The Story of The Boy and His Dad (and Mom)

For the record, I’ve waited about 10 years to say that. Ta-daaa! Happy anniversary!

Well, The Boy is a year old, so I’d best write something about him. I don’t want retaliation when he’s older. “You never wrote about me on that web page that only a handful of people read.”

Speaking of handfuls, he is one. He runs around all day, yammering, grabbing things, eating things, and clenching his mouth shut when Mom or Dad try to remove said things from said mouth.

He does stuff he knows he’s not supposed to do. I can’t tell why. One possibility is that he wants to see just how far he can go. Another is that he wants reassurance that we really do watch him; giving him a sense of security I suppose. Still another is that he wants attention and that’s the quickest way to get attention. Finally, The Boy may just be trying to get The Dad to get up off of the couch. The Dad groans, creaks, and complains when he gets off the couch; fun to watch.

Speaking of fun to watch, The Boy is fun to watch. As he learns, he practices. He learned to say “da.” So, naturally, he runs around “DADADADADADADADADADA!” What’s more fun is that he tells jokes. I don’t know what they are. He babbles for a few seconds and then laughs. He takes after his dad, who also babbles for a few seconds and then is found to be the only one laughing. The chicken never strays far from the road, I guess.

One of the things they say about the very young is if one could bottle the energy and high spirits and exuberance, one could make millions. I think that is true. Unfortunately, the only things he has which come close to be package-able are pee-pee, pooh-pooh, and drool. (Now, we’re also finding volumes of . . . um . . . nose run-off.) There ain’t a lot of demand for those products; although, we, in Minnesota, are familiar with a product called the Original Whizzinator. If anyone wants to purchase clean samples, give us a holler. (Caution: sample may contain traces of anabolic steroids, marijuana, cocaine, and graham cracker.)

People love babies. Whenever you take a baby somewhere, everyone wants to hold him or play with him. He is the center of everyone’s attention. A parent gets used to that. Unfortunately, reality sometimes seeps in. The first time for me was when we were at a picnic with other youngsters. Suddenly, The Boy wasn’t THE center of attention. There were all kinds of other little centers ofs attentions (I never know which word to make plural) running about.

And that wasn’t the worst. Day care! Now that’s bad. He’s with about seven kids his own age. A lot of the things that made him him are gone. He’s no longer home all day. He’s no longer totally dependant upon us. Do the day care people know his favorite songs? (M*A*S*H theme song.) Do they look out the window with him and say “There’re the trees and the leaves and the grass on the ground?” Do they have his favorite toys? (The camera and the television remote control.) Do they know what it means when he stands behind you and puts both hands on your back? (He’s playing hide and seek.) Do they know what it means when he raises his arm toward the ceiling and says “Dat!”? (I don’t either. If anyone could help us out on this, we’d appreciate it greatly.) Will they be sure to meet The Mom at the bus stop, brushing his face on any leaves along the way? I don’t know if he’s got an identity crisis or not, but I have one for him. It’s sad. Not so much sad that things are changing, but sad that his dad is a freak.

But, on the bright side, he’s now sleeping better. No, no; he still refuses naps. But, he gets to sleep more easily at night. In fact, rather than blood curdling screams when we put him in the crib. He now smiles and waits patiently as we gather up his bottle and turn off the light. Then, when we leave, rather than more blood curdling screams, giggling and chatter come from his room. Actually, that may be even more unnerving. What could a one-year-old child possible have to say to no one? I, being paranoid, have a theory. I think he’s getting ready to be cute and/or ill-tempered, depending on what the next day’s schedule calls for. That’s right; I think that he’s, perhaps, rehearsing for tomorrow’s performance.

The boy: Okay, “coo coo coo. Dada!” Giggle. Laugh. Smile. Yada, yada, yada. Get some hugs, kisses, and a shrimp cracker or two for being wonderful. Everyone’s happy and my work day is successfully completed. Note to self: be sure to “leave ‘em wanting more.”

The bedtime ritual we use isn’t unusual. We give him a bath. We give him a bottle. And we read to him, usually a Dr. Seuss or Sandra Boynton book. We’ve also incorporated chapter books into the mix. We started out with John Madden’s Hey, Wait a Minute (which, coincidently, lasted about a minute), then Mr. Popper’s Penguins (the Popper’s live at 432 Proudfoot Ave--in case you’re ever on a game show, it will be the $100 question) by Richard and Florence Atwater, and are now working on Beverly Clearly’s (okay, Steph, Cleary) Emily’s Runaway Imagination. My family is interested in book discussions, so let’s discuss:

Question 1: Is there any character in literature who better symbolizes pure evil that Jim in Hop on Pop?
Question 2 and follow-up: Why, in Boynton’s book The Going to Bed Book, do the antagonists get dressed for bed and then go exercise? Should not the exercise part come first?
Question 3:Has a web article ever before included so many trips to an infant’s bedroom for research?

One concern I have with The Boy is this: he easily becomes bored with stuff. He learned to roll his arms playing patty cake, but became bored and gave up before learning to “put it in the pan.” He learned to say “cat,” “dog,” “bird,” and “that,” but really has stopped trying new words. I’m afraid he’s going be one of those people who tries something and gives up before fully learning it. That’s a concern because you’ll never get a decent job if you never have record of completing a

The Boy has certainly brought a lot of laughter into our house. Which is quite a feat, since there was plenty of laughter in the house already. Okay, The Dad was laughing. The Mom was pressing her face in her hands and asking for tissues. But there is more laughter and that is a blessing, indeed. He runs around playing tricks on The Parents, laughing, being astonished, learning, playing, dancing, and even a little singing. I’m sure this will continue unabated through his childhood, teens, early adult, and adult lives. That’s good to know.

I have one note about his birthday. When the three of us were opening his gifts, he wasn’t overly concerned. He’d just as soon jabber at us or have us read him a book. Not really a toy-obsessed person, at least not yet. We tried that starter thing parents do where we partially open the present and try to get him to do the rest. Nope, if he showed interest in the gift he’d simply try to pull the toy out of the box while it was still mostly wrapped. Now, you may not be surprised at this, but I certainly am. If you had seen what he had done to my newspapers over the summer, you’d be shocked that he didn’t tear open the gift wrappings. (And, perhaps have a tickertape parade through the living room.)

I guess I’ve started learning why parents go brain dead.

return to Commentary index

Comments? Questions? Feedback?
Voice your thoughts on the Blog
Or contact Mark at mark(AT)wentzmania.com.

The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer and do not neccessarily reflect those of the rest of the family.

© 2005, Mark Wentz