Great Expectorations

It wasn't an armed escort, but an escort out of the Outlet Mall in daddy's arms for #1 daughter Sunday afternoon.

Actually, she had earned a trip there for being a good girl recently. There is a device that projects images off the ceiling onto the sales floor at the Outlet Mall. Like other kids, Rachel loves stomping on projected kernels and turning them into popcorn or stepping on the image of a soccer ball and propelling it into the net as she raises her arms and exclaims, "I win!"

Sunday, there were one or two overzealous bigger kids who got in the little ones' way. Rachel shies away from contact, so she opted instead to go to the children's playground.

It's a modest little place. You can inch along on a plastic caterpillar or try to walk atop it as you keep your balance. There's a ladybug to sit on, things like that.

So Rachel gets on the caterpillar and gets frustrated because a smaller child won't move out of her way. I explain to her that smaller children don't have the skills she has developed yet and she needs to understand that. Then a younger child who is none-too-steady on his feet stumbles and falls backward onto her hand. It appears to be a glancing blow, but Rachel cries like a soccer player who just took a ball where the sun don't shine. I whisk her away and tell her I'm not going to reprimand the other child because it was an accident. She calms down fairly quickly.

Soon, another little girl walks up and strikes up a conversation with Rachel. I get a vibe like "this one's trouble", but I decide to watch. Next thing I know, "Beelzebabe" has stolen a ball from another child and is running around with it. That child's relatives are chasing her and I thrust out my hand to slow her down. She shoots me a look like "Who are you and how dare you deign touch me?"

She and Rachel continue to play together. Somehow they decide it would be fun to try on each other's shoes. Then they throw their shoes at me. Fortunately, a four-year-old's aim stinks and when it's actally on-target, my reflexes are good. I tell them to stop the throwing. Then they start climbing atop each other. It's like four-year-old Cinemax, one on top of the other and both giggling. I'm sure the four-year-old boys were excited ti see some girl on girl action. I tell them to go back to playing and they do.

At some point, "Beelzebabe's" dad returns with two younger children and a pink, plastic bottle filled with water. "Beelzebabe" drinks from it. Then Rachel drinks from it. I go back to reading my Entertainment Weekly. As I look up, I see Rachel take a swig of water from the plastic bottle and then spit it onto the floor of the children's play area. As they say in hockey, that earns her a "game misconduct."

I storm over there and say, "Unh uh, we do not do that! A Ries does not spit on the floor! You do not spit water in the children's play area!"

As the tears start to flow, I pick up her Dora Explorer shoes and reattach the Velcro. "We're going home, " I say. She says something about not being ready and is told she should have thought about that before she spit on the floor.

By now, we're striding to the exit. Rachel is crying in my right arm, wailing "I want come back to the mall!" I explain to her she will come back, but not today.

As Rachel continues crying, I dial my wife on the cell phone and tell her not to bother meeting us at the mall, as previously planned. "We're going home!" I say and I explain why before hanging up.

Then Rachel pulls out the "You don't love me!" card. I tell her I'm disappointed, but nothing will ever stop me from loving her. "But I am disappointed," I repeat.
On the way home, I repeat that I love her even when she does something bad. "Even if I do something super duper bad?" she asks. "Even if you do something super duper bad. But I will not put up with behavior like spitting in the children's play area! You'll go home every time!"

It takes about ten minutes to get home. About halfway there, she demands music on the cd player and when I address her 30 seconds later, she's asleep.

I carried her in the house around 5 p.m. She woke long enough to throw off her shoes and went back to sleep. She woke up at 6 a.m. the next day!

Winnie the Jew?

My wife and daughter were having a conversation the other day when Rachel referred to her shirt as her "Jewish shirt."

The shirt featured Winnie the Pooh, Eeyore, Piglet, Tigger, Rabbit and friends. Confused, my wife asked Rachel why she called it her "Jewish shirt."

"Because it has Winnie the Pooh on it," Rachel replied.

My wife told Rachel she didn't think Winnie was Jewish or Christian. "He's nondenominational," she explained. "I don't know if he's any one religion," she added.

Rebecca was relating the conversation to me later and I thought it merited further discussion.

"Maybe his name was originally Poohstein and he shortened it for showbiz," I opined. "I think the only thing we know for certain is that Piglet is not Jewish," I said. I then added hastily, "Unless he's a convert."

"In fact," I added, "I hear 'Oh Bother' may have originally been 'Oy Vey.'"

"And his affinity for honey," Rebecca said, "actually comes from the apples and honey tradition of Rosh Hashanah."

"You got it!" I affirmed.