Parental Preference

James is not happy with me.

Yesterday was my first morning back at LCS. I'll only be there Mondays and Wednesdays this year because of Symphoria, but yesterday we had staff training. I was up and out the door before James woke up, and I didn't get back until 4:00. This was a big change from our regular summer hours.

It's important to note how much James loved the summer schedule. He was so excited in June when I was there every morning to get him up that J began to feel a bit boxed out. I'd get him up from his crib at 7:30 or 8 in the morning, and he'd be bouncing with excitement when I came into the room. Picking him up, I'd ask "should we go wake up Mommy?" He'd shake his head no, because it was Daddy PLAYTIME! We'd go downstairs and eat breakfast together. James would have a banana before he climbed up on my lap to steal my spoon and work on my cereal with me, spreading it all over his front, the table, and the floor. Daddy found this funny. Mommy did not. Then we'd go play with toys, including some toys that weren't in regular use during the school year, like the broom, the jumper cables, and walls. (Where else can you bounce a ball?)

There were some heartfelt talks with J. Far be it from me to put words into my wife's mouth, but most of the conversations, if I had to summarize, went something like this:

J: blah blah blah, blah blah-blah blah, having fun is against all my Mommy rules and you and James are evil rule-breakers.
Me: I wish to be respectful of your feelings, and I sense that you are upset about something. It must be hard on you for your well-planned parenting structures to be altered by my constant presence. Please tell me about what's on your mind while I finish washing these dishes and put them away neatly in their proper places.
J: (sobbing uncontrollably to sad music) James doesn't love me anymore since you came home from school!
Me: (giving a tender hug)There there, why don't you use this time to relax and think about your hopes and dreams whilst I prepare dinner.
J: You're so wise and handsome, and it turns out that all of the new games you taught James are safe and age-appropriate! Make sweet love to me far into the wee hours of the morning!

That was "more or less" how the conversation went, and we came to find a new balance for most of the summer. James and I played a lot together, and we had a wonderful few months while I was hardly ever going in to work.

J told me that when she got James up yesterday morning he immediately pointed to his bedroom door, and when asked what he wanted said "Da-da." She brought him downstairs, and he set about looking for me in the living room, and the kitchen. I wasn't there, of course, nor was I in the laundry room or upstairs in the bathroom.

I arrived home at 4:00 just as he was getting up from his afternoon nap. I heard J asking him "Do you know who is home? Do you know who is here?" I stepped up to him and she said "Daddy is here!" in an excited voice.

He didn't react at all.

"Would you like Daddy to change your diaper?"

He shook his head no.

"Would you like to say hello to Daddy?"

He shook his head again and snuggled her shoulder.

I made an attempt: "James, I missed you today! I'm sorry I didn't get to see you before I had to leave."

He snuggled Mommy again.

J changed his diaper, and he didn't even deign to look at me until we went downstairs. He had been betrayed. When I gave him a bath that night he engaged in active protest. Bathtime is probably our most redneck time of the day. The stopper in our bathtub is broken, so there's no way to seal the water in the tub except by covering the drain with a thick piece of duct tape. James is very good about knowing he can't touch the duct tape, but tonight he ripped it off the drain as soon as I looked away. I chided him and tore off another piece, knowing it would be much harder to get it to stay since the bottom of the tub was wet. I managed to get a seal, but James tore it off again.

"Listen, squirt...you're going to take a bath with no water if you keep on ripping the tape off? Got it?"

He grinned and nodded.

I put on another piece of tape and started to fill the tub again.

Rriiiiippppppp.

And that's how James ended up being soaped up with no water in the tub, and then unceremoniously hosed off under the tap.

He softened up to me by the end of the evening, and he let me brush his teeth and do bedtime prayers with him. We prayed for all our family and said "Help me to be loving." And then, "thank you that Daddy has a job to go to, and help James and Daddy to find good playtime once he gets home."

A Henry Visit

“Vo-yitta ya va kyi da DZA?”

Standing in his crib, James held both arms out in his “question” gesture and waited for me to answer whatever it was he had just asked.

I studied him for a moment and took a guess.

“Are you asking whether Pax and Kylie are still here?”

He grinned, nodded, and rubbed his chest in a “please” sign.

“No, they went home last night after you went to bed.”

“Dah-wee dow. Eeeee”

He waved good-bye to them.

“But do you know what? Henry is coming today. Do you want to see Henry?”

Henry is the same age as James, and we watch him several times a month while his mother works at RWC. James was so excited to see Henry that as soon as got downstairs he stationed himself at the window to watch our driveway, forgoing breakfast and the usual morning tour of toys.

These two boys really enjoy each other’s company. So much so, in fact, that it’s rather hard to keep track of them. Last week when they were playing with chalk, James had us so distracted by his sitting in the chalk that we completely failed to notice Henry was eating the chalk. And later when one of them was eating stones in the driveway, the other got away with a nearly successful attempt at prying the license plate off the front of our PT Cruiser.

Today they played “who can fill the most poopy diapers?” They both won. We’d be in the living room, I’d smell something, and say “Who has a poopy diaper?” I checked Henry first, and of course he did. While I was cleaning him off, James managed to open the desk drawer and dump an entire bag of crayons onto the living room carpet. When I still smelled dirty diaper and took James up for a changing, Henry ate an orange crayon. I think they were planning their diapers together. A sort of coniuriato faetidae. My neck is still very stiff, and they were deliberately taking advantage. It’s hard to keep an almost two year old from throwing his toothbrush in the toilet when he knows that you can’t chase him or pick him up from a bending position. J isn’t any better—she tweaked her hip badly on a run yesterday, and has made a solemn vow to do stretches before any exercise we undertake this month.

I picked up as many of the crayons as I could find, but you always miss a few. When we picked up toys in the afternoon I found several under the couch—it is one of James’ great pleasures in life to look for lost items under the couch—and I also found some crayon scribbles in my Hebrew lexicon that weren’t there this morning.

Today was the last day of my summer vacation, and the weather was as mopey as I was. It was gray and rainy all day long, and the two munchkins didn’t appreciate being cooped up indoors. Fortunately there was an aunt who needed rescuing, and J loaded them into carseats for a trip in the PT Cruiser. (Which, fortunately, still has both license plates legally affixed.)

It was a babbly day for James. Sometimes he is quiet all day, sometimes he attempts to have conversations in his nonsense language (although you do pick up some English from time to time) and on days like today, he talks from sunup to sundown.

“Go be kwa ya HEE je dad da DOT DOT DEE! DEE!!! DEE!!! Ha hahaha! Do yay muh muh muh tay kwi kwi mo do.” (He pauses for dramatic effect and continues with emphatic gestures and a serious slow cadence) Da bah tzi YAH do kwi bo du! Du!”

And so on and so forth.

Henry isn’t as interested in talking, but he went along with James’ itinerary for their play pretty passively. They mostly shared toys fine, although it was easy to tell that balls and wheeled objects are of a much higher value than other toys. In monetary terms, those are the $10s and $20s. James has a bad habit of stealing Henry’s toys between visits, and we’ve tried recently to make a serious effort before he leaves to locate everything that came with him.

Last time we were very proud that he went home with a spiky yellow ball, only to discover afterwards that we had two cups, two toy trucks, and a construction block. It doesn’t even matter if you check very thoroughly under the couch. Today we found a tractor-shape in the secret compartment of the toy grain silo. James is sneaky.

The most precious object of all the day, however, was the golden star balloon that James got at the store yesterday. He always points at the helium balloons when we go the grocery store, and I bought him one yesterday in celebration of our anniversary and also as a bribe to keep him still in the cart. He was deeply excited to carry it around all day, to sleep with it in his room, and to pummel it within in an inch of its life whenever he could get his hands on it. James and Henry both “loved” it hard today, and it isn’t floating nearly as easily as it used to.

It’s upstairs in his room with him now as he sleeps, and it will be the first thing he looks for in the morning. Because when you’re an almost-two-year old, you love people and things with wild abandon. And when you’re an almost-two-year old’s Daddy, it’s nice to be loved with wild abandon.

Six years ago...

Six years ago today I woke up in a hotel bed with four brothers sleeping on the floor. I’d argued the night before that I was perfectly comfortable sleeping on a carpeted floor, and there was certainly no need for me to take the bed by default. At the very least we could draw straws. It was four against one, however, and they had each fixed their minds that I should sleep on the bed. Sam was 20, Pax was just turned 18 and in the midst of a transfer to Roberts, Calvus was just 16 and still in high school, and Lux was only 13 years old. They all had long, shaggy hair.

I had told myself not to rush through the coffee and breakfast, knowing already that the nervous hours of the morning would pass too slowly. My parents brought bagels, and we found ESPN on the hotel’s cable stations. This was long before my parents surprised us all by getting a cable subscription at the house, and it was a rare treat to watch some Sportscenter.

I showered, scrubbed my teeth vigorously, and shaved as closely and as cautiously as I dared—after all, it would be no good to nick myself shaving today. We drove to the church about 10 AM.

It was my wedding day.

I was nervous, but it was more from an abundance of excitement than an abundance of worry. Still, there were flitting moments in which I weighed the enormity of the day. I was taking the most irrevocable step I would ever take in my life. You can change careers if you’re in the wrong job, you can change schools if you’ve gone to the wrong college, and you can sell your house. There would be no taking back of marriage vows.

My brothers were great. They were as goofy and exuberant, of course, but there were no ill-timed jokes about what they’d do to embarrass someone in the ceremony or any complaints about putting on tuxedos. They kept me pleasantly distracted and helped wherever they were needed.

Our family was about to take an irrevocable step as well. There would be no more of “the six Smith kids.” We were bringing in a spouse for the first time, and there would never again be a vacation to Alleghany State Park or a Christmas dinner in which Mom and Dad sat down with only their own children. There was going to be, not just a girl in the house, but a grown-up girl. Family photos would be different, and I wouldn’t be spending my breaks in an old upstairs bedroom anymore. The Smith family, as we knew it, was coming to an end.

I practiced when we got to the church. There were still several hours until the ceremony, and it was the best way I could think of to kill a half an hour doing something that would keep me completely distracted. It didn’t really work. My Dad came around, somehow having agreed to our foolish request to photograph his own son’s wedding. Six years later, that would be the one thing I’d do over. The photos look great, of course, but he ought to have been able to enjoy the ceremony next to Mom.

I changed out my polo and jeans around lunch, and someone came around with food—I remember having no appetite, although I think I ate a few bites of something.

One of my brothers discovered a foosball table in their explorations, and we played a few rounds while one of J’s brothers regaled Lux and Sam with an impression of Gollum’s voice.

When we entered the sanctuary, I immediately missed my trumpet. It’s no trouble for me to be up in front of a few hundred or even a few thousand people, but I’m always holding a trumpet when I’m “performing.” As I walked with the pastor and the groomsmen to the front of the church, I made a mental note to see that my gig bag ended up in a car that was going to New York, since we wouldn’t be taking any instruments on our honeymoon. No need to bow or wait for the accompanist when I got to the front of the church, or to acknowledge applause. I turned and looked at the people in the church.

There were hundreds there. Hundreds of people had driven more than five hours from New York for us, and they were beaming at me as I scanned their faces and met their eyes. I listened to the trumpet prelude as a colleague, rooting for each high note as the bridesmaids processed in. I watched as a proud older brother as M came down the aisle, hair up, glasses off, looking much older than 10 years.

And then the doors shut, and there was a fanfare.

And then the bride came in…

Back Pain

I am currently shut down for repairs.

Last night I pulled James' stroller up the big hill on Colby Street so that he wouldn't be stuck pointed into a bright sunset for ten minutes while we walked to the playground. Somewhere along the way I tweaked a muscle on the left side of my upper back, and by the time I went to bed I knew something was wrong.

I woke up several times during the night. Once I went downstairs to hunt for aspirin, and around 3 AM I even roused my longsuffering wife to rub my back. Around 5:30 it was too painful to lie on my side anymore, and on the fourth or fifth attempt, I rolled my legs off the bed and limped downstairs. My neck was stuck forwards as I walked, and I couldn't turn my head at all. It was barely light out as I turned on hot water for coffee--all with my right arm, since I couldn't lift my left--and measured out four scoops of grounds.

Woe is me.

This happened once before, in the summer of 2008. J and I were in Hanover, getting ready to drive to Philadelphia for a week at Csehy. These were the olden times, before small bears, and we would stay up late every night and sleep in late every morning. Our bodies were younger then, and they didn't break down. It wasn't like now, now that we're 28 years old and our youthful prime is behind us. Interestingly enough, it was that same week at Csehy that I played with the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra for the first time. They needed a trumpet player in a pinch, and they called the RPO personnel manager asking for a recommendation.

We were in the backyard of the Davis homestead, throwing a frisbee about with J's two brothers. I reached high for a toss that was sailing over my head, and I knew instantly that some muscle had moved into a place it shouldn't. We drove to Csehy that same afternoon, and my neck stiffened more with each passing mile of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. By the time we arrived my head was bent over my chest, and I couldn't move my neck at all. Our assignment for that evening was to drive back and forth from the campus in Langhorne through the city of Philadelphia to the airport, and to bring back arriving campers with their luggage. J was, for reasons long forgotten, somehow unable to drive. She checked the lanes around me to tell me when it was safe to turn, since I couldn't turn my head, and I tried to keep track of the dizzying interchanges as we made each half-hour trip in and half-hour trip back. I think we made eight runs before we quit.

Fortunately, our friend Opifera was there that night.

The record should show that I don't like to be massaged. I am painfully ticklish, I'm not particularly good at sitting still for long periods of time, and just when you think that adults can't be reduced to spasmatic giggles at a feather's touch, I am painfully ticklish. "But wait," you say "haven't you and your wife ever passed a cold winter evening with glasses of red wine, some jazz turned down low in the background, and a family-blog-appropriate 'back rub?'" I'm sad to say that back rubs are unromantic when convulsive elbow flailing leaves one or both parties with black eyes.

I was not expecting much help, in the summer of 2008, when Opifera offered to work on whatever knot was immobilizing my entire upper body. She put her hand on my back, felt around where the center of the pain was, and then started to work on what felt like an entirely unrelated spot on my back. My whole neck seized up for about ten minutes, and then just like that, everything had relaxed. I was still a little sore for the next day or so, but I could stand up straight again, and even managed to carry in our luggage from the car.

This morning, as I waited for my coffee to brew, I was thankful that Opifera lived only a few minutes away, and that she'd had six months of formal massage school to hone her gifted instincts.

I enjoyed the hour and a half before James got up--I read Homer and Pliny, and blundered through a few verses of Genesis in Hebrew, and was even fairly comfortable in a hard wooden chair. When I heard James begin his morning chatter upstairs, I climbed my way out of my seat--goodness, my left shoulder throbbed--and made my way up to him. He doesn't wake up from afternoon naps very well (he's always angry at the world) but he's a little angel in the morning. He was cooing to Steven Bear as I walked in the room, and he bounced to his feet in excitement when he saw me.

"James," I said softly "would you like to go downstairs and play with toys?" He gave me a big smile behind his binky and nodded several times. I grinned back and reached in to pick him up. The first two tries were unsuccessful, but he eventually climbed into my outstretched right arm. I couldn't lift him any higher than my waist, so a new diaper on his changing table was out of the question. He snuggled with me in the big downstairs chair for a few minutes (which made the trouble of standing up out of said chair worth it) and then mostly cooperated when I changed his diaper on the floor.

J texted Opifera as soon as she was up, and we got through the morning just fine. James would forget about every fifteen minutes or so that I wasn't available to rough-house or tow him along in a laundry basket or play ring-around-the-rosie today, but then he'd find some way to entertain himself--I even let him watch a little television this morning--and he'd help J look after me. They filled an old brown sock with old white rice (and, unfortunately, some nice brown rice when we ran out of the cheap stuff) and used it as a heating pad. I was given permission to spend the whole morning on the couch reading Annales articles on the Middle Ages, and I was even excused from washing the dishes.

I went over to Opifera's before lunch, and I'm much improved now. I can move both arms freely, and there's just a little bit of stiffness in my neck. It's tough getting to be an old geezer like me, but I'll manage a full recovery on this one.

Only, I may not be quite well enough to help with the dishes yet.

Exodus

And it came in those days that R. Dudlius dismissed his musicians and played no longer with the great orchestras, nor did he rise early in the morning nor drive his hollow-bellied neon, but he made a great rest in his home and took refreshment. And his wife also rested and so did James Bear, the son of R. Dudlius, although he rested in no wise to the whims of his parents, for he was always minded to be outside and in the grass and slime. And the corn grew tall and sun waxed hot overhead, and it was summer, and R. Dudlius took much refreshment.

And in the eighth month of the sixth year of the rule of one whose name means "blessing," R. Dudlius met J. of Raschella in a far journey, and he enticed him with poor enticement to take an oath to sound his trumpet in places far to the East, beyond many lakes and much further than any man should walk on a day, and even further than a horse might ride, but only where the subtle engines might go and come back because of their quickness.

And R. Dudlius said to his wife "Woe unto us, for I have sworn a heavy oath that I should sound the trumpet far in places far to the East, and only poor enticement is my reward! I cannot make my journeys on foot or horse, but I must drive our subtle engines, yet these also are of evil quality, and they always devise to work against us their tricks and wiles."

And his wife said to him "You have taken poor enticement indeed to sound your trumpet, for you are much skilled in its playing, yet your wages are as that of an unskilled servant. We must make our dwelling to the east, although I too must drive our subtle engines to the west among the homes of your kin."

And R. Dudlius asked his wife "Wherefore must you drive subtle engines among the homes of my kinsmen?"

And his wife answered to him "A priest has bidden me to sing among the halls where long ago we met, before you married me and before we journeyed to the south."

And R. Dudlius said to his wife "If I must make my way to the East beyond many lakes and you must make your way west to the halls wherein we met before you grew heavy with child, we must find a suitable place to dwell between."

And his wife made him swear with great fear never again to say "grew heavy with child," and she told him of the wages she would be paid, which were far better than his own, and they searched for many days to find suitable habitation, nor did they sleep on their bed, for their worries were great and the sun had waxed hot even through the night, and their habitation had not air conditioning.

And it came also in the eighth month of that year that R. Dudlius found a suitable place between the viae Durobrevis, and they were exceeding glad. The place which R. Dudlius found lay on the eastern slope of Mt. Wegmans, which is the holiest hill in all their land, and its ways are always full with pilgrims, rich merchants, and great men. The name of the place is melitolus, which they say in their own tongue "clover." R. Dudlius was pleased on account of the strong wall, and his wife was pleased on account of the many fine rooms, and James Bear, the son of R. Dudlius, was pleased on account of the great courtyard full of green grass and many stones fit for throwing.

Also in that place was the priest Calvus, son of Thomas, who was the brother of R. Dudlius, son of Thomas, and his wife. And Calvus greeted the tidings of R. Dudlius with gladness, because they had ere yet been many miles away from each other.

And it came that R. Dudlius ascended Mt. Wegmans with his wife and James Bear his son, and James Bear was in a cart with wheels that looked as though he drove a subtle engine, and he was much pleased. And also upon Mt. Wegmans did R. Dudlius' wife drink a cup of much sweet milk, which is called "latte" in their tongue, and she was much pleased. And R. Dudlius beheld the treasury of Mt. Wegmans, which is many fine cheeses and all manner of fruits and sweet smelling vegetables, all ripe and good to eat, along with coffees and chocolates from beyond the salt seas and flowers of exceeding brightness.

And R. Dudlius said to his wife "Look, wife, this is a a fit and suitable place where you might go to the halls of my kinsmen in the west, and I might go beyond the lakes to the east to sound my trumpet."

And R. Dudlius wrote on many papers and sent letters to the masters of this suitable place, and he wrote with much eloquence, for among those people the wages of a musician are base and not to be trusted. And he long waited their answer, and thus passed the eighth month of the sixth year of the rule of the one whose name means "blessed," and in that month that very king traveled by Mt. Wegmans.

Locked Out

It was a gloomy August morning. We were in southern Pennsylvania, and James had been begging for "outside" from the moment he got up. I was moving in slow motion, and every time I peeked out the windows it looked overcast and drizzly. J and her mother were gone shopping, and her father was on the way out the door.

"Gwo wa da moo ne DWO-luh."

"Does that mean that you want to go for a walk in the stroller?"

He nodded.

I looked out the window again. The front yard had a dark and soaked look, but there wasn't any rain actively falling either.

"James, we'll take a short walk. We'll just go around the block."

He nodded excitedly and began to do his half-skip over to the garage door.

I was still practically in my pajamas--glasses on, athletic shorts and a t-shirt. I slid on flip-flops and looked around for my keys. I hadn't slept well the night before, and morning coffee had done little to cure me of a glum headache. Oh yes, my keys were upstairs.

My father-in-law was slipping his shoes on, and James was drumming excitedly on the inside garage door.

"Dad, do you mind if I leave the inside garage door unlocked while I take James for a walk?"

He didn't mind, so long as we kept the outside overhead garage door closed. He gave me a code to open the overhead when we returned, and I unloaded the stroller from the back of our car.

I grabbed my tall umbrella and pushed James down the street. He was also in a t-shirt and shorts, and I wished I'd dressed him in something warmer. I tried to cover his bare legs with a cloth grocery bag, but he pulled it off and threw it in the street. Oh, well. It would be a short walk.

We went up the street and waved at three basketball hoops before it began to drizzle again. I opened my umbrella and turned around. James wanted to keep going, but I wasn't keen on being caught outside if the rain grew heavier.

We arrived back, and I opened the outside garage door. James immediately pointed to his uncle's motorcycle and "asked" to get on. As I put my umbrella in the back of the car he pulled himself (still in the stroller) up to the grease begrimed grill and attempted to turn the gas on.

"Tell you what, James" I said as I lifted him up "Why don't you wait for Daddy inside while I put your stroller away."

I opened the door, set him down, and quickly closed it again before he could his little fingers in the door frame. I collapsed the stroller and wheeled it over to the car. I still had a headache, and I felt like I could fall asleep at any moment. Shuffling back to the door, I put my hand on the knob.

It was locked.

I reached for my keys. No pockets. My hands slowly went to my side as I remembered that I also had no phone.

I was perfectly still for a moment, and then leaned into the door and asked:

"James?"

The knob wiggled.

"Did you try to open the door by yourself?"

The knob wiggled again.

"Do you see the little piece of metal on the doorknob? You need to turn that back."

Wiggle wiggle wiggle, went the knob.

"James, if you unlock this door I'll give you ice cream."

Wiggle wiggle.

I fruitlessly tried to insert a non-existent fingernail into the lock for a few minutes, and then spoke into the door again:

"James, you locked Daddy out of the house. I'm going to see if I can get in through any of the other doors."

I ran back outside, where it was now raining heavily, then skipped up the concrete steps to the studio door. It was locked. I ran to the laundry room door, which forms a breezeway with the garage. I could see James still standing there and twisting the knob. Locked. The kitchen door was locked. The basement entrance through the Bilko was locked. And of course, the front door was locked. I ran back to the laundry room, where I could see James and he could see me.

"James, can you hear me?"

He turned around and came over to me, stepping carefully past the scary vacuum cleaner parked next to the dryer. He had started to cry, and and he lifted his hands up at me imploringly.

"James, I can't get in! Can you please try to turn the lock on this door?"

He tried for me, then lifted his hands up again, crying even harder.

"Oh James, I can't get in while it's locked!"

I stepped back for a minute and thought. No one would be arriving home for at least an hour. It was really raining now, but I was even more worried about James. I thought about all the scrapes I'd saved him from just since we'd arrived...catching him from falling off of a rolling chair he climbed up on twice, pulling him off the dining room table, and a near fall down the stairs.

"James, Daddy's going to be right back. You need to stay right here and wait for me. Do you understand? I want you to stay right here." He was still crying, but he looked up at me and nodded.

I ran down the driveway to the street in front of the Davis house and surveyed the neighborhood. I needed a phone, which meant that I needed to find someone who was home. It was about 10:30 on a Thursday morning, and I suspected most everyone would be at work. Would there be anyone at home?

I looked for cars in driveways, and didn't see any...but then I remembered seeing pre-school aged children at the house across the road and to the left. There were no signs of life from the outside, but I ran up knocked on the door.

Two little girls came to the door, and they found their mother, who immediately grabbed the phone when I explained that my one-year-old had locked me out of the house. J's mother was able to tell me where to find a spare key, and when I opened the door James was standing exactly where I'd left him by the laundry room door.

I couldn't find any ice cream, but he gladly settled for a spoonful of Nutella.