Kubler-Ross takes a car ride.

“Hi there. How are you?”

Fine, Jay, how are you?

“I’m fine, how are you?”

Wait. What?

Oh, you’re not talking to me.

The voice is too tiny, and different from the first voice. This conversation is not between the Jeffs; rather it is between Orange Dinosaur and Thomas the Tank Engine Big Boy Underwear. My bad. We were just starting our journey to daycare, and Jay climbed into the car seat with everything (should I say everyONE?) necessary to make the trip- Orange Dinosaur, Thomas Underwear, and Green Crayon.

The stegosaurus and the briefs exchanged pleasantries. Then I heard a light, plasticky clatter.

“Oh no!” The underwear was audibly upset.

“Orange dinosaur, where arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre youuuuuuuuu?” the Thomas undies called out searchingly.

“Where are you?” As in, you’re not gone. You’re just hiding. You can’t really be gone.

After a couple of plaintive calls, Denial turned to Anger. Damn you, Kubler-Ross.

“Daddy. My dinosaur’s gone. GIVE IT BACK.”

I don’t have your dinosaur, honey, and I can’t stop right now to get it for you.

“Oh. Okay.”

(change back to “Underwear” voice) “Hello, Green Crayon! How are you!?” Ah, finding value in the quiet one, making a new friend while dinosaur is away. Nice.

Wait.

No Bargaining? Jay is always up for a bargain. Are we moving straight into Acceptance? No Depression? (fine with me). Is he really okay with “I can’t get that for you”?

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

Oh, okay. Here it comes. “Do you want a sandwich or a banana?” Rule #103.6 of car rides, only offer fist foods. Finger foods end up all over the back of the car.

“I want milk.” Pick the option that wasn’t offered. Nice comeback. That brief “Acceptance” was a feint to get me out of position, and improve his Bargaining power.

“I can get your milk when we get to the stop sign.” He could see the flashing red light in the distance. Offer accepted.

I handed him his milk. “I want a sandwich, Daddy.”

The car behind me at the light crept up. Too bad. You’re no 12-ton dump truck; you can wait. I dug into his bag and pulled out a quarter of a pbj sandwich. I stretched. And stretched. “Help me out here, honey. Reach.”

 We connected. The sandwich had greater value than Orange Dinosaur, and thus stayed in his hand.

I don’t think we ever got to “Depression”, but within minutes he was fast asleep.

Probably best known for her stages of death, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross also had a great deal to say about how we live. Much of her perspective was from a “looking back” point-of-view.

The stages, Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance, are often used to understand the process of many kinds of loss, including death, divorce, loss of a job, or a multitude of life’s hard lessons.

 Kubler-Ross also writes that the one thing we can do for a loved one who is dying, is to be there with them as the end nears. “Sit with them-you don’t have to do anything but really be there with them.”

I am beginning to understand the fears of my long-time climbing partner, Tom. He went through a divorce in his 40’s. Upon re-marrying years later, he talked often about not wanting to grow old alone. Tom’s about ten years older than me, and was ahead of me in this process. While I am not in “fear” of much, now I can at least grasp where he was coming from. I am happy that he found a new love in his 50’s.

Mortality is inevitable. My own thoughts around it have little to do with myself, other than making an effort to improve my health so that my wife and child don’t have to deal with it for a long, long time. My thoughts go now toward my parents. Both are alive. One will outlive the other, leaving one in Florida, alone. I don’t like that idea one bit. I am not sure what I can do about it.

Secondly, my thoughts again go not to myself, but to Jay. He is an only child. Even Laura, as a 40-something parent, cannot expect to live forever. Jay will have a long life ahead after we are both gone. My hope is that he will find a lifelong love. It is a rare thing, I think, but possible. It seems to me that the best way to guide him is to help him learn to love freely, openly, to understand the hurt but embrace the power. If he can grow to be relatively fearless about love, he will be relatively fearless about just about anything that really matters. There will always be a light, always hope, and a way ahead.

Arrogance is easy.

Arrogance is easy.

There will always be someone to look down upon, should we choose to appoint ourselves a lofty perch from which to view the world. There are “smarter” and “dumber” people everywhere, alongside richer and poorer, sophisticated and simple, educated and ignorant. It’s easy to ascribe higher value, or greater “success”, or more positive feelings to the former of each pairing, and to discount, sneer at, or just plain ignore the latter. The very idea of such labeling is the starting point for discrimination and prejudice.

“The meek shall give me their toys”:

My son has already shown a knack for finding the meek in a group of children, and going after them. It’s mildly horrifying to turn him loose in a playroom, only to see him charge up to a quiet, smaller child, shriek and push the child or hit them. There are a couple of kids we know at the library who he targets somewhat regularly. When I can, I proactively walk Jay up and suggest a conversation, “Hey! It’s ‘****’! Say ‘Hi, ****, want to play?” Sometimes it works, for a while anyway. Role modeling helps. At least it shows him an alternate way to interact, and may reduce the trepidation of the other child. I hate it when my kid is the one others try to get away from.

Sigh.

It will take time. There will be setbacks. While I don’t “enjoy” it, I find some solace when other children demonstrate similar behaviors. In my eyes, it’s always Jay as the aggressor. One of his friends, a girl almost identical in age who has always mirrored her parents’ “Vermont Hippy Farmer” ethos, has been whacking kids on the head lately. I feel their pain. And, we share it. The mother, a good friend, came over to us at the library on Tuesday. She shared a conversation she had with a friend. The gist of it is that little ones just do that. Puppies bite and chew on each other mercilessly. Kittens ambush, grab and roll, scratch and bite without remorse. Foals bite and kick their mothers, and bite and kick each other. Goat kids head butt and kick each other silly. They outgrow it and learn from it.

Still, it’s hard to watch, especially knowing how Jay chooses to target certain (“weaker”) kids.

In the end, my mind always takes me back to, of all places, an episode of “All in the Family” that I saw decades ago. There was a character in this episode with Down Syndrome. He talked slowly, and processed somewhat slowly. Of course, that was easy fodder for Archie Bunker. At some point, the young man got fed up and ran off, yelling “I’ll show you. I’ll show you!”

Of course everyone but Archie was horrified, and worried about what would happen. When the young man returned, he had a sheet of paper with the words he wanted to show Mr. Bunker:

Everyone is my superior in that I may learn from them.

It’s a heady concept for a 2-year-old, and one many adults don’t, or can’t embrace. I fall short way too often. But, we do ourselves a disservice when we assume someone has nothing to offer because we find them inferior in some way. I hope at some point, someday, Jay can at least wrap his mind around that.

And it’s not just ourselves that benefit. When we allow ourselves to learn from and honor others, especially those who often find themselves marginalized, they too are enriched. To help someone is to have value. To teach someone is to offer your knowledge, your skill, yourself to the world. To express yourself, and to have others find value in that, is to feel the soul swell.

This week I started to include Jay in the pizza-making process. He absolutely loves it. Any time that I’m cooking, he walks into the kitchen, reaches for me, and asks, “Uppy Daddy?” He wants to see what I’m doing. I lift him, and from a safe distance, show him everything that’s going on. I narrate: this is cooking here, and those vegetables on the counter will be used for that over there, etc.etc. Once he can see the process, he’s good. Now that he sometimes gets to help, he’s thrilled.

I am awful at stretching pizza dough. If you want “thin and crispy”, I’m not your guy. I’m okay with that, and as life goes on, I want Jay to know that I’m not infallible, at anything. No one is perfect, not me, not mom, not Jay, and that’s okay. Somewhere there is a pimply 16-year-old Little Caesar’s employee with a 1.8 grade point average and anger management issues, who has a lot to teach me.

This too shall pass. Just not yet.

The cast is off. No, I'm not suffering from post-castum depression, but Jay isn't too sure. When he saw my bare leg he asked, "Are you okay?"

I said yes, honey. I'm fine. My leg feels good.

"Is the purple cast okay?"

"The purple cast is all gone. I don't need it anymore. It helped my leg feel better, and now it is all done."

"Oh. Okay." The wheels were still turning, and I wanted to say more, but sometimes I need to shut up and let him process things for himself.

Later on, I put on my walking boot. It worried him. It has a bit of a "Transformer" look: black, bionic, and somewhat imposing. It's even bigger than the purple cast. 

"Nooooo..., I don't like it."

I showed him that it has a pump (a la 1980's Reebok basketball shoes). We made silly pumping noises while he smacked the gray button. He found the dial to close and release the air chamber. We turned that back and forth, with accompanying robot noises. He giggled, and we are now good with The Boot. Anything that lets me pick him up more often is going to be good with him.

In the end, it doesn't really mark a big increase in what I can do. I can put weight on my heel for the next two weeks, followed by two more weeks of using the whole bottom of my foot. The Boot is here to stay for the next month or so.

Winter seems to be staying around for the foreseeable future as well. Daytime temps are in the low 20's this week, with overnight lows around zero, or below. The snow is turning gray, and consolidating into a dense, late-season pack that will take a long time to melt, should the weather decide to warm up at some point.

Last Thursday evening, Laura came in from feeding the horses to announce that there was no water coming from the frost-free hydrant at the horse shed. Since that time she has been filling gallon jugs at the house, piling them into the wheelbarrow, and hauling them down the ever-more-slippery-slope for the horses. It takes a good 8-12 gallons, twice a day, to complete the job. 

We're unsure as of yet whether the handle on the hydrant broke after so many frozen nights, or, more likely, the water line has simply frozen underground. I can't really hobble down there yet. I may sneak out there next week, when I can walk more reliably, but I don't really want to take any risks at this point. We're dealing with it, but as the calendar has turned over from January to February, and now to March, it has been challenging to have no clear light at the end of the tunnel.

It will pass. The snow will melt, and the ground will thaw. The water will flow. While I expected the ground to clear and my legs to walk by late March or early April, It may take a bit longer. We'll need hay by then. We've been going through it faster than we would normally, since the extreme weather has required us to increase the horses' rations. This promises to be a mud season of epic proportions, when it finally arrives.

I will walk normally, hike with my son, run the trails, haul hay, pound fence posts, and cut and haul firewood this year. It is hard to imagine that right now, but it does no good to ponder what cannot be done in the moment. For now, we'll make the most of the situation, and be thankful that we have the resources to manage it all. 

In the meantime, Jay's weeks will involve trips to library story time, tumbling classes, an occasional bouncy house, and a birthday party or two. We'll find some new music and new dance moves. We'll spend some "learning time", but in my short two-plus years at this, I've already seen what I suspected from the start. If we provide plenty of happy times, play, and social interaction, the learning happens all by itself.

Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss. You bastard.

I am not a skilled sales person. I shudder at sales-speak; I have enough training to recognize all the buzzwords and techniques salespeople use. When I feel them in use (it's visceral with me), I twitch. I really, physically, twitch. Laura has no use for giving sales pitches; if you can't see the ridiculously obvious benefits of her ideas, you are dismissed out of hand. Thus we can likely rule out "Nature" for one of Jay's finest gifts, and go straight to "Nurture."

So, who in our collective histories is the ultimate pitch man, the finest closer, the one with an answer to every objection? Who has the truly indefatigable spirit, the enthusiasm of a Mormon missionary, the drive and energy of a Tony Robbins washing down a double-dose of dexatrim with a triple espresso?

There is but one, and we have indoctrinated our son with his words several times a week for many months. Insidious and yet obvious, in the brilliance of morning light, His Words are most often delivered by exhausted parents, at desperate hours of the night. "Please go to bed, darling. Yes, one more book. Okay, yes! That's a great choice! So educational! Cozy up, honey, hug tight, and let's visit our friend..."

Sam I Am.

That Sam I Am, I do not like that Sam I Am.

The protagonist in "Green Eggs and Ham", who Jay has named "The Silly Person", is usually played by me. It's better that way; the story is followed more truly. When the roles are reversed, and Jay is the objector, Sam I Am (dad) generally crumples in the end, or unfairly and ungraciously skips straight into the Butter Battle Book.

Jay's skills go beyond even those of Sam I Am, but I blame Ted Geisel for introducing my son to the very idea that EVERYTHING is negotiable.

In honor of Theodor Geisel/ Dr. Seuss' birthday, I offer the following Seussian negotiation with my son:

Jay! Would you like your socks HERE or THERE?!?

I would not like them here OR there. I would not like them ANYWHERE.

I shall not, will not wear my socks. Here, daddy! Let's eat some rocks! 
I will not, shall not put on socks. Eat some rocks! Poop on blocks! 
(diversionary technique, pointing out options that make his choice look like a winner for me).

The couch! The couch! 
Let's put on socks here on the couch!

I would, not could not on the couchy.
Those ugly socks make my feet ouchy. 
I cannot wear my socks, you see. 
Daddy, daddy, let me be!

With a TRAIN! A TRAIN! Would you, could you holding a train?

Not with a train, not on the couch.
Looky Daddy! A kangaroo! With a pouch! (change the subject entirely, also known as the "Look! It's Halley's Comet" technique).

How about a boat? A BOAT! Would you like to hold this boat?

No thanks, Daddy. Can I have a goat?

Not with a goat, Jay. Not today. 
Don't you want to go out and play?

Damn. He has turned it around on me again. I am supposed to be getting something from HIM.

I do not like socks here OR there. I do not like socks ANYWHERE.
I do not like socks, Daddy. PLEASE.
I do not like it when you tease! (Now cometh the guilt trip)

Jay, honey, I'm not teasing.
That's my stress-induced asthma wheezing.
I hate to give you such bad news, 
but socks go on before your shoes!

I do not want socks or shoes. I do not like your angry news.
I do not like shoes or socks. Let's go play with my toy box! 

How about a milky cup? C'mon, before the day's used up!
Let's start with just this one sock. (Oh. My. God. Look at the clock!)

Not one sock, not one shoe. 
Daddy, Daddy, I'm TALKING to you! (the "YOU are disrespecting ME" turnaround technique)

The chair. Yes, the chair! 
Let's sit in the rocker.

No, Daddy. 
A ball! Let's play soccer!

Not on the couch, not in the chair. 
I do not want them ANYWHERE!

Not with a train, not with a boat. 
Daddy? I REALLY want a goat.

Would you, could you, on the floor?
We should be heading out the door...

Not on the couch, not in the chair, 
not on the floor. DAD! No more!

You do not like them, so you say.
Try them, and you may, dear Jay!
Try them, try them and you'll see. 
Try them then I'll let you be!

No.
(Not even bothering to rhyme.
We're really running out of time.
We really need a good diversion, 
to overcome this aversion.)

Let's read a book, like Mother Goose!

How abooooooooouuuuut... Dr. Seuss!

If socks are this tough, consider the jacket.
Boy, is THAT gonna create a racket.


Theodor Seuss Geisel was born 110 years ago today. Over his lifetime, he wrote and illustrated dozens of books, for children and otherwise. His writings were labeled by some as subversive, as he took on rampant consumerism with The Sneetches (1961), environmental exploitation with The Lorax (1971), and the folly of mutually assured destruction during the heat of the arms race in The Butter Battle Book (1984). As early as 1986 he pointed out the inefficiencies of our health care system in You're Only Old Once.

Along the way he entertained us with socially inept and daft characters, and with an illustration style often copied, but never really matched.

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish is a crazy ride of free association, and a primer on how to make up words when one can't find a rhyme. Horton Hears a Who reminds us of the vital notion that a person is a person, no matter how small.

In the end, after a lifetime of verbalizing and picturing our collective silliness, using words and images that caricatured those follies to a previously unimaginable level, the good Dr. left us with a message of hope and excitement. The last book published before his death, Oh, The Places You'll Go, has become a classic gift to arriving babies and departing friends.

Mr. Geisel, I jest in the title and early text of this post. Know that you, your words, and every one of your characters are welcome in our home. My son has already met many, and there is a line out the door waiting for him. There is much to learn, about compassion, about the power of one person (or elephant) with a sense of mission, about overcoming a jaded, Grinchy past. 

My son will see the end of many things. I hope he will speak for the trees. I cannot guarantee he won't care about having a star on his chest (or not having one), but he'll know the story of the Sneetches. He'll be on his own from there. I hope he will understand the power of making independent decisions.

Happy birthday, sir. Thanks.

Petunia, Beware!

It's 10:30 at night, and I'm just sitting down with a few squares of dark chocolate and a sippy cup of soy milk. I stopped caring what the crib will look like in the morning. Jay has been rocked to semi-sleep holding half a banana, which he steadfastly refused to either give up or eat. So, he gets to take it to bed with him.

I'm done.

Last night Jay got sleepy pretty early, and willingly strolled to his room for his bedtime routine. That should have tipped us off. Laura and I both assumed he was pooped from a busy day at Miss Candace's toddler gymnastics class and the whirlwind of activity that followed. About halfway through a dramatic reading of "Petunia Beware", he began coughing and gagging. Soon his entire afternoon snack and dinner landed on Laura's lap.

I grabbed him and ran to the bathroom while Laura attended to herself and the bedroom. He leaned over the toilet and said, "I want to do it again." Sometimes he leaves out the negatives, so I'm still not sure if he wanted to vomit again to feel better, or if he was dreading it and didn't want to. Regardless, he didn't, and we began to clean up. For reasons beyond me there were no towels in the bathroom. After stripping Jay to his diaper, I did what I could with toilet paper, some flushable diaper wipes, and the back of his shirt. If you have been following our saga, and are just now realizing that I should have been on my crutches to get him into the bathroom, this is about where it dawned on me as well. Thankfully I'm only about 5 days from getting my cast removed, and my ankle should be pretty well healed.

I peeled off my own shirt and held Jay, skin to skin, cooing in his ear while he whimpered. I gave him a drink of water, and showed him how to rinse and spit. He sipped and spit, then drank. He said, "My teeth, daddy". After brushing his teeth, we sat together on the bathroom floor for a good twenty minutes or so. I heard the laundry running. We hobbled together back into Jay's bedroom. Laura had already replaced the bedspread we keep on the floor with a quilt, and changed out the pillow cases. This was in addition to cleaning herself of the bulk of the mess.

After we all spent a few minutes collecting ourselves as a family on the floor, I let Laura know I would spend the night with him, and she could shower and go to bed. Soon Jay was asleep, so I transferred him to his crib. I decided to spend the night on the couch nearby, where I could easily hear him. Laura and I both ended up staying up for a while. Around 10 pm Laura checked on him. "He's snoring." Awesome.

At 11:30 he was up and sick again. I picked him up and cleaned him, changed him again, and planned for a night on the floor. I gathered towels and burp cloths. I laid a small blanket under him, then we curled up tight. 

We were up a few more times during the night. Each time I changed out what was under him and cleaned him up, and we drifted back off together. He slept deeply between his bouts; me, not so well.

Morning finally arrived. Laura came in and said, "It's 7:30. I have to go soon." We said goodbye, and Jay and I got ourselves dressed. Well, okay, Jay got as far as a fresh diaper and his "Snack Attack" tee-shirt. It would be a few hours before pants entered the scene. I called "Debbie Daycare" and said Jay would be staying home today. 

We had one more episode shortly after attempting a light breakfast. We had to change out of the Snack Attack shirt, which was a most unpopular move. I promised to wash it so he could get it back on "ASAP". He wasn't sure what that meant, but it seemed like a good reason to recite the alphabet.

The day was a quiet one for both of us. He settled in on saltines and water for the morning, and that seemed to work. In the afternoon we added a banana, half at first, then the other half an hour later. As we got some fluids and electrolytes back into him, he picked up some energy. I tried lying down with him for a nap around one o'clock, but I was the only one falling asleep. I finished dressing him in hopes of taking a nap-inducing car ride. He wouldn't have it. So, we pulled out the doll house and played. 

Jay's interior design sense is nothing if not functional. All of the food-related items went in the kitchen, including the toilet. Actually, pretty much everything ended up in the kitchen. The mommy and daddy dolls ate raw turkey while lettuce cooked in the oven. Jay sat on the eggs (not sure if he was hatching them, or just hiding them from me). 

Eventually the whole family was displaced by a "flood". They found themselves all together in the bathtub, floating down the street (in Jay's pretend world). Jay has been staging train disasters since he got his first track, and has brought this special talent to his new doll house. After everyone survived the flood, they were quickly besieged by an earthquake. Still reeling from the aftershocks, the Attack of the Mutant Killer Irish German Jewish Forty-Foot T-Rex pretty much finished things off. Jayzilla was back.

That was enough excitement. We did a few puzzles, read a Blue's Clues book, and discussed whether or not he should keep his socks on. He's a skilled negotiator. I'm not sure who won, but the socks stayed on (my choice) and we watched two episodes of Dinosaur Train on TV. I think we'll call it win-win, since I was ready to check out anyway.

At 5 pm he finally sacked out on my chest. I reclined the rocker so we lay almost flat. Within minutes the phone rang. I picked him up and hopped to the kitchen to answer. Laura was calling to let us know she was on her way home. Jay didn't budge. I didn't want him to sleep too long, although I knew we both needed it. I just hoped to avoid him staying up until 10:30. 

Fail.

It was a long night, and a longer day. The plan was for a normal night of sleep last night, followed by a "me" day today, taking care of some business and catching up on rest. I should be in bed right now, but I still need a few minutes of "me" time more than I need sleep. If tomorrow allows, Jay will go to daycare and I will do a little bit of what I needed to do today. 

Check that- I'll do what I wanted to do today. I guess I did what I needed to do today.

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.

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.