Freaks & Geeks Parenting

Ronan has started asking us what we are doing. Again and again and again. Ad infinitum. As in:

Ronan: What are you doing, Dad?

Dad: I’m fixing your lunch.

Ronan: (Immediately.) What are you doing, Dad?

Dad: I’m spreading peanut butter on bread.

Ronan: (Immediately.) What are you doing, Dad?

Dad: I’m spreading strawberry jam on the peanut butter.

Ronan: (Immediately.) What are you doing, Dad?

Dad: I’m pouring you milk.

Ronan: (Immediately.) What are you doing, Dad?

Dad: I’m washing your hands.

Ronan: WHHHHAAATTTTT AAAAAAARRREEEEEE YYYYYYOOOOOUUUUU DDDDDOOOOOOIIIIIIIINNNNGGGG?????????????

Yes, he actually says it like that. Loud and stretched out; not yelling, but kind of because it’s fun, apparently. Almost all day long, he wants to know what we are doing. Every five seconds until he ends up practically yodeling.

I would imagine that even the most patient parent (which my wife will readily tell you, I am not) would go crazy with all the questions. But it’s actually kind of fun. When we get bored of the questions, we just ask right back.

Ronan: What are you doing, Mom?

Terry: I’m sorting the laundry.

Ronan: (Immediately.) What are you doing, Mom?

Terry: I’m sorting the laundry.

Ronan: (Immediately.) What are you doing, Mom?

Terry: WHHHHAAATTTTT AAAAAAARRREEEEEE YYYYYYOOOOOUUUUU DDDDDOOOOOOIIIIIIIINNNNGGGG?????????????

Dad: WHHHHAAATTTTT AAAAAAARRREEEEEE YYYYYYOOOOOUUUUU DDDDDOOOOOOIIIIIIIINNNNGGGG?????????????

Mom and Dad together: WHHHHAAATTTTT AAAAAAARRREEEEEE YYYYYYOOOOOUUUUU DDDDDOOOOOOIIIIIIIINNNNGGGG?????????????

Pause.

Terry: Well, What are you doing?

(Ronan just stands there, looking happy or confused, or both.)

I have no idea where this behavior came from. I’m sure baby books would tell you that this is normal baby behavior as they realize and process their surroundings. But those fuckers don’t have to spend endless hours answering the same question over and over again. They just roll in the money they made from writing baby books.

Last Year in Marienbad is considered by some critics to be brilliant. Others consider it among the worst films ever made. I’ve never seen it, but the script excerpts I’ve read make me think of it often as I narrate my life.

Perhaps, to demonstrate my madness, we’ll do a Garfield Minus Garfield and delete Ronan’s repetitive question:

Dad: I’m fixing your lunch.

Dad: I’m spreading peanut butter on bread.

Dad: I’m spreading strawberry jam on the peanut butter.

Dad: I’m pouring you milk.

Dad: I’m washing your hands.

See? Any sane person would recognize that narrating your everyday life is a sign of psychosis. Now, picture being with me (or Terry) for hours on end, just listening to us narrate the overly mundane activities of our household.

Clearly, Ronan’s screaming of the question is a reaction to his parents walking around the house, babbling to themselves. He’s just asking us “What are you doing?” to keep up the pretense that we’re sane.

I`m a poor lone-some cowboy,
I`m a poor lone-some cowboy,
I`m a poor lone-some cowboy,
And a long way from home.
I ain`t got no brother,
I ain`t got no brother,
I ain`t got no brother,
To ride the range with me.

— Unknown

Terry bought Ronan a great little cowboy doll. Very cute. Very age-appropriate. Very fun, right? Wrong.

Perhaps the delivery method was incorrect. Terry left the cowboy in his crib while he slept, thinking he would play with it. Instead he woke up with a lifeless brother, we guess, who creeped Ronan right the fuck out. Poor lone-some cowboy got tossed and tossed hard as soon as Ronan woke up. Ronan threw his sorry butt right out of the crib, and that cowboy ain't welcome here no more.

Actually, we’ve tried to encourage him to rethink the anti-cowboy animosity by leaving poor lone-some cowboy around to play with, but Ronan just beats him up and throws him out of the way for good measure. Leave poor lone-some cowboy in the toy stroller? Haul his ass out and put in a Metrocard. Yes, that’s what I said, a metrocard. Ronan prefers playing with a metrocard to an actual toy.

Poor lone-some cowboy didn’t have a chance. Perhaps the anti-cowboy thing has to do with Ronan’s love of technology. It’s not surprising that with two highly technological parents (we have more computers than rooms in our apartment) he would be interested in technology. Ronan loves watching plane videos. Since our recent trip to visit the grandparents, he can’t wait to go back to the airport, even if he did get a little scared when the plane home took off. He’s obsessed with planes. Every sighting leads to shouts of “Plane! Plane! See? Right there!!” One night he wouldn’t go to sleep because he was watching the moon, so it could be astronomical as well.

But why hate on the cowboy? That’s a question we will probably never know. Perhaps he was trampled by a steer in a previous life. Perhaps he was left for dead in a hanging, only to live to hunt down those responsible. Perhaps once he lived by the laws of the West and poor lone-some cowboy didn’t.

Or perhaps the cowboy doll is actually a little creepy, and we just can’t see it from the perspective of a two-year-old. Whatever the reason is, that damned cowboy is never going to be welcome on our ranch.

This attractive institution is our local library. Yes, that's barbed wire along the top. It’s actually a nice place, despite looking like a prison. It seems to be a popular gathering place for residents. The library has a great selection of children’s books, and Ronan gets free books for attending reading sessions, where a librarian reads books to him and other children while their parents ignore what’s happening and talk amongst themselves.

The Dyker Library location was selected in a poll of Dyker residents, who wanted it to be where it is in 1968. It opened in 1974, which was a good year to be in the concrete business, because architects loved concrete in 1974, although they had less artistic creativity than, say, the Romans.

However, I have two questions:

1.) Did the Brooklyn Public Library “spruce” this up by committee to make it as absolutely foreboding as possible? Is this the picture they show people who fail to return their books on time? I can just imagine a library cop (if they exist) saying, “If you don’t pay your fines, we’ll send you to Dyker!”

Dyker was designed by Daniel Laitin. All I know about Daniel Laitin is that he was born in 1909 and died in 2008. I’m assuming those are his life dates, since that’s the only Daniel Laitin I could find who died in Brooklyn. I’m assuming he died of embarrassment that the Brooklyn Public Library turned his creation into a prison.

Seriously, what is the point of the barbed wire on the roof? Did someone break into the roof between 1974 and 2008, so BPL got a committee together and they said, “We’ll show ‘em! No one will ever steal library books through our roof again! Razor wire for all!”

The library on the other side of town, which, I grant you, is another story taller, does not have barbed wire. The main branch, which has many stories, has not one strand of barbed wire. So it’s a one-story thing. Perhaps the barbed wire causes intruders to fall onto the wrought-iron fence.

Daniel is either laughing or rolling over in his grave.

2.) What the fuck is up with parents who use story time to talk and conduct business? Do you mind? Could you shut off your phone for the ten minutes the librarian is reading The Snowy Day? Could you not discuss your hairdresser/work/lack of work/etc. and just pretend to pay attention? Is reading time just babysitting time for you?

Please shut up and sit down. I swear to God, I’ll throw you in the barbed wire.

As we move from babydom into toddlerhood, Ronan’s vocabulary has exploded recently. He comes up with words that I’m not sure I have ever used with him, meaning he’s listening to us much more closely than I ever imagined. Here’s a few of his favorites (and by that I mean my favorites) with translations:

Big Hug – We don’t have any “small hugs” or “medium hugs” or even just plain “hugs” in our home. They are all big. I realized that most of his books use this expression in a complete sentence. For Ronan, it’s just “Big hug! Big Hug!” usually while we’re heavily occupied with something else. Most popular and rare are the three-family member hugs.

Ostrich – What Old McDonald had on his farm. Terry’s father thankfully found the sound an ostrich makes.

No no no no no no no no no! – I do not want apple juice, only milk. Ronan hardly ever drinks anything but milk.

Plane! – Look! Up in the sky! It’s an airplane!

Done! – I have completed the meal and wish to leave the table. (Accompanied with hand motions that look like an orchestra conductor.)

Read a book! – Let’s read a book together. Usually Richard Scarry’s Big Book of Endless, Never Ending, Perfunctory Lists of Objects.

One Minute! – I require more time (in the bath, in the potty, for window gazing, for play.) Equal to ten to fifteen minutes.

Watch TV, watch TV! – I would like to watch television.

Watch planes, watch planes! – Dad, please surf to airplane videos on your computer.

Itschy, Itschy! – I have an itch.

Beans! – I would like more food. (This is fading fast, if not already gone.) This is because for a while he would eat nothing but beans.

Pleastz! – Please. Accompanied by shaking his head “yes.”

Where did all the people go? – I enjoyed the recent visitors, why did they have to leave?

Leesha! –I miss Mom’s friend Alicia.

Papa T. T.  – My father, Ronan’s grandfather, is named Terry also. (So I’m married to Terry and my father’s name is Terry. They’re both nicknames, so there’s nothing Freudian about that.) For some reason, he decided he wanted Ronan to call him Papa T. T. (which my brother quickly changed to “Pop a Tittie.”) After we all laughed at him, or behind him,it turns out that that was such a great name for Ronan to pronounce, all the grandparents are Papa T. T.; grandmothers too.

You! – Me. As in, when Ronan sees photos of himself, instead of exclaiming, “That’s me!”he yells “You!” And then we say, “Me!” and he says “You!” and then we say “You!” and point to him and Ronan says “You?” and looks a little confused. Thenwe try to explain that me is for yourself and you is for others. And then I take migraine medicine.

“Wake up!” – Usually yelled when I’m deeply asleep and everyone else is up. May include a poke.

“Poke!” – Ronan likes to point out when he pokes people.

More sounds are available at his Soundboard.

 So Ronan had debatable levels of anemia, and doctors couldn’t agree on how to treat it. One pediatrician suggested we increase spinach and lentils and other iron-rich foods. But that wasn’t the first doctor we saw. The first doctor ordered iron drops.

If you didn’t click on that link, the short story is that the iron drops caused Ronan a lot of pain, especially when he pooed, and eventually he needed a laxative. So the Pediatric GI we saw put him on Miralax. The chemical name for Miralax is Polyethylene Glycol (PEG). Our regular pediatrician had recommended this, but we wanted to consult a specialist. Ronan hates the specialist because his first visit was quite painful as he performed a comprehensive physical. (I’ll leave the details to your imagination.)

We gave him the generic Miralax, which was cheaper with our prescription plan. We had three pediatricians recommending it, so I was pretty confident that this was an okay drug. “I give it to my own kids.” One of the pediatricians told me.

It’s probably not an okay drug for anyone. Well, the drug is fine, but the manufacturing process is not. Part of the process of making PEG involves 1,4-dioxane, a known carcinogen. Even the CDC says it’s not particularly healthy, and may cause cancer or liver and kidney damage.

Yipes. YIPES! (I’d swear here but people have told me I swear too much.)

The Campaign for Safe Cosmetics goes further, in a report that was covered by the Washington Post and other newspapers. 1,4-dioxane is banned in the European Union.

None of the three pediatricians knew anything about the CDC report, the Washington Post article or the EU ban.

I contacted the manufacturer of the generic PEG. They responded, basically, by saying that PEG is not approved for use by children, and if we were giving it to our 2-year-old, than any cancer is just not their damn fault. They probably left out the “damn.” They also claimed their levels of 1.4-dioxane is within FDA limits.

The CDC basically disavowed their own web page, saying that they couldn’t state that PEG for children was bad. Or good. “You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.” They offered to have a CDC chemist call me to explain how and why the warning page was written. I’m still waiting for that call.

So we’re freaking out. Ronan is a happy and healthy baby, but if he gets liver or kidney damage somewhere down the line, we will hold ourselves responsible for not checking into the real consequences of PEG. Or maybe move to Europe, where they seem to take these things more seriously.

Terry made up this flowchart to help us next Fourth of July.

Ronan came down with a cold. Slight fever and chills and severe congestion. I’m convinced it’s because I bought non-refundable ICE AGE tickets a few hours before we discovered he was sick, but Terry insists that the tickets have nothing to do with it. His illness pretty much killed any hope of seeing the fireworks.

In our relatively new digs (11 months and counting) nestled between Dyker Heights and Bensonhurst, we’re experiencing our first Fourth of July, which means copious amounts of illegal and highly combustible fireworks. A few minutes after we put him down for the night the neighborhood sounded like a war zone – the pop-pop-pop of skyrockets everywhere.

While he seemed immediately quiet, and therefore asleep, I decided to check on Ronan. I’m glad I did – as I felt around for his head, a scared “Mom?” came out of the other end of the crib. Ronan had his pillow over his face and was gripping it tightly with both arms and legs. He was pretty shook up as we had left his window open because of the heat, and the fireworks sounded like gunshots. He was a little scared.

So I propped him up in the window, and we watched what were probably hundreds of thousands of dollars of fireworks go off all over the neighborhood. His terror soon turned to delight. Every time I thought it was over, it started again. It’s not like any other neighborhood I’ve lived in – this was full-blown, multicolored, un-ending professional-looking, 500-feet-in-the-air fireworks.

Terry took him outside while I locked the door, and we took him in a blanket around the neighborhood, watching the display. For a minute I thought we somehow were seeing the Macy’s display over the Hudson. But then I realized that Dyker Heights takes its Independence Day pretty seriously.

While we were out, we saw the remains of previous shootings lying in the street, their still smoking remains dragged up the street by cars, streaming little sparks as they went. Even though he’s only two I began to worry that he would try to set these things off when he’s older.

He flinched a few times from the noise but generally he was terribly excited over the pyrotechnics. He kept yelling “Firework!” every time one went off. As the clock reached 10 PM he didn’t want to go home.

When we did go home, he lay in our bed for a while, still looking for fireworks. We called Grandpa TT and Grandma to tell them what happened, but despite waking Grandpa TT up, he was too excited to tell them anything. He does love to listen on the phone.

As I type this, he’s rolling around in his crib, listening for the telltale sound of a mortar lobbing another star shell skyward. Which is better than being afraid of them, but I fear he will get little sleep tonight…