Hidden treasures

Behold, the elusive yellow plastic circle thingy:



This is one of ten pieces belonging to the Tupperware "Shape O" ball. Chances are that you probably had this shape sorter when you were a child, as it was developed many years ago by cavemen to teach their kids how to recognize the wheel they just developed, along with other shapes and objects still on the drawing board. Kyle received this toy for Christmas, and at that time the ball contained ten pieces. Since then, the circle has become our own Loch Ness Monster, with knowledge of its existence kept alive merely through rumor and folktales. The circle vanished so early during its stay here that many have wondered whether it was even part of the set. There's one belief that Tupperware deliberately did not include a circle piece and left a slot for one in the ball to screw with children's minds and teach them some sort of lesson about life.

Then, sometime in February, any denial over the existence of the circle was shattered. In the fog of our living room (our radiators give off a lot of steam), our Loch Ness Monster reappeared as mysteriously as it had disappeared. I leaped in excitement and was about to call all our friends and neighbors, but then realized that perhaps they would not quite understand the significance of the yellow plastic circle thingy's return, and I did not want them to ruin the moment. Turns out that was a wise move, because the moment was incredibly brief, as the piece vanished within days, returning to the stuff of legend for several more weeks. Sometimes it would come back and take its friends away in the night, leaving Kyle to play with only half the shapes he should have. In recent days, though, all pieces have returned to their rightful place, including the yellow circle. Its reappearance allowed me to finally take a picture of it, proving that it does, in fact, exist. I plan to showcase it on a talk show next week.

The disappearance of the elusive yellow plastic circle thingy is not the only phenomenon happening in our New York City apartment. Other objects have also mysteriously vanished. A set of twelve Sesame Street mini-books Kyle received as a gift now has just ten books. A jungle play set that came with six colorful balls now has only two. Several stuffed animals are MIA, and so is a Curious George book. Who knows where they all went, though I suspect the Curious George story may have vanished to the same watering hole the man with the yellow hat always seems to be visiting whenever his monkey runs amok.

Perhaps the greatest mystery of all is the disappearance of Kyle's first birthday gift, the Oball. Jennifer and I are not sure exactly when it ceased to exist; we just noticed one day that Kyle had stopped playing with it, and we have not seen it anywhere. The only known photographs I have of it, in fact, are from his birthday. I believe this is the largest of all the objects that have vanished, and I am puzzled as to how it happened. After all, we live in an apartment. Sure, it's no studio, but it's no townhouse, either. We're on one floor with adjoining rooms, a so-called "railroad apartment." We do not have our own yard, our own deck, or our own killer sand creature like the one in "Return of the Jedi." If we did, then the disappearance of these things would make more sense. Our home appears to have very few hiding places, but somehow, someway, these objects have found a good one.

While we hardly ever see Kyle play with these toys after they go into hiding, he might know where this perfect hiding spot is. That could explain how some things unexpectedly reappear. Such was the case several months ago, one morning shortly after Jennifer went to work. Kyle had left me in the middle of a deep conversation and ran to his bedroom. I didn't bother to follow, since his bedroom is a relatively safe place, if you overlook the snake pit, which I often do. Kyle did not spend much time in his room, and I sat there and watched him run out, back towards me with a big smile on his face... and a straw cup filled with water in his hand.

Funny, I thought to myself, I don't remember giving him a straw cup today. I hadn't yet, in fact, since it was still early in the morning, shortly after his breakfast, and I normally don't fill one up with water until later in the day. I e-mailed Jennifer and asked her if she gave him one before she left. She e-mailed me back saying she did not. I looked back at Kyle and saw him smiling and drinking away... and I wondered just how old that water was. Thank God it wasn't milk. Kyle must have retrieved that straw cup from the hiding spot, where it had sat overnight, or perhaps days or weeks, next to the Oball, the Sesame Street mini-books, the jungle play set balls, and the yellow plastic circle thingy.

Of course our son is not telling us where this hiding place exists, as he likes to find any way to build leverage over his parents. So I must go from day to day, wondering what's happening to most of his toys, trying to figure it out without going crazy crazy crazy. I am sure they will turn up eventually, but not before more toys, including something bigger (like his Elmo doll or the crib), will disappear. Or maybe there is no secret hiding place. Maybe Kyle's just selling is toys for profit on eBay. That certainly would explain how he was able to afford that new stereo system in his room.

The Grinch Who Stole Easter

Easter certainly was a different experience for us this year. When the day began, Jennifer and I were full of excitement, looking forward to Kyle's reaction to his basket, which the Easter Bunny had placed in the living room. By the end of the day, we were in that very same living room, tattered shells of our former selves, struggling to stay awake through the season's first major league baseball game. The rug was covered with Easter grass and plastic eggs that were once confined to the now-empty basket, along with several locks of hair that were once attached to our skulls. Inside the room at the far end of the apartment was our beautiful child, who was sleeping peacefully after screaming through his bedtime stories. I guess you could say the day did not go as well as we had hoped it would.

Last year we had it easy. Kyle's first Easter basket was simple. It has no Easter grass, and no candy. It merely contained a few toys, plastic eggs, and jars of pureed vegetables. Back then, nothing expressed love more to Kyle than a container of mashed green beans.

At church last year, Kyle did not cause much of a stir, except to flirt with the nuns, and he slept through most of the brunch we had with a couple of our friends afterwards. If I remember right, when we came home he slept a little more, smiled when we posed for pictures, and did nothing else but hug us and make adorable little baby sounds for the rest of the night.

This Easter, Kyle was possessed by demons. He fought with us much of the day, and he cried angrily whenever he didn't get what he wanted, which is often nearly impossible to figure out. He screamed through much of our time at church, though that wasn't as bad as it could have been, since we've been starting to visit a local parish that has a toddler-friendly Mass. There were about 80 or so children there on Easter, with most of them running, jumping, screaming, or crying throughout the service. It was like the chimpanzee exhibit at the zoo, but with Bible readings. Afterwards we went downstairs to the church hall, where there was even more running and jumping, plus an Easter Bunny who handed each kid a bag full of colorful choking hazards. Kyle at least enjoyed that part.

The demons took a break for brunch, as we filled our son's stomach with enough food to keep himself satisfied, and ourselves with enough coffee to get through the rest of the day (the mimosas included with the brunch also helped). The peace ended shortly afterwards, when Kyle refused to take his afternoon nap, cried whenever we did not identify every car or flag he pointed at, and then, at the end, screamed as Jennifer tried to read him stories before putting him down for bed. He also kicked a few orphaned puppies and vandalized a library. It was an unnaturally difficult day with Kyle, and we were at a loss as to what could have caused it.

There was, however, an element present at this Easter that was absent last year: chocolate. Yes, the Easter Bunny chose not to continue our child on the healthy eating path it forged last year, and instead caved to the pressures of the corporations that have long funded his ventures, namely Hershey and Palmer Chocolates. I cannot say for certain that chocolates caused Kyle to become especially difficult, since some of his unruly behavior happened before he consumed any. Still, just the knowledge that there was easily-accessible candy in the home could have sent him over the edge. I will have to research this, of course, by showing him a piece of chocolate and, regrettably, consuming some myself. If there's a change in behavior, then I'll know for sure what caused it. Otherwise, we'll just blame this on the terrible twos, and continue counting the days until he turns three.

Cut it out

Nobody believed us when we said our son had hair. "It's just bright blond," we'd tell people, as they'd roll their eyes and scoff at us. If only these nonbelievers took the time to actually examine our child, then they would see the truth. For months, Kyle's head was like the "Magic Eye" images that were so popular a decade ago: at first glance, he appeared bald, but if you looked at his head just the right way, and maybe crossed your eyes a little bit - BOOM! - you would notice that it was, in fact, covered with follicles. Kyle's invisible hair was supposed to save us oodles of money, as I suspected at the time that he would not need a haircut for some time, at least until 2015.

But suddenly things changed. Kyle's hair went from invisible to Einsteinian in a matter of weeks, and this past Saturday we found ourselves taking Kyle to a barber for the first time. We went to a place in the neighborhood that specializes in kids' haircuts. Inside, by each barber chair, televisions blared cartoons and children's shows, and toys and lollipops were within reach in case of an emergency. There were a few chairs in the back, where babies waited patiently for their turn, reading the Sports Illustrated for Kids Swimsuit Issue and occasionally making wisecracks about the barber or the local politicians. Kyle, fortunately, did not have to wait that long for his own cut.

At first, the experience did not seem to go that well. Kyle was placed in a chair that resembled a fire truck, complete with a siren... no, wait, sorry - there was no siren, only Kyle, crying away. As he sat in the truck, not wanting to be a firefighter, Jennifer tried to console him. I continued to take shots with the camera because I'm amused by pictures of my son wailing, unless he's crying because he fell off the couch. Jennifer's kind words were no match for the torture of sitting in a little red vehicle, and, after several minutes, the barber halted operations. Once Kyle calmed down, we tried again, but this time on the regular chair, with our son sitting on Jennifer's lap.

Jennifer and I were certainly pleased with how the haircut went after that. Kyle was no longer crying, and he enjoyed playing with the toys. Jennifer liked the professionalism of the staff, and the fine job they did cutting Kyle's hair while he was occupied. I was just happy they didn't slice off his ear. Once we were done, we received a certificate recognizing Kyle for surviving his first haircut. At the bottom of it there is a quote from President John F. Kennedy, saying, "One person can make a difference...." I kid you not. Now some of you, and even some historians, may think this quote does not belong on a certificate for a child's first haircut, but it really does make some sense. After all, Kennedy had the best hair of any president of the twentieth century, and maybe the "one person" he was referring to was his own barber. He probably would have been proud to have his quote on such a prestigious document. Stapled just above the quote, a bit haphazardly, is a little plastic bag containing a lock of Kyle's hair.

Our son is looking quite sharp with his new haircut. Now whenever Kyle and I go out, only one of us looks like a slob. Less than 24 hours after getting the trim, he even attracted the attention of a girl his age. No doubt his hair played a factor in that. Unfortunately, Kyle's social skills are still a little inadequate, as he once again ignored the girl and focused more on climbing up and down an armchair. I guess a new haircut doesn't solve everything.

Time keeps on slippin'

On Saturday night I pulled a muscle in my lower back. I was in a bit of pain, but it was not anything severe; I just was not able to limbo much on Sunday. I hurt my back as I was moving a wooden bench from one room to another, as we were cleaning up after a get-together with friends to celebrate my upcoming birthday. I had moved the bench with no problem before our guests arrived, so either a shift in the earth's gravitational pull changed its weight, or my back was just waiting until after the party to give me its own gift. I immediately started yammering about the back pain to Jennifer, another sign that, yes, indeed, I am one step closer to becoming one of those people who answers someone's "Hello" with a list of the day's ailments.

I turn 32 tomorrow. It's not exactly the same as turning 18 or 21. There's no rite of passage, no wild party, no waking up the next morning on a stranger's bathroom floor and wondering what happened to your pants. Yet while it lacks all those joys of youthful birthdays, it also doesn't have the doom, gloom, and the "I'm gonna be in a senior home soon" feeling that turning... say... 40 does. Thirty-two just sits there, and that's fine with me. Having a kid is enough of a reminder that you're getting old.

One example of that hit me about a week ago, during that visit to my parents' place. We were watching PBS, as people my parents' age tend to do, when an Irish music special came on. This was probably because of the St. Patrick's Day holiday, though I'm guessing it was the sort of thing PBS runs on a regular basis. We watched an old clip of the Clancy Brothers performing on the Ed Sullivan Show. The four men sang on a stage of fake trees and rocks, frozen in their positions as if posing for a sweater catalogue (to see what I mean, here's the clip on YouTube). I believe their sweaters were beige, but it was hard to know for sure since the clip was in glorious black & white. These were, indeed, images from ancient times. As we sat there and watched, we figured that the performance must have happened in the early 1960's. And that's when I had a chilling realization: the early 1960's were about 15 years or so before I was born. Fifteen or so years before Kyle's birth... is the early 1990's! That means, to Kyle, bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews, and R.E.M. will be just as archaic as those relics in sweaters are to us. Ugh.

There once was a time when I was on the good side of these realizations. About seven years ago, a former coworker of mine, who was in his early 40's, found out I was born in 1978. It dawned on him that the movie Star Wars is older than I am. "Don't you find that strange?" he asked. I told him I didn't. After all, it would be like someone asking him if it was strange that he was younger than the telephone. I'm not sure if my answer led to some sort of mid-life crisis, but not too long after that, from what I'm told, this same friend walked into work one day wearing vacation shorts and sandals, and basically told his boss to take his job and shove it. I haven't heard from him since. Today, I'm starting to see myself in his shoes, thinking how strange it is that certain things are older than Kyle. Maybe someday I'll find myself asking him, "Don't you find it strange that you're younger than Snakes on a Plane?"

In the end, though, it's still all about the physical pain. Before Kyle, I would sometimes go through a day without a sore muscle. Now, each morning I could use an ice pack, a back rub, and two shots of morphine just to get out of bed. Between all the picking-up and playing, that kid demands a workout, and, unlike the gym, he'll make you pay if you don't do it. So that's why it was a bit surprising that it was the bench and not my kid who threw out my back on Saturday. Maybe Kyle's just waiting until tomorrow to give me his gift. I just hope I'll be able to get out of bed the morning after.

The Rain King

Nature is playing a dirty game. Each winter she fights with me, and so far I have emerged victorious, still walking and speaking coherent sentences by the time spring rolls around. Yet, instead of conceding defeat, Nature has been unfairly going after my child: poor, defenseless Kyle (okay - maybe not so defenseless, as he's quite skilled at plucking flowers from the ground and cutting down trees, but he only uses those skills to do good deeds). How could Nature be so cruel?

This past weekend, Kyle was supposed to enjoy what so many suburban kids take for granted: the backyard. Those of us who grew up in the suburbs knew that, if we ever wanted to run around or play baseball or basketball, all we needed to do was walk out the back door and there was a whole yard of grass waiting for us. Of course, we didn't always use that option, as it was easier to drive our parents crazy by doing those things inside. Still, it was always nice to have the ability to easily escape to the backyard, especially when my mother needed someone to wash the dishes. In the city, the door to our home leads from one hallway to another hallway. To get to anything resembling a yard, you must walk down a couple flights of stairs, out another door, down the concrete steps, out the metal gate, past the trash barrels and dog droppings, across the street, and down several blocks without tripping over the crazy man talking to himself. Then, if you're not mugged or hit by a car beforehand, you will arrive at what's called a city park, which, on weekends, is so filled with people that only occasionally you might find a free patch of grass, but often that's covered with litter or rabid squirrels. That's not the case at my parents' place. There, all you have to do is open the door, and suddenly you're outside and able to run wild.

Except for the times when we visit, as we did this weekend. It was my mother's birthday on Saturday, so we thought we'd surprise her with the gift of her grandson. Good thing she was thrilled to see him, and he her, since there was no way they could escape each other. Rain poured the entire time we were there. We knew we were in trouble from the moment we began our drive to Massachusetts Saturday, as speedboats passed us on the highway. By Sunday, the rain had turned my parents' wonderful backyard into a swamp, and the air had turned cold and windy. Kyle did not go outside all all, except for the brief moments between the house and the car, and the car and the mall. Jennifer and my mom took Kyle there, as suburban cultural rules require at least one visit to the mall on rainy days. On Monday, we set sail back to New York, finally escaping the heavy dew once we hit Connecticut. Upon coming home, we wrung ourselves out and then took Kyle for a walk on the pavement outside. The next day, Tuesday, was a beautiful spring day. Nature laughed at us.

Kyle did have plenty to do inside my parents home, and he broke only a few precious heirlooms. His grandparents spoiled him a lot with toys and tickles, keeping him occupied enough to give Jennifer and me a break to do important things, such as sitting back on the couch and staring at the ceiling in silence. It could have been worse, I suppose.

Yet being trapped inside is no fun, and I am starting to wonder whether Nature has indeed put a curse on our son. This is not the first time Kyle has been denied the backyard. The weather prevented us from going out during our last visit there, at Thanksgiving. When we came over for my parents' annual Labor Day cookout, the weather was fine but Kyle was not feeling well and didn't really play much (I'll still blame Nature for that, since her breezes carry viruses around). So, we haven't had a good track record since August, and even then we experienced cold and cloudy weather during Kyle's first beach trip. We have some more visits coming up, and those should tell us for sure whether Kyle truly is the Sunshine Killer.

If that is the case, then I'll have to find some way around it. Perhaps we could buy a home with its own backyard for Kyle. He would then be able to go out and play at any time, which would take some of the sting away from rainy days at my parents' place. That would give us back the edge against Nature, though a down payment on a new home in the New York City area could cost us tens of thousands of dollars. Maybe we'll just get him a better raincoat instead.