Celebration Week

Whew, what a week!

Our house played host to myriad activities revolving around Isaiah's baptism and our nation's 235th year of independence. Hooray! (Go USA!)

When you have family strewn all over the country like Michelle and I, it's a rarity to get everyone together in one place at one time. Save for two individuals (Rob and Kate Niccolini), we were blessed and grateful that everyone from our families came into our humble little town to witness Isaiah's entrance into the Lord's kingdom and to take part in the host of events and parties thrown around Independence Day.

I won't give a detailed accounting of everything that happened. I'll post a slew of pictures soon to illustrate that. The best I can say it just how rewarding it is to see family and friends and to be together. At some point, you realize that the best times to be had are with those closest to you – by blood, extended family or by friendship. And the best thing you can offer is yourself. Strip away all the events, fireworks, parades and other stuff, and what you have is people being together, talking, laughing, playing, joking, deepening the bonds that keep us bound.

We are blessed that through some unfathomable luck of the draw, we were born into the richest country on Earth. We want fir little, and we have a lot. We have the ability and the means to conquer distance and see each other. We can congregate for special occasions, such as Isaiah's big day.

How lucky we are. God bless America.

Preparations

It's a big weekend coming up. We welcome family from Michelle and my sides – 13 in all. They're coming from six states – North Dakota, Nebraska, Texas, Georgia, Iowa and Maryland. They're not coming to see us; we're not that interesting. They're coming for baby Isaiah's baptism this Sunday.

It's a blessed event, to be sure, and one we know our families are excited to share with us. But we figured to maximize interest, we pinned the date on the July 4th weekend, when our little town goes absolutely zany in its display of patriotic fervor and parties. It's such a festival of entertainment centered around our nation's independence that people come from all over to take it in.

We're lucky in that respect. We live in a town that is not only bayside beautiful, but holds one heckuva fun fiesta each and every summer. The offerings include nightly concerts in a park by the water, a carnival on the town common, backyard barbecues and a restaurant, bar and nightlife scene that, for a few days at least, would rival a mid-size city. In the seven years we've lived in this town, I've always been struck at the kaleidoscope of activity, the fever that grips everyone around July 4th. It's amazing.

Another draw to this time – and certainly of interest to some in our families – is the annual, traditional party that one of our neighbors holds. The affair is a really nice mix of extended family (theirs, of course), friends and even folks who wander in. The hosts are just great, colorful people who value time spent with others above all else, which explains why the annual July 4th party is so important to them and has become such a tradition. And then there's the backyard fireworks that culminate the evening. We're not talking sparklers here; these pyrotechnics are the monster, exploding bursts of color and sound that municipalities shell out for special events. It's like watching an Imax film from the front row. Except you're looking up, and you need to watch out for falling debris.

I'm failing to fully describe the scene, neighborly and across town, that marks this time. Granted, Isaiah's baptism and the reception we'll hold in his honor trumps all this weekend. But it doesn't hurt to have other attractions to reel family in.

8 Months

Baby Isaiah turned eight months old today.

Sure, it's significant, because each month is a cause for celebration when your child's less than a year old. But this one is special also because we've seen some pretty big changes in our little gut since he turned seven (months, of course). In those 30 or so days, Isaiah has been sitting up pretty much under his own power. His core is gaining strength, and he can sit upright, look around and flap his arms without tumbling over. The sitting upright posture doesn't last long – usually several minutes or so – and when he reaches for something in front of him, he hasn't quite figured out how to use his arms to help prop himself back up. He can do it, but it isn't smooth and takes considerable effort. Still, he's got the idea, and a new world has opened up for him, much different than the world from when you're just lying down.

He's also squawking like a madman. By nature, Isaiah is calmer than his older brother, Nathaniel, and more deliberate in his actions. Michelle and I have been discussing this. Whereas Nathaniel would spy a new toy, grab it, and either fling it or shriek at it, Isaiah will study it, then reach out and touch it, running his fingers over it. Very tactile. It's as if he's getting the toy's pulse. He observes before he reacts, whereas Nathaniel simply acts. No approach better than the other, mind you. Just different.

That cautious approach to objects holds true except for human faces. Isaiah is surprisingly quick on the draw when he gets within range of a nose, mouth, eyelid, ear or any other facial protrusion he can get a grip on. I have the scratches to prove it. Even then, however, when he latches on to your face, you can see that he's really concentrating on what he's doing, as if he's taking mental notes. So that's a nose. It has holes that I can stick my fingers in! And that's a mouth, with these rubbery, stretchy, red ledges I can grip and pull! Cool! I like faces!

Anyway, you get the point. There's a real fascination with faces. Isaiah, our cool, calculating little cucumber. Happy birthday, little man!

Feeding the Birds

There are many activities that excite Nathaniel. Wrestling on the bed, helping mommy prepare meals (he's the sous chef.), throwing balls around the house, skating, (trying to) ride his tricycle, banging his drum, playing his kitty piano, and on and on.

I should mention that tops among all things that Natty Lou likes to do is anything that involves being with our neighbor, Caleigh. But that's a story for another time.

The story for this post is another activity that Nathaniel enjoys, and that is feeding the birds.

We have three bird feeders in out backyard. Two of them are the long, vertical feeders that hang from shepherd hooks. They keep squirrels out by sliding downward and closing the feeding holes. Sometimes, though, the squirrels are able to scale the shepherd's hook just enough to latch on to the feeder, and while it slides shut, the apparatus is shaken so violently is spills some seeds. A few squirrels have figured out how to take a flying leap from the fence and latch themselves on to one of the feeders. To those who succeed, the reward is like the coins that tumble out of a slot machine when the jackpot is hit – a whole bunch of seeds come tumbling out.

The third feeder we have is a mesh sock of sorts that we hang from a tree branch. This sock holds thistle, or nyjer seed, and is there mostly for the finches. I'm always impressed how the finches find the sock, even when it's partially, or mostly, hidden among the tree leaves. We always have steady visitors to the hanging buffet.

The problem with the sock, with its little holes, is that it tears easily. I'm not sure whether the rips come from the finches or from sparrows that, when the other feeders are empty, sometimes will try to alight on the finch bag. But whoever it is, the sock shows tears from the first time it's hung. And they're not cheap, either. So, to save some money, I patch the holes up with duct tape. It looks a tad unsightly, but the birds aren't going for appearance; they're going for the food. Unfortunately, the duct patches last for about one feeding, meaning that when it's time to refill the bag, the duct tape has been worn off or is so covered with seeds that it won't stick anymore. So, another round of patching is needed. And so on.

OK, Nathaniel's role has been to help me fill the vertical feeders. I give him a middling grade in this endeavor, but not for a lack of trying. We use a plastic cup to pour the seed into the feeder, and that does take a fair amount of precision and control. Nathaniel, exuberant as he is, hasn't quite got the touch. So, I help guide the cup toward the feeder opening, and he pours. About half the cup goes in the feeder; the rest hits the ground.

Much more entertaining for Nathaniel is the filing of the finch bag. We need a ladder for this job, and Nathaniel loves that, because that means he gets to run to our neighbor's yard, where we borrow the ladder. After some extracurricular dashing around, I can usually wrangle Natty to accompany me to our yard, where I climb up, get the finch bag and refill it. At least it should be that easy. Of course, it isn't. Nathaniel wants to climb the ladder, too. At the beginning, he'd only climb a couple of rungs and tentatively at that. But now, he scrambles all the way up, some 7-8 feet off the ground.

The birds arrive soon after we finish, as if they've been watching us, waiting for us to go inside. That's where Nathaniel, will stand, nose pressed against a window. "We have food, birdies!" he'll call out.

And, inevitably, they come.

Parade Time

Happy Memorial Day, everyone!

Like many others, I have long treated Memorial Day as one of those holidays where I sit back, relax and do whatever. A few years ago, before Nathaniel was born, I got off my duff and witnessed a ceremony in our small town to honor our nation's veterans. I was touched by it all – the solemness of the occasion and the sincere gratitude that those in attendance showed to our military, past and present. I stood next to an elderly gentleman decked out in his World War II uniform, standing stiffly at attention despite an unrelenting sun.

I was really glad I went.

So, this year, I gathered up Nathaniel and Isaiah and wheeled them downtown to see the parade. I had read in the local paper that it would kick off at 9:30, so I hustled on down, only to find out that the parade wouldn't reach the downtown for a while. No problem: A change in plans had us at the bagel shop, where Nathaniel got a blueberry bagel with cream cheese, and I a works with lox spread. And an orange juice. Yum. We picked a spot along the street where the sidewalk runs above the street, and there's a wall that you can sit on and dangle your feet toward the street below. Nathaniel, ever the friendly sort, found another boy, a 3-year-old named Liam, to run around with, which allowed me to down my bagel and play with Isaiah. All was going fine, although the parade took longer to make its way to our area than I imagined, and Nathaniel, bathed in sweat, was on the cusp of being played out. Thankfully, just as he was fidgeting madly in my lap, a police cruiser came by, blue lights flashing, and signaling the start of the parade.

This parade is a short one, about 20 minutes long, and is really like a dress rehearsal for the main event a month later, the famed Fourth of July parade. Still, it was fun – music from the local high school marching band and a team of colonial re-enactors, and blasts from a cannon and a group of musket-wielding gentleman in old time getup. You could hear the cannon blasts from several blocks away. As it approached, I could see a blend of fascination and terror in Nathaniel's eyes. I knew the blast would be loud, and so I told Nathaniel to put his hands over his ears, as I held my hands over Isaiah's. BOOM! The cannon blasted right in front of us, and Nathaniel's eyes widened into beach balls. Then he scrunched up his face and began crying.

He wanted to go home. I thought about it for a second and decided we'd stay, not because I wanted to subject him to more noise, but because I figured he'd enjoy the others parts of the parade. And he did. And when the muskets came round, three times in all, I held Isaiah and Nathaniel hard against my chest, with my hands clasped over each's right ears. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! We survived the blasts and enjoyed the parade.

All in all, I think the boys had a good time. And I feel good that I did something to pay tribute to our men and women in uniform. God bless them for their service.

Woobie timeout

Nathaniel has a favorite blue blanket that he calls "woobie." It appears the name comes from the movie "Mr. Mom," in which a child call his blanket by the same name. Michelle started calling Nathaniel's blanket "woobie," we think, and the name stuck. Just as many people call a pacifier a "binky," do a lot of parents also call children's favorite blankets "woobies?"

In any event, that's not really the point of this tale. In about the last two months, we've introduced Nathaniel to the concept of "timeout," which, as every parent knows, is the equivalent of the nuclear option to disciplining young children, provided you don't include force in your repertoire. Michelle says she's used timeout on Natty Lou about three times, and I'm about the same. So, we haven't employed it often, and I think that's a good thing. Just like the nuclear option, the use of timeout is effective more as a deterrent; the more frequently it is used, the less potent it is. At least that's how I view it.

Nathaniel has become really upset the times we have used timeout on him. One time, Nathaniel was pretty strung out from his day at daycare and took issue with me paying attention to Isaiah, even though all I was doing was carrying the car seat to a spot where I get Isaiah out of it. Natty whapped me on the butt, not hard, mind you, but he did it. When I whirled around, he had this kind of satisfied smirk on his face, like "Now I've got your attention!"

Oh, yes, you did, my boy. I picked him up, told him he was in timeout for hitting, and marched him upstairs. The poor little bugger, already pooped from his day, burst out into a torrent of tears and wailing. It was heartbreaking and comical at the same time.

As I said, this has happened pretty rarely, and we try hard not to use timeout as a threat, either, again because it would dilute it. The message has gotten through, though. We know this, because Nathaniel put his woobie in timeout the other morning.

He came downstairs and told mommy, "Woobie hit me."

Michelle said, "Oh, no!"

Nathaniel then said, "He goes in timeout" and promptly marched the poor blue rag upstairs to his room. He returned without him.

No doubt woobie was crying.

A little later, Michelle asked, "Is woobie still in timeout?"

And Nathaniel said, "No, he's nice," and went upstairs to fetch him.

Woobie had learned his lesson.

After Nathaniel had come back downstairs, he was holding woobie and slapped himself with the blanket. He then said, "Woobie hit me." Then he held woobie and looked at him sternly, and said, "No, woobie, no hitting. You're in timeout." And he marched him back upstairs.

Several hours later, Michelle was in Nathaniel's room and saw woobie.

It was in the hamper.

Aunt Rose

Last post I said there would be more about that 94-year-old aunt. Here's the story:

Aunt Rose lives in a garage that's been converted into an apartment in our day care provider's house. Every time we pick up our children, we can smell her cooking. Some days, it's pasta with a meat sauce, or cabbage or other specialties. And the local news was on – always. So, when I pick up the children, I get a whiff of a meal and the brief window into the news of that day.

The first time we visited Sue, or as Nathaniel calls her, "Sue Sue," we met Aunt Rose. When Sue introduced us to her, she said, "This is my aunt Rose. She doens;t have any kids and never got married, and she asked if she could live here when she got older."

Without missing a beat, Aunt Rose said, "Not a lesbian."

Even more interesting than that, at least to us, is Aunt Rose lived in our house when she was a girl. That would be some 80+ years ago in a house that is a little older than 100. We bought this house in 2004 from two sisters, both elderly, one of whom was in her 80s and had lived there since she was married in her 20s. She had raised a family there, and her husband, who tended to a garden in the very spot where we have our largest one, died there.

So, we have a pretty long historical chain to our house that goes beyond a written record. It gives our house more life, in a way, a breathing history of sorts that we are now adding to.

There are more stories to hear about this house. We hope Aunt Rose gets better, so we can hear more from her.