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!

Shake Your Tiny Rump

Tale of the Tape

We went to the pediatrician today, to check out a little rash that has been growing for the past week or so. (turns out it was something called prickly heat, and should go away in another week.)

While we were in the exam room we had the opportunity to weigh Elliot, and he clocked in at 11lbs 1 oz.  Which, in case you've been keeping track, is three full pounds more than his lowest weight, which was three weeks ago.

Which means that over the past three weeks he's gained a pound a week.

That's the equivalent of me, who weighs 175lbs, gaining an additional 75lbs.

Hannah's breast milk is made out of Snickers bars.

He's Electric

Boogie woogie woogie woogie...

The Grandma Series

He Knows How to Use Them

A visit from Emily

Thanks for coming, Emily and Steve!

Belated Birthday Wishes

6:30am Thursday

She had been up all night.  I was wearing a shirt and tie.

Lazy Sunday part II

Lazy Sunday part I

This is pretty much what his dad looks like on a Sunday morning too....

Talk to the Foot

Baby's First Mail

So he's a Democrat after all.

Cute Photo of the Day

Burpin'

The Sounds of Growing

I'll let you deduce the context for this video.  And what's happening off screen. 

Let's keep the comments clean, people. 

Lunch

Today my son Elliot will meet my mom Carole.  In a vegetarian restaurant in the East Village.  Who knew?

Thanks for the photo Emily!

Crying

It's hard to go off to work in the morning.  And not for the reasons I normally whine about.  I have a whole new set of whines now, and here's one: Hannah gets to spend more time with Elliot.

Based on no actual evidence, I am convinced that Elliot likes Hannah more than me.  And once you have that suspicion in your brain, you notice any bit of evidence that supports it.  Any time Elliot cries in my arms I assume it's my fault.  And anytime he's quiet in Hannah's arms, I assume it's because of her divine gift.

This is an irrational fear, I know.  But those are always the ones that keep us up at night, aren't they?

So tonight he started crying.  And I tried my normal tricks.  I pressed my knees together and swung him left and right on them, I slung him over my shoulder and patted his back, I pressed him against my chest, I changed his diaper.  Nothing worked.

I began to slump into despair.  I knew what was coming:  I would put Elliot in Hannah's arms, and he would be quiet.  I knew it would happen.  The truth, I thought, is that I am a useless parental appendage.  I don't make milk, I can't soothe the baby, there's practically no point to my being here.

He cried louder and louder.  He got red-faced.  His little tongue curved upward in his screaming mouth. There was a despair in his tone, and I believed it.  It seemed to me that he desperately wanted something, but I had no idea what it was.  He cried and cried.  The tone got thready, plaintive.  It went staccato.

Then something changed.  His next cry developed a querulous tone.  His eyes, which had been squeezed tight shut, opened slightly.  His pupils went left and right, looking around to see if anyone was listening.  I had to suppress a laugh.

The cry after that was even more questioning, more tentative.  There was a rise at the end, like a teenager ending a statement as a question.  I found this more hilarious than I can convey in words.  My quivering stomach threatened to roll his little body off onto the couch.

His next two cries seemed to ask whether the world was even paying attention.  They waned steadily in volume and intensity.  The third cry contained a realization: it didn't matter if the world paid attention.   He was pressed firmly against a warm chest and pair of arms.

My stomach muscles, still clenched against my own laughter, relaxed about the same time that Elliot's last cry drifted out: thin, exhausted, resigned.  And there he was, asleep on my chest, just the way I wanted.

In order to achieve this, all I had to do was hold him tightly while he cried.  And not give up when he tried to fight me.

I'm guessing this will be a good lesson for the future.

Comments

I've changed the settings, so now anyone can leave comments.  Go crazy.

Monday Night Spa

Some would say you should bathe your child daily.  Others, every 2-3 days.   Our strategy so far has been.... well, we haven't actually given him a bath.  Cleanliness is a construct anyway.

That all changed tonight!  Elliot's first bath!

Here are the supplies we had on hand:

Here's Elliot pre-bath:

And here's the gory raw footage.  (warning:  may not be not suitable for children younger than two weeks old.)

Okay, hold up.  It looks like he's real upset, right?   But that's only half the bath.  Wait for it:

As you can see, he achieved a Zen-like state of peacefulness.  Way to go, Elliot.  Just like your old man.

Here's a post-bath shot:

Really, who doesn't get a little pooped after a good bath?

The Birth Part IV

When we last left our heroine, she had just been transferred from triage to her proper labor and delivery room.  It was 7 am. 

The next two hours involved a lot of motion.  Hannah tried lots of different positions to get comfortable: kneeling on the floor, with her chest against the birthing ball or against someone sitting in a chair; standing and hugging whoever was nearby; kneeling or lying on the hospital bed.  Cameron, it turned out, was no good for hugging: he was too tall and bony.  Megan was just the right height and softness, much nicer to lean against. 

Cameron, still trying to be silently supportive, found himself crouched in front of Hannah for about five minutes.  He didn't realize he'd been mouth-breathing all over her, until suddenly she said "Babe, sorry, your breath stinks, can you. . . ?"  Cameron reminded himself that laboring women were very sensitive to smells.   Could he really be faulted for not brushing his teeth before they rushed to hospital at 5am?

The core members of the labor party were the following: Hannah, Cameron, Sabine, Megan, and Midori. Midori was the L&D nurse, and she added a much-needed optimism to the room.  "You can do it!" was once of Midori's most frequent utterances. 

Midori had wisely filled a pink, kidney-shaped vomit bowl with ice chips and water, dipped a washcloth in it, and handed the washcloth to Cameron, who appointed himself washcloth dabber.  He dabbed Hannah's forehead, neck, back, wherever she directed.  (Cameron had tried appointing himself lower back massager,  but had to be let go for incompetence.)

Eventually, Hannah made her way onto the bed.  This was actually her idea.  At first she tried kneeling, and pushing her forehead into the elevated head of the bed.  But then she lay down on her back, in the stirruped position we Westerners traditionally think of women giving birth in.

This all unfolded very, very quickly, by the way. When Hannah and Cameron first entered the labor and delivery room, Hannah was 6cm dilated.  An hour later, she was 9cm.  At 9:15, Sabine said that Hannah was fully dilated and she could start pushing. 

The midwife and nurse were simultaneously impressed and terrified by the speed of Hannah's labor.  A fast birth is a good birth --- but who knows exactly how fast it will be?  The result was that neither Sabine nor Midori left the room even once.  They didn't want to walk back in and hear a baby crying.

So Hannah starts pushing.  She's doing great.  After three or four pushes Sabine said "I need a little housekeeping here."  Midori, to whom the comment was directed, was occupied with something else.

"Midori," Sabine repeated sternly. Midori looked up.  "Housekeeping?"

Midori looked perplexed.  "Mm?" 

Hannah clarified:  "I POOPED MYSELF," she said in loud, clear voice.  Everyone giggled.  Midori blushed, came over and removed the disposable paper, and replaced it with another.  Very neat.

Marathon!

Today Elliot took his longest trip outside the house so far.  At about 11am we took the subway to Fort Greene and tried to find my friend Tim Cooper, who was among the horde of 43,000 people running the NYC marathon.  We didn't find him, despite him saying that he would be wearing an orange hat that should have been unavoidable. (I neglected to consider that the logo of ING, which sponsored the marathon, was orange).

We met Ami and Irina for brunch at a great South Africa restaurant called Madiba's.  I am quite proud of the way Elliot comported himself.  In fact, I am convinced that this kid is a party animal --- he is far happier in a crowded restaurant with people talking loudly all around him than in a quiet nursery.

Again we forgot the camera so no photos.  I will try to get better about this.

The 7 dwarves of Elliot

Lazy
Grumpy
Sleepy
Curious
Hungry
Extra-Hungry
Poopy

The Perfect Baby?

Warning: nothing happens in this video. 

Baby, I'm going to take you out

A date!  Just me and my baby, and my other baby, and my baby mama's mama.  Yes, it was a lovely little foursome at the Ethiopian restaurant on 4th Ave this evening. I thought we would be the only ones with a baby, but I forgot it's Park Slope.  And I thought that our kid would bother the other guests, but instead the other kids bothered us.

In other words, a success!

By the way, today is Elliot's two-week birthday!  Which was what this dinner was a semi-celebration of.  And just like the one-week birthday, there were no cameras present, so I can't show you any photos of tasty injera and doro watt.

The team made the tactical decision to keep Elliot in his sling* during dinner.  Which was, in general, the right decision.  But let me tell you, it ain't easy to deliver drippy scoops of Ethiopian food to your mouth while wearing a baby.  You're worried about spilling some food on your shirt?  Try the stress of scalding your newborn with beef tibbs.

I'll finish this post with a photo quiz:

For a free white onesie:  exactly what type of child abuse did we engage in?

* You will be shocked to learn how much one can legally charge for a long thin strip of fabric.

chillin

Courtesy of our awesome neighbors

not a maggot...so what is it?

If Angelina Jolie were a boy...

curious

video

Visit from Elliot's uncle Aaron and aunt Daria last Saturday.  He demonstrated all his skills...

furry harbinger

Elliot's current weight

8lbs 9oz

Hannah wins the bet!  Damn you Elliot for not sucking harder and eating 3 more oz of milk!

Elliot Bradford Page

If anything was going to draw me back to blogging, I'm glad it was the birth of my son.  Here he is:

I know, he's adorable.  You'll be seeing a lot more photos of him.  Here's one:

You'll notice something these two photos have in common.  Not his near baldness.  I'm referring to his lack of consciousness.  This kid knows how to enjoy a nap.  8 days old, and he's already teaching me.  Amazing.

Speaking of Elliot, here's another photo of him:

That's what we call a segue photo.  By now I'm sure you're wondering, What was his birth in midtown Manhattan like?  Well, thanks for asking.  I'm going to write about five thousand words describing every detail of it.  So be sure to tune in for an ongoing series of posts titled "The Birth."  Or, if you're not a fan of purple self-indulgent prose, just email Hannah and get the short version.