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.

Global warmth

I can't help but admit that I'm feeling pretty fine these warm and rainy post election days- giddy even. I'm stunned that our flowers look so great up on the top deck, even now in November. Perhaps this is another awesome benefit of global warming...flowers into December! I imagine there have been times at this latitude where early November could be covered in snow- but not this year. So we have a new president and that kicks ass! I'm so psyched for things to be different, for an administration that can bring progress and good will to the country, after 8 looooong years of war, secrecy, and expanding executive power. And while I'm just a crazy-assed liberal for sure, I truly believe that this administration will be good for children, health-care, and the environment, which are things we can all care about that if improved will boost the quality of life for everyone in this country.

On election night I ran upstairs at midnight and woke up Teague and brought him down to watch Obama's acceptance speech. I was kind of loaded, to tell the truth, having spent the better part of the night across the street drinking beers at an election watch party. The Obama supporters outnumbered the McCain supporters at the party, but the atmosphere was congenial and everyone there imbibed, laughed and enjoyed the suspense. The end came suddenly, and half out of my mind with excitement, I ran home before Obama came on, because in fact people were kind of obnoxious at the party, flipping that channel all over the place, providing ludicrous critiques of hair and fashion, and anyway, I wanted to be with Mira and Teague at this historic time. So, I dragged the poor little guy down out of bed and he was dazed and baffled for sure to find himself up at that late hour. He quickly warmed to the situation though, and began to cavort about the room, throwing books and blocks around, glancing only occasionally at the television screen, and exhibiting very little interest in the oration. Still, he was there for it in case he ever cares about such things in the future. My folks woke me up for the moon landing, and though it is only a very faint fog in my mind decades later, I'm glad they sensed the import of it and woke me, and it makes me feel good for reasons I can't quite explain. Finally, I'm just really proud that my boy will grow up in a world where it just seems natural that anyone can be President, no matter color or creed (and let's hope gender someday), for it will never have seemed otherwise for him.

sleeping cold in the mother mary light

The virgin Mary light casts shadows on the ceiling, dim rays illuminating the swaying air-globe, pin push maps, alphabet matrix, and the painted mural. The mural is in primary colors, 12 squares, each depicting a different scene, and though it is intense in daylight, it can just barely be seen in the night-glow around us. I am rocking, rocking, rocking, rhythmic, unending repetition, slumped in the glider chair, lost in 3AM thoughtdrifts, dark ruminations; the gently wheezing boy is curled up on my chest, his head nestled up against my neck, my arms around his body. In the dark we are timeless, and in this moment he is captured for me, if only for these few precious minutes, in this predawn tableau, the tiny and fragile boy we love so much, who grows far too quickly, who minutes before screamed with such rage, or was it fear, or despair, or whatever raw and nascent feelings visit a baby in the deepest moments of his night.

I admit at times like this, when Teague is having a bad night, to annoyance and frustration. I would like to think that this isn't too selfish of me, though upon consideration during waking moments, I'm certain that it is. I mean, I can't help it really, when from the floating warmth of my muddled dreams come these urgent cries (nay- screams) from the floor below, and I know that there is probably nothing wrong, and it is only Teague's midnight despair, some shadowy loneliness (or is it just incomprehension?) that leaves him stranded there in the crib in his inscrutable sorrow. I know then that I will have to leave the body-heated, cottony burrow of our bed, to stumble over electronically squawking toys and cold floor-boards, down creaking, ancient stairs to the child's room below on the second floor. But once I swing open the door and lift his little, sniffling body from his crib, I feel rotten because his face is streaked, pitifully, with tears, his relief palpable, and he is shaking and frightened. Obviously, he isn't faking it or exaggerating for effect, and I mentally slap myself for being so selfish and somehow doubting the depth of his despair. After all, he is an inexperienced and helpless little boy, uncomprehending of his situation and this darkness enveloping him, and I'm a grown, supposedly mature adult and striving parent who's JOB it is to take care of him. It seems he deserves better. But then again...this scene I'm describing was the THIRD freakin' time I was up with him that same night!!!

That night, when I picked him up that third time, dazed from my own lack of sleep, and plopped down with him in the rocker, Teague immediately, same as the first two times that night, rested his head on my chest and tucked his tiny hands down into the warmth between our bodies, and almost immediately fell asleep. It occurred to me then, finally, that perhaps he was actually cold and all of this waking up was just because we have been too cheap to turn on the heat with the onset of this chilly October weather. The little dude flips and roles and tosses off his covers and so we can't really count on blankets to keep him warm at night. Well, the genius parents here agreed to run the heat at night, and he has been sleeping pretty well ever since! Still, there is something that is so sweet and heartbreaking about holding him like that at night, that I almost wish he would wake up and call for me anyway. I know that one day not so far away, there will come a time when he's grown, independent, and embarrassed by me, I won't ever hold him like that again, and it makes me feel so sad as I sit there in the mother Mary light, comforting him, thinking these despairing, night-thoughts.

Family Politics in the Midwest

Mira and I took Teague back to the Olde Midwestern Homestead of her in-laws last week. In fact, we both have roots in the Midwest, though we did not meet there, nor do we live there now. I'm always amazed to scan through the real estate listings when we visit Mira's parents, comparing these prices to the insanity of urban living and the massively inflated prices that we pay for 1500 sq ft in the city. And so I have these occasional fantasies of selling out, leaving the urban fold and doubling (or tripling!) our living space in some shady, suburban oasis full of biking kids and summer lawns. But then, what would Teague do without the constant background symphony of sirens, screaming hallucinating transients, roaring motorcycles, howling car alarms, and the rest of the cacophany that you just get accustomed to after living here a while? In fact, one of the earliest "tricks" that Teague could do was to wave at city buses as they roared by. He quickly learned to associate even the diesel and pneumatic sounds of the bus with this required waving, and so even if a bus is not visible but can be heard, Teague will begin waving madly. Now, I never realized until Teague began this waving routine, just how many buses there are hauling around our city. Buses seem to go by our house practically every 5 minutes, with Teague waving at the sound of nearly every one.

But I was saying, we were in the Midwest visiting the in-laws. The occasion was that of Mira's parent's 45th wedding anniversary, and so 3 of Mira's 4 siblings were in attendance to celebrate along with all the spouses and children. Rule number one was supposed to be "No Political Discussions" because that might ruin the special occasion by allowing typical, warped and partisan bickering. There is a political divide running through Mira's family, with half of the family on the conservative side of Catholicism, thus resulting in a "one issue" kind of voter (i.e. abortion) . This side cheers for that spunky Sara Palin and prays for a more conservative Supreme Court. The other half of the family falls into a rough category I'll call "Lefty Catholics", for whom war and poverty are more serious issues in this country much moreson than that of abortion. And so, the "No Politics" mandate results often in the two halves of the family sitting in different rooms talking politics in partisan groups. And of course, political discussions DID happen despite the rule and were mostly ridiculous, like Mira arguing with her Mom about whether Michelle Obama is elegant or not. During argument Mira said, "How can you say that Mom? She's absolutely beautiful!". Mira's Mom replied, "Oh no, that woman's not elegant! She looks like a TIGER"

When these conversations begin, I quickly vacate the room. I don't really see too much hope in having reasonable political discussions within families that are so polarized, and of course we've seen this before in my own family (dear old Dad) and in previous posts. And so I typically took Teague into another room to play with blocks and books while Mira and family would get nowhere, circumlocuting, bloviating, and getting worked up over nothing and everything in politics and religion. Well, I guess it is testament to strong family ties that we all walked out of there without anyone having hurt feelings or really bad memories. I sure will be glad to have this election behind us though.

And so I guess we'll be staying in the big city for now with no suburban moves planned until we have to look seriously at schools for Teague. The politics and culture of the city suits me well. I have rural, and even mountainous fantasies, but they will have to wait.

OK, so I'm not the best Dad, I'm realizing.

OK, so I'm not the best Dad, I'm realizing.

As I envisioned it, I would probably have won big-time awards by now; Dad-Olympic medals, Dad-Pulitzer Prize, Dad-Nobel Prize. Teague and I would be walking down the street abreast, proud father and strutting son, he uttering childish observations hinting at early genius (Da Da, why E=mc squared?) and I would be instructing him gently in matters of English, manners, mathematics, physics, even perhaps throwing in some Spanish instruction...you get the picture. Of course things don't ever work out as you envision them in your best-dreamed scenarios. Teague is not exactly breaking any age-related barriers or stunning anyone with his precocity. As I've mentioned before in this blog, he is even behind in some physical and, perhaps, language categories, all except for the category of "cuteness", where he is pretty far ahead at this point. OK, so, maybe he will have to get by on his looks, is what I've been thinking recently. There are worse things, right?

It's just, at this point, a parent has many misgivings about one's own parenting skills. Have I been doing the right things? Should I have been putting Teague through baby Pilates (baby-Yoga, baby-Tai-chi, or whatever), or language acquisition boot-camp, or perhaps music appreciation class, or infant violin lessons? Instead, Mira and I have so far simply relaxed at home with our boy, played with him, gone for walks, gave him hugs, meals, etc. So far it has always been a simple mix of interactive play (as much as an infant can play) and then, just letting him play by himself. I mean, I find it very difficult to be 100% engaged with him all day, and often I turn to work on the family finances, or fix the drain, or clean up a million blocks scattered about the house, or fix dinner for the family, and so I let him rampage about the house throwing books, CDs, blocks, toys, dishes, etc all over. But then I think, well, maybe I should have been doing flashcards or drills or therapeutic art or some other thing with him that I understand other intense, goal-oriented, parents might do.

So, I'm not the greatest Dad I'm realizing. Sometimes I ignore Teague when he is grasping at my pant leg and moaning for attention. Sometimes I forget and leave the basement door open, and I find Teague rapt with amazement, leaning out over the precipice of the dark and foreboding descent, on the verge of tumbling down into the subterranean depths. I confess, many times I don't wash his hi-chair tray between meals, and worse yet, sometimes I just let Mumi (the killer Spaniel) lick it clean. Sometimes I get enraged with this 14-month-old (how stupid am I to get mad at a toddler!) and we have some dumb standoff over food because he is basically throwing it all over the place and refusing to eat and so I am angry and remove him from his hi-chair and he screams, face all twisted and ablaze in red streaks and tears, pathetically trying to climb back into his hi-chair, just to be presented with the same food once again, which he throws back on the floor, repeating the cycle. Yes, and sometimes I know his diaper is soaking wet, but I delay changing it because of some issue of timing in my mind, or just plain laziness, and despite his discomfort. And sometimes I'd really just rather read the paper than play "push the ball back and forth between us" for another several hours. There are times when I put Teague down for a nap, and I just want a strong drink because, well, because I want one, and anyway I drink too much anyway, so why not start early? I'm gaining weight, and I can hardly control my eating as I eat constantly when I feed Teague, and all the time when I'm fixing dinner for the family, all of this in addition to the actual meals that I eat with Mira. So, soon I will be a chubby, lame, unshaven stay-at-home-dad, just as one might predict. One time, I set Teague on the couch, just for a moment, while I turned away, and of course he threw himself backwards off the couch, and we were only saved from a brutal concussion by the fact that he actually landed ON TOP OF the killer Spaniel Mumi, who was just too startled to even be vicious about it and just ran off with a yelp, and Teague was only frightened and cried for like 2 minutes. Sadly, I let Teague crawl around the house totally filthy, in dirty clothes and with feet and hands practically black from household dirt, and then don't even really clean his face really well after his meal, and so he looks like a truly impoverished orphan with crusted food and filth and dog-hair all over him....

I simply should be a better Dad. I know it and I know I can be a better man. I feel I've accomplished much in life and Teague and Mira are the best things that I could possibly have found in life, and they deserve my best. Maybe I'm just in a bad state of mind. Maybe I'll do better tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow we'll get the finger paints out again, head to the park, laugh in the sun, even take a bath. Maybe.

Dawn of the Dead

Well, I haven't posted for a while, mainly because I've been busy running this bed and breakfast here, or at least it feels that way lately what with multiple visitors and dinner guests. We had weekend guests, my best friend and his new bride, and if they were having any misgivings about having children, I suspect this has been tipped towards the negative over a weekend where Teague arose screaming at 4:30 AM on consecutive mornings, and could not be convinced to return to sleep in order to wait out Aurora's arrival. I mean, what are you supposed to do about this? We've tried putting him to sleep earlier in the evening (which many books suggest) to no avail, and tried later in the evening too, tried to increase nap time, get him to eat more at dinner, or eat less maybe, or decrease nap time.... but no combination or ritual seems to dissuade him from this brutally early wakeup alarum.

And so I stagger along the creaky hallway in the chill of pre-dawn, and open his nursery door to find the toddler Teague standing up in his crib, his mouth a rictus of wailing sorrow, his rage caused by this terrible, nightly abandonment, but then now he's also half-laughing in relief at my appearance, though simultaneously choking and gasping for breath. So, I pick him up, and calm him by singing the alphabet, the letters of which are affixed to his nursery wall, each letter having an accompanying little picture (like "Apple" for A) and so we have to go through a few of those pictures, identifying the Pig, the Monkey, or the Owl, and then we move on down the creaky hallway where Teague likes to point at the various family pictures that line the wall and I inform him of the subject of each picture even though it is almost totally dark: Uncle Jim, Cousin Sarah, Grandma Stone, etc. Then slowly up the stairs (the stair are also creaky, which is part of living in a 100 year old house) to our third floor bedroom where Mira lies waiting groggily, still more asleep than awake, Teague growing ever more excited in anticipation of the exposed breast lying there warmly in the dark, commencing then frantic nursing for as long as Mira will put up with it, which could even be a couple of hours or more which I think is ridiculous, but if not that, then what? Head down to start drinking coffee and playing with the myriad blocks at 4:45 AM?

Well, what are ya' gonna do but love him anyway, right? Despite his appetite for household destruction, food hurling tendencies, and fecal disasters, we love him all the more, for he is all brilliant energy and brutal, unknowing optimism, and every day I am amazed all over again at how he grows, learns, and darts about with miniature energy. It makes me wish I could look at the world as new every day, and to feel as unsullied and pure as I once was before the oceans of poison in this world washed through my body, tarnishing it, staining the mind and body forever, as we are all tainted by bad habits, age and cynicism to some degree. Perhaps like my father I will fall into the role of curmudgeon or aging misanthrope, but if anyone can save me from such a fate, it will be Teague, who I believe is right now throwing bath toys into the toilet, so I must go...

Ever-crescive reactionary views

I discussed with my wife Mira today, the idea that I should have an intervention with my Father, regarding his ever-crescive reactionary views. I mean, it was kind of a joke to start with, but also I was half serious about conferencing my family into a call and talking this over. I have several really liberal brothers and sisters, and in addition to this crew, there is my Mother (divorced from Dad for like 15 years now) who is a LESBIAN who has been with the same partner for a decade and so I find it difficult to justify my father's behavior, or to understand his views. When we argue, he always says, "Can't I have my own opinion?", but then I just get exasperated because his opinion is typically some recycling of what he hears on AM, conservative, talk radio shows. It is obvious. He often trots out "facts", mostly incorrect, none of which he has checked, and most of which he conflates or confuses. Also, he seems to be building up a persona of sorts, an image of himself that is to his liking, that is, he is proud to be a "curmudgeon". A couple of weeks ago he said to me, "Jerome, one day when you're older, you'll come around to this same feeling I have, which is that, I'm just not willing to put up with other people's sh**t anymore, and I'm tired of wasting time on other people, and just want to be left alone." I'm not kidding, he said this to me. Like now he is some kind of self-satisfied misanthrope. I'm not some youngster, mind you, now at 42 years old, and somehow I have no problem rejecting his prognostication, and still feel a great thrill about the prospects for life and love in our lives.

So, time for an intervention!! But how? Would my siblings agree? I mean, in a way, it is tantamount to curtailing his free speech. Basically, I want to say to him, "Dad, cut out this right-wing political bullsh**t or I'm not going to let you see your grandson Teague." I know that is not fair, but the truth is, I don't want him, no matter his age or political affiliation (I think Teague is an Independent for now) to be exposed to cranky right-wing politics. I'd love to have a grandparent babysitting for us, but not if Teague is going to have to sit in front of Bill O'Reilly and a barrage of Fox News clips. I think it is true that everyone must be allowed an opinion, but what if the opinion is full of lies and misguided misunderstanding? Is THAT allowed?

I have VERY strong reasons to support a liberal ticket. I am a backpacker who has hiked thousands of miles in the wilderness, completing the Pacific Crest Trail and the Appalachian Trail. I believe in protecting our remaining wilderness from corporate despoiling. In addition to Teague, I have a beautiful child with a lesbian couple who are far better parents than most of the hetero-parents I know. I have a close relation who was raped and had to have an abortion as a result of this, and I want to protect her right to choose. I am a child of privilege and I KNOW THIS! I have been given the gift of privilege, and I believe we need to spread out the wealth of this country and draw back that gap between the super-rich and the ultra-impoverished.

Well, probably there will be no intervention- I'm too weak. Families just continue on as they do, in a rhythm of rage and calm. For now all is quiet.

Not-so-Grand a parent's day

Tomorrow is "Grandparent's Day". I'm not sure if that conotes anything important or not. What I mean, is that we have these concocted holidays, days of "respect", or whatever to call them, like Father's day and Mother's day. Of course we should love and respect Ma and Pa, but do they mean anything really, these holidays, coming as they do, out of a more recent, and can I say, entreprenuerial tradition? If I just ignore them, or don't send a card, am I an evil son to be abducted in a black hood by the Hallmark Dark-Ops Squad?

I was wondering because last weekend I was somewhat pissed off at my Dad, the right-wing crank who, in the absence of my supposed step-mom (on vacation), had voiced plans to come visit Mira, Teague and I at our humble home. He is only a couple hours drive away from us, and all summer we've been renting a car, loading it up with massive baby gear, driving the 90 miles to see HIM, and I figured at least he would come out on this ONE weekend when the evil step-mom was out of town. But no, he decided to golf instead ("It's a GREAT country club", he said, "and it's so sunny today!"). In reality, I figure, in the absence of his wife he wanted to stay home, drink vodka unmonitored, and look at extensive pornography, since he doesn't have much chance to do so otherwise. I mean, who could blame him?

But then, he also said they would come to see us THIS weekend, and then just today called at the last minute to cancel. Mira is worried that it is all because of the idiotic argument mentioned in a previous post. I don't think so, and I know that my Dad would LAUGH mockingly at this idea, since such things don't phase him. Dad claims, jokingly, but I think with a measure of truth- that he wants to stay home and be a curmudgeon. He increasingly acts the misanthrope- claiming to have little tolerance for ANYONE, except, of course, for those people such as his family who he is forced to put up with by reason of consanguinity.

So, no sweet Grandparent cards to be exchanged in this family. No doddering, goofy, happy reunion of old and young with both old and young drooling down their shirts. Well, I guess I should try to look on it positively. Mira, Teague and I will have a fine weekend together at home, just the three of us, with no pressure to cook meals, provide drinks or entertainment, etc. The weather should be fine. Teague is cruising and pulling up on everything. We have little reason to continue physical therapy, though at 14 months I wish he would say one other word besides "BAH" (or is it "MAH")? He points at EVERYTHING and says "MAH!". As he points incessantly left and right at every object, I can only imagine that he is cataloging these words and will spill them out in unending spools at a later date.

Impolitic politics

Family political fights. My Dad is a right-wing crank. I'd respect him more if he weren't so obviously parroting the rhetoric one can hear every day on ill-informed, biased, right-wing radio. I know, because I've borrowed his car and every time I get in and crank it up, some stupid radio show comes on, and I get a dose of lies, exaggerations, fabrications, etc. Adding to the confusion is my Dad's ability to mix up stories that he hears Rush blathering about and then to propagate even further and worse untruths.

And so last weekend my wife Mira and dad got to talking about Obama, and my Dad was trotting out some story about how some shady guy (Ayers?) supposedly loaned Barack a large amount of money to buy his house in Illinois, and how this guy was part of the Weather Underground and basically a terrorist, and so my Dad is going on about how if THAT is how Obama judges character, then no way will he vote for him. And so Mira, who is pretty savy and politically aware, and who knows these facts pretty well, challenges my Dad, who begins to impugn her veracity, basically was very insulting, doubting her command of the facts, insisting on her brainwashing by the "liberal media", leading to Mira becoming, frankly, hysterical, screaming at my dad, cursing even (very unlike her), and storming out of the apartment. Unbelievable. "Thanks alot Dad!" I shouted, as I chased after her. Many hours of conversation later, Mira began to appologize and to cite hormones, sleep depravation, stress, and so on, none of which I found necessary since my Dad was admittedly just being an idiot. What I can't understand is how she actually takes the bait in these discussions. When my Dad goes off on these strange digressions

I must stop this
I must stop this
I must stop comparing my son to other babies of his age, because, it means nothing, right? Children develop at their own rate, not proscribed by manuals. Teague and I went for a play date today with baby-J the son of some well-to-do couple that Mira (my wife) had met during her New-Mom phase, and Dad (Effa) cares for him a couple days a week, so we agreed to try to get together and have some play-dates. J, wonder-baby (1 month younger than Teague), was walking around like a local Mayor, and pronouncing important words such as "pig", while Teague just crawled around madly, ignoring toys, and ignoring J.

Can I complain now about dads being duds? I mean, Effa's a nice fellow but, despite our similar, computer, work history, I can't get him to even talk about his job or anything else in fact. We do the usual parental, encouraging, cooing, and babbling with the kids, trying to encourage play and cooperation, but then, I'd also love to have a friend with some interesting views, for instance, if the dad had strange or weird musical tastes, and we could just put on some fine tunes while the kids played. Let's talk about the Clash, or Beck, or Neutral Milk Hotel, or, or....But no....

The next day Teague and I went swimming with another "New-Mom" friend, "K"; only, this one is pregnant with her next baby, and very kindly, despite being 9 mon. pregnant, invited Teague and I to go swimming. And so we trucked the stroller over to their apartment building, and enjoyed the cool water, which was nicely chilled after a few nights of cool weather. A very attractive (and I think "augmented') woman approached K. and I in the pool and first blabbered over the babies , and then revealed the information that she is a nanny and baby sitter. With her I ruled her out as a baby sitter for Mira and I. I could only imagine the vituperation should I suggest such a sexpot babysitter for Teague, and the unimaginable temptation and explanations after the drive home.

Block Vacuum

It is questionable judgement, perhaps, purchasing toy sets with more than, say, 30 pieces, or even up to 50 pieces. Annoyingly, my wife's most recent toy purchase was a set of 250 small building blocks. Now truly, Teague loves the blocks (in a way) though certainly not for building anything. His primary goal has become to disperse these blocks over as wide and even an area as possible within our house. With methodical ambition, he throws the hundreds of blocks from the container in a circle all around him, out to a circumference of 7-8 feet. In workman-like fashion, he proceeds then to push these blocks into the far corners of the room, eventually covering the entire room in a more-or-less even dispersal pattern.

He proceeds to the bookshelves and removes all available books from the lower shelves, scattering them in a similar fashion, stopping occasionally to browse. His job is not yet done though, and so he moves on to those CDs that he can reach on the lower shelves near the stereo system, and scatters them about the floor, flinging them with abandon. He hasn't figured out yet how to open them, but when he does, I'm certain that I will have many scratched up and useless discs on hand.

Finally, just to wrap things up for the day, he proceeds to the kitchen for a session with the cupboards. Tupperware, pots, pans, and many plastic implements are then brought into the open for his inspection. And so I am kept busy all day pursuing this chaotic force, and so I ask myself whether it is worth cleaning up these disasters as they occur, since they simply RE-occur throughout the day. My answer to myself is that I know that if I let it all go to the end of the day, then there will simply not be enough time to get everything back into proper order, and anyway, I'd be too tired after a couple of evening cocktails and a hot dinner to even approach it. What I need is a massive block vacuum, or maybe an all-purpose toy vacuum that can, like in the Cat and the Hat, just suck everything up all at once.

The young master Teague is now able to climb stairs. We have very steep wooden stairs in our house. One set leads from the first to the second floor, and another steep set leads from the second floor hallway up to the master bedroom on the third floor. And now that he has discovered this ability, his primary goal in life has become to attempt an ascent of any stairway within his view. I have permanently mounted gates at the TOP of the stairs to thwart his plunging down them, but up until this week I have had nothing at the bottom of the stairs. Now that he can climb, I have pressure mounted gates for the bottom of the stairs, but at first I didn't always remember to put them up. Then a couple days ago, I turned my back for a moment and he was half way up this dangerous, wooden K2. I snatched him from the stairs, reprimanding myself. He so easily could have fallen backwards and tumbled down 6 or 7 unforgiving stairs. How stupid I am! I was really pissed-off at myself. I mean, Teague can ably entertain himself, and so I typically let him roam the downstairs at will, most of which is baby-proofed; in this case, his abilities suddenly exceeded my precautions. I guess it just shows the necessity for constant vigilance. Now, after improvements, the house has the look of an Iraqi military zone, with multiple barriers, gates, and protective fencing strung along the banisters. It must look to others like we are horribly paranoid parents, but I just can't help but do as much as possible to protect against the unforeseen. I know that I can't protect him from everything in life, a life that is messy, unpredictable, and full of dangerous surprise, but those things that are in my control I must not ignore.

Agnostic Baptism

I heard an interesting report on the radio the other day about a summer camp for kids that is decidedly and pointedly agnostic in regards to the religious belief of the campers, in direct opposition, supposedly, to "Bible Day-Camps" and other faith-oriented brainwashing ventures. The camping, swimming, goofy kids are encouraged to be rational thinkers, and to make decisions about belief that are not pressured by the constricts of so-called faith. I tried to imagine Teague growing up without any kind of network of religious belief and I have mixed feelings about it. How does one encourage basic human decency and a sense of right and wrong without the all-powerful word of god hovering up above and the threat of a searing hell beneath? I have this one friend raised to atheistic parents who felt her sense of good and evil came from The Lord of the Rings trilogy which she read as a child.

Furtherdad is the product of a Catholic upbringing. I'm not disappointed with the human that resulted from the somewhat orthodox Catholic teachings of my youth, and as a logical result, I have to think that perhaps my Catholic upbringing was not as damaging, limiting, or as upsetting as many others report of their own. Perhaps you've heard of the "Recovering Catholic"? I never refer to myself as such, though I haven't called myself Catholic for decades. I just want Teague to be kind to other people, to be altruistic, sensitive and tollerant, and to not to wind up in a tower with a shotgun, raving about religious beliefs and taking sniper-shots at the public. Not too much to ask, I think? But it is a delicate balance, isn't it? My parents were rule-following Catholics, with weekly mass, Lenten observance, CCD, anti-masturbatory teaching, parochial school, parish bridge-club, sacraments, etc, with the occasional exception of the so-called mysterious "dispensation from the Pope" obtained (supposedly) allowing us to miss Sunday mass for extraordinary vacation reasons.

It was reason, philosophy, and the study of world religions during college that soured me on the one-true-faith line of thinking. How many people are there in the world? How many of these humans are NOT Catholic and believe in another god or religious system altogether? And exactly WHY does the Catholic Church (or ANY Christian Church) believe they have the keys to salvation? Are all these others millions (billions, actually) going to some Anglo-conceived hell with a horned devil and a searing pitchfork rammed up the bottoms of those fearful non-believers? It is so self-centered and narrow-thinking to maintain such beliefs.

Anyway, Teague was baptised into the Catholic Church last year due to certain familial pressures and expectations, none of which we were prepared to defy, and which would have resulted in years of family conflict and ostracization had we not proceeded as such. Well, here is how I think of it and try to justify this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo in which I don't truly believe: Baptism is a long-standing, ancient ritual, and the ritual is a beautiful event where all the family gathers to be together and celebrate new life and bringing the child into our community. I am all for that, and so we had a great party with all the family coming in from nearby, and Teague cried out heartily when the water was poured on his head, and afterwards we all ate great food at our house and got loaded. Perhaps some of the more devout in attendance were relieved that Teague was rescued from damnation, or perhaps purgatory, or whatever; I just think of him as a happy baby who had a great party with a warm and loving family in attendance.

Puerto Rican Chicken-pox?

Tuesday,

Tonight, I'm sweating in my office (saving some small money with no AC on) listening to baseball, fuzzy AM radio attenuated even more by the thickness and heat, at the end of a very busy cooking, errand-filled, cleaning day. I felt engaged and happy all day, running around figuring out how to get everything done. Ran with the jog-stroller to a farmer's market for more fresh peaches, went to a nearby park for massive, high-swinging session with Teague, ran errands, went to vet to fetch Doggy-Prozac for Mumi the anxiety-prone cur, walked same cur around the barrio, cooked food for the little guy, and made a massive pot of spaghetti sauce from a HUGE bag of tomatoes donated to us by our neighbors. Teague was a little pain in the neck this afternoon- refusing to nap peacefully, screaming like a madman. He has this high, piercing witch-scream that culminates in pitiful coughing and choking. At first, I found this coughing to be so shocking and dramatic that I would run into his room and hold him close to me as if he were near death, but what I've learned is that he stops choking and coughing and moans himself to sleep, eventually. I guess I've been additionally worried since I still have the lingering memory of Mira and I waking up in the middle of the night when Teague was about 6 months old and hearing him hoarsely coughing and choking, which sounded, startlingly, like the barking of a rabid seal. As we ran downstairs to his crib I felt certain that he was choking on a fishhook or some other strange foreign object, but then, after the 1 AM call to the emergency room, it was determined that he probably had CROUP and so as instructed, we sat in a steamy bathroom for a time, and after a while Teague was laughing and looking a little bit like he had pulled one off in that he was somehow up in the middle of the night, just hanging out with the adults.

But anyway, he had his 1 year doctor's appointment last Friday and the good doctor had nothing at all to say about the choking-screaming-coughing phenomenon, which she just said that some kids do that, and left the room and sent in the torture-nurse who jabbed him with three poison needles. Of course he screamed mightily (as I would too), but he recovered quite quickly and was laughing soon after. No side effects, at least not yet from MMR, Chicken pox and Hep-A. Mira and I had the requisite discussion regarding autism and inoculation fears, but just couldn't find enough reason to get all primitive and refuse vaccinations. Everything else is normal with our little guy, though his head size is still off the charts and he could nearly be mistaken for an hydro-cephalic child.

I cooked "Puerto Rican Chicken" tonight, the primary component of which is Sofrito, a nice blended mix of peppers, onion, garlic, tomato, etc, all mixed up and cooked along with chicken (and beer!). Not bad. I told Mira after a month we'd vote on the dishes I'd concocted recently and decide if any needed to be voted off the island. She said that this one could stay!

Week 1 Wrap-up

Well, week 1 of Furtherdad special daycare is complete, and I am on the verge of a new week. It is Sunday night and Teague is sleeping after a busy day with Mom and Dad. We went out in the morning to watch local triathletes, pushing our jog-stroller in a brisk family trot, and I have to confess that when passing by reflective glass (I can't help but gaze at myself) I'm totally embarrassed by how my gut has returned over the last few months. Perhaps it is because, not only do I continue to eat 3 squares a day, but I also finish whatever Master Teague doesn't eat. That is, I eat whatever has not been cast overboard from the highchair down to Mumi the scavenger hound, which is quite a bit of his food. I think that both the dog and I are gaining weight.

Also, this afternoon we went to a local orthodox church festival, ate awesome fried food and ethnic deserts, and listened to tales of weeping Catholic icons, as we were surrounded by devout adherents bowing and kissing the images. I'm kind of agnostic myself, but I try never to engage in any conversation about metaphysical religious experiences, because, as an agnostic, I mean, you are basically saying, "We just don't know". So, anyway, it was fun and Teague enjoyed pointing at all the gold-inlaid decorations, and the glittering iconography. We left full of greasy ethnic food and fond feelings for their devotions and friendly attention.

So, what do I feel about my first week staying at home? I've been asked this question often this week by family and friends, and not sure what they are expecting me to say. That I found it stressful and difficult? Emotionally and physically draining? Mentally exhausting? No...actually I had fun and enjoyed it immensely. I left a job that required 10-12 hours a day of constant, intense, mental challenge. My computer consulting job required the juggling of multiple parallel tasks, constant communication across continents and cultures, and nearly non-stop tasks to get the work done. Taking care of Teague feels relaxing and stress-free so far.

You might have the following picture of the new stay at home dad: Never gets out of boxer shorts all day. He sits on the couch watching Judge Judy or Heraldo while feeding the baby Cheetos. Drinks beer at noon and fails to shave or shower. Partner arrives home at end of the day to discover baby playing with razor sharp Wusthoff knife set, stove on fire, sink overflowing, soiled diapers scattered about...

Before starting to take care of Teague last Monday morning, I talked seriously to Mira about the future. She has been reading a NYT magazine article about "equal parenting", with anecdotes about how some couples keep spreadsheets to ensure equal adherence to tasks, and stuff like that. But what we discussed is that in my opinion equality only applies to us when we are both home and not "working". I think of my day with Teague as 8 (or more) hours of my pure domestic responsibility, and I'm not at all happy to be lazy or unoccupied, as some might imagine a new dad at home might be. So, I plan out all the meals I'm going to cook for the week, think about tasks I can accomplish when Teague is sleeping, find ways to integrate the little guy into cleaning or organizing, all of this and at the same time trying to find some fun outings for us, do errands, go running, etc. I find myself VERY busy, but in a fun way.

Week 1, my wife Mira has arrived home from work each day, and she has seemed somewhat annoyed (amusingly annoyed, let's say) wondering aloud to me every day how I could have managed to keep the house clean, cook dinner, feed Teague, walk Mumi, organize the closet, water the plants, go running, go to the bank, vacuum the downstairs, etc. She keeps saying, "You're making me look bad! It just doen't seem that hard when you've got 8 or 10 hours in a day and if you treat all of those hours as potentially productive. I mean, after the rigors of consulting project work and the demands of a team lead position, this feels kind of easy. As a result, Mira wants to do more on the weekends because I am taking care of the house and Teague all day, but this is bogus in my mind. She and I need to be EQUAL parents ONLY when we are both not working. Mira overcompensates on the weekends, but I wish she wouldn't. Why should she? She's earning all of our money now!!!

So, here we go into week 2. I've got my grocery list for the week. Come along...

Pre-occupational Therapy

Let's be honest, our baby boy Teague is not in the advanced placement class for physical development for kids of his age. Teague is 1 year old plus a few days, and I can't help but make comparisons with others, his toddler peers, which I know, rationally, that you just shouldn't do this, but emotionally I can't help it. When I see some precocious 1 yr. old striding around in baby-Crocs (Teague is still struggling along on his hands and knees) and spouting a variety of words, sometimes in both English and Spanish, I can't stop myself from saying quite seriously to my son, "Teague, check out this compatriot of yours-> You should try to be more like THAT, I mean, come on, give me at least ONE word! Give me a CAT or a DADDY, or at least TRY to stand up dude, I mean, you've got to WANT IT! Step UP my man!" Today we met one of these genius 1 year-olds who was being paraded past our house by his Mom, and she was super-proud that he could say "Banana", though I have to say that his diction was poor and it really sounded more like "nana" to me, and Mom's enthusiasm wasn't the least bit tempered by the fact that her son referred to most everything in view as "nana", including his mom's cell phone and a nearby tree.

But OK, I'm making light of things, which I suppose is just a defense mechanism. In fact, we've had Teague evaluated for developmental delays. When he was 10 or 11 months old, when babies reportedly should be starting to crawl around madly (or at least should be struggling to do something...anything), we'd put Teague on his stomach and he'd just flail around in Superman position for hours and never move anywhere, or if we lay him on his back he made no effort whatever to roll over, lying there insouciant on his back like some flipped auto-wreck, wheels spinning in perpetuity. This was exacerbated when Mira went to her "New Moms Group" and saw many other kids of the same age doing Olympic-quality gymnastic routines, which really started to cause some anxiety in our house. In our city they have a county sponsored evaluation program for childhood development, and it is free, so we had them come in and evaluate Teague, and he qualified for county services and so we now have an occupational therapist come in to work with baby Teague and recommend exercises and strategies to help him build up those physical skills where he is behind others of the same age. I have mixed feelings about this, especially since Teague seems as happy a little boy as can be and is progressing, albeit maybe a little slowly. I mostly think we should just let things run their course- every baby is different and they develop at different rates, right? Conversely, I think, if there is something, anything, that one can do for one's child- then why not do it, and wouldn't one be remiss for failing to do so? The therapist is sweet and kind and simply plays with Teague and recommends things for us to do, so it all seems harmless despite some strange stigma I feel about the whole endeavor.

Well, the therapist comes again tomorrow, so I'll post more after our next visit...

Sippy Cup Cage Match

Well, at least there were no deaths to speak of in the family today.

My 1 year old boy Teague and I had a standoff this afternoon: Dad vs Son, Sippy-Cup Cage Match, the reverberations of which still hang in the air. My wife Mira and I have been trying to get Teague to graduate to drinking from some kind of sippy cup, which he so far refuses to do, for no real reason I can discern- but then, when did reason ever matter with a 1 yr old? We now have these "Born Free" cups which we just purchased for some preposterously high price off the Web, and while I think Teague understands that he can get juice, milk or water out of this very expensive cup, he insists that Mira or I tilt it back and hold it to his mouth for him; he refuses to grasp the handles with his own hands, or to hold it or tilt it back himself. Clearly he has the dexterity to accomplish this on his own, and he could, should he feel disposed to do so, but he just refuses, preferring that we cater to him. I've had the same sort of standoff with him before, over the cup, and I must confess that he wins every time. So today, I had him in the highchair, his face and hair caked in postprandial sludge, and I put the sippy cup in front of him filled with apple juice. Just to give him a brief taste of the prize, I tilted it to his mouth and gave him a sip, so he would understand the ambrosial reward within. Then, having set it there in front of him on the tray, he first tilted his head down and put his mouth on the cup's spout with his two hands out at his side. Realizing the inefficacy of this method, he took a broad swing at the cup, knocking it to the floor. Undeterred, I replaced it in front of him, evoking from him cries of annoyance and another swing at the cup and once again, retrieval from the floor. I tried to show him my own, fine drinking technique, demonstrating the utility of the two handles. I tried to affix his hands to the handles of the cup to influence him to pick it up, but this generated ever increasing cries of rage and annoyance. And lest you think he simply wasn't thirsty, of course, when I held the juice-cup up for him, he was happy to drink all day. I wasn't trying to torture the poor boy. I mean, I wanted the young Master Teague to have some apple juice, but must we forever peel his grapes and pour the wine down his gullet? Oh well, he cried voluminously and then went down for a nap. I'm sure the scene will repeat itself in the days ahead.

Finally, I will mention the Curse of the Spaniel. My wife and I have an annoying dog named Mumi, of which I am sure you will hear much more in these posts. She awakened Teague from his afternoon nap after only 30 min today, when she flew into a canine rage of barking and snarling directed at the dangerous UPS man who had the temerity to ring our bell with a package. Of course, once the door was opened and the threat in Brown revealed, our hound was all licking and sycophantic tail wagging. Teague, of course, by then was screaming madly one floor above....

Sunrise Sunset

Today, Monday July 28th, my wonderful partner Mira resumed work at her chosen profession, and I took over as full time Dad at home, caring for our 1 year old son Teague. I am tired. I am not tired as a result of some trite explanation that one might expect from the male/female dichotomy and neophyte father, such as, "Now he realizes how hard it is to be at home! I bet he never expected it to be so tough!" No, the reason I'm tired is because my Grandmother (on my Mom's side) died last night. Mira and I were already in bed when the phone rang at 10:30 PM, and I thought, then, of the saw, "Good news always sleeps 'till noon", and though we tried to ignore the alarum, the ringing re-started several times in a row, which we knew could not be a good sign, and so Mira ran down to the phone. It was my Mom, crying and informing us that my 102 year old Grandmother had just passed away that night, a few hours back. At 102, we weren't totally shocked by this news, but I was sad and deflated by my Mom's information, as I had been quite close to my Grandma for many years beforehand. I did not cry on the phone with my Mom, and wondered if I might be strangely inured to grief or tragedy, but as soon as I hung up the phone and Mira reached out and enfolded me in her arms, I broke down in tears. And so I spent a complicated night on the telephone with various airlines, most of whom informed me that they had no bereavement fares, and could do no better than $1000 for a flight to my Grandma's hometown, and anyway not ONE airline could get me to my destination before the final viewing of her body, which had to be kind of quick, since they weren't doing any kind of enbalming or anything My Grandma wanted, as per her instructions, to be cremated quickly without ceremony, and so most family couldn't get there in time for the next day's viewing. Can't blame her there. I think of my Grandpa's funeral (her husband) with morbid recall, seeing the embalmed and makeup-ed corpse as a 10 year old boy and my Grandma commanding me to kneel and pay respects with by other siblings, crying and not really understanding this deathly tableua.

Anyway, hope for more jovial posts in the future