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.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Snow Day
We needed to make a decision. We faced two less-than-ideal choices: drive Jay to and from daycare today (it adds a half hour to Laura’s commute each way), with a foot of snow accumulating throughout the day, or leave him at home with a one-legged old dad. I have dealt with the “old” part since he showed up in our world. The one-legged part would be harder. But, it seemed safer than driving him around in these conditions. I would have more control here than Laura would have on the roads. So, today Jay and I would spend our first day at home together since before the surgery.
We got off to a good start. I heard a quiet “Daddy?” from his room at 6:20 this morning. I crutched in, and he smiled from ear to ear. “Daddy!!!” I propped my crutches on his crib and picked him up. He wrapped his arms as far around me as he could and squeezed. “Daddy daddy!!!” I kissed him, and squeezed back.
“Can I give you a freshy?” As in fresh diaper. Most of us would find this desirable.
“No, thanks.” Oh, fighting with manners. I should be so proud. Okay, actually, I was. Less and less often it happens that he just screams “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” at a pitch that short-circuits my hearing aid. “No, thanks” is such a mark of progress.
But, I still wanted to change this diaper. If Laura came in from feeding the horses and he was still in his overnight diaper, well, it’d be a one-sided conversation.
“Are you SURE you don’t want a freshy? It’ll feel really nice.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhtayyyyyyy.” My mind flashed to Eddie Murphy’s SNL portrayals of Buckwheat from the Little Rascals.
“Lie down?” He obliged by plopping face-down and snuggling onto a pillow. “Roll over for Daddy?” He did so and giggled. Toying with daddy. What fun.
A quick change, and we were up and at ‘em. Mommy came in, and they did their excited morning huggy kissy thing. He had some milk and a banana for breakfast. Laura left for work, and we settled into the day. After about an hour he waddled over with his sleeper unzipped and around his knees. He’s working on dressing/ undressing himself. “It’s too hot.” I agreed, and helped him out of it.
We went to his room to find some clothes for the day. His diaper was wet, so pulled it off. I looked in his dresser for something to wear. I glanced over, and he had the pads from the glider rocker and footstool spread out on the floor. Wearing nothing but a tee-shirt, he was diving onto the pads, singing “Frosty the Snowman” at the top of his lungs. I hoped it was a coincidence that he grabbed his willy when he sang “a button nose”. I dug out a pair of soft black sweat pants for him, and sat back to watch the show.
He sang and jumped for about 15 minutes, and eventually relented to a new diaper. I grabbed a second pair of sweats so he could choose what to wear. He went with the original black pair, but if there hadn’t been a choice he’d still be bottomless.
We had some background TV on, and sang and danced to the music of the TV shows or his toys, depending on what was more energetic. He eventually wandered off to play with the cat.
A short while later I was taking care of my own personal business, reading Atlantic Magazine from the comfort of my “thinking chair.” I heard him yelling excitedly.
“Daddy daddy! I’m splashing the water!!!!!! Daddy, I’m splashing the water!!!!”
Sigh.
I couldn’t see him, but I knew exactly what’s happening. The cat’s wand toy is great for splashing in the water bowl, and the coverage it gives is FANTASTIC. Except for slippery toddler feet and a one-legged dad. I finished my job and headed out to assess the situation.
Sure enough, most of the water bowl was now smeared all over the tile floor. I put down the crutches and knelt. Jay had already relinquished the toy (saving me a fight over it), and was busy admiring his work. “It’s slippery”, he noted, almost analytically and with some pride.
Yes, honey, it’s slippery. And then he went down. Not too bad, but maybe, just maybe, enough to help him realize it could be a problem to soak a tile floor. I kissed his elbow, and knee-walked into the kitchen. I grabbed a towel and dried the floor. Jay was already off to something else. I had moved into reactive, vs. proactive mode. It was time to slow things down a touch.
We watched the Blue’s Clues episode “Blue Goes to the Doctor”. He sat down and watched intently. After going to my appointment with me yesterday, there was much to learn from this. By day’s end, we would repeat this episode two more times at Jay’s request.
Newton’s Second Law of Thermodynamics states that “the entropy of an isolated system never decreases, because isolated systems spontaneously evolve toward thermodynamic equilibrium—the state of maximum entropy.” Entropy is a fancy science word for randomness. The basic idea is that the universe is always moving itself toward total randomness.
Our home was definitely an isolated system today, and Newton’s Second Law has been hard at work. As the day has moved on, the toys have moved out. Thomas trains, cat toys, Brain Quest flash cards for toddlers. Laminated placemats. A football-sized stuffed pink and white fish that sing some demented “kissy kissy” song when its dorsal fin gets a squeeze. Melissa and Doug plastic fruit. More trains. A pull-along helicopter. Harmonica. It’s a crutching nightmare. After a quick “clean-up clean-up”, we found a path and I felt a bit better.
I lost it just once but it was once too many. At the mid-morning dirty diaper change, I surprised myself by enticing him into his room for the change (it’s usually a fight, and he knows I can’t pick him up and carry him). I thought we were cruising. Once the diaper was halfway off, and I could see we were going to be a while, he changed his mind about the whole thing. His timing was perfect. The mess was significant, including my hands. This is what keeps some people from having kids. I raised my voice. A lot. Of COURSE it didn’t work. It never does. It just escalated the whole encounter. I was a mess anyway, so I cradled him in half-restraint/ half hug. The pressure calmed him, and he said “I’m sorry”
“Me too. Can we finish?”
“Yes, daddy.”
We did finish, and I set him free while I cleaned up. I washed my hands and arms, and went back out to the living room. I asked “Got any kisses?”
He smiled and ran over, puckered up like the pink and white stuffed fish. Kissy kissy. All better.
He said “My tummy’s hungry.” I should have known. It’s not like we starve him, but his attitude is usually food-mediated.
“How about a sandwich?” He nodded vigorously. We shared a pbj and some milk.
We’re approaching nap time. It’s a critical point in the day, one which will hold great sway over how the end of the day goes. No nap, no peace. I’m hoping that if I lie down and get quiet, it’ll be enough for him to curl up with me and nod off.
There has already been a great deal of “This too shall pass” today. Some of it in the thankful sense, some more wistful and cherished. If he is still bouncing bottomless and singing “Frosty” in his room in fifteen years, I hope I don’t find out about it. But, I will miss these days when it seems perfectly appropriate and joyous. I won’t miss dirty diapers, but I also know the best way to slow him down in any form of progress is to try to hurry him. He’ll get there when he wants to. Hopefully in fifteen years we will still enjoy a pbj sandwich and milk together.
These crutches are a symptom of the plan to get healthier so I can last that long. I am enjoying today more than I have enjoyed a day at home with Jay in a long time. It’s been lonely here the past two weeks, and I can tell he has missed it too. With some luck, Laura may get home early enough to take him out on the snow.
Jay has just crawled onto my lap and yawned. Time to sign off.
Enjoy the snow.
We got off to a good start. I heard a quiet “Daddy?” from his room at 6:20 this morning. I crutched in, and he smiled from ear to ear. “Daddy!!!” I propped my crutches on his crib and picked him up. He wrapped his arms as far around me as he could and squeezed. “Daddy daddy!!!” I kissed him, and squeezed back.
“Can I give you a freshy?” As in fresh diaper. Most of us would find this desirable.
“No, thanks.” Oh, fighting with manners. I should be so proud. Okay, actually, I was. Less and less often it happens that he just screams “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” at a pitch that short-circuits my hearing aid. “No, thanks” is such a mark of progress.
But, I still wanted to change this diaper. If Laura came in from feeding the horses and he was still in his overnight diaper, well, it’d be a one-sided conversation.
“Are you SURE you don’t want a freshy? It’ll feel really nice.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhtayyyyyyy.” My mind flashed to Eddie Murphy’s SNL portrayals of Buckwheat from the Little Rascals.
“Lie down?” He obliged by plopping face-down and snuggling onto a pillow. “Roll over for Daddy?” He did so and giggled. Toying with daddy. What fun.
A quick change, and we were up and at ‘em. Mommy came in, and they did their excited morning huggy kissy thing. He had some milk and a banana for breakfast. Laura left for work, and we settled into the day. After about an hour he waddled over with his sleeper unzipped and around his knees. He’s working on dressing/ undressing himself. “It’s too hot.” I agreed, and helped him out of it.
We went to his room to find some clothes for the day. His diaper was wet, so pulled it off. I looked in his dresser for something to wear. I glanced over, and he had the pads from the glider rocker and footstool spread out on the floor. Wearing nothing but a tee-shirt, he was diving onto the pads, singing “Frosty the Snowman” at the top of his lungs. I hoped it was a coincidence that he grabbed his willy when he sang “a button nose”. I dug out a pair of soft black sweat pants for him, and sat back to watch the show.
He sang and jumped for about 15 minutes, and eventually relented to a new diaper. I grabbed a second pair of sweats so he could choose what to wear. He went with the original black pair, but if there hadn’t been a choice he’d still be bottomless.
We had some background TV on, and sang and danced to the music of the TV shows or his toys, depending on what was more energetic. He eventually wandered off to play with the cat.
A short while later I was taking care of my own personal business, reading Atlantic Magazine from the comfort of my “thinking chair.” I heard him yelling excitedly.
“Daddy daddy! I’m splashing the water!!!!!! Daddy, I’m splashing the water!!!!”
Sigh.
I couldn’t see him, but I knew exactly what’s happening. The cat’s wand toy is great for splashing in the water bowl, and the coverage it gives is FANTASTIC. Except for slippery toddler feet and a one-legged dad. I finished my job and headed out to assess the situation.
Sure enough, most of the water bowl was now smeared all over the tile floor. I put down the crutches and knelt. Jay had already relinquished the toy (saving me a fight over it), and was busy admiring his work. “It’s slippery”, he noted, almost analytically and with some pride.
Yes, honey, it’s slippery. And then he went down. Not too bad, but maybe, just maybe, enough to help him realize it could be a problem to soak a tile floor. I kissed his elbow, and knee-walked into the kitchen. I grabbed a towel and dried the floor. Jay was already off to something else. I had moved into reactive, vs. proactive mode. It was time to slow things down a touch.
We watched the Blue’s Clues episode “Blue Goes to the Doctor”. He sat down and watched intently. After going to my appointment with me yesterday, there was much to learn from this. By day’s end, we would repeat this episode two more times at Jay’s request.
Newton’s Second Law of Thermodynamics states that “the entropy of an isolated system never decreases, because isolated systems spontaneously evolve toward thermodynamic equilibrium—the state of maximum entropy.” Entropy is a fancy science word for randomness. The basic idea is that the universe is always moving itself toward total randomness.
Our home was definitely an isolated system today, and Newton’s Second Law has been hard at work. As the day has moved on, the toys have moved out. Thomas trains, cat toys, Brain Quest flash cards for toddlers. Laminated placemats. A football-sized stuffed pink and white fish that sing some demented “kissy kissy” song when its dorsal fin gets a squeeze. Melissa and Doug plastic fruit. More trains. A pull-along helicopter. Harmonica. It’s a crutching nightmare. After a quick “clean-up clean-up”, we found a path and I felt a bit better.
I lost it just once but it was once too many. At the mid-morning dirty diaper change, I surprised myself by enticing him into his room for the change (it’s usually a fight, and he knows I can’t pick him up and carry him). I thought we were cruising. Once the diaper was halfway off, and I could see we were going to be a while, he changed his mind about the whole thing. His timing was perfect. The mess was significant, including my hands. This is what keeps some people from having kids. I raised my voice. A lot. Of COURSE it didn’t work. It never does. It just escalated the whole encounter. I was a mess anyway, so I cradled him in half-restraint/ half hug. The pressure calmed him, and he said “I’m sorry”
“Me too. Can we finish?”
“Yes, daddy.”
We did finish, and I set him free while I cleaned up. I washed my hands and arms, and went back out to the living room. I asked “Got any kisses?”
He smiled and ran over, puckered up like the pink and white stuffed fish. Kissy kissy. All better.
He said “My tummy’s hungry.” I should have known. It’s not like we starve him, but his attitude is usually food-mediated.
“How about a sandwich?” He nodded vigorously. We shared a pbj and some milk.
We’re approaching nap time. It’s a critical point in the day, one which will hold great sway over how the end of the day goes. No nap, no peace. I’m hoping that if I lie down and get quiet, it’ll be enough for him to curl up with me and nod off.
There has already been a great deal of “This too shall pass” today. Some of it in the thankful sense, some more wistful and cherished. If he is still bouncing bottomless and singing “Frosty” in his room in fifteen years, I hope I don’t find out about it. But, I will miss these days when it seems perfectly appropriate and joyous. I won’t miss dirty diapers, but I also know the best way to slow him down in any form of progress is to try to hurry him. He’ll get there when he wants to. Hopefully in fifteen years we will still enjoy a pbj sandwich and milk together.
These crutches are a symptom of the plan to get healthier so I can last that long. I am enjoying today more than I have enjoyed a day at home with Jay in a long time. It’s been lonely here the past two weeks, and I can tell he has missed it too. With some luck, Laura may get home early enough to take him out on the snow.
Jay has just crawled onto my lap and yawned. Time to sign off.
Enjoy the snow.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Purple.
I had my first follow-up visit after my ankle surgery today. My lower right leg got a half hour of pure heavenly release from imprisonment in the cast. On the drive down, I came up with a concept that I pitched to Jessica, the technician who removed the cast. A Cast-Away Spa. People who are between casts should get to spend a couple of hours cast-free, with massage, fans gently breezing the fresh skin, maybe a little aroma therapy...
When the cast came off, I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I saw.
My foot was extravagantly red and tube-ish, swollen and still lacking in sensation. My ankle actually looked pretty good. Jay looked right at it, at the long scar, without flinching.
He asked, "Does your ankle hurt?" It kills me when he puts whole sentences together by himself. It's crazy watching him assemble his own world. I assured him.
No, honey. It looks funny. But it's fine. No hurt. He smiled.
The scar was impressive. It's about seven inches long, and starts smack in the middle of the top of my foot. It shoots straight up, through the ankle and slightly up my lower leg. It's a good thing Doctor DiPreta was doing this; I wouldn't have cut it anything like this. It was an effective reminder of just how much trauma was involved just in executing this procedure. There was old scar tissue to dig out. There was an old screw from the original internal fixation that had to be located and removed to make room for the new hardware. The ends of all the bones in the ankle had to be scraped clean of jagged edges and rough spots that had accumulated over the past decade as they rubbed on each other. Then, those ends had to be "freshened" so they would heal together in fused harmony. Then a plate was affixed using eight screws, to hold it all together in the right position. All of this happened in about an hour and a half on my surgery day.
Looking at the scar, I found myself imaging human fingers working in that small space, accomplishing all of this. I envisioned some yanking, some tugging, some "pushing stuff around", just to get in there and make it all happen. I had a greater appreciation for WHY I had so much post-op discomfort, why I was asking for morphine the first night. Why it was taking so long to feel better, to feel like working again.
The x-rays were good, and Dr. DiPreta was happy enough that he doesn't want to see me for four more weeks. At that time, this cast will come off and I'll get a walking boot. I was a little bummed; I was hoping for another fresh cast in two weeks (and another half-hour of oxygen for my leg). I'll take it, however. If the doc is that confident, I'll just stay home and keep healing.
Once the first cast came off, the sutures came out. The new cast wouldn't have those to scrape and bounce around anymore. Jess, the technician, asked what color I wanted for the new cast. I asked Jay to choose.
"Purple". He didn't hesitate for a second. He was quite happy to see the purple going on, and Jess was great, letting Jay help smooth it out, and helping him to make a little stocking for my toes. Jay was creeped out by the first cast; he got to help make this one. He loved it. It has since been christened with a kiss, and he likes knocking on it.
We spent some time this evening playing Jay's favorite game, "Springboard Daddy". I lie on the floor, face-down. He stands on my back, bounces a few times like a diver, and jumps off onto the carpet. His balance is astounding, and occasionally he scores some pretty impressive distances. And, I get 32 pounds of deep tissue back massage. Win-win. We finished with Curious George stories, and a reclining hug that stayed tight even once he fell asleep. I carefully stood up, hopped to his crib, peeled him off with a kiss and a final squeeze, and put him to bed.
Tomorrow promises to be challenging. We're expecting a foot of snow. It doesn't seem like a good idea for Laura to drive him a half hour to day care on her way to work, and to add that drive to get him in the evening. The alternative is that he stays home with me. Normally that's not a problem, but the whole cast/ non-weight-bearing-ankle thing makes it hard for me to intervene in his "creative endeavors" as fast as I sometimes want to. I'll have to be pro-active, and it's going to require a crazy amount of energy from someone who is still recharging the batteries.
My four favorite words will be on speed-dial tomorrow;
This too shall pass.
When the cast came off, I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I saw.
My foot was extravagantly red and tube-ish, swollen and still lacking in sensation. My ankle actually looked pretty good. Jay looked right at it, at the long scar, without flinching.
He asked, "Does your ankle hurt?" It kills me when he puts whole sentences together by himself. It's crazy watching him assemble his own world. I assured him.
No, honey. It looks funny. But it's fine. No hurt. He smiled.
The scar was impressive. It's about seven inches long, and starts smack in the middle of the top of my foot. It shoots straight up, through the ankle and slightly up my lower leg. It's a good thing Doctor DiPreta was doing this; I wouldn't have cut it anything like this. It was an effective reminder of just how much trauma was involved just in executing this procedure. There was old scar tissue to dig out. There was an old screw from the original internal fixation that had to be located and removed to make room for the new hardware. The ends of all the bones in the ankle had to be scraped clean of jagged edges and rough spots that had accumulated over the past decade as they rubbed on each other. Then, those ends had to be "freshened" so they would heal together in fused harmony. Then a plate was affixed using eight screws, to hold it all together in the right position. All of this happened in about an hour and a half on my surgery day.
Looking at the scar, I found myself imaging human fingers working in that small space, accomplishing all of this. I envisioned some yanking, some tugging, some "pushing stuff around", just to get in there and make it all happen. I had a greater appreciation for WHY I had so much post-op discomfort, why I was asking for morphine the first night. Why it was taking so long to feel better, to feel like working again.
The x-rays were good, and Dr. DiPreta was happy enough that he doesn't want to see me for four more weeks. At that time, this cast will come off and I'll get a walking boot. I was a little bummed; I was hoping for another fresh cast in two weeks (and another half-hour of oxygen for my leg). I'll take it, however. If the doc is that confident, I'll just stay home and keep healing.
Once the first cast came off, the sutures came out. The new cast wouldn't have those to scrape and bounce around anymore. Jess, the technician, asked what color I wanted for the new cast. I asked Jay to choose.
"Purple". He didn't hesitate for a second. He was quite happy to see the purple going on, and Jess was great, letting Jay help smooth it out, and helping him to make a little stocking for my toes. Jay was creeped out by the first cast; he got to help make this one. He loved it. It has since been christened with a kiss, and he likes knocking on it.
We spent some time this evening playing Jay's favorite game, "Springboard Daddy". I lie on the floor, face-down. He stands on my back, bounces a few times like a diver, and jumps off onto the carpet. His balance is astounding, and occasionally he scores some pretty impressive distances. And, I get 32 pounds of deep tissue back massage. Win-win. We finished with Curious George stories, and a reclining hug that stayed tight even once he fell asleep. I carefully stood up, hopped to his crib, peeled him off with a kiss and a final squeeze, and put him to bed.
Tomorrow promises to be challenging. We're expecting a foot of snow. It doesn't seem like a good idea for Laura to drive him a half hour to day care on her way to work, and to add that drive to get him in the evening. The alternative is that he stays home with me. Normally that's not a problem, but the whole cast/ non-weight-bearing-ankle thing makes it hard for me to intervene in his "creative endeavors" as fast as I sometimes want to. I'll have to be pro-active, and it's going to require a crazy amount of energy from someone who is still recharging the batteries.
My four favorite words will be on speed-dial tomorrow;
This too shall pass.
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