Put One Foot in Front of Another…

Tristan walked for the first time, last weekend. She only took three steps, but she walked. She didn’t walk again, however, for a whole other week.

The second time was today.  She was trying to walk all the way from me on one short side of a friend’s dining to my wife, on the other side.  Tristan tried several times.  After starting, she would lose her balance, fall and then continue the journey on hands and knees. She’d hug her mother at the completion of the walk/crawl, then crawl back to me to start the effort all over to walk to her mom, all over again.

The most amount of steps she took at any one time was five, and, usually, she only took one to three steps, but she did so repeatedly.   It was a joy to behold.

I can’t wait to she recognizes that she can walk to me, too.

 

More Milestones

It’s an amazing thing to see your baby grow.

Marcel, for instance, is in the middle of spurt that’s making her taller than everyone else in her class. Of course, we see the most growth in Tristan, who turns 11 months old, soon. Her growth isn’t just size, though. Her growth is also in strength.

The most shocking growth in strength was her crawling.  Marcel never crawled. Instead, she would, while in a kneeling position, hop whereever she wanted to go. Then, fourteen months into life, she started walking.

The most remarkable growth, though, isn’t physical. It’s mental.

Marcel started reading this week. She can’t read sentences. But she can pick out words that repeat in a story. She picked out the words “scrub” and “row” from Sandra Boytons’ “The Going to Bed Book” and the words “daddy” and “cuddles” from Gutmen’s and Hallensleben’s “Daddy Cuddles.” I have looked forward to the day I taught my children to read since before–long before–I even had children, so this was huge for me.

What I didn’t expect to be even more amazing and more huge to me was the day that Tristan learned to play.

A few months ago, Tristan was sitting in her high chair, drinking from her bottle, when she got bored and threw that bottle on the floor. Marcel retrieved it and returned it to Tristan in her high chair, then went back to what she was doing. Tristan, however, simply threw it, again.

Marcel, again, got up, retrieved it and went back to what she was doing but, this time, went back with one eye looking over her shoulder at Tristan. Tristan, again, started to throw her bottle but, this time, she waited for Marcel to come back to her.  When Marcel came back, Tristan smiled and dropped the bottle at the feet of the waiting Marcel.

And thus, Tristan, for all she knew, invented the game of “catch” and taught her big sister how to play.

It was an amazing milestone to behold.

 

Showtime!

I had tickets to go to the inaugural parade.  It was more important for me, however, to watch this inauguration with my daughters. It wouldn’t have been easy to take the girls to the parade and probably impossible to take them to the swearing-in so, if I wanted to watch the inauguration with them, then we had to stay home and watch it on television.

There were more obstacles than just parade logistics, however.  There was, namely, my daughters’ impatience.

Of course, there was never any expectation that Tristan would understand what was happening.  The most I could hope for from her would be that she would be awake at the peak moment and, maybe, would cheer when I cheered, even though it was only because I was cheering, too.

There was an outside chance, however, that Marcel would appreciate what was happening. One hurdle to even that, however, was that Marcel demands that our television always broadcasts, as she puts it, “her shows.”

Another hurdle was that, even if I did get her to acquiesce to allowing me to turn on my show, there was no promise that she would watch it.  In fact, there was a real risk that she would leave the room to find some other form of entertainment.

But my new president, who had, at best, only an outside chance when he started this journey nearly two years ago, had inspired me.  Thus, with most of my family at the parade route, my daughters and I sat down to watch the swearing-in ceremony.

The parade of speakers and performers went about their solemn duties in joyous fashion.  The emotion built moment by moment, on the mall, around the world and, yes, in my heart, as well.  It may be impolitic, but for the first time in my adult life, there wasn’t any fear of being foolish for feeling inspired by the American promise.

That isn’t to say that Marcel and Tristan cared–it wasn’t easy to keep them by my side throughout the entire program–but I cared, and so I did keep them by my side as we watched the singers sing, the musicians play and the preacher, the controversial preacher, preach these words:

“Today, we celebrate the hinge point of history with the inauguration of our first African-American president of the United States.”

The crowd responded with a cheer. Then, to my great surprise, Marcel threw a fist in the air and cheered, too.  And I felt pride that my young daughter understood the significance of today’s events. Then, however, I felt fear as I wondered how this three and half year-old little girl, who I had hoped had been insulated from the world’s horrors, could know that these words were worth cheering.

Then she turned to me, and with a face filled with a smile as big as her excitement, exclaimed:

“Now, it’s time for my show!”

Yes, child, that day meant that it is, in fact, time for your show.

 

It’s Morning in American, Again

As we sat down to breakfast on the first morning of my parents visit to celebrate the inauguration of our next president, Marcel directed the discussion.  Specifically, she directed everyone to tell a story.

She was first and, not surprisingly, her story was all about her.

My wife’s story was next.  Her story wasn’t about Marcel.  I could tell from Marcel’s facial expression that that wasn’t what was wanted so, when my turn came, I made up a beautiful story about my wonderful daughter.

My father was after me.  He could also tell that he was supposed to talk about Marcel.  He couldn’t quite bring himself to full complaince with the unsaid directive, though, so he started a satirical tale about my oldest child.

“Once upon a time there was camera…”

Marcel knew what was up, though, and immdiately cut him off with a curt, “Next!”

My mother, however, had no intention of letting down one of hers.

“Once upon a time, there was this beautiful grand-daughter…”

Marcel, not needing explicit explanation that the grand-daughter being described was her and not one of the two other grand-daughters, beamed like the morning sun!

 

Hobbes Debunked

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your child wrapping their small arms around your neck and laying their head on your chest.

Marcel didn’t do it as an infant. If you picked her up, she might lay her head on your chest but her arms would certainly be hanging down by her side. Usually, though, her head was on a swivel trying to figure out what was going around her. Marcel didn’t start hugging until she was a toddler.  Marcel was much more of a kisser.

Tristan, on the other hand, hugged almost immediately.  In recent weeks, she’s started to develop swivel-itis and, thus, the feeling might not last.  Yet, a full bottle in a quiet room can still, almost always, induce a nice, long hug.

The result is that, now, I get that feeling all of the time from both of my daughters.

And, thus, my life is sweet, loving and full.

 

Kiss my boo-boo

Every parent knows the drill.

A crash, a cry, you rush to the scene but all that’s really hurt is peace, not piece, of mind. Thus, a quick kiss and rub, with perhaps minor admonishment, allows everybody to go back to their happy state.

In reality, this time was no different. There was the crash, then the cry, then the rush to the scene. The difference came when my wife arrived.

“What’s wrong, darling!”

Marcel pulled down her pants and pointed to her butt.

“Boo-boo!”

My wife must’ve hesistated. Marcel wouldn’t tolerate a deviation from the routine. So she insisted.

“Kiss it.”

Then the flow of events proceeded as normal and everybody went back to their happy state.

I think.

 

It’s a Beautiful Day

The day after Christmas, we went to my mother’s house.  Amazingly, my non-Christmas clebrating, Jehovah’s Witness grandmother had come to visit bringing a slew of that side of the clan to visit. I couldn’t miss that.

Marcel and, for her first time ever, Tristan got to hang out with many of their paternal cousins.  Tristan tended toward the older relatives who coddled and cuddled her constantly.  Marcel, meanwhile, ran wild with the younger cousins.  This was from the moment we got there and until our last day.

There was some time when we were away from the ruckus, though.  Bedtime.  (We slept at my mother’s house while most of the activity was at my youngest brother’s home.)  But, even then, the fun wasn’t far from mind.

In fact, our first morning began away from the action at my mother’s house with Marcel yelling for me.  She had awoke in a relatively strange bed and wasn’t sure were to go,  so she called for me to come get and guide her.  I walked into her bedroom and told her that she could get out bed and join the rest of us.

You’d think her mood would be frightened or, at least, angry, but it wasn’t.  Instead, she eagerly climbed out of bed and, as she walked to exit the room, kindly informed of what was to come.

“It’s a beautiful day, daddy.”

 

Near Death Experience

I almost killed my wife, last week.

In my defense, it wasn’t my fault.  I was just trying to feed Tristan.  We had decided that she was ready to progress to solid foods, and I was trying to feed her a rice and formula concoction.   There were problems, though.

First, this concoction was difficult to handle.  Depending on how much and how long ago you add the formula to the rice powder, it can be either a dry mush or a watery mess.  Even under the best circumstances, bibs are inadequate.

Second, progressing to solid foods means more than just ditching the formula but also trading the bottle for spoons and forks.  Tristan, unfortunately, was more interested in the spoon than the food.

Thus, I never really even got to the problem of getting Tristan to open her mouth and swallow (can a toothless baby chew rice mush?) and it quickly become an afterthought? It wasn’t an afterthought for Marcel, however.  Marcel kept her eye on the ball and soon piped up. 

“You gotta do the airplane, daddy?”

This is when I almost killed my wife.

If I had been more prescient, it wouldn’t have been a problem.  But I wasn’t thinking.  Instead, I was working to get food into my baby girl’s mouth but between the food sliding off the spoon, then trouble getting her mouth open and, worst of all, failing to get the spoon past her grasping hands, I was failing miserably.  And it was frustrating!  So I just blurted out.

“But she’s just like King Kong!”

Fortunately for all concerned, my wife eventually stopped laughing at me long enough to breathe again.

 

Milestones

Sometime over the last couple of weeks, Marcel began reaching the light switch without getting on a stool or chair.  Just prior to that, Marcel learned to turn door knobs.

Meanwhile, Tristan combined two skills–turning over and putting something in her mouth–when she rolled to her side, pulled her pacifier into her mouth and went to sleep.

The biggest development on the new achievements scale, however, was when Marcel peed in her bed.

This had never happened before because, frankly, my wife and I were conscientious about putting Marcel in pull-ups at bedtime.  This night, however, we weren’t conscientious.

The next morning, Marcel jumped into our bed and got under the covers.  Everything was unusual about this.

Normally, if she wakes up before us, she just calls for us to come get her out of bed.  If she does come into our room, she usually declines getting into bed and, instead, urges us to take her downstairs for chocolate milk and television.  On very rare occasions, she’ll get into bed with us, and she did just that this time.

And when she did, I noticed that her pajama pants did not match her pajama top.

Mismatch pajamas aren’t just rare in our household.  They are nonexistent.  My wife is a stickler for things like that, so when Marcel hopped into bed with mismatch pajamas, not only did my antenna shoot up, but my mouth shot open.

“Marcel,” I queried, “what happened to your pajamas?”

“I changed them,” she responded.  She refused, however, to explain why.  She just got into our bed as happy as could be.  Like mismatch pajamas, Marcel changing her bottoms is nonexistent.

Even as a newborn, Marcel never much minded dirty diapers.  I distinctly remember telling our favorite Argentinian musician how grateful I was for that trait, only to have him educate me on the pitfalls of rarely-changed, over-full diapers.  Warnings notwithstanding, Marcel and I came to learn the consequences of delayed diaper changes the hard way, including Marcel becoming comfortable with wet and soiled underwear…while sitting on the sofa.

So to hear say that she changed herself, unprompted, raised all kind of alarms bells.  I got out of bed to check on her room.  When I entered her room, I found an even more startling thing:  I found a made bed.

Now, my wife is about as anal about makign the bed as she is about storing pajamas in matching sets, but I never seen her teach Marcel how to make a bed and never seen Marcel actually care about making a bed.  I mean, she’ll tell that it’s her job to make the chocolate milk, cook the dinner or plant the flowers.  She does not, however, tell you that it’s her job to make the bed.  But that morning, it was.

And it was my job to unmake it.

When I pulled back the covers, my suspicions were confirmed.  The tell-tale wet spot revealed that Marcel had peed in the bed.  But far from being upset, I was grateful.  Marcel was finally ashamed of messing herself.  And, for the next couple of days, Marcel insisted on going to the potty before the “rain and mud” came.

We’re told we aren’t supposed to shame our children into potty training.  I’m not sure we could if we were allowed.  (She’s way too cute to punish, really.)  But, given the results, I was sure glad Marcel was willing to take up the cudgel.

 

Dear Children

Dear Children,

On November 5th, 2008, the junior U.S. Senator from Illinois, Barack Obama, became the first black president of the United States of America.  It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Black people first came to the Americas as slaves. For the next three hundred years, Africans and Americans of African descent–in short, your ancestors–were held in legal bondage in the United States, mostly in the South.  It took a civil war, which ended more American lives than any war since, including two world wars, to end the practice.

For the next century after that, however, African-Americans were still subject to Southern laws of segregation–referred to as “Jim Crow” laws–that were so callous and brutal that African-Americans weren’t much better off than their slave forbears.

Though there were considerable opposition from every corner of American society, the plight of African-Americans in the United States was allowed because the myths surrounding African-Americans were disseminated for so long, through so much of society and were so pernicious that even African-Americans themselves began to internalize and believe them.

That’s why in February 2007, even after then Sen. Barack Obama had been making a strong case for his candidacy with record breaking fundraising, that an African-American state senator from South Carolina, Robert Ford, endorsed a different, and white, candidate for president of the United States, arguing that he wanted to protect the Democratic Party from Barack Obama.

“Every Democrat running on that ticket next year would lose,” he argued “because [Obama's] black and he’s top of the ticket.”

Republican’s, presumably, agreed. There were three special elections in 2008 to replace Republican members of Congress that had left office since the 2006 elections. The last two were to find replacements for Southern seats in the House of Representatives (Louisiana and Mississippi). In these two races, Republicans pointedly tried to tie the Democratic contenders for those seats to presidential hopeful Barack Obama, clearly trying to play on the history of race in America.

But it just wasn’t American–black and white–hatred of African-Americans that threatened Obama’s historic candidacy, but it was also black hatred of their plight in America that threatened Obama’s candidacy.  Frankly, white Americans’ fear of black retribution has played as much a part in undermining American unity as white injustice against blacks.  That’s why the revelation of Obama’s long time pastor’s own hostility to America nearly doomed his historic candidacy.

Recognizing that the discussion of race in America was poison to his candidacy, Obama first tried to breeze past this particular controversy like he had breezed past the general issue throughout his campaign.  Ultimately, though, he was forced to confront it with a March 18, 2008 speech that tried to not only save his campaign but even tried to re-write the rules for how noble Americans attack the race question in the future.

Within two months, and despite Ford’s fears, Republican hopes and, maybe, because of Obama’s speech and candidacy, those Southern down ticket seats went to the Democrats, in one case for the first time in over a generation. (The third, for the seat of former leader of House Republicans, Dennis Hastert, also went to the Democrats.)

I would argue that the coup de grace to Ford’s argument, however, did not come until Monday, May 19, 2008. On that day, U.S. Senator Robert Byrd endorsed Barack Obama to be the Democratic nominee for President of the United States of America.  This is remarkable, in part, because his home state, West Virginia, gave the nod to Obama’s final competition for the Democratic nomination by a 41 point spread.

More darkly, this is also remarkable because Robert Byrd was a member of the Ku Klux Klan, joining at 24 and, eventually, rising to be the president of his local chapter. Then, as a member of the U.S. Senate, Byrd set the record for longest continuous filibuster by one Senator when he spoke against the Civil Rights Act of 1964 for 14 consecutive hours.

Thus, with his endorsement of a black man for president, Sen. Byrd bucked history.

And thus, on November 5th, 2008, the United States of America made history.

Love,

Dad