I was raised with boys. I have a brother that's just 18 months younger than I am, and another brother 2 years younger than him. (I also have a brother that's 9 years younger than I am and a sister who is 13 years younger. But there is enough of a gap that much of my childhood was informed by my first two brothers.) Growing up primarily among boys affected some of my habits and interests, as I'm sure having an assertive (that's a more positive word than bossy) older sister affected theirs. For example, I probably would not know very much about dinosaurs if not for them. They were crazy about dinosaurs when we were young. My parents are the type of parents who were happy to encourage any interest that would lead to learning, and so we got library books about dinosaurs, went to museums to see fossils (my dad even arranged a tour of the unseen part of a dinosaur museum with a friend of his who worked there. We got to see how they uncovered and cleaned the fossils), and even took a trip to a place where there had been a significant fossil find. My brothers and I knew the correct names for each dinosaur, what the difference between a carnivore and a herbivore was, and much preferred the video of Maya, which tells what a dinosaurs daily life would have been like realistically, to that of any of the Land Before Time movies. (It was very upsetting to us that they didn't use the correct names for the dinosaurs in The Land Before Time.) Dinosaurs were a prevalent theme in our lives. I don't really think that much about dinosaurs on a day-to-day basis now, but something reminded me of my childhood love of dinosaurs the other day, and several memories surfaced. So I thought I would share them here.
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The other day, I saw a woman walking a three-legged dog. The dog's front right leg was missing. The dog didn't seem at all bothered by it's disability, it moved confidently and happily along. However, I found myself thinking: “Why would you want a dog who was missing a leg?” But then I remembered a toy dinosaur that I had when I was little—somewhere around 5 to 8 years old. It was a plastic inflatable Apatasauraus, my favorite dinosaur, about 16 inches long and 10 inches high—just the right size to tuck under your arm or snuggle with. Although maybe not as naturally cuddly as a stuffed animal, I thought nothing of including her among my favorites. I think that a plastic dinosaur made more sense to me than a stuffed one—they were cold-blooded, after all, and didn't have fur. I had gotten her from a dinosaur museum that I had visited with my parents and brothers, and so she had those happy memories associated with her. One of her legs, I think it was the back right one, wouldn't inflate. I don't remember if we discovered this before we bought her or after, but rather than being upset about it, the defect endeared her to me. Sometimes I would rub the place where that leg met the body. I loved that dinosaur, and felt very protective of her. I named her “Pat.” (Clever, right?) Once I even insisted on taking Pat to church. I put her on the floor, next to the coat rack, with my boots during the services. When church was over, she wasn't there. I was devastated. My father patiently searched for the church with me, and finally found her—deflated, in the garbage can. I don't know if someone saw the bad leg and assumed that she was no longer wanted, or if it was a teenage prank, as my father guessed. But after being dusted off and re-inflated, she was just fine. I wonder whatever happened to her. I wouldn't be surprised to find her carefully packed in a box in my parent's basement.
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My brother S especially loved dinosaurs, and at the age of 4 had plans to become a paleontologist one day. He wasn't the most adventurous eater. One night at dinner, my father attempted to get him to try something that he was refusing to eat, by saying, “But what about when you are a famous paleontologist, on a dig in the Middle East? They won't have the types of food there that you are used to, so you'll have to try new things. Why don't you start practicing now, by trying this?” S prompted replied, “When I am a famous paleontologist and I go on digs, I will bring a whole refrigerator full of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with me.” I don't remember my father having a response to that.
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I don't remember how this game started, but it was probably my father's invention. Whenever anyone said “Parasauralophus,” which is a dinosaur with a ridge that protrudes from the back of it's head, they were asking to be tickled. We referred to it as “the tickle word.” If one of us kids said it, our dad would chase after us and tickle us. If he said it, any one, or sometimes all three, of us would attempt to tickle him. Usually we didn't want to be tickled. But we delighted in trying to come as close to saying the tickle word without actually saying it. Sometimes we would team up—I would say “Para”, J would say “Saura,” and S would say “Lophus.” Other times we'd start out the word, but end it some other way. My dad would sometimes try to catch us off guard by holding up a toy Parasauralophus and asking “What dinosaur is this?” We had to make some rules for the game. One that my mother insisted on was that if we were at the table, we couldn't tickle. She made this rule to keep the game from interfering with dinners, but sometimes we would yell “Parasauralophus” and then run and grab hold of the dinning room table, claiming immunity. When we were teenagers, the game persisted with our younger siblings, cousins, and even the children in the daycare my mother ran. But now we were part of the adult team. One of the girls invented a new rule—she added an anti-tickle word, “bubbles.” If you said bubbles, it cancelled out Parasauralophus, and you couldn't be tickled. It's a great idea, although almost makes the game too easy. It will be interesting to see if this game continues into the next generation, and if the tickle word stays the same.
