Shoe Business

The week ahead looks to be interesting. This weekend we have two birthday parties for two little girls, Monday is Labor Day, and Tuesday, I start at a new job. I’ll be working for The Mouse on the massively multiplayer game for kids, Toon Town. Appropriate given my daddy status. On Thursday, my parents come to Los Angeles to stay with us. On Saturday, Mikey turns 2 and we have a party with a couple family and a handful of friends. On Sunday, Mikey’s cousin Natalie gets baptized.

A lot of major events in a short period of time. And then today, Mikey just put his shoes on by himself.

The way it went down was this. Ian had left early, and I was getting Mikey ready for preschool. We had juice (Naked ™ Green Machine + Essential Greens ™ Veggie Harvest), then breakfast (Farley’s rusks, banana, and milk), then brushed teeth, combed hair (no crying today!), and put on clothes (red Paul Franks monkey tee-shirt, red and blue checked shorts), and were debating the merits of different shoes. Red shoes were considered and rejected because they have laces. Sandals were in the diaper bag and not part of the equation. So, blue shoes or gray shoes? Before we had settled it, the phone rang, and I went to chat with Ian for five minutes.

When I came back, Mikey was in his nursery, playing with his Legos ™ and wearing the shoes he had put on by himself. And the right foot was in the right shoe, and the left foot was in the right shoe. (This is something which my mother can tell you, it took me more years that it ought to have to figure out) Mikey had even worked out a compromise between blue and gray shoes.

As you can see.

Rhapsody

On August 14th, Ian and I took Mikey to see our friend Rachel Worby conduct the Pasadena Pops for one of the last times, since she is leaving after this season. The theme of the night was “All That Jazz,” and it began appropriately enough with Kander’s “All That Jazz” from Chicago, and then went through Mancini, Monk, Ellington, and several by Gershwin. Normally, as close friends of the Maestra, we get a good table up front, but at the last performance we decided that with Mikey, we were best off on a blanket in the back. It turns out that was a great decision.

It had been a month and a week since we had visited the parents and grandparents in New Bern, North Carolina. And it had been a week since I got an email from my mom with the title “Dad Is Dead,” referring to her father, my grandfather, Mikey’s great grandfather, who he only had a chance to meet the one time. How is it possible for a death to be a shock when it isn’t a surprise? I don’t know, but it was. I think it’s simply that I’ve been lucky for 41 years: no one I’ve truly loved has died before now. I am so grateful that we decided to hitch a visit to North Carolina onto the back of my cousin’s wedding in Wisconsin. The photos that we have of Mikey and Grandpa giving each other high fives are ones I will always treasure, and when he’s old enough to know what a remarkable man his great grandfather was, so will he.

So, it’s been a sad week. Add to that that Mikey has begun preschool, so he’s not home for several hours during the day. Apparently, according to his teachers who know what to say, he misses us enough that he’s called out “Daddy!” or “Papa!” after his nap, and once or twice looked for us in the preschool kitchen (the place where naturally we’d be), but the truth is that he loves it. He’s so social, it’s a good fit for him.

When you’re with Mikey, there’s not much time to reflect on your grandfather passing on and your son growing up. You’re feeding, chasing, laughing, and doing all the other present-tense things you have to do to keep up with a 23-month-old. Even at a concert like Saturday’s, you can’t sit and reflect on the music much, because the kid requires your attention. Then there was the plaintive, warbling glissando of the clarinet – which Rachel described as a bit of humorous improvisation at the first rehearsal of Rhapsody in Blue which Gershwin decided to keep in – and Mikey froze and began his dance.

The pity of it is that unlike the visit with his great grandfather, we were unable to capture it on film. Our video camera undoubtedly has a night light, but damned if I know how to find it in the dark. As he danced among the blankets and chair in the back rows of the concert, we heard various witnesses describe it as somewhere between a contemporary interpretative dance, a Charlie Chaplin routine, and a drunken jig. In fairness, Rhapsody In Blue, which closed the concert, began about two hours after Mikey’s usual bedtime, so the normally energetic kid was even more punch drunk than usual.

For me, Rhapsody In Blue was first associated with the black and white fireworks in the beginning of Woody Allen’s Manhattan. Then, when United began playing it in their commercials, I began associating it with flying. Now and forevermore, it will remind me of a warm August evening outside the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, and our son jumping, tumbling, shaking, and skipping perfectly in time with the score. A rhapsody indeed.

Score!

In order to stay certified as foster parents, Ian and I need to take 15 hours of classes on some subject or another related to parenting. We took a big whopper of a class a couple months ago, the Beyond Consequences workshop, which was interesting but since we didn’t then have a child let alone a deeply troubled one (knock on wood), we mostly did it for the hours. Two weekends ago, SCFFAA had a parents’ round-table which included daycare and was only 2 hours, so we thought we’d check it out.

The first big take-away from the seminar had nothing to do with the speakers, but with Mikey having a good time playing with the other kids and barely even noticing we were gone, leading us to the conclusion that he’s ready for preschool.
The second take-away came from some of the advice the parents on the panel gave about keeping score. It’s apparently pretty easy to become resentful, only notice the things you’re doing to make the whole family thing work, and rack up a lopsided scoreboard in your head, picking up points for every time you have to get up during the night to feed or attend to tears, deal with a bad diaper or a temper tantrum by yourself, do laundry and clean the house while your partner has fun playing with the kid, or do whatever it is which isn’t your favorite part of being a parent. I don’t know if there is a multi-point system, but if so, how would one calculate the number of points for getting the poop out of the tub when our relaxing bath-time went terribly wrong last night? And is that score multiplied when your partner unhelpfully chimes in, “It’s breaking up! It’s breaking up!”

No, the advice was, basically, don’t keep score. Open your eyes and recognize all the things your partner is doing which you aren’t noticing, enjoy the parts of raising a child that are truly magical, and get over yourself. Which is pretty good advice, whether you have a child or not.

So, Ian and I don’t take score on who does what, or we don’t keep score, which is slightly different. What, after all, is the point of keeping any score? As a game designer, I can say it’s a way to quantify your degree of success, usually compared to other players. Since you and your partner – as defined by the word “partner” – are both members of the same team, it’s counterproductive to make that a competition.

Where score matters are on things like developmental tests which Mikey will be taking soon courtesy of the north Los Angeles regional center. And scores matter on the playground, where life is tough.

We just got back from the playground in Tarzana, where I met up with my good friend and parenting mentor Suzanne and where Mikey was literally mobbed by a gang of boys and girls who looked to be between 6th and 8th grade who were hanging around, waiting for their day camp field trip. About a dozen of them passed him around, getting high fives and fist bumps, pushing him in another kid’s push car, and generally oohing and ahing over his every grin and giggle. Meanwhile, every other kid in the park, including Suzanne’s own absolutely adorable and sweet little girls, were ruthlessly ignored no matter what.
Suzanne and I laughed about it, and then I was thinking about this whole notion of competitive childrearing afterwards. Giving Mikey a point for every minute with every teenager looking on him with adoration. Subtracting points from Suzanne for such sad cheats as her prompting her youngest daughter, “See, show them you can do fist bumps too!” That kind of thing.

It’d be funny to be that shallow and that competitive. I would never do it. But if I did, the score would probably be 89 to 4 in Mikey’s favor. Approximately. ;)

The Potty Animal

Yesterday, we bought Mikey a potty. It’s arguably too soon. He’s 22 months old, and most authorities say boys aren’t ready for toilet training until they’re closer to 3, not close to 2. He also is wet every morning, and the rule is that until you can hold your bladder, you’re not ready for toilet training. What we’ve been doing is letting him come into the bathroom when we go, and his job is to flush the toilet and put down the lid afterwards if he wants.

So, why did we buy him a potty? We just wanted him to be comfortable with it, sitting on it, playing the drums on it, whatever he wanted to do. We’ve talked to some friends of ours whose 2-and-a-half year old daughter cries whenever she’s put on her potty, and we wanted to make sure that Mikey didn’t have that same reaction. Let him warm up to the object over time, we reasoned.

Tonight, we came back from a playdate and dinner, and Ian went to the bathroom and Mikey followed. A moment later, I saw that Mikey had his pants and diapers off and was sitting on the potty. Ian asked for me to get him a book to read while he sat, and I gave him “8 Silly Monkeys.” (“8 silly monkeys jumping on the bed / one fell off and bumped his head / Mama called the doctor and the doctor said / ‘No more monkeys jumping on the bed” et cetera).

A minute or two later, Mikey bolted up and we saw that he had pooped in his potty.

Not saying that he’s toilet trained, but pardon me while I brag about our 22-month-old and what he did 24 hours after getting his first potty.

Genius.

Mikey Meets Grandma and Grandpa

My cousin Sarah got married in Kenosha, Wisconsin last weekend, and Ian, Mikey, and I flew out from Los Angeles to be there. As you know from my previous blog entry , this is the second time Mikey’s been on a plane with us to go to a wedding, and we hoped his perfect behavior on the plane at and at the party wasn’t a fluke. I can’t say we’ll never have a bad flight with him, but now that we’ve been on 9 separate planes with him, it’s safe to say that the rule is that he flies very well. On the last flight today, one of the stewardesses came to us and asked if she could hold Mikey, and we said sure, provided he didn’t object (which of course he didn’t), and we talked about her own attempts to adopt while she rocked our son in her arms until he drifted off to sleep.

Just one of the moments of the last six days which will stick with us.

Mikey’s plane patience was tested at the start when we flew out at 6:30 pm from LAX, arriving at O’Hare just after midnight. By the time we met up with my parents, got our car (and then got another car with a bit more room for all our luggage), got lost in Chicago, and made it to the hotel in Kenosha, it was after 3 in the morning. He actually woke up the next morning, which meant he didn’t sleep his usual 11 hours, and that was the theme of the week: sleep deficiency. Even when we tried to put him down at some time approaching his normal nap time, he was too excited. This is a boy who knows how to have fun.

The wedding was very touching and my cousin looked beautiful. Mikey had already bonded with my parents by then, and fell asleep in his grandmother’s arms. When Ian and I whispered to her, “Do you mind holding him?” thinking his 30 lb. weight might be a bit much, she looked back at us and then smiled at him before whispering, “Your dads ask really dumb questions sometimes.”

He was awake, however, in time to break dance at the reception, after watching some of the older boys do it.

The next day, we flew with the parents to New Bern, North Carolina to stay with them for two days and introduce Mikey to his nonagenarian great grandparents who weren’t able to make it to the wedding. Perhaps not surprisingly, there’s no direct flight to New Bern, North Carolina from most locations, so we were supposed to change plans in Atlanta. Unfortunately, a massive storm hit the south-east, centered in Atlanta and the weather got so bad that the airport was shut down. Our modest layover became a desperate fight to get out of the water-logged city any way we could after our flight was cancelled. We were booked by the computer to fly out the next morning, but slightly more humane and human ticket agents got us in the long standby list for the last flight out that night. It began to look like only one or two of us was going to be able to get out, in the high drama as we entered our sixth hour in Concourse B.

Meanwhile, Mikey was having the best time, playing with other kids if they had strollers he could fasten up, high-fiving and fist-bumping whoever would return it, staring at people who were sleeping until they opened their eyes, and pointing out the “big trucks” and “planes” and “rain, rain, rain” outside the windows. He probably felt we left too soon when we all, to our relief, managed to get onto that last flight out.

The visit in New Bern continued the bonding between Mikey and his grandparents. He had his first ice cream with them, as well as his first seafood Newberg and broccoli soufflé. They put him up on their player grand piano so he could pound on the keys or watch them play themselves by magic. They hosted a party at their house on the Trent River, and thirty of their friends didn’t let explosive thunderstorms dissuade them from coming to meet Littlest Mikey.

And Mikey met his grandparents at their apartment at a retirement center. My grandfather is not doing well, but he is still quick-witted enough to tell me that he was rereading a book the other day and didn’t think much of the writing except for the introduction. The book he was modestly referring to was his own Stories For My Grandchildren , for which I wrote part of the introduction, and I promised him that I would be reading them to our son. An easy promise to keep.

As far as my grandmother, on meeting Mikey, she said, “We think he’s a gift from the Lord.” I can’t disagree.

The Water Baby

Mikey became a water baby today.

A little background: I love having a pool. When I was a kid in Ohio, I was the one with a pool – it was a rarity among folk in a climate where winters (and most of fall and most of spring) were harsh enough to freeze 20,000 gallons to a solid. When Ian and I bought our first house together, he required a good kitchen and I required a pool. Of course, we also required a quiet neighborhood, extra bedrooms, and all the other requirements for parenthood, and we were lucky enough to get it all. The pool is fenced in, as required by California foster care, and we have an attached hot tub which we never use as such, but which we figured was perfect as a kiddy pool. I live every minute of every summer I can in the pool, and Ian, who grew up in an even less pool-oriented climate than Ohio – England – has gradually gravitated towards it as well. Needless to say, as summer begins in the blast furnace they call the San Fernando Valley, we want our child to be comfortable in the pool because that’s where we will be.

Mikey, on being brought out to the pool at a friend’s house days after we first got him, screeched in horror, and could only be comforted with a snack cup of pretzels. Gradually, we introduced him to our pool, and he came to understand the pleasure of dipping his feet in the water and splashing, with me or Ian by his side. A week ago, he stood up on the highest step in the hot tub/kiddy pool, and then soon, he was comfortable walking along it, collecting some toys we scattered along it.
Today, we brought him out to the pool, as we do every afternoon, and we went through the familiar procession, feet splashing, standing, squirting one another with bath toys, collecting toys on the top step. Ian sat on the top step, and Mikey just suddenly decided to sit down next to him. That lasted for an hour or so of play. I was in the middle of the hot tub, and Ian got out to lie out on the deck, and Mikey went to join him. Mikey handed him his shirt, and Ian put it on, and we thought it was over for the day.

“Should I take his swim suit off here?” Ian asked.

“Might as well, and take his diapers off too,” I said. “They’ve already absorbed half the pool.”

When Ian removed Mikey’s bottom half of clothing, Mikey held up his arms to have his shirt removed as well, and soon the naked little boy was back in the pool, and I was watching warily to make sure he didn’t find the immersion in water too … relaxing. I was so expecting imminent pooping that when he turned around and squatted, I assumed that was it, but Ian called to my attention that he was just trying to get down to the next lower step. I helped him down, and for the next two hours, we played in the water which was up to both of our necks, laughing, splashing, and singing. I only pulled him out because the sun was setting, and I was entirely pruned up.

He may turn out to be a bigger water baby than even me. I wonder if Ms. B, who is giving him swimming lessons in a couple weeks, will mind if he does it nude.

My Trip To The Clouds & Sun Valley

Father’s Day weekend and the out of state wedding we attended were perfect, as of course was I (Littlest Mikey). We drove to Burbank Airport Friday morning, which is nice because it’s close and small, and only had a bit of grumpiness when they took my shoes off and took away my sippy cup at security for thirty seconds, because I look so shifty. We hung around the gate with our friend Stan, Chris, and Robert who were also going to the wedding, and I smiled at all the folk waiting for the plane who were doubtlessly thinking, “Oh, a baby on the plane. I do hope he sits near us!”



The first flight was about two hours from Burbank to Salt Lake City. I cried for a moment as we walked across the runway to the small plane and it roared in a scary way, but that didn’t last long. I am not used to being held on a lap for two hours, so I squirmed between the two laps I had available and ate and ate and ate, and sometimes I played with the food boxes, or the tray table, or the window shade (where I learned two new words “Up” and “Down”). Then we had a short layover in Salt Lake City and moved into a smaller propeller plane. I tried to stay awake for the hour flight to Sun Valley, but much to everyone’s disappointment, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, we were on the shuttle to our hotel, the Sun Valley Lodge. Our room wasn’t ready, so first we were put in a room which could only be reached up a long flight of stairs. When Papa Ian complained that such a room wouldn’t do for a baby in a stroller, they moved us to another room on the ground floor. This room had a lovely view of the lodge ice rink, but when Papa Ian called to ask what time the shows were and whether they were loud, we were moved again and upgraded to the best room in the hotel, the parlor suite with two balconies and a separate living room. Something about a squeaky wheel, which I very seldom am, myself.

That night we went to a pre-wedding dinner at a restaurant, where I had lamb for the first time. Many people said I was cute and well-behaved, so that must be true. We left just before dessert at 9:30, and I fell asleep in the crib the hotel provided without any protesting.

The next morning, we went off in search of a restaurant in the “village” of shops attached to the lodge, but ended up returning back to the hotel where I was a little grumpy and didn’t want to wear my bib and occasionally things were thrown to the floor. The ‘rents need to remember to feed me first, then go exploring, right? After that, I went back to normal angel mode as we found a playground on the property and did swings and slides for an hour or two. We went back to the room for my mid-day nap, but I was too excited about seeing more of the town to sleep, so after a while, they plopped me in my stroller and walked a mile down the road to Ketchum. We’ll have to send you some pics and videos of the walk, because it’s all that snowy mountain, big vista, big clouds, “God country” good stuff. Anyhow, I fall asleep in the stroller apparently, but two hours later, I wake up and they have visited Hemingway’s grave, run into some other wedding guests, and we’re out eating burgers and chowder.

Then we had to spit spot back to the hotel, and get dressed up for the wedding. My dads wore black tie and I wore the seersucker suit my grandma sent me, which was a mite too big when I tried it on a couple weeks ago, but fit as if tailored now. (I learned a new word at this moment, “Ready,” as in “Are we ready?” “Ready!”) The shuttle took us to Lindsley’s stepmother’s ranch. Huge place. The ceremony was in the barn, the reception was at the guest house, and the dinner was in a tent down the hill. Someday when I come back, I might get to see the house itself which apparently down on the river. I was a little shy and frowny around the crowd at first, but by the time dinner was served, I was running across the dance floor, from table to table to tell people “Hi” and be the official greeter. If the bride was miffed that I was getting more attention than she was, she didn’t show it. I hope my life continues to be like that tent, filled with people who love me. I learned the word “moon” after pointing to the night sky. I finally fell asleep in my stroller at about 11:30, just in time for the first shuttle back to the lodge, and a little past the time when I got to see Papa Ian do the Macarena.

I slept in late, but we still had to spit spot to get all packed up and Daddy Ted left his cell phone charger behind and Papa Ian left his Kindle charger behind (they discovered hours later back in El Lay when they unpacked). We took the shuttle to the brunch at a country club where there was a bagpiper who frightened me when he came in and when he left, since I was right near the door, and he sounded like a dozen cats going backwards through a vacuum cleaner. We went back to the lodge, and after another walk around in my stroller, I fell asleep until the shuttle came to take us to the airport.

The security folk in Sun Valley Airport take their jobs very seriously, and were very thorough in searching my diaper bags. They tested all my food to make sure my bananas and hot dogs weren’t bombs, patted Papa Ian down for looking shifty (which is how he looks when he’s annoyed), and then I got annoyed at my Osh-Kosh straps until we unsnapped one, Huckleberry Finn style and I was okay. I loved my window seat which had a view of the propeller, which looks a bit like my ceiling fan at home which makes me go, “Ooooh!” whenever it’s on.

In Salt Lake City again, I didn’t want to be in the stroller as we walked to our connecting flight, so I held Daddy Ted’s hand and ran so we wouldn’t miss it. Daddy Ted was impressed with my speed and it wasn’t until I suddenly began going slowly that he looked down and discovered that I had lowered my second Osh-Kosh strap and was going as fast as I could with my pants around my ankles. I don’t think Salt Lake City had seen the like before.

I didn’t sleep on the plane, but continued to eat and play and play peek-a-boo with fellow passengers, including some of the wedding guests. On the landing to Burbank, I pulled at my ears a bit and whimpered, but that’s the only time the pressure seemed to bother me. We drove back home, said hi to the cat (who I call “Dat”) and went to sleep after a bit of protest.

Today, back to some routine, playing in the park (when I wake up – it’s 8:30, and I’m still asleep), then social workers come at 3, swim class at 5:30.