Our last summer at the shore was with a 3 month old infant in tow, who was neither mobile nor particularly excited at the prospect of sun, sand and fun.  She spent much of the day sleeping inside of her fancy ocactagonal “pack and play of doom.”  This year was markedly different, owing largely to Justine’s newfound ability to walk, semi-talk and flash the ‘gnarly’ hand gesture with her tiny fingers. (Tubular, no?). We were excited to reintroduce her to the beach in the hopes that she would be instantly smitten, throw herself into a career of beach volleyball and finance our retirement with lucrative Baden sponsorships.

Alas our first day at the beach was reasonably disastrous, with Justine entirely averse to the rolling, medical waste infused waves and dirty sand, both hallmarks of the Jersey shore. Our ambitious hopes were dashed with the epic frowns that dripped from her face, her vehement aversion to her sandy predicament, and the nasty looks from the poor folks at the receiving end of her tantrum-induced sand throwing.

But we vowed to try again, like the poor fella who thought ‘I can turn this around’ as he was feverishly bailing water out of the Titanic. The next few days we avoided the beach, trying to gently nudge the bad memories of the first day out of her brain and replace them with the other treasures of Ocean City – the Boardwalk, amusement rides and shuffleboard.  Finally, later in the week, we made it back down to the shore, and placed our daughter gingerly on the sand, ready to snatch her up and race home in the event of thermonuclear toddler meltdown.

But much to our surprise she loved it. While still not a big fan of the ocean, she took heartily to the sand, romping around, flinging it, and as any good kid does, tasting fistfuls of it. (Much to my chagrin, she did not poop out pearls. At least not the kind I could sell)  We were fantastically relieved, and settled in to finally enjoy some fun at the beach, even if it did end up with my wife and I covered in those annoying bits of quartz.

The official sand activity of the extended family this vacation was ‘hole digging,’ (the ‘to China’ kind) and Justine loved to stand in them, especially the ones that filled with water. It was as she emerged from one of these my wife snapped this picture of our daughter, face full of sand and smiles, immensely enjoying (finally) a day at the beach.

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.

We started off the evening with the rides, under the supposition that motionful rides plus an  infant’s full belly would lead to less than desirable result.  A “test-run” we ran with Justine earlier in the week made it clear that riding “acapella” was not in her repertoire, and so Kim and I both took a spin on the flying elephants with her, with some success (and some unbridled screaming).  Her older cousins did a much better job riding in the fire trucks, spaceship, boats and on the upside down Ferris Wheel.   After we all had our fill, we finished on the classic carousel – Kim trying to coax a smile out of Justine as she perched on her faux horse, while I tried in vain to maintain my balance and get some decent pictures as the wheel spun violently, jettisoning many a small, untethered children into the hard concrete below.

After the rides, we headed to a pizza place just a few storefronts down from the rides, and ordered a few pies for everyone.  Remarkably we made it through the meal with a minimum of meltdowns but a sizable fallout zone of fallen pizza thanks to the toddlers and their high chairs.  After paying the bill and making our standard apologies for the noise, mess, and lousy tip, we headed back onto the boardwalk in search of dessert.

The sea-air infused planks in Ocean City offer a stunning myriad of sugary delights, from the ubiquitous funnel cake and cotton candy to the more exotic deep fried Oreos and veal gelato.  And of course, the ice cream.  There was little debate as we all partook of either some good ol’ fashioned hard ice cream or the delectable soft serve from Kohr Bros.  We consumed our tasty victuals as we waited for a local shore band (The Tidal Wave Band) to get set up.  By the time they started their show, our dear little toddler’s were well entrenched in the mind-bending grip of sugar.

Her older cousins quickly broke into spontaneous dance, busting moves I’d only ever seen on Soul Train and/or Lawrence Welk.  And then there stood Justine, marveling at retired beach bums spinning Beach Boy riffs and pounding steel drums in front of her, in awe of the site and jittery as the sucrose coursed through her veins.  I captured her on film at this exact moment of bliss.

“No. Way.”

As the calendar turns to September, Central New York suddenly turns into ground zero for apple-picking enthusiasts.  Seemingly overnight, a lengthy stretch of Route 20 near LaFayette turns into Apple Alley, awash in orchards with signs emblazoned with “U-Pick-Em” and “Apple Fritters” and “If You Can Read This – You’re In Range.”  Folks come from far and wide to partake in the picking process, and at dirt cheap prices, who can blame them?

I must admit that, having grown up outside of Philadelphia, I had no idea there were varieties of apples outside of the dark red Red Delicious that my mother always bought, let alone the dozens that are actually grown around here.  Nor had I ever experienced the joy of plucking a HoneyCrisp or a Gala apple straight from the tree, wiping off the excess DDT (so as to avoid harmful mutation) and taking a delicious bite, before chucking it over the trees in hopes of knocking a hapless picker off of their ladder perch.  I heartily recommend the trip if you have an orchard nearby.

We decided Labor Day morning to head out to Beak and Skiff, the number one place around here to go picking, and headed down that way right around the time they opened.  The crowds were thin, something that changes drastically as September wears on.  Instead of waiting 20 minutes in the line for the tractor as usual, instead we sat on the tractor and waited for other people to show.  We were soon out at the trees, which had been barely touched this early in the season, and proceeded to fill up our bag with the JonaMacs they were picking that day.

Faithful readers (Mom) will recall of course our apple adventure last year with my parents – Justine was but a few months old and while she gave a decent effort wasn’t particulary adept at grabbing the fruit off the trees.  This year, with her now ambulatory and rambunctious, we were able to get her to adorably grab the apples off the trees and throw them in the bag with a reasonably high success rate.  But what she really loved, as evidenced by the sizable wet apple stains down her dress, was consuming the apples.  We’d get her started with a bite, and then she just nibbled away.

I suppose I never really thought about how to eat an apple, but I assumed I always realized there was a core and not to eat it.  Justine, apparently not understanding this, actually ate the apple from the ends, and right through the core.  Frankly I’m still amazed that she did this, as in my experience, you’ll break your teeth on the core and grow apple trees out of your stomach by consuming the seeds.  (Man, that was a crazy summer.)  Regardless though, she loved it, as evidenced by the nuclear meltdown she had when we tried to spirit the half eaten JonaMac away from her sticky hands.

All in all it was a pleasant, and quick affair, and we left just as the main crowds began to arrive.  With a long naptime still ahead of us, we’d still find some time to relax this Labor Day.

And eat some apples to boot.

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!