OTTO THE GREAT, great pain in the ass

Today was a cluster.  I'm always overreaching.  Icarus, please help.  I'm sunburned and I haven't even gotten off the ground. 

Today was the fourth day of my four-day weekend.  I told my boss I wanted to use up some of my comp time. He suggested I take Friday to extend the three-day Columbus Day weekend.  I was thrilled.  I had visions of sleeping, taking three-hour lunches, drinking and writing about the Great American Experience, or mine.  The latter availed itself.

I totally deserve what I got.  It was Karma for flaunting my vacation to Sarah who, after the Summer of Sick, has absolutely no days off left.  Sarah was so happy to break her news to me: The boys would not have school on Monday.  I was on the hook for daycare or, you know, being a parent for an entire day. 

I can't wait to get back to work.

Now I think as far as fathers go, I spend an enormous amount of time with my boys.  The neighbors comment how everyday they see us go to the park with Otto, Paco, Quin, Quin's bike, a ball, snacks and beverages.  The problem is that even on those trips across the street, I try to do too much.  I think I have my reasons, but first let me tell you what happened today.

My plan was to go to Boulder and see the boys' great grandmother, and then over to  Niwot to see their great aunt.  It would be a great day.  Sarah told me not to do too much. I chuckled and told her not to worry as she headed off to the train to work.

The issue is this: In my head I imagine things as they should be, not as they will be.  Now to get an accurate picture of "will be", you have to incorporate some delays like traffic, temper tantrums, potty breaks, snacks and tempests of toddler snot.  I picture all of those obstacles in my head, but I don't incorporate them with the timeline borrowed from a fifties sitcom, where everything rolls along smoothly, there's happy music playing, and not once does my sixteen-month-old son dive into a fish pond at an assisted living facility. 

We got back from the neighborhood park at approximately 11am.  With a groan I set down Otto, and with a grunt I pulled Quin's trike up to the front steps.  To make my overreaching more possible, I was pulling him and his bike with a dog leash.  I had a second dog leash in the same hand, that one for the sixty-pound narrow-minded muscle that nearly killed us when he tried to pursue a cat across the street. 
This is bad.  I should know this is bad.  I put the lives of several species at risk with one trip to the park, which is fifty yards away.  Involving a grandmother, an aunt, a long drive and two children should not be allowed. 

Early on things were good. 

We got to Grandma's home at noon, but we decided to wait for my sister to show up before we headed into the labyrinthine depths of her living quarters.  I'm convinced half of those people don't have Alzheimer's, they're just lost in there.  Laura (sister) was nearly an hour late, and by then the boys enthusiasm for the lobby aquarium was giving way to hunger.  Otto was protesting the meager sating offered by the animal crackers and Quin, a boy who I think lives on the microbes in the air, actually asked that we eat lunch. 

This is all very scary because these children come from two adults who can't handle hunger.  I get delusional, I ramble and I'm easily irritated.  That's a bad combo  because it means I believe there's going to be a restaurant right around the next corner, and when there's not, I go on a tirade about the lack of city planning and viable food options and if we as a nation don't do something about our diet we'll destroy the planet and everybody should know this including entrepreneurs who should have started a restaurant--wait, I should start a restaurant.  Honey? 

And she's crying and laughing at the series of life decisions that have lead to this moment. When Sarah is hungry she has the emotional strength of an Extreme Home Makeover family, but unfortunately she has the angry resolve of an America's Most Wanted.  She's ticked and she wants to do something about her dumbass husband driving aimlessly and yelling at buildings that aren't restaurants, but all she can do is cry. 

One of the last things the fish saw.

 
With the boys getting fussy, I was about to bail on the whole deal.  That's when Laura showed up and everybody was distracted by happiness. We all went to the courtyard of the complex and looked at the fish in the pond.  Otto wouldn't stop making advances at the water. He was obstinate about getting in.  I grabbed and gave him the stern "no" which, once he has his mind set on something, is like scolding a rock.  Finally, he got his wish.  He dove into the pond. 

I grabbed him in the "oh shit my god fuck" fashion that makes you move at the speed of "balls just got cattle prodded," and I grabbed him from the rather shallow depths of the water feature's feeding stream.  Laura took over the other two boys and I stormed into a quiet room where a family was having an end-of-life discussion about a loved one.  Before them I wrestled a poopy, swamp-smelling baby to the floor.  Of course I didn't know he was poopy until I removed what I thought was just a wet diaper, and Otto, with crap smeared on his back, scurried screaming past the bereaved and into the lobby.

I finally wrangled the beloved boy, and assembled the family remnants for the great grandmother visit.  We marched through the halls with a quiet determination, eventually finding grandma at lunch.  It was a crowded room and the attention was a little overwhelming for the boys.  Grandma looks great.  I explained to her that she had a kid, who had kid, who had a kid.  As I said it I couldn't believe it was true, and that she was responsible for all this mess. 

We weren't there long because we had to eat.  We found some food and gathered at a nearby park.  The first thing Otto did was catch a bumblebee.  Yes, he caught it with his little hand, and the terrified bug stung his thumb.  He (Otto) lost his mind.  I imagine the bee is going to have some issues as well.

His poor little thumb.  It looks like when Fred Flinstone hits his hand with a hammer and it gets all fat and red and throbbing.  I was so sad for him, and he was a wreck.   We did what we could to make something of the day, but it was time to go home.  The boys were unconscious about five minutes into the drive.

I checked them in the mirror and sighed at their greatness.  I also noticed I had sunburned the heck out of my head. 

But I'll do it again.  Otto scares the hell out of me.  He's that kid who has come back to haunt me.  He is this new version of me attempting all the dangerous stuff I did as a kid: jumping from bridges, lighting myself on fire, wrecking bikes, running into fences and whatever else I never thought was a big deal until it waddled up and called me daddy.  My life, infant incarnate.  Because of this, I hope that I can give he and his brother as much attention as possible.  That way they may not try and get it in some really stupid fashion. 

Or maybe maybe if they spend a lot of time with me they'll opt to stay home and be safe.

pretty much all you need to know about males

Today Quin told me I had a big penis. That was very nice of him. I know I'm supposed to discourage that kind of talk, but that deserved a high five.

While it has been neat for me to tell someone else to stop touching themselves, the whole penis obsession has been hard to watch.

I have so many people to apologize to.

Quin is pretty smart, and when he loses to temptation, says, "I know, bedroom or bathroom," and heads off to whichever is closest. We had an interesting altercation at a friend's house. He was in their playroom being way too quiet for comfort. I went to check on him and found our son with his pants down. I reacted with authentic shock and snapped, "Quin, don't do that!"

He ripped back, "Don't look at me!" That's his pre-pre-teen response to anything he doesn't like. He then closed the door, which would have been fine if it weren't glass.

His take on his genitalia is still very innocent. He proclaims that it tickles, and that it can grow. Why wouldn't you be enthralled? What other body part does that? The penis is pretty awesome. Quin celebrated these revelations, or at least that's what I think he was doing, when I saw him in the bathroom, pants down, doing something like air guitar, shouting "penis, penis, penis!" at the top of his lungs. I can't see a girl the same age shouting vagina over and over again. Maybe they're more civilized; maybe it's because it doesn't grow.

Both Quin and Otto need to spend less time distracted and more time focusing on not falling. Otto has an excuse. He's still toddling, and toddling comes with a price. I remember when Quin was first walking I actually Googled, "How many times toddler hit head retarded." I didn't come up with much other than copious anecdotes of parents talking about their children wrecking themselves.

Three out of the last four days, Otto has had an accident report at school. Last week someone bit him. His teacher didn't specify who, I guess worried I'd be bent on retribution against a 16 month old. The next day he had a report for falling and hitting his head. He's got a bruise on his cheek and a small, purple horn on on the left side of his forehead. When you're a guy carrying a baby covered in bruises, our fear-soaked society of Nancy Grace gawkers becomes rather suspicious. I put his hood up when we went into the store.

And then today he had another report. He hit his head again. He has a horn to match on his right side. Now I'm getting suspicious. Who's beating my child? Sadly, it's probably himself, but vengeance against Nathan, Francis or Onofre is starting to sound justified. I'll tell them Thomas the Tank Engine died in a horrible bridge accident.

Yesterday I went into school and the director stopped me before I could get to Quin's classroom. She was urgent about her calm explanation as to why I'd be shocked when I saw my son's nose. Apparently Quin was doing a puppet show. During his performance he leaned too far into the stage, and it went down. He went with it, his face protruding from the stage's opening. A swollen, blue line across his nose depicts where he headbutted a box of puppets.

What's new and weird is being able to have full conversations with Quin. I don't remember when this first happened. In the early days I was never sure what he was saying. His inflection would be filled with purpose and I'd wonder with what to reply. He sounded like he needed an answer, but I didn't want to confirm something that was wrong or deny something that was right. He'd inquire if I were a fascist and I'd get all excited and exclaim "yes!" thinking he asked if I was the fastest.

Yesterday he started talking about his friend Ryan at school. I don't know how we got into this conversation, and I rarely do. Quin declares the strangest things. The other day we were getting into the car and he said he didn't like salad. He was very serious about it. If you want to know anything about marketing and how to brand yourself, just talk with a three year old. They're always letting you know things about themselves that you can't forget. Try that next time at an important meeting. Right in the middle of talk about budget cuts announce that when you touch your penis it grows. You'll never be forgotten.

Anyway, Q is telling me that he's not friends with Ryan anymore because Ryan punches him. I slowed down the car like I was going to do turn around and actually do something about it. I guess the ladies were right not to reveal the biter. I told Q he needed to tell the teacher if Ryan ever hit him again. And it took a lot of strength--and even some more slowing down so I could concentrate--to not tell him to pop Ryan in the nose. As if he'd read my mind, or maybe saw my hands on the steering wheel, Quin conjured a pacifist mantra: "I don't hit people."

His counter punch had me laying on the accolades. That's so good Q, I told him. And it is really good. Now if we can just keep the bad influences from screwing you up, you know, like your dad.

just a few of those words

"Gorgeous boys." I said that to myself as I walked out of Otto's room. I was doing the final check before going to bed, and there's nothing more beautiful than a sleeping child. I don't want to sound like I'm less fond of them when they're awake. But seeing them sleeping: eyes closed, dreaming, and the hallway light across their soft faces, my lord, it could kill a person. I've set a goal to write a 1000 words a night, but seeing them fills me with 10,000 more. I still go to bed. Those guys will be awake soon.

Otto got some props today. I walked in to daycare and was writing down their checkout time when I heard a familiar whimper. It was Otto, he'd heard me talking to a teacher. He was upset that I was in the vicinity and not holding him. There's not a more flattering gesture in the world.

I turned around to see him being held by the infant teacher. "Infants?" I wondered aloud. The teacher said, "I don't know why he's in here, but he's been with the little guys all afternoon." Otto has graduated from the infants, and now totters around with nine other one-year-old boys in what looks like a shrunken mafia. Their bellies stick out, they kiss each other on the cheek and the territorial battles are epic.

All this cuteness and here I am, the asshole.  You never think you're going to be the crazy asshole parent, but it happens. Before you know it you'll desert your neighborhood, your local family, your principles just to get to an area with better schools. And I never thought I'd be the guy interrogating overworked daycare teachers. But I did.

"Why is Otto with the infants?" I asked the assistant manager. "Has he been demoted?" I lightened my tone when I realized how ridiculous and serious I sounded.

"No, actually, he was a role model today," she said and breezed down the hall. Everyone and everything moves at the daycare. Nothing remains still.  The teachers seem to ride on the waves of little people energy. Even if they'd rather get off and rest, they can't help but be whipped around by the swirl of activity. Just being in there ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night is exhausting.

The assistant manager slipped into another classroom.  I stepped out of her wake and into the toddler room. I had to pick up Otto's daily progress sheet. His is pretty basic, he eats and he naps. Sometimes there's some detail about finger painting or discovering sand or some such, but his life is pretty awesome. And, according to the toddler teacher, Otto's skills were put into action. Apparently he was in the infant room because there's a baby boy who doesn't eat all that much. So, they brought in an expert. Another common item on O's daily report is something like, "Ate three bananas and five helpings of tuna!"  He has indeed impressed, and I think sometimes even scared, the ladies. Several times I've picked him up in borrowed clothes. They'll explain that he went through all his spares during a particularly passionate exchange with yogurt. The guy loves his food, and now he's a role model. My man.

I was happy that I asked why Otto was in the infant room. When I get home Sarah wants those details. And getting all the minutiae is important. It's the modern version of  the man slaying a dragon for his damsel in waiting. I would prefer killing a dragon.  But since those days are gone, the only way for a man to impress his woman is getting the entire story behind a workplace pregnancy, a friend's family drama, or proving he's pressed the daycare provider for the best possible situation for their child.

I'm always proud to tell Sarah when I've gotten to the bottom of one disturbing anomaly or another. For example, Quin took one of his mini monster trucks to school and thought he lost it. I followed up and found it in his cubby. Dragon down.

I wish I could go slay something for the boys, too. But we have bigger beasts to kill. College. Orthodontics. Whatever Otto eats.

The day blasts by and again I'll only be a few minutes from bed. I brush my teeth faster than I used to so I can go check on the guys. In two years Quin has slept in his bunk bed twice. Otherwise he's on the floor by the door. I'll crack it open to see him twisted into his pillow. He's three-feet long with less body fat than Formica.  When he sleeps he's ten-feet long with a trailer and takes up an entire room.

Otto will be out cold. He either sleeps like he's been dropped from ten stories, his arms and legs spread out, or curled up on his side. Either way is the cutest possible way for a human to rest.

Gorgeous boys. I'll go to bed now, and sleep on another 10,000 words.