fatherhood

Rude Awakening

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Over the past eight weeks, I have lost my heart to our family’s new addition. I love to hold her, feed her, even change her diapers (of course, these early scentless messes are the easiest). Perhaps it’s because we’ve waited so long (seven years!) to have another, or perhaps it’s because we know now that there are no guarantees, but I cling to little Lily and rejoice. She can do no wrong.

So last night, after the elder four had turned in and Jodi and I were getting ready to do the same, Lily was, in turns, playful and fussy — one moment wide-eyed and smiling, the next gassy and grimacing. We thought little of it, since from day one Lily has been fussier and rumblier than all of our previous infants.

When we were both finally ready, Jodi sat propped my pillows, holding and patting our daughter to elicit a burp. I turned on a small bedside lamp that glows softly gold, just enough for my bride to feed by, then settled into bed next to my wife and infant daughter. We talked a bit, then Jodi began to nurse Lily. We prayed together, then I rolled away from the girls and drifted slowly off to sleep.

I woke to “HLLLAT!” and a sudden splash of warm liquid on my bare back and shoulders. “Oh!” I shouted, immediately awake and on my feet. I could feel a viscous fluid running down my back. I tried frantically to reach it, to keep it from dripping on the carpet. I turned and in the dim light saw Lily’s innocent face on Jodi’s wet shoulder. Jodi herself looked at me with sympathetic eyes. “Oh, honey!” she said. As I bolted for the bathroom, she began to laugh.

I came back with a towel looped around my shoulders and back. Jodi was examining her pajamas and the bedding: shirt, shorts, both sheets, the comforter, and multiple pillows were streaked with milky white vomit. Lily seemed very much at peace.

“That was quite the rude awakening, Lily-bell,” I said.

“You should have seen it!” said Jodi. “It came straight out, like a hose!”

“So, more like a spewed awakening,” I joked. “Fear no fluids, right hun?”*

“Right.”

Never rose so quickly — or so widely awake — in my life. If Lily did that every morning at six, I’d never be late again.

—-

* Our parenting motto, once we realized as young parents that our non-parenting friends had no stomach for stories like this one…

Intro to Wrestling with Tenacious-G and Trevasive

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

I spent last evening at a takedown tournament, watching Gabe, Trevor, and the rest of the multitude of boys in St. Michael-Albertville’s Youth Wrestling Program this year. With scores of young wrestlers — some rookies, like my sons; some crusty veterans of numerous club seasons — I guess they figured a takedown tourney would be the easier way to be sure everyone got some experience.

It ran like this: the boys were divided into eight squads, and the squads were paired off. Wrestlers were matched with opponents as close as possible to their same size and weight, and given one minute to score as many takedowns against each other as possible. A referee (members of the high-school JV team) would signal each takedown and quickly stand the boys up again and restart them. The team received one point for every takedown scored by their wrestler.

Trevor was fortunate enough to have wrestled an actual match a few weeks back, against a friend of his. He lost that match by pin, but had a good time, so I was excited to see him in action. Gabe has yet to wrestle a match. He has done plenty of  live wrestling in practice, but never with a timer or someone keeping score — so he was disappointed with the format. He’s built like me in both size and temperament (or rather, like I was back then: an easygoing melon on matchsticks), so I figured a takedown tourney, with an emphasis on speed and aggression, was going to be a big test.

In the end, Gabe won against his first opponent — a boy about his size but, he was guessing, a couple years younger, and frightfully passive — then lost against his second and third opponents, who were his age, 20-plus pounds heavier, and had their own singlets. Following his first match, Gabe was somber: he knew the boy had been scared and barely resisted, and took no pleasure in knocking him over repeatedly. The second kid let Gabe grab his leg, then dropped on him and scrambled behind again and again; Gabe was aggressive and persistent, but couldn’t do anything from beneath. Afterward, Gabe’s coach showed him how to slip sideways, then try to snatch an ankle without getting beneath a larger opponent. In his final match, Gabe was aggressive, persistent, and much better on his feet; he was simply overpowered by a bigger, stronger boy. His coach said, “You were tenacious — I like to see that!”

So does his dad.

Trevor dropped all three of his matches, and did his best to keep his opponent away from him with outstretched arms and quick feet. He has long disliked loud noises, and was worried about the buzzer that would sound at the end of the match — he kept stealing glances at the clock, and with a few seconds left, actually stopped moving and covered his ears! In his last match, he made a few grabs for his opponent’s legs, but when his opponent grabbed him back, he turned to the mat and fell — almost like they were taking turns, except he never got a turn. Even so, he was all smiles; win or lose, he enjoyed hanging with the other boys and rolling around on the mats.

A friend’s dad smiled and said, “Trevor’s pretty evasive out there!”

On the way home, I asked Tenacious-G and Trevasive if they wanted to join Brendan for the extended wrestling season — a series of extra practices over the next few weeks. Trevor had already said several times that he had a great time, while Gabe had told us weeks ago that he didn’t think he would wrestle again next year. “I want to do DI (Destination Imagination),” he said, “and I like soccer and want to try track and cross-country. I think I prefer leg sports…”

“So what about the extended season?” I asked.

“I don’t want to,” Trevor said. “I think I’m just ready to be done.”

“I want to,” said Gabe — explaining that he’s not planning to do it next year, so he wants to get as much out of wrestling this year as he can…and he wants to be sure he gets to wrestle a real match.

I guess we’d better find him a real tournament. Meanwhile, Trevor’s talking baseball: keeping score and three strikes this year. So proud of these boys!

Trevor Remembers Jude

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

Several years ago, we purchased a cheap, pre-lit, artificial Christmas tree from Fleet Farm. It had been clearanced after the holiday, and we figured we could use it on those Christmases when we were travelling for much of the Christmas season and didn’t want a pricier real tree browning in our living room while we were gone.

The first time we set it up, the kids were excited. The box showed a mother and child decorating a beautiful, full, authentic-looking evergreen and brimming with holiday cheer. The box contained a green steel pole and stand, wrapped in what appeared to be the green shag version of outdoor carpet, and an array of giant green pipe-cleaners.

We put it together, bent the branches as best we could to block the view of the pole, and stepped back to admire our creation. Gabe looked from the bedraggled “tree” to the box and back again. “Can they do that?” he asked.

We sometimes still use the tree, just for a little extra greenery and lights, in some out-of-the-way corner of our home. This year we put it behind the Big Chair in our living room, and when we lucked into some extra Christmas decorations on Freecycle, we found ourselves with extra green, red, and gold balls, so we agreed to hang them on the fake tree.

The result is pictured above. It’s still a poor fake tree, but it doesn’t look half bad.

Last Christmas, on the heels of a miscarriage, Santa brought us a bird-feeder and seed for the backyard and a dove ornament bearing a message of Peace, in little Jude’s memory. As we were decorating our real tree, a nice blue spruce, someone in the family spied the little dove and suggested we put it on the fake tree — then, assuming Santa brings us another ornament for Jude this year, he can hang it on that tree, too.

So we did exactly that. Perhaps you can spy the dove on the tree above, as well.

A day or two later, Jodi and Trevor were talking as I came upstairs. Jodi saw me and said, “Trevor, you should tell Dad what you think we should call the fake tree.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

Trevor smiled his slightly embarrassed smile — a sure sign he is very excited about something but not sure how you’ll react. “I think we should do this every year, and put Jude’s ornaments on it,” he explained. “Then we could call it the Lost and Loved Tree…” (Here I choked back instant tears, and he went on to explain what needed none — that we lost a baby last year, and we miss and love our lost little one.)

Our previously pathetic, fake-Charlie-Brown tree has since taken on new beauty and significance, and my bride and I agree we can’t even consider not doing this again next year. Every year, we discuss new traditions we could start for our family. This year a new one was born independent of us, from a fake little tree and real big heart. Thanks, Trevor.

Preparing for Baby Boggles the Mind

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[Blogger’s Note: This is a classic Pooh mural my sister painted in the baby’s room in Michigan when Brendan was a toddler, just before Gabe came along. There was a plaque alongside with the following inscription: “Getting Tigger down,” said Eeyore, “and Not hurting anybody. Keep those two ideas in your head, Piglet, and you’ll be alright.” The rest of this post originally appeared in the Friday, Oct. 14, 1997, edition of The Pioneer daily newspaper, Big Rapids, Mich. The first third is a bit much, but I was excited at the time that people would pay to read this sort of thing. It is the column referenced in yesterday’s Almost There post.]

It’s Friday, and this is a Friday kind of column.

For those who looked in Tuesday’s paper to find my column, thank you. I appreciate those people in the community who have said that they enjoy my columns. (I would say “my work,” but do you realize what O’m paid to do? I get to write.) I appreciate those who enjoy them and do not say so. I appreciate those people who read my columns and don’t like them — tell me what you don’t like, and we’ll discuss it.

It might make fodder for another column.

It’s Friday. Not my usual day for a column — I would say that too much work kept me from writing Tuesday’s column, except that my column is part of that “too much work,” and so is no real excuse. I got my other work done…

I could tell you that other people’s columns took precedence, except that a day or two ago I was accused of writing with honesty, and to be honest, everyone including me expected I’d have a column in for Tuesday. I can’t even blame a lack of ideas — I’ve got no less than a dozen columns started right now. No ends in sight, though.

I have slowly discovered that I have a readership. (A readership!) It’s a good feeling, and a source of pressure. I like to write columns, and now I feel I have a responsibility to turn out quality material every Tuesday so as not to disappoint my readership. Several weeks back I ran a piece out of my college journal — I drove from Big Rapids to Remus and back in the middle of the night to deliver that piece to the paper because I hadn’t written my column and didn’t want to let the Taylors down.

Crazy, yes, but dedicated.

But, as our night editor used to say (at least once), “{People don’t want to see how the sausage is made.”

They want the product.

What follows is this week’s morsel.

October 8, Jodi and I signed our names and purchased a home — three bedrooms, a bath and a half, brick halfway up and a two-car garage. It’s on Maple Street. (Sounds homey, doesn’t in? A friend of mine, Ed Quon, lives on Micheltorena Street — which of us is married and expecting?)

We haven’t actually taken possession yet, and out baby is due Nov. 19, which means any day now. [Blogger’s Note: Too funny. Brendan was born what, 40 or so days later?] At this point, the baby has more stuff than his or her parents, and we’re anxious to get in, repaint the baby’s room, and decorate. We have to repaint the room — its current color just isn’t Classic Pooh.

Classic Pooh is that subtle, old-fashioned Pooh based on E.H. Shepard’s illustrations — very nice; cute and pricey. Will the baby like Classic Pooh? I don’t know.

All decorating and kidding aside, we need to make sure we’re ready for this child. Crib? Check. Carseat? Check. Stroller? Check — but not the one we registered for. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a very nice stroller, but the one we registered for had a reversible handle so the baby could ride facing toward you or away from you.

“Babies like to see their parents,” I’ve been told, by parents who wish they would have gotten the reversible handle.

I suspect parents like to see their babies. Even so, will the baby like the stroller we have?

Snugglie? [Blogger’s Note: Sic. Snugli, not Snuggie…] Not yet. Wedge-shaped pillow to keep baby sleeping on his or her side or back? Nope. Outlet covers? In a couple months, probably — we don’t know yet how many outlets we’ll need covered/

How about corner and door pads — have you seen these? The package proclaims, “Give your child the safety of a padded room,” or something like that.

My kids ought to be in a padded room — is that what they’re telling me?

With millions of products on the market that new parents “need,” how does any baby survive to age one in a family with average income?

Baby wipe warmers?

The retailers and manufacturers have expectant and anxious parents right where they want us. At the beginning of life, just as at the end, people are made to feel guilty unless they spare no expense.

How did babies survive before crib monitors and motion-sensitive night light/musical crib mobiles? How did parents survive before Diaper Genie? [Blogger’s Note: This is the one product about which we were both excited and sorely disappointed. Yes, it makes disposal of diapers relatively odor-free; the magically disappear and are locked away, sealed in scentless plastic…where they ferment for days until you are forced, gagging, to empty the “Genie.” Apparently the pail/bag in combination is somehow scentless, but a bag full of rotting waste on its own reeks regardless…]

What about names? We have two in mind for a boy — Brendan James (middle-named after me) or Zachary Venjohn (middle-named after Jodi, whose maiden name is Venjohn). We like Brendan James, because our oldest boy will be named after his dad. On the other hand, we like Zachary Venjohn because it’s unique, it would mean a lot to Jodi and her family, and he’ll still be named Thorp after his father and his father’s fathers.

For baby girls, it’s either Emily Rose or Rachel Elizabeth. Probably Emily, but will she like it? Is it too old-fashioned? Too cute? Will it serve her well in her profession?

Can you yell it out the back door?

We need to save enough money to cover Jodi’s time away from work and our bills. We need to find day care for when she goes back to work. I need to get a cell phone or a pager [Blogger’s Note: Remember pagers? I wound up with a “bag-phone,” which I lugged everywhere and dubbed Baby-Com.] — what if I miss the birth? Will Jodi remember to breathe? Will I?

With all these questions flitting around my head, how do you expect me to concentrate on a column?