My son can’t love me – when his Mom is around

Gus can’t love us both at once.

His squishy young brain isn’t wired that way. I’ve long accepted that his mom is the sun around which he orbits, as is the natural order of things. When I’m in the same room as Gus and my wife, I have to scrap for crumbs of my son’s attention.

My wife leaves the room and Gus throws himself to the floor and wails as if informed that all the miniature cars and buses in the world had been destroyed by me.

I grit my teeth and wait until Bixie comes back or Gus stops crying, whichever comes first. It’s not something I’m accustomed to: a human being crying because they are left alone with me.

But the funny thing is, once Gus realizes that his crying won’t magically restore his mother to his side, he begins to look at me sheepishly, and then moves in for my affection. He’ll start saying off-the-charts cute things – “Dad, Gus wants to sit with you, okay?” – and then he’ll slide under my arm on the couch and snuggle up, peppering me with questions and laughing when I tickle his armpit.

He loves me. He really loves me. But something inside him prevents him from showing me love when his mom is present, as if he feels disloyal to her for showing allegiance to me.

Right now his mom is out with Ozzie (swim lessons!), and Gus is all over me as I type this. He’s holding my elbow as I type, making it hard to get this post done. But I love it, and him, and I know he loves me.

He just can’t love us both right now, at least not when we’re together. Mom will come home soon and Gus will jump off the couch to greet her, and from that moment on he’ll whine when I try to play with him or wrestle.
It’s a phase, for sure, and a difficult one for all of us. His mother feels terrible about the way Gus clings to her when she’s home, and about the way he gives his dad the stiff arm in her company.

We try to explain to him that it’s okay to love us both at the same time. His mouth says yes, he understands, but his actions demonstrate otherwise.

For now, I’ll just rewind this episode of Elmo’s World – “Dad, we should probably watch this again, don’t you think?” – and enjoy my son’s warmth and company until Bixie returns with Ozzie.

I’ll take it.

Working mother’s blues: guilt and a few guffaws

My lovely bride wrote this post. Enjoy!

These days, leaving the house for work makes me feel slightly schizophrenic, particularly on Mondays. The working mother’s blues.

After a weekend of “togetherness” Gus, our 2 year old, has a *really* hard time accepting the fact that it’s Monday and I’m going off to work again. Monday mornings typically involve him sitting in his high chair and, over waffles, looking up at me and saying something like: “Mom is NOT going to work today. Right, Mom?” There’s not much worse than that – except for when I answer that I AM, in fact, going to work. Then his bottom lip starts to tremble, just a smidge. What comes next is usually a series of mini pep talks and hugs as I try to cheerlead my way out of the house. But sadly, despite my cheerleading prowess, that simply doesn’t work and Gus breaks into full blown hysterics. I literally have to peel him off my leg to get out the door as he begs me to pick him up. It kills me to see him getting so sad, even though I know that within 5 minutes of my leaving he will be having a great time with our amazing nanny. I know that but, still, it’s not a great way to start the day.

What IS a great way to start the day? The way Ozzie, our 1 year old, is currently sending us off to work. Apparently oblivious to Gus’ meltdown, Ozzie stands at the door with a big smile on his face. His arm flails in a frantic wave and he yells – BAHHHHH! (his version of “bye”) at the top of his lungs. It’s crazy and cute and hilarious.

So, on one hand, I leave Gus screaming bloody murder and, on another, Ozzie happily screaming BAHHHH! Two wildly different reactions from two wildly different kiddos whose 16 month age difference seems insanely big right now. You’d think I’d be running from the house with glee but instead all I want to do is get back in there, calm things down and make them both happy.

Do you forget this?

A little while back Gus, our two-year-old, was acting up worse than ever before. Tell him to do something and he’d first ignore it, then test you, and then completely lose his wits when you performed your parental duty and enforced your instructions.

He was a red-faced, tear-streaked, stomping and wailing horror show to be around. Weekends were beginning to feel like we were trapped in the presence of a two-foot-tall heretic with curly hair and blood-like pasta sauce on its cheeks.

You try to do what you can to remain calm in the face of an angry little creature, like walking out of the room for a moment, massaging your own temples, breathing deeply to quell the anger welling up in your soul.

After all, we do nothing but love and care for this little boy. What could be the matter?
We tried “time outs,” in which Gus was escorted unceremoniously to a miniature chair in the corner. We’d keep him there for two minutes, watching the curtains shimmer with each stomp of his feet. We tried telling him that he had to listen to mom and dad; that his behavior was not acceptable; that he was drooling.

After several days of this, I decided to put on my doctor hat and ask him if his teeth were bothering him. No, he said. I asked if his tummy hurt. No, he said. Then why are you so grumpy all the time, I asked, urging him to “tell dad.”

He was quiet for a long time, but it seemed like he wanted to tell me something. I asked him if he was mad at mom and dad for going to work during the day. He faintly, very faintly, said “yeah,” his eyes looking at his own feet, his hands clutching his shirt.

After a while of this, amid a long hug, he told me that he really missed mom. Mom doesn’t have to go to work, he said, as if saying it would make it so. It was heartbreaking, really, to hear him put into words what he’s been conveying through his actions.

I held him close, his face in my hands, and told him that we know it’s hard, but we do have to work, and that mom really likes it when Gus is happy when we ARE home.

He looked me square in the eye, his face softening. I forgot, he said.
You forgot? What did you forget, buddy?

What he said next in a soft voice is the loudest sentence I’ve heard in a long time. On a micro-level it explained so much, but at the macro-level it applies broadly to everyone, now and again, as we soldier through the ups and downs of life.

He said: I forgot to be happy.

It sounds like some sappy Hallmark story, but the truth is that from that conversation forward, Gus has been a new toddler. Every now and again he’ll get grouchy, but we remind him not to forget to be happy.

And you know what? He remembers. And then he’s happy.

Would that we could all possess that power.

When whispers are the loudest words.

My sweet bride takes the wheel for this post. Off she goes:

The other night Parry put a fire in the fireplace after Ozzie went to bed. Gus, Parry and I just laid on the floor in front of the fire talking and playing. There were actually a few minutes of complete silence, which doesn’t come easy in our household these days – at least in the waking hours.

When I told Gus it was time for bed he, predictably, started crying. We are on this kick where we ask him to “use his words”– so after he calmed down he said “Sit by the fire for two minutes with the mom?” Now, we all know I’m not going to deny a request like that so, I obliged.

I was laying down on my side and he copied my pose, facing me. He was talking a little, but mostly quiet. I told him to listen to the fire crackling. His big brown eyes focused on the ceiling and a cute half smile appeared – I could tell he was listening. I whispered “can you hear it?” and he whispered back “yeah.” A minute or so later he whispered my line back to me: “hear it?” We stayed in that spot for about three minutes – nose-to-nose, in the dark, whispering a little and listening. It was one of the sweetest moments we’ve ever shared.

The smell of the fire was a little stronger than typical because it was pouring rain outside. In the kitchen, I heard Parry putting ice cubes in a glass for his evening cocktail. Gus heard the noise too, jumped up and ran into the kitchen to ask Parry if he wanted to “listen to the fire cackle with us.”

Those are the moments that I want to squish into a tiny little ball and put in a box for safe keeping. The ones that cheer me up on a rainy day. The ones that make us who we are.

Bats, bugs and boys. Life at the farmhouse.

We’re settling in. Tonight I hold Gus’ hand as we walk up to the tall picket fence at the back of the property. He’s barefoot, the ankle-deep summer grass sweet in the evening air.

Gus knows about a pile of sticks off to the right, where the compost pile slowly digests the yard trimmings of seasons past. I know he’s going to ask about the sticks, so I tell him I want to see how fast he can run back toward the house. He takes off running, his arms flopping around in an uncoordinated fashion. He’s laughing, I’m laughing, and the comedy of the moment causes him to tumble into the grass.

I love it.

Until recently I kept having the nagging feeling that my return flight to San Francisco was approaching; that I was caught in a purgatory of sorts, between places, neither here nor there, waiting to feel normal again.

The other morning my lovely bride asks me to identify the small gray lump perched on the curtain rod in our living room. She wonders if it’s a mouse, which I find amusing because everyone knows mice prefer to hang out on the blades of ceiling fans.

No, I say. It’s a bat. Bixie, who is feeding Ozzie a bottle on the couch, starts trembling a bit and is close to tears. It’s okay, I tell her, and she repairs to the family room (note: I’m not sure which is the living room and which is the family room) and closes the double-glass door behind her.

After three clumsy, frazzling attempts, I finally hit the bat square in the face with a rubber ball. It falls, an outstretched wing twitching on the way down, into a clutter of vacuum-cleaner-cord between a pair of occasional chairs. I throw a towel over it, grab its quivering body through the fabric, and listen to it shriek in horror as I chuck the whole thing outside.

I was glad I didn’t kill it. Bats eat bugs, and there are so many bugs here that, if anything, we need more bats – not fewer. Last night Bixie told me there was an insanely huge bug on the bathroom mirror that needed to be dealt with. It was the size of a guitar pick and crunched when I squeezed it with tissue. A few months ago that disgusting act would have made me feel queasy.

Now it feels normal. As normal as Gus wanting to start trouble with a pile of sticks, or a walk to the fence, or a bat in the house.

We’re settling into the here and the now. I’m not waiting for a phantom flight back to the past. I’m tickling my kids, kissing my wife and thinking about what we’re going to do as a family tomorrow.

And it feels good.

A Patriots pre-season game is on tonight that I’m half-watching. I remember when we were in San Francisco I used to get so frustrated that we couldn’t get these practice games. My wife is out having dinner with our friend Peggy, and the kids are snug as bugs.

Ozzie, whose teeth are sprouting like some out-of-control jack-o-lantern, will start wailing in his crib tomorrow at the normal time: 5:30 a.m. I’ll pull the trash barrels out to the mailbox like I do every Friday morning, and then Bixie and I will head off to work, our terrific nanny (Kayla) having taken over at 7:45 a.m.

I need to mow the grass, but the tractor mower needs a jump. It’ll be knee-high on a toddler before long.

Our 9-month-old baby is like a puppy.

Ozzie is now nine months old. Such a little nugget of fun.

If I put floppy ears and a tail on Ozzie he’d basically be a hairless puppy. He crawls after anyone walking out of the room, panting and yipping excitedly. Like a pooch, he resists being put on his back (for a diaper change). He flails and screeches and wrinkles his nose in defiance, his soft belly twisted toward whatever he perceives to be “the action.”

As I once wrote about Gus, Ozzie has morphed from an immobile spectator, blubbering and whimpering on his rump, into a vocal, full-fledged, rumbling participant in the household. If social interaction is a light, Ozzie is a moth on a collision course with the action. No barrier is sufficient. He will break through or wear you down until you remove the obstruction.

He will laugh and crawl over your face, and perhaps claw at your lips and eyes for good measure, on his way to a livelier party. He’s very much the opposite of Gus, now two years old. Our boy Gus asks for a permission slip for nearly everything he does. He’s cautious and calculating, and tries hard to win our endorsement for his every move.

Ozzie is governed entirely by his id. He wants to go where he wants to go, touch what he wants to touch, lick what he wants to lick. And it’s hysterically funny to watch. Gus howls at Ozzie because he can’t believe this little plump baby has the “balls” to just do whatever he pleases. Ozzie will giggle as he crawls over to Gus and pulls his hair. Gus is amazed and, let’s be honest, a bit intimidated by his little brother’s moxie.

And things are about to get more interesting, because Ozzie has pulled himself into the standing position a few times already. Once he has his legs under him, it’s time to batten down the hatches: nothing will be safe from Ozzie’s iron will.

But he does have a soft streak. In the morning I’ll pluck him from his crib at around 5:30 a.m., and take him downstairs for some “dad time.” I’ll sit on the couch, tuck him under my arm like a football, and we’ll just hang out like that for about 20 minutes. He doesn’t fight me. He doesn’t resist. Instead he’ll turn his fat little face up toward mine and just blink earnestly, those blue eyes sparkly in the light of dawn. I feel so close to him during those times, so happy. I think he feels the same way about his old man.

It’ll be interesting to see how things shake out between him and Gus in coming months. My sense is that Ozzie’s daredevil ways will rub off positively on trepidations Gus. And hopefully Gus will instill in Ozzie a bit of caution about the treachery of shiny objects and forbidden fruit.

As for Bixie and I, we can’t believe how fun it is to watch our boys turn into thinking and feeling humans. The hard work is so worth it, every minute of it.

Cooler still is that with Ozzie, we don’t need a dog. When we come home he’s panting at the front door, wagging his little butt and grinning ear to ear.

Leaving Sausalito. Don’t know when I’ll be back again.

Bixie’s parting shots as we officially leave California:

This is it. We’re leaving. And while I’m sure this feels like the long goodbye to most of you, for me, it still feels like it happened too fast. By the time you read this I will be on a plane with our two little boys and Livy (our kick ass nanny) and flying away from the place that we’ve called home for the last 10+ years. I’m excited and scared and hopeful and honestly a touch insane after all this packing and organizing nonsense, but mostly, I’m thankful to have had such an amazing time in such an amazing place. For those of you who have been to Sausalito, you know what I’m talking about. For those of you who don’t, here’s a taste of what we’ll be missing and what we are amped to get back to someday.

View from our patio in Sausalito

Our favorite restaurant, Buckeye Roadhouse

Our morning walk, along Bridgeway in Sausalito

In closing, I’m calling on my boy John Denver:
I’m leavin on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go.

Saying goodbye to our boys’ nanny. A family member left behind.

Our son Gus has known her since he was 3-months old, before he could even sit up. Today he calls her “Livy,” which is what we’ve also come to call our world class nanny and dear family friend, Olivia.

She looks how Strawberry Shortcake might look as a grown woman. Amber hair, youthful freckles, fair Irish skin. She has a mischievous smile she flashes only so often in the company of strangers, since she’s polite to a fault and would die if she were perceived, even for a moment, as being unserious about taking fantastic care of babies.

That’s who she is: overwhelmingly competent. Fanatical about doing right by our boys and us.

We convinced Livy to come work in our home last year after being blown away by her gentle spirit and natural way with babies at the daycare where we first brought Gus. There, she’d greet us at the door every morning wearing an old fashioned apron, her hair tucked behind her ears, her hands outstretched for our tiny son Gus. No kidding: some mornings the room was sweet with the smell of muffins baking.

There’s a feeling you get around certain people, you know? I’m talking about the calm, reassuring demeanor that only the most fundamentally decent people on earth possess. No problem is a problem around them, only an opportunity. Inconveniences aren’t. Helping is their mandate, compassion their compass.

This is Livy.

She’s serious about her work, about providing order and structure in a clean environment, but Bixie and I have come to understand the simple joy she gets by gathering our babies into her arms. We watch her watching, reading and playing with our kids. And it’s when she doesn’t think we’re paying attention that her loving attributes shine brightest.

She’s intensely proud of our boys’ accomplishments, whether it’s Ozzie rolling over more quickly than before or Gus stringing together a new five-word sentence. She engages them constantly, but she also sometimes pulls back and just watches and grins, marveling at – and satisfied by – the constant progress.

She’s not so much proud of what she’s helped to nurture, but happy for the boys that they’re learning, laughing, living in the moment. She does not take credit. She only praises. In all the time I’ve known her I’ve never seen her sit on our furniture. She’s always on the floor with the kids, face to face, where I truly believe she’s most comfortable.

This is Livy.

Though we are excited to move home, there are many points of sadness associated with our move back to Boston from California. Chief among them is that we’ll need to say goodbye to Livy, such an integral part of our family’s day-to-day life in Sausalito.
Fortunately, she’ll be flying back with my wife and boys to help us get settled, and as that’s happening I’ll be driving home cross country, the wheels spinning toward a future nearer to family.

We’ll be leaving one family member behind. A person who makes our sons giggle, who takes them for long walks along the Sausalito waterfront, who reads to them while we’re working and who constantly challenges them to take the next step in their respective development cycles.

Most of all we’re leaving behind a kind-hearted soul who loves our boys endlessly. In her sparkly blue-green eyes we see the warmth and mirth that have helped to shape our children’s early years.

This morning Livy and my wife sat in the living room, our boys playing between them on the rug. Both women wiped away tears and tried to hold it together. Ozzie kicked his legs, smiling. Gus was interested to know if either woman would by chance like to play cars.

We will never forget you, Livy.

We’re so grateful for everything you’ve done, and we’ll never let our sons forget their time in your care, and in your loving arms, in California.

Moving back to Boston – Bixie explains why we’re leaving California

My lovely bride examines the excruciatingly difficult – but ultimately correct – decision to leave California for Boston after more than a decade. Off she goes:

Being an adult is weird. And being a parent is weirder. When every decision you make has a direct impact on two little humans, it makes it even harder to pull the trigger sometimes. Add to it the fact that Parry and I are both Libras and it could literally take us years to weigh the pros and cons of major life decisions. That’s exactly what happened on the topic of moving back East to be closer to our families.

Until now. Now we have officially made what, aside from having kids, is our single biggest and most adult decision. We’ve decided to head back to where I’ve always called “home” even though we haven’t lived there for 11 years. Watch out, Boston, here come the Headricks.

While the biggest “con” of living back East is pretty obvious (read: 7 months of winter), the fact is that we want Gus and Oscar to grow up knowing their Bammy, Bampy, Nana and Papa. We want Gus and Oscar to play with and fight with their cousins as if they are siblings. We want Gus and Oscar to know their aunties and uncles and the kids of our closest friends. And we want all of them to KNOW Gus and Oscar. We want them to see for themselves just how great they are vs. us always relaying the hilarious, amazing, cute and (wicked) smart stuff they are doing.

I will always be proud of what we’ve done out here. We established great careers and helped significantly grow the San Francisco office of what Parry consistently calls “one of the hottest PR firms on the planet.” We had two babies galaxies away from our families and we not only managed to survive, but we found amazing people who gave us the support we needed to maintain a “normal” balance as a couple. We have formed our own traditions and structure as a family that we will continue on, no matter where we live.

But I am equally as proud to be making a decision that, while excruciatingly difficult, is the best thing for our family. I’m proud to continue my career at a PR agency in Newburyport called Matter Communications, which is led by two really smart, fun and super nice people who are ready to challenge me in new ways. I’m proud that we have decided that family comes first and that we are setting that example for Gus and Oscar. And I’m proud that, even though I’m 10 years overdue, I am coming home just like I promised my parents I would – with the love of my life and two babes in tow.

We are so sad to be leaving Sausalito but Parry and I have already decided we will retire here, if all goes well. We even have what I believe to be pretty solid plans to meet some very good friends here in our old age. Until then, I will cherish the time we spent here evolving from two people without a care in the world to new parents trying to find our way around an exo-saucer. Thanks, Sausalito, we will miss you every day but we have finally made our decision to go.

Toddlers & Temper Tantrums: How to Avoid the King Kong Effect

Gus is not quite two years old. As such, he’s a sweetheart most of the time, but temper tantrums are an everyday occurrence at this point. Especially at the dinner/lunch/breakfast table.

So, how best to quell a tantrum? Here’s a handy guide:

Do not: Imitate the tantrum-thrower. Tempting as it is to mock the child by knocking things off the table, slobbering and jumping up and down, this tactic is confusing for the person actually experiencing the tantrum. “Oh great,” they will think. “Now we’re BOTH throwing tantrums.”

Do: Be the one in control. Resist getting flustered. Do not let them hear you audibly crying, and never let the tantrum-thrower see tears streaming down your own cheeks. If necessary, hold a newspaper in front of your face as if (instead of hiding your own meltdown) you’re casually skimming the day’s headlines.

Do not: Throw paper airplanes at a child throwing a tantrum. This will serve to further bewilder the tantrum thrower, creating the King Kong Effect. The child will grow increasingly frustrated, angrily swatting at the planes buzzing past his/her head. Growling and other primal noises are sure to follow.

Do: Sit down on the floor near the wailing subject, so they aren’t going through the emotional meltdown alone. If possible, hold the child’s hand or gently rub his/her back. No tickling.

Do not: Scream “stop being a baby!” at the child having a tantrum, since the child more closely resembles a baby than an adult, and technically the child WAS an actual baby less than a year ago. Further, the child certainly doesn’t know what it means to stop being a baby, since the expression is best used on nagging spouses or whiny teens (who are not close to being actual babies), thereby increasing frustration levels all around.

Do: Speak in calm, reassuring tones that let the child know you’re not mad, not out of control, and not about to make matters worse by demanding the tantrum thrower stop acting like something he/she actually was less than a year ago.

Do not: Give the tantrum-thrower candy in an effort to make them quiet down. First, candy is a choking hazard when the eater is crying and shaking uncontrollably. That doesn’t stop jilted ex-girlfriends from doing it, but toddlers have less experience breathing properly while scarfing down sugary treats to kill emotional pain. Also avoid giving the child clumpy oatmeal. Because that’s just cruel.

Do: Give the child some water. The act of drinking water can alert you that your child is trying to calm down. Also, water is easier to clean of your clothes and the walls than oatmeal.

That about covers it for me. What are your suggestions?