Total recall

On Sunday our little family went to Babies R Us to purchase something we already have: a crib. Why? Well, you simply can't have enough cribs, and our mission is to fill the whole apartment with them. That way, when Kyle learns to crawl out of one, he'll just land in another. Sure, it will be hard to host parties or walk to the bathroom, but at least the little guy won't be able to escape nap time, and that's essential for his dad's sanity.

Actually, the real reason we bought a new crib this past weekend is because our current crib is being recalled. It was recalled in April, in fact, but I didn't know until a little more than a week ago, when I saw this picture on the Consumer Product Safety Commission's website:



The Consumer Product Safety Commission has a flair for the dramatic. No doubt a picture like this can worry a parent, even if the doll has a head that looks like a baseball. The CPSC might want to consider changing that to make the picture more effective, and perhaps have a pet dog chew on the doll to add a sense of urgency. Still, the image above is rather disturbing as is, and after seeing it, I checked to make sure our crib was not part of this recall. Fortunately, it was not. Instead, it was part of another recall (doh!), one that didn't have a dramatic picture associated with it. There's just a brief note saying that because one of the 96,000 units sold caused a child to suffer minor injuries, all of the cribs should be destroyed.

Our son may be cursed. It seems that anything he sleeps on eventually will be deemed unsafe by some bureaucratic institution. It's already happened once before: the portable crib/playpen seen to the right, his bed during the first three weeks of his life, was recalled this past winter because its sides could collapse. That's a problem when your rather hyper child likes to body slam against the sides, and tugs on them so rapidly that the whole playpen moves. While we didn't like dealing with this recall, getting the money back was rather simple: we followed the instructions, cut up parts of the crib and sent them in, and a few weeks later we received a check in the mail. We used it to buy a new portable crib, which is safer, except for the rotating-knife mobile that came with it.

So now we're dealing with a new recall, and this weekend we searched for a new crib for Kyle. When I called the crib's manufacturer, they told me we'd get reimbursed only if we buy our replacement crib at Babies R Us. That was no problem, except for the fact that we bought our now-recalled crib at Babies R Us, and it was the only one there we liked.

The selection at Babies R Us was just as we remembered it. Few of the cribs matched our nursery. They either looked too cheaply made or too big and stately that you'd expect the baby to have his own personal butler (besides his dad). There really wasn't anything in the middle. I thought I'd have better luck going online, but I soon learned from the store's friendly customer service that I wouldn't be able to use the manufacturer's voucher with an online purchase. That's because I'd have to go back to a store to get the money, and the store computers don't talk with the online computers. It's like they're two completely different companies. With this kind of efficiency, you'd expect Babies R Us to be at least partially owned by the government. So, with our heads down low, we went to take another look at the cribs.

Just then the head of the furniture department pulled us aside and in a hushed voice said he had just put together another crib that was not on display yet. He led us to the Babies R Us equivalent of a batcave, where we saw the "secret" crib. Jennifer and I were overwhelmed by its sturdiness, lack of frills, and natural wood finish. We knew right then and there that finally we found the one basic crib at Babies R Us that we somewhat liked, so we took it without hesitation.

That means this coming weekend I will be assembling the new crib and dismantling the old one so we can get our voucher. From what I hear, it shouldn't take longer than an hour. I'll prepare to work on it all day. At least now we won't have to worry about this anymore:



We have teething guards, and you can be sure they'll be on the new crib after it's built.

Once this is all done, it will be on to our next recall: Starbucks wants our bean grinder back (this is true). Turns out there's a "laceration hazard to consumers." I guess a grande Cinnamon Dolce Latte with an extra shot of espresso doesn't taste as good with a piece of finger in it. Let's just hope that this recall is easy to handle.

Light show no-show

Kyle probably will like fireworks years from now, though I doubt he'd enjoy them today. I can’t imagine a fireworks show being a pleasant experience for a baby. Just think of what it must be like: you’re still new to this planet, you don’t understand most words your parents say, and one evening you're in the middle of a crowd of strangers, looking upwards at what seems to be an attack from outer space. Explosions rattle you as the sky bursts with color. Flames fall down towards your head, and you turn to your only protection - your parents - but they don't heed your concerns. They just point to the sky, smiling and laughing, and you start thinking they must be on crazy pills. The explosions become bigger and louder, and then more frequent until they almost fill up the entire sky. Your life flashes before your eyes in a matter of seconds (you are just a baby, after all), and you feel the regrets of not having spent more time at the playground. Your diaper is almost bursting. Then, without warning, it all ends. You look around, confused by what just happened. Your parents smile, laugh, clap and ask you things in their sing-song voice, but you don’t understand it. You wonder why they don’t seem to understand how close they were to complete annihilation. You’re too stunned to react to anything. The crowd begins to disperse, and you walk down the street with a group of strangers who, for some reason, can’t seem to walk straight, and you wonder if they were hurt by the colorful sky fire. At some point along the way you cross a group of young men with their shirts off, shouting “U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!” and throwing up onto somebody’s front stoop. That's when you make mental note to have your daddy pay big-time for putting you through this experience.

If I did want Kyle to experience fireworks, Saturday would have been the perfect evening for it. After all, we were just a short distance from the largest fireworks display in the country (with Sheboygan, Wisconsin, as a close second). But instead, we did the responsible thing as parents: we chickened out. We figured we would wait until he's a little bit older and can understand us better. That way when I jokingly tell Kyle that the fireworks will set our hair ablaze if we don't dodge them, he'll react appropriately. This was perhaps the least eventful Fourth of July Jennifer and I have ever had. We basically went to the park, ordered takeout for dinner, put Kyle to bed, and then watched the fireworks on TV. There was no going out to eat with friends. No family cook-out. No embarrassing myself in front of my aunts and uncles with my amazing lack of ability to throw a horseshoe. No, the Fourth for us was almost like any other Saturday, with a couple exceptions: the doughnuts we bought that morning had the red, white and blue sprinkles, and the blasting car stereo that woke up the neighborhood did not play rock or hip-hop. Instead, it blared John Philip Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever" (I'm not kidding). It all made me feel very patriotic.

Changing the way we celebrate holidays is quite an adjustment, as is everything else with having a baby. Eventually we'll live it up, but right now we have to be low-key, since we know that our kid has the skills to drown out the boom of fireworks with his wails. We don't want to ruin the holiday for others. However, this is completely a personal choice. I am glad that we do have the freedom to take our child anywhere we please, even when he's crying, screaming, kicking, thrashing, or just making high-pitched yelps that cause your ears to bleed. Not every country would allow that. It's having that kind of freedom that makes me proud to be an American.

Wild things

More than a century ago, back when a lack of TV left people with brains too sharp for their own good, there was a belief that drugs and crime were just not enough of a challenge for a big city like New York. That's when someone came up with the idea to house vicious creatures within walking distance of neighborhoods and schools. But local authorities didn't think that was even challenging enough, so they encouraged residents to bring their family and friends to see these vicious creatures up close, opening the door to a bona fide massacre should any of these animals break free. Hence, the city zoo was born.

Not too long ago we took Kyle to one of these zoos, a small one in Brooklyn's Prospect Park. It doesn't have the killer animals the big zoos have, unless you count the saber-toothed turtles. I have no problem with that, since the park is less than two miles from my home, and it's nice to know that I can walk down my street without fearing a lion attack.

Kyle did not even notice the lack of man eaters at the Prospect Park Zoo. He had never been to anything like a zoo before, unless you count the rat exhibit on the subway tracks. To him, this was as good as it gets. As we went from one exhibit to another, he seemed interested in everything around him: the kangaroos, the deer, and the exotic birds with their exotic droppings. The sea lions appear to have been his favorite exhibit, though it could have been because he saw their pool as one big bathtub, and they were the toys. Kyle is a huge fan of baths.

I did find it funny that we were taking someone who spends much of his day in a playpen to see creatures who spend all of their days in pens. Granted, zoos have changed a lot from the old days when animals were locked up in cages the size of footlockers. Still, it's not like they could leave at any time and go to a show across town. Kyle certainly could relate, and I used that to my advantage. During our stop at the enclosed porcupine exhibit, I was able to say to Kyle, "See those porcupines? They're enclosed in a pen, just like you are, but they are adults. Do you know why they're still in a pen? They didn't eat their vegetables." I think I could work that one for at least another few years.

In the end, the visit to the zoo was probably more for Jennifer and me than it was for Kyle. I think we were more excited to see the wildlife than he was. Sure, he smiled and made happy sounds at the animals, but he makes the same gestures at the stuffed animals in his bedroom. As for Jennifer and me, we're still adjusting to this whole parenthood thing, and it was fun to do something that parents typically do, even if it meant watching baboons pick at each other's behinds and play with themselves. At least this time around I didn't have to come up with an answer the question, "What are they doing, Daddy?"

Every dad has his day

I'm a big fan of this "Father's Day" thing. I love how our country sets aside a day to recognize the hard work millions of dads put into parenting, and the love and care they provide their children. Most of all, I just like feeling special and getting presents. It's like suddenly having an extra birthday, without the "you're getting old" mockery.

Sunday was my second Father's Day as a dad. The first happened just two days after Kyle was born. I didn't really feel much like a dad then. We were all still at the hospital, where Kyle seemed more like a baby-on-loan than my actual kid. During those first few days at the hospital, I didn't need to do much care taking. There was a nursery for that. Nap time? Send him to the nursery! Diaper needs changing? Send him to the nursery! Can't hear the TV because of all the crying? Send him to the nursery! It was great.

However, for most of Father's Day last year, our son wasn't allowed to leave the nursery. That's because he needed to be treated for a common newborn condition called jaundice, which gives babies the complexion of a mustard bottle. Jennifer broke down and cried when she learned I wouldn't be able to spend the whole day with my son. Of course, Jennifer was sobbing over a lot of things those days, because women's hormones go wacky after giving birth. I could have told her we were all out of popsicles and she'd weep for hours. I still had a good time, and Kyle didn't seem to mind it much. To treat jaundice, nurses put babies in a device that looks like a tanning bed. For much of the day, Kyle was under the lights, snoozing bare-chested with his goggles on. As I watched him from outside the nursery, my pale skin reflected in the window and I thought, "Hey! I could use some of that! Isn't this my day after all?" My kid was less than three days old, and already I was very jealous of him.

This weekend was different. This time around, I felt like a dad, having earned my stripes as a stay-at-home parent. So, to celebrate being a father, I did as few daddy responsibilities as possible. Nap time? Send him to his mother! Diaper needs changing? Send him to his mother! Can't hear the TV because of all the crying? Send him to his mother! It was great... just like having the hospital nursery in our own apartment. Jennifer didn't mind, either - after all, she had her day last month.

Of course, I didn't spend the entire holiday just sitting around and watching Jennifer take care of Kyle's messes, as tempting as that was. We all managed to get out to participate in the day's big event: a street fair in our neighborhood. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and not just because of all the tube socks, worthless trinkets and mozzarella-cornbread pies available to me for a reasonable price. No, this event was particularly monumental because we were able to attend it without weather-protective gear. In case you haven't heard, up until Sunday (and including Sunday morning), it had been raining in New York for 243 consecutive days. Times Square has become an official water park, and certain avenues now have gondola taxi service. Yet, for Father's Day, the clouds broke, and hordes of people swamped our street fair, trying to relive the good ol' days when we'd get sun for maybe two, three, or even four days straight. We heard some live music, ate watermelon bites, and dodged the politicians and their minions who wanted our support... a feat that's even harder now that we have a baby to kiss. It was just so much fun to be outside with Jennifer and Kyle. Unlike last year, I actually was able to spend a lot of time with the little guy, and even though I do that all the time, on Sunday it felt extra special.

We finished the day with beer, pepperoni pizza and gourmet "grasshopper" cupcake Jennifer had bought me from a fancy bakery called Crumbs. I couldn't have asked for anything more, except maybe bacon on the pizza. We'll work on that for next year. Yeah, I'm a big fan of this "Father's Day" thing.

No piece of cake

There are certain things almost all parents expect to go wrong at their kid's first birthday party. Rain can ruin our outdoor plans. The child might be overwhelmed by the many guests. Perhaps the acrobats hired as entertainment will eat all the food. There are so many factors that could hamper the celebration, but one thing you don't expect is there to be a fierce battle between the kid... and the cake.

Jennifer and I expected Kyle to embrace his birthday cake this past Saturday. We thought he might dive head-first into it, getting the chocolate sponge all over his face, and frosting so far up his nostrils that he'd be smelling and sneezing chocolate until Christmas. Instead, he wouldn't have a sniff of it. When cake time came around, Kyle twisted and turned as we tried to put a little piece in his mouth. Even when we thought we had the slightest bit of success, he'd push it out with his tongue. As he fought us, Kyle's face turned red, tears ran down his face, and he wailed as if we were doing something so despicable, only Dick Cheney would approve of it.

It's not that this was a bad cake. Perhaps if I had made it, Kyle would have good reason to protest. The last cake I made was more than twenty years ago, when I was in Cub Scouts. My dad and I cooked one up for a father-son cake-baking auction. When the auction started, I realized I couldn't part with our masterpiece, so I convinced my parents to make the highest bid for it. They did, and after shelling out perhaps hundreds of dollars, we brought our cake home. It's a good thing, too. When we cut into it later that evening, we realized the inside wasn't fully cooked. I think we saved a few lives with our bid that day.

The cake at Kyle's party was, by many accounts, delicious. Since this was a special occasion, we bought the cake at the same place we picked up the dessert for Kyle's baptism, Fortunato Brothers bakery in Williamsburg. It was a chocolate sponge cake, with chocolate frosting and raspberry and banana filling, composed of real fruit instead of pudding. Needless to say, the cake went very quickly. You wouldn't know it, though, looking at Kyle's face as we tried to give him some. He never acts that way whenever we feed him peas.


We are perplexed. Kyle should be a cake lover, since it's in his genes. His mom and dad are crazy sweets addicts, and we can't resist a good cake. We are also huge ice cream fans, and yours truly has been guilty of going through one of those Ben & Jerry's pints in one sitting. It remains to seen whether Kyle will like ice cream. I'm not too optimistic, though, considering his track record. We may just have to serve him peas and green beans at his birthdays from now on. I suppose that wouldn't be so bad. After all, that's more cake and ice cream for me.