Seems the two-year-old will get to stay up a little later on Monday and Tuesday nights (and Wednesday is dance class, of all things.) She caught a glimpse of the Hollywood dancing a few weeks ago and was transfixed. Last night she overheard us talking about it and climbed up on the couch a few minutes before it came on, and when the show began... all was stillness, mouth agape. I watched the first dance and then cleared out when the Little Ditchman commented on the nice "red tap shoes" of one of the dancers. She was eating M&Ms at the time. So there they were, Mommy and daughter, sitting on the couch eating chocolate, watching Dancing With The Stars, and commenting on the shoes. Like I said, I cleared out of there. With a beer.
I suppose it was inevitable. "That's my show!" she exclaimed, over and over, after she got out of the bath and prancing naked in the hall before bedtime. So I got the dinosaur book out this morning (a good one -one from my childhood -one I was keeping in reserve) and tried to interest her in some Jurassic pursuits, but eventually she just asked to watch DWTS. I put Little Einsteins on and went upstairs to get ready for work. With a beer. (Just kidding.)
It's just as well. I want to make a woman out of her and Mrs. Ditchman is more qualified to emphasize the feminine parts than I am. But I will teach her the dinosaur names for good measure, just so she doesn't fall into that trap of being unduly impressed by all the precocious boys out there, with their X-Boxes and Bionicles. She'll hold her own. I've already got her waving her hand and saying these aren't the droids you're looking for, so we're off to a strong start. Next spring we'll work on the Alec Guiness impersonation.
But no DWTS for Little Digger. I'll go back to watching Fringe, with all it's sci-fi gore and gunfire, if that's what it's going to take. We're gonna make a man out of him.
And I suppose he has this to look forward to, along the merry way to manhood (from Lileks):
When I was growing up Jane Russell was the old lady in the bra ad. It lifts and separates! It’s an 18-hour bra! These were mysterious concepts. What happened after 18 hours? Did it burst into flames? Did it drop and smush? Even the word PLAYTEX was strange, like some sort of moist clay-like plastic.
Bras are very unnerving to boys of a certain age. A trip to the department store often meant some red-faced time in Bra Land with Mom, looking up at acres of bras hanging like scalps from some strange war only adults knew about.
~
