One Morning

The other morning the girls were playing in the yard and as I sat there watching Clara throw her head back as she sprinted around the yard, her arms flying wildly from side to side, I remembered something I had read - and taught - over ten years ago. It was a poem that really only stuck in my memory as a feeling, and I couldn't place any of the words or phrases. As Clara ran harder and harder, I was experiencing in kind of vicarious way her joy mixed with my contentment, her chaos with my peace -- the symbiotic wholeness of a parent with his or her child. In the edges of my mind that nearly forgotten poem kept whispering, "see, this is what I meant."

That night I tried to find the poem in old poetry books and though I enjoyed the stanza by stanza trip down memory lane, I couldn't find the poem. I tried googling what fragments I thought I remembered, but I struck out. After I had given up on finding it and returned to the couch to watch TV, there it was again at the edge of my memory, whispering "flower-sparked" and "between him and me." I googled those phrases and got a single hit, the blog of a woman who also found personal significance in the poem. There was the forgotten text in front of me, complete with memories of the students as we discussed the meter, style, and vivid colorful imagery - all the while none of us, teacher or students, had any idea what the poet was feeling. Can a poem, once a part of our consciousness, lay latent until our lives catch up to it? Will I find similar connections to poems when as an old man I dare to eat a peach, or when I beg my father to rage against the dying of the light? Will I hear it in the deep heart's core?

I once taught my students that poetry can add meaning and significance to our lives. It took a little girl running with all her might to teach me that our lives can add meaning and significance to poetry.

One Morning

I remember my littlest one in a field
running so hard at the morning in him
he kicked the heads off daisies. Oh, wild
and windy and spilling over the brim
of his sun-up juices he ran
in the dew of himself. My son.

And the white flower heads
shot like sparks where his knees
pumped, and his hot-shod
feet took off from time, as who knows
when ever again a running morning will be
so light-struck, flower-sparked-full between him and me.

- John Ciardi

(on a side note, I wrote this while laying in a hammock next to Clara, who was doodling on her little sketch pad. She said, "I'm writing like you.")

Fredbird

If you had asked me several years ago who was the most valuable player on a baseball team, you would have gotten a long and, believe me, fascinating explanation (complete with graphs and charts) of why long relievers are the most important. Recent events have begun to change my mind. Last week, Tony invited all four of us to a Cardinals game. It was a beautiful day, and while I was skeptical that the girls would behave well enough to last the whole game, we actually stayed longer than most. Kate toddled around, searching out whichever of us had a mini teddy graham for her. She also alternated between snuggling with Tony and crying at the man sitting behind us. Clara took in the enormity of the stadium, looking wide-eyed at the signs, the (championship!) flags, the players, and the fans. But then someone caught her eye, and she was hooked. I speak of the most valuable member of a baseball team...

The mascot!

In St. Louis, the mascot is Fredbird, a goofy oversized cardinal with a predilection for wrapping his beak around little kids' heads. Between innings in Busch Stadium, Fredbird stands on the dugout and uses a giant slingshot to hurl t-shirts into the masses. Megan made sure to point him out to Clara, and thereafter Clara looked around only for Fredbird. Though we didn't actually see him face to face, you would have thought that he was sitting right next to us the way Clara talked about him on the way home. A couple of days later, Clara looked up at me and said, "Daddy, I want to go to the ballpark." I told her I had never loved her more than that instant.

You see, I like baseball. A lot. I watch more baseball on TV than all other programs combined. If I'm lucky, the Cardinals game ends about the time the Giants game begins. Both girls can say, "go Cards!" with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. I blew my top when a close friend had the temerity to root for Detroit in last year's World Series. My brother and I have been to almost every park out there. So for my daughter to show some interest in something I have great interest in makes me very happy.

In order to foster her interest, to work the long con toward a true interest in baseball, I have to work Fredbird into the equation quite a bit. As she sits on my lap while we watch baseball (she sits on my lap while we watch anything,) I ask her if she sees Fredbird. I can tell she is looking everywhere in the background for him. Luckily, the network knows how valuable our mascot is and shows him quite a bit, much to the pleasure of my daughter, and, by extention, her father. Fredbird, you earned your World Series ring.

She doesn't sit and watch a whole game, of course, but on more than one occasion I've given her a choice of TV progams like Dora or Diego, and she answered, "baseball." God bless her. Often, after she has finished her dinner and I'm trying to herd her and her sister upstairs to get ready for bed, Clara looks up at me with her big, beautiful eyes and says, "I want to watch baseball." I say, "OK sweetie, but only one inning." She runs into the living room.

I think I might be the one being conned.

The Transition

Somewhere in the last couple of months I've passed though the transition - as much as I'd like everyone to think I'm the struggling stay-at-home dad without a clue, this job is not as tough as it used to be. It's no less demanding than it used to be (I'd be writing more blog entries if it was less time consuming,) but it is no longer stressful and much less tiring. I've hit my groove. I've always been laid back with the girls, but I couldn't help worrying about what harm they could do to themselves or each other. Now I know enough of their personalities to predict how they will react to most situations, and as long as I can keep them contained in toddler friendly surroundings, I don't really have anything to worry about. I know all their noises - which cries are fake and which are real - and can let them play out of my sight. I really only feel panic when I hear silence from the next room: "Clara, are you ok?" "Yeah, I'm pooping." "OK, sweetie."

Staying home with my kids is nothing what I thought it would be. When considering staying home and preparing myself for what to expect, the only context I had was time I spent with my niece and nephews, so I had in my mind a lot of tumbling around on the floor, a lot of tickling, quite a bit of kids climbing all over me, and a lot of laughing. Of course that happens every day, but it's such a small part of my overall role that it seems silly to think that was what I expected. For two and a half years I've had to adapt to their emerging abilities and needs, and I've felt a step behind every step of the way - until recently.

In some way, my teaching career is playing a part in my newfound confidence. I remember very little from my first year teaching other than the panic I felt on a day to day basis. But after I had been over the material a few times, I no longer needed to be prepared down to the minute, and could even walk into a class without a plan for that day. It was often the case that those days I was shooting from the hip produced the most fruitful class conversations. I didn't put myself in that position too often, but I got the knack for improvisational teaching, and nothing requires more improvisation than dealing with two toddlers all day.

I once read that small children are the best example of chaos theory. But children operate under a set of rules that are fairly easy to understand. First, the most important thing to them is a parent's attention. If I can balance the attention I give to both of them, I'll save myself some tantrums, but it's not easy when Clara is accustomed to watching Sesame Street on my lap and Kate hasn't learned to sit on a lap for longer than 30 seconds. So what I do is overdo the attention for a few minutes - roll around on the ground with them until they've actually grown tired of the attention and move on to their toys. Everyone is happy.

Second, distraction is key. This is something I have a hard time rememebering. I have a bit of a temper and don't like it when my little ones don't do what I tell them to do. Megan's much better at distracting them into doing what she wants. She can turn chores into games better than I can. When I see a sibling fight brewing over a toy, I can usually distract Clara: "Clara, did you see that?" Her eyes get big and she looks around. "Outside, can you see?" She runs to the window, "what?" "The Easter Bunny! Did you see it?" She smiles and says, "yeah!" Fight averted.

Third, turn little things into big things and big things into little things. Falls that don't cause bodily injury? No big deal. Eating a banana like a monkey? Huge deal. Going to the doctor to get shots? That's nothing. Getting stickers from the doctor? Yay! I can get Clara to agree to anything if I make it seem exciting enough. Kate's not gullible enough to fall for any of that yet.

Experienced parents are saying, "duh," but every man has to learn on his own.

Surprise!

Thanks to the resourcefulness of my sister Tracy, the girls and I were able to fly to Sacramento to surprise my brother Chris, who was honored with a Silver Star for bravery by the Sacramento Sheriff's Department. Initially, I thought there was no way I could make the ceremony, as flying alone with two girls (and two car seats) seemed beyond my abilities. But Tracy, who was visiting friends on the east coast, arranged her flights to come through St. Louis and help me with the girls. Upon arriving at Chris and Tracy's house (Clara calls it "Sacramento House,") we walked through the door, surprised Chris, and immediately a grinning Clara was enveloped by her cousins, amongst whom she spent the rest of the visit, running around, kicking balls, blowing bubbles, whatever they could think of. Kate practiced her walking while trying not to get dizzy from all the activity around her.

The girls and I surprised my Mom at her school, where she showed us off to anyone and everyone. I got the idea that if the kids were taking their most important test of the year, she would have burst in to show off her granddaughters anyway.

Chris was given his Silver Star at a classy ceremony that managed to capture the appropriate tone of heroism while maintaining a humility necessary to those who risk their lives for the public good. The term "hero" was rarely used. Rather, "courage," "quick-thinking," and "sacrifice" were used to describe how each of the thirty or so officers earned awards ranking from Life Saving to Chris' Silver Star. I videotaped the opening of the ceremony then turned off the camera, as Chris was amongst the last group honored. But as the MC read how each officer earned his or her award, I was so moved by what they had done I had to turn the camera back on. I already knew Chris' story was extraordinary, but somehow it made me even more proud of him to be amongst such people. I'm sure the feeling was as strong or stronger in our mother or in Tracy, but I was so proud watching the Sheriff place the medal around Chris' neck that it was as if I was receiving the award myself.

Chris describes the incident in his blog: Sacramento Deputy Diaries


I took the girls to the Bay Area for a few days to meet the St. Ignatius crowd ("Bridge, City, Daddy's School!") Then we spent two wonderful days with Michelle and her boys Andrew and Justin. Michelle and I pretty much stood back and tried to contain the storm. Clara immediately took to Andrew, her new best friend. Kate and Justin toddled around like an old couple. Clara still hasn't stopped talking about Andrew and their visit to the toddler zoo. A highlight for me was a dinner with the Etters and Tom, Allison, and new baby Colleen Burns. Our get-togethers have changed since college. Check out posts on March 17 and 18 in Michelle's blog: Mountain View Mommy.

What? You don't have a blog?

On the last night in Sacramento we filled a restaurant with our laughter and silliness - all that was missing was Megan. Chris flew home with us and stayed the weekend. When we sit down at the dinner table now, Clara points to a chair and says, "That's where Uncle Chris sits."















Grandma, Kate, Great-Grandma

Frosting Fingers and Sandy Toes

My efforts to slow or even stop time have proved a failure and last week Kate celebrated her first birthday. I know what you're thinking: She was just born! I know! It was just the other day, wasn't it? Well, the blobby baldy has grown into a sweet but stubborn little girl who is trying hard to be able to walk like her sister. We planned a trip to Florida on her Birthday, excited to share it with Megan's parents, Tony and Susan. On the night before, we had a mini-celebration with my dad and lots of cupcakes. Kate at first eyed her cupcake suspiciously and moved her fingers over and through the frosting. After she put her fingers in her mouth her demeanor changed. She swiped the top off the cupcake and shoved it in her mouth. Before she had the chance to chew, she grabbed the rest of the cupcake and found room in her mouth for it. One cupcake - two bites. We had to force feed her milk to help her swallow it.














The next day, we flew down to Delray Beach, Floriday to spend a week in the sun and surf. After a couple of days of poor weather Clara discovered that the beach is her new happy place. With a permanent grin on her face she danced through the surf or jumped into the pool or played with her Nana and Papa. At the end of the day she poured herself into someone's arms before falling asleep. A week was too short, and as our plane took off Clara yelled out the window, "BYE NANA, BYE PAPA!"

Modesty?

When I write The Complete Guide to Being a Stay-at-Home Dad, I'm going to include a chapter on all things one loses when he becomes a SAHD, because no one really warned me beforehand. There is no more personal space - almost all children are clingy, climbing, grabbing close-talkers who live in perpetual orbit around you. After three changes in one day, you lose your desire to wear a clean shirt. There is no more "me-time" - and your initial misgivings about paying a babysitter $10 an hour just so you can sit in a coffee shop and stare at a wall will turn to gleeful expectation as you and your two daughters clap with excitement when the babysitter shows up. And certainly in parenting there can be no modesty.

With two little ones on opposite nap schedules, if want to take a shower, one of them is coming in the bathroom with me. Megan has taken Clara into the shower with her but there's no way I'm doing that. So I usually wait for Clara to nap then I put Kate on the floor with some toys while I shower. But the first time I looked down to see Kate's face and two chubby hands pressed against the glass as she stared at me, all modesty flew out the window. To be honest, I was just glad she wasn't playing with the cold water knob on the bathtub, turning my shower into scalding torture.

The other day I walked into our bedroom after a shower with a towel around my waist. Clara ran in, pointed, and giggled out, "Daddy's boobies!" Now let me say that I am not the parent using the term "boobies" around my children. I can't wait to see the looks I get when she uses that word in public. I thought about explaining that on men, they're called "pecs" but who am I fooling, I'm a stay-at-home dad and haven't worked out in a long while. My next thought was how did she know it was funny to point out daddy's boobies? She didn't point out my knees or belly button. Maybe the love of all things silly is genetic, and she is in every way her mother's daughter. I could have told her not to use that word or point at people and giggle but to a two year old "don't do that" means the same as "please do that over and over." So what did I do? I shrugged and said, "yeah, Daddy's boobies."

The Hero Moment

Occasionally you will find me in this forum addressing issues about what it means to be a man. You don't have to be Freud to see why it is I do this: I am a man in a traditionally female profession. As a man, I am subject to the same drives as other men - competition, a need to accomplish, a protective drive to keep my family safe, etc. Not that women don't feel the same but societal expectations at some point in a boy's life become personal expectations.

There was a time in the late 80s and early 90s, spurred on by the publishing of Iron John and Fire in the Belly: On Being a Man, that men lamented the lack of rites of passage in their lives, noticeably absent in contrast to their fathers', World War II. As artificial and silly as the whole movement was, a question emerged that has lingered - at what point can a boy say he is a man? It doesn't happen at a certain age. I've taught high school students whom I would classify as men, and some my age I would still call boys.

The rite of passage many young men seek is what I call the Hero Moment. It is an opportunity to show himself and, perhaps more importantly to him, others what he is made of. The moment is that intersection of emergency and proximity that, due to the everyday heroism of those in law enforcement as well as fire and rescue, in our safe and ordered world is so rare.

When I was 16 or 17 I happened upon a hero moment. I was at Folsom Lake near Sacramento one night when I saw a car slammed from behind by another car, forced off the road and up the side of a rock wall before flipping and landing on the passenger side roof. The other car sped off. In my memory I was at the wrecked car immediately, though I know it was over 200 yards away. I remember hoping there was no passenger in the car, because there was no room for one anymore. When I got to the car I found a girl my age screaming hysterically for me to get her out. There was no passenger, and though it seemed the danger had passed, her screaming and my pounding heart made the danger immediate and I had to get her out of the car right then. But the rear door had wedged itself over the front door and neither would open. I had no tools and there was no stone nearby big enough to break a window, so I began to kick in the rear door, somehow confident that this would get her out. Sure enough, as I dented the door in, the flap over the front door lifted away enough to open it and get her away from the car.

As I held on to the girl and tried to calm her I remember looking back at the distance I had crossed to get there. I had traversed a parking lot and jumped two fences and a drainage ditch - and I didn't remember any of it. It was that thought that stayed with me the longest. I was a super hero at that moment not because I came running or got the girl out of the car, but because I flew!

I can't tell you if that particular incident played a part in what kind of man I've become - or if the man I already was played a part in how I reacted to the emergency. What it did do was make me confident in how I would handle an emergency. Recent incidents got me thinking about this: First, a man in Indonesia held on to his six year old son for four days after their ferry sunk before finding an oil rig to cling to. Then, in New York, two men happened upon a toddler who had climbed onto a fire escape and dangled from the fourth floor. He fell and bounced off one man into the arms of the other. All three of these men did something that most men would at least attempt: no parent would think of letting go of a child if floating in the middle of the ocean, and I hope no one would walk by the toddler in danger. Which brings me to the reason I'm writing this. After a 50 year old construction worker jumped under a train to save a young man in New York, the collective egos of men across the country deflated, because when one asks himself, "would you have done the same thing?" The answer, at least for me, is no.

There can't be more than a handful of people in the country who would have done what Wesley Autrey did. In essence, the rest of us are among those standing on the edge looking at each other. My first reaction was that as a construction worker he has some special knowledge about the clearance under the train, but that was just an unfair way to diminish an act that cannot be diminished. In reality, it took an amazing feat of heroism to make the rest of us feel like cowards.

Stay-at-home dads: what to do with your man-gifts...

So your loved ones were torn on what to give you for Christmas. Should they get you something particularly masculine but doomed to collect dust on the shelves or should they risk emasculating you by giving you something you might actually use on a day to day basis, like cookbooks, or days-of-the-week pajamas, or earplugs (props to those who gave me beer for Christmas.) Most people will avoid any chance of insulting us stay-at-home dads so many of us find ourselves with gifts we won’t be able to use until our children give us a moment’s peace. I’m here to help you find uses for your man-gifts.

Tool Belt – The best SAHD man-gift possible. This gem can be used for dads with babies (bottle, pacifier, wipes, diapers, burp cloth, rattle, air freshener, tongs) or older kids (crayons, boxes of raisins, first aid kit, change of underwear, baggie of legos, sunscreen, juice cup.)

Chainsaw – Since it is used outside, the chainsaw carries the added bonus in that your neighbors will think you actually get manly work done outside, when in fact you are probably carving your way through your kids’ most annoying toys. Baby’s First High Pitched Scream Bot? History. Speak and Spell and Whistle and Chirp and Beep and Flash and Cause Seizures? Slag.

Fishing Pole – An idea from the St. Louis Magic House: Attach a magnet to the end of your fishing line and place small metallic objects in your back yard for you and your child to cast to and “catch.”

DeWalt Heavy-Duty 12 Inch Double-Bevel Sliding Compound Miter Saw – Who are you kidding? You don’t even know what this is.

Golf Clubs – 3 words: Dog poop relocation.

Plasma Television – Unless you want your toddler to use his new hammer on it or your teenager (or you?) to risk losing her grip on her Wii-mote you better keep this in its box or just return it altogether.

Random gadgets – Kids are easily hypnotized by anything small, flashy, and beepy. Keep your new random gadget (I got an idog) handy for when one of them is acting up in a public place. Turn it on, show the child, and back slowly to where you want the child to go. He or she would follow the gadget off a cliff.

Home Depot Gift Card – This is a tough one because you will be tempted not to insult and emasculate yourself, and probably walk away with the Home Depot equivalent of racing stripes on a car, cool and manly but ultimately useless. Some useful purchases for us SAHDs range from sand for the kids’ sandbox to materials for a new toy chest.

Your ideas?

Well, she is two...

As we’ve watched Clara jump and spin her way through her third year Megan and I have found ourselves saying “well, she is two” quite often, though depending on the circumstances the phrase has several possible meanings. The most common usage is a reminder to ourselves that we should not expect her to behave older than she is. When she hoards her toys so Kate can’t play with them, or removes all of her clothes and diaper in her crib in the morning, or grabs breakable things and proceeds to accidentally break them, we try to teach her not to do those things, but to wish her more mindful and more mature is to wish her into a different kid, one who isn’t two years old – and I don’t want Clara any different.

Me: I wish Clara wouldn’t make so much noise when Kate’s sleeping.
Megan: Well, she is two…

Megan: Does Clara have to take that lamb everywhere she goes?
Me: Well, she is two…

Understanding the fact that she is two and will have two-year-old problems is easy – living with it can at times be near impossible. I can put up with occasional tantrums and broken knickknacks but Clara’s jealousy of my attention has led to aggression towards Kate, which manifests itself in hitting and pushing. I’m fine with letting a kid be a kid, but when Kate bears the brunt of Clara’s misplaced aggression, things have to change. We’ve been able to address the hitting and pushing separately, but Clara will have to outgrow the jealousy on her own. She even crawls on the floor and talks incomprehensively to get the attention we give Kate. “Clara,” I find myself saying, “You are two…”

It as at such times we find ourselves saying the phrase in the opposite way we usually do, saying in effect that Clara is old enough to do what we are expecting of her. Recently, I was skeptical that she was ready for potty training, at which Megan replied, “Well, she is two…,” meaning she is plenty old enough. Turns out Megan was right, and Clara has been coming along in her training.

Me: I’m thinking of signing up Clara for a ballet class.
Megan: You really think she’s old enough for that?
Me: Well, she is two…

But what’s lost in all this worrying about whether she is too old or too young for our expectations is what she is, at this moment in time, just right for. She is two. Her world gets bigger every day and she has the wide eyes to prove it. Her imagination is developing and she can tell us about things in her hands that aren’t really there, except in her mind. She wants to put on her boots to go walking in the snow, but not to throw snowballs or make snow angels – just to walk, to feel the snow crunch under her feet as she makes endless laps around Nana and Papa’s house. She wants to drive around at night and ooh and ah over the Christmas lights, “Wow! Look at that!” She wants to dance silly dances to any music. She wants to put on Mommy’s shoes and clip clop around the room. She wants to go to school. She wants to slide down slides and drive plastic cars. And who can blame her? She is two.

Blankets and Chicken Soup

It's been a rough few weeks in the Bittle houshold. One of us caught a cold somewhere and it wasn't long until all four of us were struggling. There was coughing, runny noses, grumpiness, snuggles, crying, and lots of sleeping - and that was just Megan! Clara woke up a few times in the middle of the night crying; she couldn't breathe very well and was just tired of feeling crummy. But at least Clara knows how to blow her nose now. Kate just sits there looking miserable trying to breathe through the snot in her nose. The poor girls couldn't figure out why they felt so bad and I could only offer some light remedy with Children's Tylenol. More than once Megan or I fell asleep on the couch with one of the girls sleeping on top of us. Megan had to take a couple of days off work and I had a babysitter come over a few times just so I could go to sleep. It was a rare day that we all changed out of our pajamas - usually we just kept warm under blankets and ate our chicken soup.

Luckily we improved enough by Thanksgiving to enjoy the visits of Tracy and Kyle Bittle and Jim, Tracy, Davis, and Elena Piazza. I've put in some pictures. The first is from a visit to the pumpkin patch. The next two are from the Magic House.

Tricks and Treats

It has been a busy week for the Bittle girls, who spent the weekend with Jenny and Todd while Megan and I took a kid break with friends in Las Vegas. When we planned the weekend, I figured the World Series might coincide, but as the Cardinals were probably in the midst of one of their losing streaks it never occured to me that St. Louis would be a bigger party that weekend than Las Vegas. Megan and I got to be a small part of the World Series, standing in the rain with friends waiting for the game to be called. Our tickets ended up being for the winning game two days later, which we celebrated in the ESPNzone in Las Vegas with dozens of new friends dressed in Cardinals jerseys, as I was. Go Cards!

Clara and Kate got to celebrate with the Cards on Sunday. Jenny and Todd took them to the victory parade.



























Last night cowgirl Clara and little lamb Kate canvassed the neighborhood for yummy treats. My mom made Kate's lamb costume and even Clara was impressed by it ("so soft.") It was Clara's first Halloween trick-or-treating and she took full advantage of it. She tried to walk into the first few houses until she realized that the people at the door were trying to give her candy. She gently reached into the bowl for a piece, put it in her felt pumpkin, then reached for another, then another, then another - ignoring any of our attempts to cut her off. She even got some candy for Kate before we picked her up and carried her away from the magical bowl that was the neighbor's candy dish. When she saw groups of older kids she waved and said, "Hi kids!" We returned home after a few houses and Clara showed her loot to her Nana, jumping around in her excitement.

Open Story Thread

Since I started sharing stories of Toddler antics I've received several emails from people with some of the funniest toddler stories I've read. I'm starting this open thread for those readers who would like to share their best stories. I will try to bookmark it on the side so it's always there. Just add to it when something funny happens.

Congratulations to new parents Tom and Allison Burns and Jeff and Jen Wall: Colleen Nora Burns and Sierra Murphy Wall were born this past month. All our best to your families and we hope you all get some sleep. Megan and I wish we could be there to see the new ones in person. We all look forward to hearing of your adventures here. On the way are second babies from Dmitri and Cindy Williams and Ernie and Ense Kwan - let's hear some Mia and Lauren stories.

I'll start the funny stories with a short but sweet one: Last week the Bittles were driving home after spending some time with Jenny and Todd. I had given Clara some apple juice to drink but she finished it before we got in the car. Halfway home, about 15 minutes later, Clara let out a little toddler burp. There was a pause, then Clara said delightedly, "Apples!"

I'll let Megan share how she let slip a word Clara shouldn't repeat, and how Clara used it quite correctly in a new sentence.



Tom, Colleen, and Allison Burns











Jeff, Sierra, and Jen Wall

Autism

While I'm not one to jump every time our local news flashes their latest scare "special report" (Can the socks you're wearing KILL YOU?!?,) I was intrigued by something I found on Slate.com today about current research on Autism. The idea that there's something I'm doing (or not doing) that could hurt the girls scares me. But I also want to take everything with an ounce of salt - the recent reports that non-organic milk was harmful to young girls turned out to be a myth: Washington Post.

The Autism report finds a link between television viewing and autism rates in certain areas. The link is circumstantial at best but enough to warrant further research. Autism has been on the rise but scientists have been baffled as to why. In the last few years research studies have found possible causes for the increases in autism, including vaccines, genetics, and now television.

Take a look at the Slate story. Several of you are much more knowledgeable on the subject than I am so I'm interested in what you think. Parents also please let me know what you think. Slate Article

Also, some other findings:

Genetic Link: From MSNBC

Vaccines (myth): CDC

The Zombie Baby

It was a morning like all others: Clara sat on the couch, a cup of milk curled around the fingers of her right hand while she sucked on the middle fingers of her left hand. Big Bird filled the television screen as he searched a farm for any sign of Ernie. Suddenly Clara heard a sound from the hallway. Her eyes darted toward the door, the rest of her body remaining very still.

Not a foot off the ground, the tip of a bald head came into view. It was just as Clara feared. The bane of her existence approached slowly, ever so slowly. It was the slowness of inevitability. One hand forward...pause...opposite knee forward... pause... other hand forward. The zombie baby was on the move.

Clara dared not move for fear of attracting attention. As of yet the undead little one was unaware of Clara's presence. Perhaps the zombie would be distracted by the television, or the Dora van, or the Mr. Potato Head. Oh no, Clara thought, not the dolphin, not the fuzzy dolphin! It was near the doorway - the reanimated devil child had only to look left and she'd see it. No! She saw it!

The zombie reached for the dolphin and Clara couldn't help but jump at the thought of what that thing would do with it. But the enemy saw the movement, and now had Clara clearly in her sights. Zombie Kate's eyes widened, and she smiled that drooly smile of the damned. On she came.

"Noooooo!" Clara cried. "Kate! Nooooooo!" Maybe her dad would hear and come to save her. She could hear him in the kitchen. Why wasn't he protecting her?

Clara jumped up and ran to the end of the room, crying. Zombie Kate smiled and continued toward her. She's taunting me, Clara thought.

"What's the matter Clara?" Her father yelled from the kitchen.

"Kaaaaaaaaate! Kaaaaaaaaate!" Surely he would come.

"Oh sweetie, just share your toys with her." Share? Toys? This clueless man thinks I'm crying over a toy? I'm crying for my life!

She had nowhere to run. She had backed herself into a corner and Kate showed no signs of stopping. She kept smiling and drooling and grunting that zombie grunt. Realizing she had little choice, Clara ran at the little zombie and, keeping herself out of arms reach, ran around her into the hallway.

"Daddy!" She sobbed. He was in the kitchen putting dishes away. Why did he choose today to start doing that?

"What's the matter sweetie?" What's the matter? The matter is that your "sweetie" is going to be zombie food if you don't do something quick!

From the entrance to the living room came a grunt, a tip of a head, those dark, dark eyes, that smile, and so much drool. Nowhere was safe!

"Kaaaaaaaaate!" Clara cried.

"Oh sweetie," her father said in that condescending tone. "Kate just wants to play with you."

Oh what a clueless man. Yes, she wants to play with me, like a cat plays with a mouse, Clara thought. Clara was giving up hope with every inch the zombie baby crawled. Clara held tight to her father but he did nothing! The end was here. At least she saved her stuffed dolphin from certain doom.

At last Kate made it to her and Clara's life flashed before her eyes. Goodbye mommy and daddy. Goodbye dolphin. Goodbye giraffes at school. Goodbye trains. Goodbye Clarice. She closed her eyes tight.

Her father moved, picked up the zombie child, and deposited her in the high chair, pouring cheerios in front of her. The nightmare was over - Clara was saved! Hiding behind the cabinet, Clara peered around the corner at the zombie child. Kate reached for a cheerio, saw Clara there and smiled her drooly, crusty smile as if to say, "this isn't over."
















(the last we saw of our dog)

2 Year-Old Tidbits

Welcome to a new column titled 2 Year-Old Tidbits (because “What the hell is my daughter doing?” didn’t feel positive enough.) In this recurring column, I’ll share some things that I have to share for my own mental health.

Daddy’s new toothbrush: A few weeks ago I visited the dentist and came away, of course, with a new toothbrush, which I put in the drink holder of our car. Later that day, Clara was making a fuss in the backseat so Megan handed the toothbrush back to give her something to play with. Now to Megan’s credit the toothbrush was still in its packaging, and honestly, what could she really do while strapped in her car seat? It worked like a charm; she was so busy making crinkly noises that she forgot whatever it was that made her upset. Megan and I actually had a conversation for a short while. But that short while became suspiciously long and I turned around to see that not only had Clara unwrapped the toothbrush, she was busy brushing the bottoms of her feet with it. She grinned at me and said, “Feet!” I looked at Megan and said, “You owe me a new toothbrush.”

Bookies and Milkies: Megan and I are not the type of parents who make words kid friendly. For instance, we don’t call a dog a doggy or . Obviously, there are words like puppy or baby or monkey or tummy/belly that come with the kid friendly “y” at the end. Some time last week Clara decided that everything ends with a “y.” She began to ask for Milky or Juicy, to call where we live our housy, and to refer to her stuffed animals as bearies. I just ignore the new trend and call everything by its rightful name, hoping she’ll catch on. The other day we visited my dad at the Warrenton Senior Center, which he now runs, and while trying to break Clara’s habit of ending everything with a “y” we sat her down to a snack of… a brownie. This is a losing battle I’m fighting.

Pray for Pagan Babies: During a play-date at Jenny and Todd’s house with their niece Kennedy, Clara showed just how much we’ve failed at teaching her table manners. Jenny made the toddler ambrosia that is macaroni and cheese with cut up hot dogs – Clara wasted no time digging in. Kennedy put her hands together and looked at Clara and said, “We pray.” With the fork halfway to her mouth, Clara looked at Kennedy with a confused look on her face. Todd’s mother Pat gently held Clara’s hands to her side so Kennedy could pray for the food and for each of her family members one by one. Pat, Todd, and Jenny had trouble keeping a straight face through Kennedy’s list of prayers because Clara, who now could not use her arms, leaned her face toward the bowl as if to bob for mac and cheese. Eventually Kennedy was ready to eat and Clara got back to the business of eating. Time for etiquette school I guess.

Baby's first ER visit

Last night Megan and I took Kate to her first - of few, we hope - visit to the emergency room. Let me say first that she is fine, don't worry. When changing Kate's diaper last night Megan found what looked like blood in her urine. Switching into protective mother mode, Megan called the after-hours nurse hotline, who, after asking a series of questions including what Kate had to eat that day, advised us to take her to the St. Louis Children's Hospital and to ask for a special section called CARES, where they would be waiting for us. In this case, the nurse's attentiveness actually scared Megan, who feared it meant we were dealing with something serious.

Luckily, Jenny was available to take Clara, and when we arrived at the emergency room, we were escorted to a separate section of the hospital. Megan asked what CARES stood for but the nurse hesitated when answering - it was then that I realized how frightened Megan was. "Do you not want to tell me?" she asked the nurse. The giant sign that said "Radiology" just added to our fear. But he wasn't hesitating out of respect for the gravity of the situation; he really didn't know what it stood for. Several people working in the CARES section didn't know either, but we were reassured when it turned out to be just a separate emergency room for children whose doctors called ahead - kind of a way to bypass the regular crowded emergency room. It's called the Center for After-hours Referral Emergency Services (although the best guess we got from a nurse there was Children's Ambulatory Referral Emergency Services). If anyone in St. Louis has to take a child to the emergency room for any reason, I suggest calling your doctor and getting into CARES - it probably saved us hours.


The doctor reassured us that there was no reason to worry, that they'd check her urine for sign for blood and then move on from there. Often, she said, discolored urine is unexplained, but if no blood is present there's no danger. Poor Kate weathered the visit like a champ, mostly smiling and making sweet noises at anyone who passed us - the doctor said they weren't used to a visiting child who was so happy. But two hours after her usual bedtime, Kate turned into a lunatic. When she wasn't desperately trying to get anywhere but where she was or wailing at the injustice of it all, she was belly laughing at nothing. At first I was playing peek-a-boo with her, which she found quite pleasing, but then she began laughing at nothing and didn't stop. Now I know I'm funny. Correction, I'm hilarious (to my children.) But I wasn't doing anything!

Finally the doctor returned with the good news that they didn't find any blood and we could take her home. Kate fell asleep in Megan's arms and as I got the car I saw a dad pull up with his high school age son, still fully dressed in his football uniform. His ankle was wrapped and he had to be helped out of his car. I couldn't help but flash back to when I paid a similar visit to an emergency room in Sacramento with a broken arm after a high school football game. It just highlighted the fact that while this night was a false alarm, one or both of the girls will probably be back to the emergency room at some time in their lives.

Montana Man Spa

Several years ago Megan's father Tony and I decided to learn how to fly fish, taking lessons from a local fly fishing outfitter. We honed our skills in the trout streams of southern Missouri and northern Arkansas, often with Tony's colleague (and frequent poster on this blog) Ron Shane. Last week, the three of us traveled to the Mecca of American fishing, Montana. Clara and Kate stayed with Susan, and while I would say they were spoiled silly by their Nana, it would be more accurate to say that Tony, Ron, and I were spoiled silly by the people who took care of us in Montana.

Understand that I would have been happy with just a few days without Desitin and The Wonder Pets. What I got was a few days in the ultimate man's spa. After arriving in Missoula, we were taken to the Blue Damsel Lodge along Rock Creek, a world famous trout stream. The lodge was a beautiful log house crafted with an artist's eye for details large and small. Keith, our host, made sure everything we would need was available to us and Josh, the chef, crafted gourmet breakfasts and dinners that kept us glued to the giant oak dining room table the majority of the time we were in the lodge. Keith's voice was so similar to Sam Elliot's that I asked him to call me "The Dude" during my stay (from "The Big Lebowski.")

Our days were spent floating on some of the most scenic rivers in the country. We were shuttled into town each morning to meet up with our guides from the Grizzly Hackle fly outfitters, who then took us to one of the many rivers around Missoula. We spent three days total on the rivers. The first two days we spent on the Clark Fork River and the last on the Bitterroot. During that time, with the help of three different guides, my skill improved enough that I was finally getting some confidence. I worked primarily on my casting on the first day, often against terrible wind, and worked on presenting my fly in way that would attract some fish. I caught enough fish to keep me happy. On the second day I had no problem hooking fish, but I struggled bringing them all the way into the boat. I think I set a record for number of fish lost on the line and was getting a bit frustrated. On the third day I put it all together and although it was raining a very cold drizzle all day, I had my best day fishing yet.

Each night we were greeted by amazing smells from the kitchen, a variety of appetizers, and growlers of beer from the local breweries. Conversation was, of course, about the day's fishing and the ones that got away (which were, naturally, unnaturally large fish.) I had a few stories to tell after the last day of fishing: I had two trout on one line; I caught four nice sized rainbows on four successive casts; I had one trout shake itself off of one fly only to be hooked by the dropper fly; and I actually lassoed a fish - you'll have to ask me about it some time (the guide called me a true Montana cowboy.) After a couple of hours of eating and telling stories, those not pouring themselves into bed enjoyed cocktails and cigars on the porch with the giant St. Bernard Zoe.

This really is how beautiful the streams were, though I spent so much time watching for any sign of a trout that I didn't spend much time looking around me. Each day we saw bald eagles and a variety of wildlife, including a waterlogged mink who ran along the shore following us for a bit.

If you have any plans to visit Montana, I highly recommend the Blue Damsel Lodge and Grizzly Hackle outfitters:


http://www.bluedamsel.com/

http://www.grizzlyhackle.com/

Sing along with Dad

Many find the thought of a stay-at-home dad funny because they imagine a burly manly man doing all the traditionally feminine tasks a caregiver must do every day. In movies and television, you don’t often see men rocking a baby to sleep or comforting a crying toddler, and when they do their discomfort is the punchline. And let’s face it, the image of a man carrying a diaper an arm’s length in front of him while pinching his nose is funny. But there is one part of my job that I would not want video cameras to record for posterity: my singing.

Any caregiver knows that you can say, “stop that, sit still for a second, calm down, oh please stop, this will only take a second…” and it will accomplish very little. But if you start singing, the child will stop and stare, if not join in your singing. Singing is the only way I can get both of the girls changed or Kate to calm down long enough to close her eyes to fall asleep. The only problem is I’m a terrible singer. As of yet, the girls haven’t figured that out, though Kate sometimes grabs my lips and pulls on them, which I won’t take as criticism until she’s four or five.

I’m not sure if this is unique to me or if others have experienced this difficulty, but whenever it comes time to sing a song, I can’t think of a single one to sing. I have shelves of CDs and thousands of songs on my IPod, yet none come to mind – none appropriate that is. So what do I do? I make the song up.

Now there are some rules to making up your own song: The tune should match a familiar song, and every line has to be repeated at least once. The words should match what’s going on at the time. For instance, here’s a song I sang to Kate while changing her diaper (to the tune of Frere Jacques):

Kate is stinky

Kate is stinky

Yes she is

Yes she is

Daddy needs a gas mask

Because the smell is awful

But there’s none

But there’s none

I also have a special song for when Clara’s fussy called “A Temper Tantrum” set to the tune of La Cucaracha. I’d write the lyrics but they change every time based on what she’s doing. If the tantrum isn’t too serious, she’ll forget her problems and laugh at her ridiculous father. Really, what pride do I have left?

While writing this I thought of a song I used to sing to baby Clara when she cried. The Power of Two by The Indigo Girls:

So we’re OK

We’re fine

Baby I’m here to stop your crying

Chase all the ghosts from your head

I’m stronger than the monster beneath your bed

Smarter than the tricks played on your heart

We’ll look at them together and we’ll take them apart

Adding up the total of a love that’s true

Multiply life by the power of two

Picture Day!

Is there anything sweeter than dressing up two little girls in pretty dresses for their first portrait together? Soon we'd have a framed picture for everyone of a beaming Clara holding the cherubic Kate on her lap, or pulling Kate in a little wagon, or both of them lying on their tummies. We'd save a picture for each girl to put on their desks when they go away to college. That was the plan, anyway. Unfortunately, I had to get Clara (and Kate - but she's easy) through taking a bath, brushing her teeth and hair, dressing her, feeding her some food, getting her in the car, driving to the studio, and sneaking past the toys in the waiting room - all while avoiding any reason to throw a temper tantrum. Somewhere along the line I failed.

I've come to realize that parents of toddlers walk a tight line keeping the child happy without caving in and giving her everything she wants. Clara will pass something she wants and ask for it over and over. I try to distract her but then the asking gets louder and more insistent. Finally I just have to say no. There are three possible results:

1. Clara realized she can't have the thing and moves on to play with something she can have. While this has yet to occur in the Bittle household I've heard it's possible.

2. Clara makes groaning noises and covers her face with her hands before falling onto the ground yelling whatever it is she wants over and over.

3. Clara looks at me as if to say, "you'll be sorry," and her toddler sense of retribution begins to plan a tantrum at the most opportune time. This is what happened on picture day.

I'm not sure what set Clara off but here is a visual approximation of picture day:









She refused to sit still. She refused to hold Kate. She refused to do anything we asked to do. I actually found myself wondering if reverse psychology might work: "Clara DO NOT sit here and smile into the camera!" So what did we do when nothing worked? We took a whole bunch of pictures of Kate. Like this one:




















Finally Megan asked the photographer what she usually does with unruly toddlers. She suggested we bribe Clara with ice cream. Seriously. So the question became did we want to throw our parenting philosophy out the window to get a good picture of Clara? I'm ashamed to say the answer was, "absolutely." With the prospect of getting ice cream, Clara jumped up, smiled for the camera a couple times, then held her arms out asking, "Where's ice cream?"

A word to the wise: if you are going to bribe your toddler with ice cream, make sure you actually have some ice cream. We did not. Here is a visual approximation of what happened next:







Good times.

Birthday Memories

Clara came into the world two years ago today. We celebrated her birthday this weekend with friends and family and as talk turned to the day of her birth I realized how much my feelings on the day have changed over time, and how much the day gets better and better over time. Two years ago, I would have used words like “surreal,” “scary,” and “freaky” to describe the experience. From Megan’s water breaking at the B.B. King concert to going home after the birth knowing everything had changed I couldn’t shake my nervousness. The fear that I felt that day – not only for Clara’s health but for Megan’s – morphed into an insecurity that I wasn’t up to the task of fatherhood or that I wouldn’t love my child. Everything was new to me and I had no idea how to feel about any of it. Emotion wise, it’s not exactly what I would call the greatest day of my life.

Now when I look back on Clara’s birth I can’t help but think of the girl she is now, and the memory of her birth grows better and better because it’s colored by who she would and will become. In essence, in my memory I project her current self onto that big-eyed fragile creature who sucked her two middle fingers almost immediately (which she still does when tired.) I want to hold her and protect her and tell her all the things she’s going to do and people she’s going to meet. I had no idea who she was when I first saw her. Now I know everything about her – what she likes, what makes her sad, where her tickle spots are. Memories tend to get better when the person you are remembering is laying in your lap, singing twinkle twinkle little star. And she’s only two years old -- I can only imagine what other parents have felt when their children grow up.