This is usually the point where some people cringe, waiting for ol’ misogynistic Mark to rear his ugly head and attribute this particular trait specifically to woman, but I’m not going to do that.  I know a few guys that have this affliction as well, owning multiple pairs of the same sneakers in different colors to “match their outfits,” a suggestion that is as foreign to me as brushing your teeth more than once a day.  (Just kidding – I don’t brush my teeth at all) No – this pernicious condition spans all races, genders and ages – extreme shoe acquisition disorder (ESAD) is an equal opportunity offender.

To be honest with you, my wife isn’t all that bad, if a short perusal of an MTV Cribs marathon can attest.  While yes, she does have probably dozens of pairs of shoes, sneakers, clogs, sandals, glass slippers and faux Bigfoot clompers we use to ignite the imaginations of local cryptozoologists, I wouldn’t describe her collection as “out of control,” despite the fact that it spans two closets.  In truth, she only has about half a dozen or so active pairs, the rest rotting away in wooden bins awaiting that rare occasion when they would actually go with a nice outfit on the two days a year we actually go anywhere nice.  (Usually sans Justine – coincidence?)

In any case, the only reason I bring this up now is the glimpse I caught in my daughter’s bedroom as we were, once again, recounting the tale of Curious George Goes Fishing, a rather lackluster tale of everyone’s favorite chimp that Justine finds strangely captivating.  There upon the dresser lined up in a neat row were the accumulated pairs of shoes that she owned and actually were available for wearing (i.e. they still fit).  A half dozen varieties were on display, including sandals, boots, sneakers and the like.  To my dismay, it appears that ESAD’s has been passed on to my darling daughter as well.

I know what you are thinking – this is simply a case of my wife projecting her desire for purchasing shoes upon my infant daughter, and normally I would tend to agree with you.  But if that were the case, than my daughter would simply choose the same pair of shoes every time we go out, and the reality is that she doesn’t, firmly shaking her head no when offered certain pairs, and grabbing at other unprompted.  No, I think the seed of ESAD is there, it just needs the nurturing and (dare I say) enabling of another afflicted to turn into an unstoppable infliction.

In other words, I’m screwed.

- MWF -

Happy Fatherhood Friday to all, and to all a good day!

Nap time.

“Daytime night night,” has always been a big part of the day, because in many ways it’s the only uninterrupted time we adults get to actually accomplish anything in the house of consequence, whether it be cleaning the rotting mass of pine needles out of the gutter, painting the 70′s era wood paneling in the basement, or hand-stitching baskets out of thatch we grow in our backyard.  We also occassionally (ok frequently) use this time to relax, watch television shows that include words with more than two syllables and/or do not feature talking animals, or pass out while endlessly repeating the parenting mantra of “nap when they nap.”

When Justine was just a baby (an astounding 6 or 7 months ago), nap time was a twice a day affair,  once shortly after breakfast and the second shortly after the early afternoon re-run of “What Not to Wear.”  Over the past few months, though, it became increasingly harder to get her to fall asleep in the morning, as evidenced by the loud screaming and shattered mirrors caused by angry pacifier tosses.  We finally transitioned to what I refer to as the “epic nap,” where, on a good day, she sleeps for two plus hours, and even occasionally passes out for three.

And I can’t stress enough how important that nap is because it plays a significant role in how shaping our post-nap atmosphere. After many months, my wife and I have devised a simple formula  when it comes to napping – basically the length of a nap is directly proportional to our daughter’s afternoon mood.  Simply put,  the longer the nap, the happier she will be.  The hour nap leads to much consternation, general fussiness and requires a significant “tele-vention” to solve, while the three hour leads to unbridled laughter, dancing, and in some cases full-bore Olympic tumbling run.  And that’s just by us – you should see how Justine acts after one of those babies.

Yes, nap time will probably always be a sacred time for us – at least until the next one comes along and they sleep at separate times.  Then black morass of pine needles will finally and inexorably gain the upper hand…

A solution has thus far eluded us, and it’s not for lack of trying, that’s for sure. We’ve given many tactics a fair shake in the past, including the infamous ‘cry it out,’ the much-maligned cosleeping, and even the little known Canadian method, where instead of nursing we crammed bacon in her whenever she awoke. None of these worked particularly well, and the lingering smell of bacon still pervades Justine’s crib.

In this ongoing war against sleeplessness, we’ve finally have begun exercising the ‘nuclear option’ – nighttime weaning. Yes, for the first time since she crawled out of my wife 15 months ago, lantern and map in hand, sporting a toothless prospector grin,  the milk tap is closed from sundown to sunup, with a last call around 7 PM. This, of course, puts the onus of nightly intervention on me, as my naturally dysfunctional mammary glands aren’t a temptation for a bleary-eyed toddler whining in the middle of the night. I now arise 1-2 times to reassure Justine that everything is, indeed, allright and that, despite her furtive looks towards our bedroom door, the ‘boobies’ are not a-coming.

It’s certainly been an adjustment for me – in the beginning of course it was primarily my wife who made the nightly visits, thanks to her lactational abilities. As time went on we began to split duties, setting up elaborate ‘zones of responsibilty’ which determined who entered the baby’s lair at any given time. But for now, it’s primarily me – a fair trade for time served by my wife, and yet a productivity killer around 3 PM when I pass out at my desk, flinging coffee on nearby co-workers in the process.

The bigger question is whether it will work, and I’m happy to report that so far, results have been reasonably good. While she is still up generally once, and sadly up for good at the ungodly hour of 6 AM, she has been able to make it through the night without feedings for almost two weeks now.  We’ve even had a couple of “pretty much through the nighters,” which surprisingly leaves us MORE tired in the morning – probably a subconscious reminder that there is a significant “sleep debt” to pay off when this is all settled.

Now if only she’d just sleep all the way through the night, every night. Then I can stop napping at my desk during conference calls.

This is not to say the summer hasn’t been fun – we’ve certainly made a conscious effort to enjoy the time that we have together with our now toddling daughter in the few months of the year when Earth’s closest star actually makes an appearance in upstate NY.  We’ve had our fair share of the zoo, playgrounds, even a weeklong trip to the Poconos in an effort to track down the elusive New Jersey Devil, rumored to have been flushed out of Newark by rabid Nets fans.  And in a week or so we head to the Jersey shore with my family to thoroughly test the occupancy limit of a rental house and to (hopefully) gather some gently used syringes from the beach.

I must admit though, lately, I’ve been a bit “down in the dumps,” so to speak, and not just because of the untimely exit of the Alizma triplets on America’s Got Talent.  I’ve been quick to anger, overly sullen, and the pH of my sarcasm has dripped solidly more acidic than normal.  Even the cats have been staying out of my way, which is unfortunately bad news for them because that’s the only way I remember to feed them.  It’s been rough.

But despite it all, there is one thing that can bring a toothy prospector grin to this old mug, and that is the wide smiles and infectious laughter of my daughter as she toddles about, arms raised in Thriller tribute, squealing in delight at her newfound bipedal tendencies.  She is abundantly proud (and rightly so) of her continuing mastery of the art of walking, and it shows.  It definitely helps to lift my spirits on these cloudy days I find myself in.

Of course so does the booze.

- MWF -

Happy Fatherhood Friday to all, and to all a good day!

I would be lying if a small part of me didn’t look forward to some of the perks of being away.  At the basic level, this was essentially the ability to sleep through the night without being interrupted by infant bouts of insomnia, and to be able to eat at restaurants without having to worry about when to go, what food she could eat, and how many stares i would get as she distributed the bulk of her food in a 5 foot radius around our table.  At a higher level, it really was just not having the inherent parental responsibilities – being able to deactivate the watchful eyes making sure my daughter doesn’t taste-test the kitty litter, shove forks into the electrical outlets or shiv the cats with a filed down toothbrush.  Turning off the rabbit ears always alert for her cries, or squeals of delight as she flushes my watch and wallet.

But those responsibilities don’t disappear in my absence, they instead fall solely on my wife.  I could hear the frustration in her voice as she endured the days it took for Justine to adapt to her new circumstances, and there was little I could but to offer my sympathy and generally useless suggestions.  She’s an amazing mother, and I had no doubt that she would be able to handle the rigors of parenthood without me, but it was still gut-wrenching to hear her at wit’s end and Justine bawling in the background as a bed-time battle was in full eruption.

OF course the hardest part of being away that long is being apart from the little girl who has only been in my life for such a short time.  She always smiles and laughs when I arrive home from work, giving me the impression that she a) is glad to see me and b) knows who I am.  But it’s been so long since I’ve seen her, and she’s so young that it worries me greatly that our relationship may change because of my absence.  Will she remember me?  When I hold her will her sensors report ‘fatherly love’ or will the klaxons sound and ‘stranger danger’ be the result?

Compounding all of this is that the trip fell over two momentous occasions, her first birthday and my first Father’s Day.  We celebrated her birthday with a bash the weekend before I left, but it was disappointing to not get to see her on her actual birthday, and reminisce with my wife at how crazy a day that really was.  And I’m just as bummed that I missed out on the golf, neckties, and steak dinner that would’ve marked my first Father’s Day, especially after the amazing day my wife had on her ‘special day.’

And I won’t even find out how my daughter will react when we reunite for a few days, for while I finally sit back on my couch and pen these words, Justine and my wife are in Virginia visiting her brother, and won’t be back in town until Sunday afternoon.  Until then I will sit here with the cats and ponder what may come, trying to avoid their angry eyes for having left them for so long and hoping that they will not claw my eyes out as I sleep.

So I thought it’d be helpful to get some of your opinions about this.  Do any of you travel extensively away from your kids for work?  How do you cope with some of these issues? Do you have any tips for a newbie like me?  I’d love to hear your thoughts…

- MWF -

Every time that I change my daughter’s diaper, I always keep an eye out for a variety of things.  I check for the standard abnormalities – the beginnings of diaper rash, the “red bummer” that may indicate food sensitivity, the stray Cheerio that has worked its way down there and molded itself to her thigh.  Beyond that though, I am always on the sharp lookout for what would admittedly be a miraculous appearance of fins, gills, or even webbed feet.  Because, you see, my daughter has an unnatural love for water.

In all honesty I don’t understand why all kids aren’t this way.  After all, most kids (beyond those that are grown in secret government vats to someday emerge and become census workers) spend the first nine months of their lives submerged upside down in a dark confined water filled sac.  So why would something as innocuous as floating in a swimming pool be a harrowing affair?

And yet my wife reports from her infant swimming class that a majority of the kids in their were NOT particularly comfortable in the water.  Except Justine that is.  She delights in the pool going experience, revels in it perhaps.  She’ll repeatedly jump into the pool from sitting on the side, pumps her arms and legs when held on her stomach, and has passed several preliminary SCUBA certification tests.  The other parents look on in wonderment as Justine performs these feats while their own children throw fits of abject despair upon being thrust into the same situations. While I have no proof, I’m reasonably sure that one of the other parents keyed our car.

Her love for water has always been evident, even from her first bath, which I’ve discussed before.  In the first few weeks, we used to rush through the process, trying to get Justine at least smelling clean without subjecting her to a lengthy stint in the infant tub.  But we quickly realized that she loved it, and as time went on we let her stay in there for longer and longer periods of time.  Now we’ve contemplated a “Kramer-esque” life in the tub for her, spending her entire childhood partially submerged in a small inflatable rubber duck.  Unfortunately, thanks to a helpful woman down at Child Protective Services, I’ve learned that this would be considered “negligence,” and jail time would put a damper on my illegal baby racing ring.

So what will the future hold for our aquatically inclined daughter?  Does she have a Phelpsian Olympic record breaking career ahead of her? Might she become a world famous oceanographer diving on the submerged ruins of New York City after global warming swallows it up? Could her legs fuse together into a large tail and she’ll move under the sea and begin having lengthly and intelligible conversations with a lobster and a fish?

Only time will tell, but I have begun crafting a trident just in case I need it.

- MWF -

Our first lengthy road trip with our daughter happened way back in August, the second month of her existence.  At that point she could barely hold her head up, feasted exclusively on breast milk, and still pooped in her diaper rather than grabbing the newspaper and disappearing into the “reading room” for hours as she does now.  Driving back then was a dream, because her predominant daily activity at the time was sleeping, and she loved to do it in the car.  She’d often sleep for the entire trek to places, whether it be minutes or hours, leaving us to chat at length about Chaucer, sip Pinot Noir from a brown-bagged bottle and drive with our knees so as not to interfere with our charades.

Flash forward to this weekend and see the menagerie of in-car entertainment we have made available to try and complete transportation from point A to point B with a minimum of unbridled screaming.  There is the sippy cup and snack cup, available at all times, the portable DVD player ready at a moment’s notice to deliver it’s Baby Einstein brain-mushing content, and the standard array of rattles, cups, stuffed toys, cell phones, tasers, etc. for Justine to play with to pass the time.  All of this is often not enough, and the unlucky parent stuck in the passenger seat gets the nod to jump in the back and provide some “in-your-face” placation to make everything run a bit smoother.  Eventually she’ll pass out, and then so will the passenger, leaving the driver to struggle on alone, undoubtedly mouthing the words to “Don’t Stop Believing” in their struggles to stay alert.

Arriving at the destination often is of little help as well, at least in our case.  Staying at a hotel is an environment that is unfamiliar for a child, and so I believe they drop into “high-alert” mode, assuming that the parents are trying to sell them on the black market, and should they fall asleep they will end up in an unfamiliar car seat looking back at their “old” parents grinning amidst armloads of cash as they are whisked away.  So we attempt to provide some sense of “normalcy” to combat this notion, stocking the room with some of her toys, filling her pack-and-play with her glow-worm, blankey, and any stray cats we can scrounge up out in the parking lot that look remotely like ours.

Are these tactics successful?  Sometimes yes, and sometimes no.  Our limited hotel experiences so far have been troubling, but all we can do is continue to try, and hope that as time goes on she’ll get used to the idea of sleeping away from home, maybe even looking forward to the chance to escape the ‘Cuse and sleep somewhere different for a while. Because, after all, little girls that can’t sleep in hotel rooms don’t get to go to Disney World.

On second thought, maybe this traveling affliction isn’t so bad after all…