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Oy, Baby!

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

It’s 11:30pm, a minute after I’ve mercifully fallen asleep, and my wife says, “It’s your turn.” I go to visit my gently crying baby, put a pacifier in his mouth, watch him quiet, and sneak out of the room before he needs anything more involved.

It’s after 1am and my wife — who has taken the last three baby calls — smacks my backside with a force I thought only reserved for children at 19^th-century boarding schools, “It’s your turn!” I hear Jacob wailing and scramble awkwardly from the bed before my wife draws blood. Going to him, I try the pacifier and he spits it out like warm beer. I rub his head’s soft spot, but that makes him cry harder. I pick him up and pat him as he screams and pulls my chest hair with the force of a gorilla. He wants to be walked…around the house…for half an hour…in the middle of the night. He finally collapses asleep. I gingerly lay him in the crib and run like hell to my room, stepping in cat throw-up along the way, and bark at my wife, “And you think you want a third!”

It’s just before 6am and I blearily see my wife is not getting up, despite Jacob’s escalating moaning. “It’s my turn,” I say. I go to the crib and find him grumbling, snot running from his nose. “Why won’t you let me sleep, you little monster?” I croak.

Then, those big brown eyes flutter open and he — grins. I sigh, tension releasing. “Good morning, Jacob,” I say as if I am one of the Seven Dwarves and Snow White has finally awakened.

Having a second baby is nothing and everything I imagined. It is indeed more than twice the work and three times the frustration. You see, I thought I had already graduated from Baby College. But like those nightmares we all have of repeating high school because we were late for a test, I am reliving the curriculum.

I am returning to the sleepless nights, the poops that penetrate steel barriers, the inconsistent bottle feedings. I am Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

Now add something Mr. Murray didn’t have to deal with — a preschooler. Everything’s more complicated when you’re trying to care for a baby while the bigger kid still needs proper attention.

But all that being said, this experience is more like Snow White than Groundhog Day. Jacob’s smile is as big and constant as his mom’s. He’s delightfully ticklish, especially after a bath, and he is patient as a saint around his rambunctious brother.

And while I feel guilty (I just can’t get through a column without a guilt confession) that I give Jacob less attention than I did Benjamin when he was an infant, I try to focus on the positives and let him trigger my lost skills as the caregiver of a baby.

Sometimes, those triggers take a little longer to fire. Like the fact that it took me two months to realize that you need to change a diaper more than once or twice a day. Why do they make Huggies so darn absorbent if they can’t make the long haul? I still haven’t got the sense to wear a cloth over my shirt after Jacob eats. I regularly show up for work with “milk badges.” And I will never figure out why my child needs to shriek like a cast member from Halloween while we’re driving. All those books say driving is supposed to calm a baby.

Then there’s the return of some of my favorite baby pastimes. As with my first-born, I like to sing the theme from Bonanza and watch Jacob kick and splash like a maniac. I love how he studies the backs of his hands as he discovers that these amazing tools belong to him. I even adore the way he forcefully pulls the remaining hair from my head as he perches on my neck, drunk with the power of sitting “on top of the world.”

But one of my most precious times with him is on the too infrequent mornings I take him into the playroom before anyone else wakes up. There, I clear a space from the superhero and Hot Wheel minefield my eldest creates the day before, and place my little one on a fresh blanket. He coos at me and soon rolls onto his tummy. He looks up, waiting for a reaction. I applaud. He giggles proudly…But not nearly as proudly as his daddy.

Posted in Babies, Columns by Family Man | Leave a comment

The First Adolescence

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

My son is going through a grumpy stage. And a selfish stage. And a tantrum stage. He has enough sulks, brooding looks, and dagger I am going through a stage myself. It’s called the I-am-a-weak -minion-of-a-3-year-old stage.

What chance do I have against a boy who can be so confoundingly difficult and so darn adorable at the same time? Every request I make is met by a “no,” or a creative alternative. Take this classic episode from “Scenes From the Dinner Table”: “How ‘bout some more broccoli,” I encourage. “No,” he fires back. “You used to think it was as good as dessert,” I respond. “No, I didn’t,” he says, giving me his best “You’re tearing me apart!” Rebel Without a Cause impression. I then try to explain to him that,  “I am your father and I distinctly recall that you preferred broccoli to cookies when you were younger.” “Well, I don’t like it anymore. It sticks in my teeth,” he offers, indicating a green sprout with his tongue.

Then I try getting mad, “You cannot leave the table until you eat something healthy!” I say, pounding my fist on the table. How does he respond? He laughs himself off the chair. How else do you respond to a pushover who tries to act tough?

All of this is a result of what some of those smug, know-it-all child development experts (my wife included) call the “first adolescence.” This is the time toddlers/early preschoolers bombard their parents with an arsenal of defiance, manipulation, and emotional see-sawing that rivals that of teenagers. All of this is in the name of gaining dominance and independence.

It’s a valiant battle for power, and he is really good at it. Take this little nighttime conversation for example: “Let’s brush your teeth,” I say. “OK, let’s do it with the tube of toothpaste,” he says as he ingeniously saves time and effort by rubbing the Tom’s of Maine Silly Strawberry tube over his baby teeth. This time, I laugh, and thereby lose all credibility as an authority figure for at least a week.

I constantly teeter between bemusement and frustration in the face one-liners that any teenager would be proud of. “It’s not fair” is a favorite he uses. It’s the utility fielder of sayings that comes in handy whenever he’s not allowed to watch any more <i>Land Before Time #148</i> or told he needs to wear a jacket because it’s colder than ice cream outside.

There’s the “I’m not tired/I’m tired” combo platter. This involves saying he’s not tired when it’s 10 at night (don’t ask how he gets that far). We especially love it when he says “I’m not tired,” then promptly crashes into slumber like a KO’d heavyweight. He uses “I’m tired” when he doesn’t want to put away his toys. He also uses this excuse to try to stay in bed late (a time-honored sign of a teenager). And then there’s the now-famous “I’m tired of taking naps at school.” Try to untangle that one, why don’t you?

Other links between the age of 3 and 16 are his fussiness about his wardrobe, the way he struts like a tough guy around the girls in his class, and his repeated cry of “I don’t want to go to school” (my wife and I have visions of him cutting from circle time to go shoplifting in the candy aisle at Ralphs).

Lost in all of this are my feelings. I’m the one who feels like throwing a tantrum when I offer to put on his shoes, only to be pushed away. “I want to do it!” he says. Patiently, I watch him struggle for a couple moments. Then he says, “You do it, Daddy.” So I start putting them on before he barks,  “Not these shoes. I want my <i>other</i> shoes.” And that’s not to mention the bruised ego I suffer when my little angel rebuffs me whenever I ask him how his school day went, “I’m not going to tell you.” Ouch!

But while teens are on their way to the adult world, where power and independence are vital to survival, a 2 to 4 year old is on his or her way to the playground. So the experts recommend that parents be “firm in a gentle manner.” But what exactly does that mean? It sounds like they suggest I whisper when I say, “Don’t poke your baby brother in the soft spot on top of his head.” And, should I give him a snuggle while I warn, “Sit on your tush in that chair or you’ll fall and break your arm”?

For the most part, I follow the experts’ advice (toning down the violent imagery) and have modest degree of success, despite my occasional meltdowns into immaturity (“Fine, if you won’t sit still for this picture, I won’t color with you later!”). What’s important is that I see my son for what he is — a little boy who has a healthy quest for independence and the most glorious giggle for me when I come home for dinner.

Posted in Columns by Family Man, Humor | Leave a comment

Traveling Solo

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

The Amtrak Surfliner is very late, which means I’ve spent the last hour trying to manage Benjamin’s alternating excitement/disappointment.

“Here comes the train,” he says as he rushes toward the oncoming freightliner.

I have to dash to shepherd him away from the tracks, while balancing a 300-pound “survival” backpack of food, books, games, and (hopefully) enough extra underwear to survive the rest of this two-day experience as a “single” father.

The train finally arrives, gleaming brighter than Thomas the Tank Engine could ever hope for. We board and sit down in a nice bulkhead-like spot. The train lurches San Diego-bound and Benjamin gets giddy, “We’re going, we’re going!”

We have three-and-a-half hours before we meet Mommy, who is at a child-development conference. Sometimes, I coast a little when Wendy is around to share the parenting load. In times like these, I’m focused and notice how much he looks like his Mommy and appreciate more comments, like “Can trains fly?”

For part of the trip, we snack on healthful peanut-butter pretzels (“Daddy, you eat them”) and cookies (“These are for me”). I try to teach him checkers, but he creates a new game (“I just want to hold them”). I point out the sights visible from out window: abandoned homes littered with scrap metal, drab warehouses. Not much to see until we hit the jackpot — a parking lot for cranes! It’s all Benjamin can do to point out each one. I never knew cranes could come in so many sizes and colors. I never knew I would ever care

Then, a young woman sits down across from us. She’s heading down to a small town in the South Bay. She’s a single mother taking a break to visit a friend. She’s friendly and nice to Benjamin. She doesn’t want to talk much; she’s just enjoying some quiet time before disembarking for a night out with her old friend.

The gentle, perpetual motion of the train beckons me to sleep. I try valiantly to stay awake for Benjamin. But he soon drifts off against my shoulder. This is indeed a little slice of heaven, sitting back as the sky darkens over the industrial landscape, me and my son.

When we awake, a new person is sitting across from us. A young girl. She has candy. She gives the candy to Benjamin. Quiet time is over.

Despite my grogginess, Benjamin starts to wrestle with me on the seat. “I’m going to get you.” I pretend to go down in repeated defeat, then draw the line at, “Let’s hop on pop!” A crowded train is one place where Dr. Seuss is not helpful.

I try to curb the sugar rush with offerings of a light dinner, including cheese and carrots. He snaps off a piece of carrot, “I’m all done now!.” So I offer a walk. It’s hard enough to follow a three-year old without the wobble of a train ride. We manage to walk around a bit, annoying/entertaining other passengers before going downstairs.

He climbs on an empty seat and discovers the emergency lever. I tell him not to touch it. “Why?” he asks. “Because it makes the train stop.” He thinks about this, “I want to get off, now,” he sees, reaching for the device. I lunge for the lever and explain, “Other people don’t want to get off.” “Why not,” he asks. Normally, at this early-evening hour, I would have my wife around to spell me from this persistent challenge.

We go further up the train car and meet a very nice group of people. A woman offers Benjamin one of those foam dinosaurs on the end of a bendy wire. He picks it up and becomes absorbed in it. I get to talk to an adult for a while. She was rather cute, too, and very impressed at my fatherly abilities. And, yes, the cliché of how helpful a kid would’ve been in my single days did occur to me.

But then the inevitable statement. “I have to go potty.”

After potty, we go for another trip around the train, all the while reviewing the reasons why we cannot get off the train just yet. Finally, the train pulls into the station. Benjamin can’t wait to see Mommy. And neither can I. He still has one last question for me to wrangle, until she arrives to meet us.

“Where’s San Diego?” he wants to know.

“We’re here,” I say.

“I don’t see it,” he opines, trying to make sense of the fact that a train station cannot possibly be all there is to the city.

I’m wiped and thankful that Wendy has the station wagon she drove down the other day. We drive off to pick up our friends Nicole and Joel and go to a late dinner. I try to remain nonpartisan as Wendy takes her turn parenting, as she works on feeding our picky eater.

Then, Benjamin needs to go potty again. Feeling guilty that I have shirked all duties for the past hour, I volunteer to take him. We go in and it is then I discover something horrible — he has already gone in his clothes. And its not…exactly…tidy. In fact, it’s a Defcon 4 alert untidy.

Exhausted, distressed, and trying mightily not to let him see me sweat (we mustn’t say anything to cause a regression in the potty training), I proceed to unpeel his clothes.

Exhausted, distressed, and not at all afraid to cry, he says, “I don’t want to be naked, now!” I try to console him while I pat him down with several rolls of toilet paper in this public bathroom. A man walks in and starts to giggle, watching me try to clean up my poor son.

Then, Joel walks in. The search party. “Are you all right?”

“Does it look like I’m all right,” I say, looking fairly untidy myself.

Joel tries hard not to laugh. I tell him to tell my wife, “She owes me – big time.”

Joel leaves and I ponder the desecrated Blue’s Clues undies. I decide to throw them away. Benjamin is not happy about that, but I’ve lost the ability to reason. I shove his pants back on (though still a bit untidy) and burst out of the restroom with him under my arm. I return to the table and there they are, laughing hysterically at my predicament. Benjamin laughs with them. And I say to my wife, “I am done parenting for the rest of the weekend.”

It didn’t stop there, actually. Wendy had to work at the conference the next day and Benjamin was all mine for most of that Saturday. It turns out he had a stomach virus (the obvious cause of the bathroom fiasco) and I felt like a complete failure because I couldn’t get him to eat or have fun at the kids’ museum.

It was all of 48 hours, but in that stretch of time, I tasted a morsel of life as a single parent. It was chaotic. It was precious. It was exhausting. It was character building. Could I do it on an ongoing basis? Yes, because I treasure my son and would do everything I could to help him grow up happy and strong — in spite of untidy occurrences.

Posted in Columns by Family Man, Humor, Traveling With Kids | Leave a comment

Morning Has Broken

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

I wake up early. My three-year-old is still asleep. So, I see my wife off to work and hit the home office. I figure I have another 10 minutes before parenting duty.

Three minutes later, my son pads in, wearing his feetsie pajamas and clutching his Big Babba blanket.  “Can I use the computer,” he asks groggily. With one hour to get him to day care, I must factor in his diversionary tactics. This and my own minute-by-minute evaluation of “am I a good father?”

“Let’s try going to the potty,” I suggest instead of playing Dora the Explorer. “Just one minute,” he reasons. We play for five. I finally get him excited enough about wearing Buzz Lightyear underwear that he agrees to leave the iMac.

We hit the bathroom, where he pushes me away and takes two minutes to unzip his PJs. He sits. He pees. All over the floor. He forgot to point himself into the toilet. I use a perfectly clean towel to abate the mess. Forty-five minutes to go.

We’re almost at the breakfast table when he remembers we have a TV. “I want the Bob the Builder tape,” he chirps. “How about half of Bob,” I half implore. “OK,” he says. I am caught off-guard by the easy agreement.

I recover and get him his “dragon juice” and a vitamin. “Sit next to me,” he asks. I sit. Ten minutes elapse and I call out the one-minute warning. He ignores me. Another minute and I announce TV termination. He ignores me. I turn off the TV. He freaks.

“Two more minutes! Two more minutes,” he screams. “One more minute,” I say. “One more minute and then I eat breakfast and then I finish Bob,” he counters. “Maybe,” I say. This is a child who could maneuver a sports agent under the table.

From here, I have 30 minutes. We eat breakfast, but not without trying three different cereals, Daddy’s soy milk and regular milk, and several variations on sitting.

I conveniently forget about finishing Bob and we move to the dress-up phase. I attempt to give him two choices, but he wants the khaki shorts. “They’re dirty,” I say. He cries. I collect my breath. Frustration leads to anger. We do not want anger.

I get him to grumpily agree to the attire. Then, he dallies about the room, pulling toys off shelves, and laughing as I chase him with the pants. He jumps on my back and kisses my cheek. I laugh, letting my guard down for a precious moment. We’ve got 4 more minutes…

We get to the door. “I have to go potty,” he stalls. Back to the toilet, where nothing happens. We get out the door. We go back inside. “Silly Daddy. You forgot my backpack.” We get in the car. We cannot leave until I give him two mints. We finally drive to day care, six minutes late.

After dropping him off, I sit alone in the driver’s seat. All of my frustration melts away as I try to make out his figure through the screened window of the day care. He is laughing, playing with his friends. An independent person. And I can’t wait for the next morning of craziness.

Posted in Columns by Family Man | Leave a comment

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