The management would like to apologize for the unnecessarily maudlin nature of the previous post. Those responsible have been sacked. We now return you to your regularly scheduled slice-of-life programming...
Lately, I've been taking Max to the nearby YMCA for a morning "baby gym" session. For the uninitiated, the Y's baby gym essentially consists of a basketball gym lined with padded floor covers and filled with all sorts of baby-friendly objects--padded things to climb on, small musical instruments to shake, and more plastic vehicles and rockers than I've seen in one place, Toys R Us included.
This week things changed, though. Max, who started taking his first tentative steps about a month ago, is now close to full-time walking, and that gave this week's baby gym visit a whole new air of discovery, as Max walked quickly from one thing or person to another, pointing at each and exclaiming, "Gah!" He also got into several tiny conflicts over toys, although by conflict I merely mean that he and another kid both had their hands on something for a brief moment before the stronger (or more determined?) of the two ripped it away. It seems there's a direct relationship between the ability to walk and the propensity to get into conflicts over possessions. Who knew?
Toward the end of the class, I overheard another dad telling his son, who was about 18 months old, that they had to pick up a friend and head to the nearby Lawrence Berkeley Hall of Science. Being the sheepish, demure soul that I am, I immediately blurted out, "Hey, dude, is that a good place to take kids this age?" as I pointed at Max, hopeful that I had an exciting rainy day option. The other dad gave me one of those uncertain "eh" expressions, and said it was borderline. But then, as if he were reading my mind, he offered up a thoroughly unexpected suggestion. "If you really want him to have fun on rainy days, take him to Ikea."
Normally, I'd grab a nearby sock filled with horse manure and smack the guy in the head with it. Take my son to one of modern society's great symbols of cost-conscious materialism? But with the relentlessly persistent rain we've had the last few weeks, coupled with the fact that we are the walking definition of house rich and cash poor these days, I was pretty receptive to new ideas.
The next day, I awoke to--surprise!--more rain, and declared that I would take Max to Ikea and test that dad's advice. Sarah would be working a 12-hour shift, and sitting around the house throughout a bleak day sounded like a recipe for a daddy vs. toddler war. Rather than peel food off the kitchen wall, try to stop Max from bashing his toys against doors and windows, and rescue numerous objects from almost certain breakage, I'd unleash my little terrorist on the unsuspecting displays of the Emeryville Ikea.
Well, I'm here to report, that dad's suggestion was a smash hit. It started when we arrived and went directly to the Ikea cafe. (And let's face it, the only reason men eagerly agree to go to Ikea with their wives is the knowledge that there's a delicious plate of Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes in the offing.) I ordered myself the aforementioned meatball plate, and got Max a kids' mac-n-cheese plate, which comes with steamed veggies. I also got myself a green salad, a soda, and a large dark chocolate bar, and the total cost was just over $9. But I digress.
I balanced my tray on the sun cover of the stroller, pushed Max to a window-facing table, and settled in for our meal. Not only did Max devour every last morsel on his plate, there was a major bonus: The cafe at the Ikea in Emeryville overlooks the MacArthur Maze, one of the country's biggest freeway intersections, which rests at the eastern end of the Bay Bridge. Max was mesmerized as he ate, and watched countless trucks go roaring by and under and over the various freeway ramps. When he wasn't watching trucks, he was gawking at our fellow diners (yelling "gah!" throughout), and marveling at the exposed ceiling rafters and other architectural design elements. In case it's not clear, I have a very observant little monster on my hands.
After lunch, we moseyed through the store, lingering longer in the children's section, of course. All the while, Max was beyond entertained. He was visibly ecstatic to put his new powers of exploration--i.e. walking--to use, Frankensteining his way from one bin to another, stopping to point and declare "gah!" at every new product we came across. Naturally, I couldn't resist buying him an adorable stuffed hippo that was priced at a ridiculously low $15 considering how well it's made.
During our adventure, we came across numerous toddlers with their moms in tow (no dads, though). And if there was any doubt we were all there for the same reason, it was erased by one of the moms I walked by as we exchanged knowing glances at each other: "Best rainy day park ever," she said.
I certainly can't argue with that. And the meatballs don't hurt either.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
This is One Parent Who's Not Feeling Funny
I like to try to be at least somewhat funny in my posts here, but these days, I just don't feel funny. It's hard to look around at the world today and maintain one's sense of humor. The headlines read more and more like end-of-the-world stuff--wars breaking out all over the Middle East, crazy natural disasters occurring with increased frequency, a state of persistent financial crises, the very public meltdown of Charlie Sheen--okay, so there are still some things to laugh about.
But my point is, here I am, watching this little toddler turning into a person, and I can't help but wonder what we've brought him into. It's hard to imagine what the world will be like when Max is my age. It's even harder to imagine things will turn out well. This was the theme of an ongoing discussion I had with a buddy during a two-day ski trip earlier this week. After listening to my gloomy predictions, he declared me the most pessimistic person he knows, but I beg to disagree. I'm not pessimistic, I'm realistic. I have plenty of reasons not to have faith that humankind can dig out from under the mess we've created.
While driving home from our trip, my friend said he believes that by the time Max is an old man, we'll have inhabited other solar systems. Naturally, I told him he was nuts, that we'll never come up with the money, and that it was more likely that some feudal, post-apocalyptic society awaits us. Then again, maybe I've just seen too many doomsday-themed movies.
But the real question is, does any of this even matter? Should I fret about what the world will be like in 80 years, or just accept the relentless march toward whatever awaits us, and hope that I can help Jackson and Max to be decent people who do what they can to help our species continue to evolve?
In our day-to-day lives, I try to keep myself focused on the immediate tasks before me--meeting deadlines to make ends meet, enjoying and investing in my relationship with Sarah, trying my best to love Jackson and Max as much as possible, enjoying the time I get to spend with family and close friends. I try not to dwell on the fact that I may one day be deemed professionally obsolete; that Sarah and I inevitably will have to say goodbye to each other; that huge parts of Jackson's and Max's lives will unfold after I'm gone; or that, if I'm lucky, I will one day watch helplessly as family members and friends meet their makers.
Likewise, in my role as a parent, I realize that I have no choice but to block out all of the menacing developments rising around us, and to focus on getting Jackson and Max through each day relatively unscathed. I have to accept that I have no control over whether one of the many enemies of the United States might blow up an airport or a bridge or a sports stadium. I can't prevent the huge earthquake that will inevitably rock the Bay Area and may or may not leave our neighborhood intact. And I certainly can't do anything to redistribute the disgusting amounts of wealth that our richest corporations are sitting on.
All I can control is my little family, and even on that small scale, my hold is tenuous. But I'm going to keep holding on for dear life, because nothing else is more important. I'm not about to let a little global chaos derail my efforts at successfully launching these two boys into adulthood--not to mention keeping Sarah, my partner in life, feeling safe and loved along the way. Here's hoping I get to finish the job.
But my point is, here I am, watching this little toddler turning into a person, and I can't help but wonder what we've brought him into. It's hard to imagine what the world will be like when Max is my age. It's even harder to imagine things will turn out well. This was the theme of an ongoing discussion I had with a buddy during a two-day ski trip earlier this week. After listening to my gloomy predictions, he declared me the most pessimistic person he knows, but I beg to disagree. I'm not pessimistic, I'm realistic. I have plenty of reasons not to have faith that humankind can dig out from under the mess we've created.
While driving home from our trip, my friend said he believes that by the time Max is an old man, we'll have inhabited other solar systems. Naturally, I told him he was nuts, that we'll never come up with the money, and that it was more likely that some feudal, post-apocalyptic society awaits us. Then again, maybe I've just seen too many doomsday-themed movies.
But the real question is, does any of this even matter? Should I fret about what the world will be like in 80 years, or just accept the relentless march toward whatever awaits us, and hope that I can help Jackson and Max to be decent people who do what they can to help our species continue to evolve?
In our day-to-day lives, I try to keep myself focused on the immediate tasks before me--meeting deadlines to make ends meet, enjoying and investing in my relationship with Sarah, trying my best to love Jackson and Max as much as possible, enjoying the time I get to spend with family and close friends. I try not to dwell on the fact that I may one day be deemed professionally obsolete; that Sarah and I inevitably will have to say goodbye to each other; that huge parts of Jackson's and Max's lives will unfold after I'm gone; or that, if I'm lucky, I will one day watch helplessly as family members and friends meet their makers.
Likewise, in my role as a parent, I realize that I have no choice but to block out all of the menacing developments rising around us, and to focus on getting Jackson and Max through each day relatively unscathed. I have to accept that I have no control over whether one of the many enemies of the United States might blow up an airport or a bridge or a sports stadium. I can't prevent the huge earthquake that will inevitably rock the Bay Area and may or may not leave our neighborhood intact. And I certainly can't do anything to redistribute the disgusting amounts of wealth that our richest corporations are sitting on.
All I can control is my little family, and even on that small scale, my hold is tenuous. But I'm going to keep holding on for dear life, because nothing else is more important. I'm not about to let a little global chaos derail my efforts at successfully launching these two boys into adulthood--not to mention keeping Sarah, my partner in life, feeling safe and loved along the way. Here's hoping I get to finish the job.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Anxiety-Free Parenting? Not Possible
First things first: I was horrified to realize just now that my last post came just a few days after Max's first birthday, yet I didn't mark the occasion. That's dads for ya--birthdays are forgotten quickly. Conversely, Mom is probably already planning for next year. Of course, having a birthday on December 22 is a tricky affair, and we celebrated with a very small party a few weeks before Max turned 1, and then watched as relatives showered him with more gifts over the holidays to create what I just might get Max to call "SuperChristmas."
But I digress. The point of my post today is anxiety--mine. For the first time in years, it's reaching a crescendo, and in their own ways, my two offspring have a lot to do with it. Not that it's their fault, but they're fueling it in different ways.
Let's start with Jackson. To put it bluntly, he's breaking my heart, perhaps unwittingly. It's hard to know if a 13-year-old is saying and doing things to hurt their parent(s), or if they simply don't know any better. Yesterday, Jackson returned home after being gone 30-plus hours hanging and having a sleepover with with his skate-punk crew, and naturally, I was forced to do some nagging when he got here. There were chores to do, responsibilities to tackle, things that needed to be discussed--you know, a teen's favorite assortment of topics.
Needless to say, the evening didn't go well. It started with Jackson demonstrating his typically picky and frustrating eating habits, declining to indulge in leftovers, declaring that he wasn't that hungry, and instead focusing on downing half of a batch of Pillsbury crescent rolls--not exactly the path to health and mindfulness. Later, just before his bedtime, he announced that NOW he was hungry, to which we said, okay, eat something of nutritional value. In other words, not the chips he was pestering me to let him eat.
After eating a pile of salami and an apple, which he declared "not filling at all", he started asking for chips again. I said no, and now I was pot committed. There was no way he was getting chips, even if he was buying in at a table in Vegas. I suggested a number of other, healthier choices he could have, none of which met his needs at the moment. After much drama from him about developing a headache and feeling nauseous, I stood my ground, and tried to give him a hug good night, which was greeted by zombie arms. He absolutely refused to hug me back, and while this has happened before, this time it was different. This time, it was clear we'd gotten to the point where he really can't stand me. And as much as I know you're not supposed to be your teen's friend, it's still a very hard adjustment trying to accept that your teen really doesn't like you, and probably won't for several years. Oh, goody. There goes the rest of my 40s.
Now, that brings us to Max. Wonderful, joyous, amazing little Max. (Before you say anything, I used to describe Jackson in such glowing terms--the hedonistic little suckers, as the author of a parenting book I've been reading likes to call them, really wear you down over the years.) Max's role in my anxiety is much more indirect. When I see Max, I can't help but see years of servitude. I think of our gigantic mortgage, and whether we can afford it in the long term. I think of a second child who has to be clothed and fed and taken on vacations, who will one day become a disaffected teen himself and probably need braces and, hopefully, go to college. I think of the fact that one year in, we have yet to save a dime for him. And I think of Sarah's burning desire to have one more--a playmate for Max, and (perhaps, if we're very lucky) the girl we both would love to raise.
Draped across these overarching parenting concerns are a litany of related personal anxieties--worries about having enough business to continue paying the mortgage, and about whether I even want to stay on my current career path. Worries about Sarah's desire to go back to school to get a master's degree so she can be a nurse practitioner and get out of the operating room, a path made more likely given some nagging minor back issues that are lingering in the wake of a minor car accident last year.
Ah, Sarah. She's not off the hook, either, but rather is a source of unintended anxiety beyond her career conundrum. Every day I'm reminded that I made the decision to again hitch my trailer to another person--albeit a MUCH easier person to co-exist with--and that this means a lot of compromise about everything. Compromise about how money gets used, how we spend our days, what color a room will be, what's for dinner--the usual. It's stuff any sane person should expect to be part of a long-term relationship, and make no mistake, we compromise very well. But it's still stuff that can cause anxiety at times, and let's not forget she and I are only three years into this crazy journey.
And then there are the anxieties that have only to do with myself--the overwhelming sense of failure to make the kind of artistic impact (either through music or writing) I always envisioned. The projects I've conceived but never actually worked on. The saxophone gathering dust in my basement. The glorious travels I always desired but have never been able to make happen on the scale I pictured.
In time, these anxieties will wash away--this knowledge is what separates me from people who lose themselves in their anxieties. I know that all of my worries are temporary. Either the situations will solve themselves, or I'll grow more comfortable with them, or I'll simply learn, again, how to contend with them.
Of course, I have to get from here to there, and therein lies the rub. In the meantime, I think I'll go join Max in playing with his toys. There's no anxiety in that.
But I digress. The point of my post today is anxiety--mine. For the first time in years, it's reaching a crescendo, and in their own ways, my two offspring have a lot to do with it. Not that it's their fault, but they're fueling it in different ways.
Let's start with Jackson. To put it bluntly, he's breaking my heart, perhaps unwittingly. It's hard to know if a 13-year-old is saying and doing things to hurt their parent(s), or if they simply don't know any better. Yesterday, Jackson returned home after being gone 30-plus hours hanging and having a sleepover with with his skate-punk crew, and naturally, I was forced to do some nagging when he got here. There were chores to do, responsibilities to tackle, things that needed to be discussed--you know, a teen's favorite assortment of topics.
Needless to say, the evening didn't go well. It started with Jackson demonstrating his typically picky and frustrating eating habits, declining to indulge in leftovers, declaring that he wasn't that hungry, and instead focusing on downing half of a batch of Pillsbury crescent rolls--not exactly the path to health and mindfulness. Later, just before his bedtime, he announced that NOW he was hungry, to which we said, okay, eat something of nutritional value. In other words, not the chips he was pestering me to let him eat.
After eating a pile of salami and an apple, which he declared "not filling at all", he started asking for chips again. I said no, and now I was pot committed. There was no way he was getting chips, even if he was buying in at a table in Vegas. I suggested a number of other, healthier choices he could have, none of which met his needs at the moment. After much drama from him about developing a headache and feeling nauseous, I stood my ground, and tried to give him a hug good night, which was greeted by zombie arms. He absolutely refused to hug me back, and while this has happened before, this time it was different. This time, it was clear we'd gotten to the point where he really can't stand me. And as much as I know you're not supposed to be your teen's friend, it's still a very hard adjustment trying to accept that your teen really doesn't like you, and probably won't for several years. Oh, goody. There goes the rest of my 40s.
Now, that brings us to Max. Wonderful, joyous, amazing little Max. (Before you say anything, I used to describe Jackson in such glowing terms--the hedonistic little suckers, as the author of a parenting book I've been reading likes to call them, really wear you down over the years.) Max's role in my anxiety is much more indirect. When I see Max, I can't help but see years of servitude. I think of our gigantic mortgage, and whether we can afford it in the long term. I think of a second child who has to be clothed and fed and taken on vacations, who will one day become a disaffected teen himself and probably need braces and, hopefully, go to college. I think of the fact that one year in, we have yet to save a dime for him. And I think of Sarah's burning desire to have one more--a playmate for Max, and (perhaps, if we're very lucky) the girl we both would love to raise.
Draped across these overarching parenting concerns are a litany of related personal anxieties--worries about having enough business to continue paying the mortgage, and about whether I even want to stay on my current career path. Worries about Sarah's desire to go back to school to get a master's degree so she can be a nurse practitioner and get out of the operating room, a path made more likely given some nagging minor back issues that are lingering in the wake of a minor car accident last year.
Ah, Sarah. She's not off the hook, either, but rather is a source of unintended anxiety beyond her career conundrum. Every day I'm reminded that I made the decision to again hitch my trailer to another person--albeit a MUCH easier person to co-exist with--and that this means a lot of compromise about everything. Compromise about how money gets used, how we spend our days, what color a room will be, what's for dinner--the usual. It's stuff any sane person should expect to be part of a long-term relationship, and make no mistake, we compromise very well. But it's still stuff that can cause anxiety at times, and let's not forget she and I are only three years into this crazy journey.
And then there are the anxieties that have only to do with myself--the overwhelming sense of failure to make the kind of artistic impact (either through music or writing) I always envisioned. The projects I've conceived but never actually worked on. The saxophone gathering dust in my basement. The glorious travels I always desired but have never been able to make happen on the scale I pictured.
In time, these anxieties will wash away--this knowledge is what separates me from people who lose themselves in their anxieties. I know that all of my worries are temporary. Either the situations will solve themselves, or I'll grow more comfortable with them, or I'll simply learn, again, how to contend with them.
Of course, I have to get from here to there, and therein lies the rub. In the meantime, I think I'll go join Max in playing with his toys. There's no anxiety in that.
Monday, December 27, 2010
One Parent's Battle With Changing Table Syndrome
Clearly, what I need to make this blog really hum is someone on this end, kicking my ass to write more posts. Amazing how quickly 3 months can fly by. And oh, what a 3 months it's been on the dad front.
On the one hand, there's been Max crawling and squawking and cruising around the furniture and generally leaving a path of destruction in his wake. His little personality has been taking shape right before our eyes--that is, assuming he hasn't rendered us temporarily blind from scratching or smacking or grabbing our eyeballs right out of their sockets. That's right folks--we've got a crabby little meanie on our hands--albeit an admittedly adorable crabby little meanie. His inner Beelzebub surfaces for a variety of reasons--laying him on the changing table (an apparent capital offense), stopping him from grabbing every electronic device within reach, laying him on the changing table, not getting food on his high chair tray fast enough, laying him on the changing table, picking him up when he wants to be left down and putting him down when he wants to be picked up...and did I mention he doesn't like laying on the changing table? Stop me if you've heard this one: parent places 1-year-old on changing table. Said 1-year-old twists and squirms and puts up a desperate struggle to a) achieve any position other than laying on his back, and b) ensure that the experience of changing his diaper is akin to wrestling a full-grown alligator.
On the other hand, there's been Jackson, trying oh so hard to carve a path toward independence at 13, but with so much work left to do. Oh, the drama of a 13-year-old. In some ways, his whole life is like Max's time on the changing table, relentlessly fighting every development that doesn't match his desires. Jackson, please take out the garbage and recycling. ("Oh, man, do I have to!?") Jackson, dinner's almost ready, please set the table. ("Not now--I'm watching a YouTube video, and there's only 7 minutes to go.") Jackson, please take the dog out for a walk. ("I hate you--you're ruining my life!") That's the thing I love about 13-year-olds: they possess such awe-inspiring perspective.
That said, he's been showing definite signs of maturity, and it's due in no small part to the continuing evolution of his relationship with Sarah. In fact, today she begin introducing him to a whole new world when the two did their first shift serving up food at a Berkeley homeless shelter, partly to satisfy a school community service project, and partly because Sarah wanted him to pick up some of that elusive perspective. I knew there was a reason I fell in love with that woman.
Meanwhile, through all this, I keep learning about me--about my tendency toward over-reaction (thanks, Mom!), about the price I've been paying for being weak in the area of disciplinary follow-through, and about my misguided tendency to want to be my budding teenager's friend. Cool, calm, relentless consistency. That's my new mantra. I may not successfully achieve it all the time, but at least it's my mantra.
Hopefully, I'll check back in less than 3 months to update you on my progress, or lack thereof. In the meantime, I'll wish you all a happy start to 2011...may our children not drive us totally insane before 2012 arrives.
On the one hand, there's been Max crawling and squawking and cruising around the furniture and generally leaving a path of destruction in his wake. His little personality has been taking shape right before our eyes--that is, assuming he hasn't rendered us temporarily blind from scratching or smacking or grabbing our eyeballs right out of their sockets. That's right folks--we've got a crabby little meanie on our hands--albeit an admittedly adorable crabby little meanie. His inner Beelzebub surfaces for a variety of reasons--laying him on the changing table (an apparent capital offense), stopping him from grabbing every electronic device within reach, laying him on the changing table, not getting food on his high chair tray fast enough, laying him on the changing table, picking him up when he wants to be left down and putting him down when he wants to be picked up...and did I mention he doesn't like laying on the changing table? Stop me if you've heard this one: parent places 1-year-old on changing table. Said 1-year-old twists and squirms and puts up a desperate struggle to a) achieve any position other than laying on his back, and b) ensure that the experience of changing his diaper is akin to wrestling a full-grown alligator.
On the other hand, there's been Jackson, trying oh so hard to carve a path toward independence at 13, but with so much work left to do. Oh, the drama of a 13-year-old. In some ways, his whole life is like Max's time on the changing table, relentlessly fighting every development that doesn't match his desires. Jackson, please take out the garbage and recycling. ("Oh, man, do I have to!?") Jackson, dinner's almost ready, please set the table. ("Not now--I'm watching a YouTube video, and there's only 7 minutes to go.") Jackson, please take the dog out for a walk. ("I hate you--you're ruining my life!") That's the thing I love about 13-year-olds: they possess such awe-inspiring perspective.
That said, he's been showing definite signs of maturity, and it's due in no small part to the continuing evolution of his relationship with Sarah. In fact, today she begin introducing him to a whole new world when the two did their first shift serving up food at a Berkeley homeless shelter, partly to satisfy a school community service project, and partly because Sarah wanted him to pick up some of that elusive perspective. I knew there was a reason I fell in love with that woman.
Meanwhile, through all this, I keep learning about me--about my tendency toward over-reaction (thanks, Mom!), about the price I've been paying for being weak in the area of disciplinary follow-through, and about my misguided tendency to want to be my budding teenager's friend. Cool, calm, relentless consistency. That's my new mantra. I may not successfully achieve it all the time, but at least it's my mantra.
Hopefully, I'll check back in less than 3 months to update you on my progress, or lack thereof. In the meantime, I'll wish you all a happy start to 2011...may our children not drive us totally insane before 2012 arrives.
Monday, October 4, 2010
One Small Crawl For Max, One Giant Arrow For Jackson
Some big life steps have been taking place in my house, and they couldn't be at once more different and yet alike. I speak, of course, of my schizophrenic wicks burning at both ends--13-year-old Jackson, ye of the smart-ass remarks, ridiculous taste for junk food and smelly torso, and Max, the 9-month-old package of poop, drool and cuteness.
As it has turned out, I have found myself in the past few days simultaneously helping to coax the first tentative crawls Max has made across a rug, while also coaching Jackson (or, more appropriately, having my coaching ignored by him) as he navigates the treacherous waters of his first girlfriend. That's right, my oldest boy is in puppy love, and let me tell ya, it's amazing to think that any of us were ever so incompetent around girls as a 13-year-old boy.
Case in point: A couple of days ago, I suggested he take a shower before seeing his "girlfriend" later in the day, to which he might as well have been suggesting I consider committing myself. I should probably note that at this point he had gone 2-3 days, a soccer practice and a soccer game since his last shower. He simply put on deodorant (maybe) and changed his clothes. Anyone whose nose has shared close quarters with a teenage boy will understand when I declare that a collective "ewwwwww" is in order.
Meanwhile, Max has been slowly discovering the joy of locomotion. This is a relief, because just as Jackson is reluctant to shower, Max has, for weeks, been hesitant to move forward. Instead, he would just keep rocking back and forth before pushing back up into sitting position. Only each time he did so, he would land a few inches back from where he started, meaning that he eventually found himself trying to sit on a dresser or a wall, or if he really miscalculated, he'd get himself trapped underneath his crib or the living room couch, with only his head poking out.
But all that changed today when he began making forward movements toward the toys we were tempting him with from across the rug. Naturally, he found great joy in his new discovery, and soon he was making consistent runs at the dog in an effort to give him a baby's idea of affection, or what the rest of us might characterize as horrifying abuse in the form of hair grabbing, eye scratching and right crosses.
Of course, this totally changes everything in our household. Baby-proofing efforts must begin in earnest, alertness must shift into high gear, and the days of leaving Max sitting innocently playing with a toy while I get a snack are over. It's now 100 percent hands-on care, all the time.
Similarly, Jackson's newfound puppy love changes everything. Suddenly his voice sounds less aggravated, something is now more important than his skateboard and Xbox, and this hopefully means an end to the over-the-top affection he sometimes seeks from me. Who knows, maybe he'll even stop calling me "daddy" and graduate to "dad" before Max does.
Now if only we could do something about the smart-alecky mouth, junk food Jones, and funky B.O.
As it has turned out, I have found myself in the past few days simultaneously helping to coax the first tentative crawls Max has made across a rug, while also coaching Jackson (or, more appropriately, having my coaching ignored by him) as he navigates the treacherous waters of his first girlfriend. That's right, my oldest boy is in puppy love, and let me tell ya, it's amazing to think that any of us were ever so incompetent around girls as a 13-year-old boy.
Case in point: A couple of days ago, I suggested he take a shower before seeing his "girlfriend" later in the day, to which he might as well have been suggesting I consider committing myself. I should probably note that at this point he had gone 2-3 days, a soccer practice and a soccer game since his last shower. He simply put on deodorant (maybe) and changed his clothes. Anyone whose nose has shared close quarters with a teenage boy will understand when I declare that a collective "ewwwwww" is in order.
Meanwhile, Max has been slowly discovering the joy of locomotion. This is a relief, because just as Jackson is reluctant to shower, Max has, for weeks, been hesitant to move forward. Instead, he would just keep rocking back and forth before pushing back up into sitting position. Only each time he did so, he would land a few inches back from where he started, meaning that he eventually found himself trying to sit on a dresser or a wall, or if he really miscalculated, he'd get himself trapped underneath his crib or the living room couch, with only his head poking out.
But all that changed today when he began making forward movements toward the toys we were tempting him with from across the rug. Naturally, he found great joy in his new discovery, and soon he was making consistent runs at the dog in an effort to give him a baby's idea of affection, or what the rest of us might characterize as horrifying abuse in the form of hair grabbing, eye scratching and right crosses.
Of course, this totally changes everything in our household. Baby-proofing efforts must begin in earnest, alertness must shift into high gear, and the days of leaving Max sitting innocently playing with a toy while I get a snack are over. It's now 100 percent hands-on care, all the time.
Similarly, Jackson's newfound puppy love changes everything. Suddenly his voice sounds less aggravated, something is now more important than his skateboard and Xbox, and this hopefully means an end to the over-the-top affection he sometimes seeks from me. Who knows, maybe he'll even stop calling me "daddy" and graduate to "dad" before Max does.
Now if only we could do something about the smart-alecky mouth, junk food Jones, and funky B.O.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Big Mouths Apparently Breed Big Mouths
It's official, and it probably doesn't surprise anyone who knows me: I seem to beget babblers. First there was Jackson, who at 13 talks so fast he constantly trips over his thoughts trying to get them out of his mouth. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Max, the talking-est, babbling-est baby this side of an E-trade commercial.
It started off cute, as all things baby do. His little newborn cooing sounds, his first attempts at stringing consonants and vowels together, his joyous outbursts in response to our efforts to entertain him. But now it's all coming back to haunt us, as the little monster I like to call Screetchy McScreechster has increasingly been unleashing his torrent of brain-piercing noises on our unsuspecting ears.
Screetchy doesn't waste any time, beginning his chorus as soon as he's polished off his morning bottle, laying in our bed and letting loose with a series of wails and catcalls that doom any effort by mom and dad to go back to sleep. Sometimes he gets his amazingly dexterous tongue involved (oh the jealousy!), flipping and turning the little fleshy protrusion all over the place as he attempts to blurt out what sounds like a horribly mangled version of Ravel's Bolero.
Luckily for Sarah and me, his constant aural experimentation has been limited to the confines of our home, as he seems to become speechlessly mesmerized when out in in the big, wild world. That was, until two nights ago, when he decided to make a nearby sushi place his testing ground for sharing his screeches with the world.
There we were, innocently awaiting our food, unsuspecting of the shocking developments about to unfold. Screetchy had been properly fed and milked, leading us to believe that we'd have our usually peaceful meal, with him sitting beside us, endlessly entertained by all the people and objects and shapes to look at. That's when the edamame hit the table, and all hell broke loose. Screetchy took one look at those delectable little soybean pods and a noise that can only be described as having ascended from the bowels of baby hell erupted from his little body.
Not once, mind you. Not even twice. But 4, maybe 5 times. The first one stopped the whole restaurant dead in its tracks. The second one hospitalized an elderly couple. The third one sent diners running out into the street. By the fourth deafening howl, the restaurant had to shut down for a structural analysis of what was left of the building.
Exaggeration aside, we did our best to proceed with the meal. Well, actually, Sarah did her best. I ate as I always do, because hey, I'm a dad. That's what we do: we eat. I'm happy to handle just about anything, but when I'm eating, all bets are off. When at home, Sarah eats quick meals as she tends to Screetchy, sometimes sneaking a few bites as she feeds him. When I'm on baby duty and it's meal time, I stick him in his little spinny activity center and concentrate on my meal. Sorry, dude, scream all you want--I'm very busy devouring this sandwich, and I'll get to you when I'm done.
Back to the remains of the restaurant, as you can imagine, Sarah's meal was a test from that point forward. She couldn't shovel the chopped up edamame or rice into his mouth fast enough. She'd try to eat, but as soon as 3.4 seconds would go by, Screetchy would start another round, forcing Sarah to drop her fork, and pick up the baby shovel. It was quite a sight for me as I lapped up my sunomono and sashimi.
The practical takeaway from our little scene was that we've apparently reached the stage when eating meals out is a high-risk undertaking that may not prove to be worth the money or effort. But the larger implication is Screetchy's volume level, which is growing by the day. It's a good think Sarah and I love the little noise machine so much, otherwise we'd have to keep a stock of gags handy.
This is just a guess, but Screetchy should make the terrible twos a blast.
It started off cute, as all things baby do. His little newborn cooing sounds, his first attempts at stringing consonants and vowels together, his joyous outbursts in response to our efforts to entertain him. But now it's all coming back to haunt us, as the little monster I like to call Screetchy McScreechster has increasingly been unleashing his torrent of brain-piercing noises on our unsuspecting ears.
Screetchy doesn't waste any time, beginning his chorus as soon as he's polished off his morning bottle, laying in our bed and letting loose with a series of wails and catcalls that doom any effort by mom and dad to go back to sleep. Sometimes he gets his amazingly dexterous tongue involved (oh the jealousy!), flipping and turning the little fleshy protrusion all over the place as he attempts to blurt out what sounds like a horribly mangled version of Ravel's Bolero.
Luckily for Sarah and me, his constant aural experimentation has been limited to the confines of our home, as he seems to become speechlessly mesmerized when out in in the big, wild world. That was, until two nights ago, when he decided to make a nearby sushi place his testing ground for sharing his screeches with the world.
There we were, innocently awaiting our food, unsuspecting of the shocking developments about to unfold. Screetchy had been properly fed and milked, leading us to believe that we'd have our usually peaceful meal, with him sitting beside us, endlessly entertained by all the people and objects and shapes to look at. That's when the edamame hit the table, and all hell broke loose. Screetchy took one look at those delectable little soybean pods and a noise that can only be described as having ascended from the bowels of baby hell erupted from his little body.
Not once, mind you. Not even twice. But 4, maybe 5 times. The first one stopped the whole restaurant dead in its tracks. The second one hospitalized an elderly couple. The third one sent diners running out into the street. By the fourth deafening howl, the restaurant had to shut down for a structural analysis of what was left of the building.
Exaggeration aside, we did our best to proceed with the meal. Well, actually, Sarah did her best. I ate as I always do, because hey, I'm a dad. That's what we do: we eat. I'm happy to handle just about anything, but when I'm eating, all bets are off. When at home, Sarah eats quick meals as she tends to Screetchy, sometimes sneaking a few bites as she feeds him. When I'm on baby duty and it's meal time, I stick him in his little spinny activity center and concentrate on my meal. Sorry, dude, scream all you want--I'm very busy devouring this sandwich, and I'll get to you when I'm done.
Back to the remains of the restaurant, as you can imagine, Sarah's meal was a test from that point forward. She couldn't shovel the chopped up edamame or rice into his mouth fast enough. She'd try to eat, but as soon as 3.4 seconds would go by, Screetchy would start another round, forcing Sarah to drop her fork, and pick up the baby shovel. It was quite a sight for me as I lapped up my sunomono and sashimi.
The practical takeaway from our little scene was that we've apparently reached the stage when eating meals out is a high-risk undertaking that may not prove to be worth the money or effort. But the larger implication is Screetchy's volume level, which is growing by the day. It's a good think Sarah and I love the little noise machine so much, otherwise we'd have to keep a stock of gags handy.
This is just a guess, but Screetchy should make the terrible twos a blast.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Today's Handy Baby Tip: Line Jumping
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.
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.
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