Friday, February 28, 2014

A Doll's House: Ibsen in a blender.



When I was just shy of 3 1/2, I went before the omnipotent Santa to plead my case. I had been a very, very good boy, and all I wanted for Christmas was-

a doll.

Like grandma's.

Santa's eyes glazed over.

"A doll?" In all fairness, maybe he was just a slow processor. But even at three years old, I noticed he could no longer make eye contact with me. Was I supposed to say something else? In defiance of the laws of nature, the pause did indeed grow...

...well,

More Pregnant.

Finally, at some point he felt the need to heal me.

"How about a football?"

"No, thank you. I just want a doll like grandma's."

"Are you sure you don't want a football?"

I stood my ground. I got my doll. Now, more than 50 years and a black eye (for the doll) later, my son has that doll. It's wearing  sailor outfit, custom-made by my mom. So back off, y'all; it may be a doll, but it's also a sailor with a black eye.

So, I have no problem with Jay playing with dolls, or with a doll house. So goes our story for today...

We took Jay to another visit at Stuntman School (tumbling class) today. He did great. He was a fanatical volunteer every time Miss Candace needed to demonstrate a new move (God help the child that tries to get in front of him for that job). He mostly waited his turn at the stations, and bounced and bounced and had a blast. We went to Friendly's for lunch where the bouncing continued. Eighty percent of the table was cleared, blocked off, and declared a tremor zone. We escaped with minimal damage, and went in search of another outlet for his energy. The bouncy house place at the mall was closed (seriously? on a Wednesday afternoon?). So we headed into downtown Rutland (VT) in hopes of visiting the children's museum. It, too, was closed. It was cold and blustery outside, the streets and sidewalks had a bit of ice and snow, and crutching back uphill to our parking spot was not an inviting proposition. We ducked into a toy store to warm up.

My friend Donna recently posted a meme on my Facebook timeline that said, "A toddler is like having a blender without a lid." If that's true (and I'm here to tell you it is), I'm thinking a toddler in a toy store is like a Tasmanian devil with a lawnmower.

Jay started by emptying the basket of balls onto the floor. There were fourteen balls. I know because "Help us count them and put them back" failed completely, pathetically.

He found a play house set with lots of colorful-looking parts pictured on the side of the box. He dragged the box like a wrecking ball down the aisle. Laura asked him if he wanted it. I think she's been wanting to give him a doll house for quite a while.

Jay said "YES!!!" He threw the box her way and moved on.

He moved a Bruder truck aside to pull out the bunny rabbit play house. He played with the demo set, pulling out all of the little drawers and overturning all of the furniture. There were wounded and distressed bunnies everywhere, lying face down and in other less-than-natural postures. He moved on to paint sets, trying to rip out particular colors ("I want PURPLE!"), dragging a box of gouache tubes and one of my crutches down the center aisle of the store. I hopped and staggered behind.

"JAY."

He stopped. "Sorry, Daddy." He handed me my crutch.

And bolted again. But, he wanted to play fair. Bless his manic little heart.

At the back of the store, a blue cloud arose. At least I knew where to find him. Little pink dresses wilted, plastic bunnies cried out, then melted. My dear boy continued running until he found a rubber bouncy horse. What does one do with a rubber bouncy horse?

Mount up and bounce. Bouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncybouncy...

...the blue cloud thickened.

He dismounted, grabbed a couple of toys off the shelf and bolted for the front door. When Jay reached the cashier stand, he noticed something in the front window.

"Clifford!" There was a Clifford the Big Red Dog something-or-other in the window. It stopped him. Laura handed me the diaper bag. The shop owner that yes, they had a bathroom and changing table in the back, but could we please be sure to take out our stinkies? Jay and I were led through the curtain to the back of the shop, and into the bathroom.

I closed the door, and began laying out the things I would need- pad to cover the store's changing pad, a diaper, wipes (LOTS of wipes), and a plastic bag to haul off The Offensives. I turned around and Jay was washing his hands.

In the toilet.

Thankfully I was able to convey, through my best OMFG countenance, that he should just submit and lie quietly on the table. The diaper change was epic (remember the rubber bouncy horse?). Words fail me. Of course, Jay found a way to break the mood. He began singing one of the more obscure songs on his favorite Ozomatli CD.

"We are the OZO Kids,
And we came here to ROCK with YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU".

I didn't even know he knew that song. Nestled between favorites "Moose on the Loose" and "Germs" on the CD, he never wanted to listen to it all the way through. Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay...I joined in. We are the OZO kids...

I finished and put him down. He pulled out a step stool (which I hadn't even seen), climbed onto it, and said, "I need to wash my hands." GOD I love that boy. We both washed our hands with extra soap, extra water, and extra scrubbing.

I was putting everything back into the diaper bag when the bathroom door flew open, and he was loose in the BACK of the toy store. Between me and him were two askew crutches and a half-filled diaper bag, with the shoulder strap tangled in a crutch. There, just outside the door, was a tall stack of rubber bouncy horses in boxes. He grabbed the bottom box. "Daddy! I want it!" I got a hand on the bottom box and another on the top, and squeezed. The stack stayed together, and I returned it to its vertical state. He shrieked, and grabbed again and again. The Kitchen-Do maneuvers I've been practicing came in handy as I blocked move after move. He stopped and shifted to a new attack.

"Okay, how about THIS?" He began dismantling a play kitchen set. I picked him up with my left arm, threw both crutches under my right arm, and turned him away. I set him back down, and asked him to go through the curtain and find Mommy. Thankfully, and for no rhyme or reason, he did. She was at the cashier stand, where she had purchased the doll house. It had one hundred and thirty-nine pieces, over a hundred of which are choking hazards.

Jay was so frantic to get to his new toy that he could barely get into his car seat. I finally strapped him in, and plopped the box onto his lap. He was thrilled. I truly think the box was gift enough. The unopened box held the fantasy of play yet to come, the promise of adventures yet to unfold. His right hand moved over the top to death-grip the handle; his left pulled it securely to his chest. As he fell asleep, the box began to slip. His last flickers of consciousness were spent trying desperately to hold on. Finally slumber and gravity reigned, as they always do.

When we got home, Laura decided all of the parts should come out. She and Jay set up the house. They lovingly, tenderly, put together the parts, and decorated the house. They fed the dolls pretend turkey, they gave them pretend baths, and rocked the baby in the cradle. Then Jay provided them with pretend terror, rocking the house in classic 1970's disaster-movie fashion. The doll house, designed to fold neatly together for carrying, came apart at the hinges. Furniture and bodies poured out onto the floor. Choking hazards were scattered to the winds. 

Jayzilla hath wrought his havoc.

Eventually order was restored, and the house was rebuilt so well I could feel the collective shudder of All-State agents from all over the country. Policies were re-written; I'm sorry sir/ ma'am, but Jayzilla insurance is not available in your area.

Jay was tired, finally, and it was time for milk and stories. 

I felt like I'd spent my entire day in a blender. Little did I know I was just getting started.

Thursday, February 27, 2014

Holding back the 12-ton dump truck.



I have received a few comments about the word "old" in the title of this blog. I thought it might be a good idea to address my take on the subject.

Did you ever have one of those cars that kept accumulating "character", but just kept running?

In 1995 I bought a 1982 Toyota station wagon with 160,000 miles on it. I got it off a "buy-here/ pay-here" lot in Albuquerque. It carried all my stuff, which consisted of two backpacks stuffed with camping gear, a duffle bag of ropes and climbing gear, and a couple of bags of clothing, boots, and a few random artifacts of a previous life. Since it was a Southwest Car, the body was in good shape, and the engine sounded solid. It sported a nice 33 mpg. It fit my needs perfectly.

That car took me across the country for over four years, through mountains and canyons, dust and mud, and even outran a Kansas twister or two. On one of those trips across Kansas, the hood latch said "screw it" and walked off the job. I was staring at a large brown sheet of metal, driving 75 mph, and Roy Orbison was warbling "...a love so beautiful..." at about 95 decibels. Thankfully I was in the western end of the state, where traffic is sparse. I pulled over, using my side windows and mirrors to navigate onto the breakdown lane. I opened the back end, found a climbing sling, and tied down the hood well enough to make it to a truck stop. From that point on, the hood was tied on the inside with the sling, while two rubber trucking tie-down straps, the kind with the giant "s" hooks, criss-crossed over the hood to hold it flat to the rest of the car.

When it needed a new starter, I chugged along for an extra six months with a hammer at my side. If the starter wouldn't engage, I unstrapped the hood, cracked it with the hammer a couple of times, and off we went. After this stopped working, I tried to replace it myself but to no avail. When the mechanic tried to remove the old unit, he broke a mounting bolt off of the engine block. He had to weld a new bolt in place so he could attach the new (rebuilt) starter.

A red plastic report cover, the kind we used in school that you could see through, lived under the passenger seat along with some red electrical tape. When "things happened" to tail lights and brake lights, they were covered.

I resisted the urge to connect the stars (chips) on the windshield to form constellations.

And so it went, and so it went, the little things accumulating, but the car ran great. I expected, with good reason, to easily get to 300,000 miles before I would have to think about a replacement. 

I ran an evening and continuing education program at the University of Cincinnati throughout the late 1980's and all of the 1990's. One fine spring day in 1999, I pulled to a stoplight in Clifton, near the university. The odometer read 230,003 miles. A truck pulled up behind me, and stopped. The light turned green, and before my foot even left my brake pedal, I was slammed violently from behind. The driver of a twelve-ton dump truck had let his foot slip off the clutch. His truck lurched forward and crushed my car. 

The End.

I buried it in the back of the parking lot of an apartment complex known for towing off even the kindest of visitors. I hugged the hood, took my straps with me, and said goodbye.

And, so it is with my body. As Indiana Jones said at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, it ain't the years, it's the mileage.

I will preface this by saying, this is not a bitch list. It's a fact list. I am not complaining.

I have a hearing aid for my deaf right ear as a result of a whitewater rafting mishap. My "good" left ear has age-related hearing loss, known as presbycusis.

Years of guiding and teaching at high altitude placed me in more than one situation where replenishing sunscreen wasn't a feasible option. Thus I have a slightly-off-color skin graft on the end of my nose from a basal-cell skin cancer lesion. I'll have more lesions removed this spring or summer.

I wear bifocals, and I changed to a multi-vitamin with lutein to slow the macular degeneration taking place in my eyes.

I have been a drummer, guitarist, ice cream scooper, carpenter, and rockclimber. Arthritis is settling into my hands.

My right ankle was surgically fused to reduce discomfort and to allow me to regain some sense of fitness. 

I take medications for high blood pressure and diabetes, both of which have more to do with my weight than my age, but those things are not unrelated. Weight and aging are indeed intertwined; being fat has made me older faster. While I don't obsess about my history, it looms in the rear-view mirror.

It's time to put some distance between myself and the twelve-ton dump truck. I have no desire to sit around until I am crushed from behind.

My body has lots of mileage-related quirks. It's fine; like the Toyota, they have come on slowly over the years. I have adapted. 

I have a great deal of clarity about my strengths and weaknesses.

I'm not one who feels sad or wistful about any of this; it's all a sign of a life well-lived, and one that is still vibrant. My son challenges me to grow every day, and can imagine nothing that will help me stay off the "Frail Trail" more effectively than my days with him. 

I don't have the negative emotional attachment that many people have to the word "old". I choose to own it, to be proud of where my years have taken me, and where they have led me. When people say "Jeff, you're not old", I guarantee you in the world of parenting, I'm in the 99th percentile. Look it up. For first-time dad-hood, I'm old.

What it comes down to is our own definition, and the emotions we attach to the word.

For me,"old" is wisdom. "Old" is experience. "Old" is having no regrets. It's having more to offer my son than I ever could have at 24, or 34 years of age. "Old" is having stories to tell my son that he'll find hard to believe. I'm glad there are boxes of slides in the basement to back up my words. 

It means knowing that my days to dance with my son aren't as plentiful as they once were, so I savor them more. It means understanding that my job is to prepare him for life without me. As his independence grows, so must my awareness that he still needs me, even as his words and actions say otherwise. I can say that because at age 54, I know how much I still need my parents. A younger me might feel more resentment, might not recognize how his needs would be expressed tacitly.

"Old" means having to pay attention to what I eat and what I do. Old is being aware of mortality, and doing what I can to forestall it. It means that I need to take action now to remain vibrant and youthful, within the limitations I have already added to my body. It means continual reinvention. 

For me, "old" is having 230,000 miles on the engine, rubber straps on the hood, stars on the windshield, a few extra pieces bolted/ welded/ taped on to help out with the necessary functions, and knowing there is still at least a good 70k or more left in me. 

So long as I stay ahead of the dump truck.




Sunday, February 23, 2014

Kitchen-Do



At least I'm not a monk doing a sand painting.

I'm trying to convince myself to settle into a slow, meditative and disciplined state of mind when I try to cook while crutch-bound. Everything takes a long time. I can manage to carry a dish or two at a time, and it takes three or four hops to get to the utensils. I can grab an ingredient or three, maybe more if some of them fit into the baggy pockets of my People Of WalMart pants. My arms just span the distance from the kitchen counter to the island where I usually do prep, and where the stove and oven live. When no one is watching, I move things from counter to counter using long, sweeping motions, inventing martial arts katas in order to avoid tedium-induced madness (it occurs to me as I'm writing, maybe I do this because it's too late?).

A Rachael Ray 30-minute meal, already a bit of a farce, now takes an hour-plus, but in the process I get to sever the head of an imaginary enemy with a box of corn muffin mix. Ninjas are no match for the sharp, jagged edge of a lasagna noodle (all pasta meals involve some sort of "in-Jeff's-mind" version of Kendo). You don't want to know what happens to the "heads" of lettuce. I "rei" to the cat when I'm done.

Did I mention that cooking on crutches is tedious?

For the record, there is no way any of this happens in front of my very serious, very German wife. I play it straight. Some questions are just unanswerable. I can still choose my internal dialogue, though. I am one with the slotted spoon; use the attacker's own energy and he will strain himself...

I am trying to find ways to let Jay help. He can pour ingredients into a mixing bowl and help to stir, and few things in the house are more fun than the salad spinner. Next I think we'll have him help assemble salads- "Give that one four tomato pieces. Um, yeah, leave that one in your mouth. Well then, put it on mommy's salad. Now put on six carrot pieces." 

He loves to pull everything out of the bottom cupboards and "cook." Yesterday morning I attempted to make omelets for breakfast. Within seconds the kitchen floor was re-tiled with baking sheets and cooling racks. Mixing bowls surrounded my feet. I had been captured and was about to be burned at the stake. 

I tried to bribe him with the promise of food. 

"Honey, do you want an egg?" I tried to make "egg" sound as exciting as the salad spinner, and failed.

"Nope." He didn't even look up. His concentration was unshakable. I had to pull out the big gun, the one I hate to use as a mere distraction. I received the necessary vote of approval when my stomach growled in a way that said, "There are age-old ways to use a skillet, and your wife will be in from feeding the horses soon. Your family needs food. Make it so."

"Jay, do you want to watch Steve, or Joe?" Those are the hosts of his favorite Nick jr. TV show, Blues Clues. My self-loathing lasted at least seven or eight seconds. He settled in with Steve and Blue. 

Upon returning to the kitchen, I channeled the opening sequence of the old TV show Kung Fu. I negotiated the rice paper (baking sheets) like a one-legged Kwai Chang Caine. After reaching the far end, I looked back. Everything was unmoved, in one piece, with no tears (double entendre intended). 

The cat (who is deaf, not blind like Caine's mentor, but still a tad metaphoric) nodded his approval.

Friday, February 21, 2014

A blue cloud

Friends of mine are waiting for their turn in line, hoping to adopt a newborn baby. It's taking a long time. They are using a service that fits what sort of process makes them comfortable, and are willing to wait for everything to be "right." I commend them for their patience.

I recently sponsored and presented an award at a gallery show, and asked the husband to help entertain Jay while the opening reception/ awards ceremony took place. During the course of the evening, he asked me, "So, what's the worst "bodily function stuff" you've gotten on you?"

Seriously? Oh dear friend, if you think you're going to raise a child shit-free, let's sit down and chat.

We were pleasantly surprised at the lack of repulsion we experienced for the first several months after Jay was born. I thought, "Wow. This is just not so bad at all!" I should note, though, that what he lacked in aroma was compensated for in distance. I fully expected, and prepared for, the pee-pee shower. I got caught off-guard once, in a hurry and hopeful. I lost. Otherwise, a cloth diaper over the boyhood kept things localized during diaper changes. What I never saw coming, and was never ever warned about by ANY friends, parents, or even Heidi Murkoff's effing "What To Expect" baby owner's manual, was The Projectile Bowel Movement. One late, tired night a brown stream a half inch in diameter and four feet long completely cleared the end of the changing table and fully violated the glider rocker -a point I will be sure to forget when it goes back on Craig's List (where we found it in the first place). Raising a baby, and now a toddler-turning-into-boy, is simultaneously impressive and disgusting.

Things changed when he started eating "people food". I was never one to keep score over diaper changes (over 2000 in the first year, but I wasn't really counting), but things got much more competitive between Laura and me once the bouquet achieved the power to singe nose hairs. Still, at first, he was fairly quiet for his changes, and small enough to restrain when necessary.

Now we find ourselves entering into a new era, where Jay's fascination with the excretory process is heightening. 

Jay enjoys walking around with his hand on his right bum cheek. Hey, who wouldn't, right? I expect the best way to cement such a behavior is to tell him he shouldn't. Also, lately, he has not wanted to wear pants at all in the morning while we're at home. I'm fine with that. 

This morning, my "open-mindedness" backfired. I noticed that his diaper was getting heavy, so I dug into his diaper bag and pulled out a "freshy". He saw me and bolted. For whatever reason, diaper changes are a point of contention. Anyway, I tried to coax him over. I'm still on crutches, and there is a circle around our couches in the living area. A chase would be useless, other than empowering him to run more often for more reasons. I mentioned that his Nana was coming over, and we should get dressed. He smiled, said "NANA!" excitedly, and took a few steps my way. His Muse of Roguery intervened, and sent him running the other way. I gave up and turned around in an attempt to take some energy out of the situation.

"Daddeeeeeee, no diaper!"

I turned back, and he was waving the very full, very heavy, very wet diaper over his head. He dropped it onto the carpet and ran into his "thinking corner". He squatted.

I expected the worst. To be honest, I haven't yet gone to make sure nothing happened over there, but given that he can transform the living room air into a dense blue cloud through a diaper and heavy sweat pants, I assume at this point I would know by now if he had dropped a bare-assed load on the floor. I'm still not going to look, although given that he has a decidedly distinct essence and form, it would be hard to blame it on the cats. There has been no blue cloud to this point. The cats are off the hook, I think.

Anyway, I asked him to throw his diaper in the trash. He LOVES throwing things in the trash, so he was happy to comply. On the way back, he stood on the tile floor for a second before I noticed that the lower front of his shirt was soaked. I looked for my crutches, and started thinking about how I was going to corner him. When I looked back, he was splashing his hands on the floor. 

"Daddeeeeeeeeeeeeee! It's a MESH!!! It's a MESH!!!!!" (meaning "mess"- we're still working on those "S" sounds".

Then, he shoved his wet hands into his mouth.

My disgust was clear enough that it broke the dynamic. With virtually no words exchanged, he walked into his room and lay down on the floor for a fresh diaper, and a clean shirt and pants.

He is reaching the age where the fascination will only grow, as well as his desire and willingness to maintain control over the situation. Developmental psychologists regard toilet training as "the first battle the child knows they can win."

We will keep approaching this with as much positive reinforcement as possible. He's already a control freak. There may be some truly "dirty" salvos fired. Even once he is trained, there will be accidents to clean, and it'll make changing dirty diapers seem like a desirable regression.  

As with all things, this too shall pass. Along with it will go the baby-like giggle, the toddler-ese language, and other charms of the age. If we do anything right, it will be to help him to retain the joy in simple pleasures, to stay happy and self-assured, and in the end, to do the right thing. 

And okay, I'd be fine if at some point he takes his hand off his ass.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Better living through...

The first line on the back of the Johnson and Johnson's "baby bedtime lotion" bottle says, in bold letters,

We love babies.

The next paragraph explains how the lotion helps babies go to sleep. It touts, this time in capital letters,

CLINICALLY PROVEN MILDNESS (TM)

And, while it's:

Always Mild & Gentle (bold letters),

we need to remember to

Keep out of reach of children (also bold).

I get it, I don't want him rubbing this stuff in his eyes.

It has a wondrous lavender aroma. It's smooth and non-greasy (my words), and I use it myself for winter eczema. The cats love it, both for the great smell, and the apparently yummy flavor.

The ingredients are a tribute list to American chemical engineering. The first three are expected and identifiable- water, mineral oil, and glycerin. H two-OH and slippery stuff.

It starts getting good with "Carbomer."

Phenoxyethanol (alcohol), and Ceteareth-6, which must be quite a step up from Ceteareth-5... and

Fragrance. What's the organic chem formula for Fragance? Anybody?

And, here come the "Bens." I have known several Bens in my life, and have enjoyed them all. All good men, fun guys. This group must be related, as I see what I assume to be a "legacy name" they all share for their middle name: Para. I'm guessing Methyl and Ethyl were fraternal twins? And, the "surprise" baby sib, Propyl, which I hope is also some legacy name.

Add a couple of more alcohols, an acid, and we finish with-

wait.

Sodium hydroxide? As in lye?

I guess something has to offset the acid? It's the very last ingredient, so how bad can it be?

It's not like I'm rubbing lye all over his body, or mine for that matter.

Truth be told, I'm NOT one to get freaked out by this stuff. I'm sure there are "natural" alternatives.There are also "natural" deodorants, which generally don't deodorize anything. I'll go with what works, natural or otherwise. I expect to get my allotted 80-ish years, and yes, something will catch up with me at some point.

I know people who make a show about doing everything "natural", who want to world to know (and this is a quote from one mother),

"I'm not giving my baby that shit!"

That was in reference to a vitamin.

I'm all in on being cleaner and more attuned to natural options. We are growing more of our own food each year, and hope to add beef or chickens this year. Both, if things go well. we are working our way to a greater food and energy independence.

There is a huge outcry right now against genetically modified organisms (GMOs) in our food chain. I will agree that some of the chemistry involved is suspect, and is interfering with the organic movement. I cannot agree that it is all bad, and should be dismissed out of hand as evil.

Ecologists set the carrying capacity of our planet at somewhere around ten billion people. That is, if resources are properly distributed (a point of massive failure even now), the planet can support about ten billion people with food and water. At our current rate of population growth, we may reach that before I expire. Jay will certainly see that in his lifetime. If we aren't figuring out ways to create more food on less land and with less water, in other words, genetically modifying our food supply to increase yield,, we all will pay. Not only will there be a resource shortage, but it's foolhardy to think there won't be an associated social upheaval.

This is where my blabbering ties into dad-hood. What WILL Jay see in his lifetime? He will see shortages in food, water, and energy. How bad will it get? We have some control over that at this point, but with each lazy, we'll-get-around-to-it year that passes, our window of opportunity slides closer and closer to shutting itself.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Early morning.


Nudge.

Nudge.

Jab. 

JAB, dammit!

Time to interpret. I had my good ear up, so I must have been snoring. I changed my head position, and burrowed a little deeper. Then I heard it; I was being paged. 

"Daddy, Daaaaddy..."

3:45 am. 

Here we go again.

Once Jay heard my crutches clacking on the floor, he quieted down. It impresses me when he does that, as patience is not a strong suit for him. I suspect it's that way for many two-year-olds. I stopped at the fridge and filled a sippy cup of milk. I clicked and clacked to his door and opened it. He quietly whimpered, then began to cry. "I'm scared." 

Daddy's here, honey.

I picked him up, knelt down to the floor, and the crying intensified. I handed him the milk, and he suckled himself back to some point of comfort. I pointed to the glider rocker and asked, "Do you want to rock?" 

He pointed out the door, to the living room. Okay, we wanted THAT rocker. I said, "That's fine, if you want to walk out there with me." He slid down to the floor, and waddled, with his thick overnight diaper and sleeper shaping his movements.

We assumed our normal position in the recliner, rocking slightly while he sucked down about half of the milk. He handed me the bottle, and rolled chest-to-chest with me. He rested his head under my chin, and went back to sleep. I reclined a bit, and relaxed in hopes of going back to sleep myself. My thoughts wandered so many places, but seemed to settle on recounting any number of my social and physical failures.

The original fall which shattered my ankle 14 years ago, was both. I was in a downward spiral personally. I began my role as director of an 81-day Outward Bound Semester Course emotionally exhausted, and anything but clear-headed. The staff did not get the emotional or physical support needed from me, a problem that became especially pronounced as the weather in the Sangre De Cristo range was miserable for the first two weeks of the course. Once we got to the Sonoran Desert for the rockclimbing portion of the course, I was bent on making it up to them. Of course, this tainted my judgment. I took on a climb near the outer reaches of my ability, and I hadn't climbed much during the summer. The looks on the faces of the instructors who helped carry me out was enough. No one needed to say how disgusted they were. In the end, I would become the model for "things not to do as an Outward Bound Course Director." 

Jay shifted his weight, lifted his head and turned from his left cheek to his right. He pulled his hands under his face to form a pillow. He cooed in approval of his new-found comfort. He jammed his elbow into my throat.

I gently shifted his arm, and turned my head. He grunted, but accepted the new position.

I returned to my reverie. 

The snow fell heavily. My wife, with a history of two herniated discs earned as a large animal veterinarian, is wearing down. The extra burden of taking care of two horses, wrenching one wheelbarrow load after another of manure, hay, and bedding, lifting and wrestling with Jay, shoveling out large snowfall after large snowfall, driving Jay to daycare and picking him up a few days a week (on top of long, hard workdays), she has stepped up to the challenge and then some. However, it's wearing thin, and her back is getting toasty. There was no way to predict this winter would come about the way it has, not back when we scheduled this. She has adapted, using snowshoes to tramp down a path to the barn, and to help her make the climb back up. My mind rolled from movie clip to movie clip of her day's activities. The genesis of this situation is not lost on me. 

Jay stretched mightily, thrusting his foot into my crotch. I arched my backed reflexively, and he flopped to his side. I pulled his foot out and placed it more comfortably. Well, at least it was more comfortable for me. He objected, and slammed it back where he had it. I let out a grunt, and did some quick biomechanic reckoning. I changed the angle of the recliner, and that allowed him a more relaxed angle for his legs. I sighed in relief. 

Finally, sleep came.

I am at a street fair of some sort. I wander from exhibits to games, to entertainment. As I stroll along, I feel some discomfort in my ankle. I realize I no longer have my crutches. I hobble around trying to locate them, hazily stumbling, hoping to find them before my ankle gives out completely. An unfamiliar but friendly face stepps in front of me. "I think you might need these."
"Hopefully not for much longer. Thank you."
When I turn around, I am with my family at the trailhead for Haystack Mountain. We are heading into the unknown, about to test the surgeon's work, as well as my own concurrent efforts. Have I done "enough"? Have I honored my wife's efforts? Are we ready for this?

The alarm blasted away from the bedroom. Jay had tampered with the volume dial the day before, and turned it up full blast. I heard a grunt and a "smack" from the bedroom as Laura responded in disgust. Jay didn't budge.

I was starting to feel the effects of the past two hours of this 33-pound lump on my chest. My lungs were fussing a bit, so I raised the recliner to a more upright position. My breathing eased. Jay straightened out his legs, and nearly slid onto the floor. Still, he didn't awaken. Finally, he dismounted, rubbed his eyes open, and turned to me. 

"Hi daddy."

Good morning, Jay.

The snow is falling again. We're supposed to get one to three inches, but even inside the house it feels like there will be more. Laura is in the garage, strapping on her snowshoes. Time to feed the horses.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Stick.

I watched my son graduate to "Little Boy" today.

I know, it's been coming on for a while. There have been signs. But today, I watched it happen. My brain saw a different person, a public persona, an independent kid running around on his own turf, making friends and owning his space.

Yikes.

Last Wednesday, we went to Rutland, Vermont to get the van serviced, and to check out Head Over Heels Gymnastics. While we were at the Toyota dealer, Jay was not too kind to the folks in the waiting room. An elderly woman tried to help him up when he tripped. He pointed and screeched like a transformed alien from "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." A man tried to sit down in a chair, and Jay jumped at him and screamed "MINE!" He ran in circles, spilled toys everywhere, refused to clean up, and climbed onto (and jumped off of) every raised surface in the show room. For now, at least, he still seems to get the "Cute Toddler" waiver. Everyone was WAY too kind and patient. His Blue-Eyes-And-Dimple hall pass is about to expire.

After the service department was finished, we still had to wait while Laura over-chatted with the sales person who wanted us to trade our 16-month-old van for a brand new model. I let Jay get a little louder and even more animated, and our keys and van quickly appeared with a smile and a "We parked it right out front for you."

From there we went to Friendly's for a quick breakfast before tumbling class. He plowed through two pancakes and an egg before I ate half that much. I found myself hoping he would keep it all down once he started bouncing and rolling.

He did great in his class. He barely sat down (for stretching and instructions), but he was in a new environment and needed to explore. Miss Candace, the instructor, was great. We were really impressed. She knows what to expect from toddlers, how to teach them, when to engage and when to allow exploration, and simply has the "right" energy for this age group. As the hour went on, Jay picked up more and more cues about what was expected. He waited his turn. He listened for instructions. We had hoped he would learn something about safe landings, and Miss Candace did not disappoint. She spent time with him showing him how to "stick" when he landed.

He had a blast. And, it was not lost on him that he was surrounded by pretty girls.

Today we went back for open gym. Jay already knew the rules, and went off on his own as soon as he got his shoes off. He jumped onto things, off of things, bounced on pads and mats; when he thought no one was watching he jumped off of a block onto the padded floor, landed in a crouch, and said to himself, "STICK."

When he needed a break, he would walk down to the other end of the gym where they have some climbing structures and slides. He played, or relaxed at a picnic table, and went back out to the floor. It was fun, albeit bittersweet, to see him in such control of himself. He still has to learn some rules, but he came a long way this week.

We left the gym, and headed to Glens Falls for a birthday party. He napped for about an hour on the drive there. The party was at Party Palace, a "bouncy house" and arcade emporium in the Aviation Mall. Again, Jay was in his element. He moved largely independently, with Laura following along as best she could. I watched from a centrally located seat as he made choices, talked with his friends, and simply made a fun day for himself. He even rolled out of one of the bouncy houses, onto his feet, and whispered "stick!"

I have to admit to one bit of derelict parenting. When the food came, he had no idea how to manage a slice of pizza. We have always cut it into pieces for him. The poor guy sat there with pizza on his plate, trying to watch the other kids for a clue, but in the end he looked over to me for guidance. Laura tore the slice into pieces for him. I was kind of hoping she would help him to unlock the mystery, but that can wait for another day.

It was just a really different day for me. I saw a boy running around, instead of my toddler. I saw independent decision making, some of which made me quite proud (like when his best friend ran off in a tantrum, and Jay stayed close by instead of running with him). He still had a thuggish moment with a small boy (he seems to sense non-assertive boys and gets mean toward them- UGH), and the end-of-the-party meltdown wasn't pretty. On the whole, though, this is a day that will "stick" with me. Time after time he showed me that he is piecing together lessons from many different experiences, and that he's ready to start owning more of his world. It's a good thing. His Cute Toddler waiver is just about used up.




Thursday, February 13, 2014

4:30 a.m. A visitor.

Lying on my son's bedroom floor, 4:30 this morning. Foam pads and bedspread under me. My star quilt, a gift from those I served on the Cheyenne River Reservation in 2001, bunched up over my core. My cast and my ankle have agreed on a cease-fire for a bit. Jay has rolled over, and backed into me , in a reverse-burrow maneuver. A toddler spoon fully nestled in the bowl of a serving spoon. He fits, at this moment, in this configuration, perfectly from my thighs to just below my chin. I bend to kiss him, carelessly bristling my whiskers on the top of his head. He shakes his head in silent revolt, then grabs my hand and pulls it around him, tucking it below his belly. A sigh, and he resumes his steady, slightly congested breaths. My mind wanders, and in this peace, this ultimate innocent intimacy, the words begin to flow. My muse is in the room, and verse flows like sweet water, musically, freely. Sadly the words would be gone with the morning light. These verses were but a temporary gift, to soften the floor, to relax the arm stretched over his torso, to keep the cast and ankle at peace, for a few more hours. They completed their work, and moved on.

Jay has been waking up nearly every night, usually around 4 am. This is not just "my child gets up too early". He goes back to sleep, and sleeps well until we get up around 6:30. We have pushed back his bedtime, we've done all the usual stuff. It's NOT just him waking up for the day. What tells me so, more than anything, is that this began the week of my surgery. I think that while he has adapted on the outside, playing and eating normally, and has accepted my limitations on the surface, somewhere inside it still bugs him. In the past, he would awaken at night and go back to sleep. Now, it's my belief that he wants to see me, to know that I'm alright. There are no sure answers, but when he sees me, and I hold him, he readily goes back to sleep, but only on the floor, with me beside him.


I'm okay with that. I'm not looking for arm-chair psychologists, I've had too many fights over Ferber-izing, and other book/ internet geniuses that tell us what research says works for everyone. I deal with my son the way I always have. I look at him. I communicate with him. I help him to meet his own needs whenever possible, and provide for those he can't take care of himself. If he needs to feel dad's touch, to see that I'm okay, it's okay. This is a 24-7-365 job. 


I find ways to meet my own needs, to take care of myself. Outward Bound staffers always reminded each other, at every departure into the backcountry; "Take care of yourself out there." At 54 years of age, on crutches in the coldest and snowiest winter in many many years, I have no other choice. Burnout is not an option, nor is it imminent. 


If Jay wakes again tonight, and he likely will, I will give him a chance to doze back off. We have another snow day coming tomorrow, and I will need a full night's rest to keep up with him. I'll be in bed early tonight. If he persists, as I expect he will, Laura will nudge me (I tend to sleep with my deaf right ear up) and say, "You're being paged." This morning she offered to go to him, but she works long hours, and will be driving in unfriendly highway conditions later today. I want her to sleep. I'll get up, and Jay and I will snuggle each other back to sleep. My muse, with her soft verses, may drop by to see if she is needed. 

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

I Do All My Own Stunts.

Toddler Stunt Kit (toddler not included)




Sigh. 


I don't think anyone saw me as a "risk-taker" early in my life. Oh, wait, there WAS that time I jumped out of the second-floor hay loft onto the ground below, just to see if I could. Somehow I didn't really consider that gravity is largely a constant. In general, though, I was a bit shy and tended to play things safe. From what I can tell of Laura, she has always been very much that way.


So, where did this kid come from? He was gestated in slaughterhouses, listening to the Caribbean and Latino music played by the migrant workers there (Laura is a USDA veterinarian). Did that setting provide Laura with a slow and steady flow of adrenaline? Was my baby born a true adrenaline junky? 


Was it her pre-natal cravings for curry? 


His ride-on car has become a Monster Truck. He pops a little wheelie, and bounces/ pounces on his target- floor puzzle, the tupperware of mega-blocks, train and car tracks (bridges are especially at risk), or maybe the Basket of Inevitable Randomness. He used to just plow these things over with his feet, which earned him the nickname "Jayzilla". Now, he has become a tool user. The car does more damage in less time, and at least sometimes, spares his feet from injury (although I have been kissing an awful lot of dirty socks lately).


The current favorite stunt is to pop the car onto the aforementioned megablock tupperware, and bounce. And bounce, and BOUNCE. Again. Again.


And.....


again.


At this point, it has become background noise to us.


He will occasionally slide off, crashing sideways onto the floor, crumpled beneath the car. We'll hear a little voice from way down low, behind the table...


"I'm okay."


And, occasionally,


"I'm stuck."


He's getting pretty good at the all-important self-assessment. There are three possible diagnoses:


1. "I'm okay."


2. "Kissy?"


3."Ice, please."


Other games, previously mentioned in other installments of this blog, include Springboard Daddy, which goes exactly how it sounds, and Crutch Slide, exactly how it sounds. Add in the excitement of randomly discovered hazards, and a truly frenetic and constant dance style, and my biggest challenge becomes NOT turning into a helicopter parent. I try to manage his options so that nothing lethal is available, and let him work things out.


Today I will be shopping for a Toddler Stunt School. I want to visit some tumbling classes, in the hopes that someone can teach him a few things about safe take-offs and landings. I feel like I'm enrolling him in flight school. Dance school is also a possibility, but I think he needs to be at least three to get in, and with good reason. His ability to stand still and listen is pretty limited. 


In the meantime, hopefully I can find a how-to-crash class that will keep him in one piece until then.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Halfway there.


The purple cast. 

My nieces went to town on it last night. It's good. It was a bit boring before Jay got a hold of it Friday night, and the girls took it on last night to add their decorations. 

Today marks three weeks since the surgery. Tomorrow there will be three weeks remaining before the cast comes off, to be replaced by a walking boot. Then comes re-learning to walk, then re-learning to run. 

There has been little to no pain lately; it feels like I'm past that and into bone growth and fusion. The cast padding is packing down, getting harder and creating more room inside. I would guess the edema in my sausage of a foot is down some, also opening the gap between the cast and my foot, ankle, and leg. I can occasionally feel the ends of the main incision, as the cast rubs and irritates. The main point of annoyance is still at the edge of the "knob" on the inside of my ankle. There is a quarter-sized scar there from the original injury which has always been sensitive. Now, there is also a small incision where hardware was either placed or removed. The cast rubs and bounces mercilessly on the scar and incision point, mostly when I try to find a comfortable sleeping position. Lying on my right side works, but I have a hard time staying that way all night. I work and rework my position, and occasionally spend some time at night on the couch so Laura can sleep. Bless her.

This too shall pass; in a few weeks I'll have a boot I can remove at night. I will be able to lie more comfortably, without tweaking my right knee around the bulk of the cast. It's all about moving forward, and it will happen. 

Jay still finds ways to make the most of the situation. When I rest my crutches against the couch, he straddles them and slides down at amazing speed, given he's only moving about 30 inches or so. He loves the "bump" when he hits the floor. I think he's going to LOVE contact sports. He also likes writing on the cast, and seems to enjoy some ownership in it. It was a great move by the tech to get him involved in making it.

He has enjoyed having daddy in the back seat of the van with him when we travel. On Saturday we were heading into Glens Falls, and he was eating a peanut butter sandwich. One of his favorite songs came on, an he shouted and signed (we taught him a few signs before he could talk), simultaneously, "ALL DONE!!!"

He practically threw the remnants of the sandwich at me, thrust his hands into the air, and began a nightclub-worthy dance from his car seat. "Dance, Daddy, DANCE!"

So we did. Over, and over. 

After a few rounds, he reached to me and asked, "Huggy?" I said we needed to stay buckled up so we would be safe. He became pretty adamant. I warned Laura, unbuckled, and climbed over my crutches. He grabbed on hard and said, "I love you daddy. Huggy." We embraced for a full minute. He then scolded me for being up. 

"Go back your seat!!!"

Yes, Jay. That's a good idea. 

We rolled along for a few more minutes, in post-huggy afterglow. He turned and smiled at me.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Jay?"

"I want a RED cloud."

Thursday, February 6, 2014

I Want a Cloud

I'm cheating.

Sorry. 


It's for a good cause. That should count for something, right?


Right?


Okay, so I'm non-weight-bearing on my right ankle for 26 more days (not that I'm counting). That's the right ankle. The one that pushes the pedals when I drive. So, by definition I'm not driving. Except that once in a while I am.


There. It's out. Don't tell Dr. DiPreta. 


My new cast is about half the diameter of the old one, so it fits just fine from pedal to pedal in the not-mini van (with the Sienna, Toyota has definitely taken the "mini" out of the equation). I have adjusted the seat so I can use the cast from my knee or hip to put pressure on the pedals with minimum weight on the heel or ankle. It's fine. I feel more pressure on my ankle when I prop it up to elevate it. 


I've ventured out all of twice in the past week. No biggie. I'm not running a cab service. I'm just popping the pressure valve on family relations that come about when duties shift in the middle of a really cold and snowy winter.


So, spare me your judgment. I'm an old man, and I spent a good bit of my life teaching risk management. I'm good.


Now that we have that out of the way, I can relate my drive home with Jay tonight. I picked him up from day care at about 4:30. I had to coax him out to the car with promises of going home to see mommy. Road-tripping with chopped livah (me) wasn't enough. We got to the not-mini van, where I picked him up and stood him on the floor on the back seat. He takes great pride in climbing into his car seat all by himself, and I didn't want to stymie his mojo. Except he had other ideas.


He made a break for the front seat. I caught him just as he was heading through the gap.


"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


"I WANT TO DRIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


"I WANT TO DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"



"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!"


"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


"TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


"DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


I think he wanted to drive.


I lifted him over his car seat. He arched like the New River Gorge bridge. I half expected him to do a walk-over into the back of the van. The boy can elevate.


While he arched, I slipped my hand through his legs, grabbed the centerpiece of the seat's harness, and waited. 


And waited.


Dum dum dee dum... any time now. You are your mother's child, aren't you?


Finally he made a tactical error. He assumed that since I wasn't fighting him, that he had won.


He relaxed, and I snapped him in. Score.


I dodged a couple of Thomas the Tank Engine books and a bulldozer. He grazed me with a dump truck, but ran out of ammo and it was over. I handed him a sippy cup of Peace Milk. He accepted it, but as the automatic door slid shut , I heard another "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I WANT TO DRIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I crutched around and crawled into the driver's seat. "Sorry, honey, we can't do that yet. Not until you're taller than mommy."


"BANANA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


Would you like a banana?


"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


Okay. We needed to work our way slowly down to how we ask nicely for things. We start with a cheery, sweet "Hey Dad!"


Jay: "Hey dad!"


Me, coaching: "May I please have a banana?"


Jay: "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze?!?!?!"


Close enough. I started to peel it.


"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! It's MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!!"


We started over. Hey dad, may I have a banana please, etc.etc. etc. Eventually he got the banana.


He spent the next ten minutes showing me how ready he was to drive. 


"Right turn!"


"Stop light is RED! GO!"


"SLOW DOWN DADDY!!!"

"Orange light. Go slow!"


"You still have to be taller than mommy."


"Otay."


We cruised along for a bit, with him listening to Ozomatli and critiquing my driving. Peace was finally moving into our space. I pointed to the western horizon, and said, "See the orange over there? That's a sunset. Isn't it pretty?" It was beautiful. Clouds and jet trails reflected the remaining rays of the afternoon. 


I heard a soft "oooooooooh" from the back.


Then,


"Daddy? I want a cloud."


"You want a CLOUD?" 


"Yeah. I want a cloud."


"I want a cloud, daddy." 


"They're beautiful, aren't they? It's kind of hard to have one, though. They're way up high in the sky."


"Up in the air?"


I said "sky", not "air." He apparently knows that more than one word can mean the same thing.


"Yes, honey, in the air."


"Ohhhhhhhhh. Okay. In the air. In the sky."


We spent the rest of the drive discussing clouds, and air...


...and my driving.