Big Questions for a little brain

Lucas has recently started to ask the Big questions. And whereas some children start relatively small and ease into it, Lucas would not have been Lucas if he would follow such a pathway. Hís first Big question was this: "Zijn tomaten nou fruit of groente?" (Is a tomato a kind of fruit or a vegetable?).
Now, I can deal with difficult questions, but unfortunately his need for answers is not easily met. For example, concerning the extinction of dinosaurs, he's less than happy to find out that scientists do not have a definite answer as of yet. He keeps pressing me for information, as according to him, I must know more. "Nee mama, jij moet meer vertellen." "Jij weet het wél." (No mommy, you have to tell me more. You dó know). One of my solutions to this is to ask him what he thinks. So, let it be known that a moon fell on earth and killed all dinosaurs. Also, tomatoes are a fruit, and baby's are born through your belly button, which hurts, but only for a second. Just thought I'd share the answers to Lucas' Life Questions with you.

With this in mind, I remembered an old poem I once wrote. On occasion, Lucas is having monster nightmares, and recently he wondered why mommy and daddy get to sleep together, whereas he had to sleep all alone.

Monsters

Mam zegt dat monsters niet bestaan,
maar hoe weet zij dat nou?
Als ze mijn kamer binnenkomt, verdwijnen ze heel gauw.
Ze springen in de kasten,
en laden bovendien.
Ze laten niets meer van zich horen, laten zich niet zien.
Totdat ze me een kusje geeft,
en weer naar papa gaat,
dan komen ze tevoorschijn, en worden heel erg kwaad.
Nee, papa heeft maar geluk,
dat mama bij hem ligt.
Bij hem zijn kasten werk'lijk leeg en blijven laden dicht.

The Stairmaster: mastering the stairs

I've started training at the YMCA recently. I must say I am close to getting addicted to my workouts. Not in the least because they have absolutely everything there: I can choose an infinite number of interesting workouts, I don't need to take towels or drinks, I can watch television on virtually all the fitness equipment, I can bring the children to their free daycare, and I am met by nice instructors who in no way resemble a soldier, a construction worker, a cowboy or some other sort of Village idiot. And contrary to Dutch standards, the gym here is not full of young men flinching their muscles in an attempt to pick up the unnatural blonde on the elliptical who - next to her perfect body - apparently also suffers from a lack of sweat glands. Instead, the Y is filled with older people, some even quite old. And it is endearing to watch an oldie take up to ten minutes to get up on the treadmill, only to see their walking sticks fall of the minute they start walking. Needless to say, I help out on these occasions.

Because it's always good to incorporate new routines in your workout program, I make a habit out of trying new equipment. But until recently, I was hesitant to use the Stairmaster, an apparatus that requires you to walk an endless staircase. It is, by all standards, the worst fitness apparatus ever, a fate worse than Hell. But in an attempt to conquer my fears, this week I finally went to Hell and back, taking the stairs to what the apparatus said was the 48th floor in a 15-minute-feels-like-15-hours perish-and-die moment. And to make matters worse, instead of feeling invigorated after my workout, it left me confused. Because did I actually walk up to the 48th floor, or should I take into consideration the fact that the United States usually calls ground level 'first floor'? Because that would mean that I only walked up to the 47th floor. It might seem insignificant to you, but if I ever want to partake in the 'stairs run competition' in the Erasmusgebouw in Nijmegen, I need to know my limits. I guess I have to conquer Hell again in another session of the Stairmaster. Stay tuned for Stairmaster: the sequel.

O, and you must agree with me that there is some irony in the fact that Lucas refers to the daycare at the Y as 'de sportschool'? He'll start his own workout routine soon though, as swimming lessons will commence in spring and he really wants to play soccer there as well.

Santa's village

I found him. The bugger was hiding right under our very noses. The whole idea that he would choose to live at the North pole was crazy to begin with. Who wouldn't choose warm an' sunny California over the toe freezing, cold catching, teeth clattering North pole? But enough of this. I found him, and even though I did not visit the place, my imagination of it makes it an unnecessary and possibly even insensible journey. After all: Santa's got better things to do.

I imagine elves flying around, tinkering with flowers and playing hopscotch on lily pads, until Grumpy (having enough of this merry scene) manages to trip one smack-bang in the middle of the pond. I imagine Rudolph frolicking about, playing hide and seek, which seems silly because his nose can be spotted from miles away. But that doesn't matter, cause he's playing with Dopey, who wouldn't be able to find his own ears lest he was standing on them. 

Meanwhile, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Dunder, and Blixem attend to more serious matters, cleaning the sleigh karate-style - wax on, wax off - . Mrs. Claus, the real housewife of California, wholeheartedly engages in her task of reading the daily letters composed of endless, crooked written wish lists written by all the children in the world, filing them not only alphabetically, but also based on area of interest, price range, and presence of dyslexia. In what little time remains - though she never minds this, secretly even loves her time consuming, indispensable role - she applies calligraphy to write the names of said children in Santa's big and dusty book 'Naughty 'n Nice'. Occasionally, she glances out of the kitchen window, and catches a glimpse of chipmunks Chip and Dale (Knabbel en Babbel voor de Nederlandse lezertjes) who are having a private pool party in Santa's spray ground. Whereas some of the more serious villagers frown upon this questionable behavior, among which the above mentioned Grumpy, Mrs. Claus knows that Santa actually loves their exuberant demeanor. Chip and Dale took on their share of the work, planting the seeds of the Christmas trees earlier in the year, and it is only fair to let them steam off some of their excess energy. This does not mean that Santa overlooked the fact that Chip munched on some of the seeds whilst planting them, and that Dale keeps a secret stash of them in his tree, causing the orchard to have a slightly haphazard feel to it. Santa did not need Snoopy to rat on them, although Snoopy, being Santa's eyes, ears, and nose especially, showed his true colors and zealous nature upon hearing about this from Sleepy, who is not at all what he seems to be, sleepy that is. But, as one may have gathered by now, Santa has a little soft spot for Chip and Dale.

If you listen carefully, you can probably hear his hearty, boisterous bursts of laughter when Chip and Dale, employing Super Soakers as sprinklers for the orchard, turn against Santa, after which the whole village engages in a merry water fight. HO HO HO.

Crafty Warcraft

World War II. Definitely a nasty war by all standards. A war requiring brilliant minds and creative ideas as one can read from this news item. Welcome to the mind of some of history's most important war strategists. Putting female hormones into Hitler's food in an attempt to make him less aggressive? Drop glue on German troops? I figure if these suggestions are considered valid and smart, I may as well throw some ideas of my own. So here are some alternative suggestions that just sprang from my wandering mind. A bit late to bring about Hitler's demise, but they might come in handy for other bad-ass world leaders during wartime:

Frankincense bombing:
Guaranteed mellowness for an entire country.
Warcraft games:
Virtual reality to replace or deflect the need for complete annihilation.
Planking attacks:
Because a stiff enemy just ain't no fun.
Hallmark cards:
Nothing speaks as much as a Hallmark card.
Glamour makeover:
Because looking good equals feeling good.
Free lottery tickets:
Winning price, a ticket to the moon. One-way, non-refundable. No correspondence possible concerning the outcome.
Broadcasting Reggae music:
'Don't worry be happy', 'simmer down', and 'judge not' to induce the feeling of love. Admittedly, the songs 'no woman, no cry' and 'stir it up' might not be suitable in this case, stringent selection is imperative.
Feathers and tar:
It has been known to work throughout history. Worst thing that can happen is that it makes the enemy more fluffy.
Pet presents:
After all, pets help to reduce stress and loneliness, as well as enhance socialization and attitudes.
Vuvuzela precision bombarding:
If it drove people insane at the 2010 World Cup matches, it just might do the trick for an army.

And should all these methods fail, we can always rely on the classical time-out. Hey, I figure if it works for my son, it might work for the Hitlers of the world too.

Crouching tiger, hidden dragon

Remember my blog about crouching tiger? Meet hidden dragon. He is crouching tiger's big brother.

Featuring Lucas' talk (both Dutch and English):

In the aquarium:
Lucas: "Waar is papa?"
Ik: "Papa geeft Kwint even een schone luier, hij is even met Kwint naar de w.c."
Lucas: (met een hele hoge stem) "Een hele kleine w.c., he, voor Kwint?"


At home:
Ik: "Lucas, give me high five!"
Lucas: (gives me high five) "Ten! Dat is ten, he?"

Ik: "Lucas, je mag nog heel even spelen, daarna ga je naar bed."
Lucas: "Mag ik nog een heleboel spelen?"

Lucas: "Wil jij ook neus peuteren?"