boo, why, bock, ed

Looking back now on last year when we had Teague in occupational therapy for his supposed developmental delay, it all seems so silly and unnecessary. And yet, I'll never know if he is where he is today in part because of the therapy- who knows, maybe he'd still be lolling around on his back at 22 months. In any case, things have certainly progressed quickly over the last five months. Master Teague has developed whole new levels of confidence. He walks and runs with authority, can climb up on things like chairs and tables, and can walk up and down steps holding a railing. He mostly can feed himself with a spoon and fork, though sometimes he still prefers to have mommy or daddy do it for him (kind of like when I used to fight with him about holding his own bottle). His language is accelerating and he picks up new words every day, like "backpack" referring to the baby backpack I use to carry him (though it sounds like "Bop Pop" coming from him). He has surprised me by successfully identifying colors in a variety of settings (boo, why, bock, ed). He is fascinated by his shadow, which the other day I pointed out to him that if he waves, he will see his shadow wave back, and so now, every time we walk down the street he waves and waves, all the while watching his shadow wave back. He loves to play hide-not and go seek-not, which is this game where you say "Teague, can you go hide?!" and he runs screaming and laughing into the next room where he proceeds to just stand there and wait for you to come get him. He's scribbling with markers, loves stickers, and can easily do some simple toddler puzzles.

So, this is all both, for the written record I'm keeping here, and also to also make the point that the young guy is coming along just fine, thanks for asking. Mira is still stressed and hard at work, and now I'm starting to feel stressed as well, thinking about revising the resume, getting daycare worked out, actually getting a job in this economy, etc, etc. Which is too bad because I've been so relaxed, in fact, more relaxed and happy than I have been in a long long time. Now I can feel the concerns of corporate work, scheduling, tight timelines, long workdays, and worst of all, less time with Teague. I'm gonna have to get the business casual clothes out of the closet, GACK!!!! OK, I've got to try not to spend my time here complaining. That's it- no more negative broadcasts, but I will keep everyone updated on this next great shift in our family life that is due to occur sometime in August.

It's all about the Garden

I'd like to think that we could safely call it summer now, if it were not for the fact that last night it dipped down into the 40's (again) and it is almost June for cryin' out loud... The last month or so has been all about the garden, or rather, the new garden plot. We found out the first week in May that we had finally come to the top of the list for a coveted spot in the community garden. I had always envied those lucky folks I'd see behind the fences, hoeing their rows, watering, harvesting and even sitting outside having dinner with wine as butterflies and birds flitted about in the late and mellow sun of summer evenings. My great aspiration this year, as I had assumed we would NOT have a plot again this year, was to buy a bunch of containers and potting soil and to grow many vegetables up on our deck. I had already invested pretty heavily in bags of soil and plastic pots, which were more expensive than I had anticipated, when we were informed of our good fortune.

Now, every morning, Teague and I walk out along the cool, concrete and brick corridors of our urban neighborhood, cross busy streets aflow with AM traffic, and unlock the gate to the community garden were we are blessedly transported into a different world. Not only is it great therapy for me, but it gives Teague an opportunity to run around in a relatively safe, concrete free zone, though, I have to note, not entirely free of concrete. In fact, despite that many people have farmed and eaten vegetables off of this large plot of land, I have some reservations about the quality of the soil. I took over a plot that appeared to have been largely neglected the previous year. It was massively overgrown with weeds, wickedly prickly bushes of unknown genus, and the strange detritus that drifts in from off the streets, including little crack baggies- or at least that's what I assume they are, because you sure couldn't fit a sandwich in one of those little things, not even a finger sandwich. As I cleared the plot (10'X20') and turned over the soil, I kept turning up what appears to be construction rubble. I've discovered pieces of eyeglasses, power cords, many bricks, concrete, and other enigmatic pieces of junk. Supposedly this garden was built on top of abandonded homes that were torn down and hauled off, though, obviously, not entirely.

Well, so far I've managed to mostly kill most of what I tried to plant. I grew seedlings in the big sunny kitchen window, and they looked pretty good. I even tried to "harden" them according to web-gardener recommendations, but maybe this spring has just been too tough.

I only have a little over two more months of taking care of Teague and being the at home Dad. I just don't know what I'm going to do when I have to give this up. I love being at home and watching Teague grow and learn. I love cooking our family healthy meals and taking care of the house and garden. As I write this I'm looking out the window at sunlight on brick, newly verdant trees along our street, and a fine breeze is coming through the office window. But I turn away and look reluctantly at that resume on the screen.

The Miracle of the Christmas Nap

The post-Christmas days are always such a letdown, I find. Especially this Christmas. Mira had to work the day after Christmas (I guess the media machine doesn't take a vacation), and so it felt just like any other day with Teague, going through the routine. Except that, the "trashed-ness" (a word?) of our house is double or triple the usual, disturbing amount; we have boxes, wrapping paper, ornaments, packing peanuts, napkins, tinsel, bottles, toys, and dishes all over the place, on top of the usual house-wide coating of dog hair, shredded newspaper, mouse poop, ever-present blocks and books, Teague-thrown food, Nena-puked barf, and the general chaos of disorder that afflicts us.

Teague is not at an age, at 1.5 years, where he is equipped to really get the whole concept of Christmas, as we, a consumeristic and myth-possessed society, know it. I mean, he doesn't really seem to understand or say basic words like "dad" or "ball" or "reticulated" or "epiphenomenon" even. So, I guess I can't really expect him to buy into the whole mythological construct of mysterious, supernatural gift-givers, in red velvet, piloting sleighs, whipping slave-animals into feats of flight, or mysterious wise men, infant world saviours, virgins giving birth, and so forth. Teague didn't even take much pleasure in the violent rending of wrapping paper as I had anticipated, but he has gravitated quickly towards all new presents from relatives, and he is replacing old toy obsessions with new ones.

On Christmas day we received a visit from Grandma and Grandpa (my side) who drove in from New Jersey. Lest you envision some doddering, septuagenarian couple- the grandparents are a fun pair, full of energy, though somewhat curmudgeonly, if only in a somewhat calculated fashion, as if they read some manual on growing old, and discovered that one of the rules is that they must display cantankerous behavior at intervals in order to fulfill the contract of aging. As I've described in this blog before, as long as my Dad and I (and Mira) stay away from politics and religion, we all get along fine. So, we had a fine Christmas brunch where I cooked a kick-ass, majorly unhealthy, egg-cheese strata, and whipped up an artery clogging crab dip. We started drinking some sweet, spiced cider with rum before 10 AM (well, Dad and I did anyway) and we were all engorged and lethargic by 11:30 AM. We decided to take a walk through the city to rejuvenate and encourage production of the salubrious humours. Christmas day in a major city is so unusual and lovely- quiet, no traffic, hardly any people about. Teague got pissed-off that I was trying to carry him in the baby backpack- now that he's a big-shot walker. Only problem is that when I put him down on the concrete, he walks at about the pace of a plodding tortoise, mired in heavy sand. Not that he can help it, and he's ridiculously cute, but when for the 19th time he turns around for no reason and starts walking away from home at .3 MPH towards some mysterious diversion, and he's already taking 5 steps for every one adult step....well I eventually had to collar him, and he got ticked-off and cried, squirmed, flailed and otherwise kicked-a-fuss. But anyway, it was still pretty fun, and we all loved the sun and bracing, winter air, and with the increased blood-circulation induced by the walking we were all much more awake upon arriving back at our row-house where we indulged in even MORE food and drink, and an hourlater, by the time that the Grand-p's left at 2 pm, moving on to other family festivities, we were ALL three of us ready for a nap, a serious, holiday nap. Which is what happened, a miraculous, whole-family, Christmas Nap.

Breast Obsessed Maniac!

Here come the holidays! Mira is home this week, which is always both a bane and a boon. She's taking vacation days this week, which she has to do for her job, because annoyingly, she will work most of next week during the holidays, due to her lack of seniority at her job. Oh well. But anyway, the crux of our issue here is that Teague at 17 months is still, let's say, a vigorous nurser. I mean, this kid loves the breast. He nurses standing up, lying down, kneeling, any which way he can. He sometimes dive-bombs one breast like some ill-fated kamikaze pilot, while simultaneously twiddling the nipple of the other breast. It's the nipple manipulation where Mira draws the line, and as the Dad, I have to say it can be somewhat disturbing to witness, and to think, that somehow, I'm kind of in competition for this territory. When she's home for an extended period, he begs her to nurse at something like 15 minute intervals all day long! It makes Mira crazy, and makes her question continuing nursing at all.

Anyway, aside from what Mira has to deal with, with Teague almost constantly begging her to nurse, is my own annoyance with her questioning parts of my daily routine. "Did he eat yet? What did he eat? Did he get vegetables? Should we give him a bottle? Don't you think it's a little late for his nap?" Somehow I managed to survive almost 5 months taking care of the child and, SURPRISE, I didn't even seriously injure him! But then, I reconsider, and I guess I understand that she has the same concerns that I do, and just wants him to be well- also, I have to consider that while I'm sure she feels happy and confident earning the money for our household, she probably also has some instinctual need to be responsible for some part of the mothering, and to ensure that Master Teague gets all the love and care he needs. The funny part is, that I really feel like I naturally do a better job as a caretaker and housekeeper. I mean, we won't have this arrangement forever, but I look back on when Mira was full time with Teague, and she was kind of helpless at times. She could barely give him a bath because she'd freak out every time he'd squirm or cry, which was every time, and she could hardly get him dressed or into a diaper without shouting into the next room for my assistance.

Well, all that is over, and sadly, I'm almost half way through my own tenure as stay-at-home dad. Teague is loving the Christmas lights. He loves to point at every earthly object, as if requesting the names all things to make them real. We communicate through babbles and grunts. He's trying to run, plays make believe, and flirts with the ladies. He's got a huge bruise on his big pumpkin noggin from when he fell down outside and hit his skull on the ground with a solid "thwack" that I could hear when it happened. This made me so sad, that he could be hurt like that, even though there was little I could do. Tomorrow we are having friends over to the house to sing carols for the holiday season, Jews, Christians, and anyone else are invited. I am going to stumble along on the piano like a fool, but if I'm careful and don't have too many drinks during the warm-up period, I might just do alright.

Walk Hard

Well, here it is, a month has elapsed, and looking at the last post I realize that I'm not exactly the most prolific blogger. I'm sure that partly this is due to having no readership whatsoever, and so its not like my inbox is jammed with impatient emails goading me to reveal more gripping details of our action-filled family life. So, I'm analyzing this, and thinking about why nobody reads what I write and I suspect that this is for a couple of reasons. ONE: information overload, myriad, humdrum blogs all over the cyber universe, and this is just one tiny bucket of bits in a polluted ocean. TWO: because I've attempted to keep this blog somewhat agnostic of location, if for no other reason than to protect our family privacy, and so, that probably eliminates a certain level of interest that one might have related to locality. I'm considering changing this though...In any case, I hope they don't kick me out of the blogger's union for failure to produce on a regular basis.

I guess the most interesting child care report for this post is that young Master Teague finally decided to start walking (just shy of 17 months). He had been cruising for a long time, along walls, along couches, chairs, etc, and for a month had even demonstrated that he could stand unassisted, but for some reason he just seemed timid about setting out and putting one foot in front of the other and actually locomoting. I would try to hold his little hands and get him to walk with me, but he would have none of that and when prompted like this would just plop down on his bottom and crawl away. So, there I am a couple weeks ago, reading the paper and drinking coffee, with Teague cruising along the kitchen wall, opening (and emptying) cupboards, throwing the recycling all over the place (thanks dude), and then suddenly I hear these little footsteps behind me and its Luke walking through the house just like he had been doing it his whole life. I mean, he really just walked all over the place, hardly even losing his balance. OK, truth told, he still trips on those liminal, inter-room passages where there is a lip, but, I guess the point I'm trying to make, is that it just seemed so weird and sudden. I now have this totally different view of him, as if he has finally jettisoned the last vestiges of being an infant and assumed full toddlerhood, or even more ridiculous, I look at him and say, wow, look at that little MAN walking around all kick-ass like that, and looking proud of himself. He walks with his little Buddha belly sticking out and even sometimes seems to hold or rub it like some fat little old man, all content with the excesses of his life.

So, are other people in the world concerned about their personal identities and details being revealed on the web? I mean, I have this strange compulsion to write about my life, and yet, in some ways, I'm also hesitant to reveal any true details about neighborhood, location, etc. I mean, I know that we're nothing super-special, Mira, Teague and I, but also there are many freaky and strange people in this world. Why don't I just scrawl illegibly in a paper journal, if I feel compelled to write? Must there always be some potential, digitally connected, readers in mind? I have to admit that I was spoiled because I wrote a detailed backpacking blog capturing a long-distance hike back in 2005 and had many readers, and so I just kind of assumed that I would have at least a few readers interested in more mundane, though hopefully well-written posts about family life.

Well anyway, this is the December post. I'll probably continue to post at intervals, if for no other reason than for posterity, and to have something to show Teague when he is old enough to appreciate it.

Cheers!

Urban Mulcher

Teague and I spent some time outdoors today in the "backyard". I put it in quotes to signify that the idea that our 200 square foot patio, situated in the canyon of inner-city row-houses, that it is yard-like in some way is somehow suspect. The previous owner, a wildly A-type personality by all reports, with a serious green thumb, had maintained the back patio as a very nice perennial garden, which I have mostly let go to seed. I mean, I do try, but what springs up each year is mostly a mystery to me. For instance, there is this incredible plant that blooms each spring called a "Bleeding Heart" (spectablis dicentra), but I was basically ready to yank the thing out of the ground, because honestly, it looks kind of like weed to me when it is not blooming. I'm glad that I held off though, because it looks fantastic in the spring (see a representative photo below), though it kind of dies off later in the summer and looks lame the rest of the year. But anyway, I let Teague crawl around out on the patio, and he got into the flower beds and crawled around in there and got really filthy, but seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. He has never really tried to eat dirt or sand or anything, which I chalk up to his deep, innate intelligence. Every time a plane flew over, he got really interested and spent time trying to spot it, grunting to me by way of trying to alert me to its presence.

The main thing I'm trying to do is to start a compost pile in the backyard. I have been thinking about this for a while, and came across an article by a woman who was doing "urban composting" using a large plastic container http://www.yougrowgirl.com/garden/urbancomposting.php .So, I had been thinking about doing this myself, though I so far have hesitated to go out and buy anything new. We are in extreme budget conservation mode these days in the Furtherdad household, and all purchases are examined closely. But then, the other day I came home from a walk with Teague and Mumi the Killer Spaniel to discover that our neighbors had thrown out as garbage the exact kind of container I needed, a large "Rubbermaid" container with a lid that clamps downs. It was cracked along the bottom, but this is perfect because you need to let water drain out the bottom anyway! So, I raided their trash, dragged the container to the backyard and started planning the compost. We now have a sealable plastic container that sits by the sink where we collect organic scraps like coffee grounds, egg shells, fruit rinds, vegetable peelings, etc. I'm starting to mix it in with other yard waste in the bin. I'm totally impatient though. After two days of adding to the bin I started going out there fully expecting to see this great, black, organic mix of humus. Of course there are still just wet leaves and garbage in there! Also, I realize that starting your compost at the beginning of winter isn't exactly the most ideal time, but so what, I'm ready for the spring I guess, plus, what with global warming, I'm sure we will have plenty of above freezing days this winter!

Secret Meetings with Cats and Birds

Furtherdad walks Mumi the Killer Spaniel on Sunday nights. Sunday is my wife Mira's "TV night". She has a lineup of shows she likes to watch, starting with 60 Minutes, and she feels justified in this indulgence insofar as we don't really watch much television otherwise. I sit and watch a couple of the shows with her, and wouldn't feel the least bit annoyed at any of this if she didn't have to wrap it up with "Desperate Housewives" at the end of the night. When this particular show comes on is when I make my hasty exit, and head out the door with Mumi for canine adventures in the dark streets. It is really saying something indeed, that I prefer the company of the hound to watching this particular show.

Speaking of walking, Teague is SO close to walking. Today, all day, he seemed to be making attempts, flirting just at the edges of this new ability. For instance, this morning when I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, he was standing there next to me, holding onto my leg, and he then slowly, tentatively, he took his hands off my leg to where he balanced on his own, looking at me then with a sly smile on his face, and finally taking one small step away, but suddenly he became aware of his precarious state of balance, and plopped down onto his diapered butt, looking up afterwards with a big smile, both of us laughing and my praising him extravagantly.

There is a crazy lady in our neighborhood named Sophi. Well, maybe not crazy, but perhaps old beyond caring, old to the point of decay, or something like that. She is always disheveled, with wild hair, her rumpled, worn clothes are stained with grease, her face is hirsute and typically flecked with crumbs of some sort, with only a few teeth left now, and always carrying around a few plastic bags filled with cans of food, bread crusts, and whatever else that she feeds to various stray cats and the legions of pigeons that terrorize the neighborhood. The way I came to talk to her in the first place is that she saw me walking Mumi the Killer Spaniel on the street and Sophi fell immediately, and deeply in love with the dog, and they have been illicit lovers ever since. Whenever Sophi sees Mumi on the street she coos with joy and they begin to kiss- I'm not kidding, to the point where Mumi's dog tongue is in Sophi's mouth, and Sophi does not recoil. It is truly a disgusting sight, I must say. But then I find it funny, because whenever we see Sophi, and I have Teague with me, say, in the backpack or stroller, Sophi fails to react at all to the beautiful, handsome, charming child, and instead immediately begins to molest the dog....

But then, one day I'm down in the public market, walking through the many stalls with the massive variety of prepared foods, delicacies, produce, cheeses, chocolates, EVERYTHING, and of course absolutely jammed with people, tanks of fish, neon signs buzzing, fresh aroma of bread, sushi on the left, burritos on my right, Amish butchers, kosher foods, Indian, Mexican, etc, and then through all of it I hear sweet piano music coming from nearby, and as I weave my way through the crowd, I look and behold...old SOPHI sitting at a battered piano, playing away, with a tip jar on top. Of course I walked up and dropped a bill into the bowl, and though I tried to catch her, eye, she didn't seem to recognize me- without the dog, I guess. Next time I saw her I asked her about her piano playing at the market, and we talked for a while about music, since I also play classical piano. She loves Chopin and so do I, and so now when she sees me, she still doesn't pay much attention to Teague, but after making out with Mumi the dog for a while, she'll typically ask me if I've been playing any Chopin.

The only reason that I'm thinking about this tonight is that I happened to pass by Sophi's house tonight when walking the dog. She lives about a block and a half away from us. I discovered where she lives because she has her piano situated right in front of her window on the ground floor of her house, and if you saunter by and look through the ground level windows (as I am helplessly drawn to do, as eyes in the dark are drawn to the warmth and light of unguarded interiors), one can't help but see her sitting there playing. Tonight, I was walking Mumi along the street where Sophi lives. The rain of the last few days had cleared off, leaving a light strata of clouds, just barely concealing a waxing moon, near full. From across the street I could see doddering Sophi through her window, hunched over at her piano. She was playing Chopin's second Nocturne, a piece that I also attempt to play, and the sweet and familiar melody tinkled crystal in the night air. So strange to think that this was the same woman I see with her crazy-toothed smile, peddling her bicycle at 2 mph down the street on the way to her secret meetings with cats and birds.