Dear Kid,

The Olympics have come to an end.

The statue-thing that the athletes were handed with their medals was a 3D printed model of the logo. It was given instead of flowers because flowers were just thrown away and environmentalism and sustainability were a big part of the theme of this year’s games.

Somehow we’ve forgotten about the mosquitoes. We still care about the violence (even the made-up robbery) and the water pollution (can you say “ewwww”), but we’re not worrying about it.

We’re thinking about all the wonderful things that happened over the last two weeks. We’re remembering the grit, the heart, the sportsmanship. We’re thinking about the world records, the Olympic medals, and the national anthems.

We’re reliving the colors and the music and the stories. We’re remembering the athletes who set personal bests and those who competed with no hope of a medal. Because that’s what the Olympics are all about—coming together to celebrate the spirit and athleticism of the participants.

I love the Olympics. I love what they stand for (staying up past midnight every day to watch obscure sports) and what they represent (bankrupting the host nation). But I have to admit, I’m ready for The Games to be over. I’m ready to go back to staying up late to watch Trevor Noah et al. I’m ready to watch football and reality TV and NCIS reruns.

But then I’ll be ready for the Olympics the next time around.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Do you know about the pentathlon?

If you’re old-ish, you might hear “pentathlon” and think “ah, the women’s version of the decathlon.” And it would be good if you thought that because saying it out loud would prove that you’re old and out of touch. There used to be a women’s track event called the pentathlon; but somewhere along the line people realized women are actual athletes and women now compete in the heptathlon. That’s a different story.

Today, we’re talking modern pentathlon. Which consists pretty much of medieval pursuits: pistol shooting, epee fencing, show jumping, swimming, and running.

So basically, ride your horse across the fields (jumping over the pesky fences), swim the moat, run across the courtyard (a couple of times), fence your way up the stairs, and shoot someone. This is the only sport that comes complete with a plot. All we need are costumes.

Fencing, swimming (200 freestyle), and show jumping (riding “an unfamiliar horse”) are scored on a points system understood by three geniuses and a familiar horse. The random number of points a competitor accumulates is then converted (via an algorithm which exactly no one understands) to a handicap start for the final event.

“Wait!” I hear you exclaim, “There should be two more events!”

Yes, but the 3.2 kilometer cross-country run and the pistol shooting have been combined into a single event (a la the winter biathlon). You might think they’d rename the whole thing (quadthlon?) but they didn’t.

And in a nod to the environment and safety, the pistols are now laser guns.

Bang. I mean, bzzzzt.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Once upon a time, babies were brought to their families by a stork. Then Paul Bunyan was born, and it took 5 supersized storks to carry him. After that the storks went on strike and babies were delivered by Uber.

Baby Bunyan continued to be bigger than big. He ate fifty eggs and 10 containers of potatoes every day. After a year or two of that, the chickens went on strike. Paul Bunyan was not known for being well-liked in the avian community.

Not only was Paul bigger than big, he was stronger than strong and faster than fast. He was so fast he could turn off the light and jump into bed before the room got dark.

Paul spent most of the time cutting down trees because he was a lumberjack and that’s what lumberjacks do: cut down trees and wear plaid.

One day, it started to snow. Not just snow, blue snow. Paul thought blue snow was pretty nifty and went for a walk in the blue snow. On his walk, he found a baby ox stuck in the snow. Paul did the only reasonable thing to do in blue snow and took the ox home. (Well, come on, what would you do if you found an ox in blue snow?)

Once the baby ox warmed up, he was still blue. So Paul named him Babe (because he hoped the ox would play baseball once it was invented) and they became BFFs.

Babe grew bigger than big very quickly. One night, Babe went to sleep in the barn with the other farm animals. The next morning, Paul found Babe calmly eating breakfast in the next valley over. Babe had grown so much overnight that he’d walked to the valley with the barn and all the animals on his back.

At that point Paul’s parents decided things had gone far enough (who needs a mobile barn?) and told Paul to take Babe and go become a tall tale. And being a good kid (and a good ox), off they went.

Paul Bunyan could chop down a forest with a single stroke of his axe, and Babe worked right along with him.

One time, there was a road that was too twisty for the lumberjacks to easily remove the cut trees. So Paul tied one end of the road around a tree stump and gave the other end of the road to Babe. Babe pulled with all his strength and straightened out the road. Rumor is he pulled out all the potholes too.

Tomorrow: The Absolutely True Tall Tales

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Is Rio ready?

In a word, um, no. Unless by “ready” you mean more of a hot mess than prior not-ready Olympic cities.

Claressa Shields, on the other hand, is ready.

Claressa is the first American woman to win Olympic Gold in boxing. Which means she can hit a lot harder than you can.

Let’s be clear. I’m not a fan of women boxing. Before you start yapping about sexism, let me say that I’m not a fan of men boxing. I get that it’s a sport. It’s just not a sport I like.

I am, however, a fan of Claressa.

As of this exact moment, Claressa is 21 years old. Did I mention she’s already won a gold medal? Are you feeling like a bit of an underachiever?

She grew up (can a 21 year old be all grown up? Don’t answer that) in Flint (home people who can’t drink water). Her father was a boxer in underground leagues (meaning he fought moles). He was released from jail when she was 9, and while he taught her about boxing, he wouldn’t let her participate in the sport (what with her being a girl).

Claressa’s grandmother encouraged her to do whatever she wanted regardless of gender and Fate joined in to hand Claressa an A #1 boxing coach.

And Claressa went on to become a crazy good boxer.

The world didn’t pay much attention.

Claressa won the World Championships in her weight class in 2014. The world continued to not pay much attention.

She has a record of 68-1. The world yawned.

She qualified for Rio. The world blinked and did a couple of interviews.

I plan to not watch boxing this year. But I will absolutely check to see how Claressa does. Both in the Olympics and in the City of Zika.

Things are gonna get interesting….

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Today’s Word of the Day is OGANOLEPTIC.

Organoleptic properties are the aspects of food, water, or other substances that an individual experiences via the senses.

Organ (like eyes, nose, tongue) and leptic (as in “to fall off”—no that’s leper).

The reason that organoleptic is today’s word is that I just learned it. And it’s really fun to say. (Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait…. See? Fun to say.)

Department of Agriculture employees frequently perform organoleptic inspections (“eeeewwww—shut this place down!”).

But don’t be all that impressed. You perform organoleptic tests all the time. Visual inspection (“interesting, colorful”), sniff (“hmmm, that smells yummy”), taste test (“Oh, yes. That is an excellent pizza. And I really, really hope that green stuff is spinach.”).

I love learning new words.

Tomorrow’s word of the day will (of course) be PIANOLEPTIC.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

A group of chipmunks is called a scurry.

A group of football fans is called a tailgate.

A group of drinkers is called a frat party.

A group of alligators is called a congregation. At least that’s what their prey says…

A group of bacteria is called a culture.

A group of operas is called a season.

A group of bullfinches is called a bellowing.

A group of bad ideas is called a cluster f***.

A group of crabs is called a cast. So is a group of actors.

A group of gnus is called an implausibility. So is a group of good ideas.

A group of hippopotamuses is called a bloat. So is a group of fat cells.

A group of hippopotamuses is called a bloat. So is a group of fat cells.

A group of jellyfish is called a smack. Unless I’m involved in which case it’s called an “Are You Kidding Me?”

A group of mosquitoes is called a scourge and a group of locusts is called a plague.

(I’m making up very little of this.)

A group of otters is called an adorable (yeah, I made up that one).

A group of sandwiches is called lunch.

A group of turtles is called a bale.

A group of dances is called a prom.

A group of squirrels is called a dray.

A group of stingrays is called a fever.

A group of turtles is called a bale.

A group of politicians is called a joke.

Love, Mom