Shaping and molding young minds

Two tales of the emergent political consciousness of l'il wobs.

Tale One: L'il wobs is currently enrolled in a hippy-dippy kind of Christian Montessori school. The boy apparently enjoys the religious part of the curriculum, which is fine by us, albeit a little jarring at times (for instance, when he referred to our wine as "Jesus blood." The way we see it, he'll encounter Christianity at some point - better from people who are teaching him to love everyone than from, say... Baptists. Besides, how's he ever going to appreciate Milton if he doesn't get some Judeo-Christian learning?

At any rate, a few weeks ago, l'il wobs started talking about "Rock" Obama. I was curious to know what the lad knew about "Rock," so I asked him. We were told that Obama is very beautiful, that he was put in jail, and then they killed him.

We were obviously a little surprised by his answer. Either ms. wobs or I asked him if maybe he was talking about Jesus, and l'il wobs responded, "They're the same."

Tale Two: One of l'il wobs friends and his parents weren't able to make the baseball game today, so they offered their tickets to us. We trekked down to watch the Nationals take on the Pirates. All was going well until "Star-Spangled Banner" time. To add a little razzle-dazzle to the proceedings, fireworks are launched to punctuate the "rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air."

L'il wobs hates loud fireworks and immediately broke down and wanted to leave. We talked our way through it, and he eventually re-settled and started to have a good time, charming our seatmates and munching on (four fucking dollar) Cracker Jacks.

During the bottom of the fourth, however, an Aaron Boone shot to the patio in center field brought out another round of celebratory fireworks, upon which l'il wobs recommenced freaking out. He was talked back down again, but by the time the sixth inning rolled around, he was pretty adamant about going home.

At any rate, when l'il wobs grows up to detest America, you'll know who to blame.

The received wisdom of ms. wobs

"It's never fun to think about Nazis... unless it's Hogan's Heroes."

[updated]: Heh. For Jen.

Monday night bambino blogging

No picture tonight, just a story.

I took l'il wobs to an indoor swim park on Saturday, a really cool one that had tons of waterslides. L'il wobs has been an aqua-kid since he was six months old and truly loves being in the water. He was so excited as we were getting dressed in the locker room that he, with a big ole grin and with perfect diction, blurted out "Fucking heck!"

Keep in mind, l'il wobs is conversant in all sorts of colorful language (ms. wobs and I until recently talked like longshoremen). He's perfectly capable of whipping out the full-on blue "Fucking hell!" Why he chose that particular combination to express his zeal remains something of a mystery to me.

Sunday night bambino blogging

It's been awhile since we've let the harsh light of the blogosphere glare upon l'il wobs. Never fear, however - he's still cute!


And for a bonus, here's ms. wobs and I getting ready to go out for our New Year's Eve party, she as a Jetson, and me as Jupiter (note the big red spot):

It's about time

Given how freaked out a lot of Americans are about the prospect of sharing a bed with their child, it's nice to see that the NYT published a balanced article on the practice of co-sleeping.

ms. wobs and I had initially planned on having wee wobs sleep next to our bed in a little free-standing basinette. However, given the boys voracious appetite, especially in the wee hours, it soon became apparent to us that it would make more sense if we just let him sleep with us. It wasn't always easy - l'il wobs is what I would call an "active sleeper" - but in my mind, the benefits, both for us and for him, far outweighed the drawbacks. We were also very fortunate to have a pediatrician and a community that was supportive of the practice (and who offered important safety tips). Snuggling up with my child as we drifted off to sleep was, I think, a really great form of emotional bonding, and there's something really charming about having his smiling face be the first thing you see upon waking up (even if he's waking you up at 6 AM).

We "bed weaned" the boy shortly after moving to DC (he's still an active sleeper, and that plus the fact that he's, well, big made the decision a no-brainer - our bed ain't big enough for the three of us!). He was good about starting off in his bed, but then would try to join us in the middle of the night. It took a few nights of putting him back in his own bed and helping him get back to sleep, but now he spends the entire evening on his own, only rarely joining us shortly before it's time to get up. We still nap together, but he's well on his way to independent sleeping.

My point isn't to press the superiority of one sleeping arrangement over another. Different families will figure out their arrangements based on their own particular (and legitimate) needs. What's depressing is that those families who choose to co-sleep with their child are often made to feel shame for choosing that particular arrangement. I hope the Times piece presages a more tolerant view of co-sleeping families.

As for me, if I had it all to do over again, I wouldn't change a thing, and if more children are in our future, I'll look forward to curling up with them for an evening's slumber.

Not serving the High Life

The dy-no-mite ms. wobs and I had a date night on Thursday evening. We headed into the city for... bowling. We don't go bowling too often, namely because ms.wobs convincingly kicks my ass most of the time, but it seemed like a good idea for this evening (I did win one game, thanks to Lady Margarita).

However, the bowling alley we went to... I dunno. It was the Lucky Strike down at Gallery Place. Now I have nothing against fine or trendy establishments. I enjoy a good meal at a nice restaurant, and I can dig on the trendy bar with the impressive martini menu. But "posh" and "bowling alley" should not be uttered in the same breath. Yet there we were.

First, it appears to be cosmic bowling all the time in there, so the lanes are a black-lit dim, with a video projection screen over the pins (this was very annoying, as it obscured the lane markings which I desperately need to make a decent roll). The seating area around the lanes had a low table with two couches. Couches, people. And they were relatively comfortable. On the table was a freaking candle.

What's more, there's something highly discordant about being able to get a well-poured, top-shelf manhattan delivered to your lane while you're bowling. I don't begrudge the liquor - the tasty margarita which ms. wobs slurped down did inebriate her enough to assure victory in game 2 (ok - it was only by a sliver) - but it's strange. And having goat cheese pastries and coconut prawn shrimp that actually taste good while you bowl? I'm sorry, but a bowling alley should serve greasy fries and jalapeño poppers. And the rest of their menu was pretty good as well. It shouldn't be that way. It really shouldn't.

No rotund, mustachioed guys with a scowl named Earl disinfecting shoes. Nary a Polish-American social club in sight. Not even a gang of college hipsters swilling PBR and occasionally sneaking out to smoke rolled Drum cigarette. Nope, this was bowling for the young and beautiful crowd (where, of course, ms. wobs and I blended in perfectly). Don't get me wrong, we had a lot of fun, but I think for our next ten pin experience, we'll seek out something a little more downscale.

More pros/cons

ms. wobs and I don't have the cleanest language. We're not excessive in our swearing, but we don't bat an eyelash at dropping the f-bomb when it's appropriate. It's something of which we're oftentimes not even aware. Unfortunately, l'il wobs has picked up on some of our more creative phrases. We're not trying to exacerbate the situation by scolding him, thus providing him with a forbidden pleasure guaranteed to push our buttons, but we are trying to broaden his palette with some milder words. He's slowly acquiring the vocabulary of a Depression-era sharecropper from Smyrna, GA.

Pros: Language prodigy that he is (and that's not just parental bragging), l'il wobs always uses his swear words sparingly in the proper context and fashion.
Cons: He's a fucking dadgum three-year old.

A moral victory

I bet you thought this was going to be another post on Iraq. It's not.

Five years ago, when I was just beginning to woo the lovely future ms. wobs, she told me that one of her favorite books was Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children. In an effort to impress her, I went out that summer and purchased the book, hoping to read it and then be able to engage her on it, thus causing her to fall hopelessly in love with me.

Luckily for us (and for l'il wobs!), there was a Plan B for getting her to fall hopelessly in love. I never made it through the book.

It's certainly not because it's a bad book, by any stretch - it's pedigree speaks for itself: The Booker of Bookers - the best book to win the highly prestigious Booker Prize in it's first 25 years. The book itself is incredibly charming, with a wry sense of humor and a dense but satisfying narrative. It trafficks in a magical realism reminiscent of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, a novel that I adore. And so the book itself has nothing to do with my inability to finish it.

My first attempt at reading it, in the summer that I purchased it, ran square in to the realities of graduate school. I simply couldn't pick up a dense novel after reading academic treatises all day (the rigors of graduate school pushed me towards sci-fi page turners that offered the vicarious, escapist thrill). My second attempt, late last fall, ended when I temporarily misplaced the book. By the time it resurfaced, I was halfway through another novel. Both times, I read to page 92, but no further.

Today, I'm happy to report, I read past page 92 - not the end by any stretch, but I'm officially on my way.

Third time's the charm, they say.

Great moments in parenting

Today is the first day that l'il wobs did all of his business somewhere other than his pants. Long may my days be poo free.

All credit here goes to ms. wobs, who for the last two weeks has had the patience of Job.

Just so you know

It was three years ago today that, through the herculean efforts of ms. wobs, we were graced with the presence of l'il wobs. Our lives are immeasurably richer for it.

Disaster in paradise

Well, hopefully the worst has now happened on this trip - hopefully. There's a reason I've never had a penchant for jewelries that can't be firmly attached through a piece of flesh. I tend to lose them, like this afternoon when I was playing in the surf. After being thoroughly pummeled, I came up, looked at my left-hand ring finger, and realized my wedding band was no longer there. I don't know that I've ever felt so hopeless, knowing that the ring was literally within a twenty foot radius of where I stood in four feet deep water choked with sediment.

It is literally the most expensive thing I've ever lost, but it's not really the cost of it that bums me out. That ring represents three years of marriage, three years of sentiments, three years of memories. And now it's buried at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, probably never to be seen again. At least by me. I suppose I'm a little comforted to know that someday, someone may stumble upon it, and it may give that person joy. But for me, I'm stuck with the knowledge that I'm a fucking idiot for wearing a piece of jewelry that could so easily slip off into the turbulent sea.

In the big picture, I suppose it's better that I lost the ring than ms. wobs or l'il wobs, but I'm still bummed.

Other than that, the vacation has been pretty great so far. The weather's been a tad on the cool side to this point, but will be up in the 90s by mid-week. L'il wobs loves being in an ocean in which he can actually swim without suffering hypothermia. I've gotten quite adept at saying "no, gracias" to the dozens of vendors who attempt to sell me trinkets everyday.

The condo we are staying in is located directly across the street from the Blue Chair Beach Resort which, according to the Lonely Planet guide, is the epicenter of Puerto Vallarta's gay resort scene, which is super-cool, except that hearing "Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me" becomes less kitschy and more annoying around the sixth time you've heard it (and again, we're on day three, here).

Lots of nice folks around us, too. In the building next to us are a gang of college kids who only seem to stop drinking when the pass out (as we saw three of them at 6 PM yesterday on their balcony). Last night I made the acquaintance of one of our neighbors in our condo, a fascinating woman who is a senior civil servant at the EPA and who was a member of Al Gore's staff when he was VP. Her husband is a radical political cartoonist who's done artwork for several magazines (like The Progressive) and who is apparently behind a lot of the artwork for rallies and the like in the DC area (his nom de guerre is Fluggenock, for those who may know). I ended up chatting with the woman until late last night over margaritas.

As you can tell, I've figured out how to get 'net access - from the roof of our condo we can rip off the wifi signal of a neighboring hotel. And I've gotta say, blogging under a first quarter moon while the city glimmers around the bay and the rhythmic sounds of the surf (and of the karaoke drag show at the Blue Chair) fill ones ears is mighty, mighty nice.

It'd be far nicer if I didn't lose that fucking ring.

Wuv, twue wuv...

Three years ago today, a very pregnant ms. wobs and I stood barefoot on the beach in Hawaii, hoping the rain wouldn't soak our marital vows, performed before a crowd of applauding balcony-bound vacationers. It's been a very, very good three years since.

I love you, sweetie.

To celebrate, ms. wobs, myself, and the wee one are taking a family vacay starting tomorrow way down south in Mexico way. So, after today, the noodle will go quiet for most of a week (barring my getting a wild hair up my butt and a handy internet café) while I sit on the beach, sip margaritas and Pacifico, and catch up on my reading.

Be my valentine

Dearest readers:

I ♥ you. Not as much as I ♥ the ravishing ms. wobs, mind you, but I ♥ you nonetheless.

I know I've been neglecting you

Dearest readers, I know I promised you pictures of our trip ages ago, and you've been infinitely patient. I know it's hard: you were promised pictures of l'il wobs, and then you probably had days of checking this blog three, maybe four times a day in the hopes that I'd finally gotten around to it...

Or maybe not. But if there's anything I enjoy doing, it's posting cute pics!

At the Monterey Aquarium...



At Big Sur...


In the City...

Two observations from the Holiday Market

I spent several hours this afternoon tending to ms. wobs' booth, and I made these observations:

1. Tie-dyed stretch-pants are never a good fashion idea, especially on those who could charitably be described as "pear shaped."
2. Naming your kid Irie is a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do.

Unserious people in the Academy

Atrios has a link to a recently released study about women academics (with a bent, I take, towards those in the natural sciences).

On top of his points, which I've also witnessed, I'd add that similar pressures exist for male academics who might actually, I don't know, want to be involved in an equal partnership in raising their children (though not at the same intensity with which they burden women). I think ms. wobs and I were pretty lucky to have l'il wobs when I was still in grad school and she was working part-time. It gave me a chance to spend a lot of time in his formative years (as well as saved on childcare costs). But forget about making any sort of progress on my degree. It took me a year to take a comprehensive exam during that period. It also affected my research - I shifted the focus of my dissertation research in order to work with family-friendly professors, academics who themselves were more marginalized in our department.

Add to this the stress of raising a child on the combined incomes of a graduate employee and an adjunct writing professor at a community college, and you have a significant part of the cocktail that induced me to leave academia.

Yay me

ms. wobs reminded me this evening that it's been over two years since I quit smoking tobacco, and that's really cool. So yay me!

Set and setting

ms. wobs, in her infinite wisdom, got me a gift certificate for an hour-long massage for my birthday. Since I tweaked my neck when I went paddling on Sunday, today seemed like the perfect day to redeem it. My neck feels much better and I'm loose as a goose, but I must admit that it's unnerving to receive a massage in a building where (in it's previous incarnation as the sport bar Doc's Pad) 10 years ago I was downing $1 cocktails and getting pukey-drunk. Weird.

Poor parenting

Well, l'il wobs had a relapse today, thanks to yours truly. I didn't follow the doctor's instructions with regards to his diet, so we've had a few puking episodes. He's sleeping fine now, so hopefully the worst is over. The lesson learned is, even if they look like they're feeling better, they still can't have the mac 'n cheese. Not even the Annie's.

On top of that, the l'il wobs seems to have passed his malady onto myself and ms. wobs. Fun.

Out of the woods

L'il wobs is on the rebound after a rough night. I can't begin to tell you how indescribably bad you feel telling your child he can't have water, which he desperately wants, because he'll throw it back up in 15 minutes. It was especially difficult when he refused his Pedialyte (it tastes bad, although I do hear the popsicles taste better). Additionally, this went on all night, so by the morning, I was dead tired and a little frazzled.

ms. wobs worked her heart out nursing the l'il wobs back to health today. Lots of sips and TLC - it wore her right out. But when I got home tonight, the wee one was smiling and running around like nothing happened. His mother, on the other hand, could barely move.

Thanks to all those who asked about him today. He'll be terrorizing us all again tomorrow.