Originally posted 2/25/09
This evening after I picked Ian up from daycare we went to my brother’s house so he could play with his cousin. His cousin is three days younger than him. We call them Gutterball and Chuckles, they’ll bite your cheek off if you look at ‘em wrong.
Actually they’re the nicest and coolest boys in the state.
We stayed a little late, and Ian was tired and hungry when we left. Tired and hungry is usually a recipe for disaster, but my son is ferociously considerate and well behaved, a little mischievous at times, but always extremely well intentioned. On the way home I told him that he was going to eat and then go to bed. When he finished eating, he told me he was ready for bed, but I told him he could stay up and watch some television if he wanted to.
“We’re you just joking about me having to go to bed, daddy?”
“No, I just changed my mind.”
“So I can stay up?”
“Yeah, sometimes people just change their minds, it doesn't mean they were joking. They just change their mind.”
We turned on the television and the President’s address to Congress was just starting. I got excited and told Ian,
“WE GET TO WATCH PRESIDENT OBAMA!”
I tried to make it sound like the most exciting thing he could possibly imagine.
We sat on the couch and started watching.
It made sense in my head, I wanted to teach him to revere the office of the president, I remember watching the president and feeling some sort of awe when I was around his age, but the chances of me actually sitting all the way through one of his speeches was about nil to nada.
Ian made it an alarming five minutes.
Of course it was about thirty seconds before he became restless – he would delicately pull individual hairs on my arm and try to whisper to me, but I shushed him and continued watching the president. About five minutes into it, he looked at me with big wet eyes, and said.
“Daddy, I want to go to bed.”
“You would rather go to bed instead of watch TV with me?”
“Yes.”
At that point I realized that Ian will be concerned about politics and current events soon enough, he’s four and shouldn’t care about the president or anything remotely serious for as long as possible.
“How ‘bout you go play in your room.”
“Okay.”
It was about five minutes later when he came back downstairs in his batman pajamas.
“ I thought you we’re going to play in your room.”
“I changed my mind. Sometimes I just do that.”
Then he sat down beside me, kissed on my head and rubbed my hair as I sat and watched the president.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Dirty Work
Originally posted 2/20/09
I feel like I didn’t see Ian at all this week.
I’ve been extremely busy. I dropped one of my classes and cut back on the amount of hours I work, so it’s going to be a little easier. Though I won’t have any money for a while.
Ian has officially morphed into a little boy. His face has filled out, he’s tall, and he has gotten a lot more coordinated and dexterous.
He is probably the cutest boy in Oklahoma.
But don’t tell him that because according to him little boys aren’t cute or pretty, they’re handsome.
It makes me a little sad when I think about how quickly he is growing. But then he called me the other day just to tell me that he wiped his own butt.
It was pretty awesome.
“Hello.”
“Daddy, I wiped my own butt today, all by myself.”
It was the best and most exciting news I have heard in a long time.
He has been “wiping” on his own for a while, but he has been incapable of doing it sufficiently, so I still have to do the dirty work. When he is with me he doesn’t even try to do it on his own, he just yells for me to come and do it for him. So, the fact that he did it, and that he is aware he needs to start doing it on his own every time is a huge step.
I realize this may not be the most pleasant topic, but I agreed to be completely honest about raising Ian, and that includes the less glamorous (aka poopie) stuff.
And poop is all my week consisted of.
In the end - pun intended - it doesn’t matter if he wipes his own butt now or later, because I’ll be doing it for him metaphorically for the rest of my life.
Regardless of whether he asks me to or not.
I feel like I didn’t see Ian at all this week.
I’ve been extremely busy. I dropped one of my classes and cut back on the amount of hours I work, so it’s going to be a little easier. Though I won’t have any money for a while.
Ian has officially morphed into a little boy. His face has filled out, he’s tall, and he has gotten a lot more coordinated and dexterous.
He is probably the cutest boy in Oklahoma.
But don’t tell him that because according to him little boys aren’t cute or pretty, they’re handsome.
It makes me a little sad when I think about how quickly he is growing. But then he called me the other day just to tell me that he wiped his own butt.
It was pretty awesome.
“Hello.”
“Daddy, I wiped my own butt today, all by myself.”
It was the best and most exciting news I have heard in a long time.
He has been “wiping” on his own for a while, but he has been incapable of doing it sufficiently, so I still have to do the dirty work. When he is with me he doesn’t even try to do it on his own, he just yells for me to come and do it for him. So, the fact that he did it, and that he is aware he needs to start doing it on his own every time is a huge step.
I realize this may not be the most pleasant topic, but I agreed to be completely honest about raising Ian, and that includes the less glamorous (aka poopie) stuff.
And poop is all my week consisted of.
In the end - pun intended - it doesn’t matter if he wipes his own butt now or later, because I’ll be doing it for him metaphorically for the rest of my life.
Regardless of whether he asks me to or not.
The Triumph of Sir Talksalot
Originally posted 2/13/09
Ian talks a lot.
Actually, to say that he talks a lot is a massive understatement. He opens his mouth before he opens his eyes in the morning when I wake him up, and he doesn’t stop until he’s in bed and I shut the door on him somewhere in mid-sentence.
He is the personification of twitter, constantly and needlessly updating me about his every move, thought and whereabouts, and incessantly questioning me about the sun, the sky, and everything you can possibly imagine that exists underneath the two.
He talks and talks and talks.
When I think about how much he talks, I can’t help but think back to the time when he was a baby and then a wee toddler. When he first started bouncing around on legs that haven’t stopped kicking since he was biding his time in utero, drooling like a broken faucet, laughing constantly, and trying his hardest to communicate verbally. His mom and I would lose our minds with joy when his gibberish sounded even remotely similar to anything we tried to teach him to say. Like all parents we were coaching and encouraging him to speak the instant his eyes revealed that he was aware, watching and listening to everything we said and did.
Had we known the ramifications of him learning to talk, we probably would have communicated through written messages, or grunts and gestures, so that language would have remained foreign to him as long as possible.
Now that I think about it, this probably would have saved our marriage too.
My mother tells me I deserve every second of his boggling proclivity to prattle. Apparently I was just as verbose. I don’t think that is possible, but I have to take her word for it and I have apologized to both of my parents many times.
These days I’m a man of brooding silence, so Ian’s overactive jaw can get to me. Especially when I’m trying to do homework. I hope he hangs on to it though. I lost it somewhere along the way, and I’m pretty sure it has left me with a social deficit.
I’m Ian’s father, but it is just as much a learning experience for me as it is for him. As much as I try to show and teach Ian, maybe he will show me how to talk to anyone and everyone about anything and everything and I can eventually make some more friends. But, right now I’m too busy with school, so maybe he could just be quiet for one second.
With that said, I’m glad my thoughts are being documented. That way when Ian is a teenager and doesn’t want anything to do with me, someone can rub my face in it.
Ian talks a lot.
Actually, to say that he talks a lot is a massive understatement. He opens his mouth before he opens his eyes in the morning when I wake him up, and he doesn’t stop until he’s in bed and I shut the door on him somewhere in mid-sentence.
He is the personification of twitter, constantly and needlessly updating me about his every move, thought and whereabouts, and incessantly questioning me about the sun, the sky, and everything you can possibly imagine that exists underneath the two.
He talks and talks and talks.
When I think about how much he talks, I can’t help but think back to the time when he was a baby and then a wee toddler. When he first started bouncing around on legs that haven’t stopped kicking since he was biding his time in utero, drooling like a broken faucet, laughing constantly, and trying his hardest to communicate verbally. His mom and I would lose our minds with joy when his gibberish sounded even remotely similar to anything we tried to teach him to say. Like all parents we were coaching and encouraging him to speak the instant his eyes revealed that he was aware, watching and listening to everything we said and did.
Had we known the ramifications of him learning to talk, we probably would have communicated through written messages, or grunts and gestures, so that language would have remained foreign to him as long as possible.
Now that I think about it, this probably would have saved our marriage too.
My mother tells me I deserve every second of his boggling proclivity to prattle. Apparently I was just as verbose. I don’t think that is possible, but I have to take her word for it and I have apologized to both of my parents many times.
These days I’m a man of brooding silence, so Ian’s overactive jaw can get to me. Especially when I’m trying to do homework. I hope he hangs on to it though. I lost it somewhere along the way, and I’m pretty sure it has left me with a social deficit.
I’m Ian’s father, but it is just as much a learning experience for me as it is for him. As much as I try to show and teach Ian, maybe he will show me how to talk to anyone and everyone about anything and everything and I can eventually make some more friends. But, right now I’m too busy with school, so maybe he could just be quiet for one second.
With that said, I’m glad my thoughts are being documented. That way when Ian is a teenager and doesn’t want anything to do with me, someone can rub my face in it.
Batman Pants
Originally posted 1/30/09
School was canceled for two and a half days, but Ian’s daycare was only closed for one. I kept him home until Wednesday afternoon, when I had to go to work. We both went a little stir-crazy but it was relaxing nonetheless. I stayed in my pajamas for two days straight, but Ian insisted on getting dressed immediately because his black jeans “look like Batman’s pants.”
Although we didn’t do much during our time off, Ian managed to develop another crafty little scheme. I mentioned in my previous post that he might be too smart for his own good, or that it might just be my own cynicism and paranoia. This past week reaffirmed both of those and further confounded the distinction between the two.
Ian came down with a cough.
But, I’m positive he only coughs when he wants my attention. Used to, when he would wake up before me, he would come into my room, stand by my bed and clear his throat while gently nudging the mattress. If I pretended to sleep he would eventually give up and go back to bed. Last week when he “woke up” to get some water, I told him not to get out of bed again, and apparently he took that to mean forever. So, the two days I didn’t have to wake up early for school, he woke up before me but stayed in bed. I was awake but tried to sleep in, and I could hear him clearly because our bedrooms are next to one another and the doors are always open.
Both days he would cough. It was only a little at first, but the longer he laid in bed, the more the coughing increased and the louder it became. It was the dry kind of cough that sounded shallow and extremely fake, like someone subtly trying to get your attention.
When I finally went into his room, I told him I knew he was faking. He looked up at me with big sad blue eyes and said in a meek whisper,
“Daddy, I don’t feel good.”
So, of course, I instantly felt like a jerk and got him some water. Then, he jumped out of bed and started playing. He didn’t cough again until later, after I mentioned that he had stopped coughing.
I think he has me cornered with this ploy. If I accuse him of faking, I’m a cruel father that doesn’t care about the wellbeing of my child. But, if I let him get away with it, I’m a sucker that falls for anything. The older Ian gets, the more I’m starting to realize that navigating a delicate balance of malice and gullibility is the essence of being a dad.
School was canceled for two and a half days, but Ian’s daycare was only closed for one. I kept him home until Wednesday afternoon, when I had to go to work. We both went a little stir-crazy but it was relaxing nonetheless. I stayed in my pajamas for two days straight, but Ian insisted on getting dressed immediately because his black jeans “look like Batman’s pants.”
Although we didn’t do much during our time off, Ian managed to develop another crafty little scheme. I mentioned in my previous post that he might be too smart for his own good, or that it might just be my own cynicism and paranoia. This past week reaffirmed both of those and further confounded the distinction between the two.
Ian came down with a cough.
But, I’m positive he only coughs when he wants my attention. Used to, when he would wake up before me, he would come into my room, stand by my bed and clear his throat while gently nudging the mattress. If I pretended to sleep he would eventually give up and go back to bed. Last week when he “woke up” to get some water, I told him not to get out of bed again, and apparently he took that to mean forever. So, the two days I didn’t have to wake up early for school, he woke up before me but stayed in bed. I was awake but tried to sleep in, and I could hear him clearly because our bedrooms are next to one another and the doors are always open.
Both days he would cough. It was only a little at first, but the longer he laid in bed, the more the coughing increased and the louder it became. It was the dry kind of cough that sounded shallow and extremely fake, like someone subtly trying to get your attention.
When I finally went into his room, I told him I knew he was faking. He looked up at me with big sad blue eyes and said in a meek whisper,
“Daddy, I don’t feel good.”
So, of course, I instantly felt like a jerk and got him some water. Then, he jumped out of bed and started playing. He didn’t cough again until later, after I mentioned that he had stopped coughing.
I think he has me cornered with this ploy. If I accuse him of faking, I’m a cruel father that doesn’t care about the wellbeing of my child. But, if I let him get away with it, I’m a sucker that falls for anything. The older Ian gets, the more I’m starting to realize that navigating a delicate balance of malice and gullibility is the essence of being a dad.
Getting the Gum
Originally posted 1/22/09
I just woke up at the 19th hole in the UC with my head in my arms and 23 out of 40 Spanish exercises completed on my laptop. There was a string of drool oozing from my lips through my arms, puddling on the table. It connected my face to the table like the wormholes toward the end of Donnie Darko.
I’m extremely tired.
It’s only the second week and I already have that sick foreboding feeling in my gut that tells me I have taken on too much. It seems like the panic comes earlier and lasts longer every semester.
Last night Ian got out of bed around 10:30 because he wanted a drink of water. He looked like he was wide a wake. He goes to bed at 8:30, but I’m pretty sure he had been awake, playing in bed.
Toward the end of December he stopped taking naps at daycare, and I went round and round with him trying to get him to take a nap. Instead of sleeping he would quietly roll around on his mat until some of the other kids woke up. Finally, we struck a deal. If he takes a nap I give him a huge piece of bubble gum as soon as I pick him up from daycare. He has now been taking a nap everyday for two weeks, and difference in his moods and behavior is like night and day.
Exhaustion is a breeding ground for paranoia, but I’m positive Ian pretends to go to sleep at night and stays up late so that he will be tired enough to fall asleep at naptime. That way he gets the gum.
He’s only four, but I think he might be a shifty little genius.
I wish I had a designated naptime. I guess these days it is whenever I try to do Spanish homework.
I just woke up at the 19th hole in the UC with my head in my arms and 23 out of 40 Spanish exercises completed on my laptop. There was a string of drool oozing from my lips through my arms, puddling on the table. It connected my face to the table like the wormholes toward the end of Donnie Darko.
I’m extremely tired.
It’s only the second week and I already have that sick foreboding feeling in my gut that tells me I have taken on too much. It seems like the panic comes earlier and lasts longer every semester.
Last night Ian got out of bed around 10:30 because he wanted a drink of water. He looked like he was wide a wake. He goes to bed at 8:30, but I’m pretty sure he had been awake, playing in bed.
Toward the end of December he stopped taking naps at daycare, and I went round and round with him trying to get him to take a nap. Instead of sleeping he would quietly roll around on his mat until some of the other kids woke up. Finally, we struck a deal. If he takes a nap I give him a huge piece of bubble gum as soon as I pick him up from daycare. He has now been taking a nap everyday for two weeks, and difference in his moods and behavior is like night and day.
Exhaustion is a breeding ground for paranoia, but I’m positive Ian pretends to go to sleep at night and stays up late so that he will be tired enough to fall asleep at naptime. That way he gets the gum.
He’s only four, but I think he might be a shifty little genius.
I wish I had a designated naptime. I guess these days it is whenever I try to do Spanish homework.
Lip Balm as a Metaphor
Originally Posted 1/16/09
This past weekend was nice. I finished up my intersession class on Friday and went from there to work until 8:30. I worked a double on Saturday, from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. So, on Sunday I didn’t do anything except hang out with Ian, and not worry about school, or work, until Monday.
Every Sunday at 9 in the morning I meet my ex-wife and Ian at Starbucks. We sit for thirty minutes, hangout, drink coffee – Ian drinks chocolate milk – and we have a genuinely good time.
Then, I get the car seat and we part ways, she goes to work, and Ian and I usually go to my apartment. We play, we watch movies, we nap, etc.
I just recently got a television, so lately I go home and watch Face the Nation and Meet the Press. This past Sunday Ian was sitting on the couch with me watching Meet the Press. Actually, I was watching it while he climbed all over the couch and me. Bill Cosby was one of the guests on the show. They were talking about parenting and they showed a clip of President-Elect Obama from last Father’s Day, talking about absent fathers.
“...Too many fathers are AWOL, missing from too many lives and too many homes. They’ve abandoned their responsibilities. They’re acting like boys instead of men, and the foundations of our family have suffered because of it. ”
As Obama spoke Ian stopped moving around and sat watching the television. As the panel on the show talked more in depth about the subject, another guest, Dr. Alvin Poussaint, made the point that it isn’t just about a single-parent home, or two parent homes, its about being a good parent.
I watched and listened. I thought about my life and the life my ex-wife and I have created for Ian. I thought about the hard work and the effort I have to give everyday, working and going to school. I asked myself if I was doing enough. And as I thought about this, Ian stuck his head in my face, grabbed my head and kissed me. Caught off guard I asked, “What was that for?”
With all of these thoughts swimming in my head, I thought that he was going to say something profound and then thank me for being a great dad.
Instead he grinned and said, “For giving me some ChapStick.”
I smiled and silently convinced myself that he was using the lip balm as a metaphor.
I get my kid Sunday through Wednesday every week. His mother and I are legally “Co-Custodial” parents, and lately we have been getting along great. Sometimes, when school is going full-steam and Ian stops napping at daycare – which usually happens at the same time every semester – things get really hard and I start having anxiety attacks on a daily basis. That’s when my time with Ian seems to last forever. Yet, there is never a week that goes by that I don’t wake up Wednesday morning and wish that I didn’t have to tell him good-bye and not see him for three and half days.
This past weekend was nice. I finished up my intersession class on Friday and went from there to work until 8:30. I worked a double on Saturday, from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. So, on Sunday I didn’t do anything except hang out with Ian, and not worry about school, or work, until Monday.
Every Sunday at 9 in the morning I meet my ex-wife and Ian at Starbucks. We sit for thirty minutes, hangout, drink coffee – Ian drinks chocolate milk – and we have a genuinely good time.
Then, I get the car seat and we part ways, she goes to work, and Ian and I usually go to my apartment. We play, we watch movies, we nap, etc.
I just recently got a television, so lately I go home and watch Face the Nation and Meet the Press. This past Sunday Ian was sitting on the couch with me watching Meet the Press. Actually, I was watching it while he climbed all over the couch and me. Bill Cosby was one of the guests on the show. They were talking about parenting and they showed a clip of President-Elect Obama from last Father’s Day, talking about absent fathers.
“...Too many fathers are AWOL, missing from too many lives and too many homes. They’ve abandoned their responsibilities. They’re acting like boys instead of men, and the foundations of our family have suffered because of it. ”
As Obama spoke Ian stopped moving around and sat watching the television. As the panel on the show talked more in depth about the subject, another guest, Dr. Alvin Poussaint, made the point that it isn’t just about a single-parent home, or two parent homes, its about being a good parent.
I watched and listened. I thought about my life and the life my ex-wife and I have created for Ian. I thought about the hard work and the effort I have to give everyday, working and going to school. I asked myself if I was doing enough. And as I thought about this, Ian stuck his head in my face, grabbed my head and kissed me. Caught off guard I asked, “What was that for?”
With all of these thoughts swimming in my head, I thought that he was going to say something profound and then thank me for being a great dad.
Instead he grinned and said, “For giving me some ChapStick.”
I smiled and silently convinced myself that he was using the lip balm as a metaphor.
I get my kid Sunday through Wednesday every week. His mother and I are legally “Co-Custodial” parents, and lately we have been getting along great. Sometimes, when school is going full-steam and Ian stops napping at daycare – which usually happens at the same time every semester – things get really hard and I start having anxiety attacks on a daily basis. That’s when my time with Ian seems to last forever. Yet, there is never a week that goes by that I don’t wake up Wednesday morning and wish that I didn’t have to tell him good-bye and not see him for three and half days.
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