Cheeky's Hideaway

The Depacification of Cheeky

One of our greatest fears has become reality.

Cheeky won't give up her pacifier.

Let me clarify a bit.  She doesn't stay plugged all day, as if removing it would flood Holland.  But she needs it at night to fall (and stay) asleep, and she's loathe to give it up when she wakes up.

The first half hour of every morning is a communication nightmare, as Cheeky tries to tell us what she wants through a yellow plastic shield.  We try to get her to discard it, but she'll have none of it.  I try to pull it out of her mouth, but it sticks like a stubborn cork when I yank on it. 

It's not like it's the source of her powers or anything, and as a parent I feel like I need to start convincing her to let go before she meets her roommate freshmen year.

Just last night I was talking with Oodgie about whether she'd sleep in a "big-girl bed."  Oodgie commented that Cheeky likes her crib and hates change, to which I stupidly responded, "Well, she likes her pacifier, and we'll need to lose that soon."  Cheeky overheard and started yelling "PACIFIER!  PACIFIER!" and ran to our "secret" hiding place to fetch one.  We tried to negotiate her out of it, but she wailed and moaned, "I LOVE IT!  I NEED IT!"  (I didn't even know she knew those phrases!)

I don't want to make her unhappy, but C'MON!  She looks like an old tub!

So we're faced with a dilemma--do we let it slide and hope that cajoling will eventually convince her, or do we dip them in ashtrays or accidentally drop them in the incinerator?

Room to Run, Effects of on Infants (See Also Scenery, Change of)

In the "states of matter" section in my high school physics book, one of the distinctions of gases from liquids was that, when unconstrained, they do not occupy a fixed volume, but instead expand to fill whatever space they can occupy.

I'm going to have to look this up to confirm it, but Cheeky may be a gas, too. When taken out of our little apartment and put into a bigger space (say an ex-urban home) she somehow manages to fill the space. Or at least she tries.

With the weather improving we made an early excursion to NoFo this weekend, hoping to break the repetitive monotony of subway life and the same four walls.  It was a quick trip (by LIE standards) but we made plans to visit Oodgie's college roommate, who has a place out there.  She's got a big place (at least by our standards...you all probably live in bigger places) and enough kids to justify a full child-proofing.  After listening to Elmo's World for the full two-hour drive (interrupted by a delicious quesadilla burger ...got to love suburbia) any opportunity to give Cheeky a place to run around seemed like a good idea.

And run she did.  RUN RUN RUN

I'm actually quoting her:  "RUN RUN RUN!"

While the ladies were in one room catching up, and the gentlemen of the house were in other encouraging the older kids' hand-eye coordination, Cheeky had mapped out a roughly circular track engineered to maximize velocity while encouraging periodic pit stops to hug a giant Hello Kitty doll.  "RUN RUN RUN!"  There she is cutting through the kitchen.  "RUN RUN RUN!"  She just passed the stairs.  "RUN RUN RUN!"  Yep, kitchen again.  I seriously thought she was going to turn into butter.

And so it went.  I don't know exactly how long she was at it (at least long enough for me to look like an amateur trying to shred "YYZ" after their six-year old owned "Monkey Wrench") but I'm fairly certain she ran straight through dinner, and would have continued straight on 'til midnight had her little body not finally realized it hadn't trained with Robert Cheruiyot.  The collapse was instant and final, and we were on our way home within minutes of it's conclusion.

I love to see the kid with so much energy, but I feel bad she doesn't have the space to expend it.  God knows I can't keep up with her.  If this keeps up this summer I'll be crushing sedatives into her juice-boxes.

(BTW, this kept running through my mind while watching her, although her version had more squealing)

Me Speaky Cheeky

Spring is in the New York air.  Women are exposing their sunburned chests on the subway.  Fancy model-types are doing photo shoots on the streets.  The mole people have crawled out of the sewers and started selling hot dogs in Central Park.  And Cheeky can finally get out of the house.

It had been a long, long winter.  A little chilly, some mild precipitation, and generally gloomy going back to at least Thanksgiving, if not back to 2002.  But the last few days have been glorious: sunny, dry, comfortable...perfect.  That means there's been plenty of playground time for the Cheekster. 

She loves to "climb" ladders yelling "SELF! SELF!" while we hover behind her to keep her from cracking her head open.  She'll get to the top of the spiral slide, yell "FUN", then sit down for ten minutes while other kids push past her.  (I need to teach her to collect tolls so daddy can buy some more video games).  But best of all she'll run in circles for an hour and a half, then pass out for twelve hours straight at night.  It's a small price to pay for having evenings to ourselves.

Cheeky's vocabulary, meanwhile is also blossoming like weeds through the sidewalk cracks.  Before Bachelor Week it was all one-word sentences, but now she's putting things together like "daddy feet" and "eat sausage more."  It's always a big milestone when your child passes Tarzan's language skills.  (You're next, Tonto!)  She's also adept at inventing words, including "yodayo" (i.e. water) and "purpo" (i.e. computer).  So "yodayo tub" means "fill it up!  I'm sticky and smell like a monkey cage" and "purpo hat" means "I don't care if you're reading your e-mail.  Open up the 'Elmo-makes-a-hat' game and let's waste an hour of your life."  It's cute, and it sure the hell beats "dis! dis!" as a formal request.  I'm sure Oodgie was tired of being my Babel fish.

Mr. Roker tells me that the next few days won't be as nice, but at least it's not fall, when all you've got to look forward to is three months of puffy coats and claustrophobia. 

The Weekend in Brief

And the Envelope Goes To...

I'm a big movie buff, and I love it when deserving movies and actors win the year-end awards.  This weekend was no exception.  I want to offer my personal congratulations to Sharon Stone, M. Night Shyamalan and the two least-talented members of the Wayans Family on their fantastic wins at the Razzies!  Well-deserved!

By the way, that other award show this weekend....wasn't that about the most bloated, boring, self-congratulatory snooze-fest you've ever seen?  What do I care who wins for Best Makeup or Best Song?  Maggie Gyllenhaal looked humiliated talking about the technical awards.  And MY GOD PLEASE DON'T LET THAT BE CELINE DION!!!  Make better movies next year so I actually have a reason to stay up for the last two hours.  And bring back Thoth!

Going Solo

Oodgie spent the entire weekend doing quality control on her new product (keep an eye on CoolMomPicks in the next couple days for the exclusive scoop) so Saturday Cheeky and I had a day to ourselves.

We went to Starbucks, where I ordered a grande coffee and Cheeky had a venti soy decaf latte.  She ate her normal "second breakfast" of a fruit & cheese plate and half a donut.  She would look me right in the eye and ask, "Gah?  Gah?" to which I'd respond, "Um....grape?"  "Gah," she'd confirm, with a definitive nod of her head.  I'm starting to get it...maybe I won't have to take classes after all.

We visited our friends Hud & Theo, who spun her in their desk chair and gamely brushed donut crumbs off their couch.  After about an hour we headed back out into the blustery morning, trudged back up the hill to our neighborhood, and parked at the local diner.

One of the great things about our neighborhood is how you keep running into the same people at all the local haunts.  We got a nice table at the window, where Cheeky could smear her grilled cheese sandwich into the glass, and we waved at Alex, Cheeky's best friend, through the smudged glass.  We visited with Nicki and her daughter Chloe II, who at 18 months has the vocabulary of an Oxford professor.  We even met some new friends who just moved to the 'hood and were over-eager to find out where all the local children's activities were.  I wasn't much help, being sort of a one-trick pony as a local guide, but I'm sure we'll be seeing them out again.

Cheeky and I had a blast, and Oodgie had enough time to discard hundreds of fabric clips (don't ask).  It was good to be the king with his princess for a couple hours--at least while she was behaving like one.  I've got to make sure Oodgie takes her when she's more like a goblin (because we share, right sweetie?)

A New Houseguest

One of the added benefits of having exposed pipes in our bathroom is that it invites unexpected visitors.  I received word on Friday that a giant water bug was shaving and taking a shower in our new bathroom.  The description I got from Oodgie was that it was perhaps two feet long (three including the antennae) and may be armed.  Oodgie introduced herself and it sounds like he may not be coming back, but we're not sure if he invited any friends over while we were out. 

If you don't hear from me within the next week send in some troops with a big can of Raid.

So, What Primitive Tribe Did You Escape From?

Maybe it's the weather.  Maybe it's Britney.  But Cheeky has stopped wearing pants.

We spent the better part of the weekend goading her with candy, distracting her with singing/dancing/anthropomorphized Beanie Babies, and soaking rags in chloroform so the kid wouldn't be going commando when she left the house.  But the raw fury she can muster when confronted with trousers is completely out of proportion with anything outside of zombie movies.  If she'd been armed we'd both be dead.

I'm not one to enforce a strict clothing policy.  I've been known to bend the rules a little when it comes to fashion, and can respect a little eccentricity.  But removing one more protective layer between the earth's fragile ecosystem and one of Cheeky's sharts is more than good parenting--it's our responsibility to civilization.

I have no idea what kicked this latest phase off, but it's reached near apocalyptic dimensions.  The kid can't even follow a vowel with a consonant, but Navy SEALS can't match her skills at blocking, removing, or concealing any trousers.  And the noise...oh, the noise.  If it weren't for the fact that a full day of "Push Over Elmo" and "Lets Put Stickers All Over Our Bodies" would send the adults in the house into a very dark place we'd just stay indoors and let her walk around like the white-trash baby she clearly wants to be.

Maybe when it's May I'll ease up on her and let her show off her gams on the local swingset.  But as she insists on wearing clothes that quadruple the size of her torso, I'm insisting that she sports some knickers.  I'd hate for her to look out of proportion.

These Booties are Made for Walkin'

For the last four months we've been getting the same question over and over again:  "Is she walking?"

For the last four months we've been answering it the same way:  "Almost."

It's been more widely anticipated than Iraqi democracy, and more frequently delayed than Chinese Democracy. 

As of Friday, the answer to that question is now a definitive "Yes!"

Cheeky has been in no rush to master this skill.  She's been standing on her own for a while now, so we figured that her first steps were always a day or two away.  But, much like people on escalators, why walk when other methods will get you where you want to go?  In her case that was crawling (not standing slack-jawed while her muscles atrophy, like escalator people) and her thunderous four-limbed attack on our floorboards has been a constant accompaniment to our daily lives since April. 

I guess she finally got tired of staring at shoe-laces and dust-bunnies, because she's been pretty insistent on holding our hands and "walking" for a week or two now.  She'd bob and weave like Muhammad Ali after a fifth of vodka, but with our help she'd stay upright.  But when we let go she'd revert to quadrupedal form, leaving us shaking our heads. 

Then, as is probably always the case, she forgot she wasn't holding on to anyone and just started wobbling from place to place.  It ain't exactly a straight line, but she gets where she needs to go.

It's fun to watch, and she applauds whenever she does it (although she applauds at nearly everything, including farts).  We're looking forward to the positive impact this will have on our laundry as opposed to the negative impact it will have on our sanity.

Now, how soon can I train her to fetch Daddy a beer?

Gone Missing

Last week a family tragedy struck.

Puppy disappeared.

He was last scene leaving our apartment in Cheeky's arms on a brief journey to get "coffee" and see a friend.  By midday, we knew something was amiss.  He wasn't in the crib.  He wasn't under the couch.  He wasn't in the conservatory with a lead pipe or in the library with the candlestick.

He was gone.  Gone missing*.

Puppy was one of the family.  He emerged from a shopping bag like Venus on the half-shell.  Choirs of angels circled Cheeky's head as she reached out and clutched him closely, burying her bald little head in his soft, floppy ears.  It was love at first sight.  He's been her constant companion ever since.

He's there when she goes to bed at night, and he's there when she wakes up.  When we see dogs in books she looks frantically for him, and quickly cradles him in her arms as she goes "woof woof".  He's there in the car seat and the stroller, and when you can't get to a paper towel fast enough he'll mop up milk in a pinch (what?  like you've never done it...)  And unlike most dogs he never complained when he was dropped on the sidewalk or had his head slammed in a door.

Unfortunately for Puppy, Cheeky can be a little spastic.  It's not uncommon for whatever is in her hand to be launched like a clay pigeon into the street.  She's a baby trebuchet.  Nothing is spared.  This was the logical explanation.

Oodgie was distraught, calling herself a "bad mother" and whipping her back with a cat-o-nine-tails.  I'm a little more optimistic, and insisted we do a reconnaissance mission around the neighborhood, retracing their steps.  Perhaps some good Samaritan had rescued Puppy and placed him somewhere we could find him. 

We all saddled up and paced out every step they'd taken before Puppy went AWOL.  Every fence was examined, every undercarriage was surveyed, every garbage pail was scrutinized.  Nothing.  Zip.  Zero.  Nada. 

Out task was clear:  We must find a replacement Puppy before Cheeky realizes he's gone. 

Step 1:  Distract Cheeky.  Tools = Ernie & Blankie
Step 2:  Locate Replacement.  Tools = Mapquest
Step 3:  Buy Replacement.  Tools = Alexander Hamilton & moxie

You'd think something by the same people who brought you Beanie Babies would be easy to find.  Not so much.  Our quest took us from store to store, first in our 'hood and then on the Upper East Side.  Finally we hit the jackpot:  Every animal that could be plushed was plushed and on display.  Cheeky sat in awe, surrounded by a zoo of stuffed giraffes, cows, dinosaurs, and cartoon characters.  That's when parental guilt set in--we couldn't just replace Puppy; we had to buy back her love.

So we let her pick what she wanted, and not surprisingly she went straight for Blue.  (Blue & Steve have come to dominate our lives, like meta-beings exerting mind-control over our daughter and forcing us into submission through repetitive renditions of "Here's the Mail")  We paid for both dogs, handed Blue to Cheeky and made ABSOLUTELY SURE that Puppy 2 was secure before leaving the store.

It was a nice day, and satisfied with our completed quest we decided to walk to Central Park to relax.  It was only a five minute walk from where we were, so we headed west, stopping by an ice cream vendor for some refreshments, and headed to our favorite patch of grass.  As we pulled up Oodgie looked down at Cheeky and said:

"Where's Blue?"

Shit

* Oodgie, by the way, would like to point out that the phrase "gone missing" is "retarded."  Despite William Safire's defense of the usage based on it's origins in the British Empire, I tend to agree, but I also think it's quaint, like "he's at university" or "he's got an arm off."  Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.

Ticking Away the Moments that Make Up a Dull Day

Sitting at the screening for The Groomsman last night, reading the press materials and wondering if some guy with a huge melon was going to sit in front of me, several things kept running through my mind:

• Will I be able to overcome my distaste for Brittany Murphy enough to like this film?
• Mike Love.  I hate that guy.
• Are those sodas in the cabinet out there free?  Would anyone notice if I took one?
• Tao of Steve was a good movie...I should see that again
• Greg from DaddyTypes is sitting somewhere in here...I wonder what he looks like...
• Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow

Upon leaving the movie, the following kept running through my head:

• I wonder why Brittany Murphy gives me the heebie-jeebies?  Is it the 2-inch wide rim of mascara around her eyes, or the emptiness behind them?
  
• Jay Mohr.  I like that guy.  We should hang.
• Christ, I'm thirsty.  And starving!  What kind of movie theater doesn't serve popcorn?
• Tao of Steve was a good movie...I should see that again
• I'll bet that guy next to me was Greg.  Man, he left fast
• Transformers!  More than meets the eye!  Autobots wage their battle to destroy the evil forces of...the Decepticons!  Transormers!  Robots in disguise....

I'm sure Ed hoped I would walk out pondering my transformation from irresponsible man-child to responsible adult rather than wondering why Super Mario Brothers and Spawn were the only two movies I remember seeing John Leguizamo in.  He probably didn't count on how much of an irresponsible man-child I still am. 

Between overlong sequences of grown men playing 80s rock songs, there was an interchange between Ed and Shaggy that literally sounded--word for word--like a conversation I had with Oodgie while we were debating when to have kids.  Shaggy, cast as the obligatory responsible friend, gave Ed, cast as the obligatory ruminating husband-to-be, the following speech (paraphrased):

"When you have one kid, you lose some of your free time.  And that sucks, and it's hard, but you sorta get by.  But when you have TWO kids...then your free time is gone forever, brother.  But what are you doing with your free time now?  You're sitting around, watching TV, drinking beers, jerking off, doing nothing.  Free time is overrated, man."

Before you say anything, we did not have a baby because we were bored.  We had her to promote the Dear Leader's calls for larger proletariat families to overwhelm the capitalist threat.  But we were so possessive of our free-time that we had to rationalize it somehow. And say what you will about the trials and tribulations of parenting...it sure ain't boring.

Ironically, for all our bitching about how we never have time to do anything anymore--like travel the world, or bathe, or talk to each other--we still fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.  Why clean the house or pay the bills when you can battle the Covenant or take a nap?  And writing a blog can be time-consuming, too...it's not easy to find the high-brow entertainment sprinkled throughout these posts, you know.

Sure, we lament the loss of free-time, and scratch our heads when we think about how we spend it, but Cheeky certainly does compensate for it.  As mind-numbingly repetitive and exhausting as playing with her can be, she still keeps us incredibly entertained and happy.  And as she gets older and more self-sufficient it won't require such a herculean effort to get her out of the house (I hope) or to find a little time for ourselves (I pray).   It doesn't exactly encourage us to rush out and have another, but it does give us hope.

Now, if you don't mind, I have to go.  I'm very busy, and I've got some work to do.....

What Next? The Balance Beam?

The scene:  CroutonBoy and Oodgie are sitting on their couch, drinking coffee and watching Cheeky play in front of them.  Cheeky is holding onto the coffee table, "sorting" the mail.

Oodgie:  "Look at her.  She's barely leaning on the table."

CroutonBoy:  "I know.  She's going to be standing on her own soon."

Cheeky lets go of the coffee table and continues to sort mail, two-handed, while standing a few inches from the table.  After a few seconds she calmly puts her hand back on the table.

CroutonBoy:  "Ummm...OK"

Oodgie:  "You didn't mean that soon, did you?"

Title IX Here We Come!

Ah, sweet, succulent quiet.  I sit here tonight with nothing but the hum of the refridgerator and the thick, sultry air to keep me company.  Oodgie and Cheeky are on a mission to New Hampshire to be fawned upon by adoring cousins, whilst I while away the time.  And what does any good nerd boy do when given a few hours of free time?  Goes to see X-Men 3, updates his wireless security, and fires up the Xbox, of course! 

While I'm afforded this luxury, Oodgie is left with a little creature which is fast becoming Mia Hamm.  For someone who hasn't quite mastered sitting down without sounding like she dropped a medicine ball, Cheeky has been exhibiting some impressive athletic form.  By way of example:

The Changeup:  Like all parents, we were foolish enough to buy small objects that are easy to lose in difficult to reach places grasp and generally come in packs of four or more to maximize the litter zone.  Cheeky no longer picks them up and looks at them, but instead is developing a bizarre throwing action which involves heavy panting, an o-face, and multiple wind-ups before flinging the object in a forwardish direction.  She'll then chase down said object (assuming it's in a straight-line from her....she's struggling with the concepts of "under" and "around") and repeats the process until we cut her off.  She's started to add more advanced skills to this, which have recently involved "kicking" (which is supported stepping with incidental contact) but which elicits mynock-like screeches when it rolls three inches.  She's not quite ready to challenge Ronaldinho (I believe independent standing is a prerequisite for World Cup teams) but her enthusiasm may someday put her among the elite.

The Jab:  This is a nifty trick applied at close range to whatever face is nearby.  It involves a fairly simple maneuver which would probably be more accurately described as an open-hand slap.  What distinguishes it from a love pat is the startling speed and remarkable strength involved, no doubt developed through hours of dragging her body around the apartment at mach 8.  The surest way to draw this attack is to wear glasses--an irresistible target.  I guess it's universal.

The Misdirection:  This is a personal favorite, as it involves a psyche-out as well as a classic demonstration of centrifugal force.  With this move, Cheeky will hold an object which we probably don't want to pick up.  A bottle, an orange slice, a live grenade...whatever we're letting her have at the moment.  She'll fix her gaze to our eyes, drawing us in with cuteness or attentiveness.  Then she'll perform a mighty, near-instantaneous backhand swing which arcs the object behind her.  We know it's coming every time, yet we're still unable to stop it, as if she knows at exactly what point she can release the sea urchin or human skull just out of reach.  Soon she'll be pulling freakin' quarters from behind our ears...

And this is all happening before she walks.  In two months she'll be on the parallel bars or, if she's not getting what she wants, smashing chairs on our backs.