Hand Foot Mouth Cock Sacky, Part II

Nathaniel has been sent home from daycare again, with suspected hand foot and mouth disease (aka coxsackie). As you may recall, he had this back in January. As you may also recall, I also had this back in January, with much more severe symptoms.

The timing is ... interesting. My parents were here to visit and literally left this morning. In fact, they were still at PDX airport when we got the call. I admit, my first thought was "great -- Nathaniel's sent home right when we lose extra babysitting." With a little time to reflect, I begrudgingly concluded that it was probably better that my seventy-five-year-old parents were not in our house with a highly contagious disease floating about.

As for Nathaniel, I don't begrudge him getting coxsackie again. He is a baby and his immune system is puny and weak. My immune system, by contrast, is strong and virile, and so I should resist the disease much better this time -- right?

We'll see. Right now, half of my brain is interpreting every twinge and ache as a blister that's about to burst forth, while the other half is wishfully insisting that these symptoms are entirely psychosomatic. I guess we'll know for sure in a few days. Hopefully, I don't nearly pass out in any public places this time.

How Parenting Changes Politics

It's a cliche to say that becoming a parent changes your politics. But maybe not in the same way for everyone. Parenting, I think, amplifies one's protective instincts. It accentuates vulnerability -- there's this tiny baby, who you want all the best things for, but whom you are painfully aware is dependent on not just you but the whole world to determine the trajectory of his or her life. You want to keep your child safe, and yet you know that it's not ultimately all up to you (or your child, for that matter). It's one of those banalities that feels ridiculous but is true; that it's almost impossible to imagine loving and caring about someone more than the baby in your arms.

There are some people for whom that protectiveness manifests in a form of conservatism -- suddenly becoming a lot less willing to "risk" harms befalling their child (where "risk" is less "letting them climb a tree" and more "letting them attend school with the riff-raff"). But for me, at least, this overwhelming, almost painful sense of protectiveness unlocked a new level of empathy. That feeling of terror at the thought of something terrible happening your baby -- the omnipresent Geiger counter of fear? Every parent has that. Every child (and I include here adult children) has loved ones who feel that way about them too. To see something bad happen to another person -- for them to be in a position where they need help and can't get it -- it hits me like a tidal wave; oddly, not fully on their own behalf, but on behalf of those who love them. I both can't and can imagine how that would feel if it happened to Nathaniel. And all the clever rationalizations and political machinations that explain why this suffering or deprivation or injustice or explosion is the just one wither in the face of that crushing wall of empathy.

The other day I had an idea for a painting series (that is, if I were a talented artist, which I am not), which was to take classic depictions of war and battle and replace all the faces of the soldiers with those of babies. The thought of the painting makes me want to shut my eyes to and run away from my own imagination (which, from an artistic standpoint, is a good sign -- good art makes you feel things after all -- but is less pleasant when one can't create and just has to live with it in your own mind). Each man charging, rearing, falling, crying, in agony, lying still -- they are all someone's baby. No matter what side they're on, they have loved ones grieving for them. How can we not do everything in our power to avert such grief? It is an awful experience even to imagine it, much less to live through it. Even if the rational part of me can fathom -- barely -- that this cannot always be the absolute number one priority, boy should it put one hefty thumb on the scale.

Promotion

Yesterday, I was informed that the Lewis & Clark Law School faculty had voted to grant me tenure.

Also this week, Nathaniel's preschool wrote to tell us that he was ready to be moved up to the next age group.

Both pieces of news are, of course, very exciting, and very emotional.

For me, this has been the culmination of literally twenty-five years of work. I first knew I wanted to be a law professor in high school, when I had the good fortune of being on the debate team with a friend whose father taught law at Georgetown. It was soon very apparent that he had the job I wanted. He got to think interesting thoughts for a living. How cool was that! That's what I wanted to do!

Becoming a law professor was my ambition. And that was a big deal, because I didn't (and don't) really see myself as an ambitious person. For the most part, I'm a pretty content person. I'm happy with what I have. To really want something is fraught. You might not get it. And my pursuit of an academic job reflects that -- I went on the entry-level job market five times before I finally got a job offer. The preceding years were full of one heartbreak after another. I had jobs change requirements in the middle of the interview process. I had one school interview me on three separate years, advancing me to the final stage of the process twice, and then both times end up pulling the hiring line altogether days before the actual vote for budgetary or internal-politics reasons. I had schools in dream locations or with dream program setups where I was the runner-up. And I had years where I didn't get any callbacks at all.

It was maddening. I knew this was what I was meant to do. I knew this was the only job that would make me happy. And I knew that I was qualified. I had an outstanding academic record, a solid clerkship, legitimate teaching experience, and a lengthy publication record featuring articles in some stellar journals. None of this entitled me to a job, of course. But I knew I wasn't delusional in thinking I should have been competitive for one. People often stressed how much getting an academic job was a matter of luck. I know even more now that this is entirely true (I've said that serving on the appointments committee here at Lewis & Clark has been equal parts cathartic and retraumatizing, because peering inside the black box one gets a sense for how random and arbitrary this whole process can be). And while at one level that was meant to be comforting -- it's not you, it's the cosmos -- for the most part feeling like "well, I guess the universe hates me" wasn't comforting at all.

Words cannot express how low I got in the midst of my years of unsuccessful attempts. In fact, I have a distinct memory of being absolutely miserable at the conclusion of yet another heartbreaking hiring cycle and swearing that, no matter what eventually happened or how things might play out in the years that follow, my future self would never say "but it worked out for the best."

I won't betray my past self's promise. Maybe I'd be equally happy if I had gotten an academic job the first time around and never went through this rigamarole. But what I can say is that I am incredibly happy, and incredibly lucky, and incredibly fortunate to be at this school and in this city, with these colleagues and living this life. At the end of the day, there aren't many people who can honestly say they're living their dream, and I am.

And speaking of dreams, let's turn to Nathaniel's own big promotion.

The message wasn't surprising. Nathaniel was by far the oldest in the "infants" room and was already walking (and starting to kind of say a few words). In fact, Jill and I had talked about broaching the subject of when he should be moved up just a few days before we got the email from school. Nathaniel was ready for new stimulation and new challenges. He'll go from being the oldest kid in his class to the youngest, which will be an adjustment, but it will also be how he learns. He's already had a few sojourns into the new "Cats" class (he's currently an "Owl") and has gotten along well with the older kids. They're going to ease him in over the next few days, but it's time to make the move.

Weirdly, I've felt even more emotional about this than my own tenure vote (though in the latter case, the lack of emotion may be due to no small measure of disassociation during the runup). One of the things I was most worried about in becoming a new father was sentimentality. For my entire life (childhood and adulthood), I've been someone who gets very sentimental about change. I don't like it. I get comfortable where I am, and don't want to let it go. I still have all my childhood stuffed animals in a box (and thought of losing them in any way still is the fastest way to spur an emotional breakdown). I was devastated when my parents sold my childhood home. I had a panic attack around seventh grade because I was scared of growing up. It's a whole thing. And the thing about raising a kid is -- they're non-stop change! They outgrow things, they move past things, they transcend things. Everyone says to get excited about the growth, but I knew myself, and my propensity would absolutely be to fixate on the loss. I was sincerely very, very worried about this.

The good news has been that I've done way, way better than I ever could have anticipated on the "adjusting to change" front. A huge part of this is attributable to Nathaniel, who has handled every major adjustment with aplomb. Bassinet to crib? No problem. Dropping bottles? Barely noticed. Going to daycare after staying at home with mom and dad? Easy-peasy. He's a remarkably mellow and resilient guy, which makes it easier for me to be resilient too. (One of his teachers once wrote a message speaking of Nathaniel's "quiet dignity", which is an objectively hilarious way to describe a baby).

Anyway, for whatever reason this "graduation" hit me a little harder than the prior transitions I've rolled with. He's growing up so fast (in fairness, this one doesn't just "feel" fast, it is fast -- he's only been in his program for three months)! And while I know he can't stay in the infants room forever, for someone like me, who's seen his baby thriving in his current position, it always feels fraught to move him somewhere new. What if he doesn't like it? What if he misses his old teachers? What if he gets scared? All the questions every parent worries about (and one thing I love about sending him to this school is that the teachers and staff have seen it all before -- they'll know what to do). I suspect that three weeks from now, when Nathaniel is all settled in and thriving as he always does, I'll feel fine.

Regardless, there is something special about sharing this big promotion together. He's taking his big step up, and I'm taking my big step up. How lucky I am, to get to experience this moment of growth from both vantage points.

The 1001 Faces of the Permacold

Nathaniel is in daycare, and I have a cold.

This is a sentence that is true today, was true the first week we sent Nathaniel to daycare, and has been true virtually every day in between.

I had heard about the permacold -- that as a parent you just spend the first X number of years of your child's life sick as he brings every single mildly transferable virus home with him. I had heard about it, but didn't quite believe it. Nathaniel stayed home with us for his first year, so he wasn't really affected, and so neither were we. It was all rumor and legend. And just as we miraculously missed the travails of having a baby who wouldn't stay asleep, maybe we'd miss this too. Maybe all the terribles of raising a little one are rumors and exaggeration!

Nope. This one hit. And the interesting bit about the permacold is that it makes you vividly aware of all the different types of colds one can have (because one is essentially speed-running them in a rapid and never-ending cycle). Sometimes you have a dry cough, and sometimes it's a productive cough. Sometimes you're congested beyond belief, and sometimes your nose won't stop running. Sometimes your throat is scratchy, and sometimes it's swollen. Sometimes your teeth hurt, and sometimes you snore just from breathing. It's not that any of these symptoms are novel or unfamiliar, exactly. It's just that normally they're spaced out weeks or months apart. To oscillate between all of them in 24 hour shifts is very disorienting.

And the bonus irony is that Nathaniel is basically unaffected by any of the diseases he vectors into the house. He coughs and sneezes and has a runny nose, but it never really bothers him all that much. It's mom and dad who are shambling around the house like the night of the living dead. Even when he gets sent home from daycare for something more serious, like pink eye or hand-foot-mouth disease, we're the ones who really end up suffering while his behavior barely changes at all. Objectively, I know that's far better than the alternative. Subjectively, it's tough not to feel a twinge resentful.

Jill was out tonight to see a play, so I got to put Nathaniel to bed (Jill and I share the nighttime routine, but the very last part of it is Jill's time). He hadn't gotten the best nap in (and the nap was late -- from 4:15 - 5:15), so I was a bit nervous. But I did my best solo version of the nighttime winddown process, and Nathaniel was very obliging. I gave him his kisses and told him how much I loved him, and he snuggled up against me and rested his head on my chest. I put him down to sleep, and he went right down, and all is right in the world -- no matter how much I cough.

Terry the Turtle

 

Nathaniel had a milestone this week: his first toy that he's absolutely petrified of.

The toy in question, a birthday gift from his uncle, is a plastic turtle. When you turn it on, it rolls forward and plays a little song. Then, when the music stops, the shapes on it shell pop out (the idea being the baby can put the shapes back in their slots).

The turtle has a few things cutting against it. The motor is a bit loud (particularly when the turtle gets caught on something like a rug), which clashes with the music. But Nathaniel's least favorite part is definitely the pop-out. When that happens, he instantly bursts into tears and makes a beeline for the nearest parental figure for a hug.

We're not alarmed by this -- we know "child is irrationally afraid of innocuous thing" is very normal, even for a baby as level-headed and mellow as Nathaniel. If anything, it's alarmingly cute just how scared he is of this random turtle, since it's actually quite rare anything penetrates Nathaniel's unflappable mien (in true sociopath fashion, I've decided to name the turtle "Terry", short for "terrifying").

Jill and I were wondering, though, how baby toy manufacturers deal with this sort of reaction in testing. Again, it is absolutely normal for babies to react with irrational fear towards something totally innocuous. I'm sure that for every baby that hates Terry, there are dozens who think he's their best friend. But that suggests that, like a pharmaceutical company measuring side effects, toy manufacturers probably have some maximum threshold of terrified baby that's acceptable before a product goes to market, and the idea of that metric is hilarious to me.

Meanwhile, we've stowed Terry away in a drawer. But Nathaniel has found Terry's hiding place and has gingerly started taking him out to play with. We don't turn the power on, and so the scary pop-out doesn't happen (we experimented with it once more, but Nathaniel still hated it), but it's definitely a case of Nathaniel deciding that he is going to confront his fears, and I'm very proud of him for it.

The Parent's Geiger Counter

One of the strangest aspects of parenthood that they don't really tell you about is the fear. Once you have a baby, you're always just a little bit afraid.

Usually it really is just a little bit. Barely noticeable. But it's present -- like a little Geiger counter that crackles in the background (and periodically spikes with serious danger).

We had our first trip with Nathaniel to urgent care today. That sounds more serious than it is -- his daycare sent him home because he had a rash, and we needed a doctor to check him out before he was cleared to return. Turns out, he has Hand Foot and Mouth Disease (which is what we thought it was) -- perhaps the least serious childhood ailment out there, other than it being extremely contagious. To be honest, Nathaniel barely seemed bothered by it (when is he ever?).

And yet, as we were waiting in the doctor's office and I watched Nathaniel happily crawl and climb about, I looked at the splotchy red marks on his face and thighs and a tiny part of me thought -- could it be measles? Not that I know anything about measles, other than we had eradicated it and thanks to the anti-vaxx conspiracism of the GOP it's back. But that's that little bit of fear lurking in the background.

Meanwhile, also as we were waiting, I was reading about immigration agents shooting two people in Portland, shortly after ICE agents in Minneapolis orphaned a six-year-old boy. On the Portland shooting, someone remarked that the address was right by their own child's daycare, and then glumly remarked that soon all of us will have the story of the ICE shooting or kidnapping or violence that occurred "right by where we do [X]." We always like to talk about those "little bits of human connection" like they're a good thing, but sometimes what they do is emphasize "it could've been us."

I'm not unreasonable; I know the Geiger counter of fear would have always been there; it isn't an artifact of this administration. But it certainly is the case that the counter is crackled louder than it otherwise would, because our own government is intent on terrorizing the citizenry.

Care Day

Nathaniel had his first day of daycare today!

As is typical of these things, it was harder on mom and dad (mostly dad) than baby. Nathaniel was happy when we left him, and happy when we picked him up, and the daycare center sent some adorable photos of him playing and napping (sidebar: I cannot imagine how big a change the job of early childhood daycare provider has gone through since the dawn of the app era). Dad held it together during drop off but was sobbing in the car ride home, and then started tearing up again upon pick up once I saw that he had done well (I cry from relief).

Tears aside, though, this is good for everyone. It's good for Nathaniel to socialize with other kids, and it's good for us to have a bit more freedom during the day (it's terrible for our bank account, but there's not much to be done on that). Indeed, my main thought was to wonder, once again, how universal childcare isn't the #1 top voting priority of every American who has ever been a parent.

Today was just a half day -- tomorrow he stays through the afternoon. But for the time being, it's looking like an A+ adjustment from an A+ baby. I couldn't be prouder of the little guy.

Sick Baby

Nathaniel is feeling under the weather.

He has a cough, which he caught from me, and before I go any further, he's fine. In fact, he's mostly been handling it like a champ. This really is the first time he's been truly sick-sick (he's had runny noses and such before, but he's frankly scarcely noticed them), and by and large he's being a real trooper.

But last night he got caught in a bit of a spiral where he coughed himself awake, and found that a bit scary and starting crying, which made it a bit harder to catch his breath, which exacerbated the cough ... and all of the sudden, it's a full meltdown. About an hour of screaming and sobbing and coughing, all while he's clearly exhausted. No fun.

Again, to reiterate, he is (and was) fine. We kept a close eye on him to make sure he wasn't actually struggling to breathe or anything like that, and there were no issues there. He was just (understandably) upset, and miserable, and honestly a bit scared, and obviously as a parent you hate seeing your kiddo like that.

As sicknesses go, this really is about as basic as you can get. But even still, as a parent, it's miserable. Nathaniel is a baby. He doesn't understand what's going on. He just knows he's in this bad situation and he's looking to you to help him, and there's really not all that much you can do other than give him cuddles and comfort. (The saddest part for me was that whenever one of us would hold him, he'd reach for the other parent, as if to say "surely, one of you can help me!").

This sort of thing happens to every baby and every parent. That doesn't make it easier; in fact, I suspect most parents would categorize times like this as among the toughest parts of being a parent.

But as I was cuddling him last night, watching him sob uncontrollably and feeling absolutely helpless in the face of his misery, my mind kept drifting to Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Because as terrible as this experience was for a normal, non-dangerous childhood cough, I cannot fathom how I would feel grappling with this feeling of helpless impotence in the face of my baby's confused misery if it were a serious illness. Measles. Pertussis. Mumps. Things that could put him in the hospital. Things that could endanger his life.

Take this awful feeling I had last night, and magnify it to an incalculable degree. That is what Kennedy -- and all those who enabled him, a cadre that includes Donald Trump, most Republican Senators, and every one of their voters -- is unleashing on America. That my mind associates last night with that experience is testament to just how little I can comprehend -- am willing to comprehend -- what going through that hell would actually be like.

Having a sick baby should be the flip side of my vaccine post: you want to know what's way worse than the feeling of impotent helplessness watching your baby suffer from a cough? The feeling of impotent helplessness watching your baby hospitalized with the measles. The former is inevitable. The latter is eminently avoidable, and it is infuriating that this conspiratorial maniac is endangering my baby -- all of our babies -- by trying to put safe vaccines out of reach and facilitate the spread of dangerous diseases.

There are so many reasons why we as Americans should be ashamed of the choices we've made as a polity over the past few years. But amidst stiff competition, Robert Kennedy has to be very, very high on the list.

Defeating Your Baby By Submission

I've sometimes joked that parenting a baby is basically a cargo cult. They take one extra-long nap with their arms grasping the crib bars and forevermore you're putting their arms against the crib bars because "that's how they sleep".

But lately, I've been analogizing parenting Nathaniel more to an MMA match.

It's not as bad as it sounds. Nathaniel has always been a great sleeper, but lately he's been going through what I'd term his first real sleep regression. Whereas until recently Nathaniel easily fell asleep on his own at around 7 PM and stay down straight on till morning, over the past few days he's been waking up several times each evening, pulling himself standing on the side of the crib and wailing (typically earlier in the evening -- once he's asleep past midnight, he tends to stay down). That may not sound too terrible, and I expect no pity, but I cannot stress enough how abnormal it is for him to be struggling here. Indeed, arguably "regression" does Nathaniel dirty because it implies reverting to a previous state, but this is actually the first time that he's had substantial trouble sleeping at night since he was a newborn.

Having not had to deal with this before, we never actually did any "sleep training". So we're playing this whole thing by ear. We already had a steady pre-sleep routine, and we've adjusted his bedtime to be later in order to respond to his sleep cues. We also do try to let him cry for a little bit because we don't want to develop bad habits and we know he's capable of putting himself to sleep. That said, precisely because we know he can normally settle himself, it feels like when he won't stop crying its indicative of a genuine need for parental intervention. So what do we do when we do step in?

Sometimes, we pick him up and rock him for awhile. There's no doubt he is tired -- he falls asleep instantly in our arms -- but the problem is it often doesn't take: even as he's asleep in our arms, the moment we put him down in the crib he immediately rolls over, pulls himself back standing, and starts crying again.

So that brings us to strategy number two: holding him down in the crib. Much of this regression started around when he could start pulling himself up. I hypothesize that before when Nathaniel stirred or woke up, he couldn't actually get up, and since he was stuck lying down anyway he was able to get himself back to sleep without too much trouble. Now, though, he can stand, and it's much harder for him to fall back asleep once he's gotten himself on his feet. You'd think that, given that it brings him nothing but sadness, he might try just not standing in the crib post-bedtime, but as Jill puts it "it's like a demon possesses him" -- he doesn't even look happy standing up, he acts like some malign force is compelling him to do it in spite of how immiserating it is.

But I digress. If standing up is what keeps him up, and what happens if you just put a hand on his stomach or back and prevent him from standing? He has to fall asleep eventually if you just keep him roughly horizontal, right? And it turns out that's ... basically true: for awhile he struggles against you as the stand-up demon exerts itself, but eventually he (usually) gives up and passes out. It is a literal victory by submission, and I'll take it. (The main risk is that he is absolutely willing to play possum -- sedately lying with his eyes closed, and then the instant I remove my hand from his torso rolling to the end of the crib and making a grab for the bars).

Anyway, tonight was another tough one for Nathaniel, and we've employed all of the above strategies. We had the regular bedtime routine, after which he slept for an hour before the crying jag began. Then Jill rocked him to sleep, which bought us another hour of sleep. Then I tried the submission technique, which gave us another hour. And then in the most recent run (about a half hour ago as of this writing), he cried but managed to get himself back to sleep (hurray!).

Life is a Metaphor for Life

I had one of those deep/dumb epiphanies the other day. Raising a baby is really a commentary on the human existence and how we relate to the independent existence of other people!

Nathaniel's latest milestones are, in rapid succession, crawling and pulling himself into a standing position. And every time he hits one of these milestones, I am beside myself with joy. That's for his sake, of course -- he's learning and growing -- but also mine. He can move on his own! If he wants a toy, he can just crawl to it. If he's bored with his current vantage point, he can maneuver himself to look at something new.

And yet.

Every one of Nathaniel's new milestones carries with it new opportunities to defy my will. It was, admittedly, very nice when I could set Nathaniel down and I'd know he'd stay where I put him. If I didn't want him to move, he didn't move. Now? Things aren't so simple. I might want him to play quietly in the living room; he might have an alternative idea of booking it at top speed towards the nearest stairway. As much as I love and cherish these milestones it was, I find myself ruefully admitting, a lot easier when I could basically control his every move.

Right now (as in, over the past day or two), Nathaniel is at that lovely stage where he can pull himself into a standing position ... but can't quite sit back down. This is a problem since the standing up part is very exciting and far preferable to, say, a nap, but the standing up indefinitely part is infuriating and demanding of a response from mom or dad. One might think that after being laid back down in these circumstances -- apparently baby's most heartfelt desire -- one would not immediately roll over and pull oneself back up again, but you are not a ten month old. Nathaniel has (and objectively still is) a great sleeper, but this has been a rare moment where I've had to spend hours coaxing him down for a nap that, ironically enough, he absolutely does want to take but keeps on self-sabotaging by standing up along the crib instead.*

Anyway, much like with humans, generally, on net I'm happy that this human is learning and growing and becoming more independent (I reserve the right to change that assessment during the teenage years). But yeah, I do have newfound appreciation for why those developments sometimes engender resentment.

* Jill once spotted him on the monitor crying before he pulled himself into the standing position but nonetheless proceeding to finish standing up anyway, as if he was possessed by some infernal demon forcing him to stand against his will.

Face Forward

It is another day of milestones for Nathaniel.

First of all, we put him in a front-facing stroller seat for the first time. I already miss being able to look at his adorable little face as we go out for walks, but I'm excited for him to get a better view of the great big world out there (admittedly, today the "great big world" was mostly Target and the mall. But we did walk a bit around Multnomah Village, so there was that).

Pictured: Two desperate civilians on the streets of war-torn Portland

Second, we purchased what we hope will be Nathaniel's "permanent" car seat, as he's almost too big for his baby car seat. It's got some lovely bells and whistles -- the 360 swivel to get him out is especially appreciated -- but once again it comes with cost: the baby car seat functioned as an easy-breezy carrier (it easily detached from the car seat dock and latched into the stroller, and it was also easy to just carry around), and once again it looks like those days are just about over. Now if we want to carry Nathaniel, we have to actually carry him. RIP my back.

And third and finally, tonight we are leaving Nathaniel for the first time with an actual babysitter, as Jill and I go out to see Dan Soder (aka Mafee from Billions) do standup comedy. To be clear, we've left Nathaniel with grandparents before. And we've had a non-relative babysitter play with Nathaniel while we were still in the house before. But this will be the first time we're combining both. Unfortunately, Nathaniel seems to be at a strong stranger-danger/separation anxiety phase, and so we can imagine there might be a lot of tears and screaming. Obviously he'll be fine, this is an important milestone, there will be no permanent damage, etc. -- but mostly, we're just trying not to think about it too hard.

And meanwhile, as all of this is happening, my own government is threatening to invade my city.

This feels reminiscent of the last post I wrote before Nathaniel was born -- the many, many ways that moment (just days before inauguration) felt like a "midpoint" in my life. Before child, after child. Before age, after age. Before autocracy, after autocracy.

And this feels similar. I am still, in the scheme of things, new to Portland. We've been here less than five years. But I can honestly say that I love this city. I love living here, I love working here, and I love the idea of raising a family here.

The stories that Trump and his lackeys tell of Portland are -- and I cannot stress this hard enough -- lies. They are lies. This city is not "war-torn". It is not some sort of anarchistic hellscape. We are not unsafe here -- we go downtown all the time to enjoy Portland's culture offerings. What would make us unsafe is the prospect of being literally subjected to an invasion because the man in charge of the most powerful army in the world has decided he hates my city and hates the people who live here -- which is to say he hates me, hates my wife, hates my baby, and hates all my friends and neighbors. Make no mistake: that's why this is happening. It is not for our benefit. It is not to make Portland safe. It is to make Portland suffer.

And we will suffer. How many people will avoid downtown because they don't want to get caught in the Stasi crosshairs? How many shops will lose business? How many families will be broken up, or even if they're not, have sleepless nights and days terrified that they will be broken up? That's the wages of this war, and they're not remotely accidental. The cruelty continues to be the point.

Nathaniel Updates

What's new in the world? Boooo!

What's new with my adorable baby? Yaaaay!

Here are some of the latest developments on the Nathaniel front (for the record, he's 7.5 months):

Sleeping: He remains an absolutely incredible sleeper. Down at 7 PM, always sleeps through the night. I give him a bottle at around midnight, but he dreamfeeds it. We've even mostly reached the point where we don't have to rock him to sleep -- just plop him in his crib and he'll handle himself. If I die in the next few months, know it's likely that a jealous parent assassinated me.

Rolling over: He did this several months ago and then kind of just, stopped. Well, he's started again in earnest, especially in his crib. This does have one unfortunate consequence though -- he doesn't always seem to realize he can roll back over (from stomach to back). The rare times he wakes up crying, it's usually because he got on his stomach and is mad about it.

Bouncing: We got one of those bounce slings for him to sit in while we are in the kitchen and it is his favorite thing in the world. Hugs from mom and dad? Eh, take it or leave it. Time in the bounce sling? Forever, please!

Quiet: I took Nathaniel out to visit some art galleries the other day, and the gallerist remarked that he was the quietest baby she'd ever met. Which checks out -- when we're out of the house, he is the mellowest guy you'll ever meet. He's alert, and interested in what's happening around him -- but he scarcely makes a peep (or a smile).

(Interest in) crawling: He's not crawling yet, but he's definitely interested. We're seeing more knee shimmies and butt waggles when he's on his stomach, especially if there's a toy in front of him he wants to reach. To be honest though, I'm of two minds of how much of a mover he's going to be. On the one hand, he loves to move (see "bouncing"). On the other hand, he's often happy to sit quietly without moving for long stretches (see "quiet"). So I can imagine him zooming around the room at the first opportunity, and I can also imagine him just hanging out because, like, why is over there any better than over here?

Number 2 Ranked Baby in a One Baby House

A few evenings ago, Jill was awakened in the middle of the night because someone spit up all over the bedsheets in their sleep.

That someone was me. I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me, and the Pepcid I took before bed proved insufficient for the task.

Nathaniel slept soundly through the night, as he does almost every night. 

But spit-up? Seriously? I'm nearly forty. And it's a bit embarrassing, as a near-forty-year-old, to not even be the lowest-maintenance "baby" in the house.

Then again, in other respects it's a lot better when it's me than him. When something's wrong with me, I can self-regulate, and I can usually understand what it is and communicate what I need. Nathaniel, of course, lacks those capacities. So on the rare occasions when he does start crying without a clear cause, Jill and I just sort of haphazardly throw comfort-ideas at him in the hopes that something sticks (pick him up, put him down, leave the room, stay in the room, stay just outside the room but in eyeshot, give him toys, try to give a nap, feed him, change him, burp him ... it goes on).

The other day, Nathaniel had probably his worst meltdown since he was born -- even worse than vaccine day. The day started normal, except that he was unusually uninterested in his bottle (normally he takes it with no trouble whatsoever). But he was cheery enough as the day progressed, so I didn't think much of it. We have our next door neighbor's kid come over once a week to watch Nathaniel (we stay home, it just lets us catch up on work or chores or sleep), and when we passed him off to her Nathaniel started crying. Even that isn't too unusual -- he'll usually cry for a minute or so on such a handoff -- but this time it didn't really stop. To her credit, the sitter tried everything she could think of (playing, bouncing, carrying, music), until eventually I suggested maybe we try to put him down for a nap.

Bzzt. Dad guessed wrong, and Nathaniel absolutely blew up. Crying turned into flat out hysterical screaming, and finally I pushed the big red abort button and got Jill. Mom managed after a lot of cuddles and soothing to calm Nathaniel down and eventually get him to sleep, and we let the sitter go home early.

We still aren't sure what set him off. Right now, our best guess is a mix of separation anxiety and an upset stomach (he took a mega-poop shortly after the sitter left), that sort of fed on itself until he spiraled. But we're not sure, and of course we never will know for sure. What we do know is that there's little that's more awful than seeing your kiddo uncontrollably upset and not knowing how to help him. Even when you're pretty sure it's nothing (and we did take his temperature and check for anything that might be causing pain or discomfort), it's still awful -- though I'm thankful it was nothing, since it'd be far worse if it was caused by something.

Oh, and lest anyone worry -- he was back to better after his nap. And today we discovered that he really likes beer ads (at least in fine art form). So there's that.

A Day of Milestones

Today is a pretty big day.

For starters, it's my blog's birthday! It is a whopping 25 years old today, with over 7,400 posts. That's a lot of writing!

In addition, Nathaniel turns five months old today. You wouldn't know it by looking at him, though -- he's 20 and a half pounds and over 27 inches long! We've already got him in nine-month old clothing, and he stretches some of that.

And of course, related to the above, it is my very first Father's Day as a father. I am so lucky to have the best baby in the world, co-parented by the best wife in the world.

I cannot express how lucky, grateful, and blessed I feel.

A Lifetime of Pride Awaits

  

Nathaniel turned four months old last week.

And I’m already a proud papa.

Of course, he isn’t really doing that much right now. But why should I let that stop me?

Here’s a list of some of things I’m proud about my baby:

I’m proud of how big he is: Nathaniel scared us a bit at the hospital—he lost a lot of weight after he was born, and wasn’t waking up for feedings. But now he’s a veritable giant! 96th percentile for weight, and literally off the charts for height (28 inches long!). Anyone have advice for raising a jock baby?

I’m proud of what a great observer he is: Whenever we go out, Nathaniel is incredibly well-behaved. He almost never fusses in public, but he also rarely smiles in public either. Instead, he gets this thoughtful, observant look on his face and just silently soaks everything in.

Then we get home and it’s silly-town. But not in public. He’s not an animal.

I’m proud of how strong he is: Almost from the get-go, Nathaniel has been very strong. He was holding his neck up and looking around even while we were still in the hospital.

I’m proud of what a great sleeper he is: Don’t kill me, fellow parents, but Nathaniel basically started sleeping through the night immediately. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been woken up by him crying. He’ll take a midnight bottle, but sleep right through it—I don’t even have to rock him back down. And otherwise, he sleeps consistently from 7 to 7. Daytime naps are a little dicier, but he’s getting better, and in any event I’ll take that trade all day.

I’m proud of how patient he is: For awhile, Nathaniel had no interest in waiting even a second for a bottle once he got hungry (our running joke trying to soothe him while the bottle warmed was to agree “we’ve never fed you once in your life”). But now he’s much more understanding. It’s even more pronounced when he wakes up in the morning—no tears, no yelling, he’ll just happily entertain himself in the crib until mom is ready to get him.

I’m proud of how resilient he is: This is a big one, because it is not my forte. But when he got his shots, mom and dad were upset for longer than he was. And we’re already seeing him develop self-soothing practices to help him fall back asleep or get through a challenging time. I could learn from him.

I’m proud of how joyful he is: He may not show it in public, but Nathaniel has the best smile. He loves to giggle when being tickled, he loves to jabber while on his playmat, and he loves to dance when we sing him songs (we hold him upright as he bounces about). There’s nothing I love more than watching him take joy in the world around him.

This is just a short list. And it will only grow as he grows older. I’m not going to lie and say there’s nothing he could do that wouldn’t make me proud; but what is true is that there are an infinite number of ways he can make me proud, and I can’t wait to discover what they all will be.

Mouseketeer

Last night, I saw a mouse in my house.

It was around 3 AM, and I was finishing up my overnight parenting shift (I cover bedtime to 3 AM; Jill wakes up to pump from 3 - 3:30 or so, and then she covers through the rest of the morning). I only saw the mouse for an instant as it scampered under a kitchen cabinet. I yelped in surprise, but then finished my various tasks before going to wake Jill up (though the yelp probably already accomplished that).

And then I just melted down.

I don't know what came over me. I didn't want the mouse in the house. But I also didn't want to hurt it, nor did I want the responsibility for getting rid of it (a responsibility which, in my eyes, ran an intolerable risk that I'd hurt it). I was terrified that I was going to injure or harm it in the course of trying to catch and remove it; or that if I didn't succeed in catching and removing it the mouse would never be out of the house. And the entire thought process just made me come entirely unglued. I was crying in the bathroom in a state of complete panic; I actually wanted to flee to a hotel. It was ridiculous.

Now I'm trying to work out what background neurosis is actually operating here. I've always been a sensitive sort -- one of my major childhood trauma stories centered on a caterpillar I accidentally ran over with a garbage can I was pulling inside. And I've always found mice to be inordinately cute (my second-grade play was "Of Mice and Mozart", though I actually did not play the role of a narrator-mouse).

But I think what's mostly going on relates, of course, to my own baby. On the one hand, it is extra important not to have a mouse running around the floor when one has a baby who's main daily activity is lying on a playmat on the floor. What if the mouse scratches the baby? But on the other hand, small, cute, and adorable are the main characteristics of my baby, so the idea of harming (or being responsible for harming) something small, cute, and adorable is one easily liable to psychological projection. I suspect that there's a deeper layer of stress about parental responsibility and keeping our baby safe and protected in an unpredictable world, but I don't think I need to dig any deeper on that.

Anyway, I researched humane traps, which helped (though the descriptions were often juxtaposed against nightmarish accounts of glue traps, which very much did not help). And Jill -- who after seeing me fall to pieces last night agreed to take point on this project -- contacted a pest control service to stop by (we need it anyway, as we've long had an ant problem). I also found the hole it came through in the kitchen and stuffed some steel wool into it, so hopefully that serves as a stopgap. 

It's going to work out. But man, that was an unexpected emotional rapids ride I went through.

(Also, Jamelle Bouie followed me on BlueSky right as I was working through all those emotions. It was a lot).

Will My Child Grow Up To Be a Human?

The other day, Jill and I were playing a common game with our baby -- telling him all the different things he could be when he grows up.

"Are you going to be ... a writer?" "Are you going to be a hockey player?" "Are you going to be an artist?" "Are you going to be a crypto bro?" (we grimaced for the last one).

Our baby is ten weeks old. He isn't much of anything yet. We don't know what he's going to be. And in the present moment, that unknown doesn't just inspire hope and anticipation. It also inspires deep anxiety and worry. We don't know if our child is going to grow up to be the type of person who is under attack by his own government.

For example, we don't know if our baby is going to have a learning disability. And that matters, given the crusade conservative politicians have launched against education programs for disabled children; one conservative commentator on Fox & Friends bluntly described the conservative position on "making sure disabled kids have access to a public education" as "we're against it."

We don't know if our baby is going to have a serious or chronic medical condition. That matters, given the  deep desire by the Trump administration to gut the American healthcare system, coupled with the bloody swath they're already cutting through critical medical research programs.

We don't know if our baby is going to be gay, or trans, or otherwise queer. That matters, given the inhumane attacks on queer personhood that have been promoted over the past few weeks, threatening to undo decades of progress towards actualizing the American promise of equal justice under law.

Of course, he might not turn out to be any of these things. We don't know, just like we don't know if he'll be a writer or a hockey player or an artist or (shudder) a crypto bro.

So we just have to wait and see, and hope that whatever our child grows into, it'll be one of the categories our country still recognizes as fully human.

Vaccine Day

Today was our baby's two-month checkup, and that included a suite of vaccination shots.

It was not fun.

We have a remarkably mellow and relaxed baby. He rarely fusses. He started sleeping through the night basically immediately. When we arrived at the doctor's office he was smiling and cheerful, happily interacting with us and the doctor and the nurses (which made us feel very guilty -- "you don't know what's coming"). He's even gotten a few pricks before in his first few weeks of life and handled them with aplomb.

But these shots he, understandably, did not like. And it was heartbreaking seeing his eyes suddenly go wide when the needle went in, followed by him screaming and crying hysterically. Indeed, I think today we saw actual tears for the very first time. He was clearly both hurt and scared, and that's an awful thing to witness as a parent. (My parents reminded me that as a kid I was so afraid of shots that I ran around the exam table to try and avoid them -- imagine how difficult that was for them to deal with!).

He was, to be sure, fine. In fact, objectively speaking, he was a real trooper. Some cuddles from mom and dad, and a quick feeding from the rest of his bottle (which we wisely had on hand), and he calmed down pretty quickly. He slept the entire car ride home, and for most of the rest of the day he was a little sleepier and a little fussier than normal, but basically okay. By bedtime, he was essentially back to normal. I'm pretty sure the whole process was a lot harder on us emotionally than it was on him.

I do not believe child vaccination is "a personal decision". Occasionally it is a medical decision, for a small number of children for whom vaccination is temporarily or permanently dangerous. But for most people, vaccination is no more and no less than a civic duty -- an unpleasant one, to be sure, but just something you have to do as part of being a good citizen. As someone who hated shots well into adulthood, I very much understand why babies don't like them. But I'm not a baby, so I get mine. It's that simple.

Anti-vaxx sentiment is often chalked up to conspiracy theorizing and lack of trust in established institutions, and I have no doubt that plays a role. I wonder, though, how much anti-vaxx sentiment ultimately boils down to it being really hard, and really unpleasant, to consciously elect to do something that hurts (even if very temporarily, and even for their greater benefit) your child. It is, in a sense, very understandable that parents would want to avoid that wherever possible -- we do try to avoid that wherever possible. And so when some quack comes along and dangles an excuse not to do it, of course it can be tempting -- particularly for parents who lack support, or who are predisposed to second-guess doctors and other "elites", or who are simply exhausted.

This is not, to be clear, a justification or an apologia for avoiding vaccination. Much the opposite, it is a searing indictment of those charlatans who exploit this latent parental instinct in order to make both their children and all children less healthy and less safe. I can't think of anyone lower, and the fact that one such hustler is in charge of the Department of Health and Human Services fills me with immeasurable shame, and rage.

People Hate Mourning Jews

It is hard for me to see a picture of Kfir Bibas and not see my baby.

The news that Kfir Bibas and his family were murdered by Hamas is, of course, wrenching. And for me, at least, it intersected with two of my greatest fears. Of course, there is the fear of harm befalling my son or another a loved one. But there is also the more specific worry, which I've discussed before, of having a loved one die "politically" -- that is, in a context where their death inevitably becomes part of a broader political dispute. It is both unavoidable and unspeakably cruel that Kfir Bibas' death is part of politics now -- the politics of Hamas' depravity, the politics of the horrors of the Israel/Gaza War, the politics of the future of Israel and Palestine where, God willing, nobody will have to experience what the Bibas family has endured.

And it is not just the Bibas family, but the entire Jewish world, who is mourning Kfir's death. And, because we are Jews, that means that some people -- sometimes other Jews -- will tell us we are mourning Kfir wrong.

One way we might be "wrong" is if we have the temerity to focus, for even a short spell, just on the Bibas family. Don't we know others have suffered too? Are you saying that Jewish lives matter more? How tribal, how cloistered, how gauche, to not use this moment to make a statement about the universal value of all human life.

But another way we might be "wrong" is if we do mourn Kfir Bibas by reference to the universal value of all human life -- and in particular, of both Israeli and Palestinian life.

The New Jewish Narrative's statement mourning the deaths of Oded Lifschitz and Ariel, Kfir, and Shiri Bibas spoke in this register. It described the Bibas family as "distinct symbols of the human cost of this conflict," and averred that their "tragic deaths are a painful reminder of the unspeakable loss that this war has wrought." They juxtaposed Ariel and Kfir alongside Hind Rajab and infants in Al-Nasr Hospital. They concluded by renewing their commitment to "a future where children on both sides of the fence grow up safe, free from the horrors of war."

I am not the Bibas family, and I do not purport to speak for them. I can only speak for my own grief, and for me this was a message that spoke to my grief. But I've seen other Jews who were aghast by this statement, who were furious that NJN would use such universalist tones rather than concentrate solely and exclusively on the Bibas children.

Their complaint styles itself as one objecting to "All Lives Mattering", but notice that this isn't quite right. The NJN did not, anywhere in its statement, reproach those who decided this week to speak specifically and distinctively about the Bibases. They did not say that there was something improper or tribal or provincial about having that focus, or that Jews have some unique obligation to transcend their Jewishness and speak solely in universalist tones. They just chose, as an expression of their own Jewish voice, that they would make this universal connection. For them, the way to mourn Jewishly is to draw out this more expansive desire that Jewish children and Palestinian children be free from the horrors of war. If that is "All Lives Mattering", then any project of political solidarity and fellowship is, and I can hardly imagine a more short-sighted and self-destructive commitment than that.

When choosing that framing is presented not as a choice at all but as an implacable obligation, there is a problem. But when choosing that framing is presented as an impermissible option that betrays Jewish peoplehood, there is a problem as well. That Jews (or anyone else) are not obligated to always frame their suffering in universal tones does not mean that Jews should be forbidden from electing, of our own volition, to draw out those connections. The latter move is just as stifling as the former.

When I see a picture of Kfir Bibas, I see my baby, whom I love and cherish and would be shattered if he came into any danger or peril. And I know that every baby has parents who feel the exact same way, who would be shattered in the same way -- and how could I wish such a horrible fate upon any parent? When I imagine how horrible it would be for me, I imagine how horrible it would be for them, and my instinct is to think on ways to avert the horrors for us. If, God forbid, something did happen to my family, I hope nobody would begrudge me for concentrating specifically on my family. But I also hope that if I chose to rededicate myself to trying to prevent similar tragedies from befalling other families and other communities not mine, that that choice would not be begrudged either.

Cry, the Beloved Infant

My baby is one month old today.

At one month, he doesn't do much. One month is too young to crawl or sit up or babble. He doesn't even make many facial expressions yet. Crying is really his main move.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I've been reflecting on baby cries of late. And I don't think we give them enough credit. In particular, a baby's cry is a profound expression of trust. A baby cries based on an innate, unshakeable trust that if they communicate they are in distress, someone will try to help them.

That's hardly something to take for granted. We could imagine instead the logic of "if I communicate I am in distress, a predator will know I'm vulnerable." Or "why bother communicating I am in distress, nobody cares." But babies operate on the firm belief that when they are truly in need, others will care for them.

We could take a bit of inspiration from that. All around us and all over the world, there are people in need of help. And too often, their sincere, agonized, plaintive cries for help are ignored -- a truly awful sensation. Of course, none of us (well, maybe not none of us) can help everyone. But most of us can do more. We can try to be a little better than we were yesterday. We can respond to the cries of others, and vindicate the first, most basic trust we are born with.