Barnabas Monkeypants

Kristen’s still working on getting all the Florida pictures together (we got home on Tuesday), but I promised you all something on Henry’s first swimming class. So here it is.

I wrote earlier about my experience signing up Henry for this class, and two Saturdays ago (the day before Easter), he had his first lesson. We packed up his and my swimming stuff (trunks and towels for both of us, swim diapers for him, a camera for Kristen) and headed off to the indoor pool.

It’s located in a nearby high school, so we changed in the school’s locker room (just like old times) and walked to the pool. It was, to say the least, one of the greatest moments of Henry’s life (all 19 months of it). The pool that lay before him was the largest bathtub he had ever seen, and he broke free of my hand and started running toward it, yelling, “Bath! Bath! Water! Water!” I had to corral him so he wouldn’t go jumping into the deep end.

All the parents and kids (ranging from 18 to 36 months) then got a little safety lesson and an explanation of what would happen in the class. Henry could not have cared less. He was just trying to get into the pool, tugging on my arm, practically begging to swim. “Hold on, kiddo,” I said. “Soon, soon.” Soon to Henry is like 5 years, I think.

The waiting was over and it was time to get into the pool. So all the dads took off their shirts and prepared to enter the 83-degree water. (You’re probably saying to yourself, “That’s pretty warm.” Well, you’re wrong.)

Now, as I’m sure you’ve noticed from some of the photos on the site, I’m not in the best shape of my life (unless the shape we’re looking for is “lumpy”.) It’s also the beginning of April, so I’m ridiculously pale. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one. In fact, all the men were pale and out of shape, so I was in good company. (Great company, eh?)

So we headed into the pool. They told us that the parents should go in first and have the kid hold onto the bars of the ladder, facing the parent. Henry wanted none of this and wanted to jump in after me. He restrained himself a bit, and waited until I got in first. (Brrr!) So in I went, then I pulled him to my chest and pushed off from the side of the pool.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhh!” he screamed. I panicked! He hates it! He is scared! The water is eating him!

So I pick him up out of the water, flip him around to face me (he had wiggled so that I couldn’t see his face), and see that his screams were that of the happy kind (the best kind, naturally). Whew.

There were a couple of kids who didn’t make it through the whole class, though. One was crying nearly the whole time and his mom took him out of the water after only a couple of minutes. Another kid got bored really quickly and tried to run and play with buckets of chlorine.

The rest of the “class” (which was really just moving around in the water, kicking, blowing bubbles, jumping up and down) was full of equal happiness. As much as I’d like to say that he’s the next Michael Phelps, he wasn’t the best kid in the class as far as the kicking and strokes go. He being the youngest there probably didn’t help. But he was, by far, the one with the biggest smiles.

Even as it got a little cold and Henry was actually shivering, his teeth chattering, he did was smiling. In fact, when it was time to get out of the water, he was really, really sad (even though his lips were blue).

This all bodes well for future classes (the next of which is tomorrow) and it made our trip to Florida (read about that later) full of oceans and swimming pools. All I have to do is get a little color on my skin and get rid of some of my gut, we’ll be perfect.

We are in Florida right now. We flew down Thursday morning (a 7:00 am flight — what was I thinking?) and are returning to Chicago on Tuesday afternoon.

We’ve taken plenty of pictures, but we forgot the cord that connects the camera to the computer, so you’ll have to wait until we get back to see Henry frolicking on the beach, chasing lizards, and staring at herons.

I’d forgotten how much I like the sun.

So, since this is tax season, my workdays are each a relentless breakneck race to 5pm. I muster up my last bit of energy at the end of the day to make Henry dinner and get him ready for bed and then I collapse in a puddle on our living room floor. And then have a panic attack at 2am about something I forgot to send to some client’s accountant. Love my job!

We’re leaving for a vacation in Florida on Thursday, and there’s a gigundo heap of laundry that needs to somehow get done before then. I have nothing exciting to tell you, dear readers. I do, however, have pictures of Henry to share:

With any luck, he won’t ever have to wear this down jacket again.

Have I told you lately how much this boy loves playing with trains? I haven’t? Oh, that’s right, I’ve been too lazy to post.

Thank god crayons are non-toxic. Henry’s probably eaten 12 of them.

He climbs ladders like these all by himself.

But he still likes it best when Mommy pushes him on the swings.

(A little late this month. Sorry.)

Henry does not eat fruit.

No strawberries or bananas or peaches. No apples or oranges or blueberries.

Every time a piece of fruit crosses his lips, he spits it out. He doesn’t even chew it! Just spits it right out.

It’s strange. Henry eats nearly anything and everything. (He calls out for sausage and cheese like they’re the only thing that could possibly satisfy his hunger.) But not fruit.

We’ve tried everything. I’ll take a bite of a strawberry, then Kristen will, and we’ll hand a piece to Henry. He’ll look at it then throw it on the ground. No matter how many “yummy” or “tasty” noises we make, he won’t buy it. We’ll try to hide fruit in oatmeal or in between bites of other things he likes, but he’s too smart for that and sees through our ruse.

We haven’t really pressed the issue. I mean, he eats enough, he’s not that picky otherwise. I suppose there are other ways that we can get him to eat fruit, but for now we’re going to wait it out.

This summer, as we head off to the local farmers markets, buying wonderful fruits (and vegetables), we’re hoping that he’ll change his ways. He needs more roughage.

So other than the fact that Henry is a strict meat and potatoes kind of fellow, what else have we learned this month?

We learned that Henry loves the stairs. While he’s still not an expert at it, he loves walking up the steps, holding on tightly to the banister with one hand and Kristen or my hand with his other. As we live on the top floor of a three-story house, there are a lot of opportunities for step time, and he’s getting much, much better. He’s not as good going down (he really doesn’t feel it necessary to look where he’s going), but he’s improving. The only thing getting in the way of superior stepping is the length (or lack there of) of his legs.

We learned that Henry loves hot dogs. Just days after the American Academy of Pediatrics issued a stern warning, Henry ate his first foot-long. (He ate the whole thing.) Always one to do the opposite of what the experts say, we still carefully cut up the hot dog into easily chewable pieces, gave him some macaroni and cheese for a bit of taste, and let him at it. For the next week, at every meal (breakfast included), he asked for a hot dog. This is a good sign that Henry will also enjoy apple pie and baseball.

We learned that Henry’s speech has really improved by leaps and bounds. He repeats words easily and has even started to string words together (“more hot dog” and “more hugs” and “again jump”). One of the things that kids Henry’s age get frustrated about is the inability to communicate — they know what they want, but just can’t get the words out. It’s happened a few times with Henry (when it does, he just runs through about 10 or 15 words, figuring one of them is the right one), but for the most part, he’s able to get the right word or two out. It’s really limited the number of temper tantrums he’s had.

We learned that the horrible 18-month-sleep-regression that Kristen and I were dreading has yet to show up. Henry has (well, except for last night) slept through the night consistently for more than 6 months, is still taking two 2-hour naps a day (how does he do that), and happily goes to sleep at 7 every evening. Most nights, in fact, after we give him hugs and sing some songs and talk about our day, when Kristen or I walk him over to his crib, he actually lunges for the thing. It’s like he can’t get his Elmo and stuffed animals into his arms fast enough so he can catch some z’s. Lucky us.

And we learned that Henry really loves music. Finding good kid’s music is not easy. A lot of it makes you want to put sticks into your ears (dirty, jagged sticks), and we’ve really searched to find things that not only he likes, but Kristen and I can tolerate. One of his favorites is Salsa for Kittens & Puppies and its terrifyingly catchy song “Meow, Hou-hou.” (Hou-hou is, I suppose, the Latin American way of saying “woof-woof”, because, according to the CD, that’s what all the little doggies say.) Henry will run around the house saying, “hou-how, meow,” until we turn it on for him. Another good CD is Animal Crackers by Wee Hairy Beasties. (My personal favorite is “Cyril the Karaoke Squirrel.”) He’s not much of a dancer (yet), but he’s a terrific listener.

And we learned that Henry really likes hugging. Still not a fan of smoochin’, Henry will now come running toward you, his arms held up high, a huge smile on his face, yelling “Hug! Hug!” and get a good grip around your neck or legs or whatever he can grab. It’s a really nice thing.

On Saturday, I nearly punched a 4-year-old in the face.

No, let me take that back. That sounds terrible.

I just wanted to punch a 4-year-old in his face.

Wait. That’s not what I meant.

I wanted to punch a 4-year-old’s father in the face.

Now, I’m not a violent person. But I suddenly became very protective this past weekend — not just of Henry, but of dozens of children that were in the path of this 43-inch monster.

Let me explain.

This past week’s weather was amazing. Sunny, low-60s, a nice breeze off the lake. I’d go out at lunch and walk around downtown, just basking in the warm sun.

Obviously, this meant that come Saturday (the first day of Spring, too), it was snowing in Chicago. Yes, snowing.

So instead of going to the park and running around outside, we trudged off to a local mall for Henry to run around on their indoor playground. (We also bought him a windbreaker).

The Northbrook Mall is a nice, sort-of ritzy place, where North Shore (the towns just north of Chicago where you move where you can safely and without criticism make fun of the poor) residents go to buy things that they don’t need. (We bought a windbreaker for Henry — he needed that.)

Anyway, I sound bitter because I am. You see, at the mall, they have an indoor playground — a large, fake oak tree that has tunnels and sliding boards and stairs — where kids can run around and their parents can ignore them. But Henry likes it, so we stopped by for him to play a bit. (See that picture of Henry going down a slide? That was taken a month or so ago at the mall. See the guy reading the paper while his daughter is bleeding from the head [she was out of the shot]? Also, note the “Please Don’t Climb Up the Slide” sign? Yeah, ignored by the brats. So typical of this place.)

While Henry enjoys it, I don’t because these kids have no real manners and all run around like banshees, and I’m always worried that Henry is going to get plowed into. (Which he has in the past.) Saturday was no different. As soon as we got inside the cordoned off area and Henry ran up to the tree, this kid came running up to Henry and — with his arms outstretched like he was playing airplane — knocked our poor kid on his butt.

There were tears and I held him and rubbed his back, telling him that he’ll be okay, but what I really wanted to do was stop the kid (who was about 4 and who was still running around like a psycho) and tell him he should apologize. I didn’t — mostly because I couldn’t catch up to him. But as much as I wanted to scream at him, I wasn’t that mad because I just assumed that it was an accident — kids run into other kids all the time. It’s what they do.

Except this kid was the biggest little jerk of all. Because as Henry was in my arms (and as I was considering putting him down and letting him play some), I watched this kid — this little monster — do the same thing to three other kids. He runs, he sees some little boy or girl (always smaller than him) in his way, and up goes his arm and he knocks them over.

Three other kids!

Now I’m starting to get pissed. It was obvious what he did to Henry (and the other kids) wasn’t an accident, and I wanted him to pay. I hand Henry to Kristen and — with a look of murder in my eyes — I’m ready to get right in that little kid’s face.

Of course, I wouldn’t yell at the kid (and I wouldn’t punch him), but what I really wanted was for me to explain nicely what he should be doing and hopefully get the attention of his mother or father so I could then tell them a thing or two about parenting.

But Kristen — being the calm and reasonable one in this situation — instead ushered us all out of the play area so I wouldn’t make a scene.

“I bet his parents are terrible to him! That’s why he’s such a bully!” she said, trying to be reasonable, but I wouldn’t listen. I steamed for another half hour and was hoping that I’d see the brat and his family walking around the mall.

How are kids like this? He was 4! What 4-year-old thinks like this? Where were his parents? Why weren’t other parents up in arms as much as I was?

God, I hate the suburbs.

(Dear Readers:  Raphe has been nagging me incessantly to write a post because he is too lazy to do it himself. Well, I am too lazy to do it myself, too. But I am not as stubborn as he. So here is a damn post, even though I would rather be reading or loafing right now.)

Two weekends ago we all flew out to New York. Raphe had to work and Henry and I spent some time with my brother and his lovely live-in lady friend, Andrea*.  Henry did not sleep a wink on the plane ride there, and then was too hopped up to nap that afternoon. By all rights he should have been a hot mess, and truly he did come very close to completely losing his shit, but he held things together pretty well until bedtime Friday night. Indeed, he managed to run around the apartment after Andrea’s cat, chanting his name (Poo-bee? Poo-bee? Poo-bee?), run around the playground across the street and climb all over everything (Step! step! step!), and eat a bunch of sauerkraut-filled pierogies without any problem.  However, he spent most of Friday night sleeping on my stomach and not in his Pack ‘n Play. There was a lot (A LOT) of whining and not much sleeping.

Saturday went more smoothly, although Henry refused a morning nap and then fell asleep in the car on the way to breakfast. He wasn’t interested in eating much of anything at breakfast, and I was so desperate to get him to truly rest that afternoon that we moved his crib into the apartment’s bathroom because it was completely dark in there. He cried for a moment and then was OUT, thank heavens. We spent more time at the park that afternoon as it was absolutely gorgeous out. Henry was so happy to be outside running around, he couldn’t stop smiling. He was practically giddy on the swings. All that running around did him good, but it didn’t keep him asleep through Saturday night. That was rough. Thankfully that was Raphe’s problem.

Sunday morning we had a very healthy breakfast at the Peter Pan Donut Shop in Greenpoint. Dude, their donuts are insanely good. We hooked Henry’s Me Too clip-on highchair to the counter and he snarfed a red velvet cruller and part of my brothers egg and cheese bagel. Everyone who came in looked at the six of us (me, Raphe, my brother, Andrea, Henry, and my mother) sitting along the counter together and smiled. Very cute.

We flew home early in the afternoon. We had ugraded to economy plus for the flight back, which made a huge difference. Henry didn’t sleep, but at least there was plenty of room for him to wiggle around.

The end. Or should I say, fin.

* You will know Andrea when you meet her because she has very nice, very shiny hair and smells good. She will be wearing a cat sweater and singing about her shoes. You will be completely entranced. She will feed you chicken cutlets.

Last week Henry had his 18-month check-up. This is the last one where he has to go every three months, which I suppose is a good thing for him (fewer shots) and us (less exorbitant parking fees).

The past several visits to the doctor (both his regularly scheduled ones and when he was sick), Henry was quite gregarious. After we’d strip him down to only his socks and diaper (always a good look, let me tell you), he’d want to start wandering around, smiling and chatting and letting everyone check out his little tummy.

This time, however, he wanted nothing to with anyone other than Kristen or I, and he clung to us.

You see, Henry’s going through something of a shy phase. That’s actually a bit of an understatement. When in the presence of a stranger, he’ll bury his head into my chest or Kristen’s neck or my armpit (poor choice, Henry). If he’s not being held by one of us, he’ll wrap his arms around a leg and hold on tight.

It’s quite endearing, actually — a nice hug really gets right to your gut — and we know that he’ll grow out of it (it’s pretty typical for kids his age), but it can be a bit of a problem when he, say, needs to have his ears checked or his throat or measured.

(A measuring update: he’s a little over 34 inches tall — which is 90th percentile — and 24 1/2 pounds — which is below the 50th. He’s still long and skinny.)

So when Dr. Weinstein was doing his thing, there were howls and tears and gnashing of teeth, but as soon as he was far enough away from the doctor and able to hug Kristen, it all stopped. No more tears.

An aside: Henry has, to my displeasure, begun to call out “Mommy” when he’s sad or scared or hungry or worried. I can be right there — or, even worse, holding him — and if he wants something, it’s all Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Kristen seems quite happy about this development, however. Go figure.

Then we dressed him, and he was happy because he thought it was time to go, but, of course, there was the dreaded shot.

He only got one this time (and I think he’s done with most of his shots for another year), but he was so unhappy after, he didn’t even want the Bugs Bunny bandage. Refusing Bugs? Sacrilege.

And hopefully, he won’t be back there for another six months. Unless, of course, he starts asking us if he can have another shot, just for fun.

(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.