Cheeky's Hideaway

The Plumbing is Fixed

Remember that whole constipation thing?  If not, scroll down.  Remember now?  OK, good.  Anyway, so that's done.  Over.  Through.  Kaput.  We went from plugged to potty-trained overnight.

Never under-estimate the power of jelly beans and stickers to motivate a child.  Interestingly, this strategy didn't work at all for months, but as we all by now know when a kid is ready, he or she is READY, and you've got to be there, armed with whatever enthusiasm for public urination you can muster. 

All the credit on this goes to Oodgie, who smelled change in her the wind as I was heading out the door for my umpteenth business trip in as many days.  Although I regret not being there to applaud every tinkle while I was chugging Fat Tire on a corporate boondoggle lonely and bored on the road, I'm immensely proud of Oodgie's determination to pounce on the opportunity.  My one complaint is that the requisite celebration involved a trip to Target to purchase "big girl pants," which inadvertently led to Cheeky selecting underwear branded with satanic characters.  I would have preferred Thundercats Underoos, but it wasn't my call.

The downside of all this is that Cheeky is tapping her kidneys every ten minutes.  She'll have her underwear back around her ankles before the sound of toilet flush has died.  You'd think dropping the kids off at the pool or shedding a tear for old Ireland (or my personal favorite, taking the Browns to the Super Bowl) was the best thing ever.  And frankly if I got a treat every time I did that I'd probably think so, too. 

Think about that...every time you drain the lizard someone hands you a Snickers or a Red Hook.  How sweet would that be?  I'd carry a gallon of water with me everywhere I went...

Nailed

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you look to your left you'll see the Statue of Liberty.  And if you look to the right you'll see the sinewy expanse of inflamed flesh that once held Cheeky's toenail."

Nothing skeeves me out more than medical shit.  Those hospital shows, where they show people organs up close and they're tying things together with calipers and piano wire make me want to spew.  I'd rather eat a moldy smegma sandwich than watch a plastic surgery show on Discovery Health.  And when the doctor positioned a mirror so I could watch Cheeky's birth?  Guess.

When Cheeky opened a door into her big toe the other day I didn't think much.  I just held her, comforted her, and empathized.  God knows I know the pain of a stubbed toe.  Shoot me in the arm and I'll wince and curse, but when that little toe hits the bed leg I carry on like I'd been dismembered.  The poor kid was a mess, and I wanted so bad to make the pain go away.

Then I looked down at her toenail.  Or rather the corpse of her toenail. 

It was jaggedly sticking up at a 45 degree angle from her toe, exposing the tender skin beneath and poised to snag on the nearest available object. 

She didn't want to look at it.  She didn't want US to look at it.  And you'd better believe she wanted us nowhere near it.

So I'm faced with a sobering reality.  To spare my daughter unending anguish, I'd need to face my one of my primal fears and get close to that gross, nasty remnant of a toe to remove the nail. 

It was staring at me, mocking my pain, beckoning me to step forward and rip it free. 

So I did what any man of my courage and confidence would do when called upon:

I covered it with a Sesame Street band-aid.

I mean, it's gonna grow back, right?  And if it's under there it can't snag on anything, right?  I'll check it again in a couple days and I'll bet it will all be fine!  You'd do the same in my shoes!

I'm such a freakin' coward.

The Trough of Disillusionment

"Diaper backward spells repaid.  Think about it."
                                    -- Marshall Mcluhan

I'm in no rush for Cheeky to get older, but that doesn't stop us from gently encouraging her that some baby habits are worth breaking.  We've done a piss-poor job on the night-time pacifier and the morning bottle, but she's been studying in Defecation 101 and the other day it looked like she was ready for the final exam. 

Oodgie buys potty's the same way she buys shoes:  in bulk, with commitments to return most of them.  By my count we have at least three, none of which have been used for their intended purpose.  It's not for lack of trying; almost every activity includes tagging a potty like it was first-base.  Unfortunately every activity seems to be at least a double, if not an in-field home run, so there's not much lingering over the bowl.

That changed last week, though, when Oodgie finally convinced Cheeky it was time to try the "big girl potty."  The event, as related to me, went something like this.

1. Cheeky decides it's time to go potty
2. Cheeky uses her stool to climb onto the toilet
3. Cheeky instructs Oodgie to leave the room
4. Once she has privacy, Cheeky pees in the toilet
5. Cheeky climbs down, presumably to bask in her success
6. Cheeky poops on floor
7. Panic (sans the disco)

What has unfolded since then is classic hype-cycle.  Having reached the Peak of Inflated Expectations, Cheeky immediately plummeted into the Trough of Disillusionment, in which even mentioning the toilet creates shrieks which throw birds off their migration patterns. 

This leaves us at the infinitely more frustrating delicate stage, the Slope of Enlightenment.  We need to overcome her newly-minted fear/embarrassment with ever-more-creative ways to lure her onto the potty.  I've considered painting it to look like Dora (the bowl is the approximate shape of her head), coating it in chocolate (too easily confused with something else), and turning it into a game in which we pretend the toilet is our car and she's a pigeon.  I'm confident the Plateau of Productivity is still right around the corner.

Although I don't know why I'm in any hurry to hear, "Daddy, I have to go poddy" and pulling over every ten minutes.  Sometimes I think having the freedom to drop a load whenever/wherever you want has its advantages...

 

What is it About Us and Weekends?

Here's a quick rundown of how we tried to kill our child yesterday:

• We decided to go out for breakfast, and as we walked up to the diner I opened the door right into Cheeky's head.  She cried so hard she puked.
• We recovered enough to go in anyway, but as we were putting her into a booster seat Oodgie inadvertently pushed her chair in until her fingers got caught between the table and seat.  More screaming.
• Later in the day, Cheeky was sitting at home on a dining room chair, pushing against the table with her legs while we were sitting around her.  We were inattentive to the point that we watched her chair tip back in slow motion without reacting, with only the loud THWAP of the chair and child hitting the floor snapping us to action.  Again, she puked.

And did I mention Cheeky also has a cold?  And a bloody nose?  We're awesome.

Now in Super-Chunk Flavor!

I sure picked the right time to leave town.  No sooner had the wheels of my flight touched down at LAX when my apartment thousands of miles away turned into Lardass Hogan at the pie-eating contest.  Apparently a certain someone was not, in fact, "feeling better," but was instead saving up for an all night wretch-fest, all perfectly timed so I wouldn't be there to participate. 

Don't get me wrong...I would like to have been there to comfort her, make her feel better, and take some of the burden off Oodgie.  Then again, it's not like I dream of staying up all night while my daughter splashes her hash all over me.  Although I wasn't caked with half-digested chicken nuggets, I was up late employing the weapon of my trade to bring good fortune and fabulous wealth to my company and, by extension, myself instead. 

(BTW, this was the third trip I've made to L.A. since Thanksgiving, and I still haven't seen a celebrity or eaten anywhere better than the In-N-Out Burger on the corner.  Yet again, I'm shocked and dismayed that they actually expect me to work.   I must speak to someone in HR immediately to have this addressed...)

So I returned this weekend to find a house full of emotionally shattered people, sleep-deprived and maintaining a tenuous detente held together by biology alone.  To make matters worse old man winter, who had been off gambling away his paycheck for the last couple months, finally came back to New York demanding dinner, and certain people (I'm not naming names here) will not wear mittens even if you glue them to her fingers.  There was much standing & wailing, exposed hands suspended in mid-air, while Mt. Wannahakabooger continued to erupt.  I could see Oodgie's eye twitching ever so slightly, signaling that she, too, was about 3 minutes away from her intestines jumping up to her throat and strangling her to spare ongoing misery.  Fun for the whole family!

This was one of those weekends when one's fatherly and husbandly instincts were torn.  I felt terrible for everyone.  I wanted to hold Cheeky and make her crying go away, inject Oodgie with an energy & pain-relief serum, and emerge triumphant as a conquering hero.  But then I'd be standing in front of a diner while a hungry/tired/unhappy Cheeky invented new noises in my ear, and I'd pour over every possible solution I could think of, when thoughts like, "If I just dropped her in the doorway of Banana Republic, they'd take care of her long enough for me to catch the Colts-Pats game, right?  That sounds perfectly reasonable to me."

Now before everybody gets all, "it's going to be OK" and "bummer weekend, dude" on me, let me just note that (a) by Sunday night things had settled down enough to vaguely resemble normal (including excluding Oodgie's fetal position on the couch), (b) I fully accept that we're going to have days like these and I can totally roll with it, and (c) the Bears suck.  It's just a little sobering when it all hits at once.

From 0 to Vomit in 6.5 Seconds

Last night I was the closer while Oodgie went to a late appointment.  I took over with a strong lead; Cheeky had been perky and chattering all day, and was pulling the driver out of her toy truck like a monster snatching it's prey.  Oodgie rushed out, leaving me with only one major activity before bedtime:  the tub.

Cheeky's tub skills have radically improved in the last few weeks.  She used to treat the water like lava, clutching and tugging my shirt screaming "IT BURNS!  IT BURNS!" (at least that's what I heard in my head) but now we can't get her out.  She splashes, drowns plastic farm animals, and sucks the urine-juice out of the washcloth forever.  Piece of cake for a solo parent, right?

We'd been in there a while, and it looked like she was ready to get out of the tub.  It seemed a reasonable assumption, what with her leg on the tub rim and her audible grunts to pull herself out.  I gave her my hand, and helped her over the edge.

Before I go on, I should mention that Cheeky has been channeling lately.  At inopportune moments, her eyes roll back in her head and the Tasmanian Devil starts speaking in tongues through her.  These episodes will last a few minutes, and can usually be arrested by the proper application of Big Bird.  She then instantly reverts to a placid, peace-loving creature.

At the moment her wet little feet hit the bathroom rug last night, the demonic possession began anew.  Refusing to acknowledge the supernatural nature of the attack, I assumed she actually wanted back in the tub.  WRONG!  OK, so let's get out of the tub.  WRONG!  No problem...I still outweigh her, and since she looked clean to me I wrapped her wailing body in a towel and stepped out of the bathroom. 

Suddenly her catecholamine level blew off the chart.  She started to vibrate down to her molecules, and the volume and pitch of her screams began to mimic shuttle launches.  Within moments she, her towel, and I were covered in half-digested lasagna.

I stood there holding my yelling, pasta-covered child in sheer awe at how rapidly the situation had deteriorated.  I have no idea what it would take for me to get so upset I'd blow chunks (perhaps this?) so you can bet I couldn't guess what was doing this to her.  I was more impressed with the speed and intensity of the event more than anything else.

I figured she was probably empty by now, so I walked back into the bathroom (where the tub was still full) and dunked her back in like I'd hit the bulls-eye at the carnival.  A couple furious scrubs and the chunks of meet and sauce were off.  I carried the twisting, dripping beast into the bedroom, yanked PJs over her head, and plotted my next move.

Do I call Oodgie?  Do I call Constantine?  Do I form blazing sword?  Do I continue putting a rapid succession of toys and books in front of her face, hoping one holds the magic key to calming her?

No.  I knew what I needed to do.  I grabbed the magic wand and summoned the Peacemaker.

That, my friends, is why it's important to have parental first-aid kit on hand.

We Love Each Other Because We Speak the Same Language

The following is a transcript from an actual conversation which occurred a couple nights ago:

CroutonBoy:  *pfffffffffft*

Oodgie:  "What?"

CroutonBoy:  "Nothing.  I just farted."

Oodgie:  "Oh, OK."

This entire interchange occurred without any irony whatsoever.  I'd also like to point out that if this is Oodgie's native language, she's been talking to herself a lot lately.

There is no Dana, only Drool!

Cujo?  Hooch?  Beethoven?  They've got nothing on Cheeky.  She's been a giggling, drooling mess for the last few days.  I'm not sure if she's begun teething, or if she's got mutant saliva glands, but her face has the glistening feel of freshly boiled pasta.  Want a dark circle on your shirt?  Pick up Cheeky!  Need to solubilize dry food?  Put it near her mouth!  Need to lubricate the pistons in your '69 Mustang?  Hold her over the engine!  It's got a thousand household uses!

She also seems to be storing digested food somewhere near the back of her throat, because it keeps reappearing at inopportune times.  She'll be chatting with us and flailing her arms around, when all of a sudden curdled milk will start spilling down her chin.  It reminds me of the Cement Mixers I used to buy my friends for their 21st birthdays.  Of course, the fact that she's been ramming her fist all the way down her throat may have something to do with all this...

These oral leaking problems were going to be my big story tonight, but just a few minutes ago Cheeky showed off a brand new skill.  She was lying on the couch watching the Washington/Tampa Bay game (I swear...she wanted to watch it...much better than Noggin') when John Gruden decided to go for a two-point conversion to win the game.  Surprised by this bold move (an extra point would have tied the game) she pushed up and rolled-over for the first time.  Just in time, too, since moments later Mike Alstott powered into the end-zone!  She was soooo excited.  About the roll, I assume, not the score.  My girl's all grows'd up....sniff sniff...

I beg your pardon, sir -- I thought you were signaling for the check.

The summer in New York has been disgusting, and now it's spreading to the NoFo.  We were up there again this weekend, and the heat and humidity were so bad it felt like we were floating in a pot of boiling pasta.  And with all the air-conditioners running at full capacity, we were blessed with some rolling black-outs as well!  I made the mistake of going for a run (which is usually how I start every story about going for a run) and thought I'd need to be choppered back to the city.  We're thankfully back in the our climate controlled apartment, but I dread that first step into the subway station tomorrow morning...it's like being locked in a baking dumpster.

We did, however, try to relax and take advantage of the help this weekend.  ECG has taken to calling Chloe "Turtle," which conjures images of a recent trip to the Central Park Zoo (Parental Advisory Suggested)  I'm not sure that's my top choice for pet-names.  But if she's willing to take the 3-5 AM shift for a night then she can call her "Turd Blossom" for all I care. 

The big event for us was visiting our friends Mary and Jimmy for a barbecue with other parents.  This was the first time EVER I've sat with people who had kids and not felt like I was from a different planet.  The conversation ranged from a recent story on "Clothing Optional Dinners" on NPR (thus the headline above) to the advantages of having an adopted child.  This last one was fascinating to me.  Apparently, if you have a belligerent Korean child who likes to punch other kids at the playground, and you look and talk like a bloke who stays up late watching Arsenal v. Newcastle United on BBC, then you can pretend that the child isn't yours when he misbehaves, dodging some awkwardness with the other parents.  A nifty trick, albeit with disturbing implications.  "Why are you following me??  Go find your real dad!" 

In any event, we're glad to be home for a few days.  Chloe's weekend involved six-hours of gas pain and crying before each bowel movement, which unfortunately for us also occurred every six hours.  She's sleeping now (somewhat inexplicably) and I'm waiting to bathe and squeegee the two inch thick film from her body.  That's probably not something you'd see on a "restaurant nude", or at least let's hope not....

3 Weeks Down, 1089 to Go

It's been delivery week here as Casa de Cheeky, as we have slowly but surely ensured that Chloe will  be going to a state school instead of Stanford.  We finally got the new car, after a last minute journey through Khazakstan and Numibia, and it rocks!  I drove it to work today in Queens, and it's a great ride.  Tomorrow the Dish Muncher 2000 gets replaced by a new dishwasher, which is supposed to purrrr like a kitten.  And some lovely gifts have been arriving as well!  It's like winning Cliff-Hanger, Plinko, AND the Showcase Showdown!

At the same time, there may be early signs that life is getting a bit more normal.  I actually made it to the gym for the first time in a month, although those of you who knew me in high school know that's nothing new.  And Claudia managed to do a little clothes shopping, since parts of her are simultaneously growing and shrinking.  Unfortunately, we are still running out of options for babysitters on Saturday, when we hope to attend a friend's going away party.  I read several books and none of them recommend storing Chloe in Tupperware, despite all the claims of keeping things fresh, so that's out.  Let us know if you know of anyone (preferably Elizabeth Shue) who could cover for us that night.

NOTE:  In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that as I was writing this, Chloe had a growler of such force that the dookie ricocheted off the bottom of her diaper and gushed out the top, destroying %0.02 of Earth's remaining ozone and permanently scarring her father's psyche.  I thought only the Defense Department had weapons with that sort of blast radius.  Preferred qualifications for the babysitting job now include previous experience in a slaughterhouse or nuclear waste management facility, or as a NYC food inspector.