Barnabas Monkeypants

(Sorry for so long between posts. Life, as usual, has just been crazy.)

The city of Chicago has many problems, I can’t deny it. There is crime and corruption and deficits and it’s all going in the crapper.

But this is pretty common for most large cities, so I don’t really pay much mind to it. (Crapper be damned.)

Because, for the most part, the city’s a great place to live, with a ton of fun things to do. This is never more true when it comes to the Chicago Park District, which keeps the lakefront tidy (and free of the dreaded crimson tide) and all of the many parks full of activities. Henry is now of age (18 months) that we can start signing him up for park-related madness.

This sounds easier than it actually is.

The Chicago Park District has a website, and on said website is a listing of all the available programs. Every three months, there is a moment when you can sign your kid up for gymnastics or soccer or baseball. And when I say moment, I mean moment. Because when the registration opens up (and they have a second-by-second countdown) you have mere seconds… no, milliseconds to press “submit” before the class fills up.

There are horror stories where at 9:00:05, classes are closed or one kid may get the class but their sibling misses out.

Here’s the thing, though: because the park district realizes that not every family has a computer and not everyone is available at that exact moment on a Monday morning, only a percentage of available spots in any class are offered online. The rest you have to sign up in person. (For most classes, it’s less than 50% that are available online.)

So that’s where I was last Saturday morning, the day of in-person registration.

We had decided (because Henry loves to take baths) that a swimming class would be fun. A “Tiny Tots” class (for 18 to 36 month-old kids) was offered at a high school near us, so that’s what we honed in on.

Now registration opened at 9:00. Which meant that I was standing out in front of Admundson High School — in 27-degree weather, mind you — at 6:45 in the morning.

“You’re nuts,” you say. Well, yes I am. But here’s the really nutty thing: I WASN’T THE FIRST PERSON IN LINE! I was fourth! FOURTH!

So all us nutcases stood out there waiting, watching as various other parents joined us. We stood out there, mumbled nonsense to one another, and wished some kind soul would come up and deliver us  some hot chocolate. (None came.)

At 8:00, the doors opened, and we all filed inside (thankfully) and again waited in line.

From 8:00 on, dozens of parents rolled in and by 9:00, there were about 50 of us there. There were, at most, 25 spots available for 2 classes (a 10:00 and an 11:00 on Saturday mornings). And yet, these mothers and fathers went to the end of the line. Go home, people! No spots left!

Two friends of ours came later on, one around 8:30 and the other just before registration began. When I told them I had been there since the crack of dawn, they thought I was nuts. But here’s the thing: as the fifth person in line, we got the class we wanted. Our friends (and most of the people there) did not.

As crazy as this may sound, there are some programs (summer day-camp, in particular) at certain high-interest parks where people start lining up a 2:00 the prior afternoon and camp out overnight! I don’t think I could do that. I mean, I’m crazy, but I’m not that crazy.

“Book! Book!”

“Okay, Henry. One more book, but then you have to go to bed.”

“Brown Bear! Brown Bear!”

What? That was new.

When did he learn that? When did he learn those words? When did he start putting nouns and adjectives together?

That happened this evening right before he went to sleep, but it’s not so unusual. Kristen wrote about Henry’s vocabulary last week, and as she said, he’s seemingly adding a word or two every day. (Yesterday, it was “shake” and “tushy”. Don’t ask.)

One of the common issues with kids Henry’s age is their frustration when they’re unable to communicate what toy they want, what is bothering them, or what they want to eat. For the most part, we’ve avoided this problem because when he wants oatmeal, he says “oatmeal.” When he wants to take a bath, he says “bass.” And when he wants his skunk puppet, he says “skunk”.

What all this talking has done is make Henry a real person. He’s no longer a baby and not really a toddler. He’s a little boy. And I like it.

So other than Henry being quite the little blabbermouth, what else have we learned this past month.

We learned that Henry can now climb up onto the sofa. This is only slightly frightening, because once he gets up there, it’s pretty easy for him to fall off it. He hasn’t yet, but we’re waiting for that thump and howl.

We learned that Henry is getting a little stir crazy. Although Chicago hasn’t had the huge blizzards that the northeast has, we’ve had our fair share of snow. Because of the snow covering all the parks and anything even remotely green and the miserable cold, Henry’s been stuck inside most of the time. Sure, he can run up and down the hallway (annoying our downstairs neighbors, I’m sure), Super-Nanny Silvia takes him to the local park district field house a couple times a week, and on weekends, we’ll head off to some mall to get him room for him to run. But it’s not enough. We need a park, damnit! One that is not frozen or full of mud. Spring can’t come soon enough.

We learned that Henry likes it when Kristen and I sing to him. “Seeng! Seeng! Song! Song!” he’ll say. There are three songs that he requests most often: “en-em-oh”, which is the alphabet song (he’s trying to say “l-m-n-o-p”); “low low”, which is “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”); and “ee-i-oh”, which is “Old MacDonald” (“ee-i-ee-i-oh”). We also bought a pig speaker (yes, a pig speaker) to hook up to Kristen’s iPod so he can listen to music while he eats. (He likes the Jackson 5 quite a bit.) Michael certainly sings better than Kristen and me.

We learned that Henry really likes scrambled eggs, beans, sausage, and cookies. My god, does that boy like cookies.

We learned that Henry’s newest favorite thing to do when we’re holding him (which is getting harder to do now that he weighs about 432 pounds) is to stick his hand down the front of your shirt and start poking you in the armpit. This is very ticklish (as one could imagine) and as I’m there trying to suppress my laughter (because, darn it, it’s time to take a nap), Henry is cracking up. It’s really difficult to get him to stop doing something like that when you’re laughing. I keep on trying to tell him that putting your hand under someone’s shirt is something he’s not allowed to do until he’s 25, but it doesn’t seem to be sinking in. Go figure.

And we learned that Henry is still taking two, 2-hour naps a day. And is sleeping 11 1/2 hours at night! Now I love to nap (I’m a big fan), but Henry has taken this to the next level. (Of course, on the weekend, when he wants to spend some extra time with mommy and daddy, he has been taking either a very short second nap or none at all.) Since your bones grow only when you’re asleep (did you know that? I sure didn’t), I reckon he’ll be about 6 feet by the time of his third birthday.

No words necessary, methinks.

The standard uniform of the young urban hipster is very skinny jeans, an ironic t-shirt, and sunglasses from the early 80s. To a man, I want to punch each and every one of them.

Because I’m not a completely terrible person (and I’d rather not get arrested), I haven’t actually done any of the brawling. But my fear of the lock-up has only made me despise them silently even more.

What does this have to do with Henry, you ask? Well, we recently purchased for Henry, by necessity mind you, a pair of skinny jeans. Let me explain.

On Sunday, the family drove out to the local open air mall (I bitched about them in a previous post) where I was to buy a new pair of pants (seeing as all my other pants are stained and torn and look quite shabby). As we headed from one disappointing shop to the next, we passed by a small, narrow store that neither Kristen nor I had seen before. It was a United Colors of Benetton kid’s clothing shop. Now, I had no clue that this company was still in existence (or whether it hadn’t disappeared for a decade or so and then reappeared in a lesser version for sale at Wal-Mart, like Ocean Pacific or Garanimals).

And since I didn’t know that the company still existed, I certainly wouldn’t have known they sold clothing for youngsters. But there were big signs yelling SALE all over the place, so we decided to take a look.

Well, those signs were lying. Except for a few racks, everything in the store was 70% off. As I love a bargain, we started to pull things off the rack.

It was not until we looked at the full price of the pants and shirts and sweaters that we quickly realized why we had never knew about this shop (and would likely not have shopped there before). Shirts were $34. Sweaters and pants were $45. Jeans were — get this — $54! For a pair of jeans that would likely not be worn longer than 6 months (if we’re lucky).

Now, we bought some stuff, got 5 or 6 things, spent around $70, a little more than I wanted to spend, but I they were good looking pants, and likely would be a bit more durable than some of the other clothes Henry has. But who in their right mind would buy anything from that store for full price? Who spends $54 on something for your 2 year old? Who has that much disposable income?

Insane.

Anyway, these jeans are a godsend. Yes, they’re skinny. Yes, they are ridiculously overpriced (albeit not when 70% off). But they fit Henry. They don’t need to be pulled up constantly or rolled over at the waist or cuffed. They’re just a nice pair of pants that will allow him to run around like a madman and not worry about tripping over a pant leg.

And, yes, he looks like a baby hipster, and, yes, I think we need to buy him some t-shirts that scream irony (do they make an “I’m with stupid” shirt in 2T?). But I don’t care. Because he has clothes that fit his skinny body and non-existent butt.

Now I guess we’ll just have to wait another 6 months for the next Benetton sale.

Raphe and I used to talk about keeping a log of all the words Henry says, but we quickly gave that idea up because Henry seems to know another word or two every day. Off the top of my head, here’s a short list of Henry’s greatest hits:

Eat              More          Again         Open            Go             Sing
Read           Apart         Up              Down           Soft            Blanket
Sausage      Egg            Soup          Hummus      Apple         Shoe
Sock            On             Off             Car              Truck         Pigeon
Moon          Jump          Cookie      Cup               Bottle         Spoon
Mama         Daddy        CC             Georgia        Kitty           Gentle
Cracker      Hug            Sit              Chair            Lap            Night-night

Of course, his favorite word remains “no”. Only now, he understands that “no” is a full sentence. As in, nein, nyet, non, I am now going to throw myself on the floor like a limp noodle and whine. “Henry, wanna sit on your potty?” NO. “Henry, are you hungry?” NO. “Henry, let’s put your pjs on.” NO. Ah, toddler defiance.

The best thing that comes out of Henry’s mouth, however, is “happy”. He only says it every now and then, and when he does, it pops out along with a big smile and clapping hands. Music to my ears!

Henry is a lovable, likable, and altogether wonderful. We all know that. He’s won national awards for this.

But of late, his great personality sometimes turns to grumpy or crabby … perhaps even surly. He will not eat his dinner. He refuses to nap. And for the past couple of weeks, he’s had nothing to do with diaper change.

We’ll strip him down to his nothings, and he’ll run off around the house (pantsless, naturally). When we finally catch him and wrestle him down to make sure he’s covered, he squirms, he squeals, he rolls over, and sometimes he’ll even shed a tear or two. What should take 20 seconds now takes minutes.

When the diaper finally does get on, he’s fine. (The actual diapering has been a little rough. They end up being a bit crooked or saggy, but thankfully they still do the job.) Thankfully, he doesn’t try and rip it off or anything. It’s the act of putting it on that he hates.

(I’ve heard horror stories of kids who like to rip their diapers off when it’s full of the bad stuff. To keep the diaper on, some parents resort to duck taping to their kid’s body.)

There is nothing that we can do to make it better. We try and distract him with toys or singing or tickling, but he’s on to us.

I think the only remedy is going to the pull-up diaper. With Henry, this is fine, because he’s using his potty most of the times, but it’s not so great because they cost close to $3,450 per diaper (slight exaggeration).

I cannot wait until he’s fully potty trained.

I have no entrepreneurial talent. My lone venture into doing something for myself business-wise was my failed comic book convention here in Chicago (which gave me no ends of gray hairs and sucked all of my savings down the drain).

But if I ever do start up a business again, I know exactly what I’d do. I’d start up a company that would work with sign companies to correct spelling and grammar before these things are manufactured. So, that flower shop down the road would not be Geneses Flower and Gift, but instead Genesis Flower and Gift. I mean, really, people. Spell check!

I’d also work with companies that not only manufacture products overseas but also print up the inserts and instructions. I mean, how many times have you bought something, pulled out the directions, and thought to yourself, “This is English, right? I mean, these are English words, but this makes no sense.”

I’m writing about this today because last weekend, Kristen got a knitting reeling machine. (It was given to her when someone saw her request on Free Cycle.) It’s a pretty cool contraption: it will help ball up yarn without all the tangling and cursing. (I do the tangling; Kristen does the cursing.) It’s made in Japan, and I’m not sure if it was just poorly translated or it was written out by someone who had very little grasp of the English language.

For your pleasure, here are the instructions, with all its wonderful incoherence. I have not changed anything. Enjoy.

Necessaries for Knitting

K.M. All-Powerful Reeling Machine

Main Features:

A) Being equipped with convenient metal connector, this tool is attachable to wherever you may wish, in the three directions – vertical or horizontal or diagonal. So there is no trouble at all like entangling of thread or yarn.

B) It is holding type, and made entirely of metal. The connector is of the utmost convenience and permanent use.

C) This reeling machine can be used for all kinds of thread or yarn. Because you can expand or contract it as the case demands, either for hand knitting thread of small reel or for woolen yarn of large reel.

D) The part where thread or yarn are reeled on is covered with vinyl. By this protection, thread or yarn never gets tangled or dirty.

E) This machine is also convenient for washing of old woolen yarn, as small or large reel is made at your will by the use of handle attached

F) Push the red button and adjust the size of machine-reel. Please.

Directions. When you open or shut it. please give it a slight swing. just as you do with your umbrella or parasol.

Kristen has made, over the past several years, countless false and scandalous accusations that I, as a child, had a mullet. This has led to many disagreements between us, because, as everyone knows, I never had nor I never will have a mullet. You see, she once saw a picture of me as a 14-year-old where I had longish hair all over, and, the way it happened to be parted at the side, it looked mullet-ish. But it was not a mullet. There was never any hair sculpting, no mousse, no nothing.

Of course, my opinion may change as Henry’s head of hair has begun to naturally grow into “business in front, party in back”. You see, Henry was a slow grower in the hair department (he didn’t really have much on his head until he was around 7 months or so), and when it did start to sprout, it grew mostly in the back and sides (his monk’s tonsure).

Now he’s got a fully covered noggin on top, but the back had a head start. Luckily, he’s got quite a bit of curl back there, so you can’t tell how long the hair is most of the time. But when it’s wet or when he’s just had his winter hat on, it gets mashed down and it looks like he should be wearing a wife beater and a trucker cap.

This will all be remedied, of course, when we finally decide to get him that haircut, but for now, his ‘do is something special.

There is nothing better than watching Henry develop as a little person. Each time he does something new, I want to give him a cake and buy him presents and give him a big hug. (Usually, he just gets the hug.)

But with each new thing that he learns, there are always bumps in the road (sometimes literally). With walking, there are the trips and falls and bruises that come with it. (With running, multiply those bumps by two.) With talking, there are the challenges of listening to him yell out “shit” in a crowded store (instead of “sit”) or “cock” (instead of “truck”). (Sorry for the blue language.)

And lately, Henry’s been feeding himself more. Not the picking it up with his hand and shoving it in his mouth, but using forks and spoons. Henry is good with many things; his aim, however, is not yet up to snuff. So spoonfuls of food tend to end up on his bib or the tray of the highchair or the floor as much as in his stomach.

As such, half of each meal is usually Henry feeding himself and the other half us feeding him.

Yesterday morning, however, things changed. I strapped him in his highchair, and he wailed. I tried to put on his bib, and more wails. Sliding the tray in, elicited the biggest wail of all. And when I spooned up a heaping pile of apple yogurt (one of his favorite flavors), he swatted it away.

He wanted nothing to do with me and my evil food. Not in the standard situation. Instead, he walked over to the table and chairs that his grandfather got him for Christmas, sat down, and said, “Eat.” So I put the yogurt in front of him, handed him a spoon, and, with no bib around his neck, he proceeded to eat the entire container.

Okay, not the whole container. Maybe half. The other half ended up on the table (which he smeared around a bit), on his green sweatshirt (just out of the wash), and in his hair (apple yogurt as a conditioner? perhaps).

And he loved it. He had the time of his life, with no wails.

Next up, of course, is to have him cook his own meals, and then ours. (And, most importantly, do the dishes, too.)

For Henry’s first birthday (lo those many months ago), we bought a big cake for the guests and a big cupcake for the birthday boy. This worked out well (though the big cake was too big and the big cupcake wasn’t big enough to satisfy Henry’s baked-goods appetite).

We got the cakes at the Swedish Bakery, a place just south of us in the Andersonville neighborhood. (If you want to go back and relive the birthday magic, you can read about it here and here.)

Quick aside: Chicago, for those not in the know, is a city full of different neighborhoods, many of which were various ethnic groups settled when they came to the city. So, Andersonville was where the Swedes came. Logan Square was the Norwegians. Lincoln Square the Germans. And you’ll never guess who moved into Ukrainian Village! (I really like this city.)

Anyway, when I ordered the cakes, I had asked if they made tiny little cakes to match up with the big ones. While they had small cakes, they were fancy ones, with berries and fancy fillings and fondit, stuff that Henry would probably not really like. He wants 1) cake and 2) frosting. That’s it.

So instead, I asked for a cupcake. Not a regular cupcake, but the biggest cupcake they had. And they delivered. It was tasty.

Fast forward five months. This past weekend, Kristen wanted… no needed a cupcake. So Henry and I headed off to the Swedish Bakery to get cupcakes. We were waited on by the woman who took the cake order for his birthday.

“You’ll never guess,” she said.

(I have no idea what she meant, but I went along with it.”

“What?”

“Because of you, we’re now making smash cakes.”

“Uh… great?”

Now, if you’re like me (and not really aware of such things), you ask what a smash cake is, and you’ll be told that they’re little cakes that you give to kids so that they can go all Animal on them. Crush them. Mutilate them. Smash them. (And possibly eat them.)

“You did that all for Henry,” I asked.

“Well, not for him, but it made us realize that somebody will buy them if we offer them.”

So there you have it. Henry is singlehandedly changing the face of baked goods for children in the north side of Chicago.

(Now that I read this, it doesn’t seem as exciting as it was on Saturday. No wonder Kristen wasn’t very interested when I called her breathlessly from the parking lot.)