.
This week was my birthday (do-do-do-do-do-doo-do-doo). That's 37 trips around the sun and here I am gearing up for another go.
Our kid started piano lessons a few weeks ago, which were a Christmas gift from his Grandma, and which he is quite enjoying. My husband took lessons as a kid and still plays a little. I'm fairly non-musical myself.
Christmas crafting with the youngling:
"Mommy, your reindeer isn't very accurate. Reindeer aren't predators. They're prey so their eyes are on the sides, not in the front."
What I didn't say: "Except for Santa's reindeer. They are carnivores. Hmmm, I wonder what they eat...."
What I actually said: "That's a fine point, kiddo. So the fact that these specimens are red and white striped and one-legged doesn't trouble you?"
"No, I'm using my imagination."
"Ah."
