Going slightly mad

My son is playing mind games with me. He's winning, too. At less than 21 months old, he knows he has the power to crush me like he does a graham cracker, and then toss me overboard with the rest of his food. And he's not afraid to do that whenever he thinks it'll be "fun."

I am certain Kyle has been plotting this from the womb, from the moment he felt annoying pokes and heard a goofy voice say "Did you feel that, kiddo?" He set the groundwork for his plan way back in 2009, when he would give smiles and laughs to me freely, and treat me like I was the greatest person in his world. He knew he was creating an addiction, which he would use to get back at me. How else would you explain my overwhelming desire for the approval of someone whose idea of a good time is racing across the kitchen floor on his butt?

Then, last month, with everything in place according to his plan, Kyle launched Operation Daddy-Go-Crazy. First came the clinging... to his mother. If Jennifer was doing the dishes, Kyle would want her to pick him up. If Jennifer was getting ready to go out, Kyle would grab his jacket. If Jennifer was going to the bathroom, Kyle would want to go too. Meanwhile, if I were to put on my jacket and boots, kiss Jennifer good-bye and say that I was going on an expedition to the arctic and may never return, he probably would have whined that I took Jennifer away from reading to him. When the three of us played together, Kyle would quickly turn it into a game of two. One night, after Jennifer and I raced Kyle's toy cars across the floor, the little guy ran to them, picked them up, and then handed Jennifer both cars. I just sat there, with nothing in hand, dejected as Kyle ran over me to grab the cars after Jennifer rolled them again.

At first I thought Kyle's behavior was part of that "cling-to-one-parent" developmental stage you read about in books and on the web, but I have since felt it's actually something more sinister. Kyle is deliberately doing things to get at me, especially when other people are around. When it's just the little guy and me going out for a walk, he will gladly hold my hand. Forget that when Jennifer is around, and even last week he insisted on holding a friend's hand over mine. When it's just the two of us, Kyle and I have been practicing counting to ten. I get it right most times, and Kyle's not so bad at it himself. But later, when I saw my landlady and told her that Kyle could count to ten, all he said was "doy doy doo." I swear he was trying to embarrass me and make me look like a liar. When I take him to restaurants now, he sometimes makes high-pitched screams capable of breaking the glasses on the table. He then looks at me to see whether it was loud enough to get us kicked out. When he sees my disapproving look and hears my scolds, he concludes that, no, he was not loud enough and tries again until the other patrons start throwing food at us and we're forced to run away.

What did I do to deserve this? I care for the little guy each day, I hardly ever forget to feed him, and occasionally we do have fun together. Why, I thought, was he going to these lengths to shun me and embarrass me in public? Why did he apparently have a sudden disdain for me? It didn't seem right. Then during a walk last weekend he let his guard down. He laughed as he pulled his arm away from me. At that moment I saw that his behavior was not because of any ill will toward me; he just wants to drive me crazy. Right now he thinks it's fun. Knowing that, I think I'll just let the operation continue... I'm halfway toward Insanityville, anyway, so I might as well let him finish the job. I'll get my revenge later, when he'll be embarrassed to have his crazy dad around. Those will be fun days, indeed.

A dental case

Well, I suppose this was inevitable. On Monday my "friends" at Columbus Circle Dental made a startling discovery: one of my far back molars has - gasp! - a cavity. Now, for most people this is no big deal; cavities are as commonplace as snow in the winter or glue sniffers in Congress. But for me, this is huge. In my nearly 32 years, I have never had a filling. Now I am scheduled to have my first just days before my next birthday.

I didn't see this coming. My enamel was rock-solid, or so I thought, and in the week prior to the appointment, I started flossing again, brushed more rigorously, and stopped putting chocolate syrup on my salads. This was supposed to be a fail-safe routine, one that had worked so many times before. It seemed to work for most of Monday's appointment, too. The dental hygienist did not notice anything wrong, and by the time the dentist checked my teeth I was already thinking of what kind of snack I'd have to toast another clean bill of health, imagining chocolate or butterscotch morsels dropping onto a big bowl of Edy's Caramel Delight. Suddenly the dentist jerked my head forward while pulling on a tooth with a tool commonly seen as a torture device in most James Bond movies. He asked if I felt that, and I told him "yes." He then pulled out a mini-camera, shoved it into my mouth, and on a monitor way too close to my face, I saw my tooth, magnified four hundred billion times. It smiled at me.

"There it is," the dentist said. "Tooth decay." I heard a clasp of thunder outside and a black crow cawing. Oh no, not tooth decay! I pumped my fists into the air, looked up at the ceiling and gave a bellowing yelp (that was the best I could do with the saliva sucker and mini-camera still in my mouth). The dentist suggested that I was overreacting just a tad, and that the decay wasn't that severe and could be filled within 15 to 20 minutes. So I went ahead and made an appointment, and then tried to get a new toothbrush. They were out, or at least that's what they said. I'm guessing they just want me to stop brushing so that I would need more fillings, or, better yet, an expensive root canal. In this economy, they could use all the money they can get. I hear that next week they plan to start handing out candy bars.

We've been working hard to make sure Kyle does not share my fate. It took me three decades to get my first cavity, and, like any father who lovingly demands his son to be an overachiever, I expect Kyle to remain filling-free for at least fifty years.

Actually, to be honest, I'll just be happy if he keeps all his teeth by then. According to some parenting reports, we were a little late to the teeth-brushing game, and my dentist says we probably should have brought him in for a checkup a few months ago (I thought he didn't need to go in until he was three years old). In the meantime, Kyle has been feasting on cookies, waffles, and doughnuts while avoiding vegetables as if they're poison. He's our child, for sure.

So far we have had mixed-to-poor results with our brushing exercises. Sometimes he seems to enjoy it, but most of the time he flings the brush to the floor, where it lands on a pile of all the food he rejected. Often it's easier to get him to chew on the toothpaste tube than the toothbrush. If those things had bristles, we'd be all set.

I think he resists because he like the show he gets when it happens. Often I pull out my own toothbrush in front of him and make growling noises as I vigorously clean my teeth, much like I do each night before going to bed. Sometimes I let him grab the handle of my brush as I grab the handle of his. He's actually becoming better at brushing my teeth than his own. The whole exercise is exhausting, though, and afterwards I need a big dose of dark chocolate and soda to wake me up. Meanwhile, Jennifer has developed a Grammy-worthy song called "Brush, Brush, Brush Your Teeth," which sounds a lot like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." Kyle smiles as she sings, and he allows her to put the brush in his mouth and move it slightly. By the time they're done, Jennifer will have sung this song about twenty times, moving her ever so closely to the brink of insanity.

Yes, it is a lot of work to make our son brush, but believe me it's all worth it because now we know that his dozen teeth are, finally, somewhat clean. I am sure the people at the dentist's office will approve, whenever we get around to bringing him there. Then again, they'll probably just tell us he's not flossing enough and then will charge us for that advice.

There is one nice thing about these brushing exercises: unlike other parts of Kyle's upbringing, these leave room for failure. If we screw up, we will get a second chance when his adult teeth come in. And that gives us some hope that he, too, can go the distance without a cavity.

Going by the book

Bizarrely enough, right now our child is more of a bookworm than a couch potato. Each morning we put the TV on to catch the latest incorrect weather forecast, and Kyle practically ignores it. We also turn "Sesame Street" on those days when bad weather or a loose mountain lion keeps us inside, but, as of now, Kyle hasn't cared much for it. He will watch for a little while, become bored, and walk away. Half the time I don't even notice he's gone because I'm too wrapped up in the show's plot, sitting on the edge of my seat and wondering if Oscar the Grouch will ever learn how to love.

Lately, whenever Kyle runs off, he heads to a basket in his room that contains many of his books. About a month or so ago, he would grab one of those books and then hand it to Jennifer or me. He would then sit down on the floor and wait for us to sit and read the book to him. Now he often doesn't bother with us. He just sits somewhere with the book and starts reading it to himself, usually out loud. Each book sounds the same to the outside observer, as he has not quite mastered actual reading. He has the rhythm of the books, but all the words he says are variants of "doy" or "doo." The books can keep Kyle riveted for a good fifteen minutes, which is an eternity for a toddler. It's enough time to clean up half the toys he scattered all over the living room floor.

As much as I am proud of my son for attempting to read, I must say he's not exactly doing anything challenging. I have yet to see him thumb through anything by J.D. Salinger, Vladimir Nabokov, or James Joyce. No, Kyle sticks to simpler fare, usually illustrated stories about a frog who's afraid to swim and a monkey that's curious about everything except for bananas and swinging from trees. I am looking forward to his reading skills improving, so that he eventually will start checking out books that make more sense, like all the ones by Dr. Seuss.

Even though our son is right now avoiding complicated stories, he does not necessarily need pictures or a plot to entertain him. It's not unusual to find him on the kitchen floor, going through some of our cookbooks, some of which do not have any pictures. I am not sure why he enjoys them as much as he does, especially since he's still a very picky eater. Maybe he will be inspired somehow. I keep expecting to turn around one day and find him cooking a soufflé. So far, I've been disappointed.

When he's not trying to cook, occasionally Kyle does get us involved in his reading. Sometimes he hands me a book and sits down, much like he did a month or so ago, but after I sit and start reading, he grabs another book and starts reading to himself. Apparently he likes using me as his background noise. I have become his stereo or iPod. Once he's finished doing his own reading, he'll simply walk out of the room, leaving his background noise "on" as I finish the book he gave me. He will then go to the living room to fling around the toys I had just put away.

Being left to read Kyle's books is not the worst thing in the world, as it is the only real reading I am able to do these days. Back before the little guy was born, and when I was working in the city, I would use the subway commute as reading time. I read all kinds of novels, from a book about Tom Brady to Catch 22 to the entire Harry Potter series. Just before Kyle arrived, I started the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series, and had read four out of its five books when the little guy was born. Today, that fifth book remains unread. It's still sitting on my night stand, mocking me, but each night I have no energy to lift it up, as I tend to fall asleep the instant I lie down. Running after a 20-month-old almost all day can exhaust a person pretty quickly.

For any sort of adult reading, I live vicariously through my wife Jennifer. She is still able to read books during her commute by subway. She's been telling me about all the stories she's reading, including the latest vampire novels, a complicated murder mystery, and a bizarre mash-up of zombie tales and Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. I return the favor by giving my musings on the quiet old lady who whispers "hush" and the young boy who makes the perilous mistake of giving a cookie to a hyperactive mouse. The only mystery I deal with is that of the Man with the Yellow Hat, who often disappears just when his curious monkey runs amok. Where does he go, and why does it take him so long? The books keep those details hush-hush, and that leads me to the reasonable assumption that he's involved in some sort of organized crime (his code name is probably "Mr. Yellow"), or he's been spending some time at an hourly-rate motel with his "friend" Ms. Needleman.

Hmph. I guess I really do need to find a way to squeeze more adult books into my routine. I'm sure it will happen someday, at least by the time Kyle starts school. Then, once I finally have a quiet home, I will have time to dust off the bookshelf, grab a good novel and read it on the couch. That is, unless there's something good on TV.

All you need is love (and cookies)

At just 20 months, Kyle has not yet mastered the art of romance. Sure, he enjoys flirting and all, especially with supermarket cashiers, but asking a girl out is not something that comes to him easily. Considering that he's my son, he may need a little more than a few more months for it to come naturally (about 200 more months might be just about right). Until then, Kyle's life is going to be filled with a lot of awkward moments, especially during this time of year, when knowing how to be suave is incredibly important, almost as important as having a good excuse for why you forgot to buy flowers on Valentine's Day.

Sometimes Kyle can be a little overbearing in his approach. For example, during gym time last week, he tried to make friends with a 3-year-old girl (he apparently likes the older women) by giving her a couple of small toys he had just picked up off the floor. At first she rejected him flat out by not accepting the gift, likely because he is half her age and she didn't want to start anything that would lead to a May-December relationship. Kyle persisted by pressing her with the toys. She then took a step back, hoping that he may stop his advances, but he simply took that as a sign that she simply did not understand what he was trying to do. So, instead of backing away, he reached out even more, this time by pushing out her arms and trying to put the toys in her hands. Apparently he was not going to take "no" for an answer. The girl, though, was not going to give in. She darted away, leaving Kyle alone, standing there with the toys and without her number. He was unsure of what to do next, and for a moment he pondered what he did wrong. He thought everything was going so right, and now, with his heart crushed, he wondered if he could ever learn to love again. This lasted about 10 seconds, up until the point when he saw how much fun other kids were having on the slide. He ran to it and forgot all about the girl.

Kyle experienced another awkward moment at church on Sunday, except this time he was the one feeling suffocated by someone else's advances. As everyone listened intently to the priest's wise words, Kyle was thumping his shoes on the floor as he walked to the back of the building, pulling his mother along with him. Jennifer says, as they stood there, Kyle suddenly was ambushed by twin girls who are just about his age. They each came up to him and hugged him. Kyle did not know what to do with all this affection. He was scared, and he did not hug back. Instead, he just stood there, frozen as the girls took turns squeezing his little body. This may have been the moment when Kyle learned how to pray, as his face expressed a desire to receive some sort of divine intervention to help him break free from the onslaught of affection. Eventually the girls stopped hugging, and Kyle was able to sneak away. He did not make eye contact with them for the rest of the service.

The girls probably would have had better luck if, instead of hugs, they gave him cookies. My parents knew that was the way to his heart, and when they visited us this weekend, they gave the little guy a big cookie shaped like Sesame Street's Cookie Monster. "COOK-IE!" said Kyle. Of all the words Kyle can speak, this is the one he says the clearest (we have already scheduled appointments with our dentist to fill his cavities in 2016). Kyle smiled widely as he ate the treat, and for the rest of the weekend he showered my parents with kisses and hugs. It was love... at least, for as long as the cookie lasted.

So it appears that the perfect relationship for Kyle is one where he can give a girl toys and receive cookies in return. Aggressive hugs will go unrequited. Unfortunately, the kind of give-and-take Kyle is seeking rarely happens in the adult world, unless "toys" are replaced with "diamonds." He will be expected to return hugs, too... even the overpowering ones. Kyle will learn that hard truth someday, hopefully before he's in his twenties. Before then, though, I suppose he'll have to deal with the rejection, the awkwardness and the unwanted squeezes.

One thing's for sure, though: while girls may not express their love to him with cookies, at least his grandparents certainly will.

A Super time

I am very, very happy the New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl. As a New England Patriots fan, nothing gave me a greater thrill this year than watching the much-hated Indianapolis Colts lose to the underdog, the team from the Bayou that had never been to a Super Bowl before. As much as I despise the Colts, I really liked the Saints this year, and had become a big fan of them after they crushed the Pats during the regular season... if the Pats were going to lose that badly, it had better be to an incredibly talented team, and now there's no doubt the Saints are the best of the bunch. The Pats had no chance at winning it all, anyway, as it turns out everyone on the team, including the waterboy, was injured this year (we're hearing now that quarterback Tom Brady had been playing without a left arm for the final three games of the regular season). Head coach Bill Belichick also traded away the entire defense halfway through the season for several good draft picks next year and a handful of gumdrops. It might not seem like a sound strategy, but Belichick has brought three championships to New England, so we tend to trust his decisions, even when he seems like he's back to sniffing glue.

Jennifer, Kyle and I watched the first half of the game at a Super Bowl party, hosted by our good friends Nicole and Chad. We had a lot of fun watching the game on their HDTV while gnawing on BBQ ribs, drinking beer, and eating homemade desserts. Years ago, we would have seen the entire game at one of these parties, but that was before the little guy arrived. Kyle certainly had fun watching the game and giving out high-fives, but it wasn't long before we came dangerously close to his bedtime. We knew if we stayed too long we ran the risk of having a cranky kid who would cry relentlessly and get into fistfights over politics. We departed before that could happen. By the time the game ended, Kyle was in bed, and I was sitting on the couch at home, watching it with Jennifer and no one else. I couldn't cheer as loudly, but at least I had a reason to cheer.

As much fun as that was, it's still much better for me when the Pats are in the big game. I hope they return to the Super Bowl during Kyle's childhood, especially when he's old enough to appreciate it. By appreciating it, I do mean as a Pats fan. As many of you know, I am doing the cardinal sin of trying to raise a Boston sports fan in New York City. We cheer all things Patriots and Red Sox, and boo all things Jets and Yankees. Sure, Kyle will become confused whenever we sing about rooting "for the home team" during the seventh inning stretch, but I think in the end he will thank me for it.

At least, that's what I hope. As Kyle grows older and closer to an age when he will start paying attention to sports, I do wonder more often whether I will be able to convince him to root for his dad's home team over the local clubs. After all, New York city is a big sports town, and chances are he'll become friends with a lot of New York sports fans once he enters preschool. There's no guarantee my efforts to make him a Boston fan will work, and the fear of walking into his room someday and seeing an Alex Rodriguez poster on his wall is enough to keep me awake some nights.

Yes, I have written about this several times before (you see the picture of him from last year, taken moments before a Yankees fan made fun of his mother), and I have gone into some detail about ways to convince him that the New York teams, especially the Yankees, are evil. But as we go through each sport season, I can't help but wonder whether Kyle and I will root with each other or against each other. This may not seem like a big deal to some of you, but Jennifer recently met someone who is a Boston fan and has kids who are Yankees fans, and he has told her that it's a nightmare. I understand he often goes to bed crying, wondering where he went wrong as a parent. I am hoping to avoid that. Maybe I need to step up our efforts, perhaps by having him sleep to replays of the 2004 World Series or Super Bowl XXXVI so that a loyalty to Boston will sink into his subconscious. Or maybe I just need to continue sharing all of my sports moments with him, so that he will cherish these times and associate my teams with wonderful bonding experiences with his dad. That, and a steady dose of empty threats to kick him out of the house and set his toys on fire if he ever roots for the Yanks or Jets (or the Colts), just might do the trick.

I guess I have a few years to go before any of this will ever matter, anyway. Even though I still will think about the future of sports in our home, I will just be happy watching games like Sunday's Super Bowl and having Kyle with me, clapping away, even though he doesn't know yet who really deserves his cheers.