Denver boy almost eats Jesus

The Vatican is cautiously investigating the miraculous claim of a toddler from Denver, CO. The alleged miracle occurred on Monday evening, November 30 at the residence of Charles Shelton, 2, and his father, Mark Shelton. Charlie, as he is known, was seated in his high chair wearing his "spider" bib finishing the last of his Scooby-Doo branded fruit-flavored snacks. His father was steps away in the kitchen, contemplating Ruth Rikli's recipe for Glenda's Blueberry Yum-Yum from the pages of "Recipes and Remembrances: A collection by the United Methodist Women and their friends".

"I was standing there in the kitchen at the bar when I heard Charlie say, 'That's Jesus!'" A visibly emotional Mark Shelton recounted. "I went over to his high chair to see what he was jabbering about and that's when he handed it (the fruit-flavored snack) to me."

The fruit-flavored snack carrying the likeness of Jesus is produced by the General Mills Corporation. An attorney for General Mills responded by mail to our inquiry, stating: "The General Mills Corporation produces Scooby-Doo fruit-flavored snacks, not the Eucharist. It is Daphne, and not the image of Jesus."

Unmoved in his faith, Shelton, who is Protestant, not a Catholic, contacted the Vatican to have the miracle authenticated by the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. A Vatican bishop close to the case says the Shelton fruit snack miracle is being examined but is under scrutiny do to Mark Shelton's request for compensation.

"Generally, the church is quite discerning of frauds and extorters," the Vatican bishop said.

Shelton, who has been a full-time father for a year, has been linked to easy money schemes. Back in August he was seen at the customer service desk at King Soopers grocery store scratching an instant lottery ticket. Close circuit video from the store was obtained and the allegation has been substantiated.

The Vatican bishop added, "but it is plausible that God would chose to work through such a corrupted vessel."

"I know what I saw and my boy did too." Shelton said unwaveringly. "Jesus loves little children. That's why Charlie could see it."

Doubt may cast a shadow over this miracle for some, but that has stopped miracle pilgrims from across the world to visit the divinely formed image at the Shelton home. The holy visage is kept in a Ball jar displayed over the Shelton fireplace and has drawn several thousand visitors. Shelton is accommodating the throngs of peasant believers by offering popcorn for $10 a bag. He is also selling tee shirts.

Panini

I could hear Charlie's voice tunneling down the narrow hallway. I was at the back of the house in the bedroom chamber. Clothing covered the bed. A heap of cotton and wool and polyester and spandex, stitching and weaving, rivets and zippers, threads, buttons, dyes. In the front of the house, Charlie played independent of my supervision. He has proven to be trustworthy. He can bang all he wants. It is the silence that catches my attention.

"Panini! Found a Panini!" I heard him say.

He is good at finding food crumbs around the house. Most days he has an appointment with detail small. The convergence of his exploration and the fact that I haven't run the vacuum for a couple days translates into a great many stale food objects uncovered. I can't normally get to him before he consumes the food. I don't get too worried. The vast majority of his finds are goldfish crackers. We were standing on the steep part of the back yard. Charlie lost his balance and rolled down the grade. His hat fell off his head. When he went to put it back on, one of those goldfish crackers fell out the hat lining to the ground. Charlie smiled, said "Goldfish!" scooped the cracker from the grass and ate it.

I could not remember the last time I had made a Panini at home. It had been weeks, I was sure. The image of rotting meat and sour mayonnaise motivated me into action.

"Charles!" I shouted. I ran down the hall. I hoped I could make it.

When I rounded the corner, I found him standing there with his arm outstretched.

"Panini! I found a Panini!"

It wasn't a Panini. He was holding a penny.

Sheridan, Wyoming

Charlie started yawning on the way home from the mall while Willie sang us a song about angels getting too close to the ground. We are both tired. Jill is out of town. She is in Wyoming. Her absence throws Charlie out of his rhythm. He woke up this morning at 4 am. I brought him into bed with me. After stacking pillows on the edge of the bed so Charlie would not roll off, I told him in a soft voice it was sleepy time. He laid his head on my pillow and was still. I began to drift off. Several minutes later. I was awakened by Charlie's dark face hovering above me whispering, "It's sleepy time."

He woke me at least six times just like that. I may have been dreaming of two of the occurances though.

I finally decided to get out bed at 730am, an hour and a half after Charlie began bringing books into the bed from the living room shelf. I was in and out during that time. I thought I heard the front door open once. That gave me alarm.

The chaos of getting him ready was somewhat controlled. He has been on edge because he hasn't passed a noteworthy stool in some days. At least I haven't been privy to one. I added a stool softener to the orange juice I served with his oatmeal which he prefers "just right", not too cold or too hot, with brown sugar, sans raisins. Daddy likes raisins. Charlie does not like raisins.

I told him a story before his nap because he was wanting Mommy.

His calls they were a homing

to his mother there in Sheridan,

in Sheridan, Wyoming.

She is somewhere, I said,

she is nowhere,

Where the bighorn sheep are roaming.

She is in a meeting in Sheridan,

in Sheridan, Wyoming.

Don't fret dear child,

Don't fear the churning sea,

the tempest gurgling and foaming,

'cause there's no water there in Sheridan,

in Sheridan, Wyoming.

It was enough to put him at ease.

Play ball

Charlie is learning how to throw a baseball. He terrifies me. He prefers his right hand to throw. He holds the ball in his right hand over his head. He walks around like that with his outstretched arm over his head and the ball in his hand; the Statue of Liberty pose is what I call it. He gives me no indication when he will throw the ball, not a cadence, not a windup, not a glance. He doesn't release his grip on the ball until his unbent arm is at 90 degrees. If he is more than four feet away, I anticipate where the ball land on the floor and the hop it will take. These throws are easier to field. But most of the time he charges me and is directly over me when he delivers a high speed fastball. The best defense for me is to shield my face with my arms. It is a cowardly reaction. I am a coward, but my face is uninjured.

Charlie loves listening to music in the car. As soon as he is strapped in and buckled he begins demanding it. "Listen to music!" He says. "On road again!"

I carry two CDs in my car and one of them I don't listen to. The one I do listen to is Willie Nelson's Greatest Hits. Charlie special requests "On The Road Again" and "Unclouded Day" every time we go somewhere. Jill has a larger selection of music discs than I have. He knows which music goes with which car. From Jill's albums Charlie enjoys, "Yolanda" from a compilation and "Upside Down" by Die On The Cross (This is not religious music, it is just the way he pronounces Diana Ross.)

He is quite the music critic. After the first three measures of a song, if he hasn't said "different" he will listen to the entire song. When he especially likes the song, when it is over he says, "Good one! Yeah."

I bought Charlie a globe. He can locate Madagascar off the East coast of Africa where the Aye-Aye lives. It also lives at the zoo, in the "dork".

We are dancer

The results of the poll are in. We are dancer.

Charlie wants candy for breakfast now. I don't give in to his demands. He has quite a bit leftover in his bag. The neighbor adjacent to us gave him a handful of those orange wrapped peanut butter flavored confections. I don't like those. He couldn't hear very well. I have never yelled at close range and been calm.

The Halloween turnout was marginal. I shut the porch light off at 8:15 and stood in the dark by the front picture window with a cocked air rifle concealed beneath my robe. The moon was bright here in Denver. Not sure if it could be seen over game 3 of the World Series of Major League Baseball. Charlie and coyotes howl at the moon. He is good at howling.

I strung some Christmas lights around the twisted branches of the crabapple tree out front. That crabapple is sensitive to weather. We had a late snow the killed the fragrant pink blooms this spring. One day last fall I just happened to be at the window in Charlie's bedroom looking out at the tree when a dozen or so songbirds swarmed the branches and in a matter of minutes stripped the entire tree of its small berries. I missed the birds this autumn. I was hoping Charlie could watch them plunder the branches bald.

It is early for Christmas lights but I wanted to take advantage of the break in weather. Half of one strand doesn't work. I removed the lights from the gazebo. The roof of my gazebo took on too much snow and collapsed. The aluminum frame bent at each of the four corners. I took off the canvas covering. I should have done that before the heavy snow fell. It is now a sad skinless structure.

All is quiet. The whole house fan is running. It suppresses the sound my keystrokes make. Charlie ate a peabutter-jelly sandwich, a container of sweet potatoes and a container of prunes for lunch. He self regulates his diet. When his bowels haven't moved for a day, he begins to special request prunes. I am serious.

Bedtime stories

A young boy could barely finish his applesauce. He half heartedly scooped it up with his spoon and raised it up toward his mouth. When he thought his father had turned away, the boy slowly rotated the rubbery black handle until the applesauce leapt onto the tray below with a splat. "All done," He said. "I am all done."

That boy's name was Charlie and he was about to depart his home dressed as a Hooded Capuchin monkey with a banana in his pocket. He made a discovery the day before that was to alter the course of his consciousness forever. For that was when he discovered Skittles. He was tentative at first observation of the candy coated rainbow of flavors. But there was a letter on each one of them. It was an "S". S is a good letter. Perhaps it is his favorite. S stands for snake and seahorse and Spokane and Silky and strange and of course splat. After he tasted the first one, he abandoned caution. He took another and another and another. He danced in a circle. His father and mother called him Circle Man. He felt as if his tiny feet could leave the floor, as if sugar was lighter than air. He wondered what the old ladies at the nursing home had given him. Why had they doted over him so? He spun around more. He tried to remember the hands of those old women. Thin, bony hands with brown and purple spots. His mother had told him to smile and say "Trick or treat" but all he could do was stare at their faces that looked wrinkled like the raisins he extracts and studies from his breakfast bowl of oatmeal. But the women smiled and they seemed happy mostly. And it didn't matter if they had purchased the Skittles or if the head warden had gone to the store herself and bought them and gave them to the women who then gave them to the children. It didn't even matter if they had teeth. For it wasn't tool long ago that he didn't have teeth.

He did try to fly, but he fell down. "What happened, Charlie?" He wondered out loud. "What happened?" The magic of the skittle was fading. The high was rapidly deteriorating. "Want more!" But the answer was no. At least, not until he finished his applesauce. But Charlie knew that all he really had to do was make it appear that he had finished his applesauce. For that reason, he took scoops, huge ones, from his bowl and began the great deception. The first scoop went on his bib. The next on the tray. And another. A small amount fell to the floor. The final bit of convincing came in the form of two large drips, one on each corner of his mouth. That is when he said "I am all done."

Charlie changed into his costume after dinner. Not long afterward, there came a knock at the door. It was a black and white dog and a fireman. But there was no emergency. Even so, he remembered 9-1-1 as the exact sequence of numbers to push on the phone in case a real emergency were to happen. The dog and fireman were carrying candy. Had they gone to the nursing home, he wondered.

That's when they left the house, he and his Dad. The sidewalks were cleared of snow, but they were wet. The monkey costume made his feet appear larger than they actually are. Big or little, man or monkey, feet love puddles. He splashed around in one until his father carried him half way to the door of an unfamiliar house. There they stopped. There they stood. "Go to the door and knock." His father said. "Say trick or treat and put your bag out."

And so that is what he did. He reached out, made a fist and gently rapped on the cold glass door with his knuckles. A stranger appeared behind the glass with a wicker basket. When the door creaked opened, Charlie retreated a few steps. He remained in lingo between his father who waited halfway up the walk and the stranger at the door. Two people approached up the walk, the brothers Ghengis and Shaka Kahn. Past Charlie they walked to the door. They said "trick or treat" and the man with the wicker basket put candy in their suitcases. That emboldened Charlie to do the same and to do it himself. He marched back up the walk, to the door, to the stranger, thrust out his bag and received his first candy handout. Oh the way it made him feel. He wanted to open it right on the spot and eat the candy on the porch. He wanted to feel weightless again and fly like the monkeys in the Wizard of Oz and share a smile with the women at the nursing home and listen to Willard Scott's voice. Those things made him happy. All at once he was happy and elevated. He made more stops like that during the night until he wore just wore out from doing it. His bag was full. "All done," he said, "I am all done."

Measured

As a first time parent, those growth charts are extremely important. So much meaning rests within a single point plotted somewhere on the grid. It is not just a dot. It is your child against the world. Where the dot falls is how your child measures up. Before they can sign and talk and rollover and play sports and read and go to college, the length, weight and head circumference of your child is all they have as a basis of comparison. It is surely to come up if you talk to other parents you meet. I can recall one conversation I had with a woman at the Denver Children's Museum. Our children were independently playing next to each other.

"How old is your son?" The woman asked.

"He's twelve months." I said.

"He looks tall!"

"He does look tall, but he's only in the 50^th percentile for height." I admitted. "How about your daughter?"

"He is a boy."

Charlie hated to be measured. He cried when the nurse laid him face up on a yardstick. He arched his back. His big head rolled from side to side, never staying on the inch-wide piece of wood. To me it seemed like the dark ages of medicine. In a world of artificial limbs and hearts, MRIs and sonograms, a yardstick is a crude tool. And it was rarely accurate. According to his chart record, Charlie actually got smaller between six and nine months.

I don't like to be measured either. Compared to societal standards, I feel extremely inadequate. Culture reinforces the picture of who a man should be rich, powerful, successful, fit, charismatic, independent, and tough. I am none of these. I am a stay-at-home dad. I am the anti-man.

The yardstick the world uses to measure a man is broken; extremely inaccurate and dependent on the hands of the inconsistent measurer. Often I try to be someone I am not in an effort to measure up. It is tiring to be everything to everyone. I am done trying to live up to a standard that is unachievable.

I watch Charlie make mistakes every day. He can't do things quite right. He makes a mess when he eats. He falls when he walks. He breaks valuables. He wastes untold gallons of water flushing the toilet. He tears pages out of books. He runs away when I chase after him. But he is more than a dot. His is greater than what he does. He is my son. At the end of the day, I take him into my arms and love him regardless. I am humbled by what being a father has taught me about God's love. I have come to know the absolute measure of a man is the length of God's arms extended in love for us which is not something we could achieve on our own. It had to be given to us. In that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Rom 5:8.

Help us move

Charlie and I are moving. You can follow us to our new home at the Examiner by clicking the link below.

http://www.examiner.com/examiner/x-25353-Denver-StayatHome-Dads-Examiner~y2009m10d10-Stayathome-Dad

See you there!

Mark and Charlie

Say it again, Charlie

Charlie is beginning to string some words together. Here are some.

He recognizes when has strayed farther than Dad is comfortable and anticipates my response by saying, "Come here, Charlie." Other preemptive statements include, ""Put it back." and "I don't think so."

"Let's go Rockies!" "Nice hit." "Todd Helton." "Steeerike!" Phrases emitted when relaxing on the couch watching baseball and sharing a bowl of halved grapes.

"What happened?" He says this when he falls down, runs into something, scrapes, dings, bruises or bonks. It is both a question and a statement of innocence.

Never imagined him saying ,"Take a nap." Of course, when I say it, he says, "No, don't like it!"

Before. "Go bicycle ride." After. "So much fun!"

"It's delicious!" His favorite foods are prunes, oatmeal, Nemos (fruit snacks), eggs, apples, grapes, almonds, meatballs, noodles, meatloaf, chicken tetrazzini, corn, sweet potatoes and rice.

"G'out!" Get out. Not a medical condition. Get out of bed. Get out of the shopping cart. Get out of the high chair during dinner. Get out of here Dad. Just because I'm little doesn't make me a fool. There is no such thing as wateraid. I want lemonade.

"Go play outside." At any time of day, Charlie prefers the great outdoors.

"Don't want it." Last night he didn't want his bedtime water until I put ice in it.

"Poopy diaper." Soon it will be time to try potty training again.

"Read a book." He says this when he wants to read a book and when he's stalling before going to bed.

"Mommy be here soon."

My favorite. "I love you."

Hallelujah!

I woke up this morning to Charlie's chatter. It was already light. Yesterday the sky was ashen and sober all day long. It was a good excuse for us to remain in our pajamas in our warm dry house. The fireplace has sat cold and empty for more than a year. I only have a few logs stacked near the fence outside. They have fungus growing on them. Fire doesn't discriminate.

We are not quite prepared for winter. Now is the time to check the gutters and close the vents and change the filter in the furnace and inspect it for leaks and call the chimney sweep and unhook the hoses and bring in the patio furniture and mount hooks to hang the bikes in the garage and change the oil in the snow thrower and put away my razor and bring up the flannel shirts and the long underwear from the basement. It's also a good time to uproot some of the perennials in the front flower bed to transplant elsewhere. I'm thinking about relocating the red sage to the bare section of slope in the back yard. Charlie knows that area as "muddy!" The sage's flowers hold their crimson color well into the frost. There are bushy Mugo pine out there too. I haven't even moved them. But they are small still. Their growth is negligible. They are barely distinguishable from the weeds. "Too TI-ny!" Charlie would say, as in an ill-fitting shirt.

I thinned out the crabapple tree in front of the house after getting inspired at the botanic gardens. I really hacked it quite a bit. But now you can see the trunk. Where it splays out the branches meander and contort.

Charlie and I went on a walk and a neighbor close by was tending to her yard. We chatted for a while. Charlie was shy. He gets silly. He stood up and turned around in his stroller and began to shake the stroller and call like a howler monkey. We left with a trash bag full of iris tubes. I like the idea of planting a few clumps beneath the newly trimmed crabapple just behind the creeping periwinkle.

Charlie goes out with me when I water and walks up the hill and then runs down it.

"Up the hill!" He looks at me and exclaims. He takes deliberate bounding steps up the grade. Then he gets to the top and I pray that when I look away to drag the hose and reset the sprinkler head that our new neighbor's Chesapeake Bay Retriever doesn't lurch his giant head through one of the gaps in the fencing and bite Charlie. Because that could happen.

I had this grand idea of building a retaining wall out along the east fence to hold the earth back. Now I'm reconsidering. I have myriad ideas; a fountain, a pond, a bridge, a deck, a treehouse, living plants. That's what happens when you buy a house and know nothing about landscaping. You have to learn as you go. And pretend you have some kind of a master plan in your head when your wife questions your ability.

I promise her a vegetable garden. I point out where I will plot it. She says, "You mean where the bushes (Russian Sage and Blue Beard) are?"

"I'll move them," I say with a wink.

Same with being a dad. I sat up, squinted and checked the clock. It was 7 am. I strained to comprehend his words, but they were unintelligible. "Ado-ba-do-ba-do-ba-do-ba-do!" Based on his language ability or lack thereof, I picture him as a great leader or a landscaper, respectively.

We got up and made breakfast together –oatmeal. I asked what we needed to make the oatmeal. "Bowl." He said. I retrieved the bowl from the cabinet. I asked what we needed next. "Next?" He thought. "Brown sugar." He said. "What else?" I inquired. He walked to the pantry, opened the door and pointed up to a shelf. "That!" He said. "What is that?" I asked. "Oatmeal." He said. I added water and put it in the microwave and I told Charlie to go to his room if he needed a dry diaper.

He sprinted down the hallway toward his room screaming along the way, "Dry diaper! Dry diaper! Hallelujah!"

Morning Breath

It never crossed my mind that Charlie would get morning breath. He does. I just noticed it. I lifted him from his crib. The skin on his cheeks was the red color of a warm afternoon nap. His hair was matted down on one side and ruffled on the other. Snot had dried and crusted around his nose and across his cheek where he had dragged his forearm. Hard sunlight infiltrated the room around the edges of the blinds. I knelt down to shut off the oscillating fan. In doing so I shifted Charlie's body to a reclining position. From that vantage point Charlie could reach out and squeeze my chin and I could look at the bumps and lines and ridges in the chalk pink roof of his mouth. I inspected his teeth. I found no visible signs of decay. They are coming in nicely too; well spaced, proportioned, straight. I never wore braces. But I have pointy incisors. Charlie has those. And he gets morning breath.

At the breakfast table, Charlie waved a star topped magic wand while I read the newspaper. The wand was a party favor. He said it was beautiful. I agreed.

Rockies

The poll results are in. The majority of respondents are fat. All I'm going to say about that is stop eating so much. And one of you is a liar.

It was a cold October afternoon at the ball park. And windy too. I'm glad I took the time to layer Charlie. I had everything covered but his face and hands. He sat in his seat and didn't move except to turn his head occasionally in the direction of something novel; the concession man walking up the steep stairs with a tray of four dollar hot chocolates, a woman down below us chanting "Let's go Rockies", the enormous scoreboard with numbers and letters, the pop and crackle of fireworks and trash blowing in the air. At times, Charlie seemed more interested in watching the trash hover in the air over the diamond than the game.

This has been a milestone week for Charlie. Not only did he go to playschool composed on Tuesday, today also marks his second full day off the bottle. He's handled it remarkably well.

I picked him up from the church childcare this morning and I told him today was the day. On the way home I prepped him.

"We're going to go home and you are going to take a nap like a big boy and when you wake up we can go to the baseball game. Okay?"

I waited for him to say, "No way!" He says that now. It sounds more like a teenager's statement of disbelief than an adamant toddler's refusal. As in:

"Hey Charlie, your dad is cool!"

"No way!"

But he didn't. He looked out the window and fumbled with his car seat buckle. When he does that, I don't know what he's thinking.

I laid in him in bed. There was no fuss. I put his baseball glove on the nightstand so he could see it. Charlie rolled over on his stomach and lifted his head.

"We'll need to take this with us to the game in case we have to catch a ball. Be a good boy and go to sleep." I said pointing to the mitt. "Have good nap."

He said, "Nap," laid his head on his forearm and fell asleep.

After the game I told Jill about this.

She responded. "You mean we can tell him to go to sleep and he'll do it?"

So as I promised we went to Coors Field. Someone handed me a free ticket at the gate and then we climbed the tower of Babel to arrive at our seats only rows from the top in the upper deck behind home plate. The whipping wind made Charlie's eyes water the entire game. His hands were frozen. They felt like little ice packs. I sat him in my lap and put my arms around him to keep him warm. We sat like that for almost two hours, but he loved it. So did I.

Challenge

I took Charlie to playschool today and a first happened. He didn't cry at all. On the way there, I explained to him what was about to transpire and exactly how I expected him to react.

"Charlie," I said, "we're going to preschool and you're going to have fun."

I kept talking, not giving him the option to whine.

"That's right. I'm going to take you to your preschool class. Your teachers will be there and all your friends are going to want to play with you and you are going to have fun."

"Fun?"

"Yes and you are not going to cry today when I drop you off. I want you to show me you are a good boy."

"Good boy."

"I am going to take you to class and your are going to carry your backpack to the door. No crying. You are a good boy. We are going to walk down the stairs. You will carry your own bag. If you require assistance, you may ask me, but no fussing. Say please."

"Please."

"Not now, just if you need help."

"When you get into the classroom, all your friends and teachers will be there. I want you to go get a book and start reading it to them. Get "Goodnight Moon". Open the cover and begin reading. You know it."

"Know it."

"And tell everyone you see what sound the "oo" makes. Like the "oo" in good and the "oo" in moon. If you can do this successfully and without crying, we will have something fun to do when I come back to get you."

"Fun! Come back."

"If you do as I have asked, I'll … I'll take you to see the Rockies."

"Baseball!"

Tune in Thursday for highlights of our trip to Coors field to see the Brewers take on the Rockies.

Trouble Sleeping

Charlie continues to wake up at the same time every morning, between 6am and 6:30am, but his going down time has slowly been edging up from 7pm to 9pm. Last night he didn't sleep well at all. It was sort of my fault.

As I have mentioned before, Jill and I made the decision to lock Charlie up at night to sleep and then let him out in the morning. It's called a crib tent, but it's basically a jail cell. The tent is made of mesh fabric which slips underneath his crib mattress, covers the crib rails and forms a dome over the top of the crib which is supported by two flexible tent rods. The zipper opening can only be accessed from the outside. It sounds terrible, but it is not. Because Charlie's physical development has outpaced his mental reasoning, it has kept him from serious injury. He can't climb out and hurt himself. And it has kept him from wandering into our room during the middle of the night.

So last night before I went to bed, I got the parental urge to go in and check in on him. But I had to be careful. A jet plane could graze our roof on its way to Centennial airport. They often do. They don't wake Charlie. But the slightest cajoling of a door handle spring, a cough, or the cell phone vibrating on the table will trigger all his senses. As such, I have had to become a super stealth when entering his bedroom. Precautionary measures start in the hallway where bare feet are unforgiving. Soft soled shoes are best when over the hardwood. They disperse the weight more evenly and absorb more of the energy. But the shoes must come off before the carpet. They are too much of a tripping risk. Once outside the door, intentional, rhythmic breathing is essential. This is where my training with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi has come in handy. The breathing when turning the door handle is similar to pulling the trigger on a rifle. I exhale and open simultaneously. The nightlight is weaker than a candle, but I've practiced so many times with a blindfold that my feet instinctively know where to fall to avoid the groans of the floor joists and step over the rocking footstool. With the exception of the black uniform and a harness rigged to the ceiling, I could be double for a Mission impossible movie. I made it to the crib without any disturbances.

Through the netting I could see that Charlie's head was covered by a pillow. I wouldn't have been able to sleep it I would have left it there. I handled the zipper like a bomb detonator, slowly moving the wedge down the slide, unhooking one tiny tooth at a time. Click. Click. Click. I debated the swift tug. It is effective in removing band aids and opening smuggled pop cans in hushed movie theaters, but I dismiss this idea. Not here. It is reckless. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The small of my back dampened. A tickle emerged in my throat. I tried to suppress it by swallowing. I paused. Headlights shone through the cracks in blinds. A box of shadows moved against the far wall as a car entered the cul-de-sac. Bumping music shook the house. Teenagers! Droopy pants! The music stopped. The car door slammed shut. Charlie shifted his leg! I clenched my teeth together. The tickle came back. My eyes watered trying to hold back a cough. Click. Click. Click. A third of the way. I lost it. I cleared my throat. It was minimal. I thought I had contained the sound within my armpit. But enough escaped to wake him.

It is truly amazing how quickly he can sit up. But more unbelievable was how fast I hit floor.

I sprawled out over the carpet, making myself as low to the ground as possible. All I could think about was if he saw me. Then he told me.

"I see him." Charlie said. I thought he might have been dreaming. Maybe he was imagining the night-dwelling aye-aye at the zoo in the darkened exhibit. This was all he said.

Quiet fell again. I sort of felt proud being able to outwit my not quite two year old son. But I had made a critical error. He realized it before I did.

"Leave it open!" Charlie shouted. His tone hardened. He was no longer in a dreamlike state.

"Leave what open?" I thought.

"Leave open! Zipper!"

It was then the image of the unzipped tent flap came to my mind and Charlie's eyes peering out through it into the dark, probing the room for the source of the tent breach. He must have felt the zipper, he knew the warmth must have come from a hand. He had a fifty fifty chance of guessing whose hand it was. He got it wrong.

"Mommy!" I could feel my heart thumping in my ears. My palms started to sweat. I desperately tried to return to that place, but it was broken. For Charlie, if something doesn't work, it is broken. If his shirt sleeves are too long, the shirt is broken. If the music is too loud, it is broken. If a particulate clogs the hole in the nipple of the milk bottle and he can't extract any milk, it is broken. My night, Jill's night and Charlie's night was broken.

Denver Botanic Gardens

Charlie and I went to the Denver Botanic Gardens today to check out the Jurassic Gardens Exhibit. Before going, I didn't read the website too carefully. If I would have, I'd have been aware there is major construction taking place on the grounds. While this means exciting new features in the future it also means a few present inconveniences. The bathrooms located in the gift shop were under repair. Plan on your children or adults to hold it until you get the tickets purchased and are able to walk to the main building a couple hundred yards away. Good for us, there was no one ahead of us at the ticket counter.
Once inside the gardens, the amazing outdoor landscaping awaits the eyes with negligible interruptions. However, audibly, the same can't be said. Behind a temporary wall on the North side of the gardens heavy equipment disturb the peace at all hours with very loud earthmoving. The noisy activity can be observed through one of several acrylic windows in the wall. It was distracting to me, but Charlie loved to watch!
Fortunately, the din dies down on the South end of the grounds and you can enjoy the fastidiously maintained gardens in relative quiet. Dispersed throughout many of the thirty-five gardens are impressive full-sized dinosaur replicas. There is also a hands-on dinosaur dig for children and displays with prehistoric plants. At the same venue Charlie learned "Edmontasaurus" and I got some great ideas for xeriscaping my front lawn. Just over two hours was sufficient for us to take it all in before lunch time. After which we enjoyed the nice on-site cafeteria with an edible, if not tasty, menu.
More information about the Denver Botanic Gardens can be found at www.botanicgardens.org.

Bringing the midriff back

Charlie can't find a coat that he likes. He cried until I removed a vest coat this morning. "Don't like it! I don't like it! Fix it! Oooh! Oh! Oh!"

We settled on a hooded jacket – only after I zipped it. I found out it was too small for him, but not until we got to the Children's Museum. It was outside. It was sprinkling. I slipped the hood over his head and the hem of his jacket lifted above his waist. I haven't seen a belly shirt on a man since 1989 when my oldest brother used to remove the midriffs from tee shirts with pinking shears. He also taught me how to peg my jeans.

This morning's coat denial is really the visible peak of an entrenched clothing snobbery. He abhors long sleeves. He claims they are broken. Anything but snug tight pajamas are absolutely wrong. He'll remove them. Or he'll cry until one of us removes them. He is picky about his headwear. He will accept his Junior Zookeeper hat and his bicycle helmet. But that is only because he knows wearing them usually means passage to the zoo or a bike ride, respectively.

We missed the Gaddafi rant at the U.N. this morning. I wonder if little Muammar was a finicky dresser. "No mommy, this robe doesn't fit and I am the king of the world!" I think he's a mook, but having Charlie gives me perspective. He's still someone's son.

Charlie loves road signs. The Children's Museum has a wooden crate full of road signs. His favorite three signs are the railroad crossing, speed limit and watch out for bicycles. Charlie was on good behavior today. He pretended to cook in the mock kitchen and he sat the table. An older boy took one of the chairs he had pulled up. Charlie did not seemed bothered at all.

On the way home he spotted a sign.

"Speed lemon. Twenty," he stated from the car seat.

"That's speed limit. And it's sixty-five." I said.

We played a new game in bed this afternoon. It was called timber. The idea is to stand up in the bed and fall over stiffly like a felled tree. We had fun. His laughter is contagious.

We had dinner at Gunther Toody's tonight. It's a diner, lots of chrome and checkerboard pattern. Charlie ordered his own food, a hamburger and lemonade. He discovered the wonderful condiment ketchup, into which he dipped his French fries.

By the way, thanks for responding to the previous poll. The results are now in. Zero percent of respondents know anyone with Mesothelioma. I have posted a new poll.

Charles Shelton Interview

The air temperature dipped so low this morning it snowed for a brief time. Charlie and I ran from the car to a giant indoor rummage sale. We stuck our tongues out the entire way. The gray skies and rain now keep us indoors. This is as good an opportunity as I am going to get to interview my son. I offer him a seat in a gingham green and white chair across from me. He refuses. I am in his element. Of course, everywhere is his. He stands next to the crowded bookshelf, eyeing the spines.

"I see you have quite a collection of books. Is there one book that has influenced more than others?"

"Wyoming. Wyoming. Wyoming."

"Wyoming? I don't recall that one. What is Wyoming about?

"Mommy. Wyoming. Preschool." Jill took a plane to Wyoming this morning for work. She returns tomorrow night. Charlie has playschool tomorrow morning. I am not as nervous as I was last time.

"Preschool? Tell me more."

Charlie ignores me and sits down. "Socks off." Charlie is not the typical interviewee. His responses make Joaquin Phoenix seem normal.

"Socks or bare feet?" I ask.

"Pear. Pray. Ah-ha. Thought. Sit." Charlie wanders into the dining room and begins to push a toy truck along the floor. He rams it into the wall. I try to engage him.

"Hot or cold?"

"Cold."

"Oranges or apples?"

"Apples."

"Boys or girls?"

Charlie takes a long pause.

"Boys or girls?" I ask again.

No answer.

"Who is your best friend in the whole world?"

Something has his attention. "Aunt Jackie!" He bellows. There is no uncertainty.

"Do you have any mortal enemies?"

"Memeny?"

On to something else. "Hardwood floors or carpet?"

"Carpet."

"Inside or outside?"

"Outside. Outside. Out. Side."

"Do you have any plans for the future?"

"Future?"

"Like tomorrow. What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"Papa."

Charlie begins to push a Hotwheel car across the floor. It is a Mitsubishi Eclipse. He uses his body to push the car. His body lunges forward farther than the car.

"Where is your favorite place to go?"

"Ni hau!" He must be thinking about the Shanghai Kitchen restaurant next to the Ebay store. When it's nice outside we love to stroll down the strip mall.

"How many languages do you speak?"

"Five minutes. English. English."

"Do you speak any other languages besides English?"

"Wyoming."

"Why is Wyoming so important to you?"

"Wyoming. Truck."

"What has been the impact of technology on society?"

"Think. I love chocolate." He responds.

"What will the world be like in thirty years?" I ask.

He pulls at strands of carpet.

"What is your favorite poem?"

"Po-em. Ulalume."

"What is your favorite book?"

"Ulalume."

"What do you like about Ulalume?"

"Sober." The first line of Ulalume ends in sober. The skies they were ashen and sober.

"What are your thoughts on global warming?"

"Wyoming. I think so."

"I'll give you one word and you give me a one word response, okay?"

"Okay."

"Daddy?"

"Paper."

"Mommy?"

"Please."

"Grandma?"

"Grandpa. Operator. Tell you."

I remind him I only need a one word reply. We continue.

"Gigi?"

"Move the cord!"

"Gigi?"

"Papa?"

He tugs at the waistband of his diaper. "Do you need a new diaper?" He does not respond.

"Who do you love?"

"Courtney! Puppies." Courtney is the babysitter. Charlie loves Courtney.

"If you were going to be shipwrecked on an island, what would you take with you?"

"Diaper bag. Fort Collins." Gigi and Papa live in Fort Collins.

"Are you ready for your nap?"

"Nooooo!" I didn't expect any other answer there.

"Tell me about the park?"

"Truman. Last night. Last night. Last night."

"Do you go to the park very often?"

"Often."

"What do you like to eat?"

"Prunes. Microwave."

With a nap looming we decided to continue the interview with a few more questions over dinner. Charlie watched me fry bacon and scramble eggs from his perch on a mission style chair in the center of our kitchen out of range of the hot popping grease. We experimented with pancake batter. We modified the Bisquick recipe by adding more milk and substituting a portion of mix for cake flour. We watched the pancakes bubble on the griddle surface. To the second trial we added malted milk and powdered sugar. Lastly, we poured in vegetable shortening and more sugar.

We sit down together at the table to enjoy the food and each other's company.

"Where did Mommy go?" I ask.

"Vacation. Hospital. Telephone. Playground. Watch out!"

"What do you watch out for at the playground?"

"Boys."

"You watch out for boys?"

"Girls."

"I see." Charlie bites the edges from a pancake.

"What is your favorite thing about Mommy?"

"Toot." I ask for his confirmation. He confirms.

"About Daddy?"

"Last night."

"What happened last night?"

"Last night. Last night. Last night. What happened? Last night. Come here Charlie. Come here Charlie. Chimpanzee. Chimpanzee. Chimp."

"Did you see a chimpanzee last night?"

"Last night. Done." He picks up his plate from his tray.

"Are you done with your food?"

"Take it. Take it. Everywhere." He hands me his plate.

He picks up the half-eaten pancake and the sippy cup from the tray and places them on the table. He throws the remaining scrambled eggs on the floor. Then he slaps himself on the face.

"Last night." He says.

"Do you remember what happened last night?"

"Last night. Milky and silky. Done. Out. Get out. Help you."

"Okay."

That was end of the interview. I put Charlie into a one piece pajama outfit since it is so chilly in his room and readied his bottle. Under dimmed lighting, Charlie and I wound down on the couch. Charlie sucked on the bottle and fingered his blanket Silky. I read poems, Ulalume and The Bells. Staring at the lights, we sang softly "Jesus Loves Me", "Edelweiss" and the "Dukes of Hazard" theme song.

After each reading and song he removed the nipple from his lips, smiled and said, "Like it."

"I like it too." I said running my fingers through his hair. I thought how similar his hair is to the girl, Bella, who we met at the Botanic Gardens. "I like it too." I repeated.

To air is to be two

Despite Charlie's precociousness, he is still prone to err. His most obvious blunders are language related, but the mistakes are subtle. Here is an example. Read closely.

For dinner we bow our heads and pay for the food.

We pray for the groceries at King Soopers.

Additionally.

"You" is the only personal pronoun you use. As in, "carry you, help you, and hold you."

Charlie is still smelling words and spelling flowers.

Charlie believes two men live in our house. Daddy and "Maaaarrrrrkkkk!"

But Charlie is completely normal. I remember singing John Lennon's, "Skippy's a Champ."

To make a long story short

Chasing After Charlie is a month old. Charlie and I thank you for hanging around. Thanks for your comments too. From them, I have learned a few things about blogging.

Here is some of the more constructive feedback.

Earl from Texarkana, TX said, "I like yer pictures. I'd read more if you wrote less."

"Your polls look like adverts. Are you selling my data?" – Edward, Liverpool

Dawn C. wrote, "More about Charlie, less about you."

"I don't have time to read a dang book every day. That last post was so long I couldn't make it through Golden Girls." - Joe D. from Pensacola

My own mom wrote, "Don't need your whole day. Just the high points PLEASE."

Your comments were brief and I will be too. From now on, my pledge to you is to keep posts around 400 words. After working on a book for a year and writing at least 1,000 words a day, it's been hard to change gears. But it's a relief. Charlie agrees. I'll have more time to chase after Charlie, and Joe, you'll be able to get through Golden Girls (I love Bea Arthur) without falling asleep. Hopefully I'll be able to avoid mistakes like forgetting to give Charlie's preschool staff a spare diaper for Charlie. When I changed him before his nap I found that his diaper was a size too small and it had "Anna" written on it.

Ed, my polls are not advertisements. I do not and will not advertise on my blog. I do not make any money from my blog. However, if you'd like to contribute to Charlie's college fund, I can send you the address.

Here's to another month of Chasing After Charlie.

Sincerely,

Mark and Charlie

Part two.

I raced out to the garage with the backpack, the lunch bag, and a grocery bag with the completed forms and the required tissue and wipes and got in the car. Time was running out. The car was almost out of gas. Jill trailed after me with Charlie in her arms. I turned the engine over, put the car in gear and backed right into the garage door. Going forward, I ran over the lawn mower. Jill's exasperated eyes and Charlie's scared face told the entire story. If only I could get us there before the iron curtain lifted, everything would be okay.

As soon as Charlie caught sight of the church from the car window, he cried. "Don't want it! Don't want it," he yelled. Back bent and crying, Charlie dragged his heavy lunch bag to the stairs leading down to the class. It was a pitiful scene. He looked like he was being sentenced to prison labor camp, carrying his own tools.

But with minutes to spare we made it. The metal curtain rose. The seasoned parents heaved their children through the window. One, two, three children flew over.

I wanted to go in there with him, but I knew I couldn't. I had to let go of thinking that I can be everything, all the time for Charlie. He's got to learn to make his own way, stand up to the biter in class, be fearless on the playground, exert his will, and become who God created him to be. I made the transfer quick. I milled around outside for a few minutes. A mom exited and saw me loitering. She told me to go home and that Charlie had stopped crying.

Once home I looked at those pictures I'd taken of him. I hardly recognized him. Charlie is becoming a little man. After I stopped crying, Jill told me she was impressed that I brushed Charlie's hair.

I stood in front of the iron curtain again at the end of the day. It came up. The children rushed the opening like hungry piglets jockeying for an open teat. Charlie was near the back reaching his arms up and calling out for me. In the security of my arms, Charlie's face lit up. He was exhausted, but I think he had fun. Charlie fell asleep on the bike ride home through the park.

And God said, “Let there be playschool.” Part One

I am finally calmed down. Classical guitar is playing over the radio at Starbucks. A tall Americano is such a treat. There is a lull before all the high school kids come upon the store like a muster of confused screaming peacocks in skinny jeans.

I was a wreck this morning for Charlie's first full day of playschool. It started last night on my way home thinking about what I would pack Charlie for lunch. I couldn't remember what the school had recommended. The list of suggested items was buried somewhere deep within the voluminous student manual we got last week. I stopped by King Soopers to grab some snacks for Charlie. I bought Sunmaid raisins because the generic brand is just not as good. I was sort of overwhelmed. The grocery store has so many choices. I chose three ears of Olathe sweet corn. I bought a six-pack of prepackaged mandarin oranges. All I could think Charlie might want to eat was what I always wanted when I was a kid. I wanted cookies. I bought three bags of cookies; chewy chocolate chip, chocolate chunk, and M&M. The habit of eating my emotions is genetic.

It was late when I arrived home. Charlie was in bed. I spent a couple hours filling out an application to write for an internet publication. When I hit the sack, Jill and I noticed a putrid smell coming up from the drain in the shower which it does from time to time. Jill spritzed the entire bedroom and bathroom with a tropical body spray. As I stared at the shadows on the dark ceiling the mist settled into my eyes and lungs. Tears flooded my eyes and it felt like I was wearing a corset. (or what I might imagine a corset feeling like since I have never worn one). I had a panic attack. This prompted me to move to the office and sleep on the twin bed for the remainder of the night. When my eyes finally stopped burning I was kept awake further into the evening by the blinking neon blue LED light on the computer router. I must have complete darkness to sleep.

I woke up to Charlie crying for Daddy. If I pretend not to hear him I can normally count on Jill to rouse and go to the kitchen and get him a bottle of milk ready. That was the case this morning. After some time I heard Jill talking Charlie into waking me up in the office. Charlie came to the side of the bed and said good morning. It was almost eight o'clock. Playschool started at 9am. That's when I started to freak out. The anxiety was all about the iron curtain. The iron curtain is like a metal garage door located in the pickup/dropoff window which can be raised and lowered in the event of an elevated terror alert or when school begins and ends. Well the iron curtain is closed in the morning and then, at 9am sharp the iron curtain is lifted. Charlie's day begins. I don't understand it, but I was having this obsession over the iron curtain. I had to be there before it was raised or something terrible would happen. Of course that's nonsense, but that's just where I was in my head. Not to mention all the kinds of thoughts about getting Charlie ready swirling around there too; packing his lunch, packing his bag, making sure his registration forms were filled in, having his two boxes of tissue and one package of wet wipes ready, choosing an outfit that's cute but able to be soiled, choosing a spare outfit including socks, load his wide brimmed zookeeper hat and a jacket for outdoor play, write a note of encouragement to include in his lunchbox, finding a divided food container which would fit in his lunchbox, getting ham and eggs cooked for breakfast, dressing Charlie, preparing his lunch, going with grapes instead of raisins, halving the grapes, all before the iron curtain ka-chunk ka-chunked up at 9am.

Jill knows enough to avoid me during these psychotic outbursts. She played a rather graceful dance partner to a clumsy brute. She helped me fill in the forms. She asked me what Charlie's likes were. I told her books and music and running and playing and blocks. I told her his favorite animal is a lemur from Madagascar, the aye-aye. No species of lemur lives anywhere but Madagascar. I made her write all that down. I started flipping through the yellow pages of the student handbook searching for things I'd possibly overlooked. I could only think about the iron curtain so I closed the manual and got my camera and hastily staged a few first day of playschool pictures on the front porch. Jill put the backpack on Charlie's shoulders. "Don't like it," he grumbled and then he wiggled out of it. I snapped some pictures. He said, "Cheese!" He was actually cooperative. He put up a fight coming back inside. Jill asked me what he dislikes. I told her, "His backpack and obedience."

It was a far different mood yesterday at dusk when I jogged Charlie out to the park. It was so peaceful. I stopped running when we got to the lake and let Charlie get out of the stroller. Leaving the main paved path that circumnavigates the reservoir, we followed a small trail through the tall grasses and trees. There we looked for a cheetah and a zebra. Charlie found a cheetah in the tree. I squashed a mosquito taking a blood sample from my forehead. We broke from the wood and came upon the beach. We heard two frogs splash in the stagnant water of the reed-lined wetlands near the shore when we walked by. The packed trail became sandy and Charlie asked me to "fix it." I removed his croc shoe and dumped out a tablespoon of gritty sand. Then, I put the shoe back on. Two steps later, he said "Hurt. Fix it," again. I let him walk barefoot to the water.

I squatted in the sand alongside him and watched as he picked up handfuls of the beach and tossed them into small waves. A handful of sand hitting the water sounds like a silk scarf being torn. I showed Charlie a seashell. He threw it in the water. I had no anxiety. I watched as one small humped wave kept being replaced by another. The chirrup, chirrup, chirrup of stridulating crickets in the woods followed the rhythmic pattern of the waves. As one song ended another began. I wondered how long it would take for Charlie to throw all the sand on the beach into the water.

The certain quietude of those gentle waves had been whipped into a ferocious tempest by morning. The iron curtain would soon lift.

Make sure he's breathing

It rained off and on today. Dibble dibble dopp. Dibble dibble dibble dibble. Dopp dopp doop. The clouds moved quickly. Jill and I walked through the Aspens. They are tall. We saw some that looked like knotty elephant legs. Some of them looked backed at us. It took hiking a mile away from the village before we escaped the oompah of the polka music. Finally. Fricker was wearing the same tight lederhosen and playing the same old tunes.

I talked to Charlie over the phone. He played us "Clementine". I miss checking on him at night in his crib. It always a surprise to see the position he ends up in or which end of the crib he rests his head. Sometimes it is neither end. I can't remember the last time I slept with my head at the foot of the bed. It makes me feel awkward imagining it. He's so cute when he's curled up in a ball with his legs tucked under him and his big diaper sticking up in the air.

I worried the other day during his nap. It had been almost three hours and I hadn't even heard him stir. Normally I wouldn't dare open the door and risk waking him prematurely, but I broke my rule out of fear. As quietly as I could I turned the handle down and cracked the door. It took me a minute to locate him amid the animals and blankets and pillows. He was on his stomach. His head was burrowed in a green blanket. His legs were splayed apart and covered in blue and white striped pajama pants. His diaper poked out of his waistband. I steadied my eyes on his body waiting for a sign. Then I thought I say motion. Maybe a shallow rise of his back. I couldn't be sure. I blinked my eyes. The tent mesh and the crib bars fooled my vision, exploited the astigmatism in my right eye. I waited longer just to be sure. I got nervous. I wanted to go in there and try to rouse him, but I didn't. I also worry that I'll wait too long to start chasing after him when he runs toward the street. Then I saw movement for sure. That was a relief.

It's a relief to be coming home too. I see it too up in the sky. Goodnight moon.

Down in the Valley

I'm in Vail. I'm sitting on bench in a plaza in the shadow of a five story chalet style condominium. The manufactured pavers are designed to resembled cobbles. They're too uniform. I'm off to one side of the square dressed to look like a Bavarian village. The exterior is new, whitewashed, limestone walls cut from nearby hillside which is green yet and carved up for people who enjoy sliding down on sticks when there's snow on the ground. It is green, but you can see the pine beetle damage; lodgepole pine trees in shades of burnt umber and sienna, cadmium yellow and green aspen. Charlie is at home with Gigi and Jill is in a conference room back at the hotel. I spoke with Charlie this morning over the phone. He whispered, "Hi, Daddy." I said, "Good morning!" Then he said, "Love-a-you" from the back of his mouth because his sinuses are clogged. "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" was playing in the background in synthesized notes from one of his electronic gizmos. That particular toy has all the letters of the alphabet on it, each one, when pushed, plays a unique song. "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" is letter Q. W is "When the Saints Go Marching In."

It takes discipline to stop and look at the environment like Charlie does. Mostly it means I have to empty my mind of all excess worry. When I do that, I am able to see things like Charlie does. If Charlie were here he'd be interested in the two tiered bronze fountain dribbling water from a small bowl on top to a bigger bowl and finally to the basin. Lion's heads provide form and function to the base of the fountain structure, streams of water flowing from their mouths. The door to the café is a rectangle. The peak of the roof forms a triangle. The half white moon on the blue sky looks like Wedgewood. Charlie can always spot the moon. The world is becoming familiar and visceral to him. He can depend on the moon, the sky, the clouds and the sun.

The village is just beginning to come alive. Foreign tongues echo off the stone surfaces as a crew assembles a sound stage for the kickoff of Oktoberfest. A big white tent is raised. Charlie would notice the covered walkway overhead linking one building to the next. He would notice the steel arches supporting the bridge. There is a clock in one of the towers with a blue face and gold roman numerals. Charlie would say, "tick-tock."Every so often he mentions the pendulum which dangles in the grandfather clock in the mint green room at Grandma's house. "Pendulum. Clock. Grandma." What makes him think of that? The swinging arms of an ambling pedestrian? The sway of a wind-blown bird feeder hanging from the soffit by a length of twine? From another clock, in a different tower, a bell chimes twelve times. Charlie might think of Poe and the undulating roll of the toller's stomach in the belfry as he dances and yells, keeping time, time, time. Perhaps he'd notice the twisted, frolicking ironwork which to me, looks like Sanskrit.

A foursome of Asian tourists as delicate as rice paper is crossed by a construction crew whose mangy pants and work boots are caked with red clay. I am keen to contrasts. Charlie and I watched a brazen bulldozer scoop buckets of heavy wet earth. We had to go all the way to the tranquil botanic gardens to do so. We saw a cockroach the size of an ipod nano on the tile floor outside the men's room. To my knowledge it was the first cockroach he'd seen outside of the pages of a picture book. The roach was not a featured exhibit. We met a boy named Jack during lunch. Charlie was almost a Jack. Jack's sister was named Bella. Jack and Bella were eating in the cafeteria with their Grandparents. Grandma was talkative. Grandpa was not. She couldn't get over how similar in color and texture Charlie and Bella's hair appeared. "It's almost exactly the same," she exclaimed. I wasn't as impressed.

I am reminded of Charlie. Animal reliefs are etched on the patchwork of concrete slabs, brown bears and Rocky Mountain Big Horn sheep. I hoped we would spot a Big Horn at Roxborough State Park but we didn't. Charlie was my spotter in the pack.

"See'em. Big Horn." He'd say.

"Where?"

"Down dare," he said pointing to the lower elevation foliage in the distance.

"Are you sure? You see a Big Horn down there?"

He adamantly responded. "Down dare. Big Horn."

A mountain goat is part of starry mural on a clock. A goat has a beard. A sheep does not. A green hose snaked over the ground makes a tripping hazard. Charlie might recognize this. "Be careful." He will say when he senses danger. I removed his socks the other day. He kept repeating "suppry." I didn't know what he meant.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"Suppry!" He pointed toward the kitchen.

"I don't understand. What are you saying?"

He was frustrated. Obviously he knew what he was talking about. After I took off his socks I brought him from my lap to the floor.

"Show me what you mean," I said.

He ran toward the kitchen, stopped in the middle of the hardwood floor, bent over and touched a shiny maple plank with his finger. "Suppry," he said, "Socks off."

"Oh, I see. The floor is slippery. You need to take your socks off."

Charlie likes the hose. He likes to hold it all by himself and water the flowers and shrubs in the yard. "Help you." He says. He does a pretty fine job. I have to keep on him to point the end down or he ends up dousing himself, but he takes orders and instruction fairly well. He grips the hose firmly with two hands for better control. He is able to walk the hose from plant to plant and generally is able to discern an intentional plant from a weed.

Charlie would want to tackle the steps leading down to the square. He is adept at using the railing. He detests most aid I offer him. "No!" He protests. "Charlie. Do it." He beams when he accomplishes a task on his own. I tell him how proud I am of him.

Well Charlie, now the sun is going down. I'm sure the moon is out, but I can't see it. Mommy and Daddy are at Oktoberfest. I know it is September. I don't understand either. There are many people packed into a small space. If you were here, you'd have to hold my hand or you could ride on my shoulders. You would have fun! Mommy almost did the chicken dance. You'll have to ask her about the chicken dance. You have to tuck your hands under your armpits and flap your arms like the eagle that soars over the water at the mall. The Fricker band is on stage. I think the leader's name is Hans. He is wearing velvety green lederhosen and he's stoking the accordion bellows. An accordion is like a piano with lungs. We miss you tonight. The Hans Fricker band played Edelweiss and it made us think of you.

I saw a white dog with black spots lapping lager from a stein. The man next to me is trying to impress a girl by speaking in German. What do you think it means when he says "I think it means…" after each phrase? The girl doesn't know or care what he saying. They must be in lieb.

Mom has been walking around by herself. A vendor is someone who sells something aggressively from a collapsible tent. Mom said she was forced to model a coat specially designed for handicap people, with a built-in neck brace. Single men become quarrelsome at events like Oktoberfest. Old women get cantankerous. It must be the music. Be a good boy. We love you. Kisses.

Empty Pale Green Pants

The results of the trash sorting blog poll are in.

The different color trash cans at Whole Foods market completely intimidate me. I am not a global warming guy. Some really smart people say it's true. Some really smart people disagree. I'm neither. I'm just a normal guy who doesn't like to pit out his white tee shirts when it gets really hot. So I hope it's not true. I am concerned for the world. I do think it considerate to be a good steward of the environment. But at what price? There are three trash cans by the exit. Why can't we pay people to sort trash to stimulate the economy? Aren't we worried about the economy anymore? Wouldn't it make more sense freeing my time up to be productive (or to take a nap) rather than spend ten minutes figuring out where to put my trash? Jill came down on me hard for throwing banana peels out in parking lots. That's organic. I don't get it. Why is that littering? Okay, in the strictest sense it is littering. So in the strictest dictionary sense, a banana tree dropping its fruit to the floor of the forest is also littering.

I am confused about El Nino. I could never figure out the physics behind the toilet flushing one direction in the Northern hemisphere and another direction in the Southern hemisphere. Does it matter all that much? I watched a show about Amish teens entering the season of choice between the Amish way or the English way, rumspringa. Amish people don't believe in education past the eighth grade. Is there something to that? Charlie likes to flush toilets. He doesn't care which way the water circulates. He doesn't even mind if the toilet needs to be emptied. He's a water waster. He's just fascinated by it for a few reasons I'm sure. If I put myself in his flashing Diego shoes, I think the number one reason to flush the toilet would be for the rise it gets out of Mom and Dad. Then, maybe the sound it makes. Quite certainly it would have much to do with making an impact on the world.

I can almost hear him thinking, "I did that. I flushed the toilet! Why is Dad yelling at me from the other room? Is it time for oatmeal? Wait until he sees how I unraveled the entire toilet paper roll all over the floor. It takes him a long time to roll it back up. What are those shapes on the floor? I only know ovals, triangles, circles, stars, moons, hearts, diamonds and I get mixed up between squares and rectangles sometimes. I would count the number of sides but I don't always understand when to stop counting and numbers end at twenty anyway and then Dad starts over again. I want to go outside. I want to push my truck up and down the driveway. I like the sound the plastic wheels make on the gravel. I'll just see how far I can push the truck into the street before Dad yells, "Stop!" I don't understand. Sometimes I get put in time out, sometimes I don't. Actually time out is not bad. Dad makes it fun! He puts a timer in front of me and it has numbers on it and it beeps after one minute. I can't touch it though. If I touch it Dad starts the number over and looks mad. Don't touch. But I want to touch it. No-No. I can't touch anything around here. I love to pull the drawer open and get things out of the trash. I put things in there too. I think Mom's shoe goes in the trash. What is this Starbucks cup doing in the trash? Mom and Dad drink coffee all the time. They like coffee. I wonder what it tastes like? Love it! Fabulous. Why is Dad checking my breath? Why is Dad laughing? I must be funny. I like to make Daddy laugh. I like to make Daddy get me. I like him to chase me. Nap? Did he just say nap? I'm not going to be locked up. I like my freedom! I can't get out since Mom put that netting over the top of my crib. I'll be trapped. Dad, I don't care that my stuffed animals are taking a nap. I don't believe you. Why don't they ever close their eyes? What can I do for a stay of execution? Diaper! If I say diaper Dad will lay me on that table. I don't like it, but it's better than prison. Dad is too fast. Powder! There that's nice. Like it! I feel this urge to rub my eyes. Put some powder on my chest too Dad. Wait! I need Desitin! No. Rock-a-bye! Sing me and rock me to sleep. What? Not right here by the crib. We're too close. Sit in the rocking chair. ROCKING CHAIR! Are you deaf? He's deaf. He can't hear me. I scream louder. Goodness! How did he manage to get me in the crib with all that flailing? He's zipping it. I'm doomed."

Charlie finally went to sleep. I listened to him talking over the monitor.

"Don't like it. Don't like it. Don't like it." He said.

I know for certain he did not like the chicken in his chicken pot pie. He spit each piece out. During lunch we practiced the alphabet on two different sets of flashcards. I drilled him on his shapes and colors. I introduced him to the beginner sight words, "did, do, ride, some, and on." We even studied phonics, "w", "ch", "bl", and "cr". Afterward, we practiced counting.

Today was Charlie's second week at playschool. It wasn't a full day. The children are being acclimated to the new routine. Next week will be a full length session from 9am to 1pm. Jill came with us.

"You're going to have fun today!" I said as we pulled out of the driveway. Charlie stared back at me in the rearview mirror. He chose a white shirt with pictures of balls on it; basketballs, baseballs, soccer balls and footballs. He didn't get to pick out his shorts.

"We're going to playschool!" I said.

"No!" He whined. "Home!"

I tried to think of something that might take his mind from the fear of being left by his parents for the day.

"You are going to see all your friends!"

Charlie quieted. Jill and I named all the ones we could recall. In the class of ten, there are only three boys.

"Children." Charlie said.

"That's right, you're going to play with other children."

When I hoisted Charlie to the teacher through the check-in window, he was screaming. Jill and I and the other parents walked to the other end of the building to a small soundproof room where the cries of our children could not be heard anymore. We were given a folder and instructed to sign up for two snack days and one party snack day. Easy enough. That was pretty much when my brain stopped working. For the next hour we were inundated with procedural goo. I wasn't sure whether this one was that one or that one was this one or which one was who, to use a Seussism. I don't know, I guess I just listened to everything that is going to happen in my son's day and I realized that I wouldn't be there. When the director said Charlie would have to sit in a chair with his food or not eat, I began to think he might starve. This little boy who I love so much and would die for, who loves flushing toilets and trash picking and pushing his truck up and down the driveway is going to enter the world today. I didn't think I would get emotional. It's just one day. Really it's only four hours. But for four hours I have to trust someone else to feed and teach and diaper and discipline and care for my Charlie. And some day four hours will be eight hours. Then one day will become three days and three days will become a week and soon the week will be filled with school and sports and girlfriends. I imagined him all grown up, speaking full sentences, becoming a plumber or trash man or truck driver and having his own life. Then I started to feel bad that sometimes I just take Charlie with me to the zoo or the museum or the park or for long runs or on bike rides to get it done. In sitting there I realized that my time with Charlie will become less and less.

With that in mind this afternoon, after his nap, we spent the day around the house. We played games together, read books, read a scratch and sniff book, we chased each other, I tossed and flipped him on the bed. I let him flush the toilet. I listened to the sound it made. It's a nice sound, the toilet flushing. Nothing is new in life. It's who you experience the same old with that makes all the difference.

Fogo de Chao- restaurant review

I believe literally translated from the Portuguese, Fogo de Chao means 'fog of the meal'. The Brazilian steakhouse bearing the same name can do so with confidence. Jill and I left Fogo in the heat of the afternoon in a meat stupor and as best I can remember, walked along the pedestrian 16^th street mall while the frivolous papaya dessert course supposedly aided the protein digestion. I fully expect a hangover tomorrow morning unless, after dark, I become a lobo guará and devour a cow. (That makes me want to watch Teen Wolf again. Fox though, not Bateman.)

Fogo opened its doors just a few weeks ago in LoDo on Wynkoop between 15^th and 16^th. As we approached the storefront blinds were drawn over the windows and the street and sidewalk were so still I expected a tumbleweed to mow us down. Black silkscreened awnings with the Fogo logo were the only evidence we were in the right place.

The adequate hostess delivered us into the main dining area. I don't recall what I noticed first, the salad yacht or the fact that the seating was only 15% occupied. The space could easily accommodate ten doublewides. The ceilings were high and the rich exposed woodwork was interesting and relaxing if you ever bothered looking up. (I mean, it wasn't a drop ceiling.) Later, I was inclined to look up when asking God to forgive me for such gluttony. For all the game they serve, the walls were suspiciously lacking any stuffed or mounted animals.

Once we hit the table we entered warp speed. I was not prepared for so much activity. Our waiter explained how things worked as men with bronze skin and deep set eyes, buzzed around the tables wearing knickers, boots, red kerchiefs, carrying hunks of seared meat on sabers and skewers. Those men were the gauchos. They are South America's version of cowboys. And what I thought were knickers are just pants tucked into their boots so they don't get mud on their cuffs. I do the same thing with my sweat pants when I shovel the snow off the driveway.

The wait staff focused our attention on the small round chips on the table. Now, if I were dining at Sizzler, I might have mistaken them for coasters, but at Fogo, the chips play a much more integral role in the meal. One side of the chip was red and the other, green. When the green side was showing it was to signal to the sword brandishing gauchos with fifteen different meat selections of beef, pork, chicken and lamb to come to the table and serve you. The waiter never introduced himself, nor did he need to as he explained the entire staff was at our service equally and working as one. Okay, then I understood, it was kind of like Golden Corral.

That was it. We were released to the salad bar.

The salad bar was not the brown lettuce and diced ham of the Ponderosa Steakhouse in my boyhood home of Muncie. I am certain the thick layer that coagulated on top of the nacho cheese was used for skin grafts at Ball Memorial Hospital. The Fogo salad bar boasted aged parmesan and Manchego cheeses, smoked salmon, crispy romaine lettuce, a creamy house Caesar, pasta salads, Brazilian hearts of palm, fresh mozzarella and sliced ripened tomatoes, Shitake mushrooms, prosciutto, and Italian salami, but no miniature corn cobs. Classy salad bars have little baby corn cobs.

Side dishes awaited us back at the white clothed table; fried bananas, fried polenta, mashed potatoes and hot savory cheese puffs. The cheese puffs tasted like Nabisco's Cheezits and the fried polenta reminded me of Cheetos except they stain my finger orange. Charlie and I love Cheetos! He say's "CHEE-toes!" The mashed potatoes were on par with the instant kind. Like everything else, the sides were bottomless, but my mom taught me not to fill up on the cheap stuff or waste money on Coke. It was then I turned the chip over to the green side.

Immediately I was rushed by a gaucho with a sword. Jill put her hand on my leg to keep from getting a Chinese star out of my sock. His accent was as thick as my collection of Hot Rodder magazines. I just said, "Yes sir" and they carved the meat right there which I had grab with a pair of tongs before it fell off. They just kept coming so long as that chip was green side up. Do you remember that game in elementary school PE class called red light, green light. It was like playing red light, green light with the gauchos. Jill told me to stop tricking them. "Come on baby, I'm just messin' around," I said.

The Jill said, "Quit talking like when I first met you."

Then I got so mad that I didn't want to talk anyway. I just wanted to eat my emotions. Good thing I was at Fogo. I turned the chip to green and the gaucho arrived with the house special, picanha, lightly seasoned and from the top sirloin.

I forgot about being mad at Jill after tasting it. I started thinking about how much Charlie would enjoy this place. I told her, "I wish I was an Emperor Penguin so I could just take some of this good food home to Charlie." Because we learned at the zoo that Emperor Penguins regurgitate the food they catch for their chicks.

Jill said I should get up from the table, so I excused myself to the bathroom. I got lightheaded coming back. I could feel the blood flowing to my swollen abdomen. Small price to pay for a sweet lunch.

I was thinking about skipping my Brazilian bikini wax appointment the next time I'm in the mood for Fogo de Chao. It's about the same price for lunch, $30. That's the best deal. For dinner the price jumps to $50 for no other reason than it getting dark outside.

Quit staring at my chest.

Jill, Charlie and I went to the park together this morning. I circled the park two times for a needed five mile run while Jill and Charlie hunted for garage sales nearby. Two miles in, I turned my right ankle on a rutted section of path. Two old ladies stopped to help me. I told them I was fine and ran through the pain.

Obviously sensing my injury, a guy made a move past me with one mile to go. I sprinted the final quarter mile and overtook that same man. I felt vindicated. I finished in under an hour.

I stretched in the gardens. Jill and Charlie met me there. Charlie wanted to touch the fuzzy grass.

Jill told me she found a hiking backpack for carrying Charlie. She wanted me to take a look at it. She had already researched it on the internet through her phone. When I got to the car, I realized I left my change of clothes at home. My shirt was soaked with sweat. I figured I'd pick up another shirt at the garage sale.

When we arrived I asked the woman in charge if she had any shirts for sale. She returned with a blue shirt. I put it on.

"Is it men's?" I asked.

"No," she said, "It's a woman's maternity shirt."

"Well, that should be just fine." I thought.

It was navy blue and had plunging neckline. The lady laughed when I put it on. So did someone else. I felt so exposed. I was too nervous to ask for the white camisole to cover my chest hair and cleavage. But remarkably, it fit in the right places. I put Charlie in the pack and he giggled when I stood up. The barely used Kelty carrier was a good buy at $50. The $1 I paid for the shirt was practically extorted from me.

We drove to Hanson's restaurant on Pearl Street because we had a BOGO coupon from the Entertainment book.

"Are you secure enough in your manhood to wear that to lunch?" Jill asked me on the way there.

"No," I thought. "Yes." I said.

I pretended to miss the turn to the restaurant and I circled the neighborhood looking for another sale. There were signs posted, but I was confused. Jill told me I looked "metro."

"What does that mean?" I asked. "Stupid?"

I found out it meant if I shaved my chest hair I could get in to certain nightclubs.

Luckily, we were the only ones at Hanson's. Jill asked me if she could explain to the waitress about my shirt. I told her no way, that she probably wouldn't even notice. The waitress brought waters to the table with lemon wedges. Charlie said "lemon!" I let him have my lemon. He likes to suck on them and make sour faces. When I ordered, the waitress couldn't stop staring at my chest.

Charlie fell asleep on the way home. We're going to take a hike tomorrow and use the new pack. I gave Jill the shirt I bought to save it for whenever she gets pregnant again.

The Boy Who Cried Diaper

Charlie woke up at 5:45am today. As a consequence, so did I. I allowed him to whimper for twenty minutes until I gave up returning to sleep. Twenty minutes was five minutes past the time my alarm clock beeped. It was barely daybreak when I stumbled out of bed into Charlie's room. His forehead was stretching the white mesh of his crib tent. He looks like a tiny Gitmo detainee in there. I unzipped the tent and wasted no time hoisting him over the crib rail and laying him flat on his back on the changing table. He had mesh indentations on his forehead.

The morning ritual is usually a bigger production. What usually happens is I unzip the tent. Then Charlie dawdles around inside. He might pick up a stuffed toy and hand it to me. He may bounce up and down. He may expel every object lying on his crib mattress. The expulsion takes place in no meaningful order, first Curious George, followed by the elephant that plays "Rock-a-bye Baby," the "learn to zip, button and latch" bear, a blue monkey, Wally the Walrus, Lamby the Lamb, a sheep, a small blue pillow with "Goodnight My Moon" in gold script, and his favorite blue blanket, Silky.

Yesterday he handed Silky to me in the morning and said, "Wash. Darty."

After I smelled Silky I said, "'Tis aboat time."

Then, as quickly as I could, I diapered Charlie, returned him to the crib, zipped him in and dove head first into my pillow without waking Jill. I tossed in bed while Charlie woke every dog in the neighborhood screaming for Daddy. Five minutes into the tirade, Charlie changed tactics. His volume and tone changed. "Diaper," he whispered. "Diaper," he said again, but with greater urgency. I think he knows where the microphone sits. I marveled at his trickery. If it weren't for just changing his diaper five minutes earlier, I might have been deceived. He gave up ten minutes later at which time we both drifted to sleep. We all woke a short time later to his cries for freedom. I wonder how long it will take for him to hire an attorney to get him released from bed.

He lay between us with his bottle of diluted whole milk in hand, staring at the half-moon brushstroke patterns in the drywall mud on the ceiling. All of a sudden he perked up. The bottle nipple popping from his lips broke the morning quiet. He sat up and leaned over, almost putting his nose to my nose. My eyes crossed.

He whispered forcefully. "Saw it!"

"What did you see?" I asked.

"Aye-Aye! Zoo!"

He loves the Aye-aye exhibit at the zoo. Aye-ayes are rather insidious looking nocturnal creatures from Madagascar. To give you an idea of what they look like picture Khalid Sheikh Mohammed with buggy eyes and Gollum fingers. The exhibit is dark since they are only active at night. It's great for the Aye-aye, but not great lighting for me and Charlie. You have to wait for your eyes to adjust which is just about as long as Charlie's attention span. Behind the glass is a dim orange light. It reminds me of being in my high school photography dark room minus the wad of chewing tobacco. After adjusting to the darkness you are able to see the lemur running back and forth across a branch. The cage is small and he really only has a few moves. Besides running back and forth over the top branch, he pauses just in front of the orange light and flips under the branch. He disappears for a few seconds then goes back to the top branch and repeats this cycle over and over again. But I try to make it exciting for Charlie.

"Look, there he is! Do you see him!"

"See him!"

"He's amazing! Look at the Aye-aye go!"

"Go!"

"Wait. Quiet."

"Quiet," Charlie whispers.

"He's watching you with his beady eyes. Don't let him stare at you with the ojo mal." On the informational placard it says the farmers in Madagascar believe death will befall the lunar glare of the Aye-aye.

Here's some interesting facts about Charlie's favorite animal, the Aye-aye. They tap their long fingers on tree branches. By doing so, they can pinpoint grubs moving around in the wood with their super hearing. Once located they dig them out with their middle fingers. Also,the male and female are physically the same, except for the goods. That's called sexual amorphism. The male Abssynian Ground Hornbill has a red throat patch, the female has a blue throat patch. That's called sexual dimorphism. The hornbills have an outdoor exhibit which they share with the Gerenuk which looks like a small antelope.

Today was orientation for playschool. Charlie and I took to the trail on bike before we were to meet Jill at the church building. It was a fine day for a ride. The electronic welcome sign at the West entrance to Cherry Creek State Park said it was 69 degrees and issued a notice to boaters about zebra mollusk inspections. We rode in the direction of the reservoir and the rising sun. The sun seems to be losing strength. The sidewalks were free and clear of goose poop which meant I didn't have to do any fancy swerving to avoid it. The geese are gone, but we saw an incredible number of grasshoppers on the bike path. We also observed one clinging to the outside of the French doors this morning. We counted its legs and antennae. Then we beat on the glass. The grasshopper didn't flee, it only splayed its legs for a better grip.

We rode over a baby snake and later chased after a tiding of magpies. I stopped the bike in the middle of a path behind a large grassy hill that blocked the street noise. I dismounted the bike and instructed Charlie to listen to the cicadas. Then a model airplane flew overhead and ruined everything. "Hear it." Charlie said. Continuing on we passed an old man wearing a ball cap with an American flag patch scuttling on rollerblades. I gave him plenty of room to the left. I turned around to check on Charlie. He was sound asleep, the weight of his flamed helmet caused his head to lean unnaturally forward.

When we arrived at Charlie's playschool it was much as I suspected, women and children. Charlie and I walked straight in, down the stairs, past the classroom, directly to the bathroom. Washing Charlie's hands, I was tempted to leave, but Jill was going to meet us. I escorted Charlie to his new class and he started crying once he caught sight of the teachers. It was hard for me to fake it.

"You're going to have fun here!" I said. He read right through me.

Children and parents began to fill in the small room. As Charlie's manager, I made introductions and small talk while scanning for safety lapses and browsing the selection of books. Charlie found Goodnight Moon, but there was no Poe at all. Strike one.

Including Charlie there were three boys, five girls and two teachers. That's a 4:1 student teacher ratio. Strike two.

Then we all gathered around and the teacher read a story. Charlie tried escaping several times until I sat him on my lap. He moaned for a second. One girl had a tantrum.

We sang "The Wheels On The Bus." Except at the end they changed the lyrics from "All the way to Mexico," to, "All through the town." Strike three. And by the way, if you let your kids watch ONDemand's Baby Boost, they completely remove "God" from the lyrics to "America the Beautiful." The kid's choir sings, "America, America, he shed his grace on thee." Are you freaking kidding?

I really talked things up afterward because I want Charlie to have a good experience. I figure it's only one day a week.

We rode home and I changed his diaper. A little brown ball rolled out of his diaper onto his changing table. Charlie saw it and said "Nemo" referencing the fruit snacks we both love.

I said, "It's not a Nemo. At least not all of it."