Dave was spending some quality time with Vaughn yesterday, some man-to-man, largely because I wasn't available to pick Vaughn up from school, and so Vaughn had to "assist" his dad at work. It's always interesting what little revelations come out of this time of male bonding.
Dave: "So I said to Vaughn, '...don't want to have to twist your arm' and Vaughn asks, 'What does that mean?'"
And Dave goes on to explain that it is a figure of speech and demonstrates the actual physical act of "twisting an arm."
"And then I told him, 'Say Uncle!'"
This is the point where I started visualizing Vaughn at the first opportunity reenacting this whole scenario on the school playground, grabbing one of his unsuspecting playmates, yanking the innocent's arm into a dangerously unnatural angle, and then screaming in their ear, "SAY UNCLE! SAY UNCLE!" all witnessed by the shocked and horrified soft-spoken, laidback, peace loving female teacher, Ms. Slalom (not her actual name).
"Oh, that's great Dave! You've now introduced him to the world of schoolyard terror tactics."
"No, no! He WANTED to know this stuff. He's already heard the kids at school saying these things, and he had no idea what it meant, so he wanted me to explain it to him."
Of course...which must also be the place where he recently acquired the ever so charming phrase "holy crap," because, I can assure you, that one little gem is NOT in my sailor's vocabulary. I do not bestow sanctity to any of my swear words, even those referring to feces, in spite of my apparent preoccupation with said material.
"He then told me about this Nirvana like place his friends have created, made up entirely of Twinkies, and he wanted to know what a Twinkie was."
Apparently, when Vaughn declared his ignorance of that revered childhood institution (otherwise known as The Twinkie), his friends' reactions were the equivalent of him suddenly sprouting a tentacle from the middle of his forehead that spewed a glutinous green material like a fountain, covering everything within a 10 feet radius, with his friends recoiling simultaneously in horror and fascination:
"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT A TWINKIE IS!?!"
Oh my God, it's like my child is one of those weirdo missionary children we used to mock in church school. I remember I had the exact same reaction when one of the missionary girls told me she had absolutely no knowledge of the story of Cinderella or who Cinderella even was, "Was she one of the prophet's wives in the Old Testament?" Oh, the humanity!
Now, I know we've kept him away from commercial TV, and up until he started preschool, I was vigilent about his diet and keeping his palate ignorant of all ingredients unpronounceable, but really, how could my son possibly have almost reached the ripe old age of 8 and missed the fundamental childhood milestone of Hostess goodness? I know we live in the land of granola-nuttiness, but even I am taken aback at the fact that my child hasn't an inkling as to what sheer childlike bliss lies in a Hostess cupcake or the marshmallowy marvel contained in a Hostess Sno Ball, a substance made of neither snow nor marshmallow, but some wondrously artificial cracklike massively addictive substance. And don't even get me started on Hostess Fruit Pies (neither pie nor fruit, but lard with a sprinkling of flour encasing a cherry flavored, tooth achingly sweet, syrupy ambrosia). Some of my fondest memories as a child were the infrequent romps to the local Hostess Bakery Outlet and the subsequent Ding-Dong-Ho-Ho binge. Mmmmm...preservative goodness. I think there is a direct correlation between early childhood exposure to Hostess mystery ingredients and my looking younger than my age. My liver is probably still processing a Hostess Twinkie or two.
So, the mission this coming movie night is to fill the cavernous gap in Vaughn's epicurean education and give him a crash course in Hostess Snack Cake Appreciation 101. It's a tough job, but that's what parenting is all about, and I feel I'm up to the task. Now...hand me a Ho Ho. I'm goin' in.
Dave: "So I said to Vaughn, '...don't want to have to twist your arm' and Vaughn asks, 'What does that mean?'"
And Dave goes on to explain that it is a figure of speech and demonstrates the actual physical act of "twisting an arm."
"And then I told him, 'Say Uncle!'"
This is the point where I started visualizing Vaughn at the first opportunity reenacting this whole scenario on the school playground, grabbing one of his unsuspecting playmates, yanking the innocent's arm into a dangerously unnatural angle, and then screaming in their ear, "SAY UNCLE! SAY UNCLE!" all witnessed by the shocked and horrified soft-spoken, laidback, peace loving female teacher, Ms. Slalom (not her actual name).
"Oh, that's great Dave! You've now introduced him to the world of schoolyard terror tactics."
"No, no! He WANTED to know this stuff. He's already heard the kids at school saying these things, and he had no idea what it meant, so he wanted me to explain it to him."
Of course...which must also be the place where he recently acquired the ever so charming phrase "holy crap," because, I can assure you, that one little gem is NOT in my sailor's vocabulary. I do not bestow sanctity to any of my swear words, even those referring to feces, in spite of my apparent preoccupation with said material.
"He then told me about this Nirvana like place his friends have created, made up entirely of Twinkies, and he wanted to know what a Twinkie was."
Apparently, when Vaughn declared his ignorance of that revered childhood institution (otherwise known as The Twinkie), his friends' reactions were the equivalent of him suddenly sprouting a tentacle from the middle of his forehead that spewed a glutinous green material like a fountain, covering everything within a 10 feet radius, with his friends recoiling simultaneously in horror and fascination:
"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT A TWINKIE IS!?!"
Oh my God, it's like my child is one of those weirdo missionary children we used to mock in church school. I remember I had the exact same reaction when one of the missionary girls told me she had absolutely no knowledge of the story of Cinderella or who Cinderella even was, "Was she one of the prophet's wives in the Old Testament?" Oh, the humanity!
Now, I know we've kept him away from commercial TV, and up until he started preschool, I was vigilent about his diet and keeping his palate ignorant of all ingredients unpronounceable, but really, how could my son possibly have almost reached the ripe old age of 8 and missed the fundamental childhood milestone of Hostess goodness? I know we live in the land of granola-nuttiness, but even I am taken aback at the fact that my child hasn't an inkling as to what sheer childlike bliss lies in a Hostess cupcake or the marshmallowy marvel contained in a Hostess Sno Ball, a substance made of neither snow nor marshmallow, but some wondrously artificial cracklike massively addictive substance. And don't even get me started on Hostess Fruit Pies (neither pie nor fruit, but lard with a sprinkling of flour encasing a cherry flavored, tooth achingly sweet, syrupy ambrosia). Some of my fondest memories as a child were the infrequent romps to the local Hostess Bakery Outlet and the subsequent Ding-Dong-Ho-Ho binge. Mmmmm...preservative goodness. I think there is a direct correlation between early childhood exposure to Hostess mystery ingredients and my looking younger than my age. My liver is probably still processing a Hostess Twinkie or two.
So, the mission this coming movie night is to fill the cavernous gap in Vaughn's epicurean education and give him a crash course in Hostess Snack Cake Appreciation 101. It's a tough job, but that's what parenting is all about, and I feel I'm up to the task. Now...hand me a Ho Ho. I'm goin' in.
