Laid-Off Dad

Natatory valedictory

There's been lots of good news lately for the Laid-Offspring, the most momentous being that both of my sons were graduated to the next level of swimmer's training. TwoBert, trussed up as he was in PFDs, finished his Little Dipper course and will begin next week as a Tadpole. He achieved this by demonstrating a willingness to float on his back, to dogpaddle furiously toward the shark toy with the squirty mouth, and to jump off the side of the pool onto his father's head. He also received high marks for his spirited "Hokey Pokey."

To his credit, he did swim the breadth of the pool twice, with a noodle tied around his nethers (for maximum midbody buoyancy) and a big floaty barbell in his hand. He then came home, trudged up the 68 steps, and napped for 3½ hours.

Robert is a much bigger success story, because his swimlane to success has had a few whitecaps. He's been plagued by doubts, over his stamina, his coordination, and his overall disdain for the idea of frolicking in a substance that can kill you. He's already overthinking things, just as I do; I only hope he can feel comfortable admitting his fears to me, and that I can help him confront them a bit by talking them through. We've had a few chats about risk and reward, and how the best things to get are the ones you expend the most effort for. Later on, when he dove in (headfirst!) and swam the length of the pool for the first time, it took a lot of effort not to dive in after him and hug his waterlogged brains out.

He now gets to be an Otter, if he wants, but I suspect he's happy to focus on Tee-Ball, which begins on Saturday. We finally got a note from his coach about his team (the Angels), the uniforms (which have pants!), and the schedule, which he has already transcribed onto his wall calendar. He has also made a sign that says, "THE RED SOX ARE MY FAVORITE MAJOR LEAGUE TEAM BUT MY FAVORITE TEE-BALL TEAM IS THE ANGELS SO NO OFFENSE."

I am to have this with me at all times, often waving it vigorously.

Welling up

Thanks to all who chimed in regarding TwoBert's bowels, and the minimal production thereof. And let the word go forth from this time and place that all is well. TwoBert gave forth Friday night, and most of it made it into the toilet. We're not quite sure how the rest of it got where it got (my wife aptly suggested we call in a CSI team to analyze the splatter pattern), but it's all down the pipe now.

And now, we must quite belatedly shift topics to something far more compelling: Why I've been crying so much lately.

It started when idle clicking landed me on ABC Family and "The Sound of Music," right when the kids meet Baroness Schräder in their sopping drapeclothes. The Captain is incensed. Mortified. He's ready to take Maria back to the abbey by the scruff of her neck. But when the kids sing "Edelweiss," years of spiritual plaque are wiped away, and the Captain embraces his children and admits he's been a dick. Hokey as hell, and it makes me blubber every time.

Later, Robert and I found ourselves debating the merits of bunk beds, and he suggested we just put TwoBert's bed on top of his. I told him his bed probably wasn't strong enough, and he assured me that his bed could hold "a buffalo, Eli Manning, and a 10-year-old." Which kind of floored me and had  me laugh-crying out of pure shock.

Today I had the chance to clear a few episodes of "In Treatment" off the DVR, and I saw the one from last Tuesday when Alex's dad visits Paul. The discussion is gut-wrenchingly sad and teeming with filial angst, and when I regained my composure I called my dad and told him I loved him.

And then came the pièce de résistance at the playground. TwoBert and I were playing our usual game on the swings, whereby he hurtles at me and I pretend he's kicked me in the face. I jerk my head back and send my cap flying over my head, to hilarious effect. The caveat, however, is not to gaze over his shoulder and look for your other son, lest 32 pounds of torque hit you square in the schnozz.

This, too, will bring the tears, each one a karmic reminder not to discuss your kid's pooping problems on the Internet.

Beckoning Krakatoa

It pains me to break away from the Battle of the Nerds and impose TwoBert's GI tract on the great reading public. But it cannot be denied that the Pooper's Strike, now in Day Four, has captured our imaginations, and we're wracking our brains for any remedy to defuse this digestive bomb. After school drop-off, we stopped for a bran muffin with raisins. (TwoBert pretty much granulated the thing, but a great sign of a fresh muffin is when you can mold those granules back into little nuggets.) He begged for a sip of coffee, as he always does, but this time I obliged. My wife left him some breakfast smoothie; I have no idea what was in it, but it looked like that hunter-green blop that Renee Russo drank in the Thomas Crown remake. Prunes and apples for lunch, along with lots of water, followed by two hours of running at the playground. Now that we're home, he's pantsless and pushing all the buttons on our printer. And the primitives are assembled, arms linked, swaying and chanting and coaxing forth that fickle fecal lava that will restore order to our little tribe.

More as this story develops.

Post-Neck-Poop Stress Disorder

Believe it or not, this is the second day of a two-week vacation. February was, in no uncertain terms, a roundhouse kick to the sternum, and a bit of free-and-easy time would come in pretty welcomethanks. Except no one told our sitter, Bridget, who is off sunning herself on the deck of a cruise ship and drinking my goddamn margaritas. She has become a woman of leisure, shuffleboarding her 24-year-old cares away. And I have become her, placing TwoBert on a toilet every 45 minutes to avoid another incident wherein the boy craps his underpants while astride my shoulders.

You can talk about how you might react if a neck-pooping ever were to happen to you, but I can tell you that you can never really be fully prepared for it. I can save you the details of that slow, expanding warmth, because you can surely conjure them for yourselves, but I'm not afraid to admit I'm a little traumatized. And I wonder if I'm making a wee bit too big a deal about "suggesting" that TwoBert go take a seat on the can, because he hasn't pooped in two days. (Even though he still eats everything in sight--not unlike, say, a cruise patron.) I'm slowly working my way out of my PNPSD and trying not to think that he's a powderkeg just waiting to blow, but DAMMIT HE'S A POWDER KEG JUST WAITING TO BLOW. He is the MacGuffin, the bomb under the protagonist's chair. Except the protagonist knows about it and has to keep his cool, for the sake of a sweet-cheeked little two-year-old whose trusting smile could fell an icecap.

And yes, despite the fortnight of borrowed time, five greasy men arrived in my lobby yesterday to dismantle our elevator, which is now lying in several hulking pieces in our courtyard. Thus, Life in the Walk-Up has begun, for what we have been assured will be 12 short weeks. I have had two days of lugging groceries, laundry, strollers, and boycrap up four flights of stairs, and I'm pretty sure that by the time Bridget gets back I will be Jean-Claude Van Dad.

After which all this becomes her problem. So drink up, dear Bridget. Your uppance is coming.

Panoply

I think I've started this post about a dozen times. I've gotten all heated up about something, sat down to write about it, and been interrupted by something othersuch. Before you know it, my brain train has been derailed, the tracks littered with coal and hobos. Then something utterly else happens, and I try to find a way to knit the two into a cohesiveness, but the result is a blithering failure. So here's the news of the past week, in no particular order:

• Easter always makes me happy, although less for the risen lord than for the plentiful jellybeans. There is special reason to thank said risen lord, if that's your thing, because in an ocean of pointless gourmet flavorballs I have found a new brand of Throwback Beans (Throwbeans!) that taste exactly like childhood. The oranges taste like orange, the reds taste red, the greens like green, the white like sugared wax, the blacks like ambrosia. Our local H&BA establishment (one of seven within a two-block radius, and no I'm not kidding) stocks them for around a buck per bag, and I have been wolfing them by the fistful. And in a week or two, they'll be priced to move for around a quarter a pop. I'm bringing my duffel bag.

• The Situation Room is just stupid. A gymnasium of punditheads sitting around trying to fill three hours with glibness and flashing touch-screens, hosted by that bastion of uniform facial hair, Wolf Blitzer. It's like a televisual blog, right down to the laptops they stare into when they're not talking. They're supposed to look all busy and researchful, but you know they're just wondering where that goddamn red ten is.

• How can McCain claim he's the best candidate for president because he has experience, and with the same mouth pooh-pooh his fervent hawkdom with his favorite sound bite, "We are where we are"? Yeah, and you were a big part of putting us there. How can experience matter and history not? I mean, Mike Brown has "experience" running FEMA, and I wouldn't hire him to walk my dog. And I don't even have a dog.

And lastly:

• There is loads of news on the sireling front. It's funny how these milestones always happen in twos, as the boys lock antlers in full one-upmanship. On Saturday, after weeks of "diving," Robert actually dove in, headfirst and everything, and swam the length of the pool. He is now ready to graduate to the Otters class, where he will presumably learn to open shellfish on his belly. Hours later, TwoBert ran into the bathroom, dropped trou, and pooped in the toilet all by himself. He even demanded privacy, for good measure. We're not out of the woods yet, as T has fecalized a few pairs of undies, but this is a decisively wonderful step. I intend to cement the rewards of toiletry by 1) pouring on the adulation, thick as honey, and 2) buying more Cheerios to be used for target practice.

I must say, as frustrating as it felt to start this post so many times, it feels very good to end it once.

The voyage to continence

If someone were filming the story of my life, the current scene would begin with a tight shot of a pair of training underpants hanging from shower rod. Slowly, the camera pans to a tiny pair of dungarees, wet at the crotch. Then another pair of sodden undies, then some mini-khakis, brown rivulets along the inseam. The camera pulls back to reveal a wide shot of a small bathroom, wet clothes hanging just about anywhere--towel rods, bathtub spigots, ends of toilet plungers. Like that scene at the Atlanta train station in "Gone With the Wind," except instead of Confederate wounded there'd be acres of be-piddled clothes, reaching out in anguish for the laundering they so desperately need.

I admit we were spoiled by Robert, who one day just up and decided he'd had enough of diapers. But TwoBert's road has been a little rockier; for every pee that makes it down the toilet, there's another that ... doesn't. TwoBert, you know we love you. We stand as one, resolved to weather these setbacks and see you through to Diapers' End. We are in for a penny and in for a pound, and we're showing our commitment by not buying any more diapers. Take note, though, that the casualties are mounting. We are renters who own no laundering equipment. Our policy is to let the dirty clothes pile up until the hampers buckle, then saddle up the stroller and head to the laundromat. But now you're wetting everything in sight, and it's not like we're made of underpants. Something has to give, or pretty soon you'll head to the playground wearing Saran wrap and an apron.