Toothdays with Cleo

So last Tuesday was amazing. I woke up and it was sunny, birds chirpingly mild weather with little animated Disney characters scampering on the windowsill. I checked the weather report and this was going to be the last nice day we will have for the foreseeable future. I was motivated, ambitious, and planning out a nice fun Tuesday with Cleo at the park.

So of course she starts teething. The kid was tired, fussy, and in no mood to go to the freaking park.

Ready or not...

It's uncommon for a kid to start teething as early as 3 months, but it's not unheard of. Unfortunately for us, she is only just now starting to get the concept that she can put things in her mouth which means she is suspicious of pretty much any teething aid. The only things that go in her mouth currently are mom's breast, dad's pinky, and her own two fingers.


The teething fussiness is a chore as it means she needs to be comforted more and will wake up screaming at night, but that's not really even the bad part. The worst, absolute worst part, is when she has this furrowed brow expression on her face in a kind of sad confusion about why you, as her provider and protector, cannot take this pain away. Which makes sense. In her view of the world, H and I are powerful demi-gods. Why, according to her, wouldn't we have the power to make this go away and why are we denying that to her?

And technically, we sort of do have that power. We have a bottle of children's Tylenol on our counter and it has helped her. We are hesitant to use it too much though. The kid has only one kidney so we are cautious about how often we give drugs to her. Sadly, my efforts to explain this to Cleo through the art of pantomime have so far only resulted in more crying.

Stuff like this makes me think of the Laocoon. When I studied in Rome, I found this piece to be incredibly compelling.

The Laocoon was a priest in the city of Troy who advised the Trojans to burn the horse the Greeks had given them. This pissed off either Athena or Poseidon, who then sent serpents down to kill him and his sons.

As an aside, living in ancient mythological Greece must have sucked. You were constantly in a state of PTSD since ANYTHING you did could piss off the gods who would then smite you and your family OR EVEN WORSE a family member could piss them off and they would kill you all or turn you all into goats or something. You think you hate your alcoholic uncle now? Well just think if his drunken urination on a shine of Phorcys resulted in you angrily spending the rest of your life as a seahorse!

Anyhow, the thing that struck me about this statue is that not only is his face an image of frustrated impotence in his inability to fight off the snakes, but that his sons are so confused. Dad is big and powerful (and, consistent with most ancient Greek and Roman statues, he must have done a crap ton of pilates and crossfit!) The kids can't even process that dad can't protect them and dad is frustrated that not only is he dying a senseless death for trying to do the right thing but also that nothing he does will save his kids.

To a much lesser extent, that's kind of what the whole teething situation is like. Except with less serpents and angry gods. And less imminent death and existential angst. And at least we get some respite when she gnaws on my finger.

Book Babies

It's not often that I dwell on my age. My previous identity as one of the childless allowed me to exist in a state where I really didn't have to consider age too much (or I at least could passively deny that it was happening).

Not a horse

Life kind of crystallizes when you are in your mid to late twenties and rarely alters except for the odd life changing event. Otherwise, while you do grow and evolve over the years, it's more like a shift from a wild horse to a domesticated horse. It's only when you compare a horse to, say, a ficus, that you really get subjected to some eye opening realizations.

As I interact more with other parents I am now forced to cope with one such realization: That I went to high school with people who have GRANDCHILDREN older than Cleo.

This became apparent to me as Cleo and I went to Book Babies at our local library for our weekly adventure. Book Babies involves songs, a reading of a story, other kids, and toys. Cleo and I both had a blast, but it took some adapting that some of the younger (and yet more experienced) parents did not bat an eye at.

On our way to the library

First adaptation: Floor sitting.

Babies and families all sit on the floor together here. When I reflected on this later, I realized that I honestly could not recall the last time I sat directly on a  floor. I meditate, but I use a Zafu cushion for this. My life is full of chairs and cushions and benches. Throw in the fact that Cleo can't sit up by herself yet requiring me to awkwardly support her in a position where she can view everything and my back was freaking killing me. I also was quickly realizing that I am in for years of floor and tiny chair sitting. I'm definitely budgeting for chiropractic care from this point on...

Second adaptation: Standing up.

With all the songs and activity involvement, there's a lot of stand up, sit down, stand up stuff going on. Standing up from the ground while carrying a kid shouldn't be too hard. Unfortunately, a lifetime of soccer playing gives you good cardio but bad joints. Standing instead required me to use a wall to support myself and some audible cracks and pops from my knees. After the group, the lady leading it mentioned, while giving me the flier with all of the song lyrics on it, that I can do as much or as little as I feel I can. My inner Primal Man was enraged by this and was screaming at me to pound my chest in response to this challenge and then urinate on the library to claim it as my territory, but thankfully I was able to just smile and say thanks.

Third adaptation: Singing.

I feel that, by a certain age, you've established your identity as someone who sings. These people then gravitate towards song based activities such as karaoke or chain gangs. The rest of us go on with our lives, not ignoring singing activities, but just not attending them in the same way that I don't go to rodeos or monster truck rallies. I do sing to Cleo. I sing while playing guitar or ukulele for her. I sing while I'm in the shower so that she doesn't feel like she is alone.

I don't, however, sing in public. Book babies requires the parents to sing fun little songs to the kids and I'm realizing that a lot of future kid activities will require me to sing in public. It takes me out of my comfort zone and honestly it wouldn't be so bad except for:

Fourth adaptation: The Microscope

This face helps me feel like I'm doing something right!

About halfway into this thing, I realized that I had never been out with Cleo with a group of strange parents and suddenly, I began to worry that I was being compared. Cleo was the youngest there so I had to prop her up while others were crawling and sitting. It was during feeding time, so I had to give her a bottle for a bit when she got fussy. I hadn't given her a bath today and there was some cradle cap going on in her hair that I suddenly felt very conscious about.

For the first time, I felt I was under the lens and being examined as a dad.

This required a deep breath and just faith that I wasn't doing the wrong things. I'm assuming that, like most things in life, coping with this will get better with time and practice. Until then I more or less have to fake that I feel comfortable. I plan on going  to Book Babies again in a few weeks with her, so I really hope that this comes around quick!

One Swing to Rule them All

Work was hell this past week, so on Tuesday I elected to stay home and have a lazy Tuesday with Cleo. I'm getting better at taking care of her for extended periods of time, but there is a consequence to this: Time goes faster now.

It's a common psychological concept. When we first experience something, the brain is more or less overclocking. It's using everything it has to take things in, problem solve, and to store information for later. When you drive to a new job for the first time, it feels like it takes forever because your brain is mapping the route, taking in landmarks, looking for hazards, etc.  Five years later your brain has it all mapped out and you end up zoning out on the way home, possibly even being frustrated that you didn't get enough time to finish that podcast you were listening to.

So it is with Tuesday. Even throwing in a brief trip to the store, it really flew by. Part of this is that over the past two weeks I have a sort of "circuit training" method for dealing with Cleo involving different activity stations.

Often in a typical day with Cleo, I will "run the stations" when she gets fussy. Station One is the changing table, Station Two is holding her on the Poeng chair, Station Three is the bouncy chair, station Four is the jungle mat, station Five is our bed where I have mini stations (boppy, practice sitting/standing, playing the ukulele for her), Station Six is the rocker cradle, and Station Seven is to the couch to feed her.

Through it all, though, Station Eight, the final station, is constantly in the back of my mind. 

That station: The Swing.

Don't get me wrong, the swing is a godsend! However, there is no single piece of child rearing equipment that elicits such mixed emotions from H and I. As far as I can tell, it has a 90% success rate of calming and quieting the child; often putting her to sleep as well. Which is a good thing... and a bad thing.

You see, the swing is like a cheat code in a game. You put in your code and suddenly the game becomes easier. However, if you cheat too much, the game loses it's challenge, and at the end of the day, the fun of a game comes FROM the challenge. In some ways, the point of my Station system is to make sure I have tried any and all methods of calming/entertaining the child before I resort to the swing.

That said, there are levels or sections in games that have been so tortuously difficult that cheat codes saved me from quitting. Seriously, there are games that I have enjoyed immensely but never finished due to the difficulty of a final level. Shadow of the Colossus is the biggest one that stands out for me. Feeling challenged is one thing, feeling frustrated is an entirely different one.

H and I both have the same mixed emotions about the swing. It has a very, very valuable place in our house and I would probably attack anyone who tried to take it. I'm not sure about H, but the swing is the ONLY place the kid falls asleep on my days to watch her. It's also an invaluable mom and dad "timeout" option when Cleo has pushed us to the breaking point.  

However, it is always there... tempting you. It's like a siren song calling you when the baby is only moderately cranky or tempting you to grab another 15 minutes of cry free time. Seriously, sometimes I can almost hear "Roots and Beginnings" from LOTR when I look at that thing...

Mommy Matinee

For last Tuesday, Cleo and I went to explore the Mommy Matinee at the Kennedy School. They were showing "Beasts of the Southern Wild"; a movie I was interested in because of all of the Academy Award nomination buzz and its use of magical realism. Throw in the fact that H has no interest in the movie and it was a perfect time to try this out.

So the concept of a Mommy Matinee is that you can bring a crying, crapping, hungry baby in with you and no one can complain. There are also Family Matinees on other days, but these show cartoons or kid movies. Mommy Matinees are for those with kids who are too young to understand the concept of a movie and therefore they can show PG to R rated stuff to the stay at home parents.

My morning...

In truth, the experiment was nearly called off. Cleo was not taking the bottle that morning (I  eventually discovered that the milk had slightly soured over the weekend despite being in the fridge and that we need to freeze the supply on Fridays) and was super cranky all morning. The movie was at 2pm but by noon I was exhausted, greasy, and frustrated.

H has a much easier time with taking the kid out and being adventurous. I'm more inclined to sit at home with her. However, I know that Cleo won't thrive without a change in scenery, so I need to become more comfortable with being out and about with her. With that in mind, I pushed through the inertia and got us on our way!

Cleo cried the entire trip, but we got there. Upon entering the theater the first thing that I noticed (aside from the theater already being accented with a slight smell of baby urine) is that I am not a mom. I thought that in Portland there would be other dads around. Nope. All women and children. I think in other situations I would have been self conscious about this, but I was so far off the map at this point that it wasn't an issue.

Beasts of the Southern Wild is about 90 minutes. Here's my account of it (sort of spoilers ahead)

Lobby

0-10  There's a girl and her dad, living in a dystopian future New Orlean community set up out beyond the levies. Cleo burbles to herself.

10-20 Cleo starts crying. I pick her up her up. The kid in the movie goes to school, they eat a lot of shrimp and crab. Something about glaciers melting and Aurochs (giant pig/cows) destroying the world.

20-30 Cleo needs a diaper change. I go out to the bathroom changing table. I later realize that this is a rookie move as most of the veteran moms just change their kids in the theater. I pay for this error by not knowing what is happening in the movie.

30-45 Ok. The baby is calm. Apparently the glaciers melted and there was a flood? Everyone floats around, they find each other, and they eat crab and shrimp. As I am deathly allergic to crab and shrimp, I make a mental note to never visit New Orleans since that is all they apparently eat.

45-55 The baby is fussy. I pick her up and walk her around. The movie dad tries to blow up the levy for some reason? They all get picked up by the Coast Guard and taken into the city. I guess the dad is dying and he sends the kid away when they 'escape'. I'm not clear on why they have to escape.

55-65 Cleo is hungry. I slip out to the lobby to get hot water to defrost the breastmilk.

65-75 Cleo is happily feeding. These kids in the movie sure do get around. They go from the city to some floating brothel where the movie kid finds her mom and... aw hell. They do that damn silent whisper trope where she says something to her mom but the audience can't hear it! I HATE that!

75-End Carrying and rocking Cleo now and she falls asleep. Now the kids are somehow almost back home. The little girl stares down some of the giant pig/cows. These things don't really destroy anything... and I'm not clear on why they ran from the Arctic to Louisiana... but at least the girl gets to see her dad die and continues to defiantly live in squalor which is some sort of victory I guess?

So, 1-10 scale:
Enjoyment - 5  I think this might be higher if I hadn't been nervous and Cleo hadn't had a rough morning.
Comprehension - 3  The movie is definitely a character piece and I missed a lot.
Baby Satisfaction - 5  Cleo didn't get much from the experience, but it also didn't take away from anything she normally would do.

Next week the Mommy Matinee on Wednesday is Skyfall at the St. Johns Theater, so I may try that and compare to my experience to today!