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."
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