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".

SNAKES, SNAILS...NOT!

Sometimes, I don't know if the Lord blessed me or cursed me as far as children are concerned. "Happy is the man whose quiver is full", has long been a biblical passage that spoke to me in a personal and direct way. It seemed like my destiny was going to be that of the man that produced nothing but boys. Rough and tumble, get in a fight at the drop of the hat boys. Lover not fighter boys, artistically inclined, television star type boys. You name it, and I had it, somewhere down in the quiver. Now don't get me wrong, I have long held the belief that boys would be a whole lot less stress to raise. Friends of mine that had nothing but girls, used to tell me how lucky I was. I didn't suffer like they did. I wouldn't have the sleepless nights worrying about the potential harms way situations that would arise. All I had to do with the dudes was to make sure they had the proper amount of direction, discipline, and basketball training, and they'd be good to go. It has worked like a charm too. Two older sons having attended my college alma mater on basketball scholarships. The next two are currently enrolled in school, and are also playing ball. The caboose end guy showing the promise to do the same, if not more, than his older brothers.
Enter Shiloh, the last of the Mohican's (actually her mother is Pawnee). She is the epitome of daintiness. My entry for this week's blog was to be based on my travels for work, and how it impacts Fatherhood at Fifty. But as I write this, Shiloh is walking around the den with one of the Pawnee's decorative wrist bangles adorning each elbow. One is a patterned, pink plastic number, the other identical, except it is gold. She constantly drapes one of the wife's purses, or any facsimile thereof, over her shoulders like she is on her way to Rodeo Drive. She is particularly fond of the Barbie phone that my granddaughter let her have. Push a button and some disgusting recorded message about "going to the concert with Theresa" comes on. As for the discipline, I tell her just now in a firm voice, not to push the buttons on the satellite receiver. Her feelings get hurt and she saunters over and slaps me on my hand as I type on the keyboard. So much for that. When she picks up her food, it is done in the fastidious manner that one would expect of a tea sipper in the court of King Louis, the whatever. Two fingers, very precise, index and thumb, with the other three extended outward. I'm absolutely positive Shiloh will benefit greatly from the direction, and my feeble attempts at discipline. As far as the basketball training goes, she may be way too cute for that nonsense...

NO OKIE DOKE

So Shiloh was about to go on a quick trip with her mom and the neighbor lady. I was given the option of keeping her at home with me, or getting some quiet time so I could do some work. It's not that I can't get work done while she is here. I spend a lot of time researching and writing, spending many hours per day on my computer. For the most part, she allows me to become somewhat immersed in what I am doing. Invariably those moments arise when she wants to get involved with my livelihood. Whatever papers are strewn about my desk suddenly become airborne, dispersed around me like the feathers in the grand finale in the movie True Romance. And then there is her love affair with the keyboard. She will shoehorn herself between my knees and the desk flap where the keyboard lay. She is ever observant, and has the general idea that while the keyboard is indeed important, it is the mouse that makes everything go. I'll lift her from the danger zone, give her a peck on the cheek, then plop her down in the midst of her assorted toys and gizmos. My concentration will be at its zenith, only to be interrupted by the sounds of one of those seldom viewed channels on TV. The ones where they give you the instructions as to how use the various functions that I never use anyway. This can only mean one thing, Shiloh is in what I have termed "Remote Control Heaven". We have tried the bait and switch manuever, giving her an old, battery free remote. She ain't falling for no okie doke, banana in the tailpipe though, recognizing right away that she has been bamboozled. It is an intersting dilemma to deal with. Even when she is  not here, and the oportunity has presented itself for me to hunker down and get some work done, I am still writing about her not being here. Thereby, not  getting any work done...

JerseyChaser.com

JerseyChaser.com

CHERISH THE MOMENT

This has been  a rough past few days. On Saturday, I found out a good friend had a stroke, and is barely hanging on while being placed on Life Support. Another friend has been camped out in an area hospital while her mother tries to deal with aggressive chemotherapy treatments. On Sunday, the congregation gathered around my Pastor's wife to offer our support at the news that her mother had just died while the church service was still in session. And the final piece of the mortality reminder, my friend and contemporary, Maurice Lucas, has died of bladder cancer at 58 years old.
I'm 54 years old, with a daughter who just celebrated her first birthday. I constantly do the mathematical exercise in my head of how old I'll be when she reaches certain milestones. When she graduates elementary school I'll be 64. At the middle school culmination, I'll be 67. I'll be the 70 year old grandfatherly looking dude in the audience at her high school graduation. And when she flings her college graduate cap in the air, I'll be 74. Unless she decides to take her time and go on that 6 or 7 year plan.
The saving grace for me is that I have been conditioned over the past few years to take it one day at a time. I can't get caught up projecting into the future and getting myself all worked up. But when you have a mind like I do, that is no easy chore. Thoughts of all the things healthwise that could wrong can easily dominate my consciousness. I am on the first day of a 10 day cleanse, and this morning the thought occurred that it may be too extreme for my system. Never mind that I have done this same cleanse 4 or 5 times over the past couple of years and have felt the better for it each time. I'll snap out of my malaise, I always do. I'll keep hitting the gym 6 times a week, ride my bike through the steep, hill ladened neighborhood surrounding my home, and play tennis and basketball with my other kids. I will also cherish this moment within this day, and thank my God that I've been entrusted with the enormous responsibility of nurturing this beautiful gift...