The Kid Pauses to Think

The quest for a name for RND continues. We've gotten loads of great suggestions - names that look great but then a funny thing happens between the brain and the mouth. The word just feels funny. Milly, Molly, Maddie....all lovely names, but it feels funny and sounds wrong. (Which is exactly what happened with Sarah, even before the whole unfortunate Palin business started.)

As luck would have it, yesterday was the weekly phone call with my family and it's The Kid's weekend with Middle Brother. The Kid has given such great advice in the past, that I thought he would be ideally qualified to help out with our latest dilemma.

Me: Hey, The Kid, I was hoping you could help me out with something really important.

The Kid: Sure I can!

Me: OK, well, do you know about my new dog?

The Kid: Yes. I saw a picture on the Internet.

Me: We need a name for the new dog. Can you help us think of one?

I waited for more than a minute. The Kid was thinking really hard, but it was unusual for it to take so much time for him to come up with an answer. Is it possible I finally found a way to stump The Kid?

The Kid: I got it! You could name her The Kid!

Me: But that's your name.

The Kid: So? It would still work for the dog. It's a VERY good name. In fact, I think it's a great name.

Me: I agree, it's definitely a great name, but wouldn't you feel weird knowing that a dog had your name.

The Kid: No.

I wish I was there, I can picture how he'd shrug his shoulders and open his eyes wide when he said that.

Me: OK, well, I'll put that on the list to tell Uncle Peter.

The Kid: Oh, I've got the perfect name for a girl...Butterfly.

Me: Butterfly's a pretty name, but she's pretty big to be called butterfly. She's nearly as big as me.

The Kid: Really? Then how about Big Heart?

Me: I kind of like that, but maybe we'd translate it into Irish. I could ask Uncle Peter what that would be in Irish.

The Kid: How about Molly?

Me: Molly keeps coming up alright.

The Kid: I gotta go.

Me: OK, have your dad email me if you think up any more names. Thanks for your help.

Now I understand the enormity and difficulty of this task, since not even The Kid could magic up the perfect name without thinking about it.

Zoo Trip

I love going to the zoo. I know these days, that's not a very PC-admission, but I don't care. Zoos play a crucial role in education and conservation. They've undergone great changes in management and design that have resulted in better lives for the animals.

I don't get to go to the zoo that often anymore. Fota Wildlife Park is a bit over an hour's drive from our house and I've been there twice when we've had guests of the child variety.

This summer, I went to the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo with Middle Brother and The Kid. They have a family membership, so they go to the zoo quite frequently. It wasn't even our first joint visit to the zoo. But it was the first summer time visit since The Kid was a tadpole.

Our plan of attack was simple - arrive at or before 10am to hotfoot it over to the Australian part of the zoo so we could feed the Rainbow Lorikeets. For the bargain price of $1, you can buy a tiny medicine cup that's about half-full of nectar. Then you go into the Lorikeet house, a mini-jungle where the birds fly free and unfettered.

It's essential to get there early so that the birds are still hungry. Otherwise, you just stand there like a dolt with your little medicine cup of nectar. But when the birds are hungry, it's a riot of green, yellow, and red. If you're very lucky and stand very still, the birds will land on you. I still get crazily excited to have a bird land on my hand.

The first time we took The Kid into the Rainbow Lorikeets, he was a very little guy and got a bit freaked out by the forwardness of the birds. Now, he's a junior scientist and is fascinated by and curious about everything. He listened to a spiel from one of the docents, and then asked how you know if a bird is a boy or a girl.

The docent explained that you would have to look into the cloaca to find out. Middle Brother, in what I thought was a genius move of comic timing, said "Yeah....we're not going to do that today." I later found out that he wasn't trying to be funny, he'd seen the look on The Kid's face and was heading off what he saw as an inevitable request to try it out.

After feeding the birds, we went to explore the rest of Australia land. We took turns going down the giant crazy tree slide and visited the donkeys and sheep in the petting farm. Then we passed the camel rides and it was decided, since it was a special zoo day (given that Auntie Ann was visiting) that a camel ride was in order.

A hand-printed sign in the ticket window read "Maximum weight per camel: 300 pounds." MB told me that he needed to be with The Kid, so I'd have to go alone. When we got to the camel loading zone, the guy told us we could all fit on one camel. I was flattered that the guy thought we were so svelte but MB told me later that he suspected the guys just didn't want to walk around two camels. (I preferred my explanation.)

The guy directed MB to get on first, then me, then The Kid. MB asked me to make sure I held onto The Kid, which I did like we were lost at sea on a flimsy lifeboat. The camel dutifully trod around the dusty track.

Getting on a camel is a lot easier than getting off a camel, but The Kid handled it like a champ. I was a lot less graceful and assured, but managed to haul myself back onto the loading platform.

After a brief stop for soft pretzels and slushies, it was time to feed the sharks and sting rays. Feeding the sting rays is completely unnerving. You take a bit of herring or some other smallish fish and hold it between your first two fingers. You put your hand into the water, palm facing up, so the fish is sticking up out of your hand. Then you wait for the sting ray to glide over your hand and suck up the fish. The sting rays were not as hungry as the Rainbow Lorikeets.

We had lunch at the new zoo food court. (Well, it's new to me, at least.) The Kid and I both ordered Happy Meals. After we were done eating, The Kid spent a lot of time playing with both the Happy Meal toys, identical Bumblebee Transformers. MB and I both found it interesting that the toys earned double the amount of attention and time from The Kid, even though they were exactly the same.

It was a good trip to the zoo. It's nice to remember an adventure on a warm, sunny day when it's currently a dark, cold, wet winter's day.

Sweet Dreams

When The Kid is concerned that he might have nightmares, he has a method to try to prevent them. He talks and thinks about all the good dreams he could have instead, and drifts off to dreamland with happy visions in his head.

One evening, Middle Brother and The Kid were discussing the various good dreaming options available. It was suggested that The Kid might dream about being Spiderman. A reasonable suggestion as The Kid loves Superheros and who wouldn't want to dream about acrobatically gliding and swinging through the streets of New York City.

The Kid considered this suggestion, but then expressed a concern. "But Dad, what if the bad guys come and I have to fight them? The bad guys might be so scary, it could turn into a bad dream."

Middle Brother had anticipated this concern and he offered The Kid a dreaming loophole. "Ah, but you could dream that you were on vacation. Think about lying out at the beach, in your Spidey-suit, drinking ice tea."

The image of The Kid, sunbathing in a Spiderman suit while on vacation cracks me up. I think I've also found a way to prevent bad dreams.

Agriculture Advice from The Kid

When my mobile rang this afternoon and the display said it was an Anonymous Call, I knew it had to be my parents. They call every weekend, around the same time, and hardly anyone else comes up on my phone as Anonymous.

I answered with my customary "Good Morning, Sunshine!" and was greeted with a confident "Hi, Auntie Ann!" What a pleasant surprise - a phone call from The Kid. I was excited to ask him for agriculture advice regarding my recent pumpkin difficulties.

First, he was bursting with news. He wanted to tell me that he was wearing his clone trooper costume because he was going to Boo in the Zoo. After a detailed description of said costume, I had an opportunity to consult my favourite expert.

Me: "Hey, The Kid, I need some advice on pumpkins. Do you think you could help me out?"

The Kid: "Sure!"

Me: "I'm having a problem finding nice, big, orange pumpkins here. Do you know what I can do to get a nice, huge pumpkin to carve for Halloween?"

The Kid: "OK, what you need to do is not pick the pumpkin so soon. Leave it on the plant for as long as you can, that way it will grow bigger."

Me: "That's great advice for when I grow my own pumpkins, but right now, I can only buy them in the store. And the store only has little pumpkins and most of them are half-green and don't look very nice."

The Kid: "Why don't you just go to a pumpkin farm?"

Me: "We don't have pumpkin farms in Ireland."

The Kid: "Really? Oh. Then I guess you will have to grow your own. Just make sure you leave them on the plant for a really long time because the longer they're on the plant, the bigger they'll grow."

This is what I love about The Kid. No matter the topic, he's able to come up with cogent, practical advice without any hesitation.

This is the Life!

As soon as I realised the full implications of visiting Cleveland in the summer, I rang Middle Brother and asked "Can we take The Kid to Cedar Point? Can we? Can we? Please? Please? Pleeeeeeeease?!?!?!" Predictably, he asked "How old are you?" but my enthusiasm was not to be quelled or slowed by sarcastic hypothetical questions.

I had but one goal in mind for the Cedar Point trip - to ride The Big Swinging Boat as many times as possible. I wasn't worried about getting sick on the ride. I was worried about men in white coats with butterfly nets carting me off to the insane asylum after the Cedar Point workers became concerned about my unhealthy fixation and repetitive behaviour.

The Wheaton Fall Festival featured carnival rides, which they set up in the parking lot near the commuter train station. When I got off the train the day before the festival started, I scanned the lot carefully, looking for the tell-tale pieces of my favourite ride. When I spotted the sturdy mast, I could barely contain my excitement. The next day, I dragged Peter up there as soon as I was able to and bought a big old pile of tickets, intending to 'spend' them all on the Big Swinging Boat.

The operator was an enormous man who could have been Mr. T's long lost twin brother. Except for a more moderate hair cut, the man matched Mr. T in both looks and style. What I remember most is the large cobra pendant the man had on a thick gold necklace. The cobra was striking, fangs glistening gold, and its eyes were rubies.

I rode the Big Swinging Boat three times consecutively. On my fourth go, the man said to me "Girl, you must really like this ride." I told him I did, that it was my most favourite. "But why?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Because it gives me the most perfect combination of freedom and flying and floating, all rolled into one. It gives me the butterfly funny-tum feeling without being terrifying. It's like the ride on a swing you always wanted to have, but were afraid to pump too hard or go too high lest you end up wrapping yourself around the bar, Fred Flinstone-style.

If the Big Swinging Boat was a bowl of porridge or a bed, I would definitely be its Goldilocks. It's Just Right to me and not getting my yearly fix has been one of the few disappointments of living in Ireland. Thanks to the generosity of my mother and her economic stimulus check, I was going make up for three years of being without the Big Swinging Boat.

When we got to Cedar Point, I knew exactly where I was heading first. MB didn't think The Kid was going to go in for the boat, since they're both prone to motion sickness. Instead, they went off the Planet Snoopy, an installation of kids' rides quite close to the Big Swinging Boat.

It was everything I'd remembered and more. Floating and flying, funny tum and freedom, if I could bottle and sell the pure joy that ride creates for me, I'd be a billionaire. I rode the Big Swinging Boat six times in a row, unabashedly stepping off, trotting through the exit and around back to the entrance, daring the gatekeeper to call the men with the nets.

MB and The Kid stopped by just as I was having my sixth go. MB took a picture. I'm in the yellow shirt, in the top half of the boat, on the end of a row. (I wore the yellow shirt on purpose, so that I'd be easier to find in a crowd since I knew that MB and I would be splitting up from time to time.)



After my Big Swinging Boat-stravaganza, I met up with MB and The Kid. We had some cheese fries (thanks again, Mom) and then rode the Bumper Cars. After that, we headed to the Frontier-land area, with some vague notions of finding the petting zoo and the Mine Ride. Instead, we came upon Thunder Canyon. I was 12 when this ride opened and it was advertised as a thrilling white-water rafting experience. I'd never been white-water rafting and was quite excited about the ride. When I went to the park with my friend Betsy and her family, all of us kids were anxious to ride Thunder Canyon.

Since the ride was brand new, we expected a long wait. But it was a miserable day, just barely 60 degrees, with grey skies and a brisk wind. So the wait was nonexistent. Soon, we were sitting in the seats of the round raft, drifting down choppy water towards the waterfalls. Even at 12, I quickly realised that the ride was the equivalent of having someone dump buckets of slimy lake water on your head. It wasn't very thrilling and the only thing it did with any regularity was make sure you were soaked to the bone. I spent the rest of the day walking around in wet clothes and ended up with a sore throat that turned into strep throat and kept me sick for two weeks.

When The Kid proclaimed that he wanted to go on Thunder Canyon, the smart part of me told me to find a bench and enjoy the wait. But he was so excited about it, dancing around and waving his arms. I wanted to see what he'd think of it, wanted to be there to watch him. So I pulled my shoes off, stuffed them into one of the thoughtfully provided cubby holes, and trailed after The Kid and MB.

Because it had been raining in the morning, I'd put a ziplock bag in my pocket, just in case we needed to protect our electronics. The bag managed to hold two cell phones, a digital camera, a set of keys, and a pocket watch. Since I was wearing my hiking pants, I had a big pocket on the leg that held the ziplock bag. So we were ready, even if I was dreading the inevitable.

The wait was short, less than fifteen minutes, and numerous signs warned "You WILL get wet on this ride." Still, I stubbornly clung to hope that I'd be in the one seat on the ride that gets spared the worst of it. Soon, we were sitting in the circular raft, drifting to the first waterfall. The raft swung around and around and I knew within seconds that I was going to get the worst of the first waterfall. Buckets and buckets of slimy lake water cascaded over me and I reminded myself that my first instinct is nearly always right.

I looked up with an expression that MB later said made me look like an angry wet cat. MB and The Kid were laughing at me. I shook my head and smugly thought that they were in for it next. Sure enough, the boat swung around and MB and The Kid disappeared behind a curtain of water. When they came out, The Kid was shrieking and laughing, like he'd just had the best experience ever.

This went on for the length of the ride, me hating getting wet, The Kid loving it. I undoubtedly was the most drenched person to step off the ride. The Kid immediately asked to go again, a request that MB indulged while I went to find a sunny spot to start the drying off process.

After their second ride, we wanted to find Cedar Point's version of the log ride, Snake River Falls, which we discovered was like a log ride on steroids. Instead of a skinny log that can seat 8 people, their log ride uses very wide, very large cars. On the log ride they used to have an Geauga Lake, you could get through it pretty much unscathed if you ducked down when you hit the water. Snake River Falls, well, let's just say that they also have signs that claim "You WILL get wet on this ride."

The wait for the log ride was a little bit longer, but moved quite quickly. The Kid was still excited, still dancing around. When it was our turn, we sat in the back of a boat, the three of us sharing a bench seat. The boat climbed up and up a steep hill. I didn't mind the height of the hill - I like heights and like being able to see into the distance. After the hill, the boat floated around a bend and then made for the thrilling hill.

It sounds silly to say it, but I've never been so afraid on a ride than when we were hurtling down the 50-degree angle of Snake River Falls. (Not just a clever name, apparently.) Where the Big Swinging Boat makes me feel like I could fly, this ride was making me feel like I was going to be flung out into the abyss, where I would drop like a rock.

After what felt like an eternity of hurtling, the boat hit the water at the base of the hill, creating a spectacular tidal wave that undid any of the drying out I accomplished while waiting in the sun. When we got off the boat, The Kid was ecstatic, more excited than all his Christmases combined.

To get out of Snake River Falls, you have to walk across a bridge, which is built in such a way that it takes the brunt of the tidal wave created by the ride. I scampered across the bridge like a hare across a busy road. I was taking no chances on getting even more wet than I already was.

The Kid and MB lingered on the bridge, waiting to experience the tidal wave. When the wall of water came, The Kid shook his little fist in the air and shouted "This is the life!"

The Kid and MB would ride each of the water rides another time, while I checked out a brand new fast-high-swinging-in-the-air-ride that was just nowhere near as fantastic as the Old School Big Swinging Boat. Just before it was time to go home, I returned to my favourite ride and had four more goes, thinking that, as usual, The Kid was right. This is the life.

The Pack that Howls Together

When we were kids, we often hung out with the kids who lived across the street. It was more a matter of proximity than shared interests, which pretty much boiled down to snowball fights in the winter and leaving bicycle skid marks up and down the block in the summer. Another favourite activity was to go behind Across-the-Street's garage and make the dog in the next yard howl.

The dog was a beagle, so this wasn't very difficult. "Howl, dog, howl, howl, howl, howl!" we'd yell and the dog would happily oblige. We called him Howl-Dog and he was always good for a few minutes of entertainment. I don't know if we were teasing the dog, I'd like to think that we weren't, that we were just encouraging him to sing.

I didn't think much about howling again until we had Kodiak and Caper, and I discovered that by howling, we could get the dogs to join in. I loved doing this. There was something primitive and wolf-ish about it, something deliciously and inexplicably feral. For those minutes that we were howling, we were a pack. It reminded me of the time we went to Brookfield Zoo's Mexican Wolf exhibit.

One wolf sat atop a pile of heated rocks. As the sun began to set, the wolf started to howl, a plaintive directive that was slowly matched by similar cries coming from different directions. The sounds converged as the pack assembled on the rocks. It was magical.

Toby is not a howler. We've tried a few times, but he looks at us like we're crazy. Once, when he and I were alone, I tried to see how long I would have to howl before he would get the idea. My throat gave out before a single sound had issued from him.

Shortly after I arrived in Cleveland last week, Middle Brother told me he had a picture that he'd wanted to send me, but didn't know if it would upset me. I asked why and he said because Kodiak was in it. I love seeing pictures of Kodiak, especially if I'm in them. The memories are enjoyable now, a comfort, a reminder of a good friend.

Middle Brother tappity-tapped-tapped on his laptop and produced a picture of Kodiak, the Kid, and I. We're all bunched up together on Kodiak's dog bed and the camera has captured all of us mid-howl. I remember doing it, remember how amused The Kid was that we could all sing together like that.

It's not as weird being here without Kodiak as I thought it would be, probably because I lived in this house for many years before he did, so he's not a central force to all my Cleveland memories. (It would probably be much weirder and difficult to go back to Wheaton.) But there are still little reminders of his absence - the fact that you can open the side door without trigging a volley of deep-throated guard dog barking or the fact that you can leave food unattended. Saddest of all, to me at least, is the fact that if I start howling, no one will join me.