Every parent wants to know, “how young is too young to climb up on the kitchen table.” In this way, I’m no different than any other parent. Is eighteen months too young?

In the heat of the moment, I decided it was too young. I hope I wasn’t rash.

I noted two unspectacular events this week. There was nothing extraordinarily special about these two unspectacular events, I just happened to note them. To be honest, they’re the two most recent unspectacular events and I just happened to feel like writing at this moment, so here they are, in order of occurance.

1. Adam was weighed and measured at the doctor’s office. (Have you noticed that they seem to do a lot of weighing and measuring there?) As it turns out, Adams relative weight has gone down. I say relative because he’s actually gotten heavier, but his percentile rank (among his peers) in weight has actually dropped below his percentile rank for height. Actually, in one way his relative weight is still just as high (almost). He’s 85% for weight, but 90% for height.

Yep, he’s a biggun.

2. Adam noticed that I am a nail picker. I have been since I was a child. I think it’s one of the lesser offensive childhood habits to carry-over into adulthood, but don’t tell that to my wife. You’d think I was picking her nails she gets so pissed. Heck, it’s not like I’m picking my nose or wetting the bed. Jeesh! Anyway, back to Adam. He notices I’m picking my nails, and what does he do? Does he sit down and start picking his nails? No, he sits in my lap all evening picking my nails.

It’s pretty freaking weird to have your fifteen month old child sit and pick your nails for thirty minutes.

All Children’s Hospital is in a nice part of St Petersburg (FL). Tree lined brick roads and the understated architecture of the early 20th century create a sedate setting. There’s just one problem though; when you’ve gotten up at three in the morning to take your son to the hospital minor surgery, the last thing you need is to use words like “sedate.”

On the bright side, the tubes in the ears thing went well (it’s all the rage with the kids these days). Adam came home, took a four hour nap (which his grateful papa emulated), and woke up as good as new.

We were sitting at the dinner table and Adam picked up his sippy cup and threw it on the floor.

“Adam, why did you do that?” Cheryl asked.

“Cheryl, there is no why… only do. Do… or do not, there is no why.”

Since I already don’t think very much of myself, it is easy to say that I’ve led my children into a genetic minefield. The latest blow-up occurred last night, about the time we had hoped to get to bed (early) for Adam’s surgery the next morning. Adam was wheezing. Ten quality minutes in the family car brought us to the local ER, where the parking lot was filled to capacity with other people spending quality time with their loved ones. That was when we made the right decision… a bit of a departure for us… the decision to abandon the ER in favor of the soup du jour in pediatric care… the “urgent care” or “after-hours” Pediatric Medical Center.

We were seen right away. The bad news: Adam was wheezing… the good news: Adam was wheezing (hey, if we’re going to subject ourselves to the trials and tribulations of urgent/after-hours medical care, the least we could do is do it with good cause). This diagnosis came with a two-pronged NAA (which in State Bureaucracy Speak translates to “next appropriate action”): nebulizer treatments and a chest x-ray. The nebulizer treatment went very poorly, primarily because Adam was terrified of the gurgling, steaming mask that his parents insisted on pinning to his face – despite his BEST efforts. After twenty minutes of heart-rending hell, we moved on to the x-ray. If you imagine what a medieval torture table and restraining device would look like if it were developed in the modern age, by the design team at Apple Computer, then you can imagine the device waiting for us in the x-ray room. Adam was strapped down on a clear acrylic board with cutouts for tastefully designed Velcro restraints. After he was secure, the tech gave me a lead vest to put on. “What’s this?” I asked. “A New Jersey life preserver?” (It turns out there is a bad time for bad humor.) The tech tersely asked me to stand still and “try to get your kid to look at you.” We finished up there, had Adam’s vitals taken, did another nebulizer treatment, calmed him down, had his vitals taken, did another nebulizer treatment, calmed him down, had his vitals taken, waited on the nurse to write three prescriptions, and were the last paying customers out the door when they closed the place up for the night.

It was hard on me, but it was even harder on Adam; and either way, I’m partially to blame.

Here’s some learnin’ free of charge. Baby + Suntan Lotion + Water = another battle lost to gravity.

Now before you panic, no one was hurt in this story.

I was sitting in the shade at Beth’s 2005 birthday party (version 2) watching my wife and youngest child at the pool from afar. Cheryl was conversing with a friend when she surprised everyone (including herself, but most of all the baby) with a disappearing baby trick. Fortunately, babies float; so it was a relatively simple matter to make the baby re-appear. In short order, everyone was just fine (no word yet on the condition of Cheryl’s ego though). Twenty minutes later Cheryl and the baby walked back to the shade for some refreshments, but by that time I had forgotten to ask her about it. I still haven’t. It’s more fun to bring it up this way anyway.

Boy, you think you’ve seen a surprised baby before, you should see them after they’ve been dunked in water.

Despite his bumbling parents, Adam seems to be a happy child. Saturday night was a case in point. We were giving the boy his diurnal bathing when he gave us the slip. Due to his head’s position, in relation tile and granite border of the shower, it was a bad time to gain his freedom.

One thing we’ve learned from this is that it’s amazing how fast a little kid can shed a nasty bruise on his face. That, and we need to be a little surer of our grip from now on.

It is after 1 a.m. and I do not want to be awake. It seems that my infant son has made the choice for me. Ten minutes after the deed was done, my infant son (the incredibly lovable little guy) is fast asleep. Not so for poor ole’ dad.

**Written in a daze last week, but forgotten until now.

Introducing the amazing Adam and his stupefying feats of physical misfortune.

Why is it that we take so much joy from an infant’s struggles with motor coordination? Why just the other day we were chuckling over Adam’s latest attempts to sit up unassisted. His poor little head was ducking and weaving like a wanna-be on The Contender. (The author feels compelled to advise you that he has never actually seen an episode of The Contender.)

Have I written about our Diaper Genie before? It’s too late and I’m too tired to care. It’s writin’ time. Don’t make me go Old Testament on yo’ ass!

I’m happy to announce that we’ve graduated to the stage 2 Diaper Genie liners. We’re so proud. To recap, the Diaper Genie is a sophisticated device for making diaper sausage links. They sell different thicknesses of liners for the sausages, depending on the load they must carry. Having just experienced the stage two liner, I’m more than a little worried about what this says I have to expect from my son’s diapers in the coming months. It seems that the stage two liners are the steel belted variety, specifically designed for solid food waste. And I thought diaper changes were bad now.

Seven months isn’t too early for potty training, is it?