Our Day at the Zoo

I took the day off. I had been at a conference, of sorts, in Atlanta, and had missed out on some quality time with the little man.

We went to a "Tots at the Zoo" class together. Mockbamom decided to stay behind to get some quality alone time - much-deserved.

We arrived just in time. We went to the little classroom reserved for us. There were four children with four parents. My little boy was way more interested in the plastic dinosaurs and animals in the plastic bins at the back of the room than he was in anything our poor tour guide had to say. Nevertheless, I took the opportunity to try and train him to be polite.

Today's lesson was about frogs and toads - every boy's favorite. Mockbaboy adored all of them. He stared into the big aquarium filled with turtles, frogs, and toads, as if communicating with all of them. He was pretty excited. He got especially worked up when one of the turtles started swimming toward him.

We eventually all made our way out into the larger zoo exhibits. Our focus on toads and frogs was soon lost - the kids (all boys, incidentally) were far too interested in the large cats, otters, and ferrets. Eventually, the class broke up and we were left to our own devices.

We made a good effort at seeing more of the zoo until Mockbaboy decided it was time to ride the carousel and the zoo train. The carousel was a blast. By the time we were on the train, he was about done with the whole thing. He was tired, a little hot, and the train whistle kept scaring him. It did give me an opportunity to let him lean on me, under my arm, as I stroked his curly hair. Life would be a void experience for me without such moments.

We slowly made our way to the concession stand for drinks, then out to the car. We'd had a great afternoon together. I've decided it isn't about what we do. It is simply about spending time together. I will cherish today in the special part of my heart reserved for exactly these sorts of moments. I will remember stroking his little innocent head on the train for the rest of my life. This is truly what my life is about. I can't wait for our next little outing.

Our Beach Boy

I had to go to Florida for a work-related deal last week, and the family came with me. The little guy loved the beach this time - it sort of scared him last time I think. A giant sandbox for his trucks...what's not to love, right?I've been wanting to get some good B&W shots with my 35mm camera, and so we planned a photo shoot for the last day...the only day my schedule would allow it. Of course, this meant that a narrow strip of heavy rain absolutely covered the Florida panhandle all day. I had just about given up when the weather broke just long enough to allow me to get some good pictures. Hope you all enjoy.

Mockbaboy's First Haircut

Saturday was a bittersweet day for Mockbadad and Mockbamom. Our little son had his first haircut. I don't know why it was hard. Maybe it is because you feel responsible for every bruise, every cut - literally every little curly blond hair on their heads. We had a bit of a sick feeling in our guts when we took him.

As always, he took it all in stride. No tears, no fighting, no screaming - he just sat there and let it happen. Well, to be entirely accurate, he was identifying each and every character on the "Cars" barber drape they put on him.

"Daddy look! There's Nitenin' Aqueen ("Lightnin' McQueen")! There's Mater!" The lady doing the cutting - she was superb, incidentally - had to laugh. We saved every single hair, of course. I bet she's never had a customer she didn't have to clean up after.

He looked great afterwards. And after the obligatory Fy-Twuck hunt, we went to celebrate at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Don Pepe. He picked at his enchilada and rice. He devoured the fried ice cream.

Mockbaboy's First Campin' Trip

Some of my most cherished childhood memories occurred on camping trips with my dad, and later, with my dad and brother. So this weekend, the time had finally come to initiate my son into our little group with an initiation into the camping club.

We met Dad and my brother at an RV park about halfway between us both. Dad recently purchased an RV, or as Mockbaboy calls it, a "bus". We arrived late on Friday night - about 11p.m., so there was a period of adjustment before we could go to sleep. He wanted to play - with trucks, stuffed animals, with the sheet (building "a tent" is always a must), but eventually, about 1a.m., he crashed. Not for long, though. When I awoke about 5 1/2 hours later, there he was, standing in his pack-and-play, talking to Pappa. I dragged myself out of bed and we eventually headed out.

We had a great day. We'd decided to go hang out at Bass Pro Shop, always a favorite. When we arrived, there was a remote-control car race going on - the first I've ever seen. We sat in the car with the A/C running and a sleeping 2-year-old, watching the races. They were hilariously entertaining. We laughed a lot. Eventually, he woke up and we made our way inside.

Mockaboy especially loved the giant aquarium, filled with bass, white and black perch, and an impossibly large catfish. There were also entire communities of stuffed bears, mountain lions, wild goats, beavers, and other wildlife. The kid had a blast. So did we. All I actually bought was a new cell phone holster and three large bags of what I have discovered is the very best bird food for attracting red-headed woodpeckers. We ate lunch and went back to "the bus" for a nap. Dad and I got to talk for a long time. It was a much-needed time together. It's been much too long since we were able to just sit and talk like the old days.

Saturday night was considerably better. Mockaboy was asleep by about 10:45, and slept through the night - mostly. He woke up about 5 times. Three were for "more bottle". Two were to notify me, excitedly, about the "choo-choo twain" he could hear rattling and blowing its horn clearly from a nearby trestle. We got up, ate breakfast together, then left. We were home by mid-afternoon, exhausted, but satisfied. The little guy slept from about 4:00 on through the night, amazingly. This morning, on my way out, he called for me. I knew that he was probably ready to get up after sleeping so much.

"Daddy, you get me more bottle?"

"Sure, pal. Let me change your diaper first."

"Get down?"

"No, pal, Mama's still asleep. Why don't you lie down for a little while?" He wasn't happy about this.

"You want your fire truck?" My dad and brother had brought a very cool toy fire truck for him - he hadn't set it down all weekend, and had to take it to bed with him last night.

"Okay!" he said excitedly.

I put him back into bed and covered him up, with a bottle and the fire truck. He was complacent for the moment. "I love you buddy".

Hope Again in Mudville...

Baseball. America's Pastime. The boys of summer. I'm running out of cliches. I was never much of a player. I like baseball, mind you. I love to watch, that is. I was just never very good at playing. The game never held my attention very well. I just wasn't captured by baseball fever as were many of my peers.


The outfield is where they put the lousy athletes. I played outfield. I distinctly remember how boring a game seemed to me, out there, seemingly out of reach of any possible delivery by one of our 9-year-old opponents. I was a nature boy. Still am. I would examine the white clover as the honeybees harvested their nectar, watch raindrops fall through the glow of the field flood lights (it looked exactly like the stars on the bridge of the starship Enterprise - zipping past at warp speed), examine the clouds, tug at the leather thongs on my glove with my teeth. Sure enough, as the Law of Averages would dictate, there was the occasional fluke hit when the ball would meet with an unsuspecting aluminum bat and a cracking peal would rouse me from a distant daydream - "Where's the ball!?!? Where's the ball!?!?" I would either completely fail to see it or would see it too late. I carry the shame to this day. But I may yet be redeemed.


My son has taken to baseballs and bats like a fish to water. My dad was a good player, as was my wife's dad. My wife's dad's dad played in the minors in Cincinnati. Maybe it skips a generation every once in a while, I don't know. What I do know is that it gives me a joy I can not quite describe to see him connect with the ball and see the glee in his eyes. I couldn't care less if he ever plays anything - but I have to admit it is pretty cool that my son of all people, seems to like it.

So keep your chins up, poor Mudville. Casey may have a second chance yet...

Operation Fy-Twuck: Victory at Last

I may have mentioned that my son is what could be described as a fire truck maniac. Each day when I get home from work, he meets me at the door. After a much-too-brief hug, he insists that I sit with him in front of the computer and look at pictures of fire trucks. He gets progressively more excited with each picture - "Look at dat one! Dat one has uh BIG LADDER own it!!"

When we take a ride anywhere, I can't even start the car without him yelling, "You go fine fy-twuck, daddy?". If you've been reading my posts, I describe one of these trips in detail in "Wednesday Night".

When it comes to making contact, however, a scenario I like to call a Fire Truck Encounter of the Third Kind, we have been so-far unsuccessful. He loves to look. He just sort of freezes up when it comes to touching. I was determined that this weekend would be the one.

We started out slowly. We went to get coffee. I went the back way to one of our local fire houses.

"You go fine fy-twuck, daddy?"

"Yeah, buddy! There's a fire truck right there!"

"He's inside?"

"Yeah, buddy, he's inside, but do you want to go see it?"

"Go see it."

We drove slowly by the front of the station. The giant garage doors were open. One of the firemen eyed us a little suspiciously. I really couldn't blame him, of course. We looked a bit odd. I couldn't think about it. I was on a mission.

We turned around and pulled in front of the station. I hurried to get the Boss out of the back. I put him on my shoulders, and we walked around. The doors were closing. Ugh. Thwarted again. We observed our quarry through the immaculately-cleaned windows.

"We go-go?" he eventually asked.

"Yeah, buddy. We go-go".

We started back to the car, and were almost there when one of the firefighters inside the station opened the front door.

"Did he want to see the fire truck?" We are very fortunate to have just about the best and nicest fire department I've ever seen.

"Sure. I guess so. You want to see the fire truck, buddy?"

"Go see fy-twuck." His response was half-hearted. This might not be the one after all.

We went inside and got the grand tour. As always. He was typically amazed, pointing out all the details of the polished red fire engine and ambulance.

"Do you want to sit on it, buddy, so I can take your picture?"

"GO-GO, DADDY! GO-GO!"

There was no point in arguing. The decision was made. We stayed a polite amount of time, were sure to thank the firefighter over and over for the tour, and left.

We had been in the car less than a minute when my companion says, "You take picture, daddy?"

"I wanted to, pal, but you didn't want me to. Maybe next time."

"Go see fy-twuck?"

This was starting to get ridiculous. I drove the six or seven minutes to our other fire station. The firefighters at this one are a bit more stand-offish. As luck would have it, the main fire engine was outside.

"Lookadat fy-twuck!"

"I see it, bud! You wanna go look at it?"

"No".

We sat there for several minutes. I finally broke.

"We're gonna go see it". No argument from the back seat.

We got out and approached in our normal formation - he was on my shoulders. We walked slowly around the red monster as if examining a living thing and not wanting to frighten it away. Finally I made my move. I took him off my shoulders and set him on the ground.

"Okay, buddy. You stand right here while I take your picture". Something had changed. He was either too wrapped up in describing every aspect of the fire engine to me or it was just time. He allowed me several good shots before he wanted to go.

It was a proud moment. You want your child to feel comfortable when he or she is with you. Comfortable enough to explore a bit - but not too much. It is a fine line. I want him to feel precisely free enough to roam free - four or five steps away from me. Yesterday was a great day. Maybe next weekend we'll actually harpoon our own personal white whale and...dare I suggest it?...sit on a fy-twuck.

The Baby Powder Incident

We've learned to fear silence. The constant chaotic din of activity from our son is reassuring. Silence equals danger. Or at least some sort of domestic disaster.

So it was a couple of months ago while I was at work. The little guy was busy, as always, running from item to item, constantly muttering to himself. My wife was busy as well, following him around in our little daily dance, trying to pick up after him. She was in the kitchen for a few moments when she heard it...the eerie lack of noise.

She went to investigate, curious and dreadful about what she might find. She called out his name. No response. Now slightly panicked, she hurried down the hallway to his room. There, smiling guiltily, in the middle of his creation, was our boy.

The baby powder had been less poured out and more caused to explode. It transformed his room into something like a talcum powder quarry. I actually had no idea a box of baby powder even contained that much powder. It was enough for the bottoms of countless babies. It was shocking.

There was no easy solution. The powder covered him, the floor, all the objects in the room...the decision: to clean the room or him first. My wife chose, quite naturally, to clean the floor first. Unfortunately, the disaster was not over. It was only moving. With powder falling constantly from his body, on his feet, and collected at the top of his diaper, the King of Chaos began to run through the house.

At some point, there were little powder footprints down the hall, in the living room - I picture an Indian guide like the ones in old Westerns, on his hands and knees, examining the evidence - "He was alone...there was a struggle...he ran this way, then came back, he was carrying something...a stuffed bear???"

Fortunately, in the madness, my wife thought to take pictures for evidence. Just another day with the little monkey we love so much.