Dadblast Salute: Happy 66th B-day, Eli!

Today I thought I’d give a shout-out to my wife’s father, my father in-law, who turns 66 today. Eli Mladenoff is his name, and living an unassuming life is his game.

I first met Eli about 10 years ago, and was struck by how large and dignified he looked: soap-opera-perfect salt-and-pepper hair framing a handsome face with a modestly chiseled jaw. But it was his eyes that I couldn’t stop looking at.

See, his daughter Bixie has those same eyes. For that matter the whole Mladenoff clan seems to share basically the same face – which is at once true and false. It’s true because if you meet one of them having already met the rest, you can instantly tell they’re from the same family. It’s false because, sitting side-by-side, they each possess unique characteristics that serve to assure the viewer that he or she hasn’t walked into an alternate universe in which everyone is expected be a carbon copy of Eli Mladenoff.

The Big Easy, as I sometimes call the gentle giant, was born to off-the-boat Macedonian parents (Jordan and Pauline), and it is their genetic coding – deep, dark smiling eyes – that pervades Family Mladenoff. Those attributes have also been infused into the genes of my own son, Gus.

And knowing Eli as I do, I have to believe that his parents instilled in him the sort of Old World ethics and ABSOLUTE devotion to family uncommon in this country today. Perhaps that’s a naïve, romantic view of Eli’s Macedonian ancestry. But when I think about the big guy’s human kindness, his fundamental decency, I can’t help picture a subtitled film playing in my head in which his otherworldly parents teach young Eli the values they cherish:

MOTHER (Majka): “No matter what, you must always sacrifice for the sake of your wife and children. Always. Do you understand?”

YOUNG ELI: “Yes, Majka. Of course. Now, can I make you some tea or massage your feet? Perhaps I can wash the laundry by hand for you?”

PAPA: “One more thing, my son. We are not asking you to be perfect, for no one is perfect. If you honor us by always doing the right thing for your family, you are permitted to have one vice, and one vice only. Choose wisely.”

YOUNG ELI: “Yes, Papa. That’s easy! For my vice I shall choose vanilla cream donuts, and I will sneak off to eat them every day, rain or shine. Now, can I please go do some yard work or other chores to help you? Maybe I should go chop up a winter’s worth of firewood?”

And so on.
I’ve watched Eli interact with his three daughters and one son, and the one constant in all of this is how absolutely devoted he is to their collective and individual happiness. And now his kids have rewarded Eli by having their own children, which has made Eli a happy man, indeed.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but when I watch the Big Easy gather my son into his considerable lap for a long, cozy snuggle, I think to myself: that’s one lucky kid.

And when I watch Eli rush off to help one of his own daughters in need of assistance – day or night; rain or snow – I think to myself: that’s one lucky kid.

And when I watch Eli get up early to make his wife Claudia a pot of coffee, or to walk down to the basement to switch the laundry, I think to myself: that’s one lucky wife.

And when I listened to Eli’s heart-warming speech the day I took his daughter Bixie’s hand in marriage, I thought to myself: I’m one lucky guy.

Of course, Eli isn’t perfect. Everyone knows that at least a few times a week he sneaks around behind our backs for an indulgence he’d rather not openly discuss.

But if you happen to spot a sprinkling of powered sugar on his cheek, he won’t deny that he had the vanilla cream-filled donut. Instead he’ll break into that Santa Clause laugh and tell you, without remorse, that it was delicious.

One lucky guy indeed.

Happy Birthday, Eli!

Daddy blogger’s Wife: “Advice for My Sister — the New Mom”

The following was penned by my lovely bride, Bixie:

When I first wrote about Gus going to day care it was BEFORE he went. I was jumbled with feelings of super sadness and guilt; I tried to think of every way I could somehow NOT leave Gus. But I did it. And I survived.

I’m being reminded of what a sad process it was now that my sister Ali is getting ready to head back to work after having Miss Evie Sugar on January 1st. She is sad, of course, and even though I try to comfort her I know there is nothing that I can really say from making her feel sad, or even guilty. It’s just one of those crazy processes that some mothers have to go through, I guess. While I know I can’t make things better for her – I can share a few things that I wish I’d known when I was going through it.

Quality time ROCKS

It is a major adjustment going from spending every waking moment with your babe to getting back into the swing of a work schedule. It’s quite obvious that you don’t get the same amount of time with your babe when you go to work. But there is a lot to be said for the quality time you can squeeze in before and after work. We call our night time ritual with Gus Happy Hour because all he does is squeal and giggle and roll around like a happy little munchkin. I like to think he’s as happy to be with us as we are to be with him. It’s the best possible way to end the day and I never imagined his bedtime ritual could be so much fun or fulfilling. Sounds dorky – but it’s SO true. Whenever I’m feeling bad about not being with Gus during the day – I think about how lucky we all are that we have that time together. Makes it all a-okay.

He’ll make “friends”

While it’s true that I would have FAR preferred to stay home with Gus at the time (and I’m sure he wished the same, right?), it quickly became clear that he liked going into the baby room at day care where a bunch of other similarly sized humans were. There were a lot of staring contests in the early days but stories from his teachers reinforced that he really was socializing. The earliest story was how Gus was “holding hands” with one of the little girls in the room while they laid under the gym mini (with pictures to prove it!). Most recently, Gus started eating lunch so he gets to sit with the other kids at the table. One of his teachers told me that at the beginning of the meal Gus sits at the table and kicks his legs wildly while looking around and just smiling at all the other kids. He’s excited to eat lunch with his friends. Something about that just melts my heart.

Teachers are teachers for a reason

Now, my sister should know this more than anyone, because she is a kindergarten teacher. But, for some reason, I kind of forgot that I wasn’t going to be leaving Gus with just a random sampling of people. I was leaving him with people who choose to be with kids every day because they love them. They all have their own very distinct personalities but I have no doubt that each teacher in that room really loves Gus. And nothing makes me happier.

If anyone else has gone through this and something to share with Ali, I’d appreciate it. She’ll still be sad but it might help her see that it DOES get better.

My Favorite Valentine’s Day — Ever

This year Bixie and I decided to pack up Gus and fly to San Diego for the long Valentine’s Day weekend. Gus is no stranger to flying at this point; readers of this blog know he jets about the country fairly regularly. He’s almost eight months old and has already flown a whopping five times.

We stayed at the Hyatt in Mission Bay (about a half mile from Seaworld) and had a terrific suite that had two rooms – one for a sleeping baby and the other for (gently) partying parents.

By day we frolicked at one of the three pools on the resort. Bixie slathered up Gus’s porky white body with SPF 4 Billion and topped him off with a tropical-themed Gilligan’s Island hat. He seemed to like going into the pool once the shock of a lower temperature morphed into the joy of splashing.

Gus poolside

But I think my favorite part of the mini-vacation was Valentine’s night. The resort boasted a 4 or 5 star restaurant called the Red Marlin, which sat on pillars at the mouth of the harbor. Colorful sails and gentle waves and swaying palm trees were on the viewing menu – that is, if you’d had the foresight to make a dinner reservation weeks in advance.

And we hadn’t. Mostly that’s because we know Gus is typically counting sheep by 6:30 p.m., but also because we didn’t put pressure on ourselves this year to have the big fancy dinner. Just being away was enough.

We went up to the huge deck of the Red Marlin to have a drink and maybe a couple of appetizers before the dinner crowd showed up, but we were told by a waiter that the bar menu wasn’t available that night due to all of the Valentine’s Day prep – but he would check to be sure.

So we resigned ourselves to having a drink next to the roaring fire pit on the deck. Gus was in a great mood; he and his mom were chuckling and playing in the light of the fire. A while later the waiter reappeared to inform us that the full menu was in fact available to us if we chose to eat on the hearth of the fire pit.

In other words, while the sun was bleeding into stunning reds and pinks over the harbor, and all of the people were lining up like cattle at the front ramp in a rush to get seated inside, Bixie, Gus and I had a private table at the fire pit on the middle of the deck.

Let me explain it another way: there is no other seat in the house that I would have picked for a Valentine’s day dinner with my family, and we got it precisely because we hadn’t planned in advance.

Our spirits were warm, my friends. The drinks were delicious and the food was top drawer, and the ambiance was the stuff of dreams – a crackling fire under a blazing San Diego sky.

My wife and I didn’t exchange cards this year for the first time ever. But somehow that didn’t seem to matter.

And I can’t speak for her, but when I took in everything that was going on that night – the view, the warmth, our smiling baby and my gorgeous bride laughing hearthside – what else was there to say?

Every kind thought and warm feeling I have about my family was more radiant and somehow truer that night in Sandy Eggo.

And there’s not a Valentine’s Day Card on the planet that stacks up.

Dadblast update: baby behaving babyish

We’ve been busy living a busy life. Work is busy (in a good way) and parenting is busy (in a fun way).

Let’s see, where to begin? Gus now sits up for as long as an hour unassisted. Whereas two months ago he toppled over with the slightest breeze, today his spinal column is ramrod straight and supported by balance-maintaining muscles. He surely wobbles, but he won’t go down.

And he’s far more vocal. He likes to babble baby-style, sometimes saying things that are actual words by accident. This morning he strung together “ma-ma-ma-ma” amidst a typical spit-producing blubbering jag. The other morning we think we heard him say “da-da” in similar fashion. Last night, as Bixie and I noted that he can’t yet sit up by himself, we’re pretty sure he said “nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

On the sleeping front, life has been something close to normal for the family. When we got back from Boston for the holidays we employed the Ferber method and, within 25 minutes, Gus had learned that the old days of mom and dad rushing into his bedroom at the slightest whimper were behind him. For good. Since then he sleeps from about 6:30 p.m. to about 6:30 a.m.!

I don’t need to tell you parents how huge this is: going from waking up every single hour to sleeping through the night is a watershed occurrence. In a sense, we got our life back. Disturbingly, though, Gus has woken up at 4:30 a.m. the past three nights in a row. Not sure what that’s about yet (teething?), but hopefully it’s just a blip.

In terms of the most noticeable changes, I’d say that Gus has finally crossed the chasm from being a spectator to a full participant. He’s no longer content to simply sit and stare at the world around him: he wants in! He grabs for everything in sight and gets steamed when he can’t reach what he wants. He gets annoyed when we don’t let him sit on our laps during dinner. When one of us walks out of the room he gets frantic, as if seeing the milk delivery truck pass by the house without a visit.

Another biggie: separation anxiety with respect to Bixie. He simply can’t get enough of her. If he senses she’s nearby but not immediately with him, he’ll bawl his face off. Sometimes this gives me a “chopped liver” complex, but I have to remind myself that it’s normal and that I’m actually a pretty nice person who deserves love from my baby as much as Gus’s mother does, only she carried him for nine months and gave birth to him and nursed him and therefore is entitled evolutionarily to my son’s unyielding attention.

Am I bitter about it? Oh, please! Only when my son stiff-arms me when I’m trying to hug him at the same time he catches a glimpse of his mother. At that moment dad = monster while mom = fluffy clouds and sunshine and milk trucks.

How can a dad explain this feeling to a mom in a way that makes sense? Let’s try this visualization exercise. Imagine if you were out on a date with your man, having a great time. Then, your guy catches a glimpse of an extremely attractive woman at another table and begins ignoring you – and is even rude to you! – because all he wants to do is be held and tickled by that more attractive woman.

It’s kind of like that. Of course an infant isn’t able to control his urges but your hubby (for the most part) can.

Speaking of controlling urges, I’m guessing my impulsive writing above may get me into hot water on the homestead.

But what am I – a baby? I can take it.

A “Daddy Blogger” Manifesto — Dadblast.com

It’s no secret that many bloggers have, ahem, questionable ethics. In an effort to demonstrate my unimpeachable character and moral timber, I have outlined my core principles here in the form of a declaration – a manifesto, if you will, for daddy bloggers.

I offer it these truths (without copyright restrictions) for all to embrace as their own, and, as warranted, to use as the guiding framework in college ethics courses. Off we go:

1. It is my inalienable right – and the right of all fathers who blog about their kids – to hate with a passion the term “Daddy blogger,” even if that is the culturally accepted moniker bestowed upon dads as a logical counterpart to the wildly popular phenomenon known as the “Mommy blogger.”

It is also my right to point out the flawed naming convention, since people who blog about finances are known as “money bloggers.” People who blog about restaurants are referred to as “food bloggers.” And people who blog about the shenanigans of pill-popping celebrities are dubbed “gossip bloggers.”

But I won’t push this last issue. No sir. No how. Because the logical alternative to “daddy blogger” is far more awkward:

Q. So, do you have any hobbies?

A. Me? Sure do. I’m a child blogger.

Q. Oh … you’re a … you um … you blog about little KIDS?

A. It’s complicated. I’m actually – wait, where are you going?

2. I shall not be ashamed to write emotionally about my family. Look, I’m just as apt to tell my son to “rub some dirt on it” as the next guy (unless the next guy is Chuck Norris), but I’m also getting sappy the older I get. Maybe I’m going through andropause, or maybe I’m just a weepy old fool. But writing about the ups and downs of your family life necessarily means illuminating the emotions associated with important milestones.

It means capturing with words the things you simply don’t want to forget. And sometimes in the telling of these stories – the first steps of your first child; the first Christmas; the first time you hear “mama” (and nobody’s wearing leather or brandishing a riding crop) – it gets you good; right in the soul.

So, yeah, I’m a daddy blogger who likes writing about snuggling with my family. So pour yourself a warm French vanilla latte and grab the Kleenex, bitch.

3. I will turn a blind eye on “the man.” I will not accept payment by big corporations for my blogging commentary. I refuse to accept products, services or actual currency from giant organizations looking to capitalize on the goodwill I have earned from you, my dear readers. I simply cannot be bought by these huge enterprises, and my opinions are solely my own. Period.

That said … if you happen to be a slightly smaller corporation and you have some fun, free stuff, go ahead and send it my way and I’ll praise your marketing schwag as if my own son invented it with help from a magical unicorn. No questions asked.

You may also (without so much as a peep from me) set up a SmartyPig account for my children. Note: If you’re reading this post and you happen to represent the FTC on blogger guidelines, I’m just kidding about all of this! (wink).

4. I shall never use emoticons on dadblast.com. If I’m not clever enough to convey my stories without the help of cheap symbols and other vulgar visual gimmicks, what’s the point? We’re not cavemen, after all. What kind of example am I trying to set for my son? That we should communicate not with the elegant machinery of the English language, but instead using crude hieroglyphics? That his dad is half monkey? A hapless ape?

ROFL!

5. I hereby declare that I shall never take an additional wife. The one I have now is more than enough (sorry Utah readers!) and she makes me perfectly happy. My sweet Bixie has the kindness of an angel and the grace of a saint, and she’s an important part of my commentary here on dadblast. As I write this she’s off entertaining at some fancy party in New York, and tomorrow she’ll be in Boston. That leaves me and our infant son alone together for, let’s see … oh, five days?

Wait – what the hell?! Five days? That’s a mighty long time.

Some day I’ll explain to my son, likely in a folksy cowboy voice, that a man can get powerful lonely in five days. (At this point I’ll pretend to spit into a spittoon – pffft-ding!). I’ll tell him that “it ain’t right to sidle up with no hellcats while the missus is off the ranch, unless’n you’re ready for a mean ole dustup when she hears tale of your tomfoolery.”

“A man’s got to have one woman and one woman only,” I’ll conclude dramatically, wagging an index finger in front of my boy’s wide blinking eyes. “‘Cause more’n one wife ain’t natural – an’ more’n two’s plain crazy.”

Disclamer: I’m not sure if this is an appropriate lesson for a child or not. Or an appropriate topic for this manifesto. Nonetheless I’d like to thank my small corporate sponsor for the nice trip to Disneyland!

(Just kidding, FTC. LOL!)

Mommy Monday: Nightmare Baby Sleeping Habits Turn Dreamy!

When it comes to sleeping, our family has been suffering quite a bit for the past few months. When Gus was three months old, he was already sleeping 6 to 7 hours at a time. We felt SUPER lucky and thought we were on the road to restfulness. Then right around Thanksgiving time, everything changed. We could blame it on hospital visits, traveling back East, being sick, teething, putting Gus in different sleeping situations or just pure bad luck. Whatever the cause – we were all (including Gus) exhausted from being up anywhere between 3 – 7 times a night. Each time he woke up, the only way to get him back to sleep was to pick him up and, more often than not, feed him. It wasn’t fun and our weekends were a series of patchwork naps and sleeping stints in an effort to “catch up.” I started to dread night time and going to bed which, for anyone who knows me, knows that I LOVE a good, long sleep.

Last Friday, Parry and I agreed that this had to stop. Realizing the toll it was taking on us, we could only imagine how it was affecting the Gus man and what bad habits we were cultivating in him. I went to Facebook, my sister Nicole & Super Parents Kerri & Simo for advice. Everyone agreed it was time for sleep training and they all had the same tactic – which turns out is called the Ferber method.

For those of you who don’t know – the Ferber method is about letting your babe “cry it out” while comforting him at time intervals (i.e. after the first 5 minutes of crying – a parent goes in and gently soothes the babe without picking him up or feeding him). The idea is the time intervals gradually increase so the babe doesn’t expect or need the parent in order to fall back asleep. It sounds cruel – as every parent hates to hear their babe cry – but we also knew that we couldn’t continue down the sleep path we were on. At 6 ½ months, Gus is at a crucial learning & retaining phase – we didn’t want to affect his development because he was exhausted.

We decided to start on Saturday and I was terrified. I was afraid Gus would be starving in the night or that he would simply cry throughout the night and then be scarred for life. There was a quote in an article that made me feel much better about the process which basically said that sleep training is one of the first hard things that parents do to help their children be more independent. So, while I was scared, I was also sold. This HAD to happen.

The first part of the training happened on Saturday day which we spent getting Gus back to eating every 3 – 3 ½ hours. It was a bit of a tearful, stressful day – but it worked and before bed time on Saturday night Gus had a hearty meal of cereal & bananas, as well as his nighttime bottle. We gave him a bath and then Parry tucked him in at 6:30 pm. We had agreed that training would start from the moment we put him down. Wouldn’t you know – at 7 pm, Gus started crying. Parry bravely followed the protocol of going up in time intervals (we had decided on 4 minutes, 6 minutes, 10 minutes and 15 minutes) and the first two times, Gus kept wailing. And I kept cringing at the sound of his sobs. But, much to our surprise by 7:17 pm, Gus had fallen back asleep.

We were ready for a trying night and when he started crying again at 9 I wondered if this was something I could actually do. But Gus stopped crying before the first 4 minute interval was over. Whew – lucky! Parry and I hit the sack around 10:30 and even though we both woke up numerous times checking the monitor (to make sure it was on, that he was breathing – all that rational stuff), Gus didn’t wake up again until 3 am. Parry had to go once and by the second interval he was asleep again. I had decided that after 4:30, I would go in and get him figuring he would be starving or just need me. When I woke up at 5 am, I turned on the video monitor and saw something that honestly brought tears to my eyes: Gus was playing in his crib. He wasn’t crying or fussing, he was content and trying to suck on his feety PJs.

We figured night #1 was a fluke and were prepared for night #2 to be much worse. But last night was even better – he went to bed at 6 pm and woke up at 6 am – with only one crying stint at 1 am that lasted for 6 minutes. We are obviously really lucky that it has gone as easily as it has – so far. But I think that half the battle is knowing that we can all get through this. And that we’re not hurting him.

I know that sleep training seems and sounds like a selfish thing – but I cannot explain how proud I am of Gus. It turns out that he isn’t a difficult sleeper but that WE, as his parents, had gotten him into a bad cycle and it was our job to set him up to successfully get out of it. While I imagine this isn’t the end of our challenges with sleep, I do know that it’s the beginning of Gus’ independence and it’s been pretty amazing to watch so far.

New Year’s Day: Sorrow and Joy in the Circle of Life

I learned today that a person very dear to me passed away, and that a new member of the family was born. Both pieces of news – polar opposites on the emotional spectrum – came within the same hour on New Year’s Day, 2010.

First, let me take a moment to say a heartfelt goodbye to an important part of my past. Further down, I’d like to say a warm hello to an important part of my future.

Joan Frances Young, or “Joanie” as I called her, was my childhood best friend’s mother who lived in my home town of Georgetown, MA. She passed away at the age of 78, and if there is justice in this world she’ll be sipping champagne and enjoying a healing massage from the fingertips of angels in whatever sort of heaven she imagined there’d be.

I spent most of my time with Joanie over a 20-year stretch from 1980 to the end of the century, after which I moved to California. But during those years she was as much of a mother to me as my own mom, and in fact she probably saw me more, since I practically lived at her house on Jackman Street.

Her son Christopher and I were not exactly choir boys, and Joanie was hardly a fool. I remember waking up extremely hung over at her house one morning. She knew we were both under the weather, to put it mildly, and I can imagine her eyes twinkling as she banged a roaring vacuum cleaner into the hallway doors outside my room. Her message, I’m sure, was this: there are consequences in life, fellas. Don’t forget it.

More than anyone I knew, it was Joanie I most wanted to make laugh. And I could do it, too. I think I believed that if I could make such a decent and humble woman laugh at my jokes, then perhaps it meant I was a good person. Like maybe she could see something in me that I couldn’t; maybe I had promise.

Joanie was married to Richard “Buddy” Young, an extremely bright guy with acerbic wit. I was equal parts awed and terrified by him. He was a more cerebral version of Archie Bunker, with one-liners that could stop a man in his tracks and make everyone else pee their pants laughing at him. And in many ways Joanie was his Edith, who was dutiful to a fault, but unlike the sitcom Edith, Joanie was never fooled for a minute. Yes, she was loyal and doting. But make no mistake: Joan was no dummy.

I remember sitting in the living room with Joanie one day, her in her corner chair, watching her zip through the New York Times crossword puzzle. It was one of the ways she liked to relax when not working at United Foam and Plastics Technologies, where she worked every day for 30 years, and where was cherished for her loyalty and work ethic. I asked her how she knew all of the random answers to the puzzle, and her eyebrows rose quizzically as she considered the question.

“When you live as long as I have, you pick some things up along the way,” she said, and then laughed in a way that suggested she’d seen a lot, loved a lot, and lost a lot.

That was probably 20 years ago. And no doubt Joanie saw a lot more, loved a lot more, and lost a lot more since then.

But today everyone who knew Joanie realizes they picked some things up along the way from her. To know Joanie was to learn that some people can indeed be selfless and decent when it’s much easier to turn the other cheek. To know Joanie was to have a ham sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk waiting for you on the kitchen counter, and to understand that she made herself happy knowing you weren’t hungry any more.

Giving made her happy. Sacrificing for her family and loving her husband made her whole, and when Buddy passed away many years ago I think Joanie started mentally packing her bags and making reservations to join him in the great hereafter.

I like to think she’s with Buddy right now. He’s drinking a Bud Tall and holding court with a group of newly departed folks, and she’s sitting by his side laughing uncontrollably at the outrageousness of his jokes – even as some goody-goody types are appalled.

Joanie Young. She was truly one of the great ones, and I’ll cherish my memories of her and Buddy forever.

Peace.

———————————————————————————-

An hour before I heard about Joanie waving the great goodbye, we received news that my wife’s family, my extended family, said a big hello to a new baby girl!

It’s a cute-as-hell name. Are you ready?

Evie Sugar Lafreniere.

It’s Bixie’s sister Ali who had the little cupcake girl on New Year’s Day, and it comes as no small relief, since she was due in late December. Funny to think that her girl was born on the first day of a new decade, though I don’t think it was the FIRST child born in the new decade because I probably would have seen it on CNN or TMZ.

Bixie is over the moon excited to have a new niece, and a new buddy for our son Gus to wrestle around with. It’s hard, though, to live across the country when big news like this happens (Ali lives in New Hampshire).

Ali and her husband Josh (Bones) are in for a wild ride, if our own experience with Gus is any indication. But they’ll do a fantastic job, because they both have a great sense of humor and have been planning for this for many months (nine, for you math wizards out there).

I know Ali won’t skip a beat, since she works with kids and is a natural with babies. Bones, like me, will have a steeper learning curve. My guess is he’ll ask this question a lot: “Am I doing this right?”

I remember constantly asking that of Bixie during the first couple of months of Gus’s life. And what I eventually learned is that you can never do everything right, but as long as you nail the important things you’ll do just fine.

I think Joanie would concur with that sentiment, and I think it’s a fitting way to end this post on an emotionally-charged day. For many people 2010 marks a new beginning, a new chapter, while for others it signals the setting sun on a tumultuous decade.

It’s the circle of life, with the revolving door always in full rotation. And as I look out at the road ahead, the best I can do for myself and my family is to focus on the important things and, with luck, try to do them well.

Everything else will take care of itself.

Happy New Year!

Thoughts From My Son’s Hospital Room

Here we sit, on a reclining bed in room 512a inside California Pacific Medical Center’s Pediatric Care unit. Wheel of Fortune is playing on TV, and a woman just guessed “Self Potato” for a puzzle whose correct answer is “Self Important.” Our first good laugh in a while.

Gus is sprawled out on his back and finally sleeping, his limbs dramatically flung in odd directions like a chalk outline at a nursery school crime scene. A soft spoken Asian nurse wearing a surgical mask is holding a small plastic hose directly in front of Gus’s nose, from which healing vapors pour out and encircle his head and then dissipate.

He’s blissfully unaware of all of this, which is nice. The treatment is aimed at helping his breathing, which has been labored for the past few days and began rattling and crackling today. Not words you like to hear in association with your infant’s lungs.

What began as a nagging cough about 10 days ago has morphed into something concerning enough that our primary care physician had Gus admitted to the hospital for overnight observation. We also just learned tonight he has an ear infection, the star on top of Gus’s Christmas tree of physical maladies. Yes, he’s also teething.

But the headliner tonight is his respiratory problem. So far the signs are encouraging – his wheezing breathing seems to be a nasty virus that isn’t life-threatening. Chest X-rays revealed moments ago that Gus doesn’t have pneumonia, so it looks like a consistent diet of antibiotics and hugs will turn things around for the little monkey.

Still, I’d by lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless today when doctors noticed his oxygen levels dropping after administering breathing treatments – clamping a mask on his face as Gus strained and wailed against the vapor treatment and the accompanying tubes and wires. Mostly I pushed the fear back and did what we had to do, but somewhere in the back of my brain lingered dark thoughts and admittedly irrational outcomes. I guess that just makes me a dad.

Bixie and I haven’t spent a night in this hospital since Gus was born. Six months later we have a plump, 16-pound cupcake-faced boy who just recently started to giggle and squeal with delight when we tickle the fat rolls under his chin. Tonight we’ll sleep together as a family back where it all started, at CPMC.

I’m looking forward to a healthy new year for Gus and for my wife. I like to think that I have a solid perspective on how lucky I am, but nights like tonight ratchet up my appreciation to the highest levels.

And that’s what I’ll be thinking about tonight as I squeeze my wife’s hand in hospital room 512a.

UPDATE: We’re home from the hospital, and Gus seems to be doing much better. Thanks, everyone, for your kind words and thoughts. We appreciate it very much!

For New Dad, Christmas is Magic Again

In the many years Bixie and I have been together we’ve never had much of a Christmas tree. Our families live in Boston, were we always spend the holidays, so hanging up a fat tree in San Francisco or Sausalito (where we now live) seemed sort of disingenuous, in the same way that rooting for the San Francisco Giants seems silly when you’re a lifelong Red Sox fan.

This year that changed (the tree, not the sports). We’re still going back east for a stretch, but that didn’t stop us from putting up a tree in Sausalito. See, it’s our first Christmas with our new baby. Not having a glittery tree during the month of December now seemed selfish and perhaps even psychologically irresponsible.

No bright lights for the baby to gaze at? No ornaments to bobble in his sticky hands?

So for the past week Bixie, Gus and I have given our television lots of time off. Instead, we’ve been playing Christmas carols in the evenings as we hang out together as a family, with Gus smiling and cooing in his swinging chair in the glow of the holiday lights. Our stockings are hung by the chimney with care.

I find myself looking back and forth at my wife (who is typically solving a crossword puzzle) and my son (who is typically blowing spit bubbles) and thinking this really might be the meaning of life, or perhaps its purpose. That if you could bottle up the coziness of this moment and share it widely the world could enjoy a protracted period of peace and harmony.

And right when I’m thinking about this Gus typically craps his pants, which is a handy reminder that a world filled only with joy isn’t one worth experiencing, since it’s only through adversity that you can truly appreciate the good times – like when Gus isn’t crapping his pants.

All of this is a meandering way of saying the following: Christmas feels truly special to me again, because I’m once again seeing it through the lens of a child. It’s true that Gus won’t really understand the hoopla this year, but nonetheless, as a new father I’m getting caught up in the magic.

Because this year I have the most amazing present anyone could ask for sitting under the tree in Sausalito. And his eyes are bright with wonder.

Mommy Monday: Dadblast Author Isn’t Total Schmuck!

This installment of Mommy Monday makes my chest puff out with parental pride. See, Bixie discusses the division of labor (irony and pun intended) associated with raising a baby when both parents work. Turns out I’m not a total slacker! But don’t take my word for it, read on:

I remember my mom telling me a story about when she and my dad were first married. It was before kids and she came home to my dad vacuuming the living room floor. She was pleasantly surprised – given the day and age – and it ended up being just the beginning of my dad’s household contributions. I’ve always looked fondly upon my parents division of labor and, in fact, remember thinking about how “lucky” my mom was to have someone who helped out so much. I also remember doing a lot of great things with BOTH of my parents. My mom stayed home when we were young – so she was constantly doing fun things with us like taking us to puppet shows, doing crafts & baking with us. I also remember my dad doing a ton on what I can only assume were nights and weekends – taking us sledding, playing wiffle ball with the neighborhood kids, etc. Since my mom stayed home, she was obviously spending far more time with us, but looking back – I feel really lucky to have spent quality time with both of them as much as possible. And I feel like they were able to achieve if not the reality, then certainly the illusion, of things being 50/50.

So, when I got pregnant – I became obsessed with the idea of things being 50/50. After all, I didn’t want to be one of those women who ended up resenting her husband because I did all the work while he just sat around bouncing the baby on his knee when it was convenient. I was nervous that I’d be the exhausted, frazzled mom while he’d be the funny, well-rested dad. And the Gus came along.

I’m not going to say that we didn’t have a few bumps along the way. But the truth is that we had a plan from the start that Parry would wake up for the first feeding each night – and then I would handle the rest while I was on maternity leave. Some nights, one of us would let the other sleep through the night and just take all the feedings – cause one of us was particularly tired. By the time Parry got home from work, he wanted to spend as much time with Gus as possible. He’d change him, feed him (I was expressing milk for that very purpose), read to him or play with him. And, at first, I’d watch every move and make “suggestions” on how to do things a little bit better. Then I read an article in Parenting Magazine that made a lot of sense. By making suggestions, I was insinuating Parry was doing it wrong – which, as you can imagine, wasn’t very motivating. I stopped doing that as much as possible and watched as he and Gus formed their own way together.

When I started back to work – everything changed – I didn’t have all day long to play with Gus, make dinner or get errands done. So I started to stress about the 50/50 again. Until I realized that things would never be completely 50/50 – but they would be balanced – because we were both invested in making it that way. In fact, there are many days when Parry does much more than me. The point isn’t that things need to be exactly equal. The point is that we both feel supported. That we both can see when the other needs a break. And that we both want to create the illusion (if not the reality) that things were 50/50 so Gus can look back and be happy that he spent quality time with both of us as much as possible.

How have you achieved balance while raising a family? I’d love to hear about it!