Twas the night before a Saturday

Twas the night before a Saturday, with not much to do the next day; Not a creature was stirring, for the exception of a Cal, and his parents K & J. 

The Cal dodged and he scurried, sneaking snacks and running toys; He played games like destroy the Legos, and mimicked monsters eating boys. 

The Cal ran to his dad, his late night pull-up getting full; He was ready for a changing, and bedtime made its last call. 

J walked to the shelves, but there was not a pull-up in sight; Dare he go to Safeway, this late at night.     

The Cal had done it with a pull-up, without wetting at all; Dare he risk this with underwear, for the final hoorah! 

With a unilateral decision, J answered this riddle with some pause; Cal would sleep in the middle, sans pull-up and underwear with a cause. 

J checked for puddles on the hour, as the hours flew by; Not a wet spot was to be found, as dawn drew nigh.

Hooray, shouted K, and jumped at J; Hooray shouted J, and Cal was pleased. 

That’s right, he did it.  And in light of Cal’s accomplishment of holding it through the night without dousing us before breakfast, I….’composed’ this little ‘poem’ to celebrate his staying dry.  While he’s been using the big boy potty since the beginning of the year, the little guy has still been required to wear up pull-up to bed to prevent him from dampening our sheets.  Now I just need to figure out where I’m going to spend the $80 a month we’ve been spending on pull-ups…

Tale of the Cheese Pilfer

If there’s an adage that I hear far too often as a father, it’s ‘they sure do grow up fast’.  In Cal’s case, however, his hyper-accelerated growth in both size and development put that proverbial nonsense to shame.  Physically and developmentally, Cal is much further ahead than other 2 or 3 year olds.  His familiarity with the alphabet supersedes that of most public high school students.  In terms of his size, I have nightmares of the day he turns 16 and I’m the short guy asking my son ‘how’s the weather up there’.  But aside from his being far ahead of the learning curve and looking as if he at some point consumed copious amounts of growth hormones, there are other externalities to his development and size: he’s trickier than Dick Milhous Nixon ever was. 

This is The Tale of the Cheese Pilfer!

I have a strict rule that Cal is not allowed to eat late at night—specifically anything other than one snack after dinner.  Cal on the other hand, an abnormally large and constantly growing toddler, would like nothing more than a strawberry yogurt and/or 4 or 5 string cheese sticks before sluggishly crawling into my bed and falling to sleep with his wrappers littering my sheets.  When he was much younger, catching him in act was no problem.  I would typically be working in the living room, hear the fridge door close and see him blaze by with food in his hands and hunger in his eyes.  Soon thereafter, I would crash his midnight food party by confiscating his acquired goods and sending him to bed. 

More recently, however, Cal has discovered a stealthy manner in which to acquire his late night calorie combo.  Upon heading to bed one evening, my feet found several string cheese wrappers littering my floor, where my face would later meet with a yogurt covered spoon on my pillow.  How in the hell did he get the food, I thought. 

The next night, I was active in my search to find out just how he obtained the goods.  Paying close attention, I saw the little snack burglar loitering around the living room and looping a few times through the kitchen.  He seemed innocent enough.  After a few more circular trips between the living room and kitchen, he began to slink towards the bedroom, looking precariously at me to see if I was paying attention.  Out of suspicion, I leapt towards the fridge, finding the door wide open and his luncheon accompaniment, the string cheese, missing.  I quickly sprang for the bedroom just in time to catch Mr. Cal the cheese-pilfer pulling a bundle of string cheeses out of his shorts. 

Cheeky little….My thoughts trailed off and I began to laugh.  Cal turned to meet with his gawker and jumped. 

“Daddy”, he said in surprise. 

“Gotcha”, I said.

I jumped at the little guy, wrestling for the cheese.  He struggled helplessly as I hoisted him upwards and confiscated the cheddar.  When the match was over, I conditionally allowed Cal one string of his stolen cheese under the promise that he would throw away the wrapper. 

Cal is clearly too smart for his own waistline, but I have to give him credit finding new ways to sneak food into the bedroom.  He really is a brilliant little boy.  Sadly, I think he’s at it again as I woke up this morning to find several cheese wrappers in the garbage next to my bed…I will never bargain with the Cheese Pilfer again.

Protecting their innocence

As many of my buddies have started to kid about life with a toddler and relationship implications thereto, I think it’s time to bring up ‘the talk’.  You know; the one about S-E-X. 

As I’m sure is the case in most situations, your little guy or girl has likely managed to incorporate him/herself into all aspects of your life.  Bed time consists of a three person letter H formation, missing school or work hinges on the health of the toddler rather than that of your own, all of your free time is made up of ABCs and 123s, and yes, sometimes your sex life can be miserable as well. 

Aside from the obvious barrier that a letter H can present in the bedroom, the other most likely cause is the lack of time for any and all foreplay; or in my case, foreplay that consists of the words, ‘The child is down.  So, do you wanna do it?’  While not overly ambitious in your attempts—as enthusiasm is lost with the energy you’ve exerted—your sad attempts at rousing the Mrs. or Mr. likely falls flat and lonely time on the couch meets…well, what we shall appropriately refer to as ‘late night reruns’…

When the time does present itself and the mood strikes, my ill-intentioned buddies have often quipped as to whether or not the child has been roused from his slumber during intimate commencement.  As I’m sure many parents have experienced, the answer to this head hanging riddle is yes.  When you’re discovered in precarious situations, your best excuse is to play it smooth and inform your now damaged child that you were exchanging friendly back rubs.  While he/she may not buy your sad attempts at improvising your way out of the bedroom, this should at least buy you enough time to slip on some boxers and spare their spongy brain the imprinting of a parental full monty. 

              Whatever your situation may be, intimate relationships with a toddler can be difficult, and at all times you must be careful.  While you may feel like a high school student sneaking around the backs of your parents, at least you don’t have to worry about pregnancy or diseases—as you were dutifully informed by the adults around you.  The worst thing that can happen now is ruining your child for life.  To that, dear parents, I can only say: BE SAFE!  Else, you may find yourself explaining those back rubs to far more people than you’d like. 

Don't get pissy with me!

           

              As any parent knows, raising a child is expensive.  Moral and, in some places, silly things like legal obligations require parents to provide their children with necessary needs and wants such as food, clothing, toys, a safe environment, and one of the biggest pocket busters, diapers.  Unfortunately, my son has a fire hose boy part that busts through half a pack of Huggies a day.  Aside from maiming our pocket book, it on occasion can be a crappy job as well—once daily at least.  Thankfully, there’s light at the end of the tunnel, or more appropriately, there’s a urinal cake with Cal’s name on it, and with a steady hand and some straight shooting, we plan to bulls-eye that little blue sucker. 

              For the first morning ever, Cal woke up bright and early a couple of days ago with his Cool Alert Toy Story starship still standing proudly on the front of his pull-up.  For those of you unfamiliar with the Cool Alert system—you non-parents out there—pull-ups have a little picture that, once a child has relieved him or herself, will disappear notifying the parent that their child needs to be changed.  While Cal has been using the potty regularly during the day for the last few months—an impressive feat for a 2 ½ boy—we still often wake up during the night in order to prevent the ceremonious and lukewarm dampening of our sheets. 

              This morning with his rocket ship erect like a…well you know…proud American flag, Cal and I began to shout and cheer over his accomplishment.  Mid-body high fives were exchanged, toothy grins spread across our faces and Cal quickly stripped off his dry Disney branded pull-up and bolted bare butt to the big boy potty for needed relief.  I danced, I sang, I cried. 

              While I’m still not comfortable leaving the little guy without his overnight pull-up, he’s quickly climbing the potty training latter and saving us bunches along the way. 

               Here we come urinal cakes across Northern California; golden streams unite!

Rainy Days and Monster Haze

"RAAAWWWWRRRRR," Cal says. 

Cal's monster interpretation cuts through the pitter patter of rain on the condensing windows and silences the incessant humming of the various appliances in our small apartment.  He sprints around the kitchen mimicking phantoms, concocting guttural growls to accompany his alter ego, the MONSTER.  In tireless toddler fashion, he dashes head first into my crotch; his attempts at, ‘come play with me, daddy’ leave me wounded from the middle up, and I breathlessly admit defeat and make immediate call for early nap time. 

Our afternoons at the park have become non-existent.  Like sex after 20 years of marriage, wet sand, soggy woodchips and slippery slides prevent even the most willing of persons from making the effort and straddling the equipment.  Afternoons at home with a child craving the outdoors have ensued, as Cal now finds ways to please himself sans swings and toddler pals.  Unlucky for me, the child is a meteorite in space, always moving as our 1,000 square feet fails to provide relief from insanity, and the small apartment closes in on the little monster and, to put it nicely, his abundant liveliness is rerouted into precarious places. 

Games such as, ‘can you find the $400 cell phone I took away when you were in the kitchen, daddy’ have replaced laps around the baseball field.  If only I didn’t leave the damned thing on vibrate, I might be able to find where he’s hidden it later today.  Thankfully, after refashioning the furniture to accommodate play time, while simultaneously searching for my MIA mobile, my living room becomes a gymnasium and a soccer game breaks out.  Our first floor neighbor pounds on her ceiling, but her lame attempts at an early buzzer are ignored.  I have Cal by one point and there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to let me win. 

He dribbles like Pele on the well-known stimulant called ‘Charlie Sheen’, shoots between my legs with ease and GOAL!  The whirrling sound of the croud ensues, and with the rules being toddler goals are two points, Cal pulls ahead and our soccer game comes to an end.  I blame the nut-shut I took early in the day, but with the child looking like a drowsy monster after a night of prowling, I raise his hands, bow out to the better player and send him to bed.  After swapping out his requested stuffed animal 5 or six times and fluffing his pillow with several times, my pre-Madonna monster turns limp and passes out.

My fingers are crossed, my blessings are mixed and the forecaster on Channel 5 is again being cursed, but at least I have a couple hours before round 2. Goodnight!

That's my son, not a bomb

              I love to travel; always have.  I’ve been across Europe and the States, by bus, plane, train and automobile.   I’ve been stranded, attacked by locals, found myself passed out in mysterious places, I’ve suited up and suited down and so much more.  Some of the best times of my life were spent traveling.  Travelling with a child, on the other hand, sucks.  Instead of worrying about how you can afford to buy another drink, or often times afford not to, you find yourself with a child strapped, quite literally, to your back.  And, at all times, you must ensure that your child is enjoying your family outing; else, everyone that crosses your path may suffer and the photos you show your children when they’ve grown up will act as a more successful form of birth control than any you ever had when they look back on these events with you. 

Following the birth of our son, we’ve succeeded in making two major trips with the little guy: a Floridian ‘vacation’ and a haphazard trip to Iowa to visit family.  Unlike travelling sans child, the attempt of successfully navigating security without having to stop is reduced by bulky strollers that don’t fit through x-rays and children that, for some ridiculous reason, must comply with security rules by taking off their shoes just like every other suspected character to pass through.  While Cal is more than happy to strip down in the middle of a long security line full of people in a hurry, the act of balancing three pieces of carryon, your personal affects, a now nagging partner, the damned stroller you didn’t want to bring and a mischievous toddler is made more difficult with such perceived trivial threats of a bomb-laden child.  If ever a circus act was allowed in an airport, I was where it was to be found. 

Rather than argue with the pudgy security officer as to why they found it necessary for my child to remove his shoes, we complied with sneers and by the hand of a superior being made it through security with relative ease.  Cal, found to be free of bomb like substances, was hurried through the security check, whereupon the only casualties included Cal’s mysterious, yet alleged, juice-like substance and my forgotten bottle of water.  These items were safely discarded by security personnel in a garbage can, where I can only imagine any supposed bomb making or like substances would be sent to our local sanitation facility—along with my son’s juice of course. 

Once on the plane, I imagined the worst behind us.  Thankfully, the airline had yet to adopt the courteous position of allowing parents with small children to board first.  The three of us did battle with the glaring passengers and tossed the stroller into a corner at the plane’s entrance.  I prayed they would lose that uncomfortable, oversized piece of crap.  Tray tables were up, my seat in its full and upright position, we were finally on our way.   

At this time, Cal took it upon himself to see that our neighbors in the seats ahead of us knew we were present and accounted for.  He kicked like a kangaroo in a boxing match, only stopping to laugh when his pals in front turned around to beg for our support in lassoing the trip meddling child.  We made fallible promises to god and our child, as I feared removal from the plane was imminent.  Boob now in mouth, Cal settled down, lounging across his mother and stretching across me.  His early morning had finally caught up to him, as he passed out across the two of us, leaving his $300 seat unused. 

The rest of our travels were filled with arguments with airline staff—when they informed us they were out of food as our helpless child moaned for their crappy grilled chicken—and my finding that the only competent thing they could do was provide us the stroller I had wished doomed upon our trips end.  I was never so happy to find myself in the Midwest, snow forecasted and our trip already 1/3 complete.  At least the travel back to California was just as eventful.  Here’s to future travels with the people we love!

An Arms Deal

Late afternoon on a Friday long, long ago at the office in downtown Santa Rosa where I work, Cal was dropped off by his mommy to lasso me from the office in time for dinner.  It was past 5:00, and in Toddler Land, where you consume 5-6 snacks a day and dinner regularly begins around 5:30, daddy is not allowed to hold up meal time—ever. 

Counterintuitively to his purpose of pressuring me to hurry the hell up so we could grab some grub, Cal's curiosity got the best of him, and, not unlike every other visit, three hole punches, computers that beep when far too many buttons are held down and a dying fern in need of watering in my boss’s office require his attention. 

Thankfully, my last task of the day involved a stop at Sonoma Bank, just two blocks away.  Cal was quickly retasked with delivering some very important checks; whereupon I saved the plant from its forthcoming drowning and protected our legal documents from possible defamation. 

Being a late Friday afternoon, the bank was busy, but an armistice deal was to-be made to the overly curious, yet destructive, child.  Luckily, for whatever the reason, the bank was attracting customers all that week to its free checking or savings accounts, or whatever, and they had redecorated for the week with dozens of balloons and haphazardly placed streamers.  I’m sure they’ll have no problem giving up one balloon to a well-behaved toddler, I thought. 

 “Hold my hand and be a good listener and I’ll ask the lady for a balloon when we’re done,” I bargained. 

Cal, eager to get his hands on a helium filled ‘ball’, did as requested and followed suit, handing the teller our checks and peaceably assembling among the other last minute depositors.  Having forgotten about our little deal, we began to walk out, where Cal reminded me, “I want my ball!”  Oh yes, your ball. 

The middle aged banker, a woman with her hair bobbed and desk taken over by countless balloons, heard Cal’s demand.  “Would you like a balloon?”  She asked. 

At that very moment, I saw something in this woman’s eye, a glimmer of some kind, but what?  Little did I know, she did not like the balloons that had taken over her workspace, and she was all too eager to give up, not one, but the entire bunch, gaggle, group and load.  Shit, I thought. 

“I’ve been trying rid my desk of them all week,” she said. 

“You obvious don’t have children,” I muttered to myself. 

And what a sight we were.  The overly generous, yet self-serving banker had securely fastened the balloons to my child’s flailing wrist.  After spending minutes simply trying to maneuver our way out the door, with Cal’s multicolored bouquet of balls floating high above the offered clearance, we began our two block journey back to the office.  
I felt the world staring at me, balloons bobbing, wind blowing, smiling child wrapped in curly strings—it reminded me of a blustery day in the Hundred Acre Wood.  God I hope he doesn’t float away like Piglet, I imagined. 

Halfway back to the office, it became apparent that the balloons need to change hands.  Already two bystanders had become victims to our balloon parade, as the staticky mess wafted into unexpecting faces.  It was shocking, to say the least. 

Perhaps next time, I’ll risk killing off the damned fern instead of taking an intended leisurely walk to the bank. 

Beware of Lady Bugs!

Have you ever seen an eight-legged lady bug?  Well, in the world of two-year olds, where monsters lurk beneath beds, dinosaur’s growl like muffled pandas and soccer rules are circumnavigated in ways that could make the pros cringe, spiders can be interpreted as their more delicate creepy, crawler counter-part, the lady bug.  These misinterpretations, common misconceptions or seemingly baseless fears that many children grow up having are what I like to refer to as toddler idiosyncrasies.  This is the story of a father learning about one such toddler idiosyncrasy. 

_____________________________________

It's bath time.  You, as the parent, shouldn't have an easier chore than sitting your child down in his cool bath, snagging a book for needed reprieve and reading on the propped down toilet seat while your child plays nicely with sticky-wall letters.  Wrong!

Bath time sucks, and your book, unless water-proofed by a far-sighted publisher, will, not unlike your bathroom rug and footed socks, get very, very wet.  Children love to splash.  In their eyes, your eyes, into the garbage can, and somehow, even on the light bulbs. 

Now accustomed to the bath time routine, however, I, with my obsessive, compulsive disorder, stand idly by with towels, waiting to soak up every drop before I swoop in to do battle with his hair, soap as my only weapon.  Yesterday's bath time escapade had another plan in store, besides just another super soaker war, as little did I know, an angry third party--'the lady bug'--was invited as well.

Cal's hair was finally free of the playground dirt and grime it had accumulated, as I wrapped a large, fluffy towel around his backside and pulled him from the tub.  Pools of water gathered on the floor.  "A lady bug, daddy," Cal said.  I thought to myself, What in the hell is a lady bug doing in here, and asked him where it was as he continued to point behind the toilet.

I moved the small bathroom garbage can aside to be greeted with what could only be recalled as the world’s largest, hairiest and perhaps only eight-legged lady bug ever--an abomination of nature if ever there was one.  Being the arachnophobe I am, I probably acted more like my own two-year old confronting his monster fears than an average adult should look when confronting a little spider that is helplessly stuck in a pool of water; I digress. 

I smashed the plastic garbage can down, repeatedly beating the spider into his watery grave.  Cal, still believing his spider was a friendly lady bug, could not have hated me more.  All I could hear were various, ‘stop’s, ‘no’s and ‘my lady bug’, as I happily smashed that little party crasher into bits. 

After calming Cal down, and suppressing my phobic tendencies, I began to compare and contrast the differences between a killer spider and a lady bug.  While I’m not entirely sure if he understands how to differentiate between bugs and spiders any better than before ‘the bath’, as it will henceforth be referred to as, I have at least come to understand one of the many toddler idiosyncrasies my child has: Beware the lady bug.

The Little Things

For anyone who is a parent, or at least the good parents, they know that there is an assumed bit of pride and pleasure in raising another being.  Whether you're reading your child their favorite story for literally the twentieth time, catching their staticky body at the foot of a slide or coloring the seventh picture of the week to throw proudly on your encumbered fridge, there are sure to be many feel good moments and recognizable accomplishments to take pleasure in. 

If you're like me, however, the pleasures and joys of parenthood can be diminished or taken for granted by a full-time job and an unforgiving class load.  For some unfortunate reason, parenting loses part of its luster when you’re busy trying to pay the bills and obtain an education; all the while you try not to screw up the little guy or girl in your life that is always looking up to you.  If you're lucky, the worst scar they'll come out of toddlerhood with is having said the word 'shit' for an entire day at preschool. 

Last week, after logging eight hours in at the office and attending a three class, I was ready to get home and pass out on the couch watching reruns of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  Children, however, should never be exposed to the colorful, yet abusive, characters that make up the cast of such a show, and as always, there were errands to run. 

With the little guy packed into the back of the car, and our to-do list straddling my back like a drug-riddled monkey, we set off to pick-up dry cleaning and snag an easy dinner.  I was drained from head to toe.  The last thing I wanted to do was rope around my two-year old.  Children, unlike their parents, are rarely tired, or exhausted and as if they are constantly laughing in the face of thermodynamics, they are in a state of perpetual motion. 

Our first stop was the dry cleaners, to which we were greeted warmly by the owner.  Even the always smiling owner seemed like her day and week had pulled her across the coals.  Cal, per his usual rounds, blasted to the mirrors where the measuring is done, left them finger stained, and then, like lighting, he leapt to the foot of the owner.  Smiling precariously, the owner said something, a nugget in my otherwise dim day.  "Thank you for your smile.” 

While the rest of our trip was ordinary, her words rang deep, reminding me of the pleasures of parenthood that I far too often take for granted.  The kid might be running around like a cheetah with a Redbull PICC line and Rockstar beer cap, but he frequently shares a smile and he’s almost always happy.  Even though the lady running the dry cleaners seemed liked her week was overwhelming, she was still able to take notice of a smile of all things—perhaps what her week had been absent of after seeing far too many 9:00-5:00 clients drop off and pick up their clothes. 

Juggling parenthood, school and work may not be easy, but thankfully each day has its little nuggets that keep me going. 

New Beginnings

Henceforth, this blog shall be dedicated to fulfilling my blog requirements for COMS 318.  Cheers, Chip!

ENTRY 1:

After attempting to analyze my lens, figure out what the heck a lens is and fruitlessly trying to decide what I'm going to write about, I've discovered that the present and most fulfilling and self-defining moments in my life are shared with my two-year old son, Callaghan; or as we like to call him, Cal.

When I'm not floundering to complete a deadline at the office or pretending to act in resemblance and likeness of a displaced student, I'm more than likely hanging out with the little guy.  Outside of the fact that he's really not so little, our weekly hanging out and going-ons range from packing lunches and pre-school drop-offs to architectural exploring through Lego block building and park ventures where rocks and sticks are procured and later stored away eclectically at home. 

He’s smart, outgoing, resembles a young Irish child with his red hair and pale skin and he loves to play jokes on his mommy. Even at two he has more personality than many adults I know.  I would like to dedicate this blog to my son, Cal: a dream quarterback, soccer all-star, tee-ball smasher, eclectic archeologist and an overall amazing little-‘big boy’.  One day, when time has left me haggard at 40, I imagine sharing the stories of our adventures from this blog with my him.