Second Xmas

This is the second Christmas for Baby Shiloh, but it is almost like her first. Last year she was exactly three months old and totally oblivious to what was going on around this time. Not so this year, as she insist that every gift that is so  meticulously wrapped belongs to her.She is like a little squirrel hoarding nuts. I stumble upon half opened gifts all over the house. And of course the decorative ornaments that "The Wife" breaks out of storage and proudly and strategically places on the "little tree" are also fair game. A few moments ago Shiloh came in with a couple of them and ran away from me when I had the audacity to attempt to confiscate them. Back to the "little tree", which by the way, is the title of one of our favorite movies. I refer to it as such because a good buddy of mine persuaded me to purchase it as a fund raising vehicle. Proceeds go to the local high school basketball team, a really worthy cause. Except "The Wife" had her designs set on our customary semi-gigantic topiary spectacle that fills up a room like Bill Cosby. You know, the larger than life, bought to impress kind of thing. She finally came around to the whole "spirit of the season" point of view, albeit reluctantly.
I love this time of year and the way she gets so engaged in maintaining our family traditions, some new, some old. There is the mid-day brunch that features an egg souffle that is quite delicious. It is accompanied by croissants, fruit plate, and juice. For the past twelve years it has been an unmitigated success. It was passed down to her by her mother, who died eight years ago, so it remains an important connection to some very special memories. We'll have my kids and some other friends who have become regulars join us. Shiloh will be bounding about, taking it all in. Another tradition is to have the kids in Santa's lap photo op. Shiloh is screaming bloody murder in her photo she took today, just like her brother did at the same age. Can't have any lingering bad thoughts dominate her mind about the Yule Tide season. We may have to assign her as the official gift unwrapper. She has definitely had enough practice at it... MERRY CHRISTMAS!

He Ain't Heavy...

When Shiloh was born last year, her brother Cyrus was ten years old. My initial thought was that a ten year age difference might preclude them from developing a close relationship. He would be too cool to want to hang with his little sister, no matter how cute and precocious she happened to be. He would bemoan the times when asked to keep an eye on her as Mom or Dad were occupied. Who could blame him if he were to cordon himself off in his room, doing big boy stuff, like playing video games, or enthralling himself for countless hours playing the nonsensical Bay Blades. If you haven't seen this game, some genius has made a fortune creating a game based on what we used to do to amuse ourselves when I was little. Only then we used spining tops, or if you were in a pinch, Jacks. The new millenial version has a battle arena and a gizmo to attach to the "spinner" that really gets it going. Shiloh likes to sit by his side and watch the action. Sometimes she will interrupt a particularly intense match by grabbing one of the combatants and running out of the room with it. They also enjoy cavorting in the Master bed, dispersing covers all over the place. It is not uncommon for me to flinch and wince simultaneously from some small, sharply edged toy placed in perfect positon to dig into my back at the most inopportune time. When I scold her for touching things she should't be touching, it is not Mommy that she seeks refuge with, it's Cyrus. "Cyyyyy" was one of her first utterances, after hearing her Mom yell it at the top of her lungs trying to pierce his wall of silence in his bedroom upstairs. What I am learning is that the age difference can be an issue, directly dependant upon the overall affection that we share as a family. When love prevails, it supercedes every other thought a child has. Now if only she felt that way about bigger brother Joe. The fact that he is even taller than her Daddy leaves her baffled as to his place in this family pecking order. She will warm up to him the more time he spends in her presence. He is an adult and working and has a life, so there's not a whole lot of time left over. But until she does get to know and like him better, there's always..."Cyyyyy".

Stinky Fingers...

Okay, it is inevitable, I guess, to talk about something that may not be for the faint of heart, or squeamish of stomach. When doing a running weekly blog about the challenges of raising a toddler at fifty-four years old, it is topic that must be broached at some point. And while that reality is upon me, and I am more than willing to venture down that road, you can probably tell that it is not a path that I am eager to trek. So without furhter avoidance, how can I put this, dealing with soiled diapers has got to be my least favorite part of Fatherhood at Fifty. It gets easier as Shiloh gets older from the visual standpoint. I don't have to scrunch the face and hold my breath. It gets more difficult because now she wants to explore what is going on down there right in the middle of getting her "Diap-ee" changed. And by the way, it is like riding a bike, once you've changed the sheer volume of diapers I have changed over too many years to mention. You fall right back into the grove. Fortunately, I am not old enough to have had to deal with one safety pin in the mouth, while attaching the other to the cloth. Or am I? I seriously don't remember, which can't be a good sign. Complicating matters is her tendency to make a mad dash away from me when I approach her with diaper and wipes in hand. I also had to learn that downward stroke thing that is required with little girls. But all in all, it has not been as bad as I had envisioned. Of course, the stinky fingers part is still a little too much to take, and I'm not talking about Shiloh's either. Hey, I have big hands and long fingers and sometimes it's hard to get them out of the way...

No More Shoots!

We took Shiloh to the Doctor to get the last round of vaccinations. This is always an endeavor that is every bit as anxiety inducing for the parents as it is for the child. At least where Shiloh is concerned. The thought of her having to endure the trauma of a sharp object piercing her thickly muscled thigh can be a bit much, if I focus on it too much. As we are seated in the waiting room, she innocently carries on like she is in the child care area of Magic's 24 Hour Fitness. There is an elaborate farm scene built into the wall, she tries to open the gate to enter the field where the sheep, cows and other animals are painted, playing in the pasture. I take great pains in keeping her from getting too close to the other child close by. The reason, I tell myself, is because she has a cold,and I don't want it to spread,.The real reason is that she has been doing this thing recently where she gets off slapping faces. Her brother's face, my face, her mom's face, it don't matter. She is an equal opportunity face slapper. It can be quite the embarrassment, like on Thanksgiving when she hauled off and smacked my niece, a laid back, mild mannered little girl a few months older. It's one thing to do it to family and get scolded for it. It is an entirely different matter to do it to a kid accompanied by a mother that looks like she may slap back. And then of course, all hell would ensue. Finally her name is called and it's off to the waiting room I. We always seem to get that room. The nurse is a friendly sort, having dealt with Shiloh for over a year now. We go through the obligatory height and weight measurement, with the nurse commenting on the vastness of my baby's head. It's genetic, so I am used to it. She leaves us to wait  for the Doctor. While waiting, we notice a bulletin board with scribbles and pictures and stuff. There are high school age kids who obviously sat in this same room as Shiloh  when they were babies. My wife notices the writing of a very young child and is amused. She points to it, it reads, "No More Shoots", meaning shots. After the Doctor does his check up, he informs us that Shiloh is due for her last round of "Shoots", er, shots. He rattles off the list, Hepatitis, Flu, and a couple of others. Shiloh kind of looks at him like she knows what is about to happen, again. This is not the play area of the Fitness Club. When the friendly nurse returns with her needles and gloves, the fullness of the reality of the situation sets in. She looks at me, extending her arms, begging with her eyes, "No More Shoots". I play the role of the heavy and help hold her down. Panic stricken and tense, she tries to shake the spot, but I won't let her. I grimace as I watch the needles enter my daughter's thigh. I try and comfort her at the same time to take her mind off of what is happening. She is terrified and crying, but handles it like the trooper she is. It is finished, all done, vaccinations complete.Her "baba" (bottle) is just the soothing tonic she needs to calm her nerves. The wife and I look at each other, knowing exactly what is on the others' mind. Thank God, "No More Shoots".