Yesterday I was on the way home from picking up Cameron from school.  As has become common practice for us, we began talking about the things he did in school that day.  Who did you play with on the playground?  Did you read a story at circle time?  What story?  Did you take your nap?  Did you get in trouble?

Then came an innocent sounding question:  What did you have for lunch?

This is actually a common question even if I was the one who packed his lunch.  As it turns out, I didn’t pack it that day.  While his very strong preference for lunch over the past two years has been PB&J, I knew that Beth had picked up some Lunchables and wondered how the whole cracker-goodness-meal worked out.

So…  What did you have for lunch?

“I cut the cheese, Daddy.  And I put it on the crapper.”

He corrected his mis-speak right away, but how do you let that just go away?  You don’t.  You post it on the web for all to see.  Enjoy!

The other day I walked into the room and Cameron was singing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.”  How cute, right?  But it just didn’t seem like he was singing the melody quite right.  I kept listening, ’cause it sounded pretty familiar.  Then it hit me!!  He wasn’t singing the classical Fred Astaire / Mickey Rooney 1970s jingle.  No, he was singing the Bruce Springsteen version!  Here’s the video:

Now, if that wasn’t enough, there’s more!  He’s begun requesting songs as we drive back & forth from school.  Right now his favorite song is “The Final Countdown” by Europe.  For that nougat of goodness, check this out:

He’s so my boy…

Last night I put Cameron to bed.  I do this often.  We have monitors that we use in case he has a bad dream, cries, needs something, etc.  About 45 minutes after I put him in bed, I heard singing from the monitor!  Singing is clearly not sleeping, so I knew that I had to put a stop to it, especially since it was so late!

I walked toward his room, and as I rounded the corner of the hallway I saw that his bedroom door was open.  And the bathroom light was on.  Oh!  He had gotten up to go to the bathroom!!  That’s awesome…  And as I peeked into the bathroom, there he was sittin’ on the pot.  Singing.

So if you’ve been wondering where might be the most appropriate place in your house to sing…  That’s it!

I don’t know what it is about car washes.  We never teased him about them, we never tortured him with them, we never made him stand under the shower head.  So I don’t know why he has a dramatic fear of the car wash.  And never-the-less, he does.

For me, the car wash is generally not something I take the time to do in the driveway.  It’s not something where I go to the place where you give them the car and they wash it inside-and-out while I sit on the patio reading a newspaper and sip coffee.  No, the way I do car washes is to wait until the last possible moment.  I wait until it’s hard to see out the windows and I’ve forgotten what color my car is.  Then I take it to the cheapest car wash I can find:  the one at the gas station.

So, today was car wash day.  I drove out to Ventura yesterday for a meeting and must have driven through a storm of insects that likely rivaled that of Egypt when Moses was visiting the Pharoah.  Couldn’t see; time for a car wash.

I’ve learned that I have to warn Cameron that something he doesn’t like is coming.  Previous trips to the gas station and the spur-of-the-moment, “let’s go through the car wash” generally end in the apocalypse.  So, yesterday I warned him that today was car-wash day.  And this morning I warned him that we’d wash the car in the afternoon.  He was prepped.  He was ready.

The first thing that happened after getting gas was that he insisted on sitting in the front seat with me rather than the back seat on his own.  I expected it, so that was ok.  Then he spent the entire car wash cycle kneeling on the seat with his head buried as far down in the seat as he could, as if he could actually bury his head there in the crack of the seat.  I told him how brave he was, and how proud of him I was that he was doing this even though he was scared.

After we had pulled through the whirling fan of terror (the blower that dries the car), he sat slowly up.  He looked around and saw that we were no longer in the car wash.  He was alive.  As I buckled him back into his car seat in the back, he said to me, “Daddy, I was brave hiding!”

Brave Sir Cameron!  And if you know what movie I’m nearly-quoting, you get bonus points!!

That’s right.  He’s got an “owie.”  This is not the worst, but he sure didn’t like it.  It worked out like this.

You know how 3-year-olds love to push boundaries?  They love to do stuff that you tell ‘em not to do as soon as you turn away.  Bill Cosby talked about this beautifully in his book about Fatherhood, and I’m finding many similarities.  I’m not going to use the phrase “brain damage” as in many of Cosby’s writings and comedy routines.  It’s just a reality that children like to see what happens when the parents aren’t looking.

So he was told not to jump on the couch.  And as soon as backs were turned there was jumping on the couch, and then there was falling off of the couch.  Then there was the coffee table.  Then there was screaming.

A while ago, Cameron fell at school and ended up having stitches.  It was a horrible experience for him, and hitting his head again (I think) brought back terror that he might have to relive that awfulness.  With much comfort, an ice pack, kisses, and a mildly amusing refusal to look in the mirror, he made it to bed and peacefully to sleep.

The next morning, recognizing that his head didn’t hurt the way it had the night before, he announced that his “owie” was all gone.  No amount of talking would convince him that the magical disappearance wasn’t quite what he expected.

So, back to the mirror and the revelation:  “My owie’s not all gone!”

He’s doing very well, several days later.  What’s kinda fun is that every time he gets to a place where he sees new people or people he hasn’t seen in a while is that he tells them:  “My owie’s not all gone!”

Today, Cameron and I were on the way home and talking about what things are “bigger” than others.  We agreed that he was not bigger than Daddy, but that our Prius is bigger than Daddy.  Good.  Then he said that our Mustang was not bigger than Daddy.  OK.  A little confused.  We agreed that Mommy was not bigger than Daddy, nor were any of his teachers.  So then I asked.  “Is Auntie Lyz bigger than Daddy?”

“No.”  Good, he’s right on.  “But when she turns into a man, she’s bigger.”

Sorry, Auntie Lyz!