Home > Fatherhood > Archives > 2008 > July
July 2008
Cleaning up messes, as long as they’re liquid
Sam hates a mess. I should categorize that by saying he hates a liquid mess. He’s perfectly content to have toys strewn all over our living room.
But spill liquid and the boy turns into a dedicated cleaner.
Last night we had spaghetti for supper, Sam did pretty well with his little fork in getting the food off the plate and to his mouth. But some spaghetti sauce dripped on his shirt and the floor in the process.
I went to the kitchen for a paper towel to wipe up the mess. When I returned, Sam took the towel from me and wiped it up himself.
Later last night, Sam’s juice cup began leaking. Sippy cups are poorly constructed in that if one plastic piece gets dislodged inside the lid, the contents run out like a sieve. Again, Sam took the paper towel from me to wipe up the mess himself.
Lately, Sam is also big on carrying dishes into the kitchen after meals to place them on the counter. He even stops at the trash can to scrape off any food remnants. This morning, the last dribbles of milk fell out of my glass as Sam tried to put it on the counter.
I didn’t even think about wiping it up myself. I just handed Sam a paper towel and let him take after it. He did a very thorough job.
Now, if I could just get that enthusiasm to translate into putting toys back in the toy box…
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Getting down to business
One of Sam’s favorite phrases right now is “Get down.” At first it was hard to understand, because it doesn’t sound quite right, but as I’ve gotten used to it, I hear it more and more.
He says it when he’s ready to get out of bed in the morning or after a nap.
He says it when he’s ready to get out of his car seat.
And he especially says it when he thinks Daddy should get in the floor to play with the shape box, the blocks, a ball, a truck or whatever.
Last night he told me to get in the floor while I was talking on the phone. I didn’t do it fast enough so he kept repeating it. Finally when he couldn’t get my cooperation any other way, he said “Get down, PLEASE!” It was clear as a bell, and the first time he’s said “the magic word.”
I immediately got down with my son. After all, he said “the magic word.”
If only the air conditioning reached the floor with the same efficiency it reaches the furniture. Until then, I’ll be the one sweating on the floor with my son.
And I thought heat rises….
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Hangers are happenin’
I have a system for laundry that has worked well for me for more than 15 years now: I do it every other weekend. I have more than two weeks of options for every layer of clothing I wear, and I’ve made sure that Sam has the same.
This past weekend was laundry weekend. We did four loads. As I’ve mentioned before, Sam likes to help try to separate, load and fold the laundry at all the various stops it makes.
This weekend, however, Sam discovered the clothes hangers. Apparently, hangers are REALLY COOL for a toddler. Sam tried to wear several as a hat and ran around with them, tormenting the cats.
Before anyone freaks out, we have the plastic hangers with the very, very round ends.
Later, when I was preparing to hang up some pants and shirts, I got four hangers out of the closet and set them on my bed. Sam saw this and went running around the bed, screaming like a Native American warrior in absolute excitement at the sight of hangers. He climbed on to the bed all by himself in order to play with them.
Who knew clothes hangers had such power? I shall have to use this to my fatherly advantage.
“Are you bored, son? Go to the closet and get a hanger!”
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Memories and anniversaries
Today is my first anniversary with Sam. It was one year ago today that Elena, his foster mother, brought him to the Marriott in Guatemala City for my weekend visit. He stayed with me for two precious days, and then I cried all the way back to Waco as we set in to wait for the court to make us a real family.
Can that really have been a year ago? In some ways it seems much longer, as Sam is now so much a part of my life that I can hardly remember a time he wasn’t here. And in some ways it seems like only yesterday that he first climbed on top of me, patted my stomach and said “da-da.”
For most fathers, the day you meet your son for the first time is also his birthday. For Sam and me, there are several anniversary days throughout the year: July 28, Oct. 8 (the day his adoption passed), Nov. 10 (the day we were united forever), and Nov. 15 (the day he came to the U.S.). All of this, plus his regular birthday on Aug. 14.
In honor of this special day, Sam will have his least favorite lunch at daycare. It’s just a coincidence, because they have no idea that this is an important day for us. I noticed, though, on the menu today’s meal is salmon croquettes, which Sam refuses to eat. So I guess we’ll have to do something special in honor of the occasion tonight.
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Pink highlighter in hand, ready to mark
My father introduced Sam to the wonders of a pink highlighter last weekend. They used it to mark on paper and on balloons. Up until that point, I don’t think Sam knew it had a cap, that the cap came off, and that ink poured forth freely from the tip.
He certainly knows now.
Since last weekend, he’s marked up every paper he can find, several wooden blocks, and the top and bottom of the block tub, not to mention his face, his hands, his legs, his shirt, and anything else he can find.
Suffice to say enough things are pink in our house now that we probably are emitting pixie dust from the chimney.
As I tried to wipe off the ink last night from various parts of Sam’s skin, the baby wipe I was using turned completely pink. That was when I knew enough was enough.
I’m going to find the highlighter when I’m home for lunch today and dispose of it properly. Then I’m going to introduce Sam to those markers that only write on paper, or at least a crayon that won’t write on him.
Or at least a highlighter in a manly shade of blue. Sam’s middle name is Edgar, after all. At the very least he should look like a British Pict if he insists on painting himself a color.
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Cry, cry, cry
For some unknown reason, Sam’s mood changed to tears just as I was about to put supper on the table last night.
He was laughing and playing with his riding bulldozer while I was finishing up our meal of hot dogs, potatoes and fruit. I put food on both our plates and turned around to hand him his cup when he suddenly broke out into tears.
Nothing had fallen on him. I checked his hands and he hadn’t touched something hot and burned himself. He was still standing up, so he hadn’t fallen. We were eating foods he likes. He had a full cup of juice. And I wasn’t failing to pay attention to him.
In short, I was stumped.
I had to hold him all through dinner. Then, I thought he was settled enough for me to finish up some work on the computer I needed to do.
I was wrong. He cried for another hour, much of it in my lap.
Twenty minutes before bed, he suddenly reverted to laughing. He dropped off to sleep within about ten minutes of laying down.
He had no fever. His coming teeth were not breaking the surface of his gums. He ate well in my lap. I still have no idea what was wrong.
And he awoke happy this morning, lasting until I left him at daycare, when tears sprang forth again.
Go figure.
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The tower of babble
Like the people in the Old Testament story of Babel, my son is now very interested in building towers. His, however, have little hope of reaching the heavens.
I got out an old set of wooden blocks of various shapes over the weekend. They had been mine as a child, and on some of them I even wrote names of “businesses” and traffic signs as part of the imaginary cities I built.
Sam immediately became fascinated and wanted to build vertically.
He drags the tub the blocks are in (which still bears a price tag from Skaggs from the 1970s) to the middle of the living room floor and pats the ground softly saying, “Daddy, get down.” This means I’m supposed to get in the floor and help him build.
Then he pulls out one block at a time, very carefully, and hands each one to me. I’m supposed to build the tower.
After it gets tall enough for his taste, he knocks it down, babbling some phrase that means something in his imagination. I wish I knew what he was thinking as he destroys the tower and giggles.
Then we have to put the blocks back into the tub, one at a time, so he can repeat the process all over again.
Building is fun. It makes me long for simpler days, when all of my cares centered around whether my tower would stay standing and when was lunch.
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Watching ‘Mickey Mouse Clubhouse’ with Sam
In the world of little kids cartoons, I can stand Mickey Mouse. I can’t stand Barney.
And so I’ve begun changing the channel to the “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” when I know Barney is about to come on PBS. Mickey, of course, plays on the Disney Channel.
We were watching an episode Sunday morning in which Goofy wants to use a time machine to go back to the days of knights. Instead he gets accidentally turned into a baby. The gang (which includes Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Daisy and Pluto) must learn to take care of “Goofy Baby” until the time machine can be fixed.
From this episode, I learned that the proper way to burp a baby is to pat him in a regular pattern of “top-top-bottom-bottom-middle-middle-middle.” Gee, I just thought patting anywhere on the back worked. This was valuable information.
What cracked me up about the whole episode was that they kept referring to him as “Goofy Baby” instead of “Baby Goofy.” “Goofy Baby” made me think of cool Hollywood types saying, “Hey, Goofy Baby! Let’s do lunch. Have your people call my people.”
At the end of the episode, a re-grown Goofy taught us how to do the “Hog Dog” dance because the problem was solved. It involved flapping your arms like a bird and kicking out your feet. Sam is trying to do it now whenever I sing the “Hot Dog” song that accompanied it.
Well, it might be “goofy,” but it still beats Barney!
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A warm bath, with the cat
Saturday night, Sam had an unexpected guest in the bathtub: Socks the kitten.
I think it all started because my parents were visiting. Because they wanted to spend as much time as possible with Sam, they gathered around the tub as I was giving him his bath.
Socks wanted to find out what was garnering all the attention, so she came into the bathroom to check it out. She’s been in a dry tub before, so not knowing anything different, she jumped up and in.
It took a couple of seconds for the feeling of moisture on her feet to reach her brain. Then a look of panic crossed her face and she jumped out and scurried off. Sam thought it was quite funny. We all did actually.
Fortunately, the hot water in that bathroom only runs at a trickle, so to get a baby-suitable temperature to the tub, you can’t run too much cold water either. The end result is that the tub never gets all that full. Socks was safe from the dangers of drowning.
And I doubt she’ll be visiting the tub again any time soon.
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Hi grandma. Where are the grapes?
My parents arrived from Oklahoma yesterday afternoon. They were in my house waiting for us when Sam and I returned home from a day of work and play.
Sam is always somewhat confused when they arrive. He hasn’t yet figured out that they are a permanent, albeit frequently absent, fixture in his life. But this time he warmed up pretty quickly to the idea of them being here.
Within half an hour or so, he began asking my mother for grapes. He doesn’t know the word “grapes,” but he does know he can get his grandma to pick him up, then point to the kitchen and whine, and she will soon deliver the purple fruit he enjoys.
My parents eat grapes by the bucket load. I don’t, so I don’t really think about buying them when we’re at the store. So this is a special treat Sam enjoys when his grandparents visit. And apparently, he’s come to expect it.
He returned from the kitchen proudly holding his bowl of grapes. He handed the to me so he could climb onto the couch, and then ate them happily while snuggling close to me.
Something tells me he’ll learn the word “grape” before the word “grandma.” Want to take bets on whether he’ll start calling her “grape”?
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What a difference 20 minutes make
Sam woke up extra early this morning, before 5:30. We got up and watched television for a while before resuming our regular routine.
Even so, I had him dressed and ready for the day by 7. We can’t leave the house till 7:23, or else we beat the daycare workers to the building.
Of course, as soon as Sam was dressed, he wanted to put on his shoes. As soon as his shoes were on, he thought it was time to go. He kept saying “Go,” and pointing to the door, until he finally started crying because we weren’t leaving.
I got him settled down and sitting next to me on the couch until time to leave. He raced to the back door when I told him it was time to go.
But once we got to daycare, he wanted me to hold him and cried about me leaving. He hasn’t done that since he moved to his new classroom in early June. And considering how ready he was to go, I was pretty surprised.
Maybe he just wanted to play with those toys and me, but really, I’m a little stumped by the change of heart.
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Laughing in the rain
My mother’s birthday was yesterday, but they are visiting this weekend. In an unrelated event, a personal friend suffered the death of her husband over the weekend. I found out about it yesterday.
The end result was that I needed to make a run to the store last night for greeting cards, both sympathy and birthday. Sam does better if we go home and eat after work before running errands, so I waited until after supper.
Of course, by then it was raining — not hard, but a slow steady rain. Remembering Sam’s dread of the splash park a few weeks ago, I was afraid of his reaction to getting out in the rain.
As he got to the bottom of the back steps and felt his first raindrop, Sam said “Ooooo.” We got into the car and drove to the drug store. When I got him out of the car and he felt more rain he started laughing. Giggling with glee, in fact.
He giggled again when we left the store to get back into the car. The same kid who didn’t want to get wet at the splash park.
I was holding him the whole time, so that probably helped. Also the rain wasn’t nearly as fierce as the splash park spray. But beyond that, I’m clueless at the reaction.
Perhaps Waco needs to give up spray parks and invest in a cloud seeder!
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My little monkey climber
Sam is a climber. I think he’d be thrilled to live in a tree and climb all day long.
Last week, I caught him climbing the back of a dining room chair just as it began tipping backwards. The disaster was averted, narrowly. If the cat had not been sitting in the chair acting as a counterweight, my efforts would have come too late.
Yesterday, Sam’s class was playing on the playground when I arrived to pick him up after work. Sam was coming down the slide as I approached, and he noticed me almost immediately. A big smile swept across his face and he came running toward the fence to meet me. Apparently I wasn’t moving fast enough, because he began climbing the fence. By the time I got there, he was nearly to the top and his teacher’s had just noticed what he was doing. I picked him up off the fence and raised him over to my side.
It scared me a little, but his climbing was excellent. His feet never faltered.
I fear that in the near future rock climbing walls are going to attract his fancy and we’ll have to take up that sport. It’s not something I ever longed to do. Nor do I want to go on mountain hikes.
But somehow I fear my little climber is going to want to do it all.
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Daddy’s little helper, sort of
Sam spent a full weekend of trying to be my little helper. Unfortunately, he doesn’t fully grasp many of the tasks I’m doing. Here are some examples:
I took all of the laundry into the utility room and began sorting it for the four loads we were going to need to do. Sam’s clothes go in one pile, towels and sheets in another, dark clothes in a third and lights in the last. Sam kept pulling clothes out of the basket and trying to put them in piles, but he didn’t understand the sorting method.
After the laundry was done, I was folding it on my bed. Sam climbed onto the bed and tried to help. He actually did a decent job sorting this time, into piles of shirts, socks, and underwear. But periodically, he just couldn’t resist jumping head first into a pile of folded clothes.
Finally when we got to putting things on hangers, Sam found his niche. He sat with the pile of hangers and handed me one as I got each pair of pants or shirt ready.
This morning, Sam’s cup of milk leaked onto the floor. Being the little helper he is, Sam tried to wipe it up by sitting in the puddle and scooting his bottom around in it while I went to the kitchen for paper towels. Once I came back, he took the towels from me and did a pretty good job of wiping the rest of the mess up, although I really wonder what his pajama bottoms are going to smell like when we get ready for bed tonight!
All in all, it’s nice to have a helping hand. It will just be even nicer when his helping mind catches up to his hands.
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Chaos theory and kids
One day this week, one of the clues on the crossword puzzle was “Chaos theory unit.” “Children” didn’t fit. It should have.
Since Sam’s arrival, my living room regularly looks like it’s been hit by a tornado. There are toys everywhere. The only way I can clean them up is to wait until Sam’s asleep (which frequently is moments before I also fall asleep) or during my lunch hour. If I try to pick up toys while Sam is awake and present, he follows behind me dumping them back on the floor.
Some of his favorite toys are small plastic balls. We have a basket (actually his Easter basket) that I keep them in, when I can pick them up. Sam’s method of getting them out: Dump the entire contents of the basket on the floor.
The arrival of Socks the kitten has only added to our family chaos. She jumps on chairs, turning them sideways or pushing them out from the table. And she likes to play with the newspaper.
It also amazes me that Sam’s favorite way to appreciate a toy is disassembled. He takes the legs off his activity table. He takes the ramps off his Sesame Street garage.
This morning he had the most fun taking the hole cups off his toy golf bag, having me reattach them and then taking them off again. He would actually bring me the bag and then hand me the cups one at a time, pointing to where they fit on the bag. Once they were reattached, he took the bag, sat down a few feet away from me, and took the cups off again.
I’m not complaining. I’m used to the mess at this point, although I wouldn’t want to entertain guests. I’m just amazed at how much one child can do.
The actual unit of measurement in the Chaos theory is a “fractal.” Count Sam and Socks as my personal fractals.
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All about shoes
Longtime readers will remember that Sam virtually refused to wear shoes when he arrived home from Guatemala. For a while, we made due with socks that had rubber grabbers on the soles. Then former Mom blogger Paula Blesener turned me on to Bobux shoes, moccasins with an elastic band at the top. Sam would wear them when he’d wear nothing else.
But for the last few months, Sam has been wearing Spider-Man sandals with Velcro fasteners. And he likes them! He even leaves them on when we get home, long after I’ve kicked off my own shoes in favor of just socks.
In the mornings, while still in his pajamas, Sam brings me his sandals and says “Shoes.” Then he sits down and waits for me to put them on his feet. If I don’t do it immediately, he cries. If I wait too long, he puts them over his hands and wrists and attempts to do a handstand.
He hasn’t yet mastered the concept that we have to get dressed first, then put on shoes. I keep telling him this, as an incentive to get dressed for the day. Sam hates to get dressed because it robs him of three minutes of playtime, but he loves those shoes! So he’ll tolerate the dressing interruption if shoes are the reward.
My dad asked me what I was going to do in the winter. I replied, “Sandals with socks!” As long as they make Spider-Man sandals, we’ll be buying.
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Verbal development turns new corner
Increasingly, the toddler babbling that comes out of Sam’s mouth sounds like English. If an English word has two or three syllables, he might only say the last one, or omit the middle one, but it sounds more like English than gibberish. And increasingly I have some idea of what he’s talking about.
Now after he lets me put on his shoes, he says something like “Let’s go,” meaning he’s ready to head to daycare. I figured out that’s what he’s saying because he always starts walking toward the door afterwards.
And, of course, he’s mastered the word “No.” But sometimes he says it while smiling a goofy grin that shows he really means “Yes.” He can say “Yes,” although it comes out more like “Yesh,” but he likes to say “No” more.
But we’ve begun turning a new corner in verbal gymnastics. Sam now tries to repeat a lot of what I say. Again, only some of the syllables come through clearly, but the effort is unmistakable. Hearing some of those syllables coming back at me is encouraging.
I know Sam is behind his peers in language development. He didn’t hear any English for so many months of his early development, it’s taken quite a while for the sounds to work their way into his brain. But now that he’s progressing more rapidly, I’m hoping he’ll be catching up soon.
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Crazy for coupons
On Saturday, Sam found a small sandwich baggie of old coupons. My mother had brought them to me and I had never gotten around to doing anything with them. They were laying on the dining room table. Now that Sam has learned to push out the chairs and climb onto them, anything on that table is fair game.
Sam took the baggie and brought it to the coffee table, where he emptied the coupons. Then for the next hour (I timed it — it was a full hour), he entertained himself by making a stack of coupons on one end of the table, then moving them one by one to a new stack on the other end of the table, then one by one back to the original stack. This happened over and over.
Finally at the end of the hour, he grabbed the stack by the handful and threw the coupons onto the couch. Then he spent several minutes dropping coupons one by one into the space between the back of the couch and the wall, where they disappeared into a black hole as far as he was concerned.
This ended the coupon game, at least until Mom brings me another baggie.
I’m supposing that this is building motor skills that Sam needs as he grows older. I was amazed that it held his attention that long. I can’t get him to sit still long enough for me to read him “Goodnight Moon,” but he can sort coupons for an hour.
Ah, the toddler mind! A never ending enigma!
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Red, white and blue review
I attempted to make Sam’s first Fourth of July in America a classic experience. Unfortunately, we failed to muster most of the cliches associated with a happy Independence Day in the Wade family.
According to my father, it’s not the Fourth unless you have homemade ice cream, drink strawberry soda and watch “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” We failed on all three fronts.
My mother is the one who makes the homemade ice cream. I don’t know how, nor do I have the equipment, and since they celebrated the day at home in Tulsa, we went without. The best I could do was buy a half gallon of Blue Bell. It wasn’t the same as the soupy goodness of brand new homemade ice cream. Any of you who have experienced this know what I mean.
As for the strawberry soda, I haven’t let Sam drink carbonated beverages yet. And we didn’t have any anyway.
Turner Classic Movies failed to deliver on the “Yankee Doodle” front. So we watched Wimbledon tennis instead.
I did manage to grill hot dogs. I believe Socks the cat ate more of Sam’s than he did. He did enjoy his potato chips, though.
And despite an extra nap, Sam was rubbing his eyes by 9 p.m. and did not stay up to watch fireworks, even though we have a neighbor who likes to put on a yearly (illegal) display within the city limits, like directly over our house. Most years, I sit on the porch with the hose watching it. But not this year.
So our classic Fourth was a bust. But I don’t think Sam cared one bit. He seemed quite happy to spend an extra day at home with his Daddy.
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Send in the clowns
Recently during one of my church parenting classes, Sam got the opportunity to play with an inflatable football player. Standing about three feet tall, it had a weight in the bottom so you could knock it around and it would bounce back up. It reminded me of my punching bags from childhood.
With Sam enjoying wrestling with me all the time, I had already been considering getting him a punching bag, but the experience at the parenting class sealed the deal. The adult watching the kids reported that he wrestled with the football player for most of the hour, having a great time.
The next day, I looked online for punching bags. Apparently, they’re now called “bop bags.” I ordered Sam one with a clown on it (hey, it was cheaper than the Batman one, and Sam doesn’t even know who Batman is!).
Our clown arrived by UPS last night. Sam was intrigued as I was inflating it. As soon as I set it up, he was ready to pounce. I shot some video so you can enjoy the experience too.
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Diaper duty a drag
A couple of months ago, my pastor mentioned in a sermon that his favorite age for children was about 2. I laughed out loud because he obviously has forgotten diapers.
Let’s get real: Diapers are gross. Yes, the manufacturers have greatly improved them. The absorbency is phenomenal and the chance of leaking minimal. Diaper Genies are wonderful towers of odor control. But the fact remains that changing them is gross.
Sam particularly does not like to be changed. He’d rather sit in a dirty diaper than take the two minutes of playtime required to change to a clean one. Incessant crying during the changing does not make the experience any more pleasant for Dad.
I’m looking forward to the days of no diapers, when Sam will be able to use the plumbing for himself. He’s approaching 23 months in age, his second birthday is looming, and I’m hopeful that within a year we’ll be diaper-free.
What I really don’t know is how to tell he’s ready to begin potty training. At this point, he seems to watch me every time I go to the bathroom like he’s gazing at the wonder of it all. But I don’t know that that means he understands that he can do the same thing.
So, how do you know when the child is ready to cast aside the diapers. I already know I’m ready, but I’m not the crucial player in this game.
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Diving into summer fun
The Olympics are fast approaching, and U.S. Olympic Trials have been a popular sports feature on television lately.
I am an Olympics junkie, probably because it combines my love of sports with my degree in Latin, my study of ancient history, and my appreciation for the continuing of ancient customs. So, I’ve been watching many of the trials on TV.
A couple of weeks ago, the diving trials were televised. Sam and I watched both springboard and platform competitions. Sam was riveted. He kept saying “WOW!” as the divers splashed into the pool. I’m sure he had no idea what constitutes an Olympic-quality dive, but he found something to appreciate nonetheless.
Shortly after those telecasts, Sam began practicing diving on his own. Of course, we don’t have a pool, and Sam wouldn’t be interested even if we did (see yesterday’s post), but he’s found ways to dive anyway.
His favorite method is to stand on the end of the couch and jump into the cushions. I’ve been providing some blocking so he doesn’t land in the floor. He also tries to dive while standing on the bed, but because he’s diving into the mattress, he doesn’t get the added height that a couch arm provides. So, he prefers the couch.
Sometimes, if I’m lying on the couch, he tries to dive over me. In those instances, I catch him in the air and help him do a “Samersault.” This provides even more of the realism of Olympic diving and makes Sam giggle with glee.
So, if he ever conquers that fear of water, I may have the next great Olympic champion. Or I may just end up with a really beat-up couch.
