Stuff that happened this Christmas

Kate and Ed drove from Michigan with tree and ornaments inside their car.

Elliot fell in love with the Christmas tree. 

Kate and Ed stayed downstairs in the apartment of our landlords and downstairs neighbors. 

Cameron worked full days on Dec 24th to 26th, less after that.  

Anna stayed over on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day  

We had cheese fondue on Christmas Eve.

Anna had to open her first gift before dinner, because it was the fondue pot. 

We had delicious chocolate mousse on Christmas eve made by Kate. 

Cameron got a Kindle from Hannah.

H&C gave K&E TV.  They said it was “too big” and they did not mean the dimensions of the TV.  Secretly they loved it. Ed had a mischevious grin on his face as he talked about where they would put the TV. 

Minutes before midnight on Christmas Day, we read A Child’s Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas because it is one of Anna’s family traditions.

Blizzard was on Dec 26th.  

Car was snowed in.  Snow was as high as windows on car because of wind blowing snow into piles.  

Generalized outrage over poor plowing and clearing of streets (not limited to West-Page household)

On Dec 27th, Cameron and Hannah walked four blocks for Mexican takeout and it felt like four miles.  But everyone on the roads was smiling at each other in camaraderie. 

On Dec 27-28, Elliot really started standing up.  Seriously, not just saying that as a parent.  This kid is precocious.  Okay, he had some help. 

Cameron started calling Elliot Pookie.  Unclear why. 

Elliot started talking a lot more.  See videos for details. 

What Elliot Will be Wearing the Rest of Winter

The Christmas Series

Down + Swing = Unstoppable

real close up

Don't Mess with Us

The Mama Series

These photos represent approximately 0.0001% of the time Elliot spends in Hannah's arms...

An analogy

Here’s a classic rock climbing story: two people, a man and a woman, start learning to climb at the same time.  At first neither of them is very good, but the man is better than the woman.  He climbs faster, he climbs farther, he scales faces she can’t. 

Over time, they both get better.  But the woman gets more better than the man.  (That’s right, I said more better.)  Six months or a year later, the situation is reversed: she’s climbing faces he can’t.

What happened?  The man has bigger muscles than the woman.  So he learned that he could just heave himself up with mountain with his strength.  And since he’s climbing with someone who’s not as good as him, there is no need to develop skills.  

The woman, on the other hand, is constantly trying to keep up with her partner.  So in order to climb the same routes as him, she has to develop actual rock climbing skills.  She gets good at the little tricks: spotting that fingerhold two feet over her head, transferring 

And he’s the better climber at first.  The woman, in order to complete the same climbs as her partner, has to develop actual rock climbing skills.  She learns to transfer on a tiny toehold, she develops the eyes to spot that fingerhold two feet above her head, transferring on a tiny toehold.  

As they both climb, they both get stronger.  But the woman’s strength is built on skills, whereas the man never had to learn any skills.  So she eventually gets better than him. 

I think the same analogy could apply to quieting infants.  Fathers, lacking the sedating power of breast milk, have to develop their own set of soothing skills.  they watch baby closer, learn his habits better, and experiment more with various soothing techniques.   At first it appears that Mom is better at calming baby, but over time it becomes clear that Dad is the one who can really get the job done.

Of course, this is what you might call an aspirational analogy.  I’m hoping it will happen, although right now I’m definitely still in the “learning the skills” phase of the analogy.  Time will tell whether this translates into an ability to sooth Elliot.

Elliot on furlough

close up

Mobiles

Elliot is 8 weeks old today.  And he just fell in love with his mobile.

We have one of those crib mobiles that's designed by child development specialists: a series of interchangeable cards with various designs printed on them, each perfectly chosen to stimulate a different twist of neurons in our budding genius' brain.  Since, as everyone knows, newborns can't see in color (although it turns out there's plenty of scientific debate on the subject), there are cards printed only in black and white, and others with squiggles and lines, silhouettes of insects, circles and dots.

For the first few weeks of his life, Elliot wasn't all that excited about the mobile.  We have it mounted over the table where we change his diaper, so he's been getting regular but brief exposure to it.  And he used to glance it but also look at our faces, or look at the canary yellow wall next to his head.

In the past week, though, the mobile has developed a rhapsodizing effect.  As soon as he is placed on the changing table, his eyes lock on the little squares of plastic floating 8 inches over his head.  There are four images, and he seems to devour each one completely with his vision before moving on to the next.

Sounds great, right?  Visual stimulation occurring.  He's rapt with attention, so it must be good for his brain.  Neurons firing, connections wiring.

But here's where it gets interesting.  He's also started crying when we take him off the changing table.  And not just a little "sad to see the mobile gone" cry.  He's really upset, inconsolable for a five or ten minutes.

Which got me thinking about what it is that mobiles are supposed to be doing for children.  After all, since they're designed by child development specialists, they must be good, right?

But mobiles were invented many years before child development experts were.  And the people who invented them were not trying to improve the wiring in their kids' brains.  They were trying to get them to shut up.

And since when does rapt attention mean the child's brain is improving?  Watch a five year-old in front of a TV showing cartoons --- visual stimulation alone is not necessarily a good thing.

Am I saying that crib mobiles are the TV cartoons of the under-1 set?  That does seem a bit extreme.  Infants are still trying to learn how to see, so simple visual stimulation might be good for them in a way that it's not when a child gets older.

But I think there's something to the notion that these little squares, floating 8 inches away with clear images printed on them, are easier for an infant to look at than the complex, depth-perception-filled world where he has to live the rest of his life.

It doesn't mean throw away your mobile.  Just be aware that your infant may be using the mobile to rest his eyes.  He's staring at it not because it's more interesting than the rest of the world, but because it's less interesting, and therefore less exhausting.

But then, I'm not a child development expert.

dad time

Thanks Aunt Joan!

A very handsome sweater for the cold New York winter.

Nicknames for Elliot Thus Far

Monkey

Monks

Little Man

Little Guy

Bun

Peanut

Peanuckle

Peanuckles

Knuckles

Peanutbutter

Squoosh

Squooshface

Rashy

Pumpkin head

Pumpkin face

Chubbers

Baby Art

My brother Ian's arty onesie is giving Elliot profound thoughts.

(btw, we still have a few blank white onesies-- and several hundred fabric markers--- if you're feeling creative....)

photo

For Nora

All babies have pretended to feed when they weren't really hungry, but all mothers are convinced it never happened to them.  So you do the math.

Diagnostics

How is a 9-week baby like a 90 year-old woman?

It's the start of a bad joke, the kind that medical students tell out of earshot of their patients, and get scolded by their attendings for repeating.

But this question came to me yesterday in the hospital.  We were discussing Ms. Elbridge (not her real name! not her real name! not her real name!), and the resident told me that she seemed uncomfortable.  We went into the room, and sure enough she was writhing like an eel, exhaling deep throaty moans, and twisting the bed sheets around her limbs.

What was causing her discomfort?  Maybe she had an upset stomach.  Or maybe she was developing a pressure ulcer on her lower back from lying in the same position all the time.  Or maybe she had an allergy to one of the detergents used to clean the sheets. We would have to do a detailed physical exam to figure this one out.

Whoa whoa whoa, you say!  Why not just ask the lady what's bothering her?  Yes, that would be a good idea.  But it wasn't going to help us. 

Ms. Elbridge is severely demented.  She looks at me when I speak to her, and she can say her name when asked, but otherwise her replies are nonsensical grunts.

For a patient like this, you often end up making a guess about what's wrong and trying a therapy.  If it works, you assume your guess was right.  If it doesn’t work, you try something else.

As we stood there in the hallway, deciding whether to give her an antifungal cream or an anti-nausea medicine, I had a moment of déjà vu.  But It wasn’t until hours later that I realized why:  We’ve been doing this with Elliot for the past month. 

There are certain flavors to each of Elliot's cries: if it’s mixed with grunts then maybe he’s pushing out a poop.  If he’s hiccupping at the same time, maybe he swallowed a lot of air and he needs to be burped.  If he gets cold, his lower lip trembles like a cartoon baby in a Disney movie about a child locked out in the snow.

Hannah, having spent more time with him, is a better diagnostician than I am.  But sometimes we’re both befuddled, and in these cases--- as with Ms. Elbridge--- we just try something and see if it works.  Throw on a blanket, sing, rub, pat, take off a blanket, flip over, bobble, play a Missy Elliot song.  (No, I’m not kidding, he loves it.  Or maybe it’s just the way Hannah dances to Missy while she holds him.)

Is my point that we are in the end as we were at the beginning?  That we return to whence we started?  That there is--- to quote Elton John--- a circle of life? 

Yeah I guess it is.

Stylish Winter Wear

What every newborn is asking for this Holiday Season.

SIDS

Recently, an odd thing has started happening.  I've been waking up multiple times a night in a state of terrified panic.  And everyone I talk to about it smiles and is happy for me.

Ever since Elliot was born, I’ve been a little worried about SIDS.  Okay, I've been a lot worried about SIDS.  Like way out of proportion to the actual risk.

The actual risk, in case you're wondering, is 7 in 100,000.  I did not have to look up that statistic because I repeat it to myself multiple times a night. 

Or maybe you prefer percentages: Elliot has a 0.007% chance of dying of SIDS.   Pretty small.  Doesn't matter, I still wake up tri-nightly to poke him and make sure he's still breathing.

To put my irrationality into perspective:  When Hannah and I went through the standard prenatal testing for Downs syndrome, the blood tests showed that Elliot's risk was 1 in 300.  Hannah was still thinking of doing an amniocentesis to confirm it, but I thought that was ridiculous.  1 in 300?  That's basically zero!

And yet here comes SIDS, with a risk that's a hundred times lower, and it's ruining my sleep.  What's going on?  And why are all my supposed friends so happy to hear about these night terrors?

Here's how it usually happens:  I'll be talking to a friend about Elliot, and they'll ask how the nights are going.  I'll start to vent about my sleep problem, hoping for a little commiseration.  If it's a woman listening, she'll tilt her head sideways and get a slightly far-off look on her face.  "Aww," she'll say.  If it's a man listening, he tends to nod slowly and give me a grim smile of manly respect. 

Neither of these reactions is what I am hoping for, which is 1) sympathy, or 2) a solution.

I’m not so obtuse that I don’t have an inkling of why people react this way.  My panic attacks would apparently indicate parental bonafides.  Which makes no sense whatsoever.  How does sending myself into a frenzy--- at random intervals chosen by my subconscious--- help my child?  And yet, everyone seems to think that these night terrors qualify me for Man of the Year.

That's right folks, the standards of fatherhood have fallen so far that not wanting your child to suffocate in his sleep qualifies you as a good dad.

Short of many sessions of therapy I’m not sure what will help this problem.  I’m pretty sure that as he gets older (and develops the muscle strength to move himself out of potentially suffocating situations) I will calm down about this.  But I'm still open to advice if anyone's got some.

Thuggin'

The Power of Snuffle

Babies cry.  We know this.  A 5-week old baby like Elliot has no sound he can make when he's happy.  He doesn’t laugh.  He doesn’t say “I love you daddy.”  All he does is cry.  Every single sound he makes is some variation of crying.  Which can be a little stressful.

I'm not saying Elliot is miserable all the time.  Often he's simply content, and stares into space like he just mainlined some heroin.  And when he's actively happy, he expresses himself in gurgles, snorts, and grunts;  these sounds are problematically similar to his unhappy gurgles, snorts, and grunts.

Even when I know that he’s not upset; even when I’m 100% certain that he’s not hungry, or has a dirty diaper, or is cold; even when he just came off the boob, and I’ve checked his diaper, and thrown a blanket on him; and even then, these "happy" sounds are hard to handle.

We’ll be cooking dinner, and having a conversation about something (let’s say, for example, The History of Sexuality.  It’s been a few months since Hannah and I tried to tackle it, but humor my ego will you?)  So we’re chatting along, and Elliot will make a little snuffle.  And for no logical reason I will find it incredibly difficult to carry on our conversation. 

It’s not that he’s loud.  The sounds themselves are no more intrusive than traffic noise.  But for some reason I am unable to keep continue talking without thinking of myself as a bad parent.  I must attend to him, and if I don't this thought will flash through my mind: “My child is crying, and I’m just standing here talking about Foucault.  I’m a terrible human being.”

I guess I already knew that the sound of a baby crying triggers an automatic response in people.  But it would appear that for me, any baby sound triggers that response.  And my biological response is to freak out.  Presumably in others the response is less maladaptive, or the human race would never have made it this far.

The Ian Series

Faces of Elliot

What you talking ’bout Willis?

Someone Stole My Cheese!

This Has been A Long Day of Beer Drinking and Football Watching

I am Suspicious That My Cheese is About to be Stolen

Oh My God It’s a Double Rainbow!

I Have a Tiny Secret That Makes Me Happy

I Am Being Waterboarded Right Now

Who Covered The Back of My Hand with Honey?

I’m Not Sleepy, What Are you Talking About?  I’m Totally Fi....

This Acid is Amaaaaaaaaazing

Bare Naked Elliot

Nostalgia

We were at brunch with Emily and Jesse last week, and we started talking about early childhood memories. I related one about how I used to nap in the back of my mom’s 1968 Volkswagen Bug, which was my favorite car in the world at the time.  It was Navy Blue.  I was five years old.  

For those unacquainted with the Volkswagen Bug, it was the last car ever built that had both rear-wheel drive and the engine in the back. 

As you can see, it's a little cramped back there.  But between the back seat and the rear window was a tiny slice of space.  Right in front of that blue arrow is where I used to go to sleep.  

My parents tried not to let me do this while the car was in motion.  But my dad was twenty-eight, and it was the seventies, so stop being all uptight and square, man.  Suffice it to say that I took many a nap in that tiny space, quality German engineering thrumming me off to sleep. 

When I was seven, we moved from San Francisco to Boston.  There was a period of several months when we didn’t have the Bug, because it was being transported cross-country.  I got used to living without it, and to napping without an engine beneath my head.  

Then the Bug arrived in Boston, and I climbed inside for my customary nap.  But time and separation had done their job:  it was obvious that I was way too big for that space, and had been for a while.  I knelt on the seat and peered down into that slice of nap-space, and felt that I had forever lost something I loved. 

When I told this story, at brunch, I said it was “the first time I ever experienced nostalgia.”  Ah! cries the seven year-old.  The joyous innocence of my five year-old years is lost!   Gone forever!  We all smirked.  

At first blush, it does seem ridiculous for a seven year-old to feel nostalgia.  But then I thought about what an incredibly full human being my son is already, at age 0.08.  He has memories, and dreams, and intellectual curiosity.  All of those are going to get progressively more advanced and complex, even in just the next year.    

And actually, the opportunities for nostalgia are far more numerous in the first few years than later in life: being weaned off breast milk, forgoing diapers for the adult toilet, leaving your mommy and daddy for hours at a time for pre-school, and then kindergarten.  These are massive, seismic shifts in lifestyle.  They require huge emotional and intellectual resources.  Going off to college is a fairly mundane affair by comparison. 

So to me the anecdote now seems smirk-worthy in the opposite way: seven is a ridiculously OLD age to think that a child would first experience nostalgia.  It’s the first time I remember feeling it, but no doubt I had already been nostalgic many times over by then.  

Such is the emotional life of a child: intense, turbulent, formative --- and then almost completely forgotten. 

Learning to Share

Last week Elliot got a rash, so we went to the doctor to have it checked out. 

The rash (as I've mentioned before) was something called prickly heat, nothing serious.  But in the waiting room I got an hour-long lesson in parenting.  

Let me set the scene:  the waiting area has about fifteen full-size chairs, and two kid-size tables with a few kiddie chairs around them.  At one table sits a quiet, ragged-haired child.  He haa a wire-and-block toy in front of him, with which he is distinctly non-plussed.  This kid is staring into the distance, and seems pretty happy doing just that.

At the other table is another boy, about the same age.  He is more energetic and squirmy.   He has his own wire-and-block toy, which he loses interest in (understandably) after about thirty seconds.

The energetic kid goes over and grabs the toy from the quiet kid. Just walks up and seizes it from him.  (keep in mind this is the exact same toy the energetic kid already had and didn’t want.)  And he does it in that uniquely malicious way that only children can --- he stares straight into the other kid’s eyes as he jacks his toy.

Cut to quiet kid:  couldn’t care less.  He wasn’t playing with that toy, didn’t like it.  Go ahead and grab it.  So the energetic kid hoists the toy in his arms and starts to bring it back to his own table.  

As far as I’m concerned, energetic kid is about to learn an important lesson about materialism.  He’s going to get back to his own table with his “prize” and realize that two boring toys are no more fun than one.  And he’s going to learn that taking from others isn’t a sure-fire route to happiness. 

But that lesson gets interrupted.  Because just as the energetic kid lifts the toy off the table, his mom jumps in.  “Chris,” she intones seriously, “you leave that toy right there.  You let him play with that.”  Chris looks over at his mother to assess her seriousness.  He makes a whining noise and continues lifting the toy into his arms.  Mom springs into action, getting up from her chair and forcibly separating Chris from his loot.

The mom looks deep into Chris’ eyes.  “Sweetie,” she says, “you have to share with the other kids.”

Chris, of course, starts to cry loudly, and his wail carries a tone of righteous indignation. A grievous injustice has been visited upon Chris this day.  Forever will he remember the wrongs of this autumn afternoon. 

And so, the lesson has been reversed.  Where he might have committed a minor infraction and realized that it wasn’t all that fun; that crime doesn’t pay any emotional dividends; that selfishness earns you enemies, not friends; instead, he learns none of those things.  His mother tries to force the lesson on him, and she ends up teaching him exactly the opposite. 
Here’s what goes through Chris’ head: “Mommy doesn’t let me take stuff from other kids, just like she doesn’t let me have tasty candy or watch awesome TV programs or ride supercool motorcycles.  So taking stuff from other kids is probably awesome!  I’m going to grow up, become a greedy stockbroker, bring our financial system to the brink of bankruptcy, and walk away with a massive bonus!”

Am I reading way too much into one tiny incident?  Absolutely.  But one tiny incident a day adds up to hundreds and hundreds per year, thousands per lifetime.  And that becomes our legacy, those are the values we leave our children with.  

We say phrases like “share with other kids,” and pretend that that’s an effective way to teach a kid to share.  But it’s pretty obviously not.  Kids are watching, learning, and drawing conclusions every day.  The lessons we are teaching aren’t the ones our kids are learning. 

Which is why my plan is not to teach my child anything.  I’ll be a good person, model good behavior,  and let imitation do the rest. 

I suppose I should discuss this plan with Hannah....

Happy Thanksgiving from Hannah and Elliot!

How to Soothe the Savage Beast

I’ve been making up songs for Elliot.  I’ve discovered that it’s easy to get a line to rhyme if you don’t care that it’s completely nonsensical.  Here’s an example of one of the kiddie songs, sung to the tune of a Dan Zanes hit:

Who’s the boy we love to love  
The one who fits us like a glove
Elliot!  Elliot!
Who’s the master of his fate
Who came to us upon a plate?
Elliot!  Elliot!

When Hannah is out of the house or in the shower, I croon some of my R&B faves.  These are sung in the style of Bill Withers or Al Green.  The lyrics leave my mouth so soon after they enter my head that I actually can’t reproduce any of them.  But I'll make one up for you now:

When I was born, on the old bayou
I saw a little baby, he was so so cute
And I knew right then, sure as could be
That he was the one, the one for me
Sometimes he cries, yeah real real loud
He’s got something to say, and he is proud 
But he never talks, so we don’t know what it is
And while he’s waiting, he just takes a whiz

I swear I just made that geniusness up on the spot.  It seems impossible, I know.  You'll have to take my word for it.

These songs can be musical rorschach tests.  Often something revealing about your own mind spills out when you're blurting out song lyrics.  I won't go into any more detail.

The Grandpa Series

I had been delaying posting these, because of a lack of photos of the other grandpa.  But they're too adorable to resist.  Enjoy!