It begins with a spot on the wall.

I’m eating dinner with my wife when I notice a white speck on our red dining room walls near the wooden baseboard molding around the floor. My wife and I are having cold left over pizza for dinner because we’re both tired from a long day at work and we want to spend the little time we have in the evening with our toddler son as he throws applesauce at our heads. But there’s this little spot, just a speck, on the wall. I bend down and scratch it with my fingernail.

A chip of paint falls to the floor. “Hmm…” I say, leaning forward to avoid a flying cheese-covered piece of macaroni. “I guess I’ll have to touch up the wall tonight.”

This one room studio cottage soon grew to a 437 room castle after the owner’s wife said she’d like “a little rack for my spices.”

My wife, never missing an opportunity to keep me busy and off the streets, says, “If you’re going to fix that spot you’ll probably need to touch up other spots to match it.”

My agenda for this evening revolves around drinking beer and making fun of people on the TV so I don’t really want to spend those precious few hours sitting on the floor painting baseboards. I try a clever excuse: “Those baseboards are fifty years old, they’ll need more than paint to look good.”

“So why don’t you replace the baseboards?” my wife asks. D’oh! This is getting worse, not better.

“Because if I replace the baseboards I’ll first have to update all the trim around the doorways to know how short or long to cut the baseboards.”

“Why can’t you do the trim and then the baseboards?” she asks.

“I can’t do the trim because we’ve already planned to widen this doorway into the kitchen sometime. There’s not point in putting the trim up if I’m just going to take it down a little while later,” I answer. This is when I realize that I’ve completely lost this game. She has already analyzed this entire conversation and has easily figured out the thousands of possible ways it could go. Like Gary Kasparov playing chess with a chimpanzee, my wife has planned out the whole game before I even have a chance to unfold the board.

“What’s stopping you from widening the doorway now?” my wife asks innocently.

“Well, I’ll have to replace the kitchen cabinets before I widen the door because they are in the way.”

“So why don’t you replace the cabinets now?”

“Because I really need to fix up the slanting floors before I put new cabinets in.”

“What’s keeping you from working on the floors?” my wife asks.

I sigh. “I can’t get to the floors from the basement right now because the ceiling down there has that old sheet rock installed.”

“Can you remove it?”

“Sure, but it will make such a mess that I’d probably have to remodel the whole basement after I tear everything out.”

“Why can’t you do that?”

“Because I don’t have any place to put all the stuff we have in the basement now,” I answer with a sigh. I could mention to my wife that we really don’t have the ability to pay for any of these ideas, but I’m almost afraid she’ll reach under the table and bring out some sort of Carlton Sheets Easy Home Improvement Financing Course book and DVD set.

“What about that addition we keep talking about?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I guess if we built that addition we could move the stuff from the basement into it while I worked down there.”

“Okay,” my wife responds with a smile. “So now we have a plan.”

I nod, removing a pea that is stuck in my hair. “We’re going to build that addition so that we can remodel the basement so that we can fix the slanted floor that will allow us to replace the kitchen cabinets that will make it easier to widen the doorway that we’re going to put trim around that will make the baseboards easier to replace so that I can paint that speck on the wall.”

“Sounds like a plan!” she says with a smile.

Damn.

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Dear Daycare Providers:

I am writing to express my concern over the seemingly disproportional amount of time my son is spending on art projects involving the excessive use of glitter. When we first enrolled our son at your daycare center (Sorry, you call it a “Primary Learning Center”) we were told there would numerous educational, social and physical activities for my son to partake in on a daily basis. We were not informed that they would, in some way, involve copious amounts of glitter.

My wife and I cheered with delight when our son first brought home a paper star covered in glitter with a loop of yarn run through it. It was a clever Christmas decoration and we had fun putting it on our Christmas tree. We were equally delighted when, a week later, he brought home a paper snowman who had a red glitter scarf and real sticks attached with about a pound and half of Elmer’s glue. But week after week we noticed each and every art project that came home had an enormous amount of glitter, regardless of the topic. Some memorable examples:

I don’t know what these are, but they have glitter so you can call them ‘art.’

In January we received a glitter encrusted “snow ball” with was nothing more than a white paper bag filled with scrap paper, taped into a ball shape and then clearly dunked in glue and silver glitter.

February brought us Valentine hearts drenched in red glitter. That was understandable and a bit cute. The use of the same red glitter on a paper George Washington’s lips was just weird and the glitter bombed cherry tree that followed two days later confirmed that you were just trying to use up the rest of the red glitter you had in the closet. I half expected a paper Lincoln to come home with a giant red glitter splat on the back of his head. Oh, and that Groundhog’s day project of a paper groundhog weighted down with gold and brown glitter? Atrocious and disturbing. Where on earth do you find brown glitter and why did you buy it by the pound?

March wasn’t much better. My son brought home a “wind catcher” which was nothing more than a weirdly shaped piece of paper with every color of glitter imaginable stuck to it (yes, even brown!) He then showed presented an “apple” which was nothing more than the snow ball project with red glitter instead of silver. I didn’t know apples grew in the spring, by the way. The last March project, a silver glitter encrusted squirrel with red glitter eyes, was just creepy and confusing. We had it hanging in on the refrigerator door but my son refused to go into the kitchen while it was there. We took it down, but the damage had been done: every time I pointed out a real squirrel in the yard to my toddler son he would grab his eyes and start screaming hysterically.

For April his class had a “construction” theme and he made a glitter caked bulldozer and dump truck which looked as though it was the vehicular equivalent of something that you might see in a Mad Max version of Priscillla, Queen of the Desert. I’m not one to criticize artistic license, but this was one fruity looking piece of heavy equipment. I’m shocked you didn’t make my son glue a feather boa on it and write his name in lipstick.

I think I’ve made my point. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the value of art projects, but I have to seriously question the career opportunities that await someone who is an expert in applying glitter to things. Liberace is dead and probably not coming back, so he definitely doesn’t need any new jumpsuits. Elton John dresses like an old man now that he came out of the closet, so I don’t see any real job opportunities that don’t involve casino showgirls or lots of dollar bills. Let’s face it: glitter just isn’t all that fashionable, even amongst the …dare I say it?… Glitterati.

Perhaps the larger issue is not the frequency and downright silly places that my son is using glitter, but rather the sheer abundant quantity.

All these glitter-holding projects do not actually hold their glitter for very long. The seats in my car, the furniture in our home, the hair on our dog, the fur on our cats and even the grass in my lawn all sparkle with glitter flecks as the sunlight hits them. This wouldn’t be so bad if the grass glitter was all green, but that’s just being silly. On one particularly bright afternoon my neighbor across the street asked if I had installed a mirrored disco ball in our living room. I had to explain that it was simply the glitter that had stuck to our ceiling fan. I went on a business trip last month and I had enough glitter stuck to the bottom of my shoes to set off the airport metal detector. And, yes, I’ve changed diapers that glinted in the light a Winnie The Pooh lamp.

I implore you… nay, beg you, to find some other art projects that don’t involve sticking thousands of pieces of shiny foil or plastic or whatever the hell glitter is to things that are not shiny. Maybe you could give his class some crayons to eat or some Play Doh to stick in his hair or some permanent markers to use on the walls. I’m not picky. I appreciate your time and thank you for your attention to this matter.

A Concerned Parent,

Technorati Tags: glitter, humor, parenting, art projects, scary squirrel

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Elmo is everywhere.

Ain’t Elmo’s Fire.

My toddler son has, in his entire 16 month lifespan, probably seen about 4 minutes of television broken down into 10 second clips here and there as we pass by the electronics department in our local Target.

We have purposely chosen to not expose our son to any sort of television shows or children’s videos or Wii games until he’s at least 2. We play with books and toys and the dog and whatever else is at hand, but we don’t sit and watch TV with him.

Despite all this our son has developed an overzealous obsession for that high-pitched voice red furry Grover knock-off Muppet named Elmo.

Elmo is a strange little creature. His bright red fur puts Little Orphan Annie’s hair to shame. His googly eyes dwarf Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Mars bugged eyes in Total Recall. His high pitched voice is one that can only be replicated by continually taking shots of helium. And his speech pattern is reminiscent of what you might get out of a toddler Yoda with a learning disability.

Elmo is, quite literally, impossible to avoid in the course of a normal day. My son has a few Sesame Street themed toys and books and Elmo is featured in a few of them, but Elmo isn’t usually the main character. Still, I’ve noticed that Elmo is the only character to make a single appearance in every book and on every Sesame Street toy we have.

Bert and Ernie? Shunned and pushed to the background for two many questions about their sexuality. Big Bird? Everyone’s still a little sheepish around him ever since Snuffalufaguss appeared and made everyone feel like a fool for all those years. Oscar the Grouch? Too reminiscent of the dirty old man who sits in the rocking chair on his porch all day watching the kids get on and off the school bus.

But Elmo has some sort of magical appeal. He’s the baby equivalent of Britney Spears, Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan all rolled into one fuzzy puppet: you simply can’t turn away from the spectacle. My son can spot Elmo’s face on a sippy cup from 100 yards away and immediately start bouncing and chanting, “Elmo! Elmo! Elmo! Elmo! Elmo!” like it was a sacred word of power from an occult religious ceremony.

And this magical appeal means that Elmo is seen everywhere we go. A visit to the grocery store, book store, clothing outlet or even someone else’s home is not complete without an Elmo sighting. Elmo can be seen on everything. There are Elmo clothes, Elmo baby food, Elmo snacks, Elmo remote controls, Elmo televisions, Elmo CDs and Elmo diapers. There are probably Elmo cans of beer, Elmo lighters and Elmo condoms. Elmo’s eyes follow you where ever you go. Elmo is always watching. Elmo is everywhere!

Elmo! Elmo! Elmo! Elmo! Elmo!

Technorati Tags: Humor, Fatherhood, Elmo

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