Peas

Today at my cousin's graduation open house, Lyla met two more of her four great-grandparents. There's still one more to meet, and he happens to be the one who will baptize her on Wednesday.

I'm trying to imagine being a great-grandfather, meeting Lyla's grandchildren. If I live to be 80, it's a distinct possibility. But could I ever be a great-great-grandfather?

So let's say our sensible Lyla is 25, married, and financially stable when she becomes a mom. I'll be 55. Then her daughter will pop out a son at age 20, say, making me a 75-year-old great-grandpa. And 18 years later that young man will father his 19-year-old girlfriend's child, making me a 93-year-old great-great-grandpa. Simple!

Four years later, when that little girl and I are sitting and chatting about this and that, I'll explain to her that her great-grandmother Lyla (who will be singing a karaoke duet with Julie in the next room) absolutely hated peas the first time she tried them way back on the last day of May in 2009. And the little girl will look up at my grizzled face and say that she doesn't like peas either.

Fuzzy

In the comments section of my previous post, an astute friend called me on my fuzzy math. Since your 30th birthday actually marks the beginning of your 31st year, there's no logic whatsoever in calling 30 your late 20s.

I feel compelled to point out that she is only 29, so therefore I have more experience as a human being. Never mind her Ph.D. Oh, those 20-somethings!

I just put Lyla and Julie down for naps. Julie took me rock climbing at Vertical Endeavors and entertained Lyla while I scaled indoor crags and set myself up to be sore tomorrow. I should probably nap too so that I can properly gorge myself tonight. We're going with another couple to a Brazilian steakhouse, where they bring you all kinds of meat on skewers until you beg them to stop. I've tried to eat just enough today to keep my stomach stretchy but not full.

Yup, this actually feels just fine. Plus, Lyla looks like Elvis in that picture, so who can complain? I think 30 is the new 20.

Twenties

I turn 30 in less than an hour. Technically as a 30-year-old, I'll still be in my 20s, right? I mean, the 21st century didn't start until 2001. It's important to be mathematically accurate when telling people your age, so whenever someone asks me mine this year, I'll tell them I'm in my late 20s.

Will that make me a douche-bag?

"Hey Mr. K., how old are you?"

"I'm in my late 20s."

"Twenty what?"

"Uh, thirty."

Then the lengthy mathematical explanation will result in the formula Mr. K. = douche-bag. That's no good. Better just be straight up about it. I'm glad I thought this through beforehand, while I'm still actually in my late 20s.

When Lyla turns 10, I'll be 40. Yikes.

*Update 12 hours later*

I'm 30. I'm in my 30s. Feeling fine.

Pal

Lyla went to the doctor today for a checkup. It was pleasantly uneventful.

Remember this picture from early December?


Here's an update:






Reminds me of one of those photo booths that only the best of friends enter.

Ease

Today I called our childcare place to set up Lyla's August schedule. Recall that in order to get a full-time slot for September, we had to agree to part-time in August. So anyway, I was horrified to discover that they had not received our deposit check or Lyla's application, which I mailed almost two weeks ago. Did they get lost in the mail? Stolen by rival parents? Eaten by termites?

I drove right over. Luckily they were still saving the slot for us, but I wonder at what point they would've given it to someone else. The director held Lyla while I scribbled out another application and check. She speculated that Lyla might marry her infant son one day, and I was not in a position to disagree. So it's all good again. Had we lost the slot, I think Julie might have murdered me, and I'm not sure any jury would've convicted her.

Lyla will end up in childcare two days a week in August. I will use the time off to tie up loose ends, namely to finish the videogames I play for 30 minutes at a time when Lyla's napping. I might also watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy again, kind of a summer tradition. Ooh, and Legos. I'll be busy, I tell you. And kind of pathetic.

I suppose we could just pay for August and not use it. But maybe it'll be better for Lyla to ease into childcare rather than dive in come September. Hell, maybe it'll be better for us to ease into it.

I might need a new Lego set to distract myself.

Praise

Are parents too obsessed with self esteem? If we praise Lyla all the time, will we set her up to be extrinsically motivated? Will she grow up doing things only to please us? Then when she's a teenager and rejects us, will she become lazy and unmotivated?

When Lyla does something remarkable such as tilt the toy box in the photo above, I don't tell her what an amazing box tilter she is. Instead, I say something like, "You have tilted the box to you!" simply reinforcing what she's done, implying that the action itself is innately good, not good just because I say it is.

Does that make any sense? Here's another example. Say Lyla does something that helps in some way. Perhaps she remains quiet while I'm on the phone. I do not say to her, "Good job letting Daddy talk to Mommy!" because that would place the emphasis on me as the one who approves or disapproves. Instead, I say to her, "Thank you for letting Daddy talk to Mommy!" because it teaches her (or will teach her, with much repetition) what behaviors are innately good. Plus, saying thank you demonstrates good manners whereas saying good job to everything is only appropriate if you're training a puppy.

Maybe I'm full of it, but I think empty praise hurts kids. I see high school kids who have become little sycophants because they think that pleasing their teacher is all that matters. They're not really interested in learning. Still more kids work well below their potential because they realize that they don't care much about pleasing their teachers or parents--and no one ever taught them to be self-motivated, to appreciate the innate value of learning.

So when Lyla expertly sucks food from her spoon, I say, "You sucked the food!" and hold back the direct praise in hopes that 15 years from now, she'll be interested in Shakespeare just because.

Fail

Julie said she packed everything in the diaper bag.

"Everything?"

"Yes. Why do you keep asking that?"

"Did you get the--"

"Yes!"

So we grabbed lunch and drove to the zoo to show Lyla the new Africa exhibit. After finding a parking spot roughly seven miles from the entrance, we transferred Lyla from the car seat to the stroller and noticed the telltale signs that she had gotten creative in her pants. Unfortunately, it seemed that her diaper hadn't been up to the task.

"Awesome," I said.

Face ashen, Julie replied, "I didn't pack extra pants."

"You didn't pack extra pants?"

"I didn't pack extra pants."

"Always pack extra pants," I said, punctuating each word with a different gesture.

As Julie winced, Lyla chirped happily, reminding us of our predicament. We decided to de-pants the child in the back of the Rav4, drive her pants-less to Target, and buy more pants there. The zoo wasn't going anywhere.

I'll digress for a moment to mention that the Target by the zoo is the most bizarre Target I've ever seen. It's like they took one of the normal Targets by our house and picked it up and shook it like a snowglobe and set it down again. Electronics were where women's clothes normally are; baby stuff was where greeting cards belong. Plus, as we left, they had this sign on the door:


I felt like Alice escaping Wonderland, but at least Lyla had clean pants.

At the zoo, we saw the majestic giraffes.


Well, everyone but Lyla did.


She did, however, wake up in time for the bird show.




Julie and I tried to get her to notice even one bird, but alas.

Finally, we took her to the fish. She sat mesmerized for several minutes, but I didn't take a picture of it. So overall it was a day of many failures--and lots of fun.

Containment

Babies are menaces to society, which is why their parents buy these little jails for them. It follows that rice cereal is undoubtedly worse than prison food. Hopefully Lyla will choose to spend her time productively, perhaps pound out some license plates for Pow-Pow-Power Wheels.

We put this playpen in the spot previously occupied by our dogs' cages. The dogs were demoted to the guest room, which I know will excite our guests. It's a big room, now just a bit smaller with the minimum security puppy jail in one corner.

Kids and dogs don't mind spending some time in a smallish place, it turns out. For dogs, it's a den instinct. For kids, I suppose it reminds them of the womb. Or at the very least it takes the gigantic world and puts them in charge of a tiny part of it. That's why kids build forts when they get older.

But I'm still thinking about getting Lyla a miniature harmonica to complete this image.

Good

Julie's feeling better. We think the humidifier sped her recovery a bit.

I will be 30 on the 30th, so there are limited shopping days remaining. I mean hello, it's my golden birthday and all. I wonder what Lyla will give me. I think I'll ask her to sleep until 9:00.

Julie turned 30 four days before Lyla was born, so she never got to experience parenthood in her 20s. I don't gloat about this often, but hilarity ensues every time I do.

If Julie wouldn't have been the size of a linebacker and ready to squirt out a kid at any second, I probably would've planned some sort of trip for her 30th. And if Lyla was ready now to stay overnight at her grandparents' house, then Julie might plan one for me too.

No matter. I'll take the kid over a trip any day. When you have a six-month-old, it seems ridiculous to answer people when they ask you what you want for your birthday. What more could you possibly want?

Well to be perfectly honest, I want the new Punch Out game for the Wii, but other than that, I'm good.

Bonk

This afternoon I bonked Lyla's head on the kitchen table. She's fine, but what a moronic moment it was. We had some toys on the table, so I sat her on it so she'd be distracted enough to allow me to put pants on her. (I had a hand on her--I'm not a total idiot.) She went for a toy, so I helped her transition to her stomach, at which point I decided it was pants time. One thing led to another, I thought she was supporting herself with her hands when clearly she wasn't, and bonk went her forehead on the table.

She was not pleased. I carried her around the house, consoling her while simultaneously looking for any kind of mark on her forehead that might lead to my arrest. Finding none, and with a relatively calm child now, I returned to the kitchen and let her watch me slam my head on the table with at least twice as much force. It made a satisfying thump but did not hurt, so I felt better.

When Julie got home, I again smacked my head on the table to demonstrate what had happened. She did not freak out, which was nice.

And now Lyla's forgotten that it ever happened. It sucked, though. This was just the second time I've been responsible for causing her physical pain, the first being when I clumsily removed her leg bandages the day after she got shots at her two-month doctor visit. This feels worse, but I guess accidents happen.

(Now my mom will call me and say, "Don't worry, Dan. You got dropped on your head all the time when you were little. Explains a lot!")

Sick

Moms who are breastfeeding can't take anything good for their symptoms, which for Julie include but are not limited to congestion, sore throat, upset stomach, and general exhaustion.

She seems to be through the worst of it, but she did cough all night long in spite of the humidifier I bought yesterday. So she got maybe four hours of sleep. I got half that because I so enjoy stealing her thunder. Or rather, it's because she sounded like thunder until I finally left to sleep downstairs, at which point my normally dormant brain decided to erupt with thoughts about everything and nothing.

When you have an infant, there's no such thing as the common cold, where you sniffle and cuddle with a blanket. If you're a working mom, you're already up to your eyes in one of the most difficult times of your life. Add sickness to it, and something's got to give.

My vote is give formula to the baby, chug NyQuil, and pump and dump.

Half

Lyla is six months old today. This is what she looked like on November 20th:


And this is her now:







Happy half-birthday, kid. Daddy loves you.

Toupee

We have a giant bald spot on our lawn from a plumbing snafu last fall. I don't understand why there's so much science involved in reseeding it. In first grade you take a styrofoam cup, fill it with dirt and grass seed, draw a stupid face on the side of it, and you're giving it haircuts by the end of the week.

I seeded nine days ago. Every day since, I've imagined my neighbors peering through their shutters and saying, "Ma, look! That son of a bucket is out watering the dirt pile again!" After spending $30 on the seed, I would've been better off planting three tens and hoping for a money tree to sprout.

"Use fertilizer," you'll say, you smug so-and-so. Yeah, well the genius at Bachman's said no need. Grass makes its own fertilizer or some such nonsense.

My dad did most of the lawn mowing when I was a kid. It's a fatherly activity: gets you away for awhile, pleases the wife. I feel like the ugly spot in our lawn is costing me dad points every day. Maybe I should just sod it.

Gown

This evening I boiled some high-flow nipples.

Actually, there's not much more to that story. They'll allow Lyla to drink bottles faster. You boil them to sterilize them. But I was disappointed that nobody called me at that moment to say, "So Dan, what are you up to?"

In other news, I mentioned months ago that my great-grandfather was baptized in a gown that is now in our possession. The plan was to baptize Lyla in it in December. Well, it didn't happen. My grandfather, a retired Episcopal minister who tramps across the country and lives in his camper, didn't make it to Minnesota as planned. But he's coming in June.

So we'll get Lyla baptized then. I'm thinking if we smear her with butter, we'll be able to just barely stuff her into the 110-year-old gown.

And if Gramps's travel plans change again? Well, maybe we'll drive to him.

Lucky

This is a follow-up to my daycare post from two days ago. Daycare openings for infants are tricky because the ratio is small (one teacher for four babies) and demand is relatively high. Spots open up when infants become toddlers or leave the center for some reason. Some of the centers I called had no infant availability until November.

Of 2010.

When we arrived at the place we ultimately chose, we were first told that they had no spots available in late August, their only available spot being for June. Our best bet was to wait and hope that the open spot remained open (yeah right) or that another spot would open up in August. Maybe a family would move to Brazil, for instance. So we went into the tour feeling pretty hopeless and then fell in love with the center and felt even more hopeless.

So I called the director when we got home, hellbent on talking her into a compromise. As it turns out, she was game for negotiating. I asked her if they could give Lyla the June spot if she started at the beginning of August instead of the end--just hold it for her for two months instead of three. The director paused a moment and then said that would be fine, and in fact she could start part time in August and move to full time when we needed to.

At this point, I began repeatedly leaping into the air. I can't believe it was that easy. We got lucky.

Needy

Sometimes I feel like Lyla thinks I'm weird. I'll do something hysterically funny and she'll just look at me as if to say, "OMG. If that's the way you're going to act, then walk ahead of me." It's like a little prequel to her teenage years.

I've figured out a trick, though. After the hysterically funny action, voice, dance, or all of the above, I look at her and smile and laugh. This way she knows the appropriate response. Usually it works and she giggles or smiles, but I know it won't work forever.

So as she gets older, I'll have to step up my game. Or slip her money to at least laugh at my jokes in public.

Success

We found our childcare place. Unbelievable!

Okay, so I sense this is a delicate subject. If I start criticizing the different centers we visited today, I might say something obnoxious about the place where your child, nephew, or friend's neighbor's cousin goes. For the sake of being diplomatic, here's what I liked about the places I hated:

- They seemed safe.

- They seemed clean.

- The staff seemed nice.

- The kids did not seem miserable.

And now I will offer three pieces of criticism to the centers we did not choose. Take it with a grain of salt, for I am a fussy, fussy man.

- Must your staff wear khaki pants and over-sized polos with your logo on it? Does hideous fashion improve morale? (That sounds shallow. I'm a teacher who wears jeans every day. If I had a dress code, I would feel stifled and robotic. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's that polos and khakis are also worn by teenagers at part-time jobs. Is this McDaycare?)

- When we ask if your center uses baby sign language, do not become confused and say, "Well, we do have one deaf child here."

- Speaking of McDaycare, we do not care that today is chicken nugget day for your toddlers and how exciting that is for them. Not only is our child not a toddler, but we haven't decided if she will eat a chicken nugget ever.

When it comes down to it, it's a feeling straight from the gut that tells you that a place is right for your kid. In truth, any place would probably be fine. But here are some things we like about the place we chose:

- Every teacher has at least a four-year degree.

- They have specific curricula in music, Spanish, sign language, and more.

- The crib area is dim and away from the play area.

- They have an on-site nurse.

- Jeans.

A large part of it was that gut feeling, that resounding "Yes" as soon as we walked in the door. Those feelings are not to be ignored.

By August, my goal is to identify which arm and which leg I can live without, because that's approximately what it's going to cost.

Ball

Today was quite good. How can you argue with a noon game on a Thursday? My friend's girlfriend works for the Twins (not as the mascot), and besides being cute and cool, she gets tickets behind home plate. Therefore, they must never break up. If they do, I might try to date her on the side.

(Note to future-Lyla: Daddy's kidding.)

I passed a major fatherhood test today by not sacrificing Lyla in order to catch a fly ball. It was two rows in front of us, and had I dived, I probably could've caught it and only maimed a couple people. Had Lyla not been in my lap, this is probably what would've happened. Instead, I shielded her with my arms just in case the ball were to ricochet. Go me!

I did unfortunately have to bring her into the men's room for a diaper change, but she touched nothing. I also blocked her from the hideous view of drunken trough-pissers. She cried pretty much the whole time, expressing the anguish of us both.

But what a great game! The Twins came back to win, thus putting Lyla's record at 1-1. And the Twins mascot got to meet Lyla, so it was a big day for him, too.

Nutrition

I like the mystery books of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. They publish one book a year together (except for last year, which sucked) starring Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast, a type of Sherlock Holmes who solves unsolvable murders, battles his evil-genius brother, and rarely goes by the book. It's brain candy, and my brain is very hungry for candy.

Their new book is called Cemetery Dance, a title so candy-coated that I think my frontal lobe just got a cavity. I'm not giving away anything not revealed on the dust jacket, but in the first chapter a regular character is murdered with a butcher knife by a man...WHO'S SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! Slurp, goes my brain.

If only Lyla would allow me time to read. Today I woke up before 6:00 and took care of Julie, who's been sick the past two days. Then I crept down to the livingroom, poured a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal, and basked in the knowledge that yesterday Lyla awoke at 8:30.

But two bites of cereal, three sips of coffee, and four paragraphs later, Lyla's internal clock went kablooie. "Squawk squawk!" she said from her crib.

Oh well. Hanging out with her is more brain-nutritious anyway.

Twiddle

Sometimes I'll look down at my hands and see a toy there, such as the seahorse rattle. I'll be twiddling its rings without realizing it, with no idea of how it got there. Must have picked it up at some point. What a boring toy. Twiddle.

Or the musical animal buttons. Push the cat button once, it meows a horrifying meow. Twice, it says "cat." A third time, "gato." A fourth time, you get a bit of Beethoven's 5th. Beethoven offers the friendly reminder, "You're an adult. You're an adult. Dun dun dun dun..."

But I can't stop. I don't know if it's nervous energy, A.D.D., the need to fidget, or an honest fascination with these toys. Lyla will be in bed and I'll push the toy box away from me so I can't reach it. Still, moments later I'll realize that I'm playing with something, and it'll be the bead rattle with the attached stuffed sun. The sun has this bucket-eating grin on his face as if daring me to shake it and be easily entertained once again.

Mud

Julie took the day off today, so we took Lyla to the zoo. In the process, we managed to answer an age-old question. Since Julie's ovaries predate this picture, the egg came before the chicken.

We witnessed a milestone today, too, the first time Lyla reacted when an object was taken away from her. The object happened to be Julie's coffee cup.



Lyla had a meltdown when this cup was taken away. I would've taken a picture of it, but when your baby has a meltdown at the zoo, photography is an inappropriate first response.

I guess when she sees her parents suckling from the coffee teat day after day, she figures it must be something special. When she's a little older and demands to have a taste, she will likely (as I did when I was younger) equate the taste with mud and be cured of her curiosity.

At least for awhile.

Day

A good friend of mine from high school is an amazing artist. Check out some of her work here. About a month ago I contacted her and asked if she'd do a watercolor portrait of Lyla that I could give to Julie for Mother's Day.

The actual painting is 11" x 14". Here's a photo of it:


Happy day to mothers everywhere, especially to mine and to Lyla's.

Mission

Julie's favorite pop culture mini-icon is Clinton Kelly from the show What Not To Wear on TLC. This morning we were watching the news and discovered he would be at Southdale hosting a fashion show in conjunction with Macy's and signing copies of his new book. Tomorrow is Mother's Day, so this opportunity couldn't really have knocked any louder.

At Macy's, we learned that the only way to get his book was to spend $100 in the women's department. Julie found nothing she liked and decided she didn't need an autograph anyway. I knew better, but we'll get to that in a few paragraphs.

In the mall outside Macy's, Julie was having reservations about staying for the fashion show. It started in an hour, they hadn't even opened the seating yet, we had Lyla to deal with, etc. I could see crankiness brimming, so I told Julie to stay there, get a good seat, and I would stroll the mall with Lyla, no worries. Once she agreed, they cut the ribbons blocking off the seats, and Julie bobbed and weaved her way to one on the middle aisle.

I left her with a bottle of water, some coffee, a snack, a magazine, and a lotion sample from Crabtree and Eveleth because she complained that her hands smelled like a sandwich.

So Lyla and I wandered the mall for a couple hours, both thankful to not be at a fashion show. Julie loved it, texting me at one point to say "Having SUCH a good time!"



Regarding the book signing, I had some time to kill, so I convinced a manager at Macy's to give me a book for buying a $100 gift card. I promised that Julie would use it at a later date for clothes and not for a coffee pot or bedsheets or whatever.

Then after feeding Lyla a bottle, I got in the book signing line (second in line) and texted Julie to meet me there when the show was done.

After seeing Clinton in person at the show, Julie was of course thrilled to actually meet him. Despite the now absurdly long line, Clinton and Julie had a leisurely conversation in which she welcomed him to Minnesota, complimented the way he worked the crowd, and introduced him to Lyla. In her book, Clinton wrote, "Julie - Happy 1st Mother's Day!" before signing his name.



She's been giddy ever since. Mission accomplished.