Over the weekend, I had to force my son to watch “Raiders of the Lost Ark” with me.I didn’t tie him down or anything, but I did tell him he could not use his computer, read a book or otherwise entertain himself until he’d watched the movie from beginning to end.
After he finally accepted he was not going to wriggle his way out of it, he settled down next to me and let me start the movie. I hit play. He yelled, “Wait!” and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, he was back with a drink. That was just the start. All-in-all we paused the movie so many times that it took us more than three hours to get through the 115 minute film (according to the Internet Movie Database).
My son didn’t love it.
He didn’t hate it, but when I suggested we watch “Temple of Doom,” he rolled his eyes at me at turned on his computer.
Needless to say, he’s not about to rush to the theater to be among the first to see “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull,” (leaving me to wonder who I’m going to see it with).
It don’t get it.
The Indiana Jones series seems totally up his alley. He love love LOVED “National Treasure” (and the sequel, too). It doesn’t seem possible that “Raiders of the Lost Ark” wouldn’t be equally entralling.
I remember going through a similar disappointment with “Star Wars,” but that’s different. Compared to the special effects they put in sci-fi movies now, I have to admit that the original trilogy might look a little dated to someone who’s grown up with CGI effects.
The Indiana Jones series doesn’t have that problem, though. Set during WWII, one could argue that it’s already dated, or that it’s somewhat timeless.
I just cannot buy the argument that it’s boring.
My daughter, age 4, enjoyed it except for the one scene where people melt and stuff. She tried to make me promise that I’d never play the movie again, but I got her to relent. Instead we decided that we will never ever ever open the Ark of the Covenant.
We also promised each other that we will never ever ever have boyfriends who get us stuck in pits full of snakes. “He’s a bad boyfriend,” my daughter agreed.
She doesn’t want to see the new Indiana Jones movie, either, but I have to say that she wasn’t my first choice of companion anyway.
I figure if I make her watch Indiana Jones she might get me back by forcing me to take her to Beverly Hills Chihuahua, which might have the most terrifying trailer of all time:
– From abcnews.go.com: “Dema, a 26-day-old male endangered Sumatran tiger cub, cuddles up to 5-month-old female orangutan Irma at the Taman Safari Indonesia Animal Hospital, on Feb. 26, 2007 in Cisarua, Bogor Regency, West Java, Indonesia. Irma and another orangutan were rejected by their mothers while two Sumatran tiger cubs, including Dema, also born in the hospital, were also rejected by their mother, Cicis, and are being looked after by staff at the Animal Hospital. (Dimas Ardian/Getty Images)”
That one is my favorite, but all 10 are “awwww” inducing. If you didn’t click the link above, I promise clicking here is worth it.
A friend pointed me toward a sports story with an amusing parenting anecdote from a Celtics-Cavaliers game.
Paul Pierce gave LeBron James “a good foul, a hard foul,” according to Michael Vega’s report in the Boston Globe:
“With 4:13 remaining in the first half, Pierce denied James an easy transition basket by throwing a bear hug on him. Both players stumbled out of bounds, near were Gloria James was seated. Gloria sprang into action and gave Pierce an earful, wagging her finger at him.
“So, what did she say?
‘I really don’t know,’ Pierce said. ‘She was just coming to her son; that’s how moms are when they see something happening to their kids. My mom probably would’ve done the same thing.’
Which invited the question: Could Pierce’s mom take LeBron’s mom?
‘I don’t know,’ Pierce said with a laugh. ‘My momma’s a little older, but she’s old school. She’s got some tactics. She called me this morning. I talked to her.’
College has been on my mind a lot lately, with some of my graduate school credits near expiration under the 10-year rule.
With two kids and a full time job, I’ll probably just let them go until I have the time to actually have the time to dedicate to my studies.
In other words, there was no reason for me to take a quiz to help me identify my college major. I already indulged my love of reading and writing and majored in English. Anyway, I’m not one of the high school students the quiz is aimed at.
However, it ended up in my email box and with nothing better to do, I took it.
I seem to have followed the right path:
You are the Artistic Personality Type! Artistic people like to live by their own rules–or no rules at all. They are creative and enjoy working with words or with color. They may be good at drawing, writing, playing music, or telling stories.
Artistic people are intuitive and often know what others are up to. They don’t have dozens of friends, but they have a few very close friends. They don’t like to work in very strict environments. Instead, they prefer to hear about new ideas and try out new things.
Possible degree programs: Art, Music, Writing, Literature, Drama, History, Interior Decorating, Fashion Design, Public Relations, Philosophy, Journalism, Graphic Design.
– About.com
At this point in life, would it matter if I’d discovered that my interests don’t match up with my career and (eventual)) educational aspirations?
Conversation on the way to school yesterday morning:
Me: “I better not find out you’ve grown yourself a pig brother and stolen his eyeballs.”
My 11-year-old: “I’d rather have two hearts. Can you live with two hearts?”
My 4-year-old from the back seat: “Oink, oink, oink.”
Me: “You already have a pig sister. I better not catch you harvesting her organs.”
On our morning commute, we learned about the debate over hybrid embryos – which can produce 99 percent humans. You lose 1 percent of your humanity by being implanted into a cow or rabbit egg, I guess.
Hold the flames. I’m joking. At this point the issue is whether to use hybrid embryos to create stem cells, not to create Minotaurs, and while it might be opening Pandora’s box, it could also end up saving lives.
I’m all for saving lives, but I have to confess that the possibilities – though fascinating – can be troubling, as well.
For instance, while my son got caught up in the definition of “egg,” then started speculating about the potential for bizarre combinations of animal and people, I ended up brooding over the term “savior sibling.”
The prospect making a baby to save another child bothers me. I’m not saying I wouldn’t consider it if one of my children had a life-threatening genetic disorder – and therefore support the research – but a child has to be a child, not the packaging for DNA.
Is that child going to be loved if it’s not 100 percent human and fails to save its sibling’s life?
There are times when I’ve watched my kids struggle in their educations and I’ve wondered whether I’d be willing to “rewire” their brains if there was a way to make learning easier. If I could download algebra straight into my sixth-grader’s head, would I do it? He’d probably like it, just as he’d prefer to be taller, but I’m pretty darn fond of my perfectly imperfect children and wouldn’t want to be fooling around with who they are.
Healthwise, though, I’ve vaccinated my children, given them medication and bought them glasses. I would go further than that if I needed to.
It’s the next step that makes me uncomfortable. If we could make them healthier, why not stronger? If we could make them stronger, then why stop before we could also make them smarter, or more attractive?
Maybe I’m just too old fashioned. We choose our partners. We pick how we raise our children. As best we can, we decide what to expose them to.
I just hate to think that somehow we might someday be giving up the opportunity to have the children we’re meant to have in favor of the children we want to have. I’m sure that many experienced parents would agree with me that it comes out to the same thing in the end, anyway.
Then again, I’m working with the options that are available to me.
If my son has a different set of choices, I could end up grandmother to a chimera of his fancy.
