Nostalgia

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Why My Son Looks Weird In A Romper

May 22, 2012 at 9:41 pm , by 

A year and a half.

After seeing my son wear this romper, I finally understand the meaning of the 1991 hit song, “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred.

Just like I personally know how it is being too sexy for my hat, my shirt, and my cat, so my son is too masculine for this plaid romper.

It just doesn’t work for him. Sorry Son, but this is one outfit you can’t pull off. And I think it’s safe to say that’s a compliment.

This past Saturday my wife skeptically dressed Jack in his new romper as we met some friends at The Pfunky Griddle for breakfast.

As he played in the foyer, I couldn’t help but notice: He doesn’t look right in this thing.

What would it take for him to be able to pull it off? A chili bowl haircut, for starters.

But I don’t think Jack is the chili bowl haircut kind of boy. His military cut seems to suit him well; as does his deep and raspy Croatian voice.

Jack hits his head hard every day as he plays and never flinches or cries about it; most of the time he doesn’t even realize that, technically, he’s injured.

He might as well have a barbed wire tattoo around his bicep.

Jack can pull off “cute,” but not this kind of cute.

I’m not knocking little boys’ rompers, because obviously as many other boy toddlers I see wearing them, and as many are being sold in stores, they must be good for somebody.

As I’ve fished for input on The DadabaseFacebook wall, I’m hearing a consensus that rompers like this are best designed A) for babies, not toddlers and B) for girls. Is that accurate?

Though I personally prefer to dress nice and classy every chance I get, my wife says that she prefers me as a “t-shirt and jeans guy.”

Similarly, I think my son is a t-shirt and jeans toddler.

And he can rock a retro yellow suit from 1981.

Or a wool cap in 85 degree weather.

But to see him grunt his way around in between bar stools and benches wearing this, he just seems like a walking contradiction.

Am I a macho chauvinist dad or am I right to assume that these kinds of rompers just aren’t appropriate for 18 month-old little boys?

Only Right Said Fred can judge me.

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Henry: Jack’s Best Friend (And Long Lost Twin?)

May 14, 2012 at 10:09 pm , by 

17 months.

Several months ago a blonde haired, blue eyed little boy named Henry showed up at Jack’s daycare. He and Jack are now best friends; I think it’s safe to assume.

By default, my wife and I have become friends with Henry’s parents; because, after all, we have to set up “play dates” for our sons. Henry and his family came over to our house for breakfast two months ago and it went well for all six of us.

So we decided to repeat. This past Saturday, we all met at The Pfunky Griddle (where we are every single Saturday anyway at 8:30).

As I sat across from Jack and Henry, I had this revelation that somehow makes sense in my head:

Henry is the Swedish version of Jack; Jack is the Norwegian version of Henry.

But (ir)regardless, they definitely favor in appearance and behavior.

As we left The Pfunky Griddle, we watched our sons run up and down the entry ramp in a delirious state of mind that conveyed the message, “I’m so going to fall asleep right after this!”

It’s interesting to see them react to each other outside of daycare; as if daycare is the Avatar world but in the real word they can’t actually see each other.

I guess it’s like when we were kids and saw our school teacher shopping at Walmart and were confused by the fact that she actually had a family and life outside of being a teacher at school.

I like watching them play together.

One day when I was picking up Jack from daycare I caught them both taking turns climbing to the top of a 2 foot tall padded play structure, pretending it was a mountain.

Each time one of them reached “the mountaintop,” they would throw their hands up in the air as if to say “Whew! I’m exhausted!”

Another time they were outside taking turns going down a 2 foot tall slide. Henry was taking his time getting comfortable for his descent down the slide and Jack, who was behind him, saw me; knowing that it was time to go.

Jack started pushing Henry in a “hurry up, man!” fashion to get one more turn in before I loaded him up in the Honda Element and made him listen to Matt Kearney’s newest CD for the 83rd time.

Jack and Henry deserve their own Eighties sitcom. Like the baby version of Bosom Buddies or Perfect Strangers.

I’d watch it.

 

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The Lazy Smurf Version of Mother’s Day

May 14, 2012 at 9:11 pm , by 

17 months.

Earlier last week I heard Jaci Valasquez say on her morning radio show on The Fish that what she wished for most on Mother’s Day was to take it easy while she and her husband watched their kids play.

I figured that sounded like a pretty good idea. So sure enough, I made sure we had thelaziest Mother’s Day ever at our house.

There’s something anyway about waking up wearing a Smurfs t-shirt that says “Spaced Out” on it that leads to not taking to a shower, which somehow leads to us not leaving for church on time.

We were so slothful we not only were too late for the 9:30 and 11:00 services, but we barely made it on time for the 11:11 service.

It’s evidently designed for anyone who is justlate enough that they need to watch the 11:00 service on an 11 minute delay on a giant movie screen in the big slacker room down the hall while coffee is being served.

That would be us: the slackers.

Not normally, though. Usually we’re okay to confirm to the strict and necessary weekend schedule it takes to socialize, buy groceries and run errands, go to church, and still clean the house, all with a toddler in tow, while living in a big enough town like Nashville.

But not this Mother’s Day. We chose to be as deliberately unmotivated as we could: Starbucks Frappucinos for brunch (where we pushed Jack around in one of their R2D2-looking kid stroller seats) and then had leftover pasta back at the house for a 3:00 lunch.

Jack took a 2 hour grace nap which led to us catching up on some Netlix. (We’re too cheap to ever pay for cable or satellite.)

“Hey, they have the show I Shouldn’t Be Alivenow on the instant streaming…”.

Forty-three minutes later:

“That episode reminded me a lot of Lost. Umm… you want to watch Lost now?”

It was pushing Jack’s dinner time and we still had the house to clean.

In the likeness of one of those fast-forward montages in an Eighties sitcom where the characters clean up the mess real quick thanks to speed-dubbing, while zany music plays, Jill managed to get our place feng shui enough to feel comfortable while I entertained/annoyed Jack. (Pictured right.)

I took all the pillows from our couch and made a giant mountain that kept enclosing Jack as soon as he climbed to the top of it. Next I let him continually walk across our unnecessarily long couch until he got beyond giddy and delirious.

Then he discovered some forgotten (and dreadfully stale) fruit snacks in a travel-size container in the closet. I liked them better than he did.

At some point, Jack and I gave Jill her Mother’s Day care package which consisted of a card from Jack, a box of black licorice that were shaped like little hearts, and a gift certificate for a pedicure.

For us, it was a very lazy Sunday and what I have written is all I remember of it. But I already know Jill will look back on it as a good Mother’s Day; one worth repeating.

The moral of this story is to be lazy and then good things will happen.

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Where The Wild Things Are And Always Will Be

May 8, 2012 at 10:49 pm , by 

17 months.

This week the author of Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak, passed away at age 83. To say his classic and most famous story is my favorite and most influential children’s book is no stretch of the imagination.

For Halloween last October, my son Jack was a sea otter thanks to that costume selling for 9 bucks on Amazon.com. But really, I hoped everyone would be reminded of the wolf costume that the protagonist Max wore in the book.

I remember that day in 1st grade back in 1987 during our weekly library hour, how Mrs. Mauldin read Where the Wild Things Are to our class for the first time.

Why was I so mesmerized by this weird and dark book about a boy and his monsters?

Somehow, part of it didn’t feel like a kids’ book. There was something almost PG-13 about it; though I couldn’t have known why at the time.

Now as a nostalgic 31 year-old dad who is ever-curious about the human subconscious, I see that Where the Wild Things Are allowed a child to experience (and experiment with) loneliness up until the final page of the story.

Up until the very end, Max banishes himself to a sort of forgotten hell in which he takes charge.

I get it now. What kid doesn’t feel left out of the “grown-up world” at times, wishing to be important enough to be in charge the way his or her parents are?

Through this bizarre and yet very realistic story, a child relates.

Today I saw I quote by Storm Jameson which best summarizes why Sendak’s beloved story is so special:

“Happiness comes of the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to think freely, to risk life, to be needed.”

Interestingly, the protagonist (and the reader) of Where the Wild Things Are experiences all these things in the story. I never thought of happiness as anything less than perceived joy.

But this new definition makes a lot more sense. And surely Maurice Sendak knew this when he penned the book.

He subliminally introduced real happiness to me through his adventurous story.

Like Max, I must feel deeply, think freely, risk life, and be needed. That is indeed what makes me happy.

And if I can dress funny and howl and dance in the forest with monsters in the process… even better.

 

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When Kids’ Messes Are Really Deconstruction Learning Exercises

May 6, 2012 at 8:02 pm , by 

17 months.

Jack is finally learning how to actually play with his Lego-like blocks. He likes to see how tall he can build his tower or sword or lightsaber or whatever it’s supposed to be.

But for Jack, it’s just as much fun to tear down and break apart as it is to create.

For the past couple of weeks now, I have noticed that during his playtime, he likes to make messes… for fun.

It’s been nearly a decade since I took a Child Psychology class back when I was in college, but I have to assume that right now my son is working out the engineering part of his brain.

He is teaching himself how to deconstruct things so that he can rebuild them.

My wife told me that Jack likes to abruptly swipe all his bath toys off the tub’s ledge into the water, only to carefully place them back in order.

I’ve said it before, but I truly think Jack is going to be the opposite of me when it comes to his motor skills. He will be a clear-thinking, math and science guy; whereas I’m a deep-thinking, abstract, communications kind of guy.

That’s a good thing. We’ll have plenty to learn from each other.

Of course, that’s not to say that Jack won’t end up being a very sociable little boy, because it’s seems to me he already is.

Yes, I could have allowed myself to become annoyed when Jack started his new daily game of emptying his six different toy caddies in our living room.

But I just remind myself that my son that is becoming his own mechanics teacher.

I can’t believe I just now thought of this, but why am I cleaning up his toys when playtime ends? After all, I shouldn’t deprive him of the very valuable reconstructive lesson of placing his toys back where they belong.

He’s not a baby anymore. He’s a lightsaber swinging toddler who is sure to get better math and science grades than I ever did.