Toys

My father is always quick to point out how easy I have had it here in the U.S. He grew up immediately following the Korean War and watched his family's fortunes rise and fall like the tide. For most of his life, this meant poverty or at the very least, a daily struggle to move forward in life. Small things that I and my son take for granted, like store bought toys were a luxury that my father never experienced for himself but was determined for me to have. 

So growing up, while I never always got what I wanted, I never had to go without. The food I wanted to eat, the toys I wanted to have, in some way I always got those things. So there was that emotional legacy, my father provided for me that which he couldn't have himself. And in many ways I recognize this is the dream that all parents have for their children... for them to pass us, to achieve what we could not, to own what we could not, to validate our time here. 

Of course, I see that now, I understand that now, but when I was a child I was always furiously wanting. The more toys I could cram into my room the better, my shelves, illuminated by the soft yellow glow of my night light, transformed into a war zone where robots, soldiers and monsters waged a fierce and deadly battle. But my parents were not rich and even if they were to have come into money, I doubt they would have spoiled me in the way that I craved. And growing up, what I craved most of all, were transforming robots. Not transformers, but "Valkyries" from my favorite show "Macross". I begged them for these toys but these toys weren't just hard to find they were expensive. I never quite got what I wanted but I did get toys that were close, a repaint Transformer called "Jetfire" that I would take everywhere and have grand adventures with. But always, in the back of my mind, I recognized that Jetfire was not a Valkyrie and that the autobot symbol on his chest was an abomination. 

Years later, long after the plastic on Jetfire had grown yellow and brittle and passed away into legend and glory I found that those valkyries which I had so longed for as a child had been reborn. And I, wishing desperately to heal that valkyrie shaped hole in my heart have scrapped and collected and amassed a collection that embarrasses the me that is today but warms the heart of the 8 year old me, the me that always wanted and yearned but was never fulfilled. 

So today, these toys sit on my shelves in places of honor. The Baby looks up at them and asks to play with them and sometimes I let him hold them and smile as he pretends to fly them through the air, making swooshing sounds, knowing that my dreams live on through him, that some part of what I am, who I was, lives on through him, that chain unbroken. And I know that one day, one day soon, he'll ask when those valkyries will be his, so he too can love them and wage fierce battles on worlds that live only in imagination. When that day comes, I'll sit him in my lap, hug him and tell him, "When you get a job son, when you get a job."

Stir of Baby

When my Wife was laid off, we immediately made some cost saving decisions. We gave up our fancy Arrowhead bottled water with the nice cooler/heater combo water dispenser and we also gave up cable along with going out for dinner and other things. Where we drew the line though was with our Netflix subscription. Those happy red envelopes have done a lot to keep our spirits up and I love watch social documentaries using there "instant watch" feature. 

Watching movies is a bit of a juggling act though since the Baby rarely finds the movies that we rent to be the sort of thing he would like. The distinct lack of talking anthropomorphic trains and animals in the Wristcutters: A Love Story, for instance, meant that he was be bored to tears. And by tears I mean running around in front of the television finding out what new and interesting sounds he's capable of producing. This usually leads us to let him Cars or Thomas the Train with a bowl of Cheerios and a sippy cup full of milk. This diversion lasts for about thirty minutes and he'll come out of the room carrying three or four books which he'll demand to be read. Usually I'm pleased at his academic dilligence but having the oversized Thomas the Train book thrust into your face whilst watching Angelina Jolie curve a bullet around a room to assassinate a room full of assassins is somewhat distracting and the Wife will point out that watching Angelina Jolie curve a bullet around a room to assassinate a room full of assassins is of dubious value in the proper care and feeding of a two year old. So either one of us gives up on the movie to go be a parent or we both admit defeat and go and play with the Baby. 

But when it comes to watching movies, I'm a trooper. If I have to stay up till midnight so I can watch my movie in peace, then that is what I'll do. I'll wait till the Wife and Baby are asleep, lower the volume pop in my movie and enjoy two hours of Baby free entertainment. Such was the case the other night when I was watching Stir of Echos. If you haven't seen it, it's about Kevin Bacon being able to hear dead people. Yes, like in that other movie, but not as good. 

So there I was, the room darkened, only the glow of the TV while creepy images slowly seeped their way into my brain when I sneezed. I sneezed and from the blackness I hear, "Bless you...", at this point I'm not ashamed to admit I was a little scared. I'm completely startled by this quiet disembodied voice and then I hear it, "... honey."

"Aidan?" I cautiously call out into the dark hallway.

"Yeah." Comes the reply, the voice quiet and small.

By now I've put the movie on pause and I'm walking over to his bedroom, 

"You awake little guy?"

I see him in the doorway, the door opened ever so slightly his face still in shadow, a pinpoint of reflected light glinting off his dark brown eyes the only betrayal of his presence as my eyes struggle to adapt to the darkness.

"Yeah... I'm awake already" He responds and then after a short pause, he sighs and opens the door fully, his little arms outstretched, demanding a hug.

My Baby The Ninja Shower Thief

I get a hair cut once every season or so. I'm lazy like and since I have such little experience with hair cuts I usually get a rather bad one so it takes a while for it to grow out and for me to get over the demoralizing traumatization of walking around looking likeI was on the losing end of a fight with a weed wacker. So it's a vicious cycle, I fear hair cuts so I don't go which leads to poor decisions when I'm there which just re-affirms my deeply held belief that people who cut hair, hate people and me in particular. 

Before in the crazy bubble economy days of two weeks ago, I would have splurged the extra three dollars and gone for the hair wash and style after the cut but since we're poor now I decided I could probably handle the hair washing part on my own, paid the bill and with the baby in tow went home to take a shower.

Now, the water heater in our apartment is a tempermental beast and I usually run it for a minute or two to figure out if it's going to be hot enough to shower in. Sometime during this time Aidan had decided that he would like to shower instead. Aidan doesn't shower, he takes baths and by baths I mean he sits in the tub and plays with his Thomas the Train bath toys and sings the Thomas the Train song to himself over and over at the top of his lungs until he prunes up enough to scare himself. At which point he starts to yell, "Honey! Done NOW DONE NOW DONE NOW!" 

This is the point where I ask him, "You're done now?" and he'll respond all nonchalant, "Okay, I'm done now" and show me his wrinkled fingertips, "Winkley!" Since we're having family over for the weekend, I decide I'll take this oppertunity to wash his hair. We both try to avoid this as much as possible since the hysterical shrieks and water splashing followed by the crying and demands for hugs by the wet soapy baby are a bit much for me and he doesn't like to be clean. No, that's a lie, he loves to be clean, he's fastidious about washing his face and hands but not his hair. He's like Sampson, no one touches his hair. 

Undaunted by his furious howls of protest and not in a small way fueled by my irritation by having my shower denied, I set to work massaging the shampoo into his hair at which point he yelled out, "Ouch! Honey, you're broken me!" More crying and tearful accusations of broken him and ensue and eventually he's clean, I'm soaked and now there's no more hot water.