Why are these wet

The other day a cab driver and I were talking about Metallica.

I'm not sure how we started talking about Metallica. I had a super early flight and a cab so early I honestly think I called it in my sleep, and I woke up halfway to the airport halfway through a conversation about Metallica. So there we were. This cab driver loved heavy metal.

"Yeah I've been into heavy metal since I was a kid" he said as I rubbed my eyes and swallowed a yawn. "Even in fifth grade I was always wearing ripped jeans and heavy metal t-shirts, I was a real freak. All the other kids were like WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU and I was like hey, I'm just really into Metallica."

I was a real freak in fifth grade too.

Once in fifth grade our Sunday school teacher gave us each a handful of Skittles, and then asked me to come up and write some things on the chalkboard. So I set my Skittles down on top of my notebook. 

"Don't eat my Skittles, you guys." I announced to the class. "I licked them all."

I wasn't even halfway to the chalkboard when one of the girls screamed. "These are wet! Why are your Skittles wet?!" She was holding one of my Skittles (probably a red one, those are the best) and looking horrified.

"I told you," I said, real calmly, cool as anything. "I licked them."

For some reason that explanation freaked out the whole class. All the other kids were like WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU and I wish I could have responded with hey, I'm just really into Metallica.

I know this picture is too recent but I love their faces in it. They look like their photographer is speaking another language.

You can ask this fifth-grader if she likes Metallica but she's too busy brushing her teeth with a Sonicare to answer so don't bother.

I am really into jazz music though.

Trains and tigers

Last month I started volunteering as a reader at a preschool in Portland. It means once a week I read books with four preschoolers, fifteen minutes per preschooler. It means I have a lot to say about books for preschoolers. So let’s not waste any more time setting this up: the best and worst preschool books.

THE WORST BOOKS

Thomas. Any and all books featuring Thomas the Tank Engine.

There are others I dislike but mentioning them would lessen the impact of saying there is one bad thing in the world and it’s Thomas the Tank Engine. It’s nice that some things are still simple: up vs down, black vs white, good vs Thomas. 

Every kid wants to read Thomas books, there’s a mad scramble for them every time a new group of preschoolers comes in. The books are organized differently every day so the kids go crazy hunting for the Thomas books while the readers hang back, hoping our kid is the slowest kid and doesn’t get any.

Thomas books are the worst, they’re so long and the pictures are terrible. If a Thomas writer is reading this and you’re offended, you need to hear it. There’s no real story, no exciting parts, and kids glaze over three words in and start aggressively picking their noses.

Luckily they can’t read so the pain is over just as fast. “Hello Thomas said Sir Topman Hat, I have an idea said Thomas, let’s turn seventeen pages ahead. Turn another four pages! shouted Annie and Clarabell. Everyone cheered. It was another day as a train. The great story was over.” 

Then I get to pick the next book.

THE BEST BOOKS

The best book is any book read with Ian.

Have you met Ian? Supposedly he’s a four-year-old attending this preschool but he’s probably actually a child actor someone hired and trained to be my favorite person on earth. My first day as a reader he came in with the crowd of not-Ian kids, walked up to me, looked at me, and said “Let's read about gorillas."

Last week he picked a Winnie the Pooh story that I was lukewarm on. It was super long, and the words per page count was gross. But Ian’s really patient and a great listener so I went ahead anyway. In the book, Tigger (who Ian says I do a great impression of) decides that he’s self-conscious about his stripes. 

The book doesn’t really explain what causes this, maybe he was reading a magazine or maybe he noticed that a celebrity he likes doesn’t have stripes, but whatever the reason he decides to get rid of them. His friends help him execute a variety of horribly-conceived ill-fated removal methods, and sometimes before or after they offer to help they’ll mention off-hand that they like his stripes.

“Eeyore says he likes Tigger’s stripes” Ian would whisper, tapping gently on the picture of Eeyore. “I like them too, they’re part of what makes him special.”

Man it was a long story. But Ian was so invested and laughed at every voice and got so discouraged when dumb ideas like covering the stripes with honey didn’t work. And it made me think of dumb things I do, like not smiling in pictures because I think my teeth slant a little to the side. 

It’s weird to say, and probably not the point of being a volunteer reader, but by the end of this book I was feeling pretty choked up, and so was Ian. “That. Was. Such. A. Good. Story.” he said. “What I would love now, is if we could read another.”

Ian can read my mind sometimes. “You make the best snoring noises!” he’ll say, somehow knowing that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear my whole life. That’s why any book with Ian is the best book. 

And Ian never picks Thomas books.

What your kids will be like

A few months ago my friend told me that his wife is working at a daycare, and that it’s “the best birth control ever.” 

And I feel like it’s important enough that I tell not just him but everyone: if your wife is working at a day care, you also need to also be using a second form of birth control. I didn’t pay a ton of attention in health class but even with my limited knowledge of reproduction I know that using a part-time day care job as your main method of birth control lowers the chances of pregnancy by about zero percent, in every study.

It seems especially important to remember this because of something that happened the other day in the locker room. There was a mom teaching her toddler to poop, but the toddler was stalling. (Get it! It’s a bathroom joke!)

“Where do babies come from?” the toddler asked in an “I bet this question is going to annoy you and that makes me so psyched to ask you” sort of way. Her mom referenced some vague story about sperm meeting an egg.

“But how?”

Her mom changed the subject: “Do you remember, in your All About Me book, who does your body belong to? Who’s in charge of your body?”

“My body belongs to a man!” she yelled. I don't think she learned it in the All About Me book, I think she probably learned it during the nine months she was living inside her mom, connected to her brain, learning what she could do that would bother her the most. That's where I got all of my best material.

Then the girl just started screaming swear words, which I won't type here in case some of my readers are under three and haven’t learned them yet.

Babies can come from anywhere, the jury’s still out on the logistics and even the All About Me book doesn't have all the facts. If you work at a daycare, it could still happen to you.

The picture on the left is me before I had learned any swear words, and on the right is after swear words. Knowing swear words makes you super tan.