Tiring the child

I remember last summer at the Dunes our main concern was to maintain a semblance of Lyla's normal sleeping schedule so that she would be an accommodating and sane baby. This time we've decided we don't care. We tire her ass out, and then we put her to bed when it's convenient for us. So far, it's working.

From the beach today:




Here Lyla and Mama are taking turns hiding from each other.


And here she is going "Dump dump dump!" with my uncle Jim.


So after a couple relaxed attempts to get Lyla to sleep on her cot in the sand, we just let her not sleep. We left the beach around 3:00 and headed up the 120 or so stairs to the cabin and our car. On the way back to our hotel to shower and regroup before dinner (regroup = Hot-N-Ready at Little Caesar's), Lyla fell fast asleep. She's still asleep as I type this in our hotel room, two hours later. We'll probably have to wake her up for dinner.

Oh yes, and the Hot-N-Ready? We ate it in the lobby with the baby monitor next to us.

In bed with Murdoc

Julie took both photos with flash over the wall she designed in our hotel room. Yes, she designed it. If I am MacGyver, she is Murdoc.

(Oh come on. Murdoc is a frequent bad guy on MacGyver. He's a douche.)

We got in an argument about the shower curtain assembly. She claimed that the rods were unnecessary since you could just tie rope across the room and hang the curtain from the rope. I mean yes, I suppose you could do that, but it's an inelegant solution, like holding the bumper to your car with bungee cords.

Ultimately her design won because I left my pocket knife (for cutting lengths of rope to tie the rods to the--you get it) at home. So now there's rope tied around a part of the window and stretched across the room and wrapped around the entire headboard like some total wackjob thought of it.

I mean seriously: it looks kinky.

But Lyla's asleep behind the curtain. We got here successfully after stopping halfway to stay a brilliant night at the home of friends who have a son that Lyla will marry one day if we manipulate things cleverly enough. We're reasonably refreshed now and not feeling any of the mild hatred that would've come from doing the whole trip in one day.

I should sleep in preparation for the beach tomorrow. Plus, if I don't stop this clicking and clacking in the bed soon, Murdoc here is going plot my assassination.

Minutes before departure

I dropped Lyla off at daycare this morning so we could finish packing without interruption. I'll leave to pick her up shortly, and then we'll be off.

Our car has so much stuff in it that it looks it'll pop a wheelie in our driveway.

To the Dunes

For the third time in the past week, we went to the zoo. I think certain animals are starting to recognize us.

Here's Lyla and her friend Anja on the tractor.



On another subject, we leave tomorrow for the Indiana Dunes on Lake Michigan. We have a sack with a bunch of new junk for Lyla to play with in the car should she become fussy. I hope it doesn't turn into some tragic Pavlovian experiment where Lyla concludes, "If I scream and cry, I get a crappy toy. Therefore, I should scream and cry constantly."

Our hotel has Wi-Fi, so I will continue posting updates on our shenanigans. One item that I know will cause great excitement is the return of the MacGyver curtain setup that I invented for our Duluth overnight. I already put the big storage thing on top of the car, so there's plenty of room for the shower rods, curtains, rings, duct tape, as well as Julie's suitcase, which is only slightly smaller than Rhode Island.

And like two years ago, I will again dig a massive hole in the sand so Julie can comfortably lie on her stomach.

Oh, and our plan is to convince Lyla to take naps on the beach on a cot. We are idiots!

Baby got back

In the driveway amid a heat index of over 100 degrees, I peeled Lyla out of her car seat and hefted her over my shoulder. "Buh!" she said as we headed toward the house.

"We are most definitely not playing ball out here," I replied.

"Buh!"

"Wait, are you saying butt?"

"Butt!" she said, now remembering the last consonant sound.

"Are you looking at Dada's butt?"

"Dada butt."

"Yes, Dada has a butt."

"Lyla butt."

"Yes, Lyla has--"

"Mama butt!"

"Mama has a butt, too. Everybody has a butt."

"Ebby-bubby butt."

"Yes, everybody's butt."

We entered the house, 30 degrees cooler than outside.

"Lyla, do you like big butts and you cannot lie?"

"Yeah."

Seven-year itch

It's our anniversary today. I'm supposed to be feeling the seven-year itch, but that wouldn't be fair considering a seedling baby is living inside Julie. And what is there to itch for, anyway?

I ordered flowers delivered to Julie at work, and they arrived with this note: "Happy anniversaty! Love, Dan." When the flower girl misspelled anniversary, I wonder if she looked at the squiggly red line under it and thought, "Oh that's neat. It automatically underlines the occasion, just like with those birfday flowers yesterday."

Julie got the call that there was a flower delivery for her in the lobby and thought to herself, "Why am I getting flowers?" Ladies and gentlemen, she did not remember this special, special day. Do you think we have some gender role issues in this household? Here I am at home preparing the meals and taking care of the child, and there she is in her corporate job forgetting our anniversary.

She came home and said, "My gift to you is the fetus."

The heat is getting to me lately; I'm looking for more and more indoor activities with Lyla. It's ridiculous because come winter I'm going to long for sunshine. Temperatures in the high 80s and 90s, though, are oppressive. So today I took Lyla to Edinborough Park, an indoor play area in Edina. They have a bouncy castle and a huge structure with slides and stuff to climb on.

Here she is in the bouncy castle:


She kept saying "Dump dump dump!" (translation: "Jump jump jump!") and then she would fall on her face and laugh herself silly.

Then in the play structure, we actually climbed pretty high in it (last winter we stayed on the ground and did baby things) and went down some stupidly bendy slides. I don't think they are made for tall people; there's one I have titled the Poor Man's Chiropractor because of how I had to bend myself just to get down it.

Before long, there was a desperate request for snacks. We doused ourselves in hand sanitizer first.


While the place is well maintained, you don't get the impression that it's actually clean, what with the sweaty, unsupervised kids who may or may not have shit in their pants. It is somehow worth it, though. We'll go back as long as we don't end up with E. coli or a staph infection or a seven-year itch or something.

A funny no-no is still a no-no

Here Lyla is removing DVDs from the shelf so she can stack them on the table, higher and higher, until they topple over. This is a no-no. It also happens to be hilarious.

She's reached the point that she knows when she's being naughty and thinks it's fun. I can't imagine who passed her the DNA for that trait. When we're at Target and she runs away squealing, she thinks she's initiating the chase game, but there's also a part of her, I am certain, that is fully aware that good boys and girls don't run away from their parents at Target. But that just makes her feel cool. It's like if she suddenly found some cigarettes, she would most definitely smoke them, and probably in church.

So I have to explain to her that running away at Target is a no-no, and I have to do it without laughing at how cute and ridiculous she looks bouncing down the aisle and glancing back at me while veering so severely that a woman needs to move her cart out of the way (she is smiling). What I have to tell Lyla is this: a funny no-no is still a no-no. Just because Dada is laughing doesn't mean that you should continue this behavior.

I need to get it together, or she's headed for juvy.

Pool

We took Lyla to the pool, and she loved it despite refusing to show her glee to the camera. Holding her in just under five feet of water, the conversation went like this:

"See the big slides, Lyla?"

"Lyla slides." (That translates to her declaring ownership of the slides.)

"You can go on those slides in a couple years. They belong to the city."

"Lyla slides."

"Yes, yes. Ooh, look at the diving board. See those big kids jumping off the diving board?"

"Lyla iving bud."

Back at home, post-bath:




Then Auntie Lori came over to babysit, and Julie and I met our friend Luke out and went to dinner and saw Inception. Tonight I hope to sleep well enough to have a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream.

Like the tooth fairy

Julie still thinks it's a bad idea to encourage Lyla's delusion that she has a baby in her belly. "No no, Lyla," she says. "Only Mama has a baby in her belly." It's so elitist.

Julie worries what will happen when our second child splats into the world and Lyla's fake one does not. What will Lyla think? Will she feel inadequate? Will she start checking her dirty diapers for babies? Will she have nightmares about the horrors of childbirth?

Here's what you do. Humor your daughter when she says she has a baby in her belly. Then buy her a baby doll and keep it hidden until that fateful day in late January when her brother or sister arrives. The morning after you all come home from the hospital, sneak into her bedroom while she's asleep and carefully stuff the baby doll up her pajama shirt. She'll wake up and be so, so happy.


It's like the tooth fairy, only psychotic.

Second pregnancy and beyond

You can't tell from my face in that photo, but I was reading it very expressively. But I'm sorry. Is she yawning?

When you're pregnant with your first kid, it's a big deal. You announce to everyone that the fetus is now the size of a ping pong ball, and there is great hubbub. You get nine or ten baby showers. Random people want to touch you.

With the second pregnancy, it's "So...do you know if it's a girl or boy? No? Are you going to find out?" The subtext is "Talk to me when it at least has identifiable genitalia" with a hint of "This again?" Don't get me wrong: It's kind of how we feel too. I can't imagine a baby shower for this pregnancy. We have everything. I suppose if it's a boy, people might want to buy us blue stuff. Probably most won't, though, and that's fine with me.

What do people say when you announce you're pregnant for a third time?

"I am so, so sorry."

"Actually," the mother-to-be responds, "it was planned."

An awkward silence.

"Seriously. We've always wanted three kids. We might have a fourth."

"Oh. Well, I'm late for a meeting."

In other news, Lyla's canned smiling is steadily improving.

Mo tacta

On the way to the farm exhibit at the zoo, we stopped by the bears, and Lyla was determined to get the best possible view.

The last quarter-mile to the farm, you can either walk or ride behind a tractor. I've always walked because I am neither infirm nor obsessed with farm equipment. But today was hot and there wasn't a line. We took the tractor. As you can see from this next photo, Lyla is having the time of her life.


Look how happy she is! In fact, the tractor ride ruined the farm exhibit for us because rather than get properly excited about goats and cows and whatnot, all Lyla could talk about was the tractor. "Mo tacta! Mo tacta!"


"No goats. Mo tacta!"

But alas, we did not ride the tractor back. I am a mean, mean father.


She got over it. Later she became a bat...


...rode a turtle...


...and looked at fish.


All in all, it was over four hours at the zoo. Back in the car, Lyla's eyes were closed before we started moving. I stayed awake just barely.

Ooh ooh ooh ah ah ah

Lyla's turn to be a monkey:


Dada's turn to be a monkey:


Mama's turn to be a monkey:


Lyla's turn again:

Speeding

Lyla's on another antibiotic due to an ear infection. If it's not better in three weeks she gets an x-ray. I didn't share this with her because an x-ray sounds like a reward.

On the way to Target to pick up her prescription, I got a speeding ticket. I'd like to take this opportunity to compliment the officer for his tireless efforts to keep the streets safe from people like me. I was going 48 in a 35 along with every other car on the road, but I was also driving a gray 2002 Toyota Corolla and listening to public radio: difficult for the fuzz to ignore.

I'm actually not bitter. My last speeding ticket was when I was 19, and in the 12 years since then I've sped pretty much constantly. It's been well worth it.

So then back at home, after some snacks and some running around, Lyla took a nap and woke up four hours later. Four hours! I believe that is a record.

On another subject, Julie came home and said, "When I tell you I'm feeling nauseous, do you--"

"Want to correct you because the correct word is nauseated?"

"Yeah! Someone at work corrected me today, and I told her I wasn't sure you knew that rule."

"So you were feeling nauseated, and she decided it was time to correct your grammar?"

"That's why you haven't told me?"

"Since we're on the subject of nausea correctness, it's also better to vomit in the toilet than the sink."

"At least I've never gotten a speeding ticket."

In the sand

I taught Lyla the fun of burying Mama's legs.


Still working on how to smile for the camera.

Family olympics

You learn a lot of things in kindergarten that are never officially tested in adulthood, such as following simple directions, waiting your turn, coping with frustration, and eating sensibly. I think there should be an exam in adulthood to test retention of these concepts, and I think failure should get you sent to kindergarten summer school for adults. The test: successfully operate the hotel lobby waffle maker.

Would you pass?

On another subject, at the big family picnic today (where all the really old people are closely related and the youngest are something like third cousins) there were games for the kids. Back in the day, I dominated many of these games because I was older than my cousins and most of my second cousins. Kick a shoe really far? Hop in a burlap sack with great speed? Please. I won so many dollar bills that I could've built a giant creepy shrine to George Washington.

Now that I've retired from competition (aside from the shoe kick, which I lost this year to two cousins who were in diapers in my hay-day; now they're each like seven feet tall and have amazing leg extension), Lyla had to represent. Her event was a sprint of around 30 meters against other kids up to age five.

I almost got all John McEnroe in the face of the game organizer, my aunt with her bullhorn. Five years old is over three times Lyla's age. You can't be serious! Most of those kids haven't shat their pants in years.

But I'm cool. Whatever. It's fine. It's FINE. So I put my mom and sister at the finish line, and I held Lyla at the start. Immediately she started struggling, just wanted to get away, to be free, like a bull with rubber-banded testicles. Finally Auntie Bullhorn said "Go!" and I released my grip and Lyla charged toward Lori and Grandma.

Out of nine kids, most on steroids, Lyla came in eighth. The girl she beat got distracted and didn't finish, God bless her. Lyla got a dollar, some bubbles, and a big purple ball. Then she slept almost the entire drive home.

Dada MacGyver

Family reunion in Duluth minus Julie due to feeling pregnant and icky. I'm concerned about bedtime tonight when I put Lyla in the big-girl crib next to my hotel bed and try to convince her that it is a very good idea to go to sleep. "Dada!" she'll say, looking up at me.

"Go to sleep."

"No fweep!"

"Go to sleep."

"No fweep!"

"Go to sleep."

"NOOOOOO fwEEEEEEp!"

So at Target I purchased two black shower curtains along with rods and rings. And rope. And duct tape. I'm going to craft a blind in the hotel room so Lyla can't see me. It will end up a colossal failure, but right now it feels like a fantastic idea, like something MacGyver would do.

If nothing else works, my 2:00 AM backup option is to bash myself in the head with a sock filled with nickels. Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

I'll take a photo of the hopeless situation tonight and post it here tomorrow.

***Update***

Okay, here it is. Get ready to bask in my ingenuity.


I texted it to Julie and she was not impressed.


Oh, but what's that!? YEEEAH. That's what I thought, doubters! BOO YAH.

Three men and a baby

Lyla took almost a three-hour nap yesterday in the Pack 'n Play, which we've named the Big Girl Crib. Then she slept all night in it. We might not get thrown out of our hotel room tomorrow night after all.

This morning after I made Julie her egg sandwich, she sent me to the gas station for orange juice. After chugging said juice, she vomited everything into the bathroom sink. (The toilet was eight inches away, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.) It was one of the worst days of her pregnancy. Here she is:


So she's going to lay low at home tomorrow while I take Lyla to Duluth. It's cool. I can handle it.

Shiiit.

Riding in our car: Lyla, my brother Scott, my cousin Patrick, and me. Two men in their 20s and one in his, ahem, early 30s. And a baby. If we escort Lyla into the McDonald's Playland and nobody calls the cops, I'll be amazed.

Pack 'n Play woes

That's Lyla showing where her beard is. Father of the year, right here, ladies and gentlemen.

When Lyla was a teeny baby, we had grand plans to teach her to sleep in all sorts of locations. "That way, we can go on vacation with her, plop her in the Pack 'n Play in the hotel bathroom or whatever, and watch cable while she snoozes," was roughly our line of thinking.

Now that she is almost 20 months old and two days away from a family reunion overnight in a Duluth hotel room, I figure it's high time I start teaching her to sleep in the Pack 'n Play.

Yes, start. It's been a year since our last overnight trip together as a whole family. Lyla doesn't remember it, but she was shorter then and not so opinionated. Oh, and by the way: all those best intentions of teaching the kid to sleep all over the place don't amount to anything in the real world. On any given day, a sane person will choose the guaranteed nap in the crib over the child sobbing and screaming in the playpen.

"Yes, but why did you wait to..." Just hush, okay? A sane parent chooses the guaranteed nap in the crib. Maybe all those Earth mothers you know are not sane.

Do I sound a bit defensive? Yeah, so it's playpen boot camp today, and Lyla is finally asleep. After a morning at the zoo and a sleepy car ride home, I gently lowered her into the Pack 'n Play with binkies and blankies and stuffed animals, and Lyla completely freaked her shit. I hugged her, put her back down and left, resolved to not go back in for 10 minutes. Within 5 she was talking to herself, occasionally whining, but nothing that would ever justify me going back in there. This went on for an hour. She never went to sleep.

Lunch. Play. Tired child. New nap attempt and she freaked her shit once more. Ten minutes downstairs listening to angry jungle sounds in the monitor. Back upstairs to replenish thrown binkies and comfort the beast. And now she's finally asleep for real, two hours past her normal nap time. I hope it lasts. Definitely, definitely should've made the Pack 'n Play part of her routine much earlier.

We'll do it right with our second child. (That is a lie.)

Capturing it all

I picked up Lyla from daycare and she was absolutely covered with dirt and wood chips. We had to stop at Target on the way home, and I imagined every passerby calling social services to report me for neglect.

By the time we meandered home through near constant construction, Lyla was a hot dirty mess who was not interested in dinner. So instead she got a bath.

Back downstairs, she struggled to get pasta onto her fork and then into her mouth.



Some people are all about helping a toddler every time she struggles. "Oh, let me help you with that pasta. Poor baby." Is it bad that my first thought is to grab the camera and capture the rage?

Well, I also captured her solving her own problem:

Hearts

We're still working with Lyla on what "smile for the camera" means. In fewer than three months she will be the flower girl in Jen and Jason's wedding, so we have precious little time. Of course, in my official capacity as special assistant to the flower girl (word is out as to whether I'll get props in the program), it will be my job, among other things, to jump around like an ape during photo time so this little girl smiles for real.

Julie and I left Grand Marais at 6:45 this morning after one more quick stop at World's Best Donuts, whose walk-up window opens at 4:30 AM, God bless them. We had the road mostly to ourselves and arrived home around 11:15, just in time to interrupt Lyla's nap. She was pleased to see us, although once Grandma left, all she really wanted was for Grandma to come back.

So then we went to the doctor for Julie's 12-week appointment. In the car we talked about hearts and reviewed with Lyla where the heart is located on your body and what it sounds like. Then in the doctor's office, we listened to the heart of the baby in Mama's belly, and it sounded like thunder.

P.S. There's now a photo at the bottom of Saturday's post if you're interested. It's of Lyla copping a 'tude.