Laid-Off Dad

From croup to nuts

I used to liken Robert's sleeping habits to a fish in a rowboat. You know, because of the flopping. (Hilarious, right?) Well, that metaphor is officially retired, because it is now indelibly attached to the sight of little TwoBert lying semi-catatonic on my chest, frantically rasping for air and moaning feebly.

Robert got his voice back late Tuesday afternoon, but two hours later TwoBert spiked a fever of 102. We gave him a tepid bath and dosed him with Tylenol, and he slept through until 3.30am, when he woke up wheezing horribly and too panicked to nurse. That was the worst part; with Robert, I could at least explain what was going on and even make a few frog jokes to help calm his nerves. But I couldn't communicate with TwoBert; the best I could do was hold him in a steamy bathroom and sing lullabies to calm him and help regulate his breathing. And all he could do was look at me with wild eyes that asked, "What's happening? Why can't you make this stop?"

It's one thing to contemplate having to go to the ER as a last resort. But it's an emotional moment when your pediatrician, who favors exhausting all other options before resorting to invasive measures, tells you it's time to go. I had kept it together pretty well for most of the night, but when I had to call in sick and describe the situation, I lost it. I had to confront the fact that not only was I powerless to cure TwoBert, I couldn't even tell him it would be all right. When I put voice to this idea, I started blubbering.

My wife took TwoBert to the ER (for when he needed to nurse), while I stayed and played LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL with Robert, who was very concerned. TwoBert was nebulized with epinephrine and got a steroid injection, and now he's fine. (Except his muscles are now much more defined, and his nuts are the size of a baby's.) And as I weather the ubiquitous advertising for all the "horror" flicks that are out for Halloween I think, Fuck you, Hollywood, and your contrived little creepshows. I know fear.

As I type, TwoBert is rolling on the carpet and blowing unbelievably sodden raspberries at the cat, and Robert is walking around in a wig, my wife's high heels, and a tool belt, laying the groundwork for a stellar career as (quite possibly) the world's first transvestite general contractor. How completely wonderful it is to be back to normal.

Muted by sputum

You want to know something? It's really hard to teach a three-year-old how to clear his throat. Not in the "ahem-beg-your-pardon" sort of way, but in that guttural, hock-a-loogie sort of way, between the snort and the ptooey.

Let's backtrack. A pox has fallen upon our house in the form of large, localized phlegmballs. We learned this when Robert woke up yesterday with no voice. He padded sleepily out of his bedroom, and his morning "Hi Daddy!" came out as a couple of squeaky barks. His eyes widened and he gripped his throat, looking like a mad scientist who's just drunk the potion. He was scared shitless, and it's easy to see why. A voice is an easy thing to take for granted when you've never lost it before. It must be like waking up and finding your legs across the room.

On my way out the door, I brought him into the bathroom, cranked the hot water in the shower, and told him the steam would help get his voice back. He apparently seized on that and insisted on several trips to the steambath throughout the day, thus learning the salutary effect of a good schvitz.

Soon after I got home, I gathered my sons on the big bed and tried to teach them how to expel sputum from their throats with that special, masculine flourish. (On the list of things a dad must pass down to his son, this is a biggie. Somewhere between how to light your farts and how to burp the alphabet.) Thus began the conversation:

Me: Try it like this: Haaaaaaaaawk!
Robert: Grrrrrrrr.
Me: A little more with the throat. Haaaaaaaallgghhggh.
Robert: Haaarrrr.
Me: Better. Keep trying. Haaaaarrkklll.
Robert: Halllllllll.
Me: Haaaawwwwllkghghghgh.
Robert: Haarrlglgl.

At this point, my wife walked in for some final preparations before she left for the evening. And just as we stopped our urbane little snot-alogue to say goodbye, TwoBert looked up and sent Mama a big drooly raspberry. 

Whereupon she turned on her heel, ostensibly in search of more dignified company.

Because that's how we get to be parents in the first place

I got the glimmer for this list as I was reading #10 to Robert the other night. After a little trolling, I found an incomplete list of children's book titles that can also be used as pick-up lines:

10. There's A Wocket In My Pocket! (obviously)
9. Chicka Chicka Boom Boom
8. Hop On Pop
7. My Truck Is Stuck!
6. Have You Seen My Duckling?
5. Where's Weenie?
4. What Do You Do With A Tail Like This?
3. Everyone Poops (fetishists only)
2. May I Bring A Friend?
1. Guess How Much I Love You

Did I miss any?

Somewhat the same, yet decidedly not

Late Saturday afternoon I found myself on the couch with a cold beer in my hand, munching on junk food and watching a classic ending to a college football game. For a minute there it felt like the old days, when Saturdays could be spent horizontal and half-buzzed, shooting the shit with a bunch of unkempt, malodorous louts.

Except on either side of me sat my wife and our friend Danielle, who were breastfeeding their children and debating, in somewhat intimate detail, the pros and cons of various nursing bras.

Sex, drugs, and rock & roll

The weather is pissy and raw, and New York is now in its second week without sunshine. We are addled with what seems like Seasonal Affective Disorder, that awful malaise that makes Scandinavians such dour company. Herewith, then, three vignettes culled from days of indoor confinement.

Scene One: The bathroom
Robert and TwoBert are in the bathtub splashing about before bedtime. TwoBert is kicking like an Evinrude and Robert, insisting on helping out with the bathing, reaches over to wash TwoBert's penis for about the 10th time.

Daddy: Robert, please do not play with your brother's penis. You wouldn't want someone constantly playing with your penis, would you?
Robert: Of course I would!

* * *

Scene Two: The playdate
In view of the terrible weather, a friend has invited Robert and three other cabin-feverish preschoolers over. Manic due to a lack of sunshine, the kids ransack their host's toy kitchen. Robert's friend Perry takes a bowl and places it on his head.

Perry: Look! I'm a bowlhead!
Robert [mimicking with a small saucepan]: I'm a pothead!

* * *

Scene Three: The restaurant
Team LOD heads out for dinner at our favorite Japanese place, where the early hour and pouring rain have suppressed the crowds. We seat ourselves at our favorite four-top, and when I detach my chopsticks from each other I grant the assembled a little drumming on the water glasses. (Because that's what I do. I am a dork.) TwoBert's eyes burst wide, and he starts arching his back and grunting that fragile grunt of dispair. I hand him a chopstick, and he elatedly begins banging somewhat rhythmically on his other forearm. Some day, when TwoBert's band goes multi-platinum, the world will find out he riffed his first drum solo while waiting for the edamame.

Baby's first chopper (and I wish that meant "tooth")

TwoBert officially has no further use for his carseat. He could probably fit into it for another few weeks, but when we try to strap him in he whimpers and desperately contorts his body away from the harness. Enough of traveling pinioned on his back, staring up helplessly at the same old tree branches, gaudy Renaissance Revival cornices, and Daddy's nose hair. He wants to face forward and find out just who the hell is making all that goddamn noise.

Our current stroller is a mere shell of its former self, ravaged by time and covered with a veneer of snack detritus, sunscreen, and city filth. Replacing it with a newer, lighter model would have been the normal way to go--until Robert got his bike. The kid has taken to his new ride like a fish to water, and his favorite pastime is challenging anyone within earshot to race him to the corner. He has also already figured out how to lay a patch by speeding up and slamming backward on his pedals. (And I have caught myself before telling him to stop doing that and conserve the treads, because I'm not prepared to be That Dad just yet.)

We needed an upgrade, so my wife spent weeks combing the parent boards and personal ads before she pounced on a jogging stroller that was available for half its retail price. It's a beautiful thing, used just once by her previous owner, with shocks, a handbrake, and a large sun canopy. And after a week of usage, I can reliably conclude that it's the perfect conveyance for someone with a lifestyle diametrically opposite to mine.

The first thing is the bigness. It's big. It's so big, you wonder what brand of Champagne was smashed across the prow when it was launched. Even folded, it's as big as many other pieces of furniture in our home. Frankly, it's big enough for passers-by to question my endowment. Which is just silly.

Secondly, there's the fixed front wheel, which gives it a turning radius of about 16 nautical miles. It's great at jogging speed, but awful when you have to slalom through crowds of oblivious i-Holes.

Thirdly, there's the whole idea of jogging. With the baby. Ridiculous.

And lastly, when I push the thing around town, I feel like a conspicuously consumptive dipshit. People may make cow eyes at TwoBert while he looks out, delighted to see where he's going, but inside they're telling me to take my Sport Utility Stroller back to Tarrytown or Manhasset or Livingston. Back where you belong, you big wanker.

We'll give it another week or so, to see if we discover some hidden value. If not, we'll try to flip it before it gets too cold. (That's another thing--wind whips right through it. Kind of unfavorable during the winter.) If we can't unload it, we might have to prop a begonia on it and stick it in the corner until the Spring thaw.

Buff Daddy, redux

About a month into the layoff, I was in serious Physical Exertion Withdrawal, because not only did the old gig have a massive, tricked-out gym, but they let me work out daily on company time. Chasing my 15-month-old around the park while he ricocheted off of things was a poor substitute, because let's face it, he was slow. My wife saw how irritable I was becoming and found a gym that despite its overall crappiness had three crucial attributes--it was close, cheap, and open 24/7. So I joined, and for a while my world made a little more sense.

Six weeks later the branch closed, and the surly gentleman with the tattooed scalp referred me to a slightly larger, slightly cleaner outfit three blocks farther away. And I never went once, because those were crosstown blocks goddammit and there was no way I was going to exert myself on my way to exerting myself.

Time passed. I spent a year stressed and broke, and another year (the first at my new job) stressed, slightly less broke, and wolfing down lots of free, carb-heavy food. Before too long, it became time to bust a moob, but even though I could afford another gym membership, I never had any time. As I've done so often over the past three years, I turned to my children.

Robert has served as my personal home gym for a while now. Mostly, I just bench-press his 46 flailing pounds while we're rough-housing. But I missed the high of a good run, and I'd pretty much given up on it. Then it hit me. There was a perfect way to spend more time with the kids and spend far less than I would for any gym membership: Buy the boy a bike!

As Robert learned not to look straight down while pedaling as if he were Manhattan's sole power source, I ran around like crazy, alerting passersby to the veering dervish I'd let loose on society. And I've lost five pounds.

More later, after I get my wind back.

First Monday in October

Today is a watershed moment in the history of Western civilization, if not planet Earth herself.

Firstly, the most exalted legal entity in the world's richest and most powerful country is re-convening at its usual time of year with a radically altered lineup. Gone is William "Stop The Vote" Rehnquist, replaced as Chief Justice by John "The White Cipher" Roberts. Soon to depart is Sandra "Day" O'Connor, possibly to be supplanted by Harriet "Disappointing, Depressing, and Demoralizing" Miers, who's never even held a judgeship.

And secondly, I've gone to work for Oprah*, wherein I mouth off about parenthood from a daddy's perspective and hopefully dispel the annoying stereotype that all fathers are fat-bellied, mouth-breathing troglodytes who give their wives power tools for Christmas.

Which will have a more cataclysmic effect on the history of humankind? Time will be the judge.

* Since another boss/creator is chairman of the Red Sox, I eagerly await my comped playoff tickets. You know, as part of the big marketing splash.

A neologism I wish I'd thought of

Overheard today at a nearby park bench:

Woman 1:  ... and this is where your ethical dilemma lies.
Woman 2:  There is no ethical dilemma! It's right there in the Bible!
Woman 1:  Oh, Bible Schmible.
Woman 2:  Honestly, Helen. Is that the best rejoinder you can manage? Can we possibly have just one discussion without you pulling out the "schmefix"?