Dear Kid,

It’s that time of year again. Yes, the rabbits are out. This thrills the Puppy who is eager (and by “eager” I mean desperate) to make a friend. It is less thrilling for Dad who is not eager to share his garden bounty.

This year, the rabbit likes hiding under the holly bush in the morning and foraging in the backyard in the evening.

For reasons that seem fairly obvious, the holly bush with its prickly leaves feels like a safe place for the bunny. For reasons I don’t understand, the rabbit does not seem to be bothered by the evening mosquitoes. Which is good because I doubt the rabbit would hold still for hydrocortisone.

Turns out that rabbits have just about three-sixty vision (the better to see predators while you’re picking lettuce). Their only blind spot is right in front of their nose. Which leads to a certain irony when they misplace something.

With the exception of the rabbit in The Secret Life of Pets (we saw the movie this weekend) and possibly Peter Rabbit, rabbits are affectionate little dudes. Snowball, the psycho rabbit in Secret Life (definitely one of my favorite characters), was determined to eliminate all humans. Most rabbits (a la Peter) spend their time plotting to eliminate Dad’s garden. (Seriously, there are rabbit seminars on the specific topic of your father’s garden.)

Jackrabbits, which belong to the genus “Lepus,” have been clocked at speeds of 45 miles per hour. Jillrabbits, which belong to the genius “Of course I know the answer,” have been watched (get it? watch? clock?) even faster.

New word of the day: crepuscular. As in “rabbits are crepuscular.” Which means they are most active at dawn and at dusk and when being chased by an overly friendly puppy.

Rabbits can’t vomit, even after a night of raucous drinking. This is important because they eat their food twice. Like cows, except grosser. Cows burp up their cud and rechew it for digestive purposes. Rabits poop their first attempt at the food, then “reingest” (which means “eat their poop”) to be sure they’ve gotten all the nutrition they can from that particular lump of grass. Or clover. Or whatever.

Ick.

On the plus side, they are dang cute.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Some things are better left alone. Some questions just shouldn’t be asked. And yet, I often find myself asking them.

Questions like: What the HECK is Yellow Pig Day?

So glad you asked.

Yellow Pig Day is celebrated on July 17 and it’s all about the number 17.

It was invented in the 1960s (which should explain a LOT). Back in the day, two math students at Princeton were obsessively studying the number 17 (that should explain a little more). They went a little mad (IMHO “mad” does not mean crazy so much as it means something else—did I mention this was in the 60s?) and decided to invent the idea of a yellow pig with 17 toes, 17 teeth, 17 eyelashes, etc.

Creating new and prime creatures is not generally considered a sound way to launch a career, but it seemed to work for those two.

Yellow Pig Day is sometimes celebrated on May 17^th (stick with me here: May is the 17^th month of the previous year). Other mathematicians have gone “a little mad” and not felt any trouble bending the Gregorian calendar to fit their own needs.

If you feel the need to celebrate Yellow Pig Day, I suggest eating yellow food and wishing those around you a happy Yellow Pig Day.

I do not suggest oinking or inventing new ways to interpret the calendar.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Once upon a time, there were no messengers. Then the worlds was invented and blam! there were messengers and general contractors. It just worked that way.

In the beginning, messengers had a fairly easy job: the most complicated message they delivered was “Ughhhggguhi” and since no one knew what that meant no one cared much whether the message got delivered verbatim (ver-grunt-im?) or not.

Not too long after that, people started using actual words to communicate. At that point, messages began to matter.

And the role of messenger became much riskier.

The first time the phrase “Don’t kill the messenger” was used was when Joe Neanderthal decided to stay out with the boys after the hunter and sent his son Thnng to tell Mrs. Joe Neanderthal not to wait up for him. Mrs. Joe did not react well to the message, leading her to stop, drop, roll far away, and mumble (but very quietly) “Not my fault—don’t kill the messenger.”

Shortly thereafter (if you’re a fan of condensed evolution), Plutarch wrote about not shooting the messenger, but since no one really understood him, everyone waited until Sophocles got around to writing “no one loves the messenger who brings bad news” in Antigone. [There will not be a quiz. You’re welcome.]

Shakespeare used a variation on the phrase in both Henry IV and Antony and Cleopatra.

On the more authentic military side, there was an unwritten code of conduct in which messengers (known in war as emissaries so they could get better uniforms) were received and sent back (unharmed) with messages generally designed to confuse everyone involved.

All of which means, just because someone gives you bad news does not mean you should yell, scream, shout, demote, punch, bellow, snub, mistreat, or withhold coffee from them.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Have you noticed that the summer Olympics are coming up? And that they’re going to be in Rio?

Yeah, you probably knew that. Which means that it is time to learn a little bit about Rio de Janeiro. Specifically, the big statue that photo-bombs every picture of the city.

The statue in question is called Christ the Redeemer. At least in English. It’s called Cristo Redentor in Portuguese which you don’t speak.

The statue is 98 feet tall, has a wingspan of 92 feet, and stands (literally) at the top of Corcovado Mountain (which is 2,300 feet high). This is why you look up to see it.

That people can look up to see it without throwing their entire spinal cord out of alignment is one of the reasons it’s considered one of the New Seven Wonders of the World.

Stick with me here for a minute. The statue is in Brazil, was create by a Polish-French sculptor, the face was made by a Romanian artist, and it’s named in Portuguese (because that’s what they speak in Brazil). His outstretched arms are a symbol of peace.

Maybe it is the perfect piece of art for the Olympics.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

We’re headed toward the Olympics and Rio isn’t Ready.

Haven’t we been here before? Russia wasn’t ready and yet somehow pulled it off.

But Rio has some issues Russia never even thought of.

Like the Zika virus.

So far several athletes (and by “several athletes” I mean several athletes that you’ve heard of) have decided not to attend the Olympics.

Interestingly, they are all male and none of them are pregnant. (Rory McIlryoy, Tejay van Garderern, and Greg Rutherford are the athletes in question. OK, maybe you haven’t heard of them. You’re not likely to hear about them any time soon because they won’t be winning in Rio since they won’t be there.)

Brazilian officials are responding by saying the athletes in question are just big babies and teaching mosquitoes a synchronized dance for the opening ceremonies.

The other big scandal (in case you haven’t been keeping up with these things) is that the Rio de Janeiro anti-doping lab has been suspended for “wrongly interpreting” test results. Meaning they “oopsed” a few times too many and “produced false positives.”

This of course led to a whole lot of he said/they said and tastes-great-less-filling controversies which are never good for smooth Olympics. It is unclear if the lab will be, um, fixed in time for the games which are—wait for it—only 6 weeks away.

Bottom line? Who the heck knows, but it will be interesting.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Once upon a time, there weren’t any triathlons.

Now there are.

Amazingly, triathlons did not begin in Greece.

Triathlons were invented in France in the 1920, with competitors crossing the Marne channel (via swimming), completing a 12K bike ride (via pedal power), and a 3K run (via ped).

Did you know this is the Olympic symbol for the Triathlon? Now you do.

Tri-sportage came to the US in the 1970s, the first of which was (probably) in San Diego in 1974 and is notable for measuring things in yards and miles rather than channels and Ks.

Today, most triathlons (like the one in the Olympics) include a swim (.93 miles), a bike leg (24.8 miles), a run (6.2 miles), and finishing (priceless). The distances sound better in metric: 1.5K, 40K, 10K.

In 1978, the Ironman Triathlon was created for people with questionable sanity. The trademark line Swim 2.4 miles! Bike 112 miles! Run 26.2 miles! Brag for the rest of your life“, pretty much sums up the insanity.

Many people think that the swim-bike-run or kayak-bike-run formats are the main form of the modern triathlon. However, they are overlooking the sister-sport: Momathlon.

Momathlons consist of three individual events also.

Swim-through-the-chaos. This event consists of herding 3 toddlers through a gauntlet of grocery shopping, missed nap time, and individual haircuts. Extra points for carrying all three children at once.

Bite-on involves creating one meal that will satisfy a picky 6 year old, a vegetarian teen, and a paleo millennial.

Run-interference. Because this is an endurance event, Moms are exhausted by this point in the competition. Yet strong competitors press on to simultaneous prevent twins from fighting, apologize to the neighbors for running over their azaleas, and bake 36 cupcakes for the bake sale.

Makes an Ironman look like child’s play.

Good luck on your first triathlon, Pi! We’ll be cheering you on.

Love, Mom