Tag Archives: children

Crying and toilets and snacks, oh my!

The boys have been only mildly entertaining/aggravating this week. Because nobody stepped up, they’ll have to share a post.

*New Baby*

One night, my wife got up to feed New Baby. He’s still skeptical of bottles and she doesn’t have to go downstairs and plug anything in to warm up her milk. Seeing my opportunity, I went back to sleep.

A minute later, she woke me up. “I’ve been up with this baby for an hour and a half,” she said of my minute of sleep. “He’s wide awake and I’m exhausted. Can you take him?”

If he won’t sleep for her, he definitely won’t sleep for me. For me he’ll cry. That’s the Daddy Bonus.

We went downstairs to insulate Mommy from the Daddy-inspired wailing. We rocked; we swayed; we walked; we ran the full gamut of futile activities. He cried the tune to the montage.

He was gassy, if the three successive dirty diapers were any indication. A few burps, some hearty crying (60-40 in favor of him), and a couple of hours later, a triumphant Daddy laid everyone down to sleep.

Just in time to get up for work.

put me to bed

“Yawn! Daddy kept me up all night. I’m so tired this morning.”

*Buster*

Mommy was with Buster when she started getting hungry. “I need a snack,” she said, thinking out loud.

Buster shook his head at her. “No. You no need snack. I need snack,” he countered in his heavy toddler accent.

Mommy thought it was funny and told me about it. Apparently, Buster thought it was funny too.

Sometimes, Buster brings Mommy the phone and says, “Dada.” They call me at work, and Buster tells me what’s on his mind. Whenever the conversation lulls, I say, “I need a snack.”

Buster pipes right up. “No. I need snack.” You can’t talk about snacks anymore without getting an argument from Buster.

gold fish

“To be more specific, I need a big goldfish filled with little goldfish.”

*Big Brother*

It’s been a while since Big Brother has fallen into the toilet. So long that he was barely even a big brother last time it happened.

This time wasn’t completely his fault.

But it wasn’t completely not his fault either.

The morning after I spent the night being cried at by New Baby, Big Brother put up a stink about waking up. I was in no mood to hear he was too tired for school after 11 consecutive hours of sleep.

I dragged him out of bed and jostled him into the bathroom. We were both groggy and somebody (who was not me) lost his balance. He put his hand down to catch himself. Somebody (who was not me) had neglected to close the cover last time he’d used the toilet. Big Brother’s hand went right down to the bottom of the bowl.

Good news: he stopped his fall. Better news: somebody had remembered to flush.

Nonetheless, he was horrified. Even after he had thoroughly soaped his arm, it remained a sore subject. In spite of my sleep-deprived giddiness, I refrained from calling him Toilet Arm.

But now that time has dimmed the horror, I may begin to do so.

Sorry, there are no photos of Big Brother with his arm in the toilet. I know, I’m a little disappointed too.

Have a good day at your dangerous job in outer space, Daddy

Buster hates to see a man make an honest living. Anyway, he hates to see a man be on time to the place where he makes his honest living.

Buster loves Daddy all the time, in an off-hand kind of way. But at the moment when Daddy absolutely has to leave for work, Buster loves him like someone who really likes him.

He knows I’ll be home later, but he clings to me as if I’m headed off on a suicide mission. By now, he should know that I’m not cut out for suicide missions. Avoiding the sharp edges of my paperwork is danger enough for me.

On Saturday morning, he won’t need a 10-minute hug. By Sunday, he won’t know what a hug is. But Monday . . . Monday is the first of five consecutive attempts to break Daddy’s heart with a childish brand of parting grief that will make him sorely question his life choice not to stay at home and wait for the government check.

The other morning, Buster was sitting on my bed, wrapped in his blanket, watching cartoons. When I sat at the foot of the bed to put on my socks (the dark ones I wear to work), he scooted down to me, blanket and all, and laid his head on my arm.

When I tried to get up, he grabbed me and gave me that pitiful, longing look that pleaded, “Daddy, can’t you just stay home and run some sort of Ponzi scheme out of the house?” The poor child doesn’t realize that Daddy’s not trustworthy enough to cheat people out of adequate money to keep up with the rising cost of diapers.

At least he didn’t cry and reach out for me, and have to be held back by Mommy, when I tried to leave the house. That made it one of the easier days to leave him.

Buster makes me spend a lot more time not leaving for work than I should. I linger as long as I can, and then I linger a few minutes more. Eventually, my distrust of the adequacy and longevity of government checks spurs me to go. It’s never easy.

Fortunately, I have one of those jobs people reference when they say, “It’s not rocket science.” My long goodbyes to Buster have never caused a moon walk to be delayed. All they’ve ever done is push back my first paper cut until 8:07 a.m.

Nobody else has such trouble seeing me off to work. Big Brother is too busy trying to avoid getting out of bed. New Baby only has eyes for Mommy. I could go to Siberia as long as I leave the milk lady behind. The only other one who occasionally laments my going is the Mommy herself. And she knows I can’t honor her plea when she begs, “Don’t leave me alone with these children!”

Only Buster clings to me in the mornings. It’s awkward. And annoying. And I love it.

the long goodbye

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back from my space flight to save the universe by dinner time.”

What the cat heard us say

We’ve fallen into an evening routine with New Baby. Mommy feeds him and goes to bed while I stay up with him until he’s ready to sleep. This can take a while, so we have plenty of time for pleasant conversation:

New Baby (NB): “WHAAAA! I want Mommy.”

ME: “Mommy’s getting some rest. Play with me for a while.”

NB: “Got milk?”

ME: “No. Mommy’s got the milk.”

NB: “Ergo, I want her.”

ME: “You just ate.”

NB: “Yeah, but I like keeping a supply handy, just in case.”

ME: “Mommy needs her rest to make more milk. Sit with me and watch the hockey game.”

NB: “Your team sucks.”

ME: “You don’t even know which is my team.”

NB: “Which is your team?”

ME: “The Penguins.”

NB: “Ha! Penguins suck!”

ME: “Don’t be that way. What are you, a Rangers fan?”

NB: “I really don’t care who wins this dumb game . . . as long as it’s not the Penguins. Ha! They suck!”

ME: “Really? Well, guess what? I think it might be time for a diaper change.”

looking with my baby eyes

Looking at incredible images, such as beige walls, with his baby eyes.

NB: “Okay. I get it. No more sucking Penguins.”

ME: “Good. Let’s be friends.”

NB: “Hey, what’s that?”

ME: “What?”

NB: “Up in the corner, above the light.”

ME: “I don’t see anything. It’s just the wall.”

NB: “No. I’m serious. It’s incredible. I’m just gonna stare at it a while with my baby eyes.”

ME: “I don’t see anything.”

NB: “Shhhh! I’m trying to focus. These things aren’t turned on all the way yet. Now look what you made me do! It’s a pain in the ass to un-cross them.”

ME: “I still don’t see anything.”

NB: “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Look, the cat sees it too.”

ME: “The cat’s 100 years old. He’s probably seeing his life pass before his eyes.”

NB: “Okay, never mind. Turns out it was just a wall. Your cat’s messed up. I think I’ll cry for a while.”

ME: “Don’t cry. It’s okay. Daddy’s here.”

NB: “Gurgle, gurgle, sploot! Ha! I bet you didn’t know I could spit milk that far.”

ME: “You kids teach me something every day. Feel better now?”

NB: “In a sec. Wait for it . . . Pfffffrrt. Ah! That’s better. Sometimes, ya gotta release the valve at both ends, ya know?”

ME: “Now it really is time for a new diaper.”

one good kick

There will be kicking and screaming involved.

NB: “No, seriously, I’m fine.”

ME: “You’re not gonna wallow in that.”

NB: “Suit yourself, but you do realize there will be kicking and screaming involved.”

ME: “We’ll do this one real quick.”

Ten minutes later . . .

ME: “Quick kicking my hand. These snaps are hard enough to line up as it is.”

NB: “I believe I warned you about this very thing.”

ME: “Got it! We’re done! Now why don’t you settle down to sleep?”

NB: “Sleep? I did that all day. I’m hungry.”

ME: “You can’t be hungry again. It hasn’t been that long.”

NB: “Dude! Did you not just witness me making more room?”

ME: “Let’s let Mommy sleep a while longer.”

NB: “Hey, I think I see a nipple on your cheek.”

ME: “Suck all you want, you’re not gonna find any milk.”

NB: “I just need to peck at it. I know I saw a nipple.”

ME: “Your baby eyes aren’t turned all the way on yet. It was an illusion.”

NB: “See? I’m so hungry I’m delusional. Maybe I’ll just scream my head off non-stop until the end of time. Like so. WHAAAA . . .”

Thirty seconds later . . .

ME: “I hope Mommy enjoyed her nap.”

What’s another syndrome among family?

New Baby is settling in at home. We’ve begun calling him New Baby because after two years we still are in the habit of referring to Buster as the baby. Until we come to terms with Buster’s boyhood, he is Old Baby and his little brother is New Baby.

It still seems surreal that Buster could have a little brother.

My wife worries that Buster will develop Middle Child Syndrome. For that reason, she always wanted to have four children. Now that she has to deal with the reality of three boys, she has switched gears. She’s leaning less toward birthing another child and more toward viewing a little psychotherapy for her middle child as a solid investment.

I’m not worried about the man in the middle. Buster already has Buster Syndrome. Maybe that other syndrome is just the antidote he needs. He could use a little soul-searching to slow him down and temper some of those ragged edges.

Buster's glasses

The ravages of Buster Syndrome.

So far, Buster has adapted admirably to his new position. He shows only tenderness to New Baby, channeling all of his aggressive tendencies toward his big brother. Needless to say, his big brother is fine with this. It leads to no fighting, whining, or tattle telling at all.

Whether Buster’s treatment of New Baby stems from pure kindness or the fact that he sees the writing on the wall is uncertain. New Baby is a beefcake. Buster is a little squirt. Unless he conjures up a growth spurt, Buster will be a big brother in name only within a few years. He is wise to plan for that day.

Until then, New Baby has sharp claws for self-defense. I don’t know what part of evolution demands that babies be born with long fingernails. He can’t hold his head up or make his limbs bend to his will, yet New Baby has razor talons. This somehow makes sense to Nature. In theory, his claws could be used to protect himself, if a predator caught his spastic hand and scraped his fingernails against itself. Otherwise, they only protect him from having a smooth face. Nature likes self-inflicted scratches I guess.

Not a bumbo fan

“Feel the wrath of my pinky claw!”

New Baby doesn’t have to wield his bird of prey claws against Buster, even if he could control them. Buster is committed to being a good big brother. As to being the middle child, I think Buster will have no problem carving out a comfortable space for himself. He will defend his things from the grabby hands of his little brother with vigor equal to that he used snatching them from the hands of this big brother. His zeal will be an example to all.

I don’t worry about any of the boys adjusting to their new roles. The one I worry about is the cat. He flirted with neurosis dodging only two boys. Now he faces a trio of hazards even as his reflexes decline. If anyone qualifies to blame their troubles on a situational syndrome it’s him.

in the cat's bed

There is no place in this house for you to find solitude, Mr. Cat. It’s kind of like being a parent.