Not All Who Wander Are Lost

Realizing I've had a lot to say about the kids in the past few posts, but what can I say -- five days at home in the boonies and there's not much else but chores and family to fill the void. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I love the little tykes; they keep it all so real...

Why, just this evening precocious three-year-old Willow reminded me not to take seemingly simple answers for granted. Note to self: though surely "playing doctor" won't have the sexual component for a while, accepting this as a decent no-check-up response to what are you doing, Willow? may result in such odd follow-up as trying to wipe an entire tin of mint lip balm from a plastic babydoll while apologizing to Mama for not realizing the kid was using all the balm in the first place.

Then there's the baby, who wows the crowds at the local crafts fair and, like her sister before her, never cries in public. Surely the universe will forgive me for repeating, smugly and ad infinitum, the phrase yes, and she's homemade, too! when folks cooed from behind their crafttables (given the venue, it just seemed so situationally relevant).

Incidentally, I discovered something interesting today: roughly 100% of all middle-aged women will say hi! in response to my cue to the baby to say hi! to them. If this suggestability could be harnessed, we'd have childcare for eternity. (100% of respondents also get lightly embarassed when you respond not you, the baby!, by the way. Note to self: we plan to live here forever; less smarmy responses will likely result in better community relations.)

Speaking of speaking: for a while there, it looked like Da Da was going to be baby Cassia's second word. Three days later, though she still waves back to me when I come around the corner (hi da da!), she also utilizes the noise for such diverse iterations as doggie hellos, foodfightin' words, and, syllabic ad infinitum, mere skybabbling. Turns out d is merely her first consonant, da her second syllable. First step: trying to wean her off calling her Mama da da da. Alternate possibility: rename the universe. Nothing's too good for my wee ones, after all.

Back home, we're still negotiating the right family balance between the increasingly crawlmobile baby and the three-year-old tendency -- until recently entirely acceptable -- to leave smalltoys scattered across communal playareas. No small objects swallowed yet, but it seems just a matter of time. Note to self: mapquest nearest ER ASAP, just in case.

Buy a new house on the usual 30-year plan and -- regardless of actual finances -- you're suddenly seen as solvent, a newly minted sucker, name re-entered in some prolifically-utilized database intimately known to the world of phone salespersons.

To be fair, telemarketing isn't always a no-win. Though most calls are instantly rejectable, those who keep their wits about them can indeed find gems among the coldcall chaff. Next week's delivery of a deep freeze full of farm-raised meat no more expensive (and much more conveniently packaged and delivered) than our usual half-year ration stands as testament to the truism that the market for every real product there is a genuinely appropriate consumer, so why go looking when it will come to you?

But it's the entertainment value of the average telemarketing call that keeps us from decrying the twice-nightly interruption. Explaining to telemarketers that their products just aren't compatible with our lifesyle leaves the good ones impressed with us, and lends us no end of ego-highs. The ubiquitous dish-network sales pitch, especially, never fails to amuse; though it takes a while for callers to get the idea that we neither have nor desire television service of any type, it's quite probably educational to that heavily-accented guy in some Indian call center to learn that the American stereotype of the media-drunk consumer is indeed a stereotype.

This was even more effective when we lived in the dorm, of course -- explaining to mortgage sales folks that we had no such beast and paid no rent left them startled and us grinning as we hung up the phone. But I can still reject newsdelivery service by pointing to my library responsibilities (how about free -- can you beat free?).

More generally, sharing our satisfaction with our lifestyle choices, from insurer to childrearing proactivity, helps spread the word to telemarketers that the one-size-fits-all pitch is incompatible with the self-driven age of infinite choice and empowerment.

Why bother registering yourself in the national do not call database? Embrace the hilarity of the whole shebang, from pitch and script to the marketer's shiftnumb mindset. It's educational, self-serving, and occasionally brings in the commercial products you actually desire. You'll never need television again.

Tired of slogging through horror stories about the national post-Thanksgiving shopping spree? Visit retail-slave horror-story cache Customers Suck for the perfect behind-the counter anecdote. I mean antidote.

And don't worry -- the real news is bound to return tomorrow. Frenzied Friday aside, a month of shopping can't possibly stay page one for long, can it?

We avoided the mall today, choosing instead to finish cleaning up from last night's turkey feed, and help Willow put up and decorate her tinytree in the bay window. Especially nice to lie in front of the roaring fire in the otherwise-darkness and snuggle with the girls under the twinkling tree to the Windham Hill sounds of Christmas. This year's hot item in the boyhowdy homestead: family.

Update 9:28 am 11/26/05: In an interesting turn of media coincidence, the CNN headline story that replaced yesterday's shopping slam report is accompanied by essentially interchangable imagery. To wit:

Like Friday's shoppers, some Palestinians lined up as early as 6 hours before the gates opened.

Note to Palestinians pushing into Gaza: due to CNN's choice of imagery, to American eyes, your plight may forever be trivialized by an unfortunate resonance with our crassest of commercial instincts.

Though a few playthings in current commercial release are indeed unsafe for children (choking hazards are no laughing matter), most of the toys on the World Against Toys Causing Harm (WATCH) 2005 "10 Worst Toys" List are hardly dangerous, save in the kind of hyper-anxious, absentee-parent scenarios which only ambulance-chasers and other WATCH-ilk can envision.

As such and as always, the PC silliness of such listitems is easily lampooned, so I won't bother trying to reinvent the whee.

More seriously, though, the WATCHlist is moot. As a proud non-popcult-purchasing parent of two wee ones, I can assure you that the really dangerous toys never make the list.

In the spirit of the (advice)giving season, then, and in order to truly protect those who would be giftgivers, we here at Not All Who Wander are proud to present the first annual Top Ten Worse Toylist (pat. pending, all rights reserved, et al etc.)...

Anything from a McDonalds happy meal. The pincher guy from some animated show you've never heard of. A hundred tiny parts between the carseats. A tiny pseudobook for a kid that can't read yet. Once, a ragged piece of unidentified yellow plastic.

Shoes. Where her big sister wastes her own oral fixation on kissing burninghot cake pans (long story), baby Cassia shoots right for the nearest pair of shoes, regardless of ownership or, indeed, whether someone is wearing them. Please wipe your feet; the baby is teething.
Paperback books. Her second favorite chewtoy. On the list for both their tasty fragility and their heft; held above the head, they're liable to go bonk on a prone infant's nose at a moment's notice, and then it's your fault. How do they get on the floor, anyway?

Magnets. Fun be damned -- in a world of portable hard drives, it becomes necessary to call for a total moratorium on all magnetic kid's toys, from magnetic fishing pole games to those damn refrigerator magnets. The science lessons can wait until middle school or Daddy gets his own office, whichever comes first.

The dog. She wants to play, but rub her belly in the wrong spot and she just can't help that paw to the face. Plus, no creature who growls when you approach her food should be trusted with children who can't eat solids yet themselves yet remain about as mobile as possible.

The cat's tail. It goes without saying. So do the retaliatory claws.

Daddy's hair. The infant pulls it. The three year old bites it. Sacrificing the beltline-length Samson locks merely to avoid changing table disasters turns out to have been especially prescient, albeit not going far enough.

Sugar. While technically not a toy, often a gift-substitute, especially from people who ought to know better, including random strangers with the best of intentions. Thanks for cranking up my kid to crashing point and then leaving us to deal with the fall out.

That Lamaze-type baby toy we bought secondhand from that place in Northampton. A colorful horse swings up and down atop a suction cup base, which seems totally innocuous until the baby gets her finger caught between the horse and the sidestruts on the upswing. Worse: in her struggle to get free, baby puts pressure on the horsie from above with her other hand, compounding the pinch.

A stick. Willow, put down the stick. Please. You'll hurt yourself, sweetie. No, I don't think Cassia wants it either. Put it down, please. Put down the stick. Put down the stick. Put it down. Now. That's it -- if you don't stop waving the stick at your sister we're going home right this minute. One...two...Are you listening to me?

I've never written a post that was picked up by the bloggiverse at large; never been origin for virus or vision, though I have been among the earliest to note numerous memes before they hit critical mass.

Been recipro-linked plenty of times, I suppose, and by several that I admire. Was recognized by a few at BloggerCon2.

But that was never the point.

Three years, and my written voice has become that much more polished through the exercise. Three years of externalization, and I understand the inner workings of myself so much better. Three years and my understanding of the world has expanded immesurably. Three years, and a dozen friends, virtual and real, both refound and newly made, for each.

The space which blogger has provided me -- however frustrating in the early stages of the technology -- has helped me become who I can be, and know myself in the universe.

It is no longer impossible to say just what I mean -- and though it remains really, really difficult, I have learned to appreciate that difficulty as both the high stakes and the evidential proof of making sense in a world of insanity, for what value meaning it if comes so cheaply?

And, best of all, I've got three years of logged life to remind me how we got where we've gotten to, and show the kids one day.

It's been three years to the day since I began blogging. Three years, almost 1400 posts, and fast approaching a half a million words.

So I got that going for me.

Up late with the peanut last night -- she had unconsolable gas, and for some reason insisted that I handle it. I kept trying to hand her back to her mother, but she just screamed and reached for Daddy. The only way to keep her calm was to bounce her gently, one hand on her tiny diapered butt, in front of the mirror. By the time we finally made it to bed, she had burped hundreds of times, and seemed very well acquainted with that other baby on the other side of the glass.

Weird that she chose last night of all times to become Daddy's little girl, though I'm honored nonetheless. 7 months is early for a kid to reject her mom under in-pain conditions; though Mom appreciated the extra sleep, she's not the one who has to get up in the still-darkness every morning to be in a classroom two towns over by 7:30.

But that she surprises us is no longer a surprise, I guess. Ever since she pulled the oxygen tube away from her own mouth in the delivery room, we knew we had a strong and independent thinker on our hands.

My little redhead is a handful sometimes. At 15% weight for her peer group she's tiny, but stronger than the average 7 month old; she can scoot around corners and out of sight like you'd never believe, though she's not technically crawling yet. She gets set off by her sister's tantrums, making it that much more difficult to calm down the household. Given time and space she gravitates unerringly towards the least appropriate floor-object, from lint to dog hair, with total disregard for the usual qualities (shininess, bright color) which make tiny objects attractive to babies. Given her druthers, she'd rather eat a shoe than anything else.

But she shares her pacifier, stuffing it into Daddy's mouth in some early instinct towards generosity. She kicks and giggles when we dance together, holding her hand in mine ballroom-style or looking out at the world from above my belly, laughing with glee as her sister's hair comes by in a whirl. She can stare at a fire with the wisest of meditative ones, is awed into silence by radio voices. She settles easily, eats everything so far save sweet potatoes, appreciates tickles and attention more than most.

Her first word is "hi," just like her Daddy's was. And she smiles -- wide, crinkly, and sweet -- a hundred times more than she cries. I've never been so happy to be a father of daughters than in those rare moments, like yesterday's woods exploration, when the two of them grin at us, and at each other, as if sharing a secret joy with the world.

That said, giving up two hours to stare at my blurry self instead of sleeping has made for a pretty cloudy morning. Even a half hour standing out in the cold with my homeroom while the fire trucks came to confiscate some teacher's toaster oven wasn't enough to reach full consciousness. Thank goodness for a shortened week. Nice, too, to have the extra days with the wee ones, some time to grow closer still as the world outside gets colder.

No worries that the home computer is still FUBAR -- I've developed a foolproof working method of blogging sans working technology that seems to be working out great! Here's how it works:

First, whenever you get a bloggable idea, concentrate on it so it won't go away. Concentrate hard, to the entire detriment of anything happening around you, for as long as necessary to commit the raw material to memory. (Hint: You'll know you're doing it right if you call your child by the dog's name. Experts may find themselves passing cop cars on the right while using this blogging method.)

Second, the next time you encounter a scrap of paper, index card, or spare bit of space on the back of your hand, write the by-now totally crystallized blogfodder down in shortform. Later, you'll find these pieces of paper totally unreadable (rev blu @ F? What the heck was that supposed to mean?).

Assuming you find them at all.

Helpful tip: don't forget to remove these index cards from your pockets before putting the jeans in the wash, as a) this method of blogging is much more effective when your blog entries accumulate on top of the dryer, and b) explaining to your wife that regularly replacing the dryer hose will be a necessary albeit expensive aspect of your newfound, easy-to-handle bloglife is only likely to cause subsequent [finish sentence].

(You'll note, by the way, that this method not only saves time and stress while computing, it also helps organize the way you think and write, causing all future blogentires to be especially linear and clear. Guess practice makes perfect!)

(Note to self: should that last paragraph be italicized? Where does spellcheck fit in all this? Also, say something about backdating entries before piblishing.

Because sometimes you just need to remind yourself how much you rock. In roughly chronological order.

I was a street urchin in the original Boston Christmas Revels, and a wharf-rat kid in the original Boston Sea Revels.

I played Peter in the Boston Children's Theater run of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.

As Lord Admiral Sir Nelson Drake Victory, I was directed by James Ivory in his first theatrical production, the Peter Maxwell-Davies opera Cinderella.

With the help of Tom Bergeron, I once interviewed Jon Cryer for Boston CBS affiliate WBZ.

My naive paean to divorce was published in the very first issue of Teen Ink.

As a sophomore, I was the lead in the Newton North presentation of Pippin.

I studied poetry under John Ashbury, Robert Kelly, and Joan Retallack at Bard College.

I was "the lightning guy" at the Boston Museum of Science.

As part of folkrock trio Not Earthshaking, I played a headliner set in the Hard Rock Cafe Boston surrounded by the same Liverpool bricks which housed the early Beatles.

I share a songwriting credit on Boston folk artist PJ Shapiro's first CD.

For three years, I held the record for the highest writing placement score in the history of Marlboro College.

I was the first undergrad to have work published in Kairos, a Journal of Rhetoric, Technology, and Pedagogy.

I have been a guest speaker, panelist, workshop presenter and seminar lecturer on the subject of technology and media pedagogy at colleges, conferences, and classrooms across the globe, from MIT to Dhaka, Bangladesh.

I am the best damn Daddy in the universe.

What's your claim to fame?

One unseasonably warm long weekend
+ $650 in bright orange Home Depot giftcards recieved for buying a new home through a Lending Tree-recommended agent
= All the tools needed to produce one finally-deleafed front yard

Two days dangling a leafblower
+ Not enough rest breaks
= Ten numb fingertips and a hand that won't grasp properly

One stay-at-home spouse
- One teething infant
= Ten days to put up two roomsful of Ikea shelving, subdivide and reorganize the basement into a combination play/craftspace

Two roomsful of shelving
+ Time to finally unpack and organize a dozen bookboxes
= Plenty of newly revealed carpetspace

Three consecutive days home
+ One precocious three-year-old
= Daddy, do you still go to work?

Fave middle-of-nowhere, pirate-themed wine/beer bar and low-key freshfood gourmet hang-out The Lady Killigrew reports via monthly newsletter that their recent local-media ad campaign -- "in which we advertise for other things: other restaurants, bars, books, music, dentists - anything that impresses us and we feel deserves our and others love" -- will soon cease.

Serious bummer, here -- the ads, which showed a kind of relationship tree of local user-friendly services and hangouts, were always entertaining, and often informative. Alas, it turns out celebrating one's own local favorites as part of a network of cool stuff in one's own advertising is illegal. Snip from The Lady Killigrew newsletter:

The Valley Advocate recently got in touch with us...to tell us these ads were not appropriate; and that we would need to change them according to the rules of The Secondary Brokering of Ads (a rule concerning some shady (and confused) person buying an ad and then selling off the pieces). We are not selling off the pieces, we told them, we are trying to create a community and a network through advertising, rather than tear everybody else down and proclaim ourselves the best. They said they understood, but we would still have to change the ads. This made us sad. And while we are going to be slightly changing the ads over the next few weeks, we will also most likely be writing various letters explaining our situation and thoughts. Which are mainly this: so I could run an ad featuring a very busty, scantily clad blonde, but as soon as I run an ad praising my dentist, that's no good? And that's a sad state of affairs, crew. A sad state of affairs.

Pirates acting on purely positive and social intentions, spending their own cash to promote their faves (and incidentally make connections between themselves and other positive, mostly small-scale networked services and companies, thus illuminating their user base, and spreading the good cheer), accused of piracy? Isn't it ironic...

Too busy this morning for homeblogging, and my shoulder hurts after hours of assistive shelf-construction until the wee hours with Darcie. More later, I hope; in the meanwhile, feel free to check out my other, more publicblogs: workblog and new hydra-headed collegecrowd blog.

Alternately, Forbes online is really heating up right now -- almost anything "there" is worth ogling.

Yesterday they were doing construction on the detour over the mountain. I got stuck behind a yellowbus, which in turn slowed to a crawl as it tried to eke past roadside leafblowing, recycling pick-up, and the other sundries of early-morning town maintenance. Late for work, then, though accompanied by my much of my own homeroom crew -- I'd been following them for miles, and never thought to look at their faces as they peered out at me.

Today the autumn leaves glowed in the warm sunshine of a post-daylight savings universe. The washed-out bridge has been reopened, albeit as a narrow one-lane passthrough over which last week's rockpiling is visible, a new dam up against newly laid, barriered asphalt. No bus to follow; time, upon arrival, to check in with the principal about yester afternoon's junk technology removal, the subsequent space it makes available, and the potential for that space to be harnessed for new research and techproduction labs and presentation spaces.

And time to begin again here, too.

It's been a while. Halloween in our new smalltown turned out to be a downtown-only affair: two hours candy-collecting up and down main street followed by a parade of costumed young'uns from municipal building to town hall, where we drank cider, paraded in costume across the stage with the rest of Willow's age group, and left early when she threw a tantrum because we would not let her cross the stage yet another unwarranted time. Definitely my child, proud of our matching bee costumes and her tiny sister's sleeping sunflower. Even the dog got yellowstriped. Hoorah, as always, for costume and stroller designer Darcie.

More general familynews in-house and out (no potty jokes, please) includes the emergence of baby Cassia's first word: Hi! The exclamation is used deliberately, though indiscriminately, for those she loves and strangers alike; even the cat gets a cheerful greeting, and responds with headbutts of love. Interestingly, this was my first word, too. Looks like we've got another socialite on our hands.

Back home babyCass gets armcarried to library playgroups and storytimes with her big sis Willow almost daily while I toil. Willow's started getting carsick, which she gets from her mother, so we've been trying to keep other excursions few and farbetween, but most afternoons find us shopping before dark, a perfect nuclear family in newtown, just me and my girls out and about.

Though most shopping is the necessities -- supermarket milk, batteries for the babymonitor, pallets from the lumberyard -- we're still going out, too, for the lastditch hardwood. Not much -- the furniture is almost organized -- but enough to keep us outgoing even when the fridge is full.

Last night, for example, the family drove into upper Connecticut, weaving through the pitchblack early evening on our neverending search for the perfect dining room table and chairs; we liked what we saw, though the cherrywood is both expensive and, to my chagrin, probably too delicate for daily use in a household of wee ones.

But even if we cannot find the perfect shakerstyle woodblock in time, Friday through Sunday of this coming weekend will see me navigating the greater New England area, picking up the rest of our chosen furnishings, most already purchased and waiting, patiently, for my arrival in a rented truck.

And so it goes, and so it goes, and so will you, soon, I suppose, if blogging doesn't pick up instead of catching up, so seldom seen. If nothing else, I'm hoping to post newly loaded flickrpix anon. And maybe a draft of the bedtime story I've written for the elderkid, a horribly anti-PC tale tentatively titled The Ladybug Who Had No Spots.

In the meantime, here come the kiddies for yet another round of computerclass -- we're talking form-follows-function with the seventh graders this week and next. Until we meet again, my friends...