Dear Spike:
Three things about you...
1) Suddenly, you're terrified of the toilet. Oh, you're just fine and dandy about doing your business in the backyard, in the park or in a parking lot, but the big white pot makes you scream.
2) You were playing with your Noah's Ark set. I was perusing the U.S. State Department's Website. At one point, you trotted over, glanced up at the screen and said, "peacock." "No," I said. "There's no peacock there." "Peacock! Peacock! Peacock!" You cried, pointing at the screen. I looked again and laughed. "Yes," I said. "The Statue of Liberty does look a bit like a peacock."
3) You're teething again. Molars. Sometimes you grab the side of your mouth and cry: "Teeth! Teeth! Teeth!" It is perhaps one of the saddest things I've ever seen.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label teething. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teething. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
OF ROBOT NANNIES
Dear Spike:
It all began with a 10 p.m. fit of tormented cries. You're teething again — and this time has been particularly tough. Four hours, three locations and zero seconds of sleep later, the pain had subsided, but by this time you were wide awake, bouncing on my lap in the rocking chair as though you were on a carnival ride that you wanted to go faster. Faster. FASTER!!!!!!!
At 2 a.m. I gave in, setting you on the floor of your bedroom to play with your books and toys. I lied down beside you, making a wall of my body, trapping you in the corner of your room between the changer and the desk, and closed my eyes. Ten minutes of half-sleep later I was jarred awake by a loud bang. You'd discovered your favorite pie tin in your toy box. I made you a trade, offering a quiet plush dinosaur in exchange for the noisy pan, and began to doze off again. After another 10 minutes I lifted my eyelid just enough to see that you'd settled down with a book. "Beebo," you cooed as you flipped a page. "Beebo, beebo, beeeeeeeeee-bo!" I chuckled softly and fell back into my semi-slumber.
Another 10 minutes. I opened my eyes to see you sitting inches away, staring at my nose as though you were trying to figure something out. I worried you might be plotting my death and made a quick search of the area for sharp objects before closing my eyes again.
Ten minutes more. You tugged on my ear. Hard.
"Time for sleep?" I asked.
You rubbed your eyes in reply.
I lifted you from the floor and we returned to the rocker. But the fight wasn't over. I rocked you and sang your favorite lullabyes until I couldn't hit but one lonely monotone note.
Rock-a-bye. And-good-night. Sweet-dreams. Sweet-dreams.
As I listened to my own hoarse, staccato singing I imagined myself as the central, soulless character in a science fiction story about a world where parents leave their children in the care of robot nannies. And I wondered whether the robots ever felt this tired.
Ten more minutes. You were still up. Quiet, now, but still very much awake and staring out the window at a whispy snow fall and a slow dancing lilac bush.
Quite beautiful, it was. But I was too tired to appreciate it. And too tired to even recognize how sad that was.
I offered you a bottle. You declined and began to sit up to get a better view of the outside world.
"Why?" I asked aloud to no one in particular. "Oh why? Why? Why?"
Ten more minutes. I looked down to see you sleeping soundly in my arms. Your head was nestled between my bicep and my shoulder. You were softly snoring. A whisp of hair had fallen over your left eyebrow. One hand was grasping my shirt, the other was on your cheek.
"Oh," I whispered, feeling the steel, wire and plastic of my robot heart melt once again into muscle, blood and tissue.
"That's why."
Love,
dad
It all began with a 10 p.m. fit of tormented cries. You're teething again — and this time has been particularly tough. Four hours, three locations and zero seconds of sleep later, the pain had subsided, but by this time you were wide awake, bouncing on my lap in the rocking chair as though you were on a carnival ride that you wanted to go faster. Faster. FASTER!!!!!!!
At 2 a.m. I gave in, setting you on the floor of your bedroom to play with your books and toys. I lied down beside you, making a wall of my body, trapping you in the corner of your room between the changer and the desk, and closed my eyes. Ten minutes of half-sleep later I was jarred awake by a loud bang. You'd discovered your favorite pie tin in your toy box. I made you a trade, offering a quiet plush dinosaur in exchange for the noisy pan, and began to doze off again. After another 10 minutes I lifted my eyelid just enough to see that you'd settled down with a book. "Beebo," you cooed as you flipped a page. "Beebo, beebo, beeeeeeeeee-bo!" I chuckled softly and fell back into my semi-slumber.
Another 10 minutes. I opened my eyes to see you sitting inches away, staring at my nose as though you were trying to figure something out. I worried you might be plotting my death and made a quick search of the area for sharp objects before closing my eyes again.
Ten minutes more. You tugged on my ear. Hard.
"Time for sleep?" I asked.
You rubbed your eyes in reply.
I lifted you from the floor and we returned to the rocker. But the fight wasn't over. I rocked you and sang your favorite lullabyes until I couldn't hit but one lonely monotone note.
Rock-a-bye. And-good-night. Sweet-dreams. Sweet-dreams.
As I listened to my own hoarse, staccato singing I imagined myself as the central, soulless character in a science fiction story about a world where parents leave their children in the care of robot nannies. And I wondered whether the robots ever felt this tired.
Ten more minutes. You were still up. Quiet, now, but still very much awake and staring out the window at a whispy snow fall and a slow dancing lilac bush.
Quite beautiful, it was. But I was too tired to appreciate it. And too tired to even recognize how sad that was.
I offered you a bottle. You declined and began to sit up to get a better view of the outside world.
"Why?" I asked aloud to no one in particular. "Oh why? Why? Why?"
Ten more minutes. I looked down to see you sleeping soundly in my arms. Your head was nestled between my bicep and my shoulder. You were softly snoring. A whisp of hair had fallen over your left eyebrow. One hand was grasping my shirt, the other was on your cheek.
"Oh," I whispered, feeling the steel, wire and plastic of my robot heart melt once again into muscle, blood and tissue.
"That's why."
Love,
dad
Monday, March 31, 2008
ONE MORE SMILE
Dear Spike:
Your smile is pure magic. Magic, I say.
Simple, innocent, unbeguiling and contagious. A two-toothed truth beyond any measure I've ever known. No tricks. No smoke. No mirrors. Just real, old-fashioned enchantment.
I must have forgotten what it was like to see such a pure expression of happiness. Or maybe I never knew. For although we all smile — far more than we frown — we're all just a bit jaded, just a bit guarded, just a bit cautious. We wear our smiles as masks. We flash our smiles as weapons. We use our smiles as ploys.
But you don't. Not yet, anyway. For now — and I don't know how much longer — your smile simply means what it most simply means.
"I am happy. I am happy to see you. I love you."
It is an incredible thing, being greeted by your child in this way. No one can love anything more than I love you. And when you smile at me I sense the reciprocal is true. And nothing can be better than that feeling. Nothing in the world.
I am practicing smiling back at you with all the honesty you give to me, and without regard for the rather sad certainty that one day, perhaps one day soon, your smile will reveal more teeth — and more nuance.
Maybe a little flattery. Maybe a little charm. Maybe a little Oh-Daddy-Please-Can-I—?.
Yes, you may. Just one more smile, please. As real and true and magical as you can muster.
Just one more smile, please.
Love,
dad
Your smile is pure magic. Magic, I say.
Simple, innocent, unbeguiling and contagious. A two-toothed truth beyond any measure I've ever known. No tricks. No smoke. No mirrors. Just real, old-fashioned enchantment.
I must have forgotten what it was like to see such a pure expression of happiness. Or maybe I never knew. For although we all smile — far more than we frown — we're all just a bit jaded, just a bit guarded, just a bit cautious. We wear our smiles as masks. We flash our smiles as weapons. We use our smiles as ploys.
But you don't. Not yet, anyway. For now — and I don't know how much longer — your smile simply means what it most simply means.
"I am happy. I am happy to see you. I love you."
It is an incredible thing, being greeted by your child in this way. No one can love anything more than I love you. And when you smile at me I sense the reciprocal is true. And nothing can be better than that feeling. Nothing in the world.
I am practicing smiling back at you with all the honesty you give to me, and without regard for the rather sad certainty that one day, perhaps one day soon, your smile will reveal more teeth — and more nuance.
Maybe a little flattery. Maybe a little charm. Maybe a little Oh-Daddy-Please-Can-I—?.
Yes, you may. Just one more smile, please. As real and true and magical as you can muster.
Just one more smile, please.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
LET YOU KNOW
Dear Spike:
Your mother learned today how very sharp your new tooth is. Not surprisingly, this has been a very disconcerting development for her.
One day, when you are 13 or 14 and acting a bit rotten toward her, I am going to sit down with you and describe all the ways in which she has sacrificed of herself on your behalf.
Quite frankly, I wouldn’t put it past her to have this conversation with you herself. After all, this is a woman who has the uncanny ability to remember every time I’ve seriously wronged her, right down to what I was wearing at the time.
Then again, you’ve smitten her in ways I could never match. So just in case, blinded by love, she fails to let you know, I’ve been keeping track.
From the way the doctors tore into her body to pull you out to how she’s woken every night (sometimes two or three or four times) to feed you, your mom has endured extreme pain, utter sleeplessness, immeasurable worry and just plain all-around discomfort all to ensure you are happy, healthy and growing.
She loves you more than anything in the world.
And yes indeed, if you are ever rotten to her, you’re going to get to hear all about it.
Love,
dad
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)