Kid Amnesiac

Written 4/10/2008

I’m ashamed to admit that Matt and I engaged in some text-book bad parenting on the first half of our trip to San Francisco. Between travel delays, long layovers, and a three-hour time difference, Simon did not arrive at our hosts’ house until around 11:00 p.m. EDT the day we flew to California.

We expected him to crash the minute we go the house, but once he saw everyone at Ian and Christine’s, had toys to play with, and had space to move around in, he got his second wind and was ready to enjoy the scene. As he seemed so happy, we let Simon continue until a wave of fatigue hit. He went to bed that night at nearly 2:00 a.m. EDT.

The next day, Simon was in a good mood, but was also clearly jet-lagged. We failed to get him to take a decent nap, but he happily if groggily carried on in good spirits and enjoyed periodic bursts of activeness when surrounded by new people or sights.

Day two was much the same. Simon was again sleepy, but he always fell asleep in a car or stroller, he always awoke if we tried to transfer to him a crib, and he could never fall back asleep once awakened.

By the time our third day arrived, we should have known that the poor little guy was a ticking time bomb. But again, he seemed pretty happy for most of the time and he had a great day in the Montclair park. I deluded myself into thinking that a 45-minute nap taken in a stroller would make up for short nights and missing naps for three consecutive days, and then Matt and I were very late getting our bags together and heading into the city to check into our San Francisco hotel for the second part of our trip. We hated to leave our friends, and we had this idea that Simon could “rally” indefinitely to suit our desires.

Simon fell asleep in the car, and awoke crying at the hotel when we arrived at around 9:30 p.m. We hustled him upstairs and immediately set to getting him to bed, but it was much too little far too late. The combination of skipped or shortened naps, jet-lag, and sensory overload finally hit, and Simon threw a fit in the room the likes of which I have not seen since he was a colicky newborn.

It was, frankly, scary, heart-breaking, and guilt-inducing in equal measures. He didn’t just cry, his entire body trembled and shook. His fists were balled up, his arms were twitching, and his legs kicked outside his control. No measure of comfort seemed to help until we could rig the crib aquarium, give him his paci and dirty dog, and lay him down for the night. Thankfully, he fell asleep quicky and slept well.

That was the last day we pushed things. For the next three days, while I was out working my conference, Matt was extremely careful to make sure daytime activities were timed to allow for ample napping in the hotel. And we were both careful to eat early dinners within walking distance to the hotel to ensure an on-time bedtime. It’s just a shame, frankly, that we had to re-learn this pretty basic lesson at such a high cost to Simon.

Traveling with a baby is a little (lot) stressful, but being with friends makes it all worthwhile. Our first full day in the Bay Area, a friendly bystander in a park got this group shot of all of us–originally a group of five couples, who have now morphed into a group of five families.

Our friend Yun captured many fabulous shots of the two days we all spent together, which can be found in her album. Thanks so much, Yun!

A quick explanatory note: The next few posts were written on the road. Matt and I just returned last night from a trip to the Bay Area to visit friends in the East Bay and then for me to attend a conference in the city. I didn’t post any of these while I was away, as it occurred to me that doing so was tantamount to rolling out the welcome mat for would-be intruders.

Originally written 4/10/2008

I love San Francisco. I miss San Francisco. A part of me will always think of San Francisco as my spiritual home. I’ve never lived somewhere I found so beautiful and so in-tune with my values, and I consider myself fortunate beyond belief that I got to live here for eight years.

But man alive is this place tough to have a baby in! When we decided to move back, we honestly thought San Francisco was not a place we could have a family in because we could not afford a house, the public schools are troubled, and our families are far away. And we were right. What I didn’t know is all the little ways the city is tough for kids.

I’m sure it’s different and better-at least somewhat-in the neighborhoods, but schlepping a baby around downtown is hard work. Take all those steep and storied streets the city is famous for. I used to love climbing a small mountain to get to Pacific Heights or North Beach. But when you are pushing a stroller, the charm wears thin after a while, and when the sidewalks turn into long staircases the going gets very tough indeed. (A possible solution, I realize, is to use a carrier, but we unfortunately forgot to pack our Ergo for this trip. Also, older babies do get pretty heavy after a while.)

There is also a matter of the wind. It’s always windy here. I got used to it when I lived here and didn’t think much of it. I remember pretty clearly Simon struggling to breathe in the wind when we brought him out to the avenues on our trip last spring. He didn’t struggle so much this year, but I do think he was cold much of the time.

Then there is transportation. Getting around SF with a baby is challenging for many reasons: Hauling a stroller on and off of a bus is difficult. On some busses-the standing-room-only ones I squeezed myself on with annoyance when I lived here-you can’t get on at all. BART elevators stink of urine and are frequently out of service. Driving is made difficult by the shortage of parking everywhere. Traffic snarls ensure that by the time you get from one point to another you will likely have a crabby baby in the back seat.

Eating out here is hard due to the number of restaurants with long waits and no high chairs. Our first night in San Francisco, Matt and I got lucky on our second try. Our second night, we tried three or four places before settling on a diner we don’t even like because they had a high chair and no wait. And our third night we had immediate success only because I employed a free-lance concierge with spy-like connections who assured me that if I named my cuisine, he’d find a spot that within walking distance to my hotel that would seat me and could arrange to have a high-chair delivered if necessary.

And that, more than anything, sums up my stay in the city: I needed a high-priced concierge (Admittedly free to me; I was availed to his services via a work connection. Thank you Fortify Software!) to eat dinner without struggling. With unlimited funds and such a person at my service, having a baby in the city maybe wouldn’t be so hard. But that’s one heck of a conditional.

The East Bay is an entirely different story, and our days there were much easier and warmer. But the thing is, as much as I appreciate all the East Bay has to offer and understand why our friends live there, it’s not where I left my heart. Even as I (well, mostly Matt as I was working during the day) struggled with the logistics, I was thrilled to have Simon here, thrilled to hear about his adventures out with Matt, and I just can’t wait until he’s old enough to take in more of the magic on offer.

Several months ago-I don’t remember exactly when-Simon began to play the baby game of drop the X off the high chair tray. All babies do it (I think), and it’s kind of funny to watch them figure out how gravity works and how to manipulate mom and dad all at one time.

The dropping game has lately evolved into a new form that Matt and I are finding harder to find charming. It’s called “do” (pronounced “doe”), as in “throw.” A week ago we weren’t entirely sure what “do” meant, but by now we have no question at all, because Simon says it loud and clear just before launching his cup, cracker, cheerio, spoon, pacifier, or what-have-you across the room. He’s pretty good at this “do” game, too, having mastered the overhand throw at a tender age, thereby giving him many months to perfect his aim and put a bit more muscle behind it.

Inevitably, the “do” game begins just as the adults sit down to eat. More times than not, as I am finishing a meal or we are waiting for a restaurant to deliver our food, Simon gets hungry and we get something out to “tide him over.” A fruit bar, crackers, and/or applesauce with milk later, Simon is then pretty full just in time to join the real dinner festivities. As he is no longer burdened with appetite, he is free to taste the adult offerings, play with them a bit, and then begin launching them wantonly.

In the past week, I have had to scoop up the detritus of nearly every meal we’ve had. I’ve bend over to get spoons until I thought my back would break, chased down sippy cups from across entire rooms, rescued pacifiers before the cats could get to them, and scraped up the remains of spinach, ravioli, pancakes, tempura, sushi, tortilla chips, black beans, toast, cheese, and even guacamole from floors. When eating out, I feel pretty bad about the mess left behind and so have adopted a friend’s strategy of going to places sufficiently cheap that I can afford to tip extravagantly. It’s safe to say I no longer consider a 25%-30% tip out of the question.

I’m hoping that Matt and I can beat Simon down by recognizing the “look of do” in his eye and taking away objects before they are launched. It’s a plan, anyway. But more realistically, I think I’m stuck with this until he moves on to his next game. I just hope the next game doesn’t make me long for the current one once it arrives.

Simon continues to cruise and pull up, but it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that he’s a physically timid child. He’s just not that excited about doing anything he’s not sure he can do pretty well, and he scares easily.

On the other hand, he loves being outside when it’s sunny, so yesterday Matt and I exploited this and took advantage of some reasonably warm, very sunny spring weather by heading off to a park. It’s been a long time since Simon got to swing, but he remembered the fun and giggled like mad all the while Matt and I pushed him. We could have swung all day, but the slide beckoned.

Last summer, Simon would go down the slide on my lap and the results were mixed. Sometimes he thought it was fun, and sometimes he’d look stunned and his lower lip would tremble. Yesterday he liked it off the bat, and Matt and I decided it was time for a solo trip.

I have to say that watching your child discover a new pleasure is a singular joy. We held his hands when he went down a few times, and Simon thought that was a blast. Then we tried to get him to go down solo. Once or twice he pushed himself off and went down completely solo, and once or twice he grabbed onto the side of the slide and went down on his side and at an angle. He appeared to enjoy both methods equally well.

Emboldened by his success and unusually game attitude, it was time for the long tunnel slide. Not being 32″ tall, there was no way I could help Simon on this one. I stood at the top, Matt stood at the bottom, and on a signal I pushed my baby down and hoped he would not summer-sault along the way or arrive at the bottom in a hysterical fit. I think he was a bit stunned, but he was also clearly intrigued. So we tried again. This time the push came harder, he went down faster (a bit too fast I think), and he giggled all the way.

At this point, we sensed we should stop while we were ahead and called it a day. If only we had been so wise later that day, when Matt and I pushed our limits with Simon and were rewarded with a miserable, borderline hysterical boy. I’ll blog about that unpleasant lesson later. time…

It may be a bit premature to call it an “explosion,” but Simon is picking up new words at a faster clip these days. At least, we think he is. At times the line between parental translation and wishful thinking is razor thin.

Having said that, we honestly think Simon has said the following:

“dir doe” This is Simonese for “dirty dog”, his little puppy blanket toy

“bu-see” Percy, our nickname for Percival

“dock” Duck

“no!” self explanatory, but new for him

“do!”    a. we think maybe “throw”

b. but also certainly “dog”

“ah shee” we’re worried this is potty language. Please don’t let this be potty language.

“rah thah” a reply to the question “Where’s mama’s nose?”

I know I’m forgetting others, but when you add these to his words for mama, daddy, ball, bye, yes, light, “what’s that?”  nose, cat, and a bunch of things he’s said once or twice, we’re starting to get a reasonable count.

His comprehension, however, is still murky. For example, anything round is a ball. This includes the moon in several of his books and polka-dots as well. I’m afraid he may also be a bit confused about eyes. When I ask him where mine are, he reaches out and touches my glasses. Then Tuesday, when my mom asked Simon where her eyes were, he reached out and touched her glasses, too. Except she wasn’t wearing them; they were in her hand.

I can see how having bespectacled people ask him to point to eyes could have confused him, but it’s still a funny mistake. Then again, in my case at least Simon may be correct, as my glasses truly are my eyes.

From early days, Matt decided he wanted to be called “papa.” To reinforce this, we used the word a lot in our regular goings on. We talked about “papa”, played peek-a-boo with “papa” and labeled Matt as “papa” in pictures with Simon.

Simon, however, had other ideas. As soon as he mastered ‘mama’, he began calling Matt “daddy”. Actually, he called him “da-da”, “da-di” or “ya-gi” pretty indiscriminately, but a “papa” was never heard.

In the face of this defiance, Matt held firm. He still called himself “papa”. He still labeled photos as “papa”. Heck, he even renamed all the “daddies” in our books to be “papas”.

No dice. Simon consistently, in a tone reserved for Matt alone, would look up at Matt with an impish smile and gleaming eyes and call out “da-di”. I thought Matt’s insistence on being called “papa” was funny, but I also though he was fighting a losing battle.

“Listen honey,” I’d say. “Your baby loves you. He’s got a special word just for you, he only uses it for you, and that word is ‘daddy’. You’re going to have to let this ‘papa’ thing go.”

“But I’m ‘papa’,” Matt would reply. “And where did he get ‘daddy’ from anyway? We’ve never used that word.”

“Whatever, honey. You’re ‘daddy’ now. Give it up.”

We’ve had this conversation, in more or less the same words, every day for several months now. It even became a little game with me. I knew that I could get a rise out of Matt by faux innocently referring to him as ‘daddy’.

About two weeks ago, the game lost it’s charm. Because Simon finally looked up at Matt and called him “papa”? you ask. No. Because for the past two or three weeks Simon has been calling me “dada” with alarming consistency. To which I reply, in an all-too familiar refrain, “No honey, it’s ‘mama’. I’m ‘mama’.”

Last Thursday when I picked him up from Jim and Evie’s, Simon took one look me, burst into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, and yelled out, “Yay! Dada!”

I’m sure Matt put him up to this.