Cheeky's Hideaway

The Stars at Night are Big and Bright

So....big news here at Casa de Cheeky.

The CroutonClan is moving to Austin.

Some of you poor souls who follow me throughout the rest of the statusphere probably already knew that. The whole thing has had me so preoccupied and introspective that writing something more than 140 characters long seemed like climbing the Cliffs of Insanity without a rope.  That's why I've been wasting your my time writing about movie characters and music instead of my normal fart-strewn narratives (if I've written at all).

I didn't want to jinx it. 

Here's the deelio.  You may recall a few months back when my former employer saw an opportunity to kick me in the teeth and send me off to explore the magical bureaucratic world of COBRA and unemployment benefits.  Although this has given me ample time to re-exert my role as Alpha Parent and work on my tan, it's a lacked a certain something. 

The New York job market, at the same time, has collapsed like democracy in Iran. I started out with some enthusiastic recruiters but it wasn't long before I stopped hearing from them.  Everyone I knew described themselves as either "keeping their head down" or "shit-canned, too."  And although the prospect of financial destitution may be appealing to Depression Era cinemaphiles it forced us to consider radical alternatives to make ends meet.

Which brings us--literally--to Austin.

The job itself is fundamentally similar to what I was doing before (which I loved) but with more responsibility, better clients, and people who clearly recognize talent when they see it.  It's in a state with no income tax.  And I have as yet to meet anybody who has been to Austin that doesn't claim they LOVE it.  With a shrug and a collective "Why not?" we went for it.

Holy crap.  It worked.

Now we're faced with a bazillion choices that are making our heads swim.  When do we move?  Do we buy or rent?  Where will Cheeky go to school?  How do we deal with the summer heat?  Do I drive like a liberal asshole, a redneck asshole, or just a regular asshole?  Do I loathe the Cowboys, or just despise them?  Human sacrifice. Dogs and cats living together. Mass hysteria!

It's enough to drive a man batty!

Despite it all, though, I'm totally psyched.  I'm really glad to have a job again.  I'm thrilled to be moving to a city known for music, tex-mex, and its cultural idiosyncrasies.  I even know a blogger or two down there, which should make the acclimation a little bit easier.

More news to follow soon...it should be a grand adventure...

The Force is Strong in This One

Our parental anxiety was at its peak last week as we stepped into Cheeky's pre-school classroom.  It was our first "parent-teacher conference," our preliminary exposure to the outside world's view of our child.  Having forcefully removed a wailing Cheeky from my leg when I dropped her off at school that morning, my expectations were low.

It should be of no surprise that we think Cheeky is the smartest, cutest, funniest child to ever grace this grim planet, and that the overpowering warmth of her personality will lift millions out of poverty and eventually lead to our collective ascension to a higher plane of existence.  We also suspect that we're smokin' crack, and that as first time parents it's entirely possible we've inflicted so much permanent damage that she'll be curled up in fetal position under her therapists' couch before she graduates high school. 

As we stepped into Cheeky's classroom, we took note of the art projects on the wall, most of which looked like bloody handprints or mustard stains, and nervously observed that few (if any) pictures of the kids showed Cheeky playing with anybody else.  Our level of angst intensified, and we wondered if she was off in a corner plotting world domination or just suffering from acute social retardation. 

The teachers beckoned us to take our seats.  We lowered ourselves down onto the tiny chairs, and with our knees resting against our earlobes began the discussion.

Topic	Our Expectation	The Reality
Cognitive development	Cheeky has been using differential equations to calculate the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow (African).  She can write at a tenth grade level and may have telepathic powers.	Cheeky is very focused, good at puzzles and building things, and likes to help out whenever she can.  She can spell her name, which is pretty good for someone her age.
Vocabulary enrichment	Cheeky has memorized the entire Webster's dictionary, assembled all the words in random order, and put them on an infinite streaming loop that we can't turn off.  Also, she speaks with a Ukrainian accent.	Cheeky does indeed have a very strong vocabulary and puts together incredibly advanced sentences for her age.  She reverses her L's and Y's, but that's cute and we should enjoy it before it goes away.
Interpersonal skills	Cheeky is a pariah. Her emotional instability is feared by her classmates, and while they're off making plans for the prom she'll be in the basement sawing the barrel off a shotgun.	Cheeky plays very well with others, often using her imagination to create magical lands or mythical professions for her and her playmates.  Kids miss her when she's not there.
Motor skills	Cheeky is strong and fast, but runs like a girl and probably inherited her parents' athletic skills.  In other words, she's screwed.	Cheeky's minor and major motor skills are just fine.  She creatively assembles blocks and other toys, and is enthusiastic at the playground.
Artistic talent	"Um, yeah…that definitely looks like a cat, sweety.  I'm sorry I thought it was an octopus, or maybe purple tree on fire."	Cheeky not only loves art, but draws or paints frames around her art, which is a sign of a particularly advanced skill level.

 

In other words we should chill out and stop worrying so much.  You could see the look in the teachers' eyes as we checked and double-checked all our assumptions; it said, "Please consider a steady regimen of Quaaludes before you give your child a complex that WE are going to have to deal with." 

We breathed a sigh of relief as we left the meeting, picked up Cheeky and took her out to buy a cookie.  So far, so good. 

Meanwhile, back in the classroom, Cheeky's teachers filled a report card on Oodgie and I.  "Hilariously funny, charming and attractive people, but highly stressed and easily prone to fits of irrational concern.  Continue to monitor and prep for potential intervention.  Consider holding back a grade and putting them into Cheeky's custody."

I Have Returned

My brother Michael has long suffered from a series of unfortunate events.  He's been burned by fireworks, hit by cars, laid off, and even targeted by Iraqi militants.  It should be no surprise, then, that when I found out he was getting married I started checking the news for SARS outbreaks or imminent asteroid collisions. 

To my surprise and great delight, no one caught fire or was impaled by marauding barbarians.  In fact, it was a really, really nice ceremony.  The setting was beautiful, the weather raised the bar for the word "stellar," and the bride looked radiant.  That's not to say there weren't the occasional raised eyebrows--several guests showed up in jeans, and one of the ushers had to be coaxed out of a tree when we tried to take his car keys--but overall it was a glorious event.

There was something about the fresh Northwestern air or the summer-like conditions that was truly invigorating.  I shook off the jet lag with some runs through Riverfront Park and the Centennial Trail, took Oodgie to some of my old haunts, and spent the day at the Interstate Fair, splitting time between children's rides and the horror of sheep testicles.  And when WCG gave us a night on the town (closing time: 9 PM) we took full advantage.  THAT, my friends, is worth its weight in gold.

There's still no place like home, though, and the comfort of our bed is enhanced by Cheeky's still-unadjusted sleep schedule.  (Who wouldn't want to get up at 11 AM?  Frickin' freeloader.)  The cupboards are bare, the e-mails have accumulated like crumbs under the couch, and our Tivo beckons.  But our thanks go out to the clan, who don't get to see Cheeky enough, and our congratulations go to Michael and Elisa, who are starting their new lives together.

As I said in my toast, Michael, I'm very proud of you.  Well done.  And Elisa...he's your problem now.  God speed.  ;)

Weekend Update (w/ Celebrity Guest Star!)

it's amazing what we can accomplish when we're motivated.

It's amazing how motivating the prospect of four days trapped in your apartment can be.

Unlike every living biped on the planet, we didn't make plans to get away this weekend.  While New York City emptied out like water through a strainer, we stuck around, trading in a leisurely drive to an exotic destination for rare, unfettered access to restaurants and parking in our own city.

With so much time, so few barriers, and the kind of weather that makes me tell Californians to "suck it," we did what any other shockingly good-looking family would do?  We went to the zoo.

I love zoos.  Not the cramped, cagey zoos where the polar bears swim laps for hours because suicide isn't an alternative.  I'm talking the big, sprawling, leafy zoos that feel like jungles and have enough space to move so you don't want to punch the fat, ignorant people zig-zagging slowly in front of you in the back of the head. 

So we packed up snacks, said goodbye to our kick-ass parking space, and headed to the Bronx so Cheeky could see wildlife that for once wasn't collecting cans or swearing in Russian.

There was much to recommend about the excursion, from the great weather to the otters having sex, but by far the best part was that we killed five hours on a Saturday.  We usually define a successful weekend by the amount of Lexapro and Wellbrutin left in the bottles Monday morning, so any opportunity to distract ourselves from the endless drudgery of our meager existence I embrace with the enthusiasm of Cookie Monster at an Oreo factory.

And our weekend motivation didn't stop there!  I distracted Cheeky for a few hours on Sunday while Oodgie rifled through her toys, seeking contributions to the local landfill charity.  Afterwards it was like our scruffy, overweight apartment had gone on an intense diet and exercise regimen and emerged as a trim, dashing stallion, complete with obligatory montage. 

We even retired Cheeky's crib and assembled her $79 "big girl bed."  (That's right, $79! Toys R Us, baby!)  We thought it would be some monumental occasion, but it turned out to be just another day in the life for the Cheekster.  Who knows how long it will take her to figure out the ground is just a couple inches beneath, but for now she's staying put, as if the edge of the bed is a sonic barrier...

Finally, to top the whole adventure off, we went to the amusement park on Memorial Day.  Because Oodgie and I are both really into nausea, compressed vertebrae, and heatstroke.  Not that any of that mattered to Cheeky, who gamely waited in line for 20 minutes to ride on a faux plane no bigger than a St. Bernard for 120 seconds.

But while we were there we were yet again reminded that stars, indeed, are just like us...

In case you can't tell, that is Jon Stewart.  Even celebrities have to drag their kids to the playground on weekends.

Looking back, I still can't believe we did all that.  It's almost like we have "energy" and "inspiration."  I don't want you to get the wrong impression; I'm sure we'll be back to lying exhausted on the living room floor while Cheeky riverdances on our heads again within a couple days.

We're Baaaaaaaaaaack!

I just flew in from Seattle last night, and boy are my arms tired.

Not just my arms, actually...all of me.  Even those parts of me that serve no other biological purpose than as signals to your brain that it's time for a nap and a deep-tissue massage.

What a week.  Six days on the left coast, five nights of fitful sleep, four flights, three time-zones, two grandparents, and one toddler with a proclivity for unpredictable and precipitous swings from delightfully cute to emotionally fragile.  The parental equivalent of Hannibal's march over the Alps. 

It started out well enough.  Cheeky was woken at 5 AM as planned, shocking us with her calm demeanor on the way to the airport.  She gamely took her shoes off at security, and excitedly reminded everyone on board that we were "going super-fast!!!" at the top of her lungs.  Sure, she practiced her screaming at the Salt Lake City airport (and let everyone within a 30 foot radius know that "Mommy is pooping") but it was mostly cute and fun.

I've been working on a formula to accurately describe and measure the five days that followed.  It goes something like this:

# of time-zones traversed x (avg. daily hours of sleep – actual hours of sleep)
# of Swedish fish offered as bribes

X

good-naturedness of child - irritability of parents
(days remaining in trip)² x ounces of alcohol consumed by parents

I'm still working on it, of course.  It's a simplified formula which hasn't been tested for repeatability, nor does it factor in such highs as the Cheeky's first night in a "big girl bed" (which she would periodically leave the room to check on and show off to whomever followed her) or such lows as her fear and distrust of my Mom's Jack Russell terriers, both of which show affection the same way the infected did in 28 Days Later.  Stephen Hawking texted me back (we R bfz) and said he thought it was mathematically sound, so I'm going with it for now.

So anyway, you get the basic idea.  When Cheeky woke up at 4 AM the first day and announced, "I'm all done sleeping now!" we knew we were in for a long trip.  We shuttled between uncles, aunts, and grandparents for a few days, most of whom were so out of practice with toddlers that they spent most of their time staring from a distance with looks of cautious bemusement.  We took her out for some fun local activities, and unearthed some classics from my childhood found (fully-intact) in the basement.  We'd distract her as long as we could, knowing full well that the briefest lull could result in either hysteria or narcolepsy. 

Admittedly, we did most of this for ourselves.  We wanted everyone to enjoy Cheeky and celebrate the rare times when the family can be together.  And in that sense we largely succeeded.  The ultimate point of the trip was only partly to give Cheeky some quality WCG² time; it was also to take my dad--a huge Seahawks fan--to a game in Seattle.

A few briefs words about the game:  long-time readers know that I'm a hardcore Seahawks fan myself.  That's synonymous with disappointment.  So before anyone who watched the Sunday night game on ESPN makes any comments let me just point out that your slings and arrows cannot harm me.  I've got decades of callouses from watching Dave Krieg, Dennis Erickson, and the refs in Super Bowl XL; if that doesn't thicken your hide nothing will. 

But it was 68 degrees at kick-off on a beautiful Seattle day.  We had great seats at Quest Field with views of the skyline and Space Needle at sunset.  Retiring All-World fullback Mack Strong hoisted the '12th Man' flag before the game.  Geoff freakin' Tate sang the national anthem.  And despite Shaun Alexander's repeated attempts to impersonate Long John Silver (to quote Troy Aikman, "Looking for places to fall down") we all had a good time.

That didn't make the flight home any easier, of course.  But we're back in our own beds, getting back into the routine of bitching about less extraordinary events.  Thanks to my family for their hospitality and patience, and thanks to my wife for putting up with all of us. 

And thanks, Advil, for everything else.

Greetings from Spokanistan!

Holy crap.  We're flying to Spokane in two days.

Between work, parenting, and rehearsing for the Biggie Smalls tryouts, I'd sorta ignored the fact that we're traveling.  Across the country.  In TWO DAYS.

It hit me last night when I was fighting with my Mom over where we were going to sleep when we got there.  Options ranged from my old bedroom (dark, full of spiders, currently used for storage), my parents room (clean, but...it's my parents room...eeewwww), and a hotel (expensive and guaranteed to create a family rift the size of Snake River Canyon).  In other words, all solutions are bad.   And we have TWO DAYS to solve it.

As usual, I'm more stressed about the actual traveling than what happens when we get there.  When I'm by myself I can shrug off the indecencies of airline travel, but when a toddler and someone who is nicknamed "Oodgie" for a reason are with me the muscles on my back roll up like softballs. 

The only time Cheeky's really a pill is when she's tired (just like her old man), and we have to wake, dress, and load her into a taxi by 5:30 AM.  We're expecting turbulence.  And since there aren't direct flights we get to deal with bags, strollers, and friendly airline personnel at least twice each way.  We hope the excitement of flying will help Cheeky compensate for the time-difference, but she could just as well get there and crash harder than Lindsay Lohan on her third day out of rehab. 

Kill me now

Don't get me wrong...I'm excited we're going.  My parents don't get to see Cheeky nearly enough, and I know they'll LOVE playing with her.  It will be fun for us to spend time with my family, too, and we're puddle-jumping to Seattle on Saturday so the Seahawks can give my dad a belated Father's Day gift (they'd better, after this weekend's debacle). 

I just wish we had a transporter room. 

The Perplexingly Busy Days of Summer

I'm tired today.  Drained.  My shoulder muscles are hammocks drooping lazily from my humerus and scapula.  All my mind can concentrate on is how it's not concentrating on anything.  One of those days.

I'm smack dab in the middle of a calendar so marked up with events, visitations, and assorted activities you'd think I was a McCain campaign adviser.  It's been fun, but it feels a lot like a Japanese game show.

It kicked off earlier this month when my stepsister-in-law rented a converted warehouse in Queens, ordered some heaping trays of candied-bacon balls, and wed the nice Jewish doctor of every New York girl's clichéd fantasy.  The wedding wasn't without it's hitches, but that didn't keep us from dancing until we collapsed in the back of a cab at 2 AM. 

Suddenly we were on our way to NoFo to see "The Girls", three exhaustingly precocious nieces spending an extended weekend with their father.  Everyone spent hours in the pool while I huddled in a dark corner room, reviewing spreadsheets and internet strategies over the phone because stupid Independence Day couldn't commit to a weekend.  We had to be back home by Thursday so I could accept delivery of Excalibur, and by Friday were already planning on hosting an extended sleepover with my brother-in-law.

(Before I continue, I should remind my faithful readers that we, in fact, have no social life to speak of.  Reruns of Entourage are a big night for us)

So he's with us for two days, chillin'.  He leaves, and hours later we've got dinner guests, who, befitting their status as food bloggers, brought pizza.

Monday night.  Board meeting.  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Last night the Loyal Order of NYC Parent Bloggers had it's semi-annual drunkfest meeting.  Attendance was high, with the usual suspects joined by new faces and others previously feared dead or captured.  Much, much better than the board meeting, due largely to the all the dead guys.

And tonight, my brother, fresh off his tour of duty, arrives.  For a week. 

Oh, did I mention i have to fly to Detroit tomorrow?  Yeah, that too, just for good measure.

This summer feels a lot like tubing.  It's moving fast, lots of fun, but it's gonna leave me sore come August.

What is it About Us and Weekends?

Here's a quick rundown of how we tried to kill our child yesterday:

• We decided to go out for breakfast, and as we walked up to the diner I opened the door right into Cheeky's head.  She cried so hard she puked.
• We recovered enough to go in anyway, but as we were putting her into a booster seat Oodgie inadvertently pushed her chair in until her fingers got caught between the table and seat.  More screaming.
• Later in the day, Cheeky was sitting at home on a dining room chair, pushing against the table with her legs while we were sitting around her.  We were inattentive to the point that we watched her chair tip back in slow motion without reacting, with only the loud THWAP of the chair and child hitting the floor snapping us to action.  Again, she puked.

And did I mention Cheeky also has a cold?  And a bloody nose?  We're awesome.

Me Speaky Cheeky

Spring is in the New York air.  Women are exposing their sunburned chests on the subway.  Fancy model-types are doing photo shoots on the streets.  The mole people have crawled out of the sewers and started selling hot dogs in Central Park.  And Cheeky can finally get out of the house.

It had been a long, long winter.  A little chilly, some mild precipitation, and generally gloomy going back to at least Thanksgiving, if not back to 2002.  But the last few days have been glorious: sunny, dry, comfortable...perfect.  That means there's been plenty of playground time for the Cheekster. 

She loves to "climb" ladders yelling "SELF! SELF!" while we hover behind her to keep her from cracking her head open.  She'll get to the top of the spiral slide, yell "FUN", then sit down for ten minutes while other kids push past her.  (I need to teach her to collect tolls so daddy can buy some more video games).  But best of all she'll run in circles for an hour and a half, then pass out for twelve hours straight at night.  It's a small price to pay for having evenings to ourselves.

Cheeky's vocabulary, meanwhile is also blossoming like weeds through the sidewalk cracks.  Before Bachelor Week it was all one-word sentences, but now she's putting things together like "daddy feet" and "eat sausage more."  It's always a big milestone when your child passes Tarzan's language skills.  (You're next, Tonto!)  She's also adept at inventing words, including "yodayo" (i.e. water) and "purpo" (i.e. computer).  So "yodayo tub" means "fill it up!  I'm sticky and smell like a monkey cage" and "purpo hat" means "I don't care if you're reading your e-mail.  Open up the 'Elmo-makes-a-hat' game and let's waste an hour of your life."  It's cute, and it sure the hell beats "dis! dis!" as a formal request.  I'm sure Oodgie was tired of being my Babel fish.

Mr. Roker tells me that the next few days won't be as nice, but at least it's not fall, when all you've got to look forward to is three months of puffy coats and claustrophobia. 

The Preciousness of Life

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to put things in perspective.

Tonight I was planning on writing another happy go-lucky blog about nothing in particular.  Earlier today I'd heard the tragic news that Captain America is dead, and I felt moved to weigh in on the cultural impact.  An American icon has been assassinated...what does this say about the state of our society?  Is this really the end, or will he be resurrected via some strange subplot involving Dr, Strage and Galactus.  And what is Genuine going to do?

But then I thought about Rob, whose newborn son Doss lost his battle for life on Sunday.  Usually my defense mechanisms kick in at the slightest whiff of sadness (I'm much better at anger) but this news stuck with me and has been lurking in the back of my mind for the last few days. 

Every night when I get home Cheeky is there to greet me.  We usually giggle and laugh when I brandish my secret tickling weapon, or point out letters in books, or wrangle her into her pajamas.  Every night I look forward to her laugh, and I take it for granted that we'll be playing again tomorrow.

Life is an incredibly precious thing.  We get so used to the patterns of our lives that we sometimes forget that every day we unconsciously navigate a maze of dangers--floating in the air, speeding passed our eyes, coursing through our blood streams, or brewing in the clouds miles away.  As parents we strive every day to not just protect our children from these dangers but to form a cocoon around them, postponing the day when they must begin reconciling the harshness of the real world with the boundless joy and potential they bring to it.  In so doing we preserve our own youth, our own dreams, our own potential, and let the love we have for these alien beings--who spring into our lives demanding care and attention but radiating unrequited love--wrap us in our own warm cocoon, both protecting us and exposing us should that cocoon ever be pierced.

These last few days I've paused for a few moments in the midst of some flurry of Cheeky-related activity and reflected on how unbelievably lucky I am to have an adorable, smart, healthy child, and to be able to put on her little red ladybug boots so she can dance and read without her feet getting wet (or whatever her rationale is).  In those moments my mind flashes through the joy of having her in my life, and the fear that something might take her away, and all the shades of emotion between.

Then she grabs my glasses and tells me what color my shirt is and I've moved on. 

So take a moment tonight to stop by Rob's site and wish him and his family (including Doss' twin sister Jorja, who is doing well) the best during this incredibly difficult time.  Then think about how lucky we all are to be here, to have friends and family who love us, and to bear witness to all life's wonderment all over again.

P.S.  Once I get details on Captain America's memorial service I'll post them, too