Birdwell Island

Having a 2-year old means you get exposed to television programming that adults (generally luckily) do not normally have to view.

Don't get me wrong, some of the shows are enjoyable enough in 20-30 min daily doses.

But, suspension of disbelief becomes a problem. Case in point? Clifford the Big Red Dog.

• The show's basic premise is that the love of Emily Elizabeth made Clifford grow large. Now, this in itself isn't really the problem. But what kind of image does this present to your child when the family pet doesn't grow to house wrecking proportions? And what about Clifford's friends on the island? T-Bone and Cleo aren't that large, does this mean that their owners do not love them?
• What do Emily Elizabeth's parents do to support this enormous dog? They obviously had enough money to just pick up and move from 'the city' to Birdwell Island, where they were able to purchase a house with a 'doghouse' (read as barn). I'm not sure what enterprise they are in, but I'm pretty certain I want in.
• Birdwell Island, itself, is an interesting piece of work. In one episode Clifford went digging for bones and just happened to find one large enough for him. Either the island is an archeolgists dream or the world they live in is populated with giant monstrosities.
• I understand the themes of acceptance (K.C the three legged dog & Mac the dog that we all wonder why *anyone* would hang around with), but perhaps the more impressive fact is that the entire community is accepting of a giant 15' red dog!
• Dog waste. Seriously. Why don't we ever see Emily Elizabeth with a bulldozer moving his giant size poo?

Still, I believe that Clifford could quite possibly be the greatest dog in the whole-wide world. You're a lucky girl Emily Elizabeth!

Language Barrier

My son is lots of things... budding artist, daredevil, climber, thrower, pouter, and cuddler. But he's definitely not a linguist.

It's not as I'm wishing for him to tell me "Good morning dear father, and how enjoyable was work last night?" I just wish there was more to our conversations than grunts, clicks, some whale song, and "Ma", "Da", "Itty" and maybe "Peas" or "Uice".

He's clever, he knows what your talking about, and he can put into or take out of the refrigerator a cold beverage.

It's just the frustration of us not knowing what he's always trying to say - it just grates on the nerves (ours and his).

Someday, I'll look back at this and think "God, please have him be quiet for just 15 min".

Performance Anxiety

After running off to visit the relatives today, my 2 year-old son and I end his day with the battle of wills.

I will lose. I always lose.

After the boy convinces me that he can't go to bed with out a glass of milk (this is communicated through vigorous hand gestures, babbling, and something that resembles the sound a cricket makes) I pour him a glass and then sit on the couch with him, to basically keep him out of trouble.

Luckily, mommy gets to step in and be the ogre. She tells me that the boy only gets 1/2 c of milk at bedtime... and that he was just going to 'milk' it.

Yes... not as funny as she thought it was.

I think fast. "Ummm. Ok, after Daddy goes to the bathroom it's bedtime." He nods, puts down his cup and proceeds to follow me into the bathroom.

Now, I'm getting ready to go and he's standing there at, well at 'that' level.

Staring.

This should not be a problem, but the intense stare is starting to make me uncomfortable. So I start to go, and he starts clapping. Clapping. I now believe that I am some sort of performance art for the two year old set.

Apparently satisfied with my performance, he grabs the toilet plunger and makes way to the toilet. Quickly I shush him over to the side, where he begins plunging the floor and starts clucking.

Oy. Another day down.