Water Fight

Apparently I am a very bad parent.  And so is Jennifer.  Just ask our son, especially after bedtime or nap time.  One night last week, at around 10:30 pm, this was the sound echoing through our home:

"WATER!!!  WATER PLEASE!!!  WAAAAAAATTEEEEERRRRRRRR!!!"

As he lay in his crib inside his darkened room, our child begged us for the substance that is essential to all life on this planet.  Kyle was not asking for diamonds, rubies, Legos, or other expensive treasures.  No, on this hot summer night, all he wanted on his dry lips was a sip of water, and yet his parents refused to give it to him.  Such inhumanity!

"Waaaaatteerrrr...teerrr... eerrrrrr.  Waaaaaaaah." 

Here's a little detail Kyle might not tell you: about two minutes prior to his pathetic sobbing, his mother was in his room, letting him drink from a full bottle of water.  Fifteen minutes prior to that, his father was doing the same thing.  Not too long before that, one or both of them helped him drink.  All this came after the "going-to-bed" ritual, during which he drank the equivalent of a small town reservoir.  Now, I understand that children his age have a very short memory, but there's no way he could have forgotten all the water he just drank.  It became apparent to me that something else was at play when he started asking for water less than a second after he handed me back the bottle.

"Water please.  Wahhhh-wahhh-wahhh.  Water, water please."

This is Kyle's latest maneuver in the so-called War Against Bedtime, and it's his strongest one yet.  I'm impressed.  Earlier tactics to get his parents to stay in his room involved relentless cries, begging for a blanket or toy he did not have, or throwing up (a rarely-used tactic often followed by the maneuver of actually being sick).  The previous tactics could be easily remedied with a washcloth or ignored.  But when your child is crying desperately for water, and even as going as far as asking nicely with the magic word, it's very hard to sit back, relax and eat dinner, which is what Jennifer and I were trying to do during that night last week. 

Jennifer had come home about a half-hour after Kyle went to bed.  She was tired from a long day of shaving monkeys (I'm really not sure what she does, so I make my best guess).  I had an exhausting day with our own little monkey, and I was in the middle of cleaning up the landfill replica Kyle had created in our living room.  We were both hungry for dinner.  That's when Kyle made his first request for water.  Since Jennifer hadn't seen him yet, we thought that maybe she could give him something to drink and say "hello."  Big mistake.  If you're trying to undermine the War Against Bedtime, the last thing you should do is make personal contact.  It shows weakness, and it makes the little guy act up even more the next time you leave.  We kept hoping that eventally Kyle would get his fill, but he did not quiet down, even after a half-dozen more water deliveries.  We ate our food to the sounds of the screams.  And, even though we knew he had enough water inside him to make it to morning, it was hard for our hearts not to break as the desperate cries echoed throughout the apartment, especially on that hot night.  Kyle had us right where he wanted us. 

That night was a victory for the little guy, and he was certainly eager to celebrate.  He had a big grin on his face as he guzzled down the water, and occasionally he'd pause to chew on the straw and mock us.  The fun, playful Kyle always returned once he had the water in his hands.  Once we pulled it away, he once again acted as if we wrapped him in chains and threw him into the desert.  Had it not been for the body's natural tendency to actually want some sleep, he could have gone throughout the night.  Fortunately he did doze off before eleven o'clock.

Since that wildly successful night in the War Against Bedtime, Kyle has been trying this maneuver every time we put him in his crib for a nap or for the night.  What was once a sweet moment, with one or both parents wishing our little guy a good night's sleep as he smiled and buried his head into his blankets, has turned into boisterous pandemonium, with Kyle crying for his water and kissing him good-night, flinging his blankets into his crib, and running out of the room before he could fling everything back out.  He cries for a little bit after that, but he's starting to notice that we're not coming back.  I think recent days have exposed a miscalculation on his part, too... as the days have become much cooler, we have become less sympathetic.  We know now that he has plenty of water, and he shouldn't be thirsting for more.  Kyle will just have to come up with a new trick, though I'm sure we'll eventually find a way to beat that one, too.  The little guy will certainly win more battles, but there's no question his parents will win the war.

Born to Run

On Saturday the family visited the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, one of those places where people in the city can admire flowers that are not surrounded by concrete or whatever a dog left behind.  The city's buildings mostly disappear beyond the front gates, and for a brief time a person could escape all the noise and traffic and truly appreciate what nature has to offer.  Kyle liked the Garden because it gave him an opportunity to go running after girls.



This was not at all surprising.  These days, it's Kyle's trademark move.  Why bother with conversations or dinner drinks when all you need from a girl is the rush of running after her at full speed?  The chase wasn't unprovoked, either.  Jennifer says the girl had asked Kyle to run after her, and there was no way Kyle was going to pass up an offer like that.  Within fifteen minutes, the run was over, and both went their separate ways without exchanging numbers.  There was no awkwardness or stress of figuring out the right time to make that first call.  There was no frustration, no drama.  In the world of a two-year-old, playing hard-to-get simply means running slightly faster than the person chasing you. 

Right now, all of Kyle's relationships are very much like this one.  He usually meets someone, says "hi," and then starts running.  Often it's around the playground.  Sometimes it's at somebody's house, or occasionally at church.  He practices a lot, too.  Last Wednesday, he took a run at Jennifer's workplace.  Kyle wasn't chasing anyone then.  He just wanted to sprint down the hall, towards the closed office door of one of Jennifer's superiors.  Had he burst into that office, a multi-gazillion-dollar deal could have fallen apart, Jennifer would have been fired on the spot, and I would have had to go back to male modeling to pay for Kyle's diapers.  Or, perhaps, Kyle just would have created an awkward and embarrassing situation.  I didn't want either of these scenarios to happen, so I immediately darted after the little guy, realizing that he was moving faster as I was gaining on him.  This kid could run!  And he's only two!  I might have to join an exercise club just to make sure I could catch him when he turns five.

Now I know just how much of a feat it is to run away from him and not get caught.  Kudos to that girl at the Botanic Garden.  Kudos to those kids Kyle has chased at the playground.  Then again, it's probably not much of a feat for them, since their own legs are also turbo-charged.  As I wrote nearly two years ago, we need to find a way to harness the energy of children.  The kids at our local playground probably could keep our neighborhood lit throughout the night.

There's really no rhyme or reason to all this running.  I could understand kids running away from Kyle if he were carrying a hatchet and wearing a ski mask, but that only happened once when he was overtired, and since then he generally has been his smiley ol' self.  The running is just something the kids like to do, and they do it well.  As a parent, it's fun to watch, as long as I can watch from a nearby seat.

Someday all this running may lead to a friendship or two, but, as it was with the girl at the Botanic Garden, it's not happening just yet.  The kids tend to go their separate ways after a pursuit, even after one manages to beat the other in the race.  Like so many things in life, the run itself is more important than the finish.  Usually whenever Kyle catches up to someone, he doesn't exactly know what to do.  Often he just smiles or laughs or says "hi" again.  If he takes after his father, this is how he will deal with girls well into high school.  Better to just keep running.

One Happy Island

It was a simple solution to a simple problem: my parents had chores they needed done, and we had cheap labor.  So, as Jennifer and I sipped on sparkling chardonnay and watched Kyle shine our shoes, we thought, "Why not lend the little guy to his grandparents for a week and give ourselves a break?"

My parents were overjoyed to have Kyle visit them, and they certainly made use of his talents.  Our son did a fine job mowing their lawn as my dad sat poolside and worked on his tan.  My mom then used him to clean up her classroom at the school where she works.  I also hear he helped clear some brush and paint a side of the house.  Yet, there were some moments when our son showed that his talents still have some limits.  He was unable to wash their cars properly, and his cooking ability remains sub-par.

As for Jennifer and I, we needed something to do that week.  Last year, during a similar labor exchange with my parents (Kyle had yet to learn how to walk, but built them a tool shed nevertheless), Jennifer and I ran off to Chicago. We were the envy of all our friends and neighbors.  Chicago was the trip of a lifetime.  This year, we just settled on Aruba.

Unlike the paradise that is Chicago, Aruba is, in many ways, very similar to New York City.  It's an island with rocky shores, its weather is very hot during the summer, and it's crawling with all sorts of strange creatures.  There are tourists everywhere, and taxi cabs charge them way too much for a trip downtown.  The similarities continued to strike us on Wednesday, when we took a ride in a small submarine.  We didn't have much room in the cramped vessel, and it felt very much like riding on a crowded subway train under the East River, except the submarine has windows looking out into the water, and the water itself has more fish than bodies.  There was a big guy sitting next to me who apparently forgot to wear deodorant.  The place smelled like home.

Despite all this, there were some perks to going to Aruba, especially without a two-year-old.  The flight, believe it or not, was a lot more relaxing without a screaming kid ramming his head into my face.  I actually watched the in-flight movie and didn't need to share my snack.  Once we were in Aruba, we were able to sleep past 6:30 every morning, and when we did wake up, we did not have to do anything.  There was nobody demanding that we pick him up or read him a book.  We could be as groggy as we wanted to be.  And speaking of reading, I read a REAL book last week... for the first time since early 2008.  Cover to cover.  No pictures.  Sure, it was the final book in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series, but to me it was Pulitzer material.  I found it so fulfilling to be able to read something that didn't have anything to do with curious monkeys, cats wearing hats, or little blue trains with brains of steam.  And, on top of all this, I was able to finish a long conversation with Jennifer... in the middle of the day!  Who knew that was even possible anymore?  All these things made it a magical week. 

Oh, there was that whole surf and sun thing, too.  I suppose most people go to Aruba for that.  Yeah, it wasn't so bad, either.  By looking at Jennifer and me today, you wouldn't be able to tell that we spent nearly a week along the shores of the Caribbean, and that's a major feat.  We worked hard on our "pale."  There's no such thing as tanning with us; our skin sizzles like bacon under the hot sun.  So, we covered ourselves in sun block twice a day and spent much of our time resting beneath thatch umbrellas or hiding under rocks with the iguanas.  The sun still managed to severely burn our shoulders.  By the end of the week, we were majority owners of a small company that produces aloe gel.

Kyle was thrilled to see us when we returned home, and about five seconds after our reunion he began bossing us around again.  Truth be told, we're actually Kyle's cheap labor, and not the other way around.  Since Kyle was tired of barking orders at us, he orchestrated this vacation (see my previous blog entry) so that he could have an opportunity to boss my parents around instead.  My parents were happy to see us return, too.  They had a lot of fun with the little guy, but were awfully tired by the end of the week.  For every project they had him do, he made them do a dozen more.

So now we're back in rainy New York, readjusting to the old routine.  We're waking up to Kyle's noises, and I'm back to reading picture books (a new "Thomas The Train" magazine arrived this week!  Oh boy!  Oh boy! I'm so excited!).  It feels right, though.  Our vacation was a blast, and it was very much needed.  Yet there's always something comforting about being back in our apartment, together as a family, even when the little guy's throwing food and screeching at decibels that could make my ears bleed.  It's home, and I love it here.

On the Road Again

This week, our family is taking a summer vacation. I certainly hope we're enjoying it. Kyle was rather forceful with our demands when he called our travel agent a few months ago...



I'll let you know how things went when we return. Enjoy your week!

Cruel and Unusual Pizza

If you want to torture our son, there's an easy way to do it...



... just stick a slice of pizza on his tray. I prefer pepperoni, but you can put any topping on it you like. It really does not matter to him. The pizza itself drives him batty. Just place it down, and watch him yell.

"No pizza!"
"No PIZZA!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

Of course, if you're like me (and probably like most Americans), you hate seeing an entire piece of pizza go to waste just to watch a two-year-old scream as if his stuffed bear came alive and chewed on his foot. Fortunately, all you need is just a little bit of cheese and crust for the desired effect, nothing larger than a dime. Just sneak it into Kyle's regular food, and wait for the magic to happen:

"More puffs please"
*crunch* *crunch* *munch* *munch*
"More puf-- No PIZZA! NO PIZZA! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

And then there's this:



Yes, this is my son, my own flesh and blood, digging his face into his stroller as he refuses an ice cream cone. On a hot day, too. In this instance, he's refusing the most basic of ice cream flavors, soft-serve chocolate and vanilla, but, as it is with pizza, flavors don't matter. With the same kind of intensity he has refused chocolate peanut butter, cappuccino chunk, apple pie a la mode and squiddy-licious. Some of these flavors, like chocolate and peanut butter, are things he enjoys often, but hates in ice cream form. While other kids scream for ice cream, Kyle screams against it. He calls it by name, shouting, "NO ICE CREAM!," so we know he's not just confused and thinking we're trying to give him broccoli or anchovies (we'll save those for the pizza).

Not too long ago, during a walk outside, I tried forcing ice cream on him. Kyle was in his stroller, and I pushed my cone into his face, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I would get some on his lips and the taste of it would suddenly make him sing with joy, proclaiming that he does like ice cream. But I was wrong. Instead, with ice cream smeared on his lips and nose, Kyle let off a horrific cry, his face turning purple as he pushed all the air out of his lungs and commanded everyone - even from blocks away - to turn around and stare at us. What they saw was a grown man, leaning into a stroller with his fist by his child's face (the ice cream cone in it wouldn't be visible). They might have thought I was giving him a noogie, or doing something worse. Considering the intensity of Kyle's cries, over ice cream!, I'm surprised a cop didn't try to break it up by tackling me.

Something might be seriously wrong with our child. As I mentioned before, Kyle has been a difficult eater for quite some time. His doctor has said the pickiness will get worse before it gets better. Yet even he was shocked during our last appointment, when I revealed that my son refuses ice cream. After scribbling something down in his notepad, the doctor suggested that we take him to a shrink.

No pizza. No ice cream. Two of my all-time favorite foods. Jennifer loves them, too. So, how come Kyle won't even touch them? Is he really our kid? Makes you wonder. He still loves doughnuts and cookies, so I'm thinking we might just be dealing with some sort of food texture issue. That doesn't mean our kid's not a freak.

So I'm going to keep trying these foods, in part because, truth be told, I get a kick out of his reaction. Is that wrong? Am I really torturing the kid for my own fun? I guess that all depends on what your definition of "torture" is. Let's just say it's a good thing Kyle is too young to know any good national security secrets. The bad guy armed with a Meat Lovers and a carton of Ben & Jerry's would have him crying like a baby.