Cheeky's Hideaway

Weekend Update (w/ Celebrity Guest Star!)

it's amazing what we can accomplish when we're motivated.

It's amazing how motivating the prospect of four days trapped in your apartment can be.

Unlike every living biped on the planet, we didn't make plans to get away this weekend.  While New York City emptied out like water through a strainer, we stuck around, trading in a leisurely drive to an exotic destination for rare, unfettered access to restaurants and parking in our own city.

With so much time, so few barriers, and the kind of weather that makes me tell Californians to "suck it," we did what any other shockingly good-looking family would do?  We went to the zoo.

I love zoos.  Not the cramped, cagey zoos where the polar bears swim laps for hours because suicide isn't an alternative.  I'm talking the big, sprawling, leafy zoos that feel like jungles and have enough space to move so you don't want to punch the fat, ignorant people zig-zagging slowly in front of you in the back of the head. 

So we packed up snacks, said goodbye to our kick-ass parking space, and headed to the Bronx so Cheeky could see wildlife that for once wasn't collecting cans or swearing in Russian.

There was much to recommend about the excursion, from the great weather to the otters having sex, but by far the best part was that we killed five hours on a Saturday.  We usually define a successful weekend by the amount of Lexapro and Wellbrutin left in the bottles Monday morning, so any opportunity to distract ourselves from the endless drudgery of our meager existence I embrace with the enthusiasm of Cookie Monster at an Oreo factory.

And our weekend motivation didn't stop there!  I distracted Cheeky for a few hours on Sunday while Oodgie rifled through her toys, seeking contributions to the local landfill charity.  Afterwards it was like our scruffy, overweight apartment had gone on an intense diet and exercise regimen and emerged as a trim, dashing stallion, complete with obligatory montage. 

We even retired Cheeky's crib and assembled her $79 "big girl bed."  (That's right, $79! Toys R Us, baby!)  We thought it would be some monumental occasion, but it turned out to be just another day in the life for the Cheekster.  Who knows how long it will take her to figure out the ground is just a couple inches beneath, but for now she's staying put, as if the edge of the bed is a sonic barrier...

Finally, to top the whole adventure off, we went to the amusement park on Memorial Day.  Because Oodgie and I are both really into nausea, compressed vertebrae, and heatstroke.  Not that any of that mattered to Cheeky, who gamely waited in line for 20 minutes to ride on a faux plane no bigger than a St. Bernard for 120 seconds.

But while we were there we were yet again reminded that stars, indeed, are just like us...

In case you can't tell, that is Jon Stewart.  Even celebrities have to drag their kids to the playground on weekends.

Looking back, I still can't believe we did all that.  It's almost like we have "energy" and "inspiration."  I don't want you to get the wrong impression; I'm sure we'll be back to lying exhausted on the living room floor while Cheeky riverdances on our heads again within a couple days.

We're Baaaaaaaaaaack!

I just flew in from Seattle last night, and boy are my arms tired.

Not just my arms, actually...all of me.  Even those parts of me that serve no other biological purpose than as signals to your brain that it's time for a nap and a deep-tissue massage.

What a week.  Six days on the left coast, five nights of fitful sleep, four flights, three time-zones, two grandparents, and one toddler with a proclivity for unpredictable and precipitous swings from delightfully cute to emotionally fragile.  The parental equivalent of Hannibal's march over the Alps. 

It started out well enough.  Cheeky was woken at 5 AM as planned, shocking us with her calm demeanor on the way to the airport.  She gamely took her shoes off at security, and excitedly reminded everyone on board that we were "going super-fast!!!" at the top of her lungs.  Sure, she practiced her screaming at the Salt Lake City airport (and let everyone within a 30 foot radius know that "Mommy is pooping") but it was mostly cute and fun.

I've been working on a formula to accurately describe and measure the five days that followed.  It goes something like this:

# of time-zones traversed x (avg. daily hours of sleep – actual hours of sleep)
# of Swedish fish offered as bribes

X

good-naturedness of child - irritability of parents
(days remaining in trip)² x ounces of alcohol consumed by parents

I'm still working on it, of course.  It's a simplified formula which hasn't been tested for repeatability, nor does it factor in such highs as the Cheeky's first night in a "big girl bed" (which she would periodically leave the room to check on and show off to whomever followed her) or such lows as her fear and distrust of my Mom's Jack Russell terriers, both of which show affection the same way the infected did in 28 Days Later.  Stephen Hawking texted me back (we R bfz) and said he thought it was mathematically sound, so I'm going with it for now.

So anyway, you get the basic idea.  When Cheeky woke up at 4 AM the first day and announced, "I'm all done sleeping now!" we knew we were in for a long trip.  We shuttled between uncles, aunts, and grandparents for a few days, most of whom were so out of practice with toddlers that they spent most of their time staring from a distance with looks of cautious bemusement.  We took her out for some fun local activities, and unearthed some classics from my childhood found (fully-intact) in the basement.  We'd distract her as long as we could, knowing full well that the briefest lull could result in either hysteria or narcolepsy. 

Admittedly, we did most of this for ourselves.  We wanted everyone to enjoy Cheeky and celebrate the rare times when the family can be together.  And in that sense we largely succeeded.  The ultimate point of the trip was only partly to give Cheeky some quality WCG² time; it was also to take my dad--a huge Seahawks fan--to a game in Seattle.

A few briefs words about the game:  long-time readers know that I'm a hardcore Seahawks fan myself.  That's synonymous with disappointment.  So before anyone who watched the Sunday night game on ESPN makes any comments let me just point out that your slings and arrows cannot harm me.  I've got decades of callouses from watching Dave Krieg, Dennis Erickson, and the refs in Super Bowl XL; if that doesn't thicken your hide nothing will. 

But it was 68 degrees at kick-off on a beautiful Seattle day.  We had great seats at Quest Field with views of the skyline and Space Needle at sunset.  Retiring All-World fullback Mack Strong hoisted the '12th Man' flag before the game.  Geoff freakin' Tate sang the national anthem.  And despite Shaun Alexander's repeated attempts to impersonate Long John Silver (to quote Troy Aikman, "Looking for places to fall down") we all had a good time.

That didn't make the flight home any easier, of course.  But we're back in our own beds, getting back into the routine of bitching about less extraordinary events.  Thanks to my family for their hospitality and patience, and thanks to my wife for putting up with all of us. 

And thanks, Advil, for everything else.

Greetings from Spokanistan!

Holy crap.  We're flying to Spokane in two days.

Between work, parenting, and rehearsing for the Biggie Smalls tryouts, I'd sorta ignored the fact that we're traveling.  Across the country.  In TWO DAYS.

It hit me last night when I was fighting with my Mom over where we were going to sleep when we got there.  Options ranged from my old bedroom (dark, full of spiders, currently used for storage), my parents room (clean, but...it's my parents room...eeewwww), and a hotel (expensive and guaranteed to create a family rift the size of Snake River Canyon).  In other words, all solutions are bad.   And we have TWO DAYS to solve it.

As usual, I'm more stressed about the actual traveling than what happens when we get there.  When I'm by myself I can shrug off the indecencies of airline travel, but when a toddler and someone who is nicknamed "Oodgie" for a reason are with me the muscles on my back roll up like softballs. 

The only time Cheeky's really a pill is when she's tired (just like her old man), and we have to wake, dress, and load her into a taxi by 5:30 AM.  We're expecting turbulence.  And since there aren't direct flights we get to deal with bags, strollers, and friendly airline personnel at least twice each way.  We hope the excitement of flying will help Cheeky compensate for the time-difference, but she could just as well get there and crash harder than Lindsay Lohan on her third day out of rehab. 

Kill me now

Don't get me wrong...I'm excited we're going.  My parents don't get to see Cheeky nearly enough, and I know they'll LOVE playing with her.  It will be fun for us to spend time with my family, too, and we're puddle-jumping to Seattle on Saturday so the Seahawks can give my dad a belated Father's Day gift (they'd better, after this weekend's debacle). 

I just wish we had a transporter room. 

The Perplexingly Busy Days of Summer

I'm tired today.  Drained.  My shoulder muscles are hammocks drooping lazily from my humerus and scapula.  All my mind can concentrate on is how it's not concentrating on anything.  One of those days.

I'm smack dab in the middle of a calendar so marked up with events, visitations, and assorted activities you'd think I was a McCain campaign adviser.  It's been fun, but it feels a lot like a Japanese game show.

It kicked off earlier this month when my stepsister-in-law rented a converted warehouse in Queens, ordered some heaping trays of candied-bacon balls, and wed the nice Jewish doctor of every New York girl's clichéd fantasy.  The wedding wasn't without it's hitches, but that didn't keep us from dancing until we collapsed in the back of a cab at 2 AM. 

Suddenly we were on our way to NoFo to see "The Girls", three exhaustingly precocious nieces spending an extended weekend with their father.  Everyone spent hours in the pool while I huddled in a dark corner room, reviewing spreadsheets and internet strategies over the phone because stupid Independence Day couldn't commit to a weekend.  We had to be back home by Thursday so I could accept delivery of Excalibur, and by Friday were already planning on hosting an extended sleepover with my brother-in-law.

(Before I continue, I should remind my faithful readers that we, in fact, have no social life to speak of.  Reruns of Entourage are a big night for us)

So he's with us for two days, chillin'.  He leaves, and hours later we've got dinner guests, who, befitting their status as food bloggers, brought pizza.

Monday night.  Board meeting.  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Last night the Loyal Order of NYC Parent Bloggers had it's semi-annual drunkfest meeting.  Attendance was high, with the usual suspects joined by new faces and others previously feared dead or captured.  Much, much better than the board meeting, due largely to the all the dead guys.

And tonight, my brother, fresh off his tour of duty, arrives.  For a week. 

Oh, did I mention i have to fly to Detroit tomorrow?  Yeah, that too, just for good measure.

This summer feels a lot like tubing.  It's moving fast, lots of fun, but it's gonna leave me sore come August.

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.

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 Preciousness of Life

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to put things in perspective.

Tonight I was planning on writing another happy go-lucky blog about nothing in particular.  Earlier today I'd heard the tragic news that Captain America is dead, and I felt moved to weigh in on the cultural impact.  An American icon has been assassinated...what does this say about the state of our society?  Is this really the end, or will he be resurrected via some strange subplot involving Dr, Strage and Galactus.  And what is Genuine going to do?

But then I thought about Rob, whose newborn son Doss lost his battle for life on Sunday.  Usually my defense mechanisms kick in at the slightest whiff of sadness (I'm much better at anger) but this news stuck with me and has been lurking in the back of my mind for the last few days. 

Every night when I get home Cheeky is there to greet me.  We usually giggle and laugh when I brandish my secret tickling weapon, or point out letters in books, or wrangle her into her pajamas.  Every night I look forward to her laugh, and I take it for granted that we'll be playing again tomorrow.

Life is an incredibly precious thing.  We get so used to the patterns of our lives that we sometimes forget that every day we unconsciously navigate a maze of dangers--floating in the air, speeding passed our eyes, coursing through our blood streams, or brewing in the clouds miles away.  As parents we strive every day to not just protect our children from these dangers but to form a cocoon around them, postponing the day when they must begin reconciling the harshness of the real world with the boundless joy and potential they bring to it.  In so doing we preserve our own youth, our own dreams, our own potential, and let the love we have for these alien beings--who spring into our lives demanding care and attention but radiating unrequited love--wrap us in our own warm cocoon, both protecting us and exposing us should that cocoon ever be pierced.

These last few days I've paused for a few moments in the midst of some flurry of Cheeky-related activity and reflected on how unbelievably lucky I am to have an adorable, smart, healthy child, and to be able to put on her little red ladybug boots so she can dance and read without her feet getting wet (or whatever her rationale is).  In those moments my mind flashes through the joy of having her in my life, and the fear that something might take her away, and all the shades of emotion between.

Then she grabs my glasses and tells me what color my shirt is and I've moved on. 

So take a moment tonight to stop by Rob's site and wish him and his family (including Doss' twin sister Jorja, who is doing well) the best during this incredibly difficult time.  Then think about how lucky we all are to be here, to have friends and family who love us, and to bear witness to all life's wonderment all over again.

P.S.  Once I get details on Captain America's memorial service I'll post them, too

I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now

While the Fourth Estate endlessly discusses the apocalyptic ramifications of Britney's trip(s) to rehab, the music nerds of the world have visions of sugarplums Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland, and Sting dancing in their heads.  During one of many arguments debates shouting matches discussions over whether the Police reunion is truly an historic event or a rapacious, geriatric attempt to clothe the increasingly AOR-friendly lead singer in the faded legitimacy of his youth (see:  The Who) it came up that the Police last recorded music together 20 years ago.

20 years ago.  When I was a kid Buddy Holly was making music "20 years ago."

Where does the time go?  For all the talk of grups and rejuveniles and alternadads desparately smugly proudly sporting their skateboard bruises and Arcade Fire CDs, time still marches on, and the weight of age and responsibility still hangs on us, whether we want to accept it or not.

I proudly brandish my grup credentials, mind you.  But I felt a twinge in my hip while retrieving Cheeky from her car seat the other day, and again while trying to negotiate a fossilized snow-bank without killing us both.  That stuff didn't use to happen.  Everyone my age in the NFL is either retiring or should be (sorry, Bledsoe...it's time).  And my 9 year old nephew got a Rubik's Cube and Optimus Prime for his birthday, providing irrefutable evidence that the circle of life has had time to do a complete lap around the track and christen those toys "cool" again.

Probably most shocking to me was this.  What you don't see in this picture is the bar I used to hang out in a lot when I first moved to New York, back when I was alive and still had the glitter of hope in my eye before I met Oodgie and began stressing out about annual performance reviews.  I've seen places come and go before, but the shock of turning that corner in Tribeca to see the vacant facade hit me with more force and clarity than I expected.

We may ignore it, or fight it, or slap a fresh coat of paint on it but time continues it's ponderous, inexorable steps forward whether we like it or not.

I'm not afraid of it.  I welcome it and accept it.  It's part of life, and the sooner I get used to it the better I'll adjust to it.  But I do sometimes find the weight of responsibility a struggle.  I try not to show it or let it get me down, but every once in a while the realization that I can't just hop on a plane and go to Sasquatch or SXSW for a weekend, or that being constantly more creative and diligent at work may be the only way to move up and keep paying the bills, drags me down.  I can't help wishing for the excitement I used to feel when I'd go tubing for the weekend with friends, or sneaking into the rooftop pool at a local resort.  Those moments of unfettered, selfish joy are fewer and farther between when you've got responsibilities like we all do.  But it's our obligation to ourselves and those we love to acknowledge that change is inevitable and good, and in the end there's nothing wrong with growing up.

I'm am optimist at heart, and even in those gloomy moments I know it's just a matter of time before they devise a pill that will make me as young and vigorous as a tiger at a water buffalo convention.  Then I'll be breakdancing at Cheeky's wedding, even if I have to shed my cryogenic suit to do it.  And in the mean time, although the moments of joy I experience now may not be as dramatic or spectacular as they used to be, I wouldn't trade them for anything.

But I'll tell you, I still wouldn't mind getting Optimus Prime and a Rubik's cube for my birthday.  Only 179 more shopping days to go...

Distant Thunder

Can you hear it?

Just over the horizon?

Coming in from the west?

It sounds like a storm is coming.

It is. WCG² arrive at La Guardia tonight.

The parental units haven't seen Cheeky in person since April, and the financial advantage of having a place like Bespin to stay was enough to coax them out of the rolling hills and stagnant economy of the Inland Empire. 

I'm excited that they're coming, because I feel like they get the short end of the stick with Cheeky.  ECG gets to see her a couple times a week, buy her expensive and unnecessary toys, and occasionally show her off to friends.  Meanwhile we hold up pictures of WCG² so Cheeky won't think we're being invaded by the cast of Cocoon when they walk through the door.

As I've mentioned before, they aren't accustomed to the big city.  They're image of New York is a combination of Welcome Back, Kotter, Escape from New York , and the butt-sex scenes from Rome.  (Dude, what is up with all that?  How did the Romans have time to conquer the Mediterranean with all that sodomy?)  I feel like I'm constantly convincing them that Bernie Goetz and Son of Sam are long gone, and that the 8 million people who live here do so because they love the vibrancy, not because it's a necessary step in Purgatory.

They also tend to forget that it's actually located within the United States, and populated with human beings.  By way of example, my Mom wanted to know what clothes to bring, and talked about how bulky it is to pack for cold weather.  Then she asked if she "should bring any cereal."  Why, pray tell, would she need to do that?  "I don't know if you have Quaker with raisins there.  We could pack it just in case."

Good idea...I think the local grocery store only carries sushi and spicy terrorist food.

But I love them just the same, and if they're lucky they should catch Cheeky in rare form.  The only way they see her now is via Skype, and that only happens when she's docilely watching Elmo (unpacified toddlers + computer keyboards = Genius Bar).  They probably think she's a calm and quiet child.  They didn't see her attack the barbecue sauces at Fairway like they were ill-behaved Legos this Sunday.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get 2% milk.  Apparently I need to import it...

The Thanksgiving Weekend Executive Summary (Editorialized for Your Enjoyment)

Day 1 - Thanksgiving

In the thirty-sixth year of CroutonBoy's life, in the eleventh month, the twenty-third day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened. 

In the selfsame day entered CroutonBoy and Oodgie and Cheeky into the ark; they, and every beast after his kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind, and every fowl after his kind, every bird of every sort. 

And they went in unto CroutonBoy into the ark, two and two of all flesh, wherein is the breath of life.

And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered.

And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and CroutonBoy only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark.

Overly dramatic?  Yeah, but that's what it felt like on I-95 between New York and Boston on Thanksgiving morning.  It's bad enough that people drive like idiots when the roads are wet, but to have cars spraying mist at your windshield if you're within 80 feet when all you can hear is the pelting of raindrops on your car....well it makes for a long day.

But after three four five hours we arrived at Oodgie's brother's house, and since Cheeky's sedatives were wearing off we immediately rushed into feeding/entertaining mode.  After a brief period of neediness, though, she kicked off her performance and spent the rest of the night running laps,  tumbling, and "singing" (a new skill she's learned which alternates between a repetitive cymbal sound and full-throated yelling).

Dinner was delicious, though, and the company was great.  Cheeky's cousins were all over her like a donkey on a waffle, and she was loving every minute of it.  And thanks to the fine people at Marriott's Residence Inn (just off Route 9 in Westborough) we upgraded to a two bedroom sweet so Oodgie and I wouldn't have to talk to each other after Cheeky went down for the night.

Day 2 - Black Friday

We were up at 3 AM waiting in line at Wal-Mart to start Christmas shopping. 

HA!  Are you kidding me?  Who are these people?  I wouldn't enter a mall on Black Friday if you offered a life time of consequence-free nachos, beer and football while holding a bazooka to my head.

Instead we caught up with some old friends so Cheeky could spill Cheerios on their floor and grind them into the tiles.  After a great afternoon eating cheese and repeatedly cleaning up a spilled cork collection, we returned to the Residence Inn (just a short drive from 495!) where we drank half a bottle of vodka while cursing that the in-room movie system wasn't working. 

Day 3 - Saturday

Saturday can be broken up into three clearly defined segments:

1. A playdate with Kara and Mags, where I was educated on all the critical elements of the local jungle-gym while Cheeky tried to pet the hair off a poodle
2. The drive home, which alternated between me cursing at the god damn iPod adapter for our car (which is a piece of garbage, BMW....you guys SUCK) and Oodgie pointing out how cute Cheeky is when she sleeps to stave off the tedium of driving.
3. The Great Unpacking and Collapse

Day 4 - Vacation Ends

We went grocery shopping.

All in all it was a very good weekend.  With the notable exception of the relentless, punishing, soul-drenching rain on Thanksgiving the weather was spectacular.  Cheeky heroically adapted to car seats, hotel rooms, strange homes, and shifting schedules without missing a beat.  And the monotony of everyday life was forgotten for a few days. 

I hope you all had a Happy Thanksgiving, too!

Now get back to work.