At first, the initial indications of Robert's condition were subtle:
So far, we’ve found a number of small toys and two cans of cat food in the trash, a pile of freshly cleaned clothes in a kitchen cupboard, and some silverware in my bottom dresser drawer.
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Should cooling your child’s bedroom be this difficult?
Since this is the boy’s first summer in his own room, and the dog days of summer sneaked up on us so surreptitiously this year, it came time to replace our main AC unit and put the older, less-powerful one in the Robertorium. The sad irony about air conditioners is that you don’t buy one until you absolutely need it — when it's hot as a bitch. So setting up the new one was a prolonged sweaty nightmare all by itself.
However, we can’t cool the Robertorium until we solve the Riddle of the Child Safety Guard. In accordance with state law, our landlord installed one in the Robertorium’s only window and used those specially slotted, un-loosenable screws. Fearing liability, the landlord won’t authorize removing the guard. Our super is on vacation in Malta for another month, and the interim super, a true mouthbreather, tried the following four-step process:
Since I’m constitutionally opposed to having my son stew in his own gravy, it may be time to start pricing hacksaws.
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I can’t say I’m a Soldier for the Cause, but I admit I’m becoming a little irritated by the number of people who infer that I’m just filling in for Mama. We all know the culture dictates that caregivers be female, while the daddies are out hunting and gathering and scratching our asses. Still, is it so odd to see a man at the playground giving his kid’s nose a wipedown?
It’s also widely assumed that men can’t hack it as hands-on parents. (The other day I overheard one mom lamenting her daughter’s outfit: “Her father dressed her this morning.”) As if to imply that it’s a miracle he didn’t diaper the girl’s head.
Anyway, I found a hotlink to an article about this topic on Being Daddy. Props to Ellen Goodman for crystallizing my views so eloquently.
And by the way: I dressed my son this morning. The white cotton onesie was both physically flattering (by accentuating his fair complexion and broad shoulders) and of ideal weight for the summer weather. So any mom who thinks I can't take care of my kid is cordially invited to Bite Me.
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The rain continued for much of the weekend, during which I discovered a very disturbing development: I spend entirely too much time bitching about the weather. It’s pathetic, really. I was really excited about getting laid off in May. What a great time of year to frolic outside while poor working stiffs wither away under fluorescent lights! Instead, the weather has gone from 15 degrees below normal to 15 degrees above normal in the space of 18 hours (after setting a record for the wettest June ever). Mother Nature as ripped me off big time.
Conjuring up indoor games that don’t involve the TV has forced me to scrape the limits of my imagination, but most of it involves watching what Robert gets himself into and riffing off that. Recent activities include:
If Robert ever gets a sister, I imagine I could add Daughter Polo to the list.
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There are a number of reasons why the convenience of city parenting is so irresistible. Like how just about everything we need — our doctor, pediatrician, bank, drug store, grocery store, health food store, hardware store, diner, library, and dry cleaner, as well as several good restaurants, six movie theaters, five playgrounds, and a major subway nexus — is within a five-block walk of the apartment.
Now I can add gym to that list, because I just joined one — a no-frills effort that’s a little too grubby (i.e., full of monstrous weightlifters with massive, tattooed limbs) to be considered a health club — just three blocks away. It’s also open 24/7, and this is crucial, because catering to Robert’s mercurial lifestyle is becoming more challenging by the day. Now I can steal away for a 45-minute run and be back home within the hour whenever an opportunity arises.
I haven’t worked out since the layoff, and I’ve spent far too much time relying on artificial stimulants to keep up with Kid Charisma. It’s time that some natural endorphins came into play. Besides, when traffic gets clogged in front of my building and the chorus of honking morons rattles my brain pan, I’ll need a place to go vent some steam.
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For the first time in a week, Robert managed to spend most of last night unconscious. So moods were elevated this morning, as we strategized to cope with what looks like another three full days of solid rain.
We managed another walkabout this morning, and in doing so we confirmed one thing: Robert is a thrill-seeker. Each time he flings himself off of the front steps, he can head left toward a placid , dead-end street, or turn right toward the teeming hubbub of a major avenue. Perhaps to keep pace with most of the country, he heads right.
Our area is especially boisterous because of all the two-way traffic, so he can squeal with delight as big, noisy vehicles promenade by in both directions. Soon thereafter, he sets out to satisfy his internal checklist (which is easier to do since it’s warm enough for businesses to keep their doors open):
Then it’s off to glance at himself in the mirrors in the lobby of the apartment building around the corner, followed by about a dozen spirited runs across the 100-foot-long sidewalk grate.
The kid is definitely out there, on the edge, toddling to the x-treeeeme. Maybe we should mute all those SUV commercials.
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At home I am known as Somnambular, because I’m usually able to get my son off to sleep in no time flat. After his bath and his book, we repair to the rocking chair. A few lullaby verses, a couple of strokes of the back, and he’s out, flat as a flounder.
Somnambular failed for the first time last night — an alarming precedent. Robert took forever before he finally dropped off, and he slept fitfully and intermittently all night, immune to whatever soporific powers I could muster. We haven’t yet figured out why, but we think it’s because his canine teeth are coming in, and friends with older children tell us that canines can be real bitches.
We all woke up this morning, perhaps with 10 hours of sleep among us. Aside from baggy eyelids, Robert seemed as jovial as always in the morning. But it was my worst night in months, and it showed. My wife and I had a fight that hinged on my inherent distaste for flexibility, and I behaved like a pathetic, self-absorbed jackass. Try as I might to be Super Benevolent Wonder Dad, a little sleep deprivation always exposes my inner thug.
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