Now that I have the in-browser streaming video thing figured out, I’ll have to include some more movies on the web site. This video of Anna at 23 months shows just how well she could talk at that age. We started her doing sign language at around 8-9 months, and she started signing back to us at about 11 months. For a while it was a real novelty to our relatives. By around 18 months, she was speaking so well that she began to drop signing as a means of communicating, and has all but forgotten them. By two years, she was speaking in sentences of 7-8 words.

Tara has not been nearly the chatterbox that Anna was. This morning, as I got out the camera to get a picture of Jennifer nursing Tara–who is almost completely weaned–and Tara would occasionally pop off upon hearing the shutter click. As I set up for another shot, she looked over at me and said “Hi dada!” It was as clear as a bell; after we recovered a little bit and talked to her some more, Jennifer asked Tara to say hi again, and she said “Hi daddy.” How cool is that?

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Daddy was dining with child and with spouse.

A great mango tart was our lovely dessert.

Mom might be allergic, but what could it hurt?

Once slice each we had, and then said the mother:

“I’m eating for two, may I please have another?”

And so did we all, then it was time to go bed;

Clothes were changed, teeth were brushed, and two stories were read.

Mom and I still had some gifts left to wrap,

So I hurried my daughter off to her nap.

Then the light was put out and I went back downstairs

Finding the worrisome worst of nightmares:

Mom started itching; her face, it turned red.

In fact, from her waist the to the top of her head

she was red as a lobster, and her face, how it swelled!

Our Christmas Eve might be emergency room hell!

The mangoes, so tasty, they were the cause

of my wife turning rosy as ol’ Santa Claus.

Mom jumped in the shower to cool herself off,

then I called the O.B., and I said with a cough,

“My wife is allergic, and she’s feeling ill.”

“She be fine,” said the Doc, “give her two Benadryl.”

So I gave her the tablets and sent her to bed.

The pills took effect, she was no longer red.

She passed out; and alone, I went down to work

To pick up the slack for that Santa Claus jerk.

The presents I wrapped, the cookies I ate,

The stockings I stuffed, and the hour, it grew late.

Then finally I finished, and in bed I lay;

Dreaming of a somewhat more calm Christmas Day.

Let me think… when Anna was born. Jennifer had concluded her last day of work on Friday, without much fanfare. She was looking forward to a few weeks off to tie up loose ends around the house, easing her way through the final weeks of pregnancy and into motherhood. The following morning, we were on our way to a parenting class (_Sleep Strategies_, if I remember right) when Jen felt so uncomfortable on the drive down, that she had me turn around and go home because there was no way she was going to be able to bear sitting on folding chairs all morning.

Back home, she laid down and relaxed and was soon feeling better. That evening, we decided to see a Padres game. A. J. Burnett was pitching for the Florida Marlins, and the Padres lost 0-3. How do I remember this detail, more than three years later, you ask? Because Jennifer was again feeling uncomfortable, and wanted to leave around the sixth inning, but Burnett was throwing a no-hitter. With the sensitivity and caring that only a proud father-to-be can muster, I told Jen, “Honey, we can have other children, but when are we ever going to see a NO-HITTER?” Burnett finished the game with no hits, seven strikeouts, and nine walks. We stayed.

The next morning, Jennifer went swimming and had continued bouts of discomfort during the day. Around dinner time, she asked me to put together a bag for the hospital. I grudgingly began to oblige, and quickly lost interest. In my defense, let me say that Jennifer’s list of things to bring to the hospital was a proper superset of every list of things to bring to the hospital ever published. It would have been easier to bring the hospital to us.

It was after ten o’clock when Jennifer, who was resting on [piece of furniture will remain anonymous, since many of you have since used it] announced that her water had broke. Actually, “announced” is the wrong word, as it neither indicates the urgency with which she made her declaration, nor evokes the sheer panic with which I reacted. The next few minutes I remember as being something of a blur, as I realized how little of the uber-list I had packed. I rushed around the house stuffing everything in sight into a duffel bag: pillows, towels, slippers, house plants. Finally, Jen said it was time to go, and I took the bag, the list, and mama-to-be down to the hospital. On the way, we called our good friends J. and D., who went to our house and played scavenger hunt with the copy we had left of the uber-list, and Jennifer’s mom, who seemed pretty nonplussed–it was 2am her time, and she expected we were only at the beginning of several hours of labor.

I realize now that Jennifer’s mom had a very different perspective on labor, having been through it twice, than did we. I had already been instructed, on a previous hospital trip, on the proper procedures for dropping off, parking, checking in, and the progression through different areas of the hospital at different stages of labor and delivery. In practice what happened was more like an episode of COPS, when a suspect on the run jumps out of a moving vehicle, hits the ground running, and flees cross-country while ducking gunfire. I may be wrong about the gunfire, but it was more than three years ago, so my memory may be spotty.

In triage, we mostly waited around, occasionally toting our duffel bag and pillows from place to place, until a nurse brought a portable ultrasound cart. The ultrasound determined that… well, I don’t remember that it determined anything, but I remember that it was there. Eventually we were moved to the labor and delivery room, where we waited around some more, while Jennifer was being fitted with all sorts of instrumentation, until the OBGYN finally showed up. She used another portable ultrasound to determine what Jen had known for weeks, which was that the baby was breech. Apparently, having a baby who is breech after the water breaks is the magic combination for a c-section. It was around this time that J. and D. showed up with the results of the uber-list scavenger hunt, just in time for Jennifer and I to be prepped for surgery. My surgery prep mainly consisted of reading and signing pages of liability forms, until Jennifer reminded me that I was supposed to be coaching her labor, which had reached the point that it needed some coaching right now. I multitasked by reading the forms to Jennifer while simultaneously coaching her breathing. I think it went something like, “the undersigned party of the first part (breathe in) hereby relinquishes all rights (breath out) of litigation with respect to the (breath out) party of the second part…”

After it was decided that a c-section was in order, things began to happen very quickly. Jennifer was moved to a wheelchair, then out of the room. I was still signing papers, and gathering up our stuff. The doctor and nurse were moving around with purpose. I went down the hall, and had only a few seconds to talk to Jen before she went in to be prepared for the surgery and I went to a different area to put on scrubs. Jennifer was shaking. She was being wheeled down the hall and was shaking so hard I don’t think she could have a held a glass of water if she wanted to. I could see she was scared, and she was cold, and things were not happening the way she expected. I took her chilly hand and held it in mine. “Everything is going to be okay.” I said it, but I was as uncertain as she was.

By the time I was dressed and allowed into the operating room, Jennifer was laid down on a table with a curtain separating her head from the rest of her body. I sat down to talk to her head. We talked for a little bit and she seemed in much better spirits. She couldn’t feel anything that was going on. “Have they started yet? It’s ok if you look.” she asked. I peered over the curtain. The doctor had opened the incision and was installing some very large stainless steel spreaders to keep it open, and using and unsettling amount of force to do it. “Oh yeah, they’ve started.”

Jennifer encouraged me to keep looking. I could see where the doctor cut into the uterus; there was a little spash of fluid, then almost immediately, two little feet came poking out, making little alternating kicks. The doctor grabbed the feet and quickly pulled Anna out, holding her upside down as the cord was clamped and cut. As Anna was handed to a nurse, still upside down, her little baby hand reached out and grasped a tube that was hanging next to the table where Jennifer lay. Comically, the nurse kept walking until she realized Anna was putting up some resistance, then turned around and pried her little hand off the tube.

I remembered that I had my camera with me, and snapped a picture of Anna being cleaned up. In a few moments, the nurse brought her over to Jen, who gently touched and stroked her face. The nurse handed Anna to me, then reached for my camera and asked if she could take a picture of the three of us.

“Just point and shoot, right?”

Another busy day today, though everyone was pretty agreeable due to some absolutely indulgent parenting. I figure Mom is set for about two weeks of hearing Anna say how Daddy lets her eat/watch/throw/play with/draw on whatever she wants to. I mean two more weeks.

This morning we rolled out of bed, and quickly were dressed and ready to go to the Pancake House. Our waitress was absolutely charmed by our little father-daughter outing; to boot, Anna was pouring on the cuteness as the waitress brought us our beverages. As I ordered for us, Anna interrupted to say, “Excuse me, I need to tell her something.” I instructed her to go ahead. “Thank you for bringing my orange juice!” she said with glee. The waitress and I each marveled for a moment, then the waitress recovered to say, “You’re welcome! What wonderful manners for a young lady!” Anna beamed briefly as the waitress moved on, then stuck her hand down the front of her pull-up and begin digging around as if looking for spare change. “Not good manners, Anna,” I explained, returning both hands to plain view.

Over the next half-hour, Anna neatly and politely consumed her glass of orange juice, her bowl of corn flakes, half my eggs, and a pancake. I can’t remember having seen a more civil display of public behavior from my young daughter. At the end of the meal, the waitress asked, “where did you learn such good manners?” Anna was silent. “From Mommy and Daddy?” the waitress suggested. Finally Anna said, “Mom… er, Daddy! From Daddy!” Oh, somebody was so getting a cookie when we got home. As the waitress left, Anna piped, “From S.! From S.!”¹

When we got home, Anna was nearing the frosted-flakes- and maple-syrup-induced-coma stage, so she sat quietly in the family room listening to music, while I hung the toddler swing on the newly erected swingset frame. It took a fairly long time, but I finished in time to push her on the swing for a full hour before lunch. Sometimes with Bear, sometimes without Bear, sometimes while drinking milk, sometimes with Bear and milk. After eating lunch (in the fort), and swinging for a few more minutes, she had an hour and twenty minute nap. The plan was to go the Zoo after nap, but she was distracted by another ninety minutes in the swing. Before it was too late, we jetted down to the Zoo in time to see the snakes, the petting zoo, and for some reason, the bugs. She really liked the enormous stick bugs; I practically had to pry her away. There was a tense moment at the petting zoo, when she was observing the miniature horses, and inquired about a certain area of the animal’s anatomy. When, with hushed voice, I honestly told her what it was, I was actually relieved that she didn’t believe me. “No it’s not! That’s her poo!”

We stopped on the way home for a six-piece McNuggets, and still had time for dinner in the fort and another forty-five minutes of swinging before starting up for bed. After getting dressed for bed and brushing teeth, we had a short “magazine read,” where we independently browsed periodicals for five minutes, then a “book read,” where we chose books and did the same, then finally a Curious George story, daily review, Happy Fings, and, finally, blissful quiet.

¹ S. is one of the four-year-old twins from day care, who is the source of virtually all appalling behavior.

The rules of Father’s Day:

1. Be nice to Dad.

Well, I guess that’s the only rule, or at least that’s what I told Anna. The consequences of not following rule number one are that other holiday rules might be broken as a result, such as the rule of having a party for one’s birthday. She straightened right up.

Today, I got breakfast in bed, where “breakfast” is defined as two eggs, and “bed” is defined as the kitchen table. Nothing wrong with that I suppose. Jen and Anna occupied each other for the morning while I washed my car, mowed the lawn, and trimmed the hedges–all things of my choosing. It’s nice to be able to do a task without interruption, and I don’t get to do it very often. Also, I received some handmade crafts from my lovely daughter.

After nap we went to the Padres game, which wasn’t really much of a game, but it was a nice outing. We went with four other families, all with three-year-olds, and it was astounding how well they behaved. Not much fussing out of that crowd. If five three-year-olds can watch a baseball game without whining, any adult who can’t do the same should be… drinking, I guess.

Finally, we went out for dinner to the posh McCormick & Schmick seafood restaurant. C. ordered the child-size fish & chips, and received a platter with enough fries to choke a horse. I can only imagine that the adult portion would be enough to choke an animal large enough to eat the horse. By contrast, I ordered a Crab, Avocado, and Mango Salad (sounds good, right?), at a cost of fourteen dollars and eighty-five cents, which consisted strictly of Crab, Avocado, and Mango chunks not large enough to choke anything. Salad… they keep using that word, but I don’t think it means what they think it means.

As I write this, Jen and Anna are again occupying each other for the nightly power struggle that is bedtime. And me, I’m trying to recall if there’s some lumber in the garage that will allow me to make some sort of shelf that would allow watching of the DVD player while sitting in the tub. Happy Father’s Day.