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.