Guest Post: Smells Like Borscht (or, how we all kind-of want our boys to turn out a bit like Calvin)
It seems that just yesterday, KLZ was telling us to take a look at her friend, Bill. He was just starting his blog, Smells Like Borscht, and because I find it’s best to do what pretty, funny, smart, and witty ladies tell me to do, I started reading. I haven’t been disappointed. Bill writes of parenthood and of cultural differences between here & Russia. Every post is well-worth the read – thank you!
I shouldn’t say this, but I’m getting excited for my five month old to grow up. I can’t wait until he’s a little bit older, and stops sucking on his fists so we can start doing all of the awesome stuff I’ve been dreaming about as soon as humanly possible. Yes, I understand that other, more reasonable people enjoy how boring and gooey their children are at this age, but I’m looking to a drool-less future.
I want to build forts out of couch pillows and have super-awesome and tremendously badass Nerf gun fights. I’ve already begun to partition some of our budget towards getting giant Nerf chain-guns that attach to those battery powered mini-cars that we will use to destroy each other’s forts. I want to re-enact the invasion of Normandy. Only caveat: I get to be Germany, with a few strategically placed machine gun nests, and he only gets one of those tiny handgun Nerf guns.
I want to build massive snow structures that will serve as battlegrounds for the struggles between good and evil. I’ve already figured out what my winter camouflage outfit will be, and have planned exactly how to utilize the walls surrounding our backyard to their fullest advantage when constructing snow-based structures. The little guy doesn’t have a chance.
I want to teach him how to swim, how to play sports, how to wrestle and fight. I want to read big kid books with him, and tell him stories about knights and dragons. I can’t wait to hear him tell me about his day at school so we can talk about the things he’s learning in excited, geeked-out tones. I want him to send me messages in secret codes to see if I can figure out his cryptography. I want to drive down the street and pretend the car is a fighter jet, and that he’s my copilot. Or that the bed is the surface of Mars, and we’re bouncing around exploring another world. Or that the floor is lava, or his mother is an alien, or his room is a cave, or the backyard is a jungle, or the pool is an astronaut training camp. That the neighbor is an evil mastermind and that their cat is a spy.
Yes, don’t get me wrong – I love how cute he is now, as he lies there motionless and quiet (unless he’s having a baby-tantrum), looking up at me with a mix of curiosity and adulation. But there is a large part of me that wants to shoot him in the head with a super-soaker.
I’m not sure if you noticed, but I’m kind of excited to have a son.