The Five Steps of Grady Teething

Have you ever been stuck at a railroad crossing as the world's longest train went by?  First come the engines, about seventeen of them, then the box cars, the flat cars, the graffitied cars, the hobo cars, the circus cars, more engines, and, finally, the caboose.  Done?  No.  After ten minutes of nothing except clanging warning bells and flashing lights, along comes the Bugs Bunny manual locomotion thing with the teeter totter handle.  Get the picture?  That's Grady teething.

Like most things Grady does, teething is a slow, multi-stepped process.  So far, it's served him well.  He has beautiful, straight, and nicely spaced teeth.  His molars are the size of Chicklets.  His eye teeth make Twilight fans jealous.  He has a terrific smile.  But, it's come at a price.

Step One:  Giant Poop.  A nurse finally told us that no one really knows why kids get the runs when they teethe, but one theory is that teething causes drooling, and when kids swallow drool, it gives 'em the looseys.  Grady must drink drool by the bucket-load because phase 1 has us doing several loads of stinky laundry every day.  Last fall, when Grady really started teething in earnest, we couldn't figure out the cause of his diaper-bursting bombs.  We asked allergists, nurses, strangers at the supermarket, pediatricians, and veterinarians and no one could figure it out.  We took him off dairy without any results and finally had a stool sample taken to test for Giardia.  The results were, of course, negative.  With hundreds of dollars invested into the poop-investigation, he mysteriously got better.  And a week later he popped out two teeth.

Step Two:  Drool.  Grady drools like a Saint Bernard when he's teething.  The upside is that Grady is also a flirt who likes to give kisses.  Nothing funnier that watching people ask for a kiss, then try to back out when they see the drool coming.  You're a bad person if you turn down kisses from a one-year old, even if they are disgusting drool-smooches.

Step Three:  Rash.  Constant drooling gives our G-man a rash around his lips.  It makes him look like a gas-huffer.  A small, baby huffer.  I'm surprised his chest doesn't break out as well as much as it gets drool soaked.

Step Four:  Fussy, Fussy, Fussy.  Grady turns into a bear, doubled by the fact that we've taken away his pacifier.  His angry yell is that of a drunk Yankees fan after Jeter gets called out on a close strike three.

And, Step Five:  Teeth!  Last fall and winter they came like animals on the ark: in twos.  He was popping out rows of teeth weekly.  We were on pace to have a full set by Valentines' Day.  But, things slowed and now these last few remaining stragglers, late to the party, come in one at a time.  The caboose is in sight as, by our best guess, he only has between one and five left to come (we'd make terrible dentists).  It's been a slow and painful process *puts on sunglasses* kind of like pulling teeth.

Mazatlan Mayhem

We went to Mazatlan last week and decided that renting a car would be a terrific way to scoot around.  We even lugged Grady's car-seat throne with us.  When I saw our rental, freshly washed, waiting for our arrival, the scratched bumper and smashed fender should have been an omen.  I should have read it as a glowing beacon screaming, "Don't drive, gringo.  Don't drive."  But, my Spanish sucks and I thought it said, "Cool, you look local," and burned off toward the city.

The first thing wrong was the map.  It was the standard freebie from the rental agency, and was drawn with all the accuracy and proportion of Columbus's map of the new world, if that map were drawn by a seven-year old.  I expected to find only an arrow pointing north from the airport with the warning, "There Be Dragons."  Our friendly agent penned in our route and drew in helpful landmarks that we'd pass along our way to the resort.  His stoplights, bridges, cemetery crosses, statues, and supermarkets all looked exactly alike.  "Do we go through three stoplights and turn left, or do we pass two cemeteries and loop around the third statue?" I asked my navigator.  We were also turned around by road construction, so we winged it, and amazingly, found our way.  The tally so far: one quick drive on a wrong way street ("Why is that car driving at me?" I think I asked just before Regina screamed), two drivers cut off (sorry, amigo), and one near side-swipe.  My motto was: when lost, drive fast.  It made no sense, but it got us there safely.

The next driving tour wasn't as fun.  Last week was semana santa (which, in Spanish, means, "All citizens of Mexico, please go to Mazatlan now).  We passed pickups with entire families --including first and second cousins -- crammed in the back.  We passed 4-wheelers carrying a dozen teenagers.  I passed one guy who was drinking a beer AND texting while he drove.  So why I got pulled over, I cannot say.  I was over my nervous speed-driving from the day before, and was obeying every law I understood.  The cop wasn't as intimidating as the roving assault-trucks full of shotgun and machine-gun toting, black mask wearing, federales, but still, any Mexican cop is intimidating.  He spoke to me so rapidly that halfway through his scolding, I stopped trying to concentrate on what he was saying and started thinking that he must be trying to show off on how awesome he is at really fast talking.  I shrugged and looked at Regina.  She got most of what he said and told him, sort-of politely, that we were going the speed limit.  I "played" dumb, and pretty soon, after this went back and forth a few times, he gave up, told us to watch our speed, and sent us on our way.  No bribe necessary.

I returned the car that day.  Goodbye blanco caballo.  The rest of our vacation was perfect (Except for the food poisoning I got.  That was perfect chaos.).  We did all the things we wanted to do ... walks on the beach (Dylan's officially terrified of crabs and Grady gets mesmerized by waves), yummy seafood (best shrimp taco ever at "El Fish Market."  Bad name, great food), mornings at the pool, and evenings listening to the crashing waves.  We took a taxi to the airport, thinking we'd shaken off our car demons.  "I guess we should have taken the bus," came to mind as we watched our luggage sail off the taxi's roof rack and crash onto a straight stretch of Mexico hard top.  We came home just in time for Dylan's birthday, and Easter, but that's another blog.  Regina's a little tanner, Dylan's a little crazier, Grady's a little chubbier (beans, mmmm), and my confidence is finally back and I'm ready to get behind the wheel again.

Mother Truckers

[Note: I'm only certain this blog has two readers: my mom and a high school sophomore, so I'll keep this as PG as possible.]  It's no secret that I love to swear.  Some argue that people swear because they can't think of any other, and possibly better, word to use, so they resort to blue-language.  Screw them.  I say that my background in English and my job as a rancher give me both the license and venue in which to curse.  But, of course, there is a drawback and I knew my day would come:  Dylan swearing.

I'm surprised Dylan swearing didn't come sooner, but, in my defense, I tried, sort of, not to swear in front of her.  Like a Mormon, or Cate Blanchett in Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, who used "F" instead of, well, you know what it's instead of, I tried creative ways to avoid swear words.  It didn't work so well.  I can't get my head around using "fudge," or "frick," or even "frig," but I have adopted plain old "F" (thanks, Cate), or "Mother Trucker" when things really get out of hand.

But those are all substitutes for just one word.  What about the others?  I tried the Scottish "shite," but that's not a very good cover.  And "darn" or "shoot"?  Boo, I say.  And there's really no way to hide my go to swear when I'm super-pissed off.  It rhymes with "pit trucker," but using that really decreases its punch.  For now, Dylan's swearing has been very tame and limited to "dammit."  Pretty innocuous, I know.  But dammit is a gateway swear word.  It leads to "crap," and from there, it's open the flood-gates and before you know it she's talking like an Alaskan logger.

I really would rather she learned where and when it's appropriate to swear.  School = No, Feeding Cows = Yes.  I have to give her credit, she's used "dammit" in the correct situation every time she's used it.  But this is also a three-year old with poor impulse control who still uses fifty squares of toilet paper to wipe with after she pees and only two squares after she poops, so learning proper swear-venues isn't something that's going to come naturally.

I know, in a couple of years I'll be having the same talks with Grady, and I'm hoping his big sister will be there by my side, helping me with that lecture.  Until then, if you see me out and about and are confused about my tame language, just remember, today is brought to you by the letter "F" and my mother is a trucker.

Sacramento Highlights

Last weekend, Regina had a conference in Sacramento and, like any good sugar-mama would do, she let her hillbilly hubby and rugrats tag along.  Aside from feeding Grady chicken satay (peanut sauce -- he's allergic) and letting Dylan hang out with panhandlers, I'd say I did an alright job of guiding a couple of country-kids around the capital.  The weekend was a blast, but each one of us had his or her own personal highlight.

We spent Saturday night with some friends in Folsom.  Martin and Anna have two kids approximately our kids' age, so our suffering is nearly equal, and it gave us plenty to drink talk about.  If I had been kidnapped by Russians (you know, when they were cool and kicked ass) and sent to the same facility where Ivan Drago trained in Rocky IV, I would, today, look a lot more like Martin.  He's the Uber-Judd, and Grady fell in love.  Grady would flee from my arms to go hang out with his BFF, Martin.  Better looking?  Check.  More fun?  Check.  Grady learned that having two dads was waaaay better than one, and Martin seemed to really like Grady.  Plus, they had a great bar, so neither of us wanted to leave.  I was content sipping Guiness and Grady just wanted to drool on his new dad.

For Dylan, the highlights never ended.  Just the fact that we got to stay in a "hotel-house" was pretty fun, but it also had an indoor pool.  Yes! and Yes!  Also, we stayed in Old Sac, which, in about three square blocks contains nothing but restaurants, tattoo parlors, and candy shops.  Dylan learned quickly that, because of the intense competition between "Candy Heaven," "Sugar High," and "Hey Kid, Want Some Candy?", the shopkeepers were pretty liberal with their free samples.  I retaliated every sample by leaving both kids unattended in their candy-packed stores until their highs wore off.

And Regina?  She kind of geeks-out at conferences, so I'd say that sitting in a convention center with other like-minded educators was, for her, loads of fun.  But, seeing friends and family, eating awesome Pho, and having a never-ending supply of dirty martinis made her weekend a long string of highlights.  And I think the rest of us were just good enough to get to tag along for her next conference.  Fallon, NV, look out 'cause here we come!

An Open Letter To February

Dear February:

I don't understand you.  We'll talk about the stupid way you spell your name and your measly twenty-eight days in a bit.  But the mind games you play, the ups and the downs, let me address those now.  You began beautifully.  Sure, snow would have been nice, but you brought the sunshine.  If I didn't know you so well I'd of thought you were March (or April.  Meeeow!).  You're blushing, but it's true.  Blue skies, crisp mornings, sunny days, it was glorious.  We hustled to our tractors and farmed like it was late spring.  And we got a lot done, so thanks.

Then you had to go and hand out a round of RSV to both kids and a sinus/ear infection to Grady.  And having Grady cut both eye-teeth at the same time?  Come on!  I'm sending you a bill for the chair legs he chewed up trying to ease the pain.  Still, you let the monkeys off easier than last year (you were a real prick in '10), and we appreciate it, really.  Grady's even named you "Kitty," and that's an honor only a step below "Mama."

But, I've got to admit, you sucker-punched us with our first school Valentine's Day party.  Who knew candy was the new expression of love and friendship?  Okay, I knew, but I didn't think that knowledge was mainstream yet.  Dylan's still not over her sugar-high -- here she is at her worst:

Just when I thought you might be cool and we could hang out, you hit me with the never-ending flu.  And you mocked me with it.  You took all my sense of taste the day before Regina and I went to our favorite restaurant, then gave it back, for one night only, during dinner.  You let me recover just enough to see Ryan Bingham in concert, then kicked me to the curb when I started bragging how much better I was feeling.

Nobody likes a complainer, so I'll be positive.  You taught me a few things that I'll always carry with me.  Things like: I can successfully blame fever-sweats on a faulty heating system in my classroom, or codine + Nyquil = crazy dreams, and most importantly, don't cough and pee at the same time.

So, goodbye, jerkface.  And here's a little advice for next year.  First, bring some snow, it's winter, remember?  Next, buy a couple of extra days to fill the calendar like a real month and, finally, drop that stupid silent "r," it makes you seem pretentious.  You just might fit in after all.

Sincerely,

The Eastside Gang

The Book of Dylan

While the chances of Dylan joining the priesthood, or a nunnery, or holding any mid-level non-secular job seem as unlikely as the Seahawks making it to the playoffs Superbowl, she has been, lately, infatuated with Baby Jesus and God.  I think the trifecta of Grady's baptism, Christmas, and a steady dose of religion from Grandma have piqued her interest.

Has Dylan reached a level of holiness that we cannot fathom?  Is she the Golden Child?  No.  She still beats our pets with sticks and regularly throws tantrums that make the neighbors lock their doors.  But, once she puts down her weapons and dries her eyes (and we unlock the door), she'll ask questions like, "Where's God?"  If we respond with "Everywhere," she starts listing.  "Our house?" "Yes." "The barn?" "Yes." "Julie's house?" and on, and on, and on.

Last weekend I took Dylan snowboarding.  Since I usually go on Sundays, going to the mountain is often my church, and maybe that feeling rubbed off on Dylan.  On the way there, she asked if Baby Jesus would be on Mt. Shasta.  I told her that He would, but He'd probably be spending most of his time boarding the backcountry.  He's hardcore like that.

Questions about God or Jesus come up all the time.  For now, we can give her pretty much any answer and she's happy.  But if she gets a little more biblical knowledge, Regina and I will have to brush up on our religion.  Here's an example of a typical theological conversation between Regina and myself:  So ... Moses.  He's the guy with the whale, right?  Maybe.  Wasn't he the baby, floating down the river?  And then a whale ate him?  Yes?  And that reminds me, we need to pump up our inner tubes so we can float the Scott River this weekend.  Awesome.

Somewhere (Grandma's) Dylan learned that we shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain.  When she's around, we can't say: Jesus Christ, Jesus H. Christ, Jesus, Jeeze, Young Jeezy, Cheese Whiz, or Chimichunga.  If we utter any one of those, she'll reprimand us.  I love it when our Catholic cousins slip with a "Gee."  Dylan's right on top of it and scolds them.  "It's not nice to say 'Jesus.'"  It's like catching a Mormon saying "crap."  A rare and treasured gift.

Dylan still gets time-out on the pew on our front porch for all sorts of bad behavior, so I'm pretty sure she isn't ready for the convent, yet.  I'm trying to clean up my potty mouth and hopefully we'll strike a balance.  And in the meantime?  Go Seahawks.

Like A Cheese Stick

When I asked Regina what she wanted for Christmas, just behind a Jaguar XJ and Dance Dance Revolution was, simply, a date.  "What about our weekend in Portland?" I asked.  I got The Look.  "That was with Grady at OHSU."  Okayyyy.  "We just went went to Medford," I offered.  I should have quit while I was only in a shallow hole.  "Both kids, and, again, at a hospital."  I knew I had to act.

It wasn't fancy, but we took New Year's Eve Day (the official holiday for parents of young children) and went to Ashland.  After lunch we went ice skating in the park.  That sounds romantic, right?  It may be, but I'm a 200 pound gorilla flailing around on hockey skates, not Brian Boitano.  Apparently, the only adult males who skate at this rink are all professionals.  Except for me, of course.  After an hour there, my New Year's Resolution was to do one of those cool ice-spray stops that hockey players do.  I got as far as a slow stop, wall grab, and slip.  We finally had to hang up our skates when Regina got taken out by a toddler pushing around a "learning aid" (read: walker).

We limped around town, enjoyed some wine and cheese, and watched True Grit.  Our date may have continued indefinitely, but our parental responsibilities (read: guilt) kicked in and we came home to gather the kids, watch Dick Clark, and down some old champagne to welcome in 2011 (EST, of course).

For an encore, that Sunday we decided on a Family Date Day and took the monkeys sledding.  Watching Dylan rip down an icy slope is as fun as watching old people dance: there's a chance for a wreck at any moment.  Grady's not ready for high speed sledding, so he basically sat in the snow and cried.

On the way home, Grady fell asleep and I turned on the radio for some noise other than Dylan's requests for more hot chocolate.  The Far East Movement's song "Like a G6" came on and, to my surprise, Dylan started singing along.  I thought it was funny that she knew the lyrics to something other than the Avett Brothers' "I & Love & You," or "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" until I really listened closely.  For a three-year old, her rendition was perfect.  "Now I'm feeling so fly like a Cheese Stick, like a Cheese Stick."  What a great ending to my date-weekend.  I felt so fly.  Like a Cheese Stick.