“… and the heavens opened and water poured forth like a reading from the Old Testament.”
– Excerpt from Tuesday afternoon.

It was one of those Florida afternoons where you could see the rain coming like an omnivorous grey beast. I was on my way to pick up Beth from Tae Kwon Do, with Adam in tow, when I realized there was no way I was going to herd two hyper kids into the car without some serious soakage. Sure enough, it started to pour as we were walking out the door. We three stood there helpless, looking across the open space between us and the car. The way it was raining, ten yards might as well have been ten miles.

Always ready with a helpful suggestion, Beth piped in: “Dad, we don’t all have to get wet. Why don’t you just get the car and pull it up on the sidewalk. There’s plenty of room between the dumpster and that column.”

I didn’t move the car.

We did make a break for it. I got ten steps when I noticed Adam wasn’t following. He got about five steps and stopped. When I turned around to look for him, he was standing with his arms and palms raised and his head down, staring at his wet palms in wonder. The back pack he was helping me carry (in truth, he damn near insists on carrying it) was lying prone in a puddle. We hadn’t been in the rain for more than a few seconds, but I could already see that we were both mostly soaked through. When I called back to him, “What are you doing Adam?” He replied, “It’s RAINING daddy!”

He was enjoying himself like only a two year old in the rain can.

The morning started off swell… I didn’t get up until 9:30. What else could you ask for? Perhaps 10:30? I digress. Since I woke I’ve been chasing down my son trying to discourage his most recent habit, cat burglary. He has taken to sneaking around the house with one of his miniature fold-up chairs, unfolding it in strategic positions to gain access to various forbidden zones around the house. It appears he’s even learned he can quietly close a door to a crack to mask his activities. Through trial and error he’s no doubt learned that there’s no surer way to bring his parent’s attention than a door mysteriously snapping closed – almost as sure as hearing little hands quietly riffle through a forbidden drawer.

Four and a half hours ago I was putting my son to bed. It is only with the spit polished lenses of hindsight that I now know it was for the rest of the night – both hours that were left of it. About five minutes before I put him to bed, as he calmed down with his head on my shoulder, his grip slowly loosening on his blanket and his breathing becoming relaxed – I strangely felt like I could stand there forever. I am completely at a loss. I simply can’t describe what it felt like at that moment, having someone trust you so completely…

Adam was finishing up his dinner and rediscovered a cup of Pringles he had on the side. (It was one of those form fitting cups with a single serving of chips.) He went for a spoonful of chips when I helpfully suggested, “Adam, you can’t eat chips with a spoon.”

Adam took one look at me, grabbed hold of the business end of the spoon, ground up some chip dust, and took a spoonful of chip-bits with a grin on his face and a gleam in his eye.

This morning Cheryl admonished me for not pulling Adam’s pants up in front. She thought it was inappropriate for Adam to show diaper above the waistline. Part of our problem lies in diaper design. Our diaper brand of choice has many desirable characteristics, save one: a freakish amount of material above the fastening point. However, it goes beyond that… it involves something much more basic.

In reply to Cheryl’s challenge of my dress mechanics, I gave her my patented “flummoxed look of innocence.” Surely she’s been around enough guys to know Levi’s First Rule of Fit: “a waistband below the gut tends to remain below the gut unless acted upon by a substantial and persistent force.” The corollary of Levi’s First Rule of Fit states: “a waistband above the gut tends to migrate below the gut unless acted upon by a substantial and persistent force.”

Applying this rule to the current situation; it would seem that Adam’s pants are going to stay right where they are unless he scores a pair of suspenders on our next shopping spree.

See there? Once again logic strikes a blow for husband kind!

This entry was made possible by a grant from over-the-counter cold medication. “Working hard to make colds fun again.”

Monday marked yet another first day. This time it was Adam’s turn. Adam was at a day care center for the first time Monday morning. If you’re unfamiliar with having children and using day care centers… the first day is often one of the first times you feel like a failure as a parent.

He cried when Cheryl dropped him off, he was playing when she picked him up, and he seemed emotionally intact Monday night. Maybe it will be alright after all. We’ll see how he does after his second day (today).

On second thought, I’m a tad tired for poetry. This will have to do.

This past week was a bit sad for a couple different reasons. Nothing cataclysmic mind you, just run-of-the-mill melancholy. The most obvious reason was Beth’s forthcoming return to school. Beth had a hard year last year and I hoped (not just for my sake) that this year would be better. But the end of summer vacation was something we could see coming for months (years even), so it wasn’t a big surprise. The news that Adam’s part-time sitter was sitting on a lucrative offer to become un-retired on the other hand… was a surprise. We’ve been blessed with top-notch daycare for Adam, and we’ve known it. Knowing it and facing a loss of it was hard to swallow. How do you react to that? How do you tell someone you’re happy for their good fortune, and sad for the loss of their presence in your son’s life, without one of them sounding like a lie?

As a graduate of the John Kerry School of Personality*, I suspect I didn’t do a very good job.

*So sayeth the resident bitter Democrat (that would be me).

The line between promise and threat can be razor sharp. It’s best to treat it like anything else with a sharp edge: with care.

As his second birthday approaches, Adam has become familiar with the concept of “time out.” Thus far we have used it sparingly, such as when he drops prone to the floor in the throes of a full-bore tantrum. Thankfully those occasions have been somewhat rare, but they have been often enough to teach Adam the meaning of the words. All the same, a particular event yesterday was surprising.

CHERYL: “Adam, don’t touch.”
ADAM: (Touches the stereo.)
CHERYL: “Adam, don’t touch.”
ADAM: (Touches the stereo.)
CHERYL: “Adam, if you touch that again you’re going in time out.”
ADAM: (Touches the stereo, runs to his room, and closes the door… thereby putting himself in time out.)
CHERYL: “John, did you see what Adam just did?”
JOHN: “What?”
CHERYL: (Chuckling, describes what Adam just did…) “I think that’s a blog entry for sure.”
JOHN: “Yeah, just what we need: another child that produces blog entries.”

Et tu, Adam?

This weekend my son reminded me of an ant. It wasn’t because he was a pest or that he was particularly insect like, but because he was often seen carrying around objects of significant size. One moment he was carrying around a dining room chair, the next a folding table, or one of those large Rubbermaid storage containers. There didn’t seem to be any particular reason for all this effort, other than these objects were there for the hefting. And believe me, there was plenty of effort involved. There was more grunting in our family room this weekend than the free-weights area at the local gym.

Why doesn’t Beth like to lift stuff? Is it a boy-girl thing? Did we fail to give her the appropriate encouragement as a toddler? (“Way to clean and jerk those groceries, BETH!”) Or, is it just an Adam thing?

It’s really cute when Adam lifts heavy things, but it gets less cute in a hurry when he decides to do something else with it. It’s a nuisance (that can sometimes be a little funny) when a toddler decides to throw their food at you. It’s something else entirely when they start throwing furniture.

This is the day we moved Adam’s big bed into his room. You would have thought we opened the car door on Disney World. He walked into his room and his eyes lit up. It’s forty-five minutes later and he’s still running back and forth giggling. Beth’s doing her part to stir him up too, truth be told. I hope he enjoys tonight… just not quite as much.