Every day, Max learns amazing new things that take him one step further from the womb, and one step closer to becoming a fully realized person. Meanwhile, every day, I develop new aches and pains, forget where more of my possessions are, and find new things growing on my skin. It's the nature of things, and it favors Max by a landslide. 30 years from now, he'll be in his prime, and I'll be a smelly old man marching toward death. (Actually, Jackson would argue that I'm already smelly and old, but that's another discussion.)
Since you can't teach an old dog new tricks (not actually true, as the love of river rafting I formed in my 40s illustrates), we'll focus on the young dog.
At this stage, Max's new tricks are too many to list. He's eating more and more solid foods, and has become intensely curious of the foods the rest of us eat. He's sitting well enough to be left for minutes at a time, seated on a blanket and surrounded by toys, as Sarah and I take care of various household tasks. He's looking at us for approval after he does something like hit a drum, and has figured out that by looking at a mirror, he can watch people without actually looking at them. Oh, and he's screaming and grunting at us if he feels like we're not paying enough attention (like now).
Heck, he's even going on thrill rides. Two weeks ago, we made a pilgrimage down to L.A. to see family and go to Disneyland, finding out that he's even good during 6-hour car rides. Sarah and Max weren't going to join us at the park until I booked a room at the Disneyland hotel, assuring that swim breaks and naps would be accessible via the Monorail. (In fact, the day featured his first time ever in a pool.) While easy access to the hotel was critical, the day's real clincher was finding out that, with a baby and stroller, it's possible to avoid just about any waiting in lines.
By coupling Fastpass tickets (which allow you to skip the line during a pre-determined hour) with parent swap passes (which allow two people to enter through the exit after others in their party ride), we never stood in a line longer than 15 minutes. (My cousin Zack--if he's reading this, which is a long shot, since I've never known him to read anything other than the sports page--would protest my sharing this tale, but don't worry, Cuz', the real secret is safe with me.) We also lucked out in that the three rides Max took in (Small World, Jungle Cruise and Pirates of the Caribbean) had minimal lines. Max, being the good natured thrill seeker that he is, loved them all. And his day was capped by the 9:30 fireworks show, which thrilled and captivated him before turning in for the night.
Then it was on to Santa Barbara, where we spent a couple of relaxing days swimming and strolling and shopping, with Max as happy as can be throughout.
I don't know what Sarah and I did in past lives to deserve a child that's so cooperative and, yes, easy to travel with, but it must have been something special. Of course, both of us are braced for the first time he gets sick, the terrible twos, or, shudder to even think, the horrifying pre-teen years, but for now, we're just enjoying the wonderful ride he's taking us on. And just like Disneyland, there are no lines to speak of.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Wimbledon, It Wasn't
How fast a month goes by when one is fixated on the little life that's fast forming in front of his eyes. Max is turning into a bundle of unbridled energy, shaking and grabbing and bouncing and jumping in whatever ways a 6-month-old can. Each day becomes an increasingly relentless and fast-paced race from one parenting task to the next--diaper changes, clothes changes, bottle prep, bottle cleaning, playing on the floor, carrying him around, taking him for walks, diaper changes, squeezing in a few minutes of work or house stuff while he naps, making him little baby meals, reading him stories, more diaper changes, bathing him, putting him to sleep...and then, at last, collapsing in a useless heap next to my equally useless collapsed heap of a wife. No one said parenting was easy.
But enough about Max--I'll come back to him plenty. Lately, I've promised myself that I would stop limiting this blog to only Max-related stuff, as easy as that is. It's my blog, dammit, and it should be about me, right? This presumes that anyone reading this actually is interested in me--a huge presumption, admittedly, but I'll go with it.
This week's noteworthy tale came Wednesday when I played tennis for the first time a friend I'll call "Rob." Oh, wait, that's his real name, so no need for quotes, I guess. That is, unless you know Rob, in which case the quotes might in fact be a perfect commentary on his personality. Anyhoo, back to the tennis.
So Rob shows up here about noon Wednesday, and we head over to nearby Albany Terrace Park, a hidden neighborhood jewel with two slightly off-kilter tennis courts. We quickly claim a court, and after a brief warm-up, we begin the "match." (I use quotes again because it was more like a sad display, but humor us.) I quickly fall behind, and after losing the seventh game to fall behind 5-2, Rob comes to mid-court and declares a 6-1 victory. I point out his error and take my position to serve confident that he just jinxed his karma. Sure enough, I take the next three games to tie things up, and then take the tiebreaker to win the set, 7-6.
Rob is dejected. As we start the second set, the court next to us is taken over by two children and their nanny, a rather, uh, buxom eastern European girl who's wearing a very tight t-shirt, a very short skirt, and a tennis game in desperate need of help. Every shot that comes her way is hit straight into the ground, and after each one she laughs nervous little laughs.
Somehow, Rob, who's the biggest hound I know, doesn't notice her for the first game, but I know the canine-like reaction is coming. It comes when we switch sides for the second game and he's now on the same side of the net as she is. The first time he heads over toward her fence to pick up a ball--bingo!--the alarm comes on. The only way he'd have been more obvious was if his tongue had unrolled onto a giant erection. He begins casting glances toward our tennis neighbor every point, hoping to catch her looking at him. I can see the wheels turning--if we were any place else, he'd be trying to talk her into coming home.
Inexplicably, the distraction seems to energize him, and he goes up in the set 5-3 before, once again, I come back and force a tiebreaker. Alas, he recovers in time to prevail 7-6, forcing a third set.
It's important to note here that I hadn't played a third set of tennis in at least 20 years. In any case, as the set begins, the nanny and kids depart, and as they walk away, I hear Rob mumble "good riddance," which seems odd given that he seemed to play better in her presence.
The third set makes it clear this match has become a war of attrition. He wins the first game, then I win the next two, then he wins the two after that, and I take two more to make it 4-3, and it's my serve. Naturally, it's at this point that, for the first time in my life, I feel a twinge in my shoulder during a tennis serve, and it's clear that I'm done for the day. Rob discourages me from playing, declaring, "It's not worth it...we're just here to have fun." I agree and we call the match. Then, as we sit down, he declares himself the winner. What, I ask? He says that since I quit from injury, that's a forfeit.
This, of course, only fuels my desire to destroy him the next time we play, hopefully soon. I go home and pay the physical price for the next 24 hours, experiencing soreness in places I didn't even know existed.
The story reminds me that there's a revenge theme in the air. Just the day before, as I was innocently showering, Sarah came in to use the bathroom sink and dumped not one, but two glasses of cold water over me, after which I swore I'd get even while we're on vacation next week. I'm not sure what form that revenge will take, or whether I'll really even need it. After all, I gave her a son who, like most sons, is likely to one day treat her like an irritant that must be endured out of obligation. That will be revenge enough. Until then, I'll just let her enjoy our daily baby rituals, anticipating the day when her comeuppance arrives.
In the meantime, having heard the tale of my tennis match with Rob, Sarah says if we ever get a nanny, she's going to have to be fat and ugly.
But enough about Max--I'll come back to him plenty. Lately, I've promised myself that I would stop limiting this blog to only Max-related stuff, as easy as that is. It's my blog, dammit, and it should be about me, right? This presumes that anyone reading this actually is interested in me--a huge presumption, admittedly, but I'll go with it.
This week's noteworthy tale came Wednesday when I played tennis for the first time a friend I'll call "Rob." Oh, wait, that's his real name, so no need for quotes, I guess. That is, unless you know Rob, in which case the quotes might in fact be a perfect commentary on his personality. Anyhoo, back to the tennis.
So Rob shows up here about noon Wednesday, and we head over to nearby Albany Terrace Park, a hidden neighborhood jewel with two slightly off-kilter tennis courts. We quickly claim a court, and after a brief warm-up, we begin the "match." (I use quotes again because it was more like a sad display, but humor us.) I quickly fall behind, and after losing the seventh game to fall behind 5-2, Rob comes to mid-court and declares a 6-1 victory. I point out his error and take my position to serve confident that he just jinxed his karma. Sure enough, I take the next three games to tie things up, and then take the tiebreaker to win the set, 7-6.
Rob is dejected. As we start the second set, the court next to us is taken over by two children and their nanny, a rather, uh, buxom eastern European girl who's wearing a very tight t-shirt, a very short skirt, and a tennis game in desperate need of help. Every shot that comes her way is hit straight into the ground, and after each one she laughs nervous little laughs.
Somehow, Rob, who's the biggest hound I know, doesn't notice her for the first game, but I know the canine-like reaction is coming. It comes when we switch sides for the second game and he's now on the same side of the net as she is. The first time he heads over toward her fence to pick up a ball--bingo!--the alarm comes on. The only way he'd have been more obvious was if his tongue had unrolled onto a giant erection. He begins casting glances toward our tennis neighbor every point, hoping to catch her looking at him. I can see the wheels turning--if we were any place else, he'd be trying to talk her into coming home.
Inexplicably, the distraction seems to energize him, and he goes up in the set 5-3 before, once again, I come back and force a tiebreaker. Alas, he recovers in time to prevail 7-6, forcing a third set.
It's important to note here that I hadn't played a third set of tennis in at least 20 years. In any case, as the set begins, the nanny and kids depart, and as they walk away, I hear Rob mumble "good riddance," which seems odd given that he seemed to play better in her presence.
The third set makes it clear this match has become a war of attrition. He wins the first game, then I win the next two, then he wins the two after that, and I take two more to make it 4-3, and it's my serve. Naturally, it's at this point that, for the first time in my life, I feel a twinge in my shoulder during a tennis serve, and it's clear that I'm done for the day. Rob discourages me from playing, declaring, "It's not worth it...we're just here to have fun." I agree and we call the match. Then, as we sit down, he declares himself the winner. What, I ask? He says that since I quit from injury, that's a forfeit.
This, of course, only fuels my desire to destroy him the next time we play, hopefully soon. I go home and pay the physical price for the next 24 hours, experiencing soreness in places I didn't even know existed.
The story reminds me that there's a revenge theme in the air. Just the day before, as I was innocently showering, Sarah came in to use the bathroom sink and dumped not one, but two glasses of cold water over me, after which I swore I'd get even while we're on vacation next week. I'm not sure what form that revenge will take, or whether I'll really even need it. After all, I gave her a son who, like most sons, is likely to one day treat her like an irritant that must be endured out of obligation. That will be revenge enough. Until then, I'll just let her enjoy our daily baby rituals, anticipating the day when her comeuppance arrives.
In the meantime, having heard the tale of my tennis match with Rob, Sarah says if we ever get a nanny, she's going to have to be fat and ugly.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Parenting Brings Out the Philosopher in Me
My mom often tells people (or so she tells me) that her greatest accomplishment in life has been me and my brother. Now, while I have to admit that Greg and I are two strapping, responsible, respectful, big-hearted men, I've always felt very clear--and mom, if you're reading this, don't take this the wrong way--that I needed more than children to feel a sense of accomplishment.
Believe me, Jackson was the absolute epicenter of my life for more than 10 years, until he had to make room for Sarah to share that epicenter. More recently, of course, he's had to skooch over even more for Max. But when I'm on my death bed (and please, whoever decides these things, make it a comfy one), merely having been a father won't give me the sense of fullness I'm hoping for.
I was thinking about this recently as I drove around doing errands with Max in tow. The way everyone responds to him, you'd think the stroller contained Michelangelo's David, and in a sense, I suppose it does. Every baby really is a work of art. Regardless, I started asking myself, what does a person have to do for his life to be considered a success? Does he have to be remembered and beloved beyond his family, friends and loved ones? Must he invent something that changes the world? Weed out evil wherever it exists in the world? Raise money to build schools in third-world communities? Take in homeless pets?
I asked Sarah what she thought, and her first instinct was to say that someone who achieves happiness is a success. But that's too easy--there are plenty of terrible people in the world who achieve happiness without any chance of being considered a success in the final analysis.
Is it as simple as treating others with kindness and respect, and being mindful of everything that's flowing around you? Spreading love to those you touch, and accepting the love of others in a deep and meaningful way?
Hopefully, you didn't continue reading this post in the hope that I was going provide an answer, because quite frankly, it's not possible. Success is an awfully big word, and with so many people doing so many things and living their lives in so many ways, there has to be more valid definitions of success than just about any word in the English language.
What I do know is this: If I were to die today, I'd consider myself a success in some regards, not so much in others. I think I've learned to be a good husband and father who's willing to acknowledge and try to address his flaws. I also have managed to build a life that allows me to rule my own schedule, and that in itself is worth more money than I could ever imagine making. But I've also demonstrated a penchant for having big ideas, and even starting to execute them--but never seeming to finish them.
So there you go, I've worked it out. If I want to ultimately consider myself a success--and really, in the end, whose approval do we need more than our own?--I need to become a better finisher. Yep, I'm gonna get right on that. Once I usher Jackson into adulthood, navigate Max through childhood, figure out how to be the best husband I can be to Sarah, and finish updating all the remaining elements on our house, that is. I certainly hope this success thing is all it's cracked up to be.
Now that I think about it, Jackson and Max have given me a big head-start. My mom has had it partly right all along.
Believe me, Jackson was the absolute epicenter of my life for more than 10 years, until he had to make room for Sarah to share that epicenter. More recently, of course, he's had to skooch over even more for Max. But when I'm on my death bed (and please, whoever decides these things, make it a comfy one), merely having been a father won't give me the sense of fullness I'm hoping for.
I was thinking about this recently as I drove around doing errands with Max in tow. The way everyone responds to him, you'd think the stroller contained Michelangelo's David, and in a sense, I suppose it does. Every baby really is a work of art. Regardless, I started asking myself, what does a person have to do for his life to be considered a success? Does he have to be remembered and beloved beyond his family, friends and loved ones? Must he invent something that changes the world? Weed out evil wherever it exists in the world? Raise money to build schools in third-world communities? Take in homeless pets?
I asked Sarah what she thought, and her first instinct was to say that someone who achieves happiness is a success. But that's too easy--there are plenty of terrible people in the world who achieve happiness without any chance of being considered a success in the final analysis.
Is it as simple as treating others with kindness and respect, and being mindful of everything that's flowing around you? Spreading love to those you touch, and accepting the love of others in a deep and meaningful way?
Hopefully, you didn't continue reading this post in the hope that I was going provide an answer, because quite frankly, it's not possible. Success is an awfully big word, and with so many people doing so many things and living their lives in so many ways, there has to be more valid definitions of success than just about any word in the English language.
What I do know is this: If I were to die today, I'd consider myself a success in some regards, not so much in others. I think I've learned to be a good husband and father who's willing to acknowledge and try to address his flaws. I also have managed to build a life that allows me to rule my own schedule, and that in itself is worth more money than I could ever imagine making. But I've also demonstrated a penchant for having big ideas, and even starting to execute them--but never seeming to finish them.
So there you go, I've worked it out. If I want to ultimately consider myself a success--and really, in the end, whose approval do we need more than our own?--I need to become a better finisher. Yep, I'm gonna get right on that. Once I usher Jackson into adulthood, navigate Max through childhood, figure out how to be the best husband I can be to Sarah, and finish updating all the remaining elements on our house, that is. I certainly hope this success thing is all it's cracked up to be.
Now that I think about it, Jackson and Max have given me a big head-start. My mom has had it partly right all along.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Max, the Emerging Person: We Must Be Doing Something Right
Right before our eyes, a little personality is forming. Not that we didn't expect that--kind of hard to keep your child a completely unformed infant. But the speed at which it happens is surprising even for this experienced parent. Every day, Max seems to expand on his understanding--and ability to interact with--the world around him.
One day he starts really being amused by things, laughing and smiling at anything that causes him pleasure. Then he's suddenly reaching out to try to grab things, sometimes bouncing so excitedly he seems to want to get up and run after whatever he sees. At this pace, it won't be too long before he's taking dictation and making dinner. But I jump ahead. Currently, he's pretty focused on noticing things that escaped his senses earlier--people eating, light switches and fabric textures are all capturing his attention throughout the day. This is especially apparent on the changing table, where his contortions to grab at the light switch or to feel the wall or to grab the clothes we're preparing to put on him make the simple act of getting his diaper on seem more like making mid-flight repairs to a fighter jet.
He seems to enjoy pretty much all forms of play, within reason, and when we leave the house, he bewitches all who see him with his big blue eyes and bouyant smile. This causes us no end of entertainment. Mom singing and dancing to goofy 70s tunes? Check--big smile. Dad shifting and contorting his body in all manner of movements? No problem--he loves it. Big bro Jackson, making silly faces at him? Nirvana. Our neurotic dog, Q, standing in the corner, staring at a blank space on the wall? Hilarious in his eyes. And the TV? Forget it--he's mesmerized by even the most banal HGTV fodder.
But let's be fair--lots of babies are wonderful when the big people are making an effort to entertain them. But what separates Max from the pack is what he does when we're NOT making him the focus. This is one good-natured baby. Kitchen needs cleaning? Put him in the bumpo seat and watch him happily follow our movements around the kitchen. Take him out to restaurants? This is where he really shines, sitting happily in his car seat for 90 min, even 2 hours, while we enjoy a leisurely meal with family or friends. Yard work day? Not an issue--stick him in his activity center (we call it his "office") and he'll happily spin around, grabbing and pushing and chewing on the built-in toys, occupying himself for an hour or more.
And then there's the reaction to the group dynamic. This is where lots of babies have problems with anxiety as new faces enter the picture and over-stimulation lurks around every corner. This past weekend was a big test on this front--Sarah's and my parents were both in town, and we attended my niece's first b-day party, meaning lots of family members and friends were poking, prodding, holding, ogling and generally wanting a piece of Max. Naturally, he seemingly has no problem with this, being handed from one person to another, even being fed along the way, and never missing a beat. We know the stranger anxiety period is coming--it's as inevitable as death and taxes--so we're enjoying this malleable little person as much as we can before he turns into Chucky and makes handing him off a lot more difficult.
Truthfully, though, Sarah and I don't really fear the whole stranger anxiety thing--we fully expect Max to continue to be interested and energized by any and all stimulus for the foreseeable future. We've made a point of encouraging this flexibility by not shielding him from noise and chaos, and now both of us have the sense that this is going to be a ping-pong ball of a kid, bouncing enthusiastically from one source of entertainment to another, eager to interact and learn, regardless of what's going on around him. Then again, if we do find ourselves struggling with him some day down the line, we can always sequester him in our bedroom and put on the latest episode of "House Hunters."
One day he starts really being amused by things, laughing and smiling at anything that causes him pleasure. Then he's suddenly reaching out to try to grab things, sometimes bouncing so excitedly he seems to want to get up and run after whatever he sees. At this pace, it won't be too long before he's taking dictation and making dinner. But I jump ahead. Currently, he's pretty focused on noticing things that escaped his senses earlier--people eating, light switches and fabric textures are all capturing his attention throughout the day. This is especially apparent on the changing table, where his contortions to grab at the light switch or to feel the wall or to grab the clothes we're preparing to put on him make the simple act of getting his diaper on seem more like making mid-flight repairs to a fighter jet.
He seems to enjoy pretty much all forms of play, within reason, and when we leave the house, he bewitches all who see him with his big blue eyes and bouyant smile. This causes us no end of entertainment. Mom singing and dancing to goofy 70s tunes? Check--big smile. Dad shifting and contorting his body in all manner of movements? No problem--he loves it. Big bro Jackson, making silly faces at him? Nirvana. Our neurotic dog, Q, standing in the corner, staring at a blank space on the wall? Hilarious in his eyes. And the TV? Forget it--he's mesmerized by even the most banal HGTV fodder.
But let's be fair--lots of babies are wonderful when the big people are making an effort to entertain them. But what separates Max from the pack is what he does when we're NOT making him the focus. This is one good-natured baby. Kitchen needs cleaning? Put him in the bumpo seat and watch him happily follow our movements around the kitchen. Take him out to restaurants? This is where he really shines, sitting happily in his car seat for 90 min, even 2 hours, while we enjoy a leisurely meal with family or friends. Yard work day? Not an issue--stick him in his activity center (we call it his "office") and he'll happily spin around, grabbing and pushing and chewing on the built-in toys, occupying himself for an hour or more.
And then there's the reaction to the group dynamic. This is where lots of babies have problems with anxiety as new faces enter the picture and over-stimulation lurks around every corner. This past weekend was a big test on this front--Sarah's and my parents were both in town, and we attended my niece's first b-day party, meaning lots of family members and friends were poking, prodding, holding, ogling and generally wanting a piece of Max. Naturally, he seemingly has no problem with this, being handed from one person to another, even being fed along the way, and never missing a beat. We know the stranger anxiety period is coming--it's as inevitable as death and taxes--so we're enjoying this malleable little person as much as we can before he turns into Chucky and makes handing him off a lot more difficult.
Truthfully, though, Sarah and I don't really fear the whole stranger anxiety thing--we fully expect Max to continue to be interested and energized by any and all stimulus for the foreseeable future. We've made a point of encouraging this flexibility by not shielding him from noise and chaos, and now both of us have the sense that this is going to be a ping-pong ball of a kid, bouncing enthusiastically from one source of entertainment to another, eager to interact and learn, regardless of what's going on around him. Then again, if we do find ourselves struggling with him some day down the line, we can always sequester him in our bedroom and put on the latest episode of "House Hunters."
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Full-Time Daddy Days Are Like Shnitzengruben
What the hell are shnitzengruben, you may ask? For my cinematically challenged readers, they are the German sausages Lilly Von Schtupp (Madeleine Khan) serves to Sheriff Bart (Cleavon Little) in Blazing Saddles, prompting an exhausted Bart to declare upon his return to the jailhouse, "Them shnitzengrubens can really wipe you out."
So now, you're saying, it all makes sense. Now that your favorite blogger/two-time parent has had a couple of months to get accustomed to this solo daddy routine, he can safely report that it remains one of the most exhausting regimens one can subject himself to. From the earlier-than-usual rising, to the non-stop calls for entertainment, to the lugging the increasingly heavy car seat around, to the frenzied rushes for warmed-up formula bottles as an end-of-his-wits 5-month old screams in the next room, it is a routine that is not for the squeamish among us 44-year-olds. Never mind the fact that I actually try to work on these days, too.
Take yesterday. A seemingly innocuous day, the highlights of which were a visit my the housekeepers, a trip to the park for some swing time, and the nightly effort to get dinner rolling with a pent-up, babbling baby in tow. Sounds pretty manageable, yes? Well, let's not forget about the other things that weave their way into the day--the driving Jackson to/from soccer practice; the scramble to de-clutter the house so the housekeepers can actually clean; a furious string of emails to schedule an interview for a story I'm working on; the attempt to repair a broken leg on one of our dining room chairs; the calls for paperwork to be faxed (and re-faxed) to my real estate agent cousin, who's helping Sarah short-sell her underwater condo; and, of course, the increasingly impatient catcalls of a baby who no longer is content to stand in his circular activity center and fumble with all the colorful built-in toys surrounding him while Daddy handles the aforementioned tasks.
All of which leads me to this familiar refrain: How do hard-working single parents do it? I'm talking about the ones who have few resources, work multiple jobs, rely on childcare they can't afford, and have no option but to put on a happy face for baby at the end of an exhausting, never-ending, blindingly stressful day. These people are the heroes of modern society, and quite often the ones that ass-backwards laws like Arizona's anti-immigrant stance target.
It's a thought that makes me very thankful to be a privileged, educated, middle-class white man who can work from home and handle the demands of parenthood with aplomb. Now excuse me while I get back to balancing Max on my head as I pay bills, plan dinner, keep my clients at bay, and try to squeeze in some quality time with the human breast-milk factory who shares my bedroom.
So now, you're saying, it all makes sense. Now that your favorite blogger/two-time parent has had a couple of months to get accustomed to this solo daddy routine, he can safely report that it remains one of the most exhausting regimens one can subject himself to. From the earlier-than-usual rising, to the non-stop calls for entertainment, to the lugging the increasingly heavy car seat around, to the frenzied rushes for warmed-up formula bottles as an end-of-his-wits 5-month old screams in the next room, it is a routine that is not for the squeamish among us 44-year-olds. Never mind the fact that I actually try to work on these days, too.
Take yesterday. A seemingly innocuous day, the highlights of which were a visit my the housekeepers, a trip to the park for some swing time, and the nightly effort to get dinner rolling with a pent-up, babbling baby in tow. Sounds pretty manageable, yes? Well, let's not forget about the other things that weave their way into the day--the driving Jackson to/from soccer practice; the scramble to de-clutter the house so the housekeepers can actually clean; a furious string of emails to schedule an interview for a story I'm working on; the attempt to repair a broken leg on one of our dining room chairs; the calls for paperwork to be faxed (and re-faxed) to my real estate agent cousin, who's helping Sarah short-sell her underwater condo; and, of course, the increasingly impatient catcalls of a baby who no longer is content to stand in his circular activity center and fumble with all the colorful built-in toys surrounding him while Daddy handles the aforementioned tasks.
All of which leads me to this familiar refrain: How do hard-working single parents do it? I'm talking about the ones who have few resources, work multiple jobs, rely on childcare they can't afford, and have no option but to put on a happy face for baby at the end of an exhausting, never-ending, blindingly stressful day. These people are the heroes of modern society, and quite often the ones that ass-backwards laws like Arizona's anti-immigrant stance target.
It's a thought that makes me very thankful to be a privileged, educated, middle-class white man who can work from home and handle the demands of parenthood with aplomb. Now excuse me while I get back to balancing Max on my head as I pay bills, plan dinner, keep my clients at bay, and try to squeeze in some quality time with the human breast-milk factory who shares my bedroom.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
4 Months Old, and Taking Control of His Life Already
You know that feeling you get as the parent of an infant, the one that tells you that your newborn knows something that you don't? Well, go with it, 'cause it's true. I have proof.
Last week (yes, this is evidence of my too-infrequent posting habits--I'll try to pick that up), Sarah's mom was in town, so I got excused from a trip to the pediatrician for Max's 4-month checkup, which includes two shots and an oral vaccine. Mind you, up until this point, all of the previous pediatric appointments--even those that ended with shots--had been joyful occasions (well, up to the insertion of the needle anyway), with Max showing off his numerous wonderful qualities (which obviously have nothing to do with me), and the doctor finding him endlessly entertaining. At one point, she told Sarah, of Max's seemingly excessive nighttime sleeping patterns, "Don't question it--just consider yourself lucky."
Something tells me her tune was a bit different after this latest appointment, in which Max launched into what has been described to me as an epic meltdown. Even though he left the house his usual happy self, he apparently started to crack right as Sarah and her mom walked into the doctor's office with him. He proceeded to cry, louder and louder, throughout every second of the exam, sending unsuspecting infants and their sleep-deprived parents running for cover. I picture it like a grotesque cartoon in which we zoom in on the baby's crying mouth, which is consuming all of its surroundings.
Things got even worse when the doctor decided to find out if a fever might be causing this outburst, and lo and behold, Max's temperature registered at over 100, enough to get any new mother headed down the worry path, and Sarah was no exception. What was especially disturbing about this fever was that there were no signs of it earlier in the morning AND Sarah had given Max a dose of baby Tylenol (since thrown away amid the recall!) in anticipation of the shots. (The previous round of shots was followed by 5 painful days of Max wallowing in discomfort.)
In any case, the upshot of the tantrum and accompanying fever was that the doctor decided to skip the shots and vaccine and have us come back. Which apparently was just what Max had in mind, because by the time he had settled back in at home, and mom and grandma had filled me in on the theatrics, he was back to his normal self. I mean fully back--no crying, no fever, no nothing. And here's the weird part--the fever never returned. It was as if the whole thing never happened.
There's only one conclusion a sane person can draw from this episode: Max did not want those shots. How he knew he was getting them, where he found the inspiration to hatch his diabolical plan, and what gave him the self-awareness to recover so quickly is totally mystifying--not just to me, but to Sarah, her mom, the doctor--everyone involved.
Which brings us back to my original point, about your baby knowing something you don't. That something is how to really best meet his needs. Because heaven knows, his needs do not include pulling his pant leg so a giant stranger can jam a needle into his thigh. I just hope it's not a foreshadowing of what will occur the first time we ask him to clean up his room. I have to admit, though, I'm thinking about using his strategy the next time I'm asked to spend my weekend doing yard work.
Last week (yes, this is evidence of my too-infrequent posting habits--I'll try to pick that up), Sarah's mom was in town, so I got excused from a trip to the pediatrician for Max's 4-month checkup, which includes two shots and an oral vaccine. Mind you, up until this point, all of the previous pediatric appointments--even those that ended with shots--had been joyful occasions (well, up to the insertion of the needle anyway), with Max showing off his numerous wonderful qualities (which obviously have nothing to do with me), and the doctor finding him endlessly entertaining. At one point, she told Sarah, of Max's seemingly excessive nighttime sleeping patterns, "Don't question it--just consider yourself lucky."
Something tells me her tune was a bit different after this latest appointment, in which Max launched into what has been described to me as an epic meltdown. Even though he left the house his usual happy self, he apparently started to crack right as Sarah and her mom walked into the doctor's office with him. He proceeded to cry, louder and louder, throughout every second of the exam, sending unsuspecting infants and their sleep-deprived parents running for cover. I picture it like a grotesque cartoon in which we zoom in on the baby's crying mouth, which is consuming all of its surroundings.Things got even worse when the doctor decided to find out if a fever might be causing this outburst, and lo and behold, Max's temperature registered at over 100, enough to get any new mother headed down the worry path, and Sarah was no exception. What was especially disturbing about this fever was that there were no signs of it earlier in the morning AND Sarah had given Max a dose of baby Tylenol (since thrown away amid the recall!) in anticipation of the shots. (The previous round of shots was followed by 5 painful days of Max wallowing in discomfort.)
In any case, the upshot of the tantrum and accompanying fever was that the doctor decided to skip the shots and vaccine and have us come back. Which apparently was just what Max had in mind, because by the time he had settled back in at home, and mom and grandma had filled me in on the theatrics, he was back to his normal self. I mean fully back--no crying, no fever, no nothing. And here's the weird part--the fever never returned. It was as if the whole thing never happened.
There's only one conclusion a sane person can draw from this episode: Max did not want those shots. How he knew he was getting them, where he found the inspiration to hatch his diabolical plan, and what gave him the self-awareness to recover so quickly is totally mystifying--not just to me, but to Sarah, her mom, the doctor--everyone involved.
Which brings us back to my original point, about your baby knowing something you don't. That something is how to really best meet his needs. Because heaven knows, his needs do not include pulling his pant leg so a giant stranger can jam a needle into his thigh. I just hope it's not a foreshadowing of what will occur the first time we ask him to clean up his room. I have to admit, though, I'm thinking about using his strategy the next time I'm asked to spend my weekend doing yard work.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Ladies and Gentlemen, We May Have a Giant On Our Hands
Nothing in my family history suggests that I was due to have a big kid. In the 150-plus years of Kontzer/Ledner family history, the tallest person I'm aware of is my brother, who stands a whopping 5-10, maybe 5-10 1/2. I, on the other hand, topped off at about 5-7 1/2. Sarah's family's not exactly huge either. A bit taller than mine, but only one or two relatives that eclipsed the six-foot mark.
So imagine my surprise as I've watched my little Max's height and weight track well above the middle of the curve at his pediatric appointments. Today, a woman at the dog park said, "what's he, 6, maybe 8 months?" When I answered, no, actually, he just hit 4 months, she was visibly shocked. "Wow, he's a big one."
This might have something to do with his seemingly endless and insatiable appetite. Max eats noticeably more than Jackson did as a baby, which should be no surprise to anyone who's privy to Jackson's current eating habits. (No breakfast, no lunch to speak of, a snack under duress before soccer practice...it's not a pretty picture.)
Come to think of it, Max's car seat has gotten pretty heavy to lug in a hurry. He's outgrown much of his 3-6 month clothes and is already wearing a lot of 6-12 month stuff. His head is the size of a small watermelon. His legs look like standing rib roasts. Trying to wipe away spit-up that's found its way into the folds of his neck is like trying to retrieve a pen that's fallen between the driver's seat and center console of your car.
But if all of that ends up with me having a son who can push around opponents in the key, see over people in a crowd, or get things down from the top shelf without a step-ladder, then it will have been worth the back strains and longer-then-expected feedings.
So imagine my surprise as I've watched my little Max's height and weight track well above the middle of the curve at his pediatric appointments. Today, a woman at the dog park said, "what's he, 6, maybe 8 months?" When I answered, no, actually, he just hit 4 months, she was visibly shocked. "Wow, he's a big one."
This might have something to do with his seemingly endless and insatiable appetite. Max eats noticeably more than Jackson did as a baby, which should be no surprise to anyone who's privy to Jackson's current eating habits. (No breakfast, no lunch to speak of, a snack under duress before soccer practice...it's not a pretty picture.)
Come to think of it, Max's car seat has gotten pretty heavy to lug in a hurry. He's outgrown much of his 3-6 month clothes and is already wearing a lot of 6-12 month stuff. His head is the size of a small watermelon. His legs look like standing rib roasts. Trying to wipe away spit-up that's found its way into the folds of his neck is like trying to retrieve a pen that's fallen between the driver's seat and center console of your car.
But if all of that ends up with me having a son who can push around opponents in the key, see over people in a crowd, or get things down from the top shelf without a step-ladder, then it will have been worth the back strains and longer-then-expected feedings.
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