Tom Brokaw.
That was Axel’s first Olympics-related phrase. Not team USA, not gold medal, not triple lutz, not use your elbows in the boardercross, Wescott. Tom Brokaw. News anchor, host of the first evening of NBC’s Olympic coverage, hero to two-year-olds everywhere.
Now, whenever I suggest we watch the Olympics, Axel says, “Where Tom Brokaw is? Tom Brokaw? No Tom Brokaw.” Tom Brokaw, not Lindsey Vonn or Apollo Ohno or Johnny Weir or Shaun White, is the star of the Olympics.
At the same time the Olympics aired not one but two evenings, the movie Cars was also on. Guess which one Axel liked more? Engines roaring and colorful cartoons, or inspiring stories of humans trumping all the odds, doing push ups at 3 am, and coming out on top? Yeah, and I didn’t blame him. There’s only so many qualifying rounds and emotional stories of redemption and soaring instrumental music that one can take.
After asking about Tom Brokaw, he asks about Cars – because the winter Olympics mean two things: animated films and deep-voiced newsmen. Then he gets upset because Tom Brokaw appears to have skipped the ski jumping, Cars isn’t on, and they keep on breaking for commercials, a concept foreign to a kid whose previous TV watching has consisted of DVDs and commercial-free shows on Nick Jr. Why do these people keep wasting our time with talk of trucks and Ziploc bags and soft drinks?
The Olympics have also inspired flips and turns in our own house. Freestyle skiing inspired side to side jumps, speed skating resulted in sprints through the kitchen in a heated race with the cat, and after catching clips of the pairs short program, Axel spun and twirled on the couch. Then he fell off the couch and did a butt thump/slide on the wooden floor move, just like the skaters. We have our own kiss and cry area – it’s a fuzzy blue chair covered in dog hair- but thankfully no reporters bother us for a play-by-play about the utter failure we must be feeling after tripping over the threshold between the kitchen and living room yet again.
I did not let him watch the men’s short program, despite the figure skating jump that shares his name and my own childhood dabbling in skating. It was after his bedtime, and, besides the skeleton and feather-costumed men would’ve given him nightmares. All that sparkle freaked me out a little bit. I think we’ll also skip the hockey. I do not need more tackling by toddler than we have already.
Go Team USA, or, as Axel would say, Go Tom Brokaw!
Just wanted to say I really enjoy your column! Thanks for making me laugh and telling it like it is but with lots of love.
What the heck?! What channel was Cars on? We missed it.
The “Tom Brokaw” thing is hilarious! Little Man’s favorite part is crashing (no surprise – he thought the airplane landing in the Hudson last year was super-awesome, too). Whenever skiiers are on he said, “Watch them crash.” Daddio proves to be a little superstitious and reprimands, “Don’t say that!”
Michael LOVES Cars! Almost everything he owns has Lightening McQueen on it. I can probably recite the whole movie by now.
Hockey is about the only thing we’ve been watching – its even more “civilized” than the NHL of late, believe it or not. So far all our small sized munchkin has done is grab a really long-handled spatula and smack around a ball. Or dig through the pile of Mommy and Daddy’s hockey equipment in the basement for our helmets, which he puts on and laughs about.
Of course, last night whatever channel we were watching switched from hockey to something else, and he stood there, hands on hips, shouting at the TV. Ah, to be 16ish months old again
I’ve showed my girls some of the Olympics and they seem pretty unimpressed (except for the ice skating!).
I confess that I’m just not much for the Olympics. We watched the opening ceremonies. But the very first I’ve seen of any of the events is right this moment, when the Dirty Jobs episode we finished the Dirty Jobs episode recorded earlier this week, and we decided to just turn live (gasp!) tv on until we go to bed. It’s ice skating. I wish I was interested.
I love the idea of little Axel tumbling around pretending to be an Olympian, though.