Burly Burley Man

I got Julie a bike about two months ago, thinking it would be her thing.  Then I got so jealous that yesterday I got myself a bike, too.  We also got a Burley (drag-kids-behind-your-bike) off Craigslist, but it turns out that due to my bike's disc brakes, the Burley only hooks onto Julie's bike.  I've ordered an adapter off Amazon.

Here are the kids at the park after Julie dragged them there and I pedaled effeminately behind her, dragging nothing.

It's probably good I didn't have to drag the kids.  I hadn't ridden a bike in like 18 years, so that part of the ass where the bike seat goes (you know that part?) feels like it's in the midst of boot camp or something.  Like ass boot camp.  Like involving an actual boot.

I tried on some padded bike shorts, but it was a no go.  They weren't the indecent spandex kind but basically were like cargo shorts with a giant diaper/maxi-pad within.  Made me look like a dude on a first-name basis with his urologist.

So anyway, I'm fighting through the pain like the pillar of masculinity I am.  Speaking of which:

Freezing water felt great.

Cuzzes

The cousins: Lyla, Sienna, Ava, Cameron, and Rowan.  Five under five.

Still believes it's Danger

"Daddy, what is your middle name?"

"Snorklepuss."

"No.  What is your middle name?"

"Snorklepuss."

"NO.  What is your real middle name?"

"Snorklepuss."

"NO!  What was your middle name before?"

"You mean before it was Snorklepuss?"

"Yeah."

"Patrick."

"Oh.  What was Mommy's middle name before it was Danger?"

Balancing

Another climbing confidence domino fell today.  That's Rowan in the yellow shirt.

Here he is running into his sister.

I suppose I should've been following them around way up there, helicopter blades a-spinning.  But it seems like so many people from my generation are nostalgic for the past, when they played outside unsupervised until dark, sat in the front seat of the car at age four, and never ever used hand sanitizer.  I see that point of view, but I'd also love to build my kids a tower that'll protect them from everything.  Trouble is, I'm effectively teaching them to climb out of it.

Really, it's a million little parenting decisions, trying to help the kids balance between confidence and independence, and broken limbs.  So far, so good.

Fish domino

"Daddy, I tan't det on dis fiss!  Hep me!"

In accordance with my goal that Rowan one day gets a job and moves out of my house, I refused to help him get on the fish.

"But I tan't do it!"

One father/son Nike pep-talk later, Rowan hefted himself on the fish.  I didn't realize at the time that mastering the fish would set the string of climbing confidence dominoes tumbling into the abyss.  Remember last August when Lyla, age three-and-a-half, climbed this?
  

It's 10 feet off the ground.  I nearly had a heart attack.  Well today her brother, age two-and-a-half...

That's why you don't help your kid get on the fish.

Looking out for the boy

Rowan's arm got bitten today by Jibber Jabber, the daycare python.

Just kidding, it was a kid who wanted Rowan's toy.  Rowan was all, "Hell no!" and the kid was all, "Nom nom!" 

I'm going to let it slide this time, but if it happens again, I'll find out who the kid is, go teach at his eventual high school, and then in 12 years write extra critical feedback on his English homework.

Speaking of ridiculous ways to look out for my son's best interests, today I took out all the toilet seats in the house and replaced them with ones that lower slowly.  I read an article that mentioned emergency room visits due to the toilet lid slamming on a young boy's [shudder].

Don't worry, buddy.  I've got your back.  And your front.

Helmet reason

I bought a Burley on Craigslist because Julie wanted to make biking 75 pounds tougher.  It also gave Rowan an actual reason to wear his helmet.

Guru

Auntie Lori convinced Rowan to take a nap on our parents' downstairs couch.  She is the toddler whisperer.

Not exactly rough

Due to an armageddon-like weather forecast, Lyla and I didn't go camping.  Instead, I grilled a beer can chicken.  Recipe: rub spices and butter on it, shove an optimistically half-full can of Premium up its ass, and stand it up and grill using indirect heat.

The kids liked it, and afterward I made them s'mores a la stove.

They have always been highly contemplative dessert eaters.

So we didn't end up roughing it exactly, but at least we avoided lightning strikes and hail concussions.

Lord of creation

Rowan has an ear infection, but he's on medicine after an appointment yesterday with a minute-clinic nurse practitioner who seemed a lot like a cashier posing as a nurse practitioner.

She cleared her throat.  "Well, we should probably check his throat as well."

"Go right ahead," I replied.  "Would you like me to hold his nose?  Pin him down?  Manipulate him with reverse-psychology?"

"But I guess since he probably has an ear infection--"

"Probably?  Did your instrument give you an inconclusive reading?"

"Well, he had a lot of wax in there, but there was a red part that I thought I saw.  You said he wasn't feeling good?"

"Right.  That is why we're here."

"So the ear infection antibiotic will also knock out a throat infection if he happens to have one of those too.  Do you want me to still inspect his throat?"

"It wouldn't make a difference, right?  Same medication regardless?"

"Right."

"Then no."

She did anyway.  Suddenly, boom, there was the tongue depressor, and Rowan, God bless him, locked his mouth tighter than a bear trap.  I didn't really help her get it open because I was so flummoxed by how in the world our previous conversation led her to this land of bizarre and illogical choices.

"He's not opening his mouth for the tongue blade," she said captain-obviously.

"I doubt calling it a tongue 'blade' will help your cause.  Didn't we say a throat exam wouldn't change anything medicine-wise?"

"The medicine will take care of the ear infection and any possible throat infection." 

"Rowan, do you want her to put that stick in your mouth just for fun?"

Unclamp.  "No."  Clamp.

"I think we'll just take the prescription, then, if it's cool with you."

"Well okay, if you're--"

"We're sure."

So we kept him home today (summer plan is kids in daycare Tuesday and Friday) because he still had a slight fever.  By the afternoon he felt a lot better, so I took him to daycare to pick up Lyla.

Unabashed cuteness in 3...2...1...

Later at dinner, Julie brought him home a bike helmet. 

Finally he no longer needs to covet his sister's helmet. I don't think he even cares that he doesn't have a bike.  So add the helmet to his new medicine, and basically he feels like the lord of creation.

Untamed

The playground from yesterday's photos has a misty sprinkler thing for the untamed children to run through.  Today we met Elsa and her dad there, and the girls decided the prudent course of action was to get soaked.

As always, Rowan tagged along.

Later at dinner:

Lyla: Knock knock.

Julie: Who's there?

Lyla: Eyeball.

Julie: Eyeball who?

Lyla: Eyeball poopypants!

Lyla and Rowan erupted into gales of hotdog-spewing laughter.

Rowan: Knot knot!

Julie: Who's there?

Rowan: Poopy poopypants!

More gales.  This went on the entire meal, despite our efforts to introduce more genteel options such as "Boo"/"Boo who?"/"Why are you crying?" and "Atch"/"Atch who?"/"Bless you!"  Turns out, the children appreciate the lowest form of toilet humor.  Just like their mother.

Big kids

Big kids at the playground:

That's my vantage point from the lazy dad bench.  I did run over there after and likely prevented a trip to the ER.

I hate tire swings.  In first grade I often walked to school early to play on the playground, which one day involved spinning myself stupid on the tire swing.  Then in class I had to run to the sink and barf in the middle of the spelling test.  I did ace the spelling test, though.  Just saying.

Okay, I kind of like tire swings now.  Props to Lyla for taking the photo.

Rubbing it in

That's a bubble fan on the corner of the table, and Lyla had an ill-conceived idea that she was going to pour bubble mix into the fan and then blow all sorts of delightful bubbles with it.  So I told her to rub it in, and that's how the table got washed.
 

You can probably tell just by looking at the photo, but in it we are withholding a banana from Rowan.  I believe the exact parenting strategy is called "try yer damn meat 'n' taters, boy, and then get yer banana."

Here's Lyla, rubbing it in again.

Their own kind

"I did it myself!"

"Rowan, you need to ask me or Mommy to pour your cereal from now on."

"No."

Aaand he's a teenager.

Later, I took them to the zoo to be among their own kind.

Little known trivia: Lyla has a slightly shorter wingspan than the great horned owl.

Rowan: significantly shorter.

Here in the play area, the kids got a second wind.  I never did.

And then here is how they responded to my edict that they must not fall asleep on the way home, lest they ruin their nap time, i.e. Daddy's break time.

Grampses

It's good to be Dad.

In other news, here's Gramps from yesterday:

He thinks they're keeping him in the hospital until Tuesday or so, though I don't have much more information than that.  The food there is decent and he likes to flirt with the nurses, so morale seems high.

Here's my mom's dad, Grandpa Pat.

He was telling my uncle Craig and me that he wanted us to collaborate on a book he's been writing in his head for years.  He's pretty sure it's going to make us all millionaires.  Tomorrow I'm going to mail him a digital voice recorder, so we'll see what happens.  It's a 2-gig recorder, so if he has over 72 hours of material, we might be in trouble.

Shared genes

I headed up to Duluth with my mom today for her mom's husband's 85th birthday party.  We also visited Gramps, who is still in the hospital and appears to be doing okay.  Maybe more on that tomorrow...

Meanwhile, Julie took the kids to an outdoor festival downtown and met Jen and Sienna there.

Later, back at Jen's condo, Lyla held Sienna.

The photo reminds me: Since Julie and Jen are identical twin sisters, wouldn't that make Lyla and Sienna genetic half-sisters?  Think about it. 

Home

Rowan, whose legs are too short for biking, did not authorize that emasculating photograph.

Gramps and I came back from Grand Marais a day early.  He wanted to see a doctor for various symptoms.  He called the nurse line to discover that no doctors were available, so the nurse told him to come to the ER.  I think they say that quite frequently to 87-year-olds.  Then after the ER he ended up getting admitted overnight for observation, etc. 

I haven't been able to get in touch with him today, not all that surprising considering he's not always able to hear/see/tolerate his cellphone.  But hopefully the old man is okay.  A little bit nerve-wracking to be alone with an ailing 87-year-old and 100 miles from his doctor, but it is what it is.  We had fun while it lasted.  And it is nice to be home with the above children.