Ferguson

I’ve been working on a post all week about Ferguson, Missouri, and the events that have happened there. I’ve started it at least 3 times, but it’s never felt right.

Part of it is that…I’m white. I’m whiter than Riverdance. And though I do believe that the injustice, the blatant racism, and the disproportionately violent response by the police – these are all American problems. Deep, deep problems that affect anyone of any color in the USA, and thus my pale and pasty reactions and thoughts on the matter are still valid.

And yet.

I really feel like white people have been heard on this. I feel like our perspective has been represented. This is another situation in which one of the best things I can do, as a citizen and human watching this all happen, is to listen. Just listen and try to empathize.

There’s a piece I’ve read that spoke to me as a parent, called “Dear White Moms”

But as important as it is to listen, I can’t watch everything happen, hear and read the reports and just go back to business as usual. There may not be police in military vehicles on my streets, but to think that anything will be the same in this country is naive at best.

I  have to do something. We all have to do something. Here’s a place to start.

Don’t stand by. This matters. This will not go away.

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Fantastic Four

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By the time this goes up my Little Man will be four years old. Or nearly so. Whatever cocoon we may have been in is breaking away, as walking and running and jumping are all old hat. Conversation becomes clear and incredible. The world awaits.

As the tantrums become less frequent and diapers begin to go the way of the dinosaur, I begin to see him not just as my child, but also as a person in the world who just happens to be hanging with me for a while. And fighting with you over curious George videos.

Such transitions figure largely in my sorta-annual summary of lessons.

Lessons I’ve Learned From My Son at Year Four:

-Urine? Meh. So 6 months ago.

-Osmosis goes both ways: you’re picking up their mannerisms as much as they’re picking up yours.

-Lights, escalators, shapes and colors all fade from interest as bicycles and dress up really take off. But trains? Trains are forever.

-Up until now your main concern has been how your own incompetence will mess up your kid. Now you truly begin to worry what the incompetence of the world at large will to do him.

-Kindergarten. Bejaysus.

-Anything you don’t want his “help” with must be done when he’s asleep. Everything else will be assisted.

-Nothing on the counters will ever be safe again.

-Picking up and snuggling now must be cleared ahead of time.

 

Until next time, I remain,

well behind the rest of the class.

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To Infinity And Beyond

It occurred to me recently that watching a child grow up is like watching the evolution of the modern homo sapiens. With every developmental jump, every few months, you can imagine the primate for whom this was cutting edge, genius-level hoodoo.

And then a few months later the upgrade kicks in an there’s a whole new monkey in town.

I realize apes would be a more accurate allusion than monkeys. But say “ape” then say “monkey.” Monkey’s funnier. Monkey’s what I’m using.

But so evolution. I’d heard a report somewhere that teen pregnancy is down lately. Percolating on human development and natural selection and teens getting knocked up led to another realization: it makes perfect sense that we’re biologically able to reproduce right after puberty. If you had a kid at 14 or 15 you’d stand a chance in hell of keeping up with the little dynamo.

Dang, by the time the kid started sleeping through the night and playing on their own you’d be in your twenties with a decade before joint pain was a constant and plenty of brain cells still left to kill.

But so keeping up with the little guy – Sweet Shatner in the Morning, somewhere around 3.5 some sort of calorie furnice kicked into overdrive. Time was, 45 minutes in the pool at the Y and we’d be working to keep him awake on the 10 minute walk home. But now, we’re splashing around for over an hour come home for lunch, then go romp in the lake for another couple hours and the dude’s still winding down 10-20 minutes after his usual bed time.

It boggles the mind (and ruins the knees).

I may have cracked the code, though. The secret, I found, lies in the 3rd dimension, the Y axis.

climbing

We went to a giant indoor park with – no exaggeration – a six-story climbing structure (all padded and enclosed and safe), with ramps and slides and tunnels and all the mod-cons of the finest in upscale hamster habitrail. In three hours, the dude stopped moving twice for water breaks.

He fell asleep at the dinner table with toast in his mouth.

Running around and splashing about, you really only stay on a single plane. But you start getting vertical, then you’ve got something.

Get vertical papas, get vertical.

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The Bike In Question.

My son has a pink bicycle.

And I kinda hate it.

He’s almost four now. He’s wanted a bike for about a year and a half. We’ve done a lot riding as a family – he’d hang out in the burley en route to parks, shops, what have you. So he’s had bikes on the brain for a while. And we’ve heard about it.

Although, to be honest, he’s into pretty much any means of locomotion on which he can travel at speed. So we were thinking scooter, maybe, to start. Then maybe graduate to tricycle. But then we learned about the bike at preschool. The Dark Red Bike That Goes So Fast. And we realized we were thinking Atari in an Xbox world.

Okay. A bike. Maybe a little early for us, but The Man’s mind was, unlike my bed, thoroughly made up.

So we went all in, we started, as a family, looking for a bike. But no, we were told. Not A bike, but a PINK bike. Not red, not white, but a pale, rosey compromise between the two.

We found one on Craigslist, and my son now rides a pink bike.

And I kinda hate it.

This was a surprise – the hate. I really thought I’d be okay with it. I’ve tried to overcome this, but it can’t be reconciled.

See, it’s impossible to carry.

It’s a Schwinn, with a good, solid body built for a boy to crash repeatedly, which means it’s heavy. And it has training wheels, which poke and bump and ruin any attempts to shoulder the frame like a full-size, or carry it like a briefcase (my calves are done with that, thank you). And the handlebars and front wheel turn the full 360, so you can’t grab there securely. And it’s too low to roll without bending over, and just…seriously. There’s no freakin way to carry it. And I carry a lot of things. I am a shit-toter of no mean ability, and there is no way to heft that stupid thing that won’t give me bruises.

Maybe someday he’ll be able to ride there and back again, as opposed to just there, and I can come to love it as much as he does. That day, however, is not today.

At least we got it in pink, though. It’s the Little Man’s favorite color. He wanted a pink helmet, too. So we spray-painted his blue one to match. He even helped me choose a pink shirt the other day – I need to wear more pink. Gotta break those gender stereotypes, model good behavior, ya know.

peewee_42016

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The Ballad Of Pirate Squidbones

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If you’ll indulge me, I have one of those “look what my kid did stories” that I don’t want my blog to become…but this bears retelling.

Little Man likes a report each morning of the various things I saw on my way home the night before. Items of interest include, but are not limited to: police cars, taxi cabs, ambulances, fire trucks, trains (of course), buses of unusual color, and animals.

The other night I spotted two furtive forms duck into a convenient shrubbery. It was dark and too far away to make out details, but if I were to guess, I’d lean towards cats or racoons.

I related this all to himself the following morning. Interest was piqued.It was suggested that we go try to find them and see what they were. The impracticalities of this plan, when laid out, eventually defeated the motion. Then ideas were spitballed as to the genus and species of the mysterious creatures.

Dogs, maybe?

Racoons? Cats, perhaps?

Not a dinosaur.

Maybe they were racoons?

Snakes?

Maybe racoons?

They were snakes?

Racoons?

Six snakes! They were six snakes!

Sure.

At this point, in one short, entirely unprompted monologue it became imperative that we find the six snakes and go to their hideout. That we must go on a ship and use our binoculars to find them. Then it was decided that Pirate Squidbones would take us in his ship. We must go find Pirate Squidbones! This would, eventually, be accomplished at the lake.

Superhero capes were donned, binoculars packed, and tracks were made. After a brief 3-block sprint, and a long flight of stairs, we spent 10 minutes having a snack on the bench and searching the horizon (of Lake Calhoun) for a Jolly Roger.

None were spotted.

So we played on the playground equipment.

This story is 100% free of any embellishment.

 

Post Script: Captain Squidbones is a minor character is the Charlie and Lola book series. Of which we are fans.

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Urgency Emergency!

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So yesterday, in an incident involving a see-saw, the details of which I’m unclear on, Little Man took a hit on the head. We had to take him to the ER. He’s fine now – nothing worse than a little Frankenstein on the forehead. But I find myself unable to write a coherent account of the afternoon

Instead, I’m going to live-tweet 36 hours after the fact.

Ahem.

There really should be signs to the Children’s Hospital from Lake Calhoun down 28th St to Chicago Ave. I’m disappointed in the city of Minneapolis for failing to plan for my personal emergency.

The staff at Children’s Hospital are excellent, and seem, to a person, to possess a hairstyle aesthetic both fashionable yet understated.

Do they have hair briefings here? Somewhere there’s a corporate management guru emphasizing the importance of organizational hair brand synergy.

I want Iron Man scrubs. Or Batman. Do they have Batman? I’d be cool with either.

Next time I’m totally gonna have Little Man pee on me, then I can walk out with some Iron Man scrubs.

The ethics of ownership on loaner scrubs in these circumstances has to be blurry at best.

It takes a week of discussion, propoganda, and play doh bribes to get him to stand on a scale to get weighed with only moderate wrestling. If he does have to get stitches here, it’s gonna be ugly.

People who work with kids in hospitals or other situations not conducive to well mannered kinder – these people always think they have a varied and effective toolbox of techniques to win over the most screamiest of screamers. Then they meet my little man and they no longer labor under such delusions.

Whoever put TV’s in all the rooms at Children’s Hospital gets empanadas on my tab. All the empanadas they can comer.

From an afternoon’s viewing, I’ve come to the conclusion that the programming on NickJr. Is a dozen different flavors of the same dingus. Their timing, though, in terms of distracting toddlers with head wounds, makes up for a lot.

Blood doesn’t bother me much. Gaping head wounds, however…

Any squeamishness I had regarding gaping wounds, needles, etc. can apparently be overcome by the soul-wrenching guilt of holding my son down while he screams for help.

I hope to the depths of all the hells I don’t believe in that I never have to listen to my son screaming and crying to go home through a gas mask while I hold him down. Given what a terrible patient he is, this is not likely.

Even with nitrous it took three of us to hold him down to get 9 stitches in his forehead. Is it wrong to be a little proud of this?

I feel that if your child gets nitrous for an operation, then once the whole thing’s over the parents should get a couple pulls off the mask too.

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You’ll Understand When You’re Older

When I was a kid, my parents were fans of Emmylou Harris. You may remember her from such hits as “Queen of the Silver Dollar.”

I probably haven’t heard it in 25 years. But I could recite the lyrics from memory.

“She’s the queen of the silver dollar/She rules a smokey kingdom,

Her scepter is a wine glass/ And a bar stool is her throne,

And the jesters flock around her/Trying to win her favor,

To see which one will take the queen of the Silver Dollar home.”

I don’t think I was even ten before I knew all the words to a song about an alcoholic in a dive bar waiting to see which guy would pick her up.

And I don’t even remember my parents or aunts or uncles giving any sign that this might be even slightly inappropriate for me or my brothers. I mean, I understood that the words weren’t describing anything in literal reality. But I had in my head a sort of Gaiman-esque surreality, where things were whimsical or romanticized, but still had a reality to them. It never occurred to me until I was into adulthood that the entire song was just a clever description of drunk hook ups at bar close.

It’s odd. Usually, I find kids – especially my kid – to be much sharper than anyone gives them credit for. But then you come across things like this song that go totally over their heads. Or mine at least.

All this is really in service of my wondering whether or not I could watch Game of Thrones in front of the Little Man.

Hmm.

I’ll probably still wait till after his bedtime.

Game-of-Thrones-Worlds-Cutest-Baby

 

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