Thirteen Months

Last summer for his 5th birthday, G wished he could be six when he blew out the candles. His wish is getting closer to coming true as kindergarten is a mere week-and-a-half from being over. Next thing I know, we'll be planning the big '0-6' party.

Kindergarten being what it is, a cesspool of disease smeared by dirty little hands, snotty noses and un-guarded sneezes that, amazingly, can cross a room at remarkable speed for coming out of such small barrels, has had it's moments where I thought this year would never end.

I've been anxious for the last year to end too. There has been some disagreement as to what makes a year in our house. A: January - December , or B: 12 continuous months . I choose B because it can start from any chosen moment and life is too short to wait 8 months to start trying to get out of a bad groove simply because of a twelve pack of numbered pages hanging on the fridge. We've been close in years past, but every year something goes wrong and somebody breaks something or somebody has a surgery that turns into two or three more to fix whatever went wrong in the first one..

So this year, the one where the Newmaforma manages 12 months free of hospital stays, surgeries, screws, pins, casts or sedation finally happened a few weeks ago. Our first Hospital free year since September of '06. I wanted to celebrate but...black cats, walking under latters and all, kept me more cautious than joyful.

The party balloons popped sooner than later. A kid at school gets sick, then 5. A week later half the grade school is absent and a note comes from the principal explaining that Parvovirus is not just for dogs. Further research reveals that Parvo in humans, Parvovirus B19, is commonly called Fifths disease and is normal for kids to get and less so for adults. If a K9 and kid virus is rare for adults, A is certain to take it to a new level.

Words like 'rare', 'uncommon',' unique' are peppered throughout A's medical history. Of course the recent pricks, swabs and prods have left the local medical community scratching their heads. This shit is off the hook. A called one of her specialists who led her back to the E.R. Now her throat's so swollen and painful she's spitting saliva out into a coffee mug instead of swallowing it. She can't talk so she texts me like a teen-age girl. The fever is unrelenting and she only sleeps in fits every few hours day or night.  This virus she's hosting only fed itself on little kids as an appetizer and has turned to A to show its monster-self for the real meal.

Maybe we've moved on from invasive treatments, but the girl raised in Africa is getting her ass kicked by domestic kindergarten germs.

Keeping My Day Job

My 'How To' book on building the perfect athlete has run into some snags. Publishers expect three completed chapters before handing out advance funding. I have notes on scratch paper that work out to roughly three sentences. Add that I have learned my thesis doesn't jive with my chicken scratch, scribbled notes and I'm sunk.

Problems began to surface when faced with having to repeat a level of swim lessons. Casual observation found that even the phenom kids have to double up on a few classes because they aren't big enough for classes designed for older kids that are simply more physically mature.

No problem, I thought, If G has to skip every other class or two, he'll still be on track to score a scholarship in time for me to retire early.

As you may recall, there was trouble from the get-go. In the following days, his drive, resiliency and desire to do anything but go to bed, led to extra training in the bathtub and success in conquering his fears. This single mindedness to push through, to keep training despite sacrificing story time books or (highly edited) bedside tales of dad's youth paid off. Just as the great Rocky Balboa conquered winter in Siberia in the 1985 Boxumentary Rocky IV, G was not deterred by pruned toes and fingers while mastering full-head-submersion bubble blowing. Nothing makes a parent more proud than a naked kid with a pair of swim goggles being occupied for an hour. When I shared my pride of his accomplishment his only question was, Do I get a trophy?

The clear desire for a trophy is good. Eventually he'll realize that trophies are worthless and the heads break off when they're stored in shoe boxes at your parents house while you chase your dream and couch surf around the country. By then he'll learn that athletic success is about money. He'll practice free throws and three pointers with the goal of buying his parents a gigantic house high on a hill above the rows of McMansions that all the poor people like doctors and lawyers live in.

So we signed up for a school sponsored basketball camp. Whatever it takes to get through winter right? A dozen kindergarteners, bouncing balls in a wood floored echo chamber while you sit with a bunch of moms staring at iphones is about the best way a parent can show their child unconditional love.

Basketball has a lot of nuances, rules and details that 5-year olds might not get. Dribbling, pivoting, passing, offense/defense and generally the whole game are some of the things that may fly past a kid  this age much like a basketball itself being passed.

We practiced dribbling at home in the garage for 5 minutes one night until G got bored with it. I added a bounce pass and a straight to the chest pass on different nights with the same result.

Dad, instead of basketball, can we box?

Dad, can you bolt my bike to your rollers?

Dad, can we build a jump for our bikes in the garage for when its raining outside and you won't take me to the Lumberyard like right now?

Basketball wasn't seeming to 'take'. Until they learned about blocking an opponent. This brought the physical aspect of the game to his attention. G likes a challenge. The adrenaline rush of direct competition. Mano a mano. At first when blocking, all the kids looked like they were just doing jumping jacks. G changed that up one Saturday when he curled his fingers like claws above his head, made a scowl to drive fear into the ball holding opponent and growled like a bear. The other kid just passed the ball around the grizzly in a Lakers jersey.

I'm a bear! Are you scared? G asked

No. The other kid says.

Oh.

Gavin?! What are you doing? Coach interjects.

I was blocking like you told us. But I was a Bear. I was gonna be a Dinosaur but their arms are too short to hold the ball.

Coach walks away.

A week later, G finds himself blocking his opponent who has the ball, but this time he doesn't act like an animal. The other kid dribbles the ball and fakes left. Gavin follows. The kid starts to go right and G opts for the flying kick. For real.

The other kid waits for him to land on the ground, dribbles around him, shoots, misses and a teammate gets the ball and actually makes the basket. G is back up and now well out of bounds doing karate chops and round house kicks to his shadow against the folded up bleachers.



doesn't care he has to repeat...again!

In the meantime we are continuing with swim lessons. When I ask G what he likes best of his current activities: swimming, basketball or riding bikes, he says, Swimming and bikes. I like swimming because it's like I can fly underwater. I like riding bikes because I'm as fast as a Cheetah.

I can't argue with those motivators so I make a mental note that high speed sports are what he likes. I should probably buy a Ducati. Then the swim teacher tells me that the class that he is repeating, he'll have to repeat again. The first repeat was because he kicked his legs as if he was pedaling a bike. Now it's because he doesn't extend his arms with his strokes. The coach says it looks like he's punching the water.

So I ask; Your not moving your arms like swim coach is trying to teach you. What's that about?

I'm punching the water.

Why?

Because it's bad.

Why is the water bad?

Well, I can't breath when I'm underwater, and if I take the goggles off it burns my eyes. And it smells funny and you and mom make me take a bath to wash it off as soon as we get home.

So we're back to riding bikes. I can handle that. 'How To' books are boring anyway. Over-bearing Parent books sell better.

Savoring sugary staleness

 

 

One characteristic that separates myself from my son can be seen with any snack put in front of either of us. G will eat a cookie or two, a handful of pretzels or whatever then stop. I on the other hand will eat whatever is in front of me until it is gone. Then I get sick, gassy and generally remind myself that I'm an idiot.

The last three years we have stumbled into the tradition of building gingerbread houses at Christmas. Standing in the candy aisle at the grocery store with a cart full of every shape of confection with a 5 year old and asking him, Is there anything else we might need? is guaranteed to get some odd looks of judgment from passers by. That might be my favorite part.

The tradition is good. We sat as a family and buttered up graham crackers with cake filling as mortar and used candy canes as trusses while discussing what a summer tree house project might need to include. Stories and plans for coming adventures continued each night after Christmas when G was allowed to dismantle a particular section of his candied structure to eat. This went on like clockwork after dinner not just through the week till New Years' eve, but another week as well. He tediously ate away at sections of wall, roof and window framing as if he were taking the pieces of dried, stiff, stale licorice, pruned gummy bears and slightly melted Skittles to a candy land rebuilding center to recycle for a gingerbread house remodel next year. He savored every stale bite.

Near the end of the deconstruction I decided to tell G of a gingerbread house I made when I was in kindergarten. It was a basic cabin type structure built similarly with graham crackers and based on a piece of cardboard. It was a class project early in the week before the holiday break. It had candy corn shingles and black licorice for siding. It was a work of art and I was excited to take it home to show off. The trouble was that I walked home from school and I had to hold it with both hands in front of me roughly 1500 ft past the park, through the alley and across another two blocks to my house. (I'm fairly certain of the distance as I just checked on Google maps.)

I'll be honest,  I made it across the schoolyard, past the park and through the alley to Lassen Park Circle, a mere 2/3rds of the trip, before it occurred to me that I was carrying an empty piece of cardboard with some frosting stains. In the distance of roughly 3 soccer fields I had eaten my entire gingerbread house. That last block toward home was an emotional journey as my pride of handiwork became a fear of consequence due to my jaw work.

As an adult looking back at this memory from nearly 40 years ago, I still recall the feeling of shock of realizing I ate the whole thing. It started with just a nibble, just this side of the roof...just the whole roof but not the walls...just the back wall...then the wall that fell down...then....well...I better just get it over with!

Likewise etched in my mind is of how angry my mom was. She was pissed. The next morning she pinned a note to the back of my jacket, firmly instructing me to not remove it but sternly to walk up to my teacher and have her unpin it from my coat. The note explained my indulgence the day before and requested that I stay after school to make another. I was to wait in the school office after finishing for my mother who would pick me up and drive me home so I would be supervised and not engage in the eating of my gingerbread house again.

G was a little disgusted with me as I told him the story. We sat at the kitchen table nibbling away at a wall. As the story progressed he pulled the plate a little further from me, closer to himself. His eyes stayed fixed on me, occasionally scanning to my hands as I broke a bit of frosting off the wall.  You can have one more bite before I have to go to bed, but don't eat anymore without my permission.

Do Pengiuns even blow bubbles?

I hate swimming. Let me rephrase that. I hate swimming in a pool. Swimming in a lake is fun like an old Mountain Dew commercial.  Beyond the community swimming pool nastiness, I find racing anaerobic toward a cement wall repeatedly almost as ridiculous as running across a freeway.

Swimming takes rhythm, buoyancy, mechanical awareness of one's body and the skill of not inhaling water while splashing around in a manner that propels one in a forward motion toward said concrete wall. To top if off, a middle aged fellow has to do all the above while being observed by either a really cute girl in short shorts,  red life guard t-shirt and whistle hanging from the edge of her lips or a pimply faced beef-cake man-child who'd rather you weren't in the pool at all so he could instead stare across the room at the cute girl with the shorts and whistle. Both potentially capable of saving your life.

Option B is to sit around the shallow pool in a humid line up with an assortment of other parents of kindergartners splashing around attempting to blow bubbles in the water. Moms and Dads stare at smart phones while the lap pool remains still like glass and that teen-age boy with the eyes for the other lifeguard cups his biceps with opposite hands and flexes his arms alternately. Teen-age boys have more muscles than brains. I'm not saying I was smart as a teen-ager, but what I would give to have had that physique in my youth. The swimmers wedged torso and voluptuous shoulders that I voluntarily forsook for strength and speed on a bicycle were like an express-lane to get girls attention.

"I shave my legs too!" I would retort in PE when the swimmers would point and laugh at my scrawny shoulders and tattooed tan-lines but the parallel stopped there.

As a father I want the best for my son. I want to give him the opportunities I didn't have. I think every father wants this. As both of you dear readers know, I have fostered learning to ride a bicycle with zeal. But I also want a well rounded son who can pay his own way through law or medical school. A strong, smart, well mannered, athletic son. I want his teen-aged angst to revolve around which scholarships to choose as well as how to decide on whom to take to prom without breaking too many teen-aged girl hearts. What father doesn't?

Enter swim lessons. The boy needs to learn to swim for obvious reasons such as not drowning and as exercise so he'll go to bed on time, without fuss and because we live 2 blocks from an indoor swimming pool in a place where it rains 9-months a year. But also for success in life. To develop his well-rounded sporting abilities, to challenge his fears and mostly to start the process of looking good with his shirt off.

The first night of lessons I sat with the other parents watching our little ones dance around in the water holding onto a hula-hoop and blowing bubbles into the heavily chlorinated water that killed the germs in the snot they all were flushing into the pool with each cute little not-so-synchronized curtsy below the surface. Don't get me wrong, I was proud of G and the effort he displayed after listening to and attempting each task put forth by his 16-year old teacher. But then I noticed the empty lap pool across the room. Class is 30-minutes. I barely manage to get 30-minutes twice a week riding the rollers in the garage well after G has gone to bed at night. The opportunity to get some exercise and blow off some steam while at the same time purging the energy of a 5-year old was too much to resist.

Other than high-school PE, swimming in the same high school pool Mark Spitz swam in, I have only swam for rehab after breaking an assortment of bones. To be clear, I have never swam for exercise while not medicated with narcotics, or as a puffy out of shape middle-aged man, or both. So I started. I started slowly like a water-buffalo wades into a muddy desert oasis. I moved forward, splashing with the vigor of a dozen 5-year olds holding onto a hula-hoop scared to submerge their noses. The weeks passed quickly, G looked forward to each swim night. I only missed one session. Finally, the last class, -graduation day arrived. All the kids got a certificate. I managed to swim a  clean, half lap without messing up my stroke/breath rhythm or inhaling water. Victory for the two-dozen or so half laps I stormed like a hurricane through.

Swim teachers are smart. They provide a certificate so each kid feels good about their water based accomplishments. But the teacher knows full well that 5 year olds can't read scribbled notes on the back of the certificate. "G can move onto the next class but only if he learns to submerge his head and blow bubbles under water."

So basically G failed swim class. He got the nod to move on if he does some extra practice, but really, he should be held back. Kind of like the high school math teacher that on the last day of school said to me, "Pop Quiz, do you know how to round up? Can 68.7% round up to 70%?"

Still riding high for my personal half lap of glory after 5weeks of not drowning in spite of myself, I let G walk tall back to the locker room as I came to terms that being not so strong of a swimmer might just be part of the genetic makeup. As a reward, I had promised him a stop at the vending machine we had walked passed every week for a well earned treat. His choice was clear. He wanted a Pop-Tart because, "That's what we have on long bike rides."

The Bro Code

The saying, "What happens in Vegas; Stays in Vegas" is over-done so I won't use it. Sometimes the details are best glossed over. What makes the kinship of friends through our journey of life so strong is often a knowing nod, a silent reference of understanding rather than a Odyssey-esque public explanation of say, a night of drunkenness that ended in a visit to a tattoo parlour, or a bike ride where some directionally challenged mates got too deep into the forest and ended up smoking pot with naked hippies in the Siskiyou's. These of course are just hypothetical examples to back up my point that on occasion, a scenario plays out whether planned or not, that is best stored deep in the cerebral warehouse where grey matter goes black. Like a vintage wine or a milk crate of old magazines, a particularly good story should be brought out for public consumption only after many years have passed. I guarantee you that a story about borrowing moms' car for a supposed trip down the coast to Santa Barbara that was really an all-nighter to Denver, goes over better 20 years later not the week after it happened. For example.

But how do you explain that to a 5-year old? To nonchalantly make the point, DON'T TELL MOM! My previous examples are of the Bro' Code. An unspoken commitment between friends that what goes down or is discussed on a ride along the river, for example, stays between the points of departure and arrival. Did Jeff Spicoli tell Jefferson to call his brother about wrecking his car? No, he remembered that his dad was a TV repairman and had an ultimate set of tools and that he could totally fix it. The difference between Bro's and Parent/Child teeters on teaching one's kid to lie. Enter my dilemma.

I can't say that all of my injuries as a youth are from bike crashes. Actually, bike crashes are in the minority of ways I've maimed myself. Race crash injuries even rarer still. One way or another, over the years I've sprained, broken, torn, cracked or separated pretty much one of every bone, joint or limb in my body. I've even been told that counting all of my concussions takes a full set of fingers. Some of which have been broken.  But for some reason, now in old(er) age, I've crashed more and suffered injuries that involve a little more that simply walking it off. So when I crashed out of a recent cyclocross race and couldn't move my shoulder but knew well enough that nothing was broken, I needed to explain to Gavin why I was out of the race early and convey the message that Mom DID-NOT-NEED-TO-KNOW without coming straight out and telling him to keep his little mouth shut.

His concern and questions only made his knowledge more of a liability. When Markie, who drove to the race with us, pushed that I not drive home, pointing out my inability to make the reach to shift to 3rd or 5th gears, G was captivated by the plot unfolding in front of him. It didn't help when G asked, Markie do you even know how to drive a stick-car? That my good friend answered back, I've done it once, I think I might be able to do it again.

By the time we dropped Markie off, the ibuprofen had kicked in enough that I was confident I could manage the cross-town trip home driving the stick-car myself. Markie unpacked his gear, G peed on a tree, we all said our good-bye's then Gavin said, Hey Markie, good job driving Red Car, especially since it was only your second time with the stick thing!

Finally home, I had G take a trip to the bathroom while I unpacked the car. Grimacing and finding creative ways to carry our race-day crap back into the house, I walked through the kitchen on my way to the laundry and over-heard from down the hall, G replaying the day to A while he sat on the toilet, NOT pooping. It went pretty much like this:

I made it all the way across the monkey bars, but Dad crashed bad and had to quit the race. It was a bummer because he was doing good. He wasn't in last place. He can't move his arm. I hurt my arm on a log. See that scratch? I might need an operation. It's probably broken like Dad's. Then Markie drove home because Dad couldn't. Markie has only driven a stick car one time before. He did really good though. I wasn't even scared.

The rest of the story is more of an altercation followed by a confession and later a conviction. It's not much of a story really. Maybe I'll tell you someday at dinner. In twenty years.

A Very Useful Engine

Sunday G and I went to the Fiets of Parenthood event at the Portland Art Museum. We showed up at the first FoP event a few years ago with the boat, but G was still pretty young and as baby's do, he changed our plans and we left pretty early. This year though was much different. He was fully committed to racing the Kid's Obstacle Course event as well as the Family Obstacle Course a few hours later. In between races we even got to step inside the Museum to look at bikes for a few minutes, make a Pinwheel, have some Salt & Straw Ice Cream and pedal on the generator bike that mixed $5 fruit smoothies. 

The side note to this post is that we recently got a GoPro camera. So until I learn to edit videos I will fill these posts with choppy raw footage. I was experimenting with camera locations and didn't realize until later that I can download an App to my phone that will let me see the POV of the camera. For G, I mounted the camera on his handlebars. On Thomas, I had 3 locations, on the side, on the roof and on the handlebars. I think the sideview gives the best perspective but unfortunately I only used it on the trip to the start of the event. 

Anyhow, we rode over to the eastside roll-out of cargo bikes heading across the river to the Art Museum. I enjoyed seeing all the different bike configurations and meeting families. G was a little embarrassed by the attention of rolling up on a group of 35 families in Thomas so he played that he was napping while a bunch of little kids checked our bike out.  He warmed up though and by the time we were eating sandwiches under the shade of the Park Blocks, he was explaining to passers by how we made it, how we ride it and the sounds he makes when we go down hills. For the latter, he would lean back, shake his head and arms and scream, "Whoooaaaahhh!". People who didn't have kids were kinda freaked out by this and looked at me with concern.

G got signed up to go last in the kid race. I was a little worried that he wouldn't have the patience to wait out some 30 kids before his turn. He was a champ and spent the whole time warming up on the vacant block behind the start line. The positive in his mind was that even though he went well after all the other kids in the 5 and under age group, he was able to pull down the hanging ring obstacle and ride over the jump that were only added for the 6 and older kids. Despite his hour long warm up, he managed to finish 4th even with the added challenges. 

 

He didn't do so well around the cones or over the curb, but he rocked the teeter-totter and the jump. Both of which he did extensive practice on before the race. Now he wants a teeter-totter of his own to ride over!

 

photo courtesy Travis Wittwer



 

 

 

For the Family race, we had to pick up groceries, ride through a tight slalom of cones, pick up a dropped kids toy, roll over the teeter-totter, skewer 3 rings with a Joust, drop them within a marked zone, stall for a pedestrian to cross the street and sprint to the finish.

 

The Newmastrategy was for G to ride Hobo-style off the side of the train to more quickly jump off and pick up our cargo at each stop. I was concerned he wouldn't stay on through the slalom but he was totally sold on the idea and did great. He may have a future hopping trains across the country like one of his Great Grandads did. The other actually worked on the Southern-Pacific Railroad. Of course, this is the part where my camera location choice was poor. Fortunately I've been able to get enough still shots to go along with the video to show how it really went down.

 

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

photo courtesy Kristi Marleau

 

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

 

photo courtesy Kristi Marleau

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

 

photo courtesy Travis Wittwer

 

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

 

 

 

We ended up 6th in the Family race based on time, penalty time additions for missing stops (we did not miss any which is an improvement over our last cargo bike race!) and time subtractions for extra kids being hauled. Though G's excitement of the race experience and focus on his part of the team effort felt like a win to me.

 

 

 

He was a champ as I strapped his bike back onto the side of Thomas and promised him a hard earned soak in the fountain on the way home.

 

 

 

Per usual on our day long outings, G crashed out hard on the ride home, leaving me to fantasize about a big meal and a cold beer while focusing on pedaling smooth circles to not rock him awake as we climb up Harrison and Lincoln and over Mt. Tabor toward home. 

 

 

 

The things that go through my mind on every trip home while G sleeps is rating myself on how close to bonking I am, adding up the total amount of weight I'm pushing up the hill, and calculating how the output on a 100 lbs of bike for 30 or 40 miles equates to a 16 lbs bike for 100 miles. Never had I considered that these rides have a shelf life. The thought kept getting louder in my head that this was likely the last big ride in Thomas. G is getting bigger and only likes to ride in the cargo bike if he can bring his own bike along to ride at some point, or to ride the tag-along bike. He's learned the freedom the bike brings as well as the camaraderie of enjoying that freedom with others. As much as I look forward to new family rides, I'm really going to miss the boat and Thomas. He's been a very useful engine. 



The Big 0-5

Remember in the movie, 'Cars' when all the cars raced through the water park and 'Mater was launching water balloons with his tow-hook?

Neither do I because I'm pretty sure that never happened in any of the Cars movies. But when you're 4 and planning your 5th birthday party, reality is sort of an after thought, like napkins to wipe all the cake off your shirt.

So it went then that G, -having missed a 4th birthday party due to it being the day we moved into the Cold War Dream House and the previous and following weeks being filled with all the pomp and circumstance of remodeling and selling and buying and remodeling homes,- had a good one coming for birthday number 5.

His plan was a Lightning McQueen themed party with his blow up slide, swimming pool and Slip'n Slide. Given that our yard has multiple elevations, the layout of it all would be awesome for sure. I envisioned a wave of water from a popped inflatable swimming pool washing a fence away at least. Possibly flooding a neighbor's basement. Certainly there would be some crying kids. To make sure that last one would happen, G insisted we also have plenty of squirt guns.

Then the coup d'etat request; A Tow Mater pinata. The Lightning McQueen paper plates, napkins and Disney Cartoon shaped cake were all optional. Finish line flags, NASCAR references, Jeff Gordon look-a-likes were all unnecessary. But the 'Mater pinata was the key to the whole party. According to the 4-year old.

G's birthday represents more to The Newmaforma than just a kid turning a year older. Without getting sappy or rehashing details, his birthday is a day of celebration of family and health. A lot went down before and after G was born and we are each blessed to be here as a family. So we celebrate.

This year celebrating as a family meant making a pinata. Earlier this summer I went to a paper mache' party where I wrapped a balloon in soaked, torn up newspaper and was "allowed" to leave the party early because I sucked at making a balloon shaped paper mache' thing.

We all sat for 3 nights after dinner at the kitchen table working on Mater. I roughed up the basic frame work. A did most of the paper mache', knowing of my previous balloon aberration. G painted with mostly a brown pallet. The funnest part, the late-night Mom and Dad time building Mater's details were the time that A and I had to really enjoy.

It's amazing what skills surface when you have kid projects to do. Before G, we didn't really roll with the paper mache' crowd. Cargo-bike family fun, riding from park to park wasn't really our thing either. Nor was staying up till 2 a.m. reminiscing about how we used to  sleep for gluttonous hours at a time.Yet, it was quality time to reflect as she painstakingly made Mater's eyes and I wrote his name on the doors. We eagerly showed each other our detailed work and then basked in our completed project before reminding ourselves that some little pre-school kid was gonna destroy Mater with a wiffle ball bat.

In the end, Mater was as G had insisted all along, perhaps the best part of the whole party. Each of the dozen kids got a few swings. Mater was torn from the string hanging him by a slightly taller-than-average kid and this fool had to get his hands all into the hard end of the wiffle ball bat to keep the pummeling for candy at peak interest. G, going last, was able to purge his energy into destroying the 12 hours or so of his parents' handiwork. The kids fought en mass ripping the candy from Maters' innards and from each other before ingesting as much as possible before their own parents confiscated what was unable to be gripped in their tiny little hands.

Happy birthday G.

Hook, Line and Sinker

G thirsts  for a single activity. Granted he still practices his "moves" (read: flips, spins and flying kicks) on the couch and needs a daily dose of tire swing. He mostly just wants to ride his bike. So much so that last Sunday he asked for a long ride (20-mile loop) to the river on the tag-along for his first real ride on it, followed by a family ride, each on our own bikes to the DQ 5-miles away. Included in that ride was an hour or so at the park across the street from the DQ. Don't fret that he's becoming one of those one dimensional performer kids. I'd make a lousy Pageant Mom.

After some arm twisting during some pretty awesome recent outdoor riding weather, I conceded and took him back to the Lumberyard where he decided being the only kid on a Skuut bike was no longer cool. Much crashing, tears and firm words to his bike to cooperate, "Stop being cross with me and just obey, bike!"  Led him to managing the Green Line with the grace of any 4-year old on a 12" wheeled Monkey toy.

 

Progress of course is bitter-sweet. With the gains in confidence and the self-motivated move to his 16" wheeled bike, G is more interested in the wondrous independence that the bicycle brings. This is exciting and certainly a happy diversion from trying to teach him to wipe his own butt, yet I was a little sad when I put the Thomas up for the summer and traded it for the boat on the cargo-bike. G will be too big for Thomas come Autumn and soon, the joys of the tag-along will outweigh the rides in the boat that have been about 90% of all my riding the last 4 years. The good news is that now I can officially start dreaming of a tandem. But in all honesty, I've loved riding the Bullitt so I'm sure it will still get plenty of attention.

These days are about over!

 

 



Souplesse

Literally: suppleness, softness, flexibility, adaptability, fluidity. On the bike: smoothness, a one-ness with the machine. Think of a climber dancing away on that steep section that leaves everyone else pushing squares and threatening to rip their handlebars off...

...Souplesse connotes style, but it also hints at a deep-lying efficiency, an elimination of non-essential movement. Much has been made in recent years of incremental improvements, the sorts of time gains made in wind tunnels and in customized nutrition plans. Souplesse has that same incremental value, except that it comes from within the athlete.
-courtesy of Red Kite Prayer


But how do you teach a 4 year old a one-ness with his machine? Hell if I know. What I do know, is what I didn't do, what I did do, and like throwing mud on a wall; what stuck. And of course the positive effects of peer-pressure.  So here is a top 5 list of what it took to get G and his best pal to seek their own Souplesse.

#1 Exposure through saturation. From the first exploratory ride around the block to see if bike riding would 'take' to regular rides on the Bullitt, making adventure part of the routine has been key.

#2 Balance bikes ROCK! Having a 2 or 3 year old start out on a balance bike is like a learners' permit to the freedom of riding. My happiest memories in recent years are of riding to the park G called "Thunderdome" and of cheating winter out of the dull-drums with all day sessions at The Lumberyard.

#3 Don't forget the pedals! From his first quad wheeled Radio Flyer thing until just recently, I didn't bother G with pedals. I should have. He was fast enough on his Skuut Bike and didn't want to slow down to learn how to pedal. Finally, in desperation, and with a broken elbow (Lumberyard while G wasn't looking!) I had Grandpa bolt the training wheel arms to the rollers. Two weeks ago I swiped the Big Wheel from Grandma and Grandpa's backyard to get G's pedals turning on our own sidewalk.

 

 

 

#4 Bribery. The idea came from a friend so I can't claim it, and I felt a little dirty and low-down presenting 'The Deal' of getting Optimus Prime for learning to pedal; -no training wheels, over the course of a 3-day weekend.  It was a useful with clear rules that G fixated on as the driving force to face his biggest life challenge since learning to poop in the toilet.

#5 Peer-Pressure. Along with bribery, the planning via emails, text messages, and discussions while the boys shredded the Lumberyard had me feeling kinda' sleazy like a politician with an agenda, but this agenda is AWESOME so I only felt a little manipulative. On Memorial Day, after two-days of trying, crying and frustration, we got both the boys together and once one of them was ready to try, the other stepped right up too. No joke, 5 minutes later, we had two boys stoked for their first parking lot criterium.

Saving the world with Burger Rain

 

 

I had a conversation with a friend a while back about our boys being maybe too aggressive from watching too much super hero-evil fighting tv shows. It was deep winter and with a broken elbow, television was in heavy rotation so don't judge me. The problem came up during a break in the weather when a little girl at the park wanted to play on the play structure thingy and the boys came running out from behind some Laurel hedges toward her with sticks yelling, "Slay the monster intruder."

The thing is, the glowing boob-tube is merely an accessory to the action and monster slaying that goes down during episodes of super hero crime fighting shows. Think of it more like the P90X for tots. Other accessories include a small trampoline, a couch and a carpeted basement for all this world saving to get done. And any other objects or people to jump on/over. As a father of a boy it is my duty to instill a sense of imagination, adventure and responsibility to take care of others. I think I'm doing a pretty good job. Besides, his mom started it with  the Captain America costume at 18 months.

Spiderman, Superman, Batman...the classics are great, but Ninja Turtles were a bigger draw. Until we found the Aquabats Supershow!  Even a 4 year old can see that Ninja Turtles are a cartoon and Aquabats are real. Who better to save the innocent from extra-terrestrial monsters than an aging punk band from Orange County? Anyone? Anyone? I thought not.

So while I was away for work last month, A came through again by making G some Aquabats goggles out of pipe cleaners. G thinks they're the real deal. He goes out of his way to take care of them so as not to bend them up too much. He wears them practically everywhere. Last week, when G asked,  I  took a break from other projects to crank out an equally official, laser shooting, electric guitar, just like the one Eagle Bones Falconhawk rocks. Today G took it to school for show and tell. But not the goggles. He was worried the other kids would jack them up.

Stay tuned for future episodes and more cool homemade Super gear.

photos via google  courtesy of the Aquabats Supershow! on the HUB. Watch it.

Perpetual Motion

Six weeks straight we've been visiting the Lumberyard. Sometimes twice a week. 3-4 hours at a time. When it was time to leave during our first visit, G ran away from me and hid under a half-pipe. Since then, it's not gotten much easier to leave but his skills have grown expedentially. He's not carelessly brave but he's not timid either. He works it out, watches older kids then dives in.

There's only two places in the re-purposed bowling alley that he has yet to master: A steep descent of a fly-over bridge that he just slides down, and the bigger, more technical, Blue ramps and pipes where kids do flips and aerobatic tricks that require one to be older than 4 and have pedals on their bike. He'll drop in on these ramps, but needs a push to get up the other side. A few more pounds and a chain driven bike not made out of wood and he'll be doing flips off "the wall" before he sleeps through the night with a dry pull-up.

Despite how much fun we are having, what keeps me bringing him back are the 8 or so other 3-5 year olds showing up regularly. The first time I took him on a weeknight without his buddy Max, he wouldn't ride. Taking A to watch was what broke him through to showing up without his best riding buddy. Yet today, he was high-fiving kids of all ages and knew them by name. As another dad said, "What else can you do with your 4-year old where you both work through challenges and build skills?"

                                                   The faster the start...the bigger the air!

                                   A rare look at his focused face. I usually just follow the blur.

                                                                 Rock gardening

                                    Thumbs up before dropping down the steep log descent

                                     Run it up then slide it down and do it again on the next ramp!

Dreams Do Come True

As a girl, A used to play with dolls. Figures, she was a girl. Oddly enough though, in her fantasy doll scenarios (FDS to the hardcore) her doll was always a Ninja, Detective or a Ninja-Detective. I imagine Laura Ingals with a Mr. T complex. "I pity the Pioneer..."

Come to find out that things don't change much. I now imagine she had some really L.A.M.E. college parties with her "doll friends." I found in the mail today an American Girl catalog. A ripped it from my hands and ran off as if she beat me to the chance to read through it first. Cause I'm all over that like newsprint in a birdcage.

As she hurriedly flipped through the girl-child catalog, I had to ask; "What the &#@ is that and why is it in this house?"

"Just a sec...just a sec!" she said.  Waving her finger of justice at me without raising her head from the estrogen scented girl mag.

"I've gotten this catalog for 10 years, since ordering a Christmas present for our niece. But that's not important right now. What is SO GREAT, THEY FINALLY MADE A DOLL THAT LOOKS JUST LIKE ME AND SHE COMES WITH A PONY! OH, YEAH!!!!

I turned my head toward the bedazzled print and sure enough...

Swan song

As best as I figure, tonight was going to be G's last evening at the local park he calls Thunderdome, as residents of the neighborhood.

The neighbors along the four blocks or so to the park have become accustomed to his tearing down the sidewalk on his skuut bike with me next to or right behind him on my own bike. The one guy around the corner especially, who recently told us that riding bikes on the sidewalk was illegal. What keeps me entertained about him is that every day that we ride by his house, Gavin asks, "Is the cranky guy happy yet?"

Cranky guy sits in his living room next to an open window reading the paper every evening. I answer, "We can only hope so son."

So tonight I had visions of G riding through the park, down the grassy hill, circling around giant redwood trees, not understanding the magnitude of this last after dinner excursion. I imagined it a summary of all the riding and playing we have done there over the last 3 years.

Instead, he wanted to walk to the park...wait for it...with Abeeee in her stroller.

I thought A threw that stupid stroller away months ago. At the very least in the last few days while packing. I admit I am the one who caved and bought it for him after he earned a trip to the toy aisle at Fred Meyers for not peeing his pants or eating all his dinner or something.

But alas, my lovely wife, the mother of this fine child, had not thrown it away. Leaving me to walk to the park with my son, his doll and her pink stroller.

Cranky guy was happy this evening.

The dog walkers, other families making their way to the park and most everyone driving by, all smiled. Some pointed. Some shared how great they felt it was to let a child express him/herself.

I was impressed by G, not for wanting to embrace his feminine side, but for being able to launch Abeeeeeee down every slope we came across. He pushed evenly never tipping her heavy either left or right. She did have a few jettison moments with curbs though.

He was careful to look for cars before letting her "cross the street by herself."

Once at the park, G found a cool stick, ditched Abeeeeee and ran around till he was dripping with sweat and finally broke the stick. I sat on a bench consoling her while talking with another dad whose daughter regularly wears a super hero suit consisting of purple snow boots, butterfly wings and a cat mask made from a paper plate.

Abeeeee thought the stick breaking was pretty awesome and that G had it coming after dropping her like a homely prom date once the slow dances started. We had to discuss her attitude before it got the better of her. Bitterness is ugliness.

Then G and Super Girl found a Hot Wheel car under a pile of bark dust and Abeeeeeeee was indignant. So much so that when it came time to walk home, Abeeeeeee wanted nothing to do with Gavin.

It's one thing to walk to the park with your son while he pushes a pink stroller with his 'daughter' in it. It's totally different to carry that stroller yourself while your 4-year-old gets to cradle a rad, lime green Ford Mustang Hot Wheel car.

Believe it or not, as a red blooded man, there is a right way to carry a toy stroller and a doll. Unlike carrying your wife's purse which is just plain wrong. First, is the fundamental chin up, chest out. Good posture is the foundation of confidence.

Next is to palm the stroller like a basketball. Squeezing the flimsy pink plastic handles together with just enough force that they may break, but not until your close enough to home that you don't have to carry a broken girl toy with your son for a distance further than you could throw the stupid thing. Despite the grip, the girl toy should hang casually at your side like how the old timers carried their lunch pale into the factory every day.

Lastly, is to acknowledge passers by with a subtle sternness. A look that says, "Yeah, I know that you see me carrying a girly toy and walking with my son, but wouldn't it suck if you got beat up with this stupid, pink, pre-school play thing?"

It worked. As Gavin stumbled over the uneven sidewalk, not watching where he was going, while analyzing the car in his dirty, sweaty, little hands, the same dog walkers and new parents who walked in a haze with their precious babies asleep in real strollers, looked at us again but instead of smiling that cheesy, "oh how cute," smile, gave me the nod that men give men out of a silent respect.

Then we got home and each had an Otter Pop while G told me knock knock jokes that all ended with Abeeeee farting.

Crime and Punishment

A sorted through her purse today and found a forgotten gift card.

"Sweet!" you might say.

Or "Big deal."

But here's the thing: 'We,' have history of saving gift-cards. Not really hoarding; hoarding is too strong a word for this. And hoarding gift-cards doesn't have the same dramatic effect on TV as say, hoarding garbage does. If she were to buy loads of crap with gift cards based on late night infomercials and then never throw any of it away, and the Fire Marshall couldn't find any of my dozen or so bikes from underneath her hoarding ways, then yeah, that would be a problem that could make for good TV. But this, this is not hoarding.

Yet there is a strong historical trend of hanging onto gift-cards or gift certificates well past their expiratition date while all along being too gun-shy to pull the trigger because next time/month/year there might be a better deal/sale/need where that twenty-bucks might make the difference of us eating or not. Then the odd day comes to clean out the purse and low and behold; a stack of free movie passes, coffee, dinner or $$ off at select stores, all as valuable as East German currency.

Anyway, she found a gift card today from like 3 years ago and decided to test it to see if it worked. She logged onto her favorite on-line retailer and bought earrings.

"Good for you," I said.

I would have done the same thing. Except I don't carry a purse or let any amount of money in any form last for more than about 12 hours in my possesion. Except for the one time I carried a single $1.00 bill for a month. It was when I stumbled across another $1.00 bill on the sidewalk that I remembered I had the first one and immediately bought a cup of coffee.

At anyrate, A buys the earrings and the total, including shipping is more than the value of the card. Except that, and here's where the story really gets good, the charge goes through. The card worked at 101.4% of it's original value 3 years ago. Gift cards as I am aware are not an investment. Worse case, they lose a percentage value over time until they are worth nothing (at which point she tries to use them). Best case, they are worth what say they are worth.

So now, she's really amped. She also feels a wave of guilt. As if she just kicked The Man in the crotch. She becomes distraught. Then excited again. Then a fire truck drives by 6 blocks away and she thinks its the cops coming to arrest her. Then I walk in and she spills her guts of the whole thing. Knowing that telling the truth should set her free she remains torn, frought with emotion after her confession and is now additionally processing her anger at me for laughing at her.

"The true cost of these earrings," she says, pointing her finger of justice at me,"No, the punishment... no, both the cost and the punishment, is my conscience. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear them!"

The Bitter and the Sweet

In recent weeks Gavin has now experienced the bitter and sweet of lifes' highs and lows first hand. As with any good story it's a three part play.

Act I



Portland has a rose festival. The Rose Festival fireworks show was where A and I first moved from casually knowing each other to the phase where I screaned her calls and she stalked me. Thats not entirely true. Regardless, part of the Rose Festival is a childrens 'junior' parade. I've never paid much attention to it, filing it under cheeky kid stuff. Turns out it's a big deal. Real big deal. Live TV, Beauty Queens, marching bands, the works.

One of G's friends happened to have her 4th birthday on the same day as the Junior Rose Festival Parade. The plan was for her to ride in a cupcake bike trailer/jogging stroller and for her beu, Gavin to be her escort in Thomas. As previously mentioned, I was clueless to the magnitude of the event or the fact that each of the parade entries were judged. G and I showed up, ate some PB&J with our friends then were told we won our division and awarded the Blue Ribbon while in line for the porta-potty so G wouldn't pee himself during the parade propper. What a great present to get a Blue Ribbon on your birthday. Not to mention that Brian's cupcake work was pure genious.

Act II




Busy as we've been with the details of buying/selling houses, it was a rare treat for us all to be home and have eaten dinner before the sun had set. Given the rare time we had, a family bike ride to G's favorite park and Thunderdome was the unanimous choice. Gavin was exstatic to show off for both A and I at the same time. We raced around the tarmac playground on our bikes before he lead the ride down the hill to Thunderdome, his grassy free-ride gully beneath Redwood trees.

Full of confidence and brimming with pride to show his mom Thunderdome for the first time, G raced spectacularly down the paved path on his skuut bike before launching Steve Austin style from speed wobbles and using his body to stop his inevitable impact into the chainlink fence that surrounds the public pool.

First was the shock. Then the pain. Walkers passed by and from behind his tears I could see his embarassment. Next was his anger as we walked slowly home, G on my shoulders cradling his arm and spot of road rash. Finally acceptance, "I really wanted to play at Thunderdome with you Mom."

The next morning he was still cradling his slightly swollen elbow. I squeezed and moved it, just as many doctors and medics have done to me many, many times before. A and I deliberated but weren't convinced it was that bad. We also weren't convinced it was okay. A doctors visit, X-Ray and lolly-pop later, G was the proud owner of a tiny fracture and a sling that he would wear for a grand total of 3 seconds. The next evening,we rode a lap around the block but he still lamented missing the chance to show his mom his moves in Thunderdome.

Act III




My Dad wanted to take G and I to an outdoor model train exhibit. Various backyards around town dedicated to trains. It's been planned for months. Given that G rested his arm for next to no time at all; this would be a great way to pass a day and keep him from trying to climb, wrestle, punch or othewise over-use his bad wing. G dozed as we drove from house to house and fought from leaving each one, fearful that the layout at the next house would suck.

I'll spare you the dozens of bad pictures of cool model trains and the back of one redhead kids' mellon. But the trainsets, landscaping and detailed features of each yard were all amazing.

Epilogue




The doctor said to try and use a sling if G will allow it but to otherwise let him use his arm but not to over-use it. I'm not sure how to express 'over-use' to a near-four-year-old, but I think if he can manage to swing a hammer while waiting for Mac & Cheese, he's gonna be alright. Did I mention that the new house is halfway down a steep hill?