Zoe vs. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

I can't get Zoe to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with me. She insists it's too babyish. I point out that she never watched it as a baby, either. 

We go over her viewing history, each December since birth. Here's what she watched year by year in the weeks preceding Christmas.

Year Zero: her hands

Year One: whatever sparkled

Year Two: whatever I wouldn't give her

Year Three: Elmo's World. Over and over, please fast-forward Sesame Street till we get there, OMG, I don't care about anything else!

Year Four: Little Einsteins or Paw Patrol

Year Five: Blaze and the Monster Machines and Paw Patrol

Year Six: Lion Guard and, a nod to Christmas, the Elf on the Shelf movie (which I do not consider a canonical work!!).

At seven, she's obsessed with watching other people play Minecraft on YouTube, so much so I've found myself saying, without irony, Are you sure you don't want to watch some TV?

Specifically, now, I want her to watch Rudolph with me. 

Rudolph is for all ages, from one to ninety-two, I tell her. She is unmoved.

Then I sigh and take her little face in my hands, so I can lift it from the glow of the iPad, and say, "The only reason people have children, which you'll understand someday, is so they can relive their childhoods by watching stop-motion animated Christmas specials with them."

She rolls her eyes and goes back to her screen. As usual she is neither amused nor swayed by my attempts at absurd humor but we'll get there. I have a five-point plan, all five points of which are obnoxious.

Feigning defeat, I put Rudolph on in the background and make a big passive-aggressive show of watching it by myself---how's that for reliving my childhood? Ask my sister. I was a pain in the ass then too.

As I watch---both Zoe and I competing with each other by taking turns raising the volume on our respective devices---I'm actually hoping to enact a scheme that's reverse psychology adjacent, much like when I cut up fruit "for Daddy," knowing that when something belongs to someone else she finds that something immediately desirable.

I get through the first commercial with no reaction and then it happens, the sound I was waiting for, actually the lack of sound, when she pauses her video to watch. 

What's caught her attention is the scene where the bossy elf foreman is unreasonably yelling at Hermey the elf because Hermey's more partial to dentistry than toy-making. She is transfixed. Until the singing starts. At which point she makes a disgusted sound and goes back to her video. 

She resurfaces again after the "reveal" of Rudolph's horrible deformity at reindeer flight training, when the insults and jeering from the other reindeer fly freely. When that scene is over so is her interest. 

And so it goes, Zoe only pausing her videos for the "dramatic" parts---Yukon Cornelius saying anything, the Bumble---and ignoring everything else. 

I try one more time to get her interested, when the poor misfit toys are at last coming to terms with their essential unlovableness only to be interrupted by Santa, led by Rudolph, arriving to rescue them (spoiler alert) by handing them over to small children whose "love" is actually quite deadly if you're a toy.

Alas, Santa saving the misfit toys is apparently too saccharine for Zoe's taste, and she gets up from the couch and goes into her room. 

Was motherhood ever so thankless? A child ever so heartless?

Tomorrow I'll try How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Zoe: 174; Universe: 0

If you enjoyed this post, you may like this one, which includes a recipe for an Italian Christmas dessert!

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Zoe vs. the JFK Assassination Papers. Plus Other Conspiracies Whose Secrets Are Now Revealed!

It may seem far-fetched that a seven-year-old girl from Brooklyn could be the force behind one of the biggest conspiracies of the past century. Mainly because she wasn't born yet. Then again, this is a child who somehow ends up with two pieces of gum when I offer her one, so she's skilled at misdirection.

I know going from sneaking gum to global destabilization may seem like a jump, but hear me out. We all knew Dominion Over All was in her sights from the beginning.

Since the government announced they would be releasing the final files regarding JFK's assassination on October 26th, Zoe has been furtive and nervous, biting her fingernails, then suddenly getting distracted by a TV commercial before continuing to bite her nails.

Honestly, I'm not sure which of us has been acting more paranoid. Zoe's bemoaned my lack of transparency since that time I hid carrots in the tomato sauce. And after the first time something fell in her room, and I said, "What was that?" and Zoe said, "Nothing," but as it turned out it was something, I haven't trusted her either.

Looking back, I suppose I haven't trusted her since she began walking. (This is not to say that the way she used to roll herself over in the Pack 'n Play was above suspicion.)

As soon as Zoe could walk, the first thing she went for was my phone. Suspicious, right? Who was she going to call? She didn't know anyone's number.

Or so I thought. . . .

I'd get the phone away from her quickly, but a few times after I got it back I'd notice an app was missing. And I could never remember which one; I only knew something was gone because of the empty space on my home page. 

This was my first hint that she had deep background in CIA mind control.

Everyone knows the conspiracy theories surrounding JFK's assassination on November 22, 1963. The suspected architects behind the assassination have been, variously, the CIA, the Mafia, LBJ, the KGB, or a mix of all of those. Very few people mention aliens. Could that be by design?

More on that later, but suffice it to say that if you believe we've been visited by aliens and have been reverse engineering alien technology including time machines since the crash in Roswell in 1947, the idea that Zoe could be a time-traveling alien/assassin starts to make a lot of sense.

After all, I was pretty drugged the day she was born, so who knows what might've happened. I've seen Rosemary's Baby. Crazy stuff can and does occur.

Back to JFK. You'll notice there was one name I didn't mention, someone else who may have been behind the assassination: Fidel Castro. However, some people think that when the papers are released, we'll find what the government was really hiding, that the CIA wasn't targeting JFK; they were targeting another world leader, Castro. 

By now you can see where I'm going with this.

Numerology.

It is now almost 54 years since JFK was assassinated. Fidel Castro died last year, 11/25/16, which is not just 53 years after JFK's death but if you add the numbers in the date, you get 52, which is just one more than 51, clearly pointing to Area 51, where the remains of the alien spaceship that allegedly crashed in Roswell were allegedly taken.

Now these aliens were supposedly from the Zeta Reticuli star system, or, ZR. Guess whose middle name is Ryan, meaning Zoe's initials are also ZR? The evidence of her alien origins was mounting!

It was becoming clear that my daughter was actually an ancient alien being who either looks like a little blond-haired girl or has time-traveled since she was "born" and went back in time to assassinate JFK and pin it on Lee Harvey Oswald, who, if we rearrange the letters in his name, we get "VERY OLD SEA WHALE." And as we all know since Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, whales are on a conversational footing with aliens. Boom!

Blond hair, check. Bangs, check. Glowing eyes, unconfirmed.

But who's behind it all? Don't buy those stories about the Reptilian Elite; that's just ridiculous. I mean, look at their spokesman/patsy, Barney the Dinosaur.

Could it be the aliens from Zeta Reticuli? And are they acting alone or with some sinister group of humans or alien-human hybrids? Perhaps the rumored Majestic-12, the powerful figures in business and government who, it is said, truly run the world.

Is it mere coincidence that adding up the single digits in Zoe's date of birth, 8/30/10, yields the number 12? You be the judge. (But no.)

The only reasonable conclusion is that the lion's share of the mysterious goings-on of the past century have been spearheaded by a cute second-grader with a dark secret, but she's about to be found out, as soon as someone can wade through those thousands of pages of unredacted documents.

Not me, though; I'm too busy trying to restore some apps on my phone.

P.S. Zoe faked the Moon Landing.

One of her many disguises. Cuteness is the most dangerous weapon in her arsenal.

Zoe: 173; Universe: rigged

If you enjoyed this post, you may like Zoe vs. My Smartphone.

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Zoe vs. Boredom . . . Again

Today we're discussing one of life's greatest mysteries. First, a quote I saw this week:

The cure for boredom is curiosity.

Like most children,  Zoe is curious. So why, like most children, is Zoe so often bored?

Two Zoe quotes on boredom:

I'm sooooooo bored.

When I'm bored I sit doing nothing, and that makes me sad and angry.

I say the usual supportive things like: "If you're bored, you can help me fold laundry." Or: "Read a book."

That's her cue to throw herself down on whatever surface is near where I'm folding laundry and cry.

Even Meryl Streep couldn't fake how unsympathetic I am to her plight, so you'd think she'd know better by now.

Boy from the Land of Stock Photos of Bored Children Staring Out Windows. See the girl here.

It amazes me how she can be bored with All The Things. She has even more venues for entertainment than existed when I was a Kid with a Ton of Toys Who Yet Managed to Complain of Boredom.

Besides the multitude of dolls, vehicles, and action figures, there are the games she plays online, not to mention the games she watches other people play online. Seeing her so distraught makes me want to put on my cranky old-man voice and begin a lecture starting with those three little words: In my day . . .

In my day, even Disney World wasn't as DISNEY WORLD as it is now.

Can a Child Be Bored in Disney World?

Disney World is not just where dreams come true; it's also where our nation's most talented boredomologists have done ground-breaking work.

When I was a kid, the lines for rides at Disney had a unique production value---important to keep tiny impatient guests occupied---but now they're even MORE SO. Of the myriad articles on traveling to Disney World, many have recommendations for how you should allocate your Fast Passes based on which lines have the most entertainment value!

So even for the rides with longer waits, Zoe had little opportunity to remember to tell me about her deep-seated, constant companion, boredom.

Even the waiting area for one of the buses had a tic tac toe beanbag toss game and hula hoops as if no one could be alone with their thoughts for even a minute lest we realize how insane and/or expensive the Disney Experience was.

I suspect that if she'd worked harder at it, Zoe could have been bored at Disney.

Preparing the Next Generation for the Casino-Dwelling Lifestyle

The other day I decided to download a video game to my phone. Must've been curiosity because I refuse to admit boredom. I looked for a game I'd played almost twenty years before that was no-frills, mindless, and cute---the need-trifecta for my nightly commute. The updated version is miles away from the simple version I'd enjoyed in 1999. It's like Candy Crush as compared to Pong. The new version is just so much MORE. More movement and bursts of light and music. Plus rewards in the form of floating treasure chests that emit fireworks before opening to reveal a prize. I was playing to calm my mind not give it a seizure.

Plus it's addicting. Like a gambler, you're always chasing that high of clearing the next level of shiny cute things.

After playing one evening, I looked up to find it was midnight and wondered how that had happened. I felt like a toddler after caffeine, sugar, presents, and a personal phone call from Queen Elsa wishing me a happy birthday.

With games like these, it's no surprise Zoe is easily bored. If something in front of her isn't ringing or jumping or blowing up it's not stimulating enough. No wonder sitting quietly with her thoughts is so unmooring.

Hanging out with Glacial Mommy who exhorts her to read just can't compete. Maybe I should put a bell around my neck, dress only in primary colors, and throw glitter in the air every time she says my name.

On Appreciating Boredom

It's no coincidence that "may you live in interesting times" is a curse. As you get older and you become more exposed to the slings and arrows of life, you may even grow fond of boredom.

The weekend before our trip to Disney, there was a fire in the apartment building next door. Alarms and fire trucks and breaking glass. So loud I was worried Zoe would wake up, and I needed her rested since we had a full day of laundry and packing ahead of us.

The fire was on my side of the street so I could only see the reflection in the windows across the way in addition to the neighbors who'd come outside to watch. Zoe did not wake up and eventually I went to bed.

The next day after doing some packing---boring!---I thought I'd take Zoe out. When we passed the apartment building that had the fire, Zoe asked what had happened. 

I told her about the fire.

I'm glad no one was hurt, she said with innocent confidence.

Though her made-up games are often very violent, Zoe has no real concept of tragedy. It never entered her mind that a person could have been killed, had been killed, in fact, something her mother knew having heard it on the local morning news.

I wasn't going to tell her though, and a moment later, she ran ahead of me. I warned her to watch out for driveways, a reflex, a product of that constant low-level song in my brain listing potential threats.

I was looking forward to an uneventful trip to the drugstore after which we'd go home to finish packing.

Zoe: 172; Universe: 0

If you enjoyed this post, you may like Zoe vs. Boredom: In Which a Child's Ennui Becomes Tedious

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Zoe vs. the Average Lifespan of the North American Carnival-Prize Goldfish

People think that when Dickens wrote "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times" he was inspired by the French Revolution, but that's not true. It's a little-known fact that months before beginning A Tale of Two Cities, he penned that line at an Amusements Faire after Charles Jr. won a goldfish on the midway.

I'm guessing that he also uttered some Victorian curse words. Because, though it may have caused his child joy, every parent knows there's no greater sorrow than your child winning a goldfish at a fair.

Last Friday, Zoe was off school for Rosh Hashanah, so naturally we went to a Greek festival, and there she saw that booth, you know the one, where you can win a goldfish if you throw a Ping-Pong ball into a bowl. I remember doing this as a kid. And most of the time, if the ball went in the bowl, it bounced right out again.

Zoe wanted to do it. The odds were she wouldn't win, but there was always a chance, so I shelled out the five bucks . . . and then silently rooted against my only child.

I lost, twice over, because Zoe won TWO goldfish.

My own checkered history with goldfish:

5 deaths, one by fire (I'm not making that up.)

Almost immediately I began preparing Zoe for their demise. Especially since we had a cat.

Let's call them Meal 1 and Meal 2, I said. She laughed. Luckily she had my dark sense of humor.

I said if they made it a week, we'd upgrade their names to Miracle 1 and Miracle 2. Oh, how we laughed!

When we got home, I filled the cheap tank I'd shelled out another ten bucks for with water and served up a pinch of that papery food they'd given us for "free" inside one of those mini plastic containers, the ones that usually hold the soy sauce you dip your sushi in. The irony was thick!

Saturday and Sunday

The whole weekend we were busy with the usual things, though I did change the tap water---some of you are already cringing---every day since I saw how quickly it was getting cloudy and hard to see the goldfish through the murk.

Though maybe it would've been better if they weren't visible, considering our cat Cooper's dishonorable intentions.*

Monday, 1 p.m.

While I ate my lunch at work, I looked up how to take care of God's most pitiful creations. Since they'd made it this far, I figured I'd get some tips. I made the mistake of going to an article on PETA's website, which is when I found out what a horrible person I was. 

You know those videos people take of their friends watching a scary movie with bowls of popcorn in their laps, or maybe watching an episode of Game of Thrones just before an upsetting death? This was me reading about taking care of goldfish.

First thing I discovered was that tap water was basically toxic for goldfish! I gasped and lurched back, spilling some of my metaphorical popcorn.

Tap water has chlorine and other chemicals that burn their gills. That meant that each breath they'd been taking since Friday was agony!

I read on and learned that when you changed the water you had to make sure the temperature change wasn't too shocking (gasp!)

And you shouldn't just dump them unceremoniously in a holding container and dump them back into the tank again because this stressed them out (!!)

And how about oxygen in the water? One way you could tell they were having trouble breathing was if they lingered near the top of the tank.

Metaphorical popcorn everywhere!

Was I an animal torturer? Would these goldfish be my gateway murders on the road to becoming a serial killer? 

According to PETA, these goldfish needed a bigger tank, about twenty different filters, and a daily measuring of PH balance. I was surprised they didn't also need mini-defibrillators and an on-call therapist due to all the stress.

The one thing they had going for them was that they had company. A buddy. Though as Cooper lurked nearby I imagined their conversations thusly:

Meal 2: OMG, that cat's looking at us again, Meal 1!

Meal 1: Why am I Meal 1? I think you're Meal 1.

Meal 2: Oh sure, you just can't wait to get rid of me. Gary warned me you were like this, but did I listen? No!

You may ask how I knew which one was Meal 1 and Meal 2. Well, Meal 2 was definitely more nervous than Meal 1. When Cooper came close to the tank, Meal 2 "reacted" by zooming around, on alert, while Meal 1 just kept still. Now I'm not sure which one's strategy was better, or if Meal 1's lethargy just meant it was closer to death.

Monday, 6 p.m.

I went to the pet store on the way home and bought a solution to add to tap water to remove chlorine.

Monday, 6:15 p.m.

I was too late. Meal 2 (or was it 1?) was dead.

Meal 1 (or 2) really needed therapy now, having spent however many hours swimming in a small tank with the corpse of its companion, and---though their relations had been strained of late---really only friend, floating above him.

Anyway I dumped the body in an unmarked grave, aka the trash, and changed the death water, adding a teaspoon of the pet store's solution.

Tuesday, 7:30 p.m.

Meal 1 (or 2) was still alive! Could the solution be working?

Wednesday, 6:30 a.m.

No. Meal 1 (or 2) was dead.

Perhaps the solution hadn't worked or perhaps it had been too late.

Maybe Meal 1 (or 2) missed its friend, having spent the previous thirty-six hours alone but occasionally rushing into the glass, repeatedly mistaking its own reflection for Meal 2 (or 1), resulting in flashbacks about the hours spent with its corpse, all while each labored breath it took burned its gills.

As I watched Meal 1 float at the top of the tank, mouth open, expression stupid yet tragic, Zoe came in, and we had a teachable moment as she asked: "Is that what a dead fish looks like?"

I put my hand on her shoulder, patted it gently, and said, "Sure is, baby."

We lowered our heads. Because Cooper was rubbing himself against our legs. With a certain smugness, I felt.

Happier Times! Well, I don't know if the fish were happy,
so maybe . . . Alive Times!

Hopefully Meal 1 is now in a far far better place.

Metaphorically.

Literally, he or she's in the trash. Sorry, PETA. I tried. Sort of.

Zoe: 171; Universe: 0

*If you follow me on Facebook you may have seen my post about how we thought the tank was leaking, but it wasn't. We realized that, overnight, Cooper had gotten up on Zoe's dresser and batted the tank around, thus the water all over. So we moved the tank to our dresser instead because it was harder for Cooper to get to. And he really tried!

If you enjoyed this post, you may like Zoe vs. Her Spirit  Animal: Cultural Appropriation, Identity Crisis, or Playing Pretend?

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Zoe vs. the Pinterest Fail. Or, My Second-Ever Recipe Post