Starbucks Increases Prices

I woke up yesterday morning having dreamed about the word obfuscate. It's a verb meaning to bewilder, stupefy or muddle. I don't remember ever using it before. So I am going to use it today.

How do I get myself into such situations? I am in the Hampden and I-25 Starbucks. I just had to use the women's bathroom. I could have waited until the men's was free, but I didn't. The women's bathroom is no different than the men's except for the wall mounted diaper changing station. How often do I find the men's bathroom lacking one of these stations? It's inevitable and it's very disgusting to make Charlie lie down on cold dirty tiles. Anyway, I heard the handle jiggle in the middle of everything. It startled me. The fear of being caught obfuscated my train of thought temporarily. I made certain to return the bathroom to the condition it was before I accosted it. Which really only meant, putting the lid back down. After I was finished, I turned the door handle, took a deep breath and entered the narrow hallway. A woman was waiting outside the door. She looked at me and then at the sign that said "WOMEN".

Quickly I glanced down and away and I said, "Everything appears to be in working order now," hoping she would mistake me for a plumber or an electrician or a woman. I stared momentarily at the poster on the wall about ethical coffee trading. The woman seemed to say "okay" as I darted by her and back to my seat.

Before resuming my blog entry, I thought about the ethics of Starbucks to continue to raise prices on me now that I am addicted to caffeine. I didn't actually buy any coffee from them today. I just borrowed the wi-fi connection, the woman's bano and an uncomfortable red upholstered high back chair next to an electrical outlet. My backpack resting behind me made sitting there tolerable. I brought my travel mug from Einstein Bros and finished the tepid dark roast I had started sipping at 7am.

This weekend I was listening to Willie Nelson driving West down Bellview. It looked like someone was holding a sheet of wax paper in front of the mountains. There was something about the way he was singing that made me want to hold on. I don't know why. Maybe it is the beckoning strain in Willie's voice. Or it could have been the lyrics to "Georgia On Mind" the way the songwriter invokes her memory with a song. Maybe it's the season. I see signs of summer trying to hold on. The sun reheats the earth after an increasingly cold night. The leaves cling to their color. In turn, trees limbs grasp for their leaves. The flowers jealously guard their failing beauty. Shadows seems to spread themselves long and thin over the earth as if to cry out "don't go" to the retreating sun.

The feeling continues to exist. On the way home from the museum today, I set the radio to a classical station. We listened to Mozart's Piano Concerto 15. It put Charlie to sleep. He was slumped over on his extra chin when I guided the car into the garage and turned off the engine. I watched him in the rearview. His eyelashes are long and dark. Charlie's brown Jack and Janie shirt with the banana and monkey patch was printed with white chalk. We hadn't even taken the stroller there. He walked all but the last fifty yards down the sidewalk to the car. He told me he was hungry today at 11:15am. I thought he'd go another forty-five minutes. He sat for a few minutes during story time. He says Desitin, not "deh-tah-tah" like he used to do. He's been trying to put his shoes on by himself. He can't yet. It frustrates him. Sometimes he even correctly says "help me" instead of "help you" when he needs it. He's making up things to pray about at bed time to keep from having to get in bed. He says "diaper" so we'll change him even when he knows it's dry.

He's no longer the infant I could lay in the vibrating Boppy seat and read aloud Dr. Seuss and Poe and watch him bat at the dangling objects overhead. He is not content to stay indoors anymore. He knows there is an outside and it is infinitely more fun. He probably also realizes if we stay inside, there is a good chance I will fall asleep watching Fox News or The Closing Bell.

I took Charlie to Walmart to look for a cheap tricycle. I think he's been capable of pedaling and steering for a while and he really shows an interest in the "Trojan" (children) across the street and all their wheeled toys. For the longest time Charlie said Trojan and I had no idea what he meant.

When I put Charlie into the hot car after leaving Walmart, he said, "Air conditioner. Turn it."

I watched him pick up alphabet flash cards with Jill yesterday. He's such a whiz. It's awfully humbling to think that Mommy and Daddy are his entire universe. What a responsibility. Just like one day he figured out how to turn a handle to open a door, not much later he figured out how to lock himself in the bathroom and get the police and fire department called. He's learning so fast. He's growing up. The day will come when he doesn't call out "Daddy" from his crib tent in the morning. He'll get too big for me to carry. I guess his he'll never get too big for me to love.

I have much on my mind. I am ready to reenter the workforce, but I feel guilty about it. Maybe guilt is not the right word. Sad. It's hard for me to think of someone else taking care of him like I have. There are things Charlie and I do together that Jill doesn't even know about. It's not that I don't have confidence in Jill. I think I'll just miss our special time together. We have our rituals. We throw balls in the house. We make breakfast together. I pull the chair into the kitchen from the dining room so Charlie can stand on it and watch me scramble eggs. I talk him through the steps.

"Get the pan out of the cabinet. Remove the butter and the carton of eggs from the refrigerator. Put the pan on the stove and light it."

I turn the burner knob to ignite, it clicks and the gas combusts.

"Fire! Hot! Don't touch!" Charlie says from the chair.

I open the egg carton.

"Egg!"

"That's right." I pinch the egg with my thumb and index finger. "Do you know what shape the egg is?"

I don't give him enough time to answer. "The egg is oval shaped. What do we need next?"

"Next." He says.

"Let's open the drawer and get the spatula."

"Spatula."

I chop an uneven wedge of butter from the stick with the corner of the spatula and tap it off into the hot frying pan. It melts quickly, sizzles and pops.

Charlie holds on to the chair back and starts to rock the chair with his body like the chipmunk toy at the playground. The painted metal chipmunk is mounted to a spring which is secured to a concrete foundation. The chair is not. The chair legs inch across the maple flooring. I envision the chair falling over.

"Sit down!" I say.

"SIT down," Charlie says.

I crack an eggshell on the rim of the frying pan and pry it apart over the center. Charlie watches it ooze out and hiss, crackle and pop when it spreads on the hot surface. The yolks sac breaks.

I slip the spatula under the edge of the cooking egg and push toward the center. I tilt the pan. The raw egg fills the void and slowly turns white.

"What do you want with your eggs?" I ask Charlie.

"Eggs," he says. He is no longer interested in what I am doing.

"What are you doing?"

"Doing."

"Are you still hungry?"

"Hungry."

"Do you want to eat?"

"Eat."

After prodding the eggs a few more times, I shut off the gas and allowed the remaining heat from the pan warm the custard like layer at the top the eggs which contains all the salmonella.

"Do want some cheese?"

"Cheese." Charlie's bare feet dangled from the chair. The big toenail he stubbed a few days ago looked black. At least he's was not going through the trash. I cannot break him of going through the trash. He has been caught and scolded so many times for rummaging through the garbage that he now employs stealth to avoid detection. But the other day I caught him again in the kitchen with a Starbucks cup. I removed the lid. It was empty, but his breath smelled like coffee.

I sprinkled shredded cheddar cheese to just dust the egg surface.

"Can you show me how you can get in your high chair all by yourself?"

"High chair. Self."

I sliced up a few grapes and placed them in a compartment on his divider plate while Charlie ran to his chair and climbed up. He wheezes and grunts when doing so. It is very dramatic. When he got onto the chair he turned around and sat down. I divided up the eggs, half for me, half for him and joined him at the table.

"Let's get your bib."

"Doggy." He only wants his bib with a monkey on it. He thinks it's a dog. He will take it over the bib with colors even if it soiled, which it happened to be.

He says,"Dir-Tee" when I put it around his neck and he says there are chunks of food in the collection pocket.

I attached the tray to his highchair.

"Let's pray."

"Pray."

He didn't wait for me to begin praying. "Dear Jesus, thank you for the food. Amen."

"Amen."

Running in the dark

Charlie slipped in the shower this morning. The gray marble tiles of the floor were covered with soap suds. He lost his footing. I saw him do it. He was going under the bridge. Literally, he was walking between my legs. It's a game he likes to play in the shower while I lather up. I feel neglectful. He doesn't have any bath toys to play with. I quit giving him baths in exchange for showers with me. Baths were taking too long. Plus kids can drown in water. Water doesn't collect in showers like it does in baths. I have a fear that I won't be able to do CPR properly. Every other day or so I try to replay the CPR steps that I performed on a fake baby in the parenting class at the hospital. It was long ago. Nineteen months have gone by. I get CPR and the Heimlich confused sometimes. I think the Heimlich becomes CPR if you can't get the peanut, hot dog, or grape dislodged. I can't remember how many compressions to breaths to give. Is it two breaths and thirty compressions? The CPR people changed the rules just months before we attended our class. It was all new then. But, the instructor taught us the old procedure too. Rather, she told us about it. It doesn't matter. Either way, she tainted me. I blame her for my feeling of incompetence. The CPR process changes after a certain age too. I don't remember what age that is. What if the CPR people decide to change the rules again?

That's why we take showers. That's why Charlie goes under the bridge. That's why Charlie's only toy is a squeegee which is also used to wipe the glass down. He was just coming out from under the bridge when it happened. I had just kicked the squeegee to the corner, out of his way, seeing it as a tripping hazard. He fell backward and hit his head on the corner of the shower stall base. I picked him up quickly. I held on to him tightly. I was afraid of dropping him. His skin was soapy. I have learned to turn my ear when Charlie screams. The first one is the worst one. I know it's coming. His face becomes red. He scrunches his eyes and widens his mouth. If he weren't about to yell, it would be the perfect posturing to put a good brushing on his molars. He doesn't open wide for his mom when it's time to brush. I don't know how well she can get back there. I don't want him to get cavities. I am cavity prone. The last time I got a filling the dentist jammed the novocaine needle right into a nerve. I had serious thoughts about switching dentists. I don't want Charlie to have to endure that kind of pain. Visits to the pediatrician are nightmares. I can't imagine having to hold Charlie down for a shot in the gum. My childhood dentist was Dr. Hub Hougland. His dental practice had a black chest with brass adornments in the hall that exited back to the waiting room. It was filled with all kinds of crap. I remember getting a pink plastic ring with a spider on it. Charlie's pediatrician has a sticker drawer. I let him get two stickers after his eighteen month visit. I think there is a one sticker policy, but we had to wait for 45 minutes. How do you end up waiting for 45 minutes when you are the first scheduled appointment of the day? I am seriously considering finding a new pediatrician. But that's the catch. The really good doctors are busy. We could probably find a bad one with a smaller patient load and spend less time waiting.

I get afraid when he holds his breath so long. I think he is going to pass out. Right before the ear splitting cry, he fills his lungs with fresh air. That's when I lean back and turn my head. Then he lets it go. It's amazing. It's so shrill and piercing. I turn back to look at him. The subsequent cries are never as bad. He calls out for Mommy. Comforting Charlie is her forte. I recognize it as a weakness. Perhaps it's a gender weakness moreover. I used to wait way too long when he fell before consoling him. I wanted to make him tough. Jill is holding and kissing him right when it happens. I lack her comforting skills. I try to distract him. I stick my tongue out under the spray of the shower head.

"Try thith." I say. It works for a second. His face softens. Then he cries again. I am an imperfect substitute for a mother's love. I check the back of his head for swelling or bleeding. None there. The scary thing is he could have internal hemorrhaging and I wouldn't know it. They say if he acts tired it could be as a result of a concussion. Great, but what if it's his nap time?

I take him out of the shower. The towel I use to dry him smells mildewed. On his changing table, I lather his soft little body with lotion. His enjoys it on his shoulders. He asks for powder. I oblige him. He asks for Desitin. I apply the cream.

I finish dressing him, retrieve silky, warm him a bottle of milk and read The Raven to him on the couch. His eyelids become droopy. His breath becomes deeper. I hope he's okay. He drinks through The Raven and The Bells. It's our old routine. I wonder about telling Jill about his fall. I left him on the porch one day in his stroller. I had to go back inside for something before our run. While I was inside I got to wondering if I had locked the wheels on the stroller. Panic drove me to the front door. Through the screen door I could see the stroller lying sideways in the middle of the yard where it had come to rest after rolling down the front steps and toppling over in the grass. I ran out to the stroller. My heart was in danger of stopping. I was trying to recall CPR. Was it the new rules or the old ones? I turned the stroller upright and peeled back the sun shade. He was still strapped in. He was asleep. Thank God. I didn't tell Jill about it for a few days. I didn't want her to think I was an incapable caretaker. I've decided to tell her. She should know so she can take precautions when she showers with him.

I walk a fine line wanting to ensure his survival but build in him character. I'm also learning that it's okay to pick him up and reassure him. And like yesterday, I'm learning to be faster with my cell phone camera. Charlie had stuck his finger through the straw hole in the lid to a water cup. He held up his chubby hand with his index finger firmly lodged in the hole. "Stuck." He said. As I fumbled for my camera, he started to whimper. People who had been oblivious to us, now were staring at us. His cries became more desperate. Before taking the picture, I shoved the cell phone back in my pocket and began the unimaginably tedious task of prying his finger from the hole. I missed a good picture, but I think I did the right thing by Charlie.