- how Isaac refused to enter synagogue when he heard the cantor's powerful soprano voice, and how we spent my godson's Bar Mitzvah at the temple playground instead;
- how the swim trunks he wore at a pool party yesterday made him uncomfortable, so he insisted on peeling them off in front of maybe 30-plus people (much to the horror of a group of nine-year-old girls);
- how I struggled with whether to embrace it (he's not yet five, after all), insist he get dressed and start a riot, or cower in the bathroom until it was all over;
- how the other children stared as he toe-walked around the pool, happily flapping, nekkid as the day he was born;
- how I wondered if this would be a blip, or the inkling of a new, worrisome nudity campaign;
I'm tabling it for now, partly because his two cousins (five and three) shortly joined him au naturel, partly because my brain is fried from too much travel and too little sleep, and partly because I'm in a state of shock.
You know that Isaac likes to watch videos on YouTube, and we set up the bookmarks bar so he can easily click on whichever elevator video he wants to see (the moral of YouTube: everything is a genre).
So when we got home from the airport this afternoon, I let him play on the computer while I unpacked and started his dinner.
A few minutes later, I checked in on him. He was looking at pages and pages of Google image searches of, uh, "WIMEN" (all, luckily, quite innocent). I checked the search history, and found the following searches:
BEATA (his nanny)
Job one: get some content-filtering software, pronto.
Job two: look for a more comfortable pair of swim trunks.
Job three: get a paper bag. Breathe in and out. Repeat.