Espen and the Great Fuckoff

Tobias, Espen and I were riding home one day, enjoying a peaceful silence, when Espen suddenly shrieked, "Fuckoff!!"

I looked at Tobias with accusation in my eyes.
He was already looking at me me with the same assumption.

"What have you been SAYING AROUND THE CHILD?!"

We sat in silence, trying not to move quickly and reveal that our brains had been pickled by an angelic looking 2 year old's potty mouth.

Espen grew more animated.

"Fuckoff! FUCKOFF!!!!" he insisted, rocking around in his car seat.

Silence continued as Tobias and I continued judging the hell out of each other's negligent parenting.

Then we noticed Espen pointing out the window.

"Fuckoff!!! Beep! Beep!!!!"

We were passing Home Depot.

And that's when I remembered that his Grandfather was inclined to take Espen to Home Depot to chase the forklifts and watch them take things up and down off shelves.

"Espen," I asked, slightly trembling, "Are you talking about forklifts?"

"Fuckoffs!!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!!" Espen nodded enthusiastically, grinning and pointing towards the Depot.

Forklifts, indeed.

The Bib Monster

As a wee chap, getting Espen into a bib was like trying to slow dance with a hungry coyote. Great care was required, to say nothing of focused intention. I figured we'd just circle each other warily until he grew out of toddler eating messes, but recently, something miraculous has happened.

Espen was also a passionately independent little fellow, often rocketing into stranger's arms instead of hanging with mom. And then one day, the sky fell.

Suddenly, I find myself with a little boy who demands both his mother and his bibs at the drop of a hat. Whereas, not two weeks ago, going bibless was like handing him a candy bar, now he looks at me with disbelief and shock when I show up with food sans bib. He jabs at his chest, furiously motioning to his tummy and trousers and insists on, "Bee! Bee!" And silly me, I spend about 5 minutes trying to figure out what he wants so desperately. 

Instead of being that kid in a cafe that runs laughing from their mother, he has become my tiny cling-on, hysterically wailing, "Mom-eeeee! Mom-eeee!" when he gets out of sight. That is strangely heart warming and breaking as I had nearly reconciled myself to being content with the occasional "More berries Mom!" for our emotional contact. 

All this to say, while this might be a phase, it has taught me that what goes around comes around in ways I might never dream possible. At this rate, he'll be playing the piano, dancing and enjoying textile field trips by the time he is 9. I'll keep you posted.

Espen Vs. OMSI

Espen loves the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. It's a Portland icon for children of all ages, and thanks to my bestie Lynsey, we discovered early on that there's a kids room chalk full of amazing kid activities. Giant sandpit with the softest, whitest sand you've ever seen. Waterville where you can splash and play in the safety of an OMSI provided smock. Faux grocery store where you can weigh your fake veggies and meats and set them up in attractive displays.

We got a membership soon thereafter and Espen now squeals "OM-EE!!! Om-EE!" and holds out his hand for a "Samp" (stamp) whenever we get close to it.

Most of the time we go directly to the kid rumpus room, but on this particular day, Espen wanted only to ride the escalator UP and the glass elevator DOWN. (And then up again, thank you very much.) I figured it wouldn't be the first time he'd be fascinated with moving staircases and flying glass boxes, so off we went. A test of my fortitude, you see.

For the next 45 minutes we made a giant circle between two floors in every conceivable combination of ascents and descents. Up the escalator, down the stairs. Up the elevator, down the stairs. Up the stairs, down the elevator. No down the one-way escalator (yet).

Provocatively, I was finding myself being lulled into a gentle, meditative state. OMSI is situated at a particularly picturesque spot on the Willamette River. Espen was a captive audience, so I could mostly stare at the water and enjoy the view.

That is, until the 17th ascent via escalator.
We had made a plan at the bottom.

Me: Ok, Espen, do you want to ride the elevator up AND down this time?"
Espen: Yeah!
Me: Alright, so when we get to the top and the doors open, we just stay there, OK?
Espen: Yeah! UP!

The ride up went smoothly. The waiting was fine. The doors started closing.

Espen looked at me, cackled, and dashed out.

The doors continued to close.

I jammed the "door open" button. (or was it the "door close"?)
Furiously.

Nothing. Except a last look at Espen's face as he realized I was not behind him. I was, in fact, hurtling downwards, away from him.

The wailing began. It was a high whine for the first five feet the elevator dropped and quickly built to a full fledged howl.

My mind raced. Would it be quicker to exit the elevator and run up the stairs or ride the elevator back up as soon as it touched down?

Espen continued to shriek, his vocal projection abilities shattering the impressive din that only hundreds of kids can generate.

Somewhere in the midst of his yowls of Infinite Sadness, I realized the fastest way back to him was staying on the elevator and doing nothing but pressing "2".

While I also realized that the elevator travels no more than 14 feet max, it was like waiting to see if you got a high enough D to graduate high school. You may graduate but you're not getting any medals.

The door slid open and I looked down. Espen was no where to be seen. Slight panic slid around my throat until I heard, "MA-ma!!!" and looked into the eyes of a stranger mom who was holding my kid.

"It's ok," she cooed. "See, your mommy came back."

Le sigh.

I thought about explaining the story but instead took Espen back and said thank you. It'd just sound like an excuse for running to get a latte' and blaming the kid.

Espen waved to the lady, clutching all the while at my neck. Then he looked at me and smiled.

"Poo."

Sure enough, aromas like last night's dinner were wafting out of his britches.

We walked to the car, Espen stretching out his arms, pleading, "OM-EE!! OM-EEEEE!!!!" to everyone we passed along the way.

Good practice for a lifetime of awkward parenting moments.

Stranded in a Subaru

The title may sound vaguely familiar with good cause. Not 8 months ago, the pre-quel to this saga unfolded in the elegant Lincoln Towncar parked in Grandma and Grandpa's garage.

Since then, Espen has grown in both height and coordination. He now boasts abilities such as operating electric locks, starting the electric car and deftly manipulating key fobs. He can climb in and out of a vehicle into his carseat and can reach the front seats with his little feet. We are a merry duo indeed now that Espen's dexterity is on the rise.

One fair Friday in October we headed to the Columbia River Gorge for a fall hike around Latourell Falls. Espen is now a proficient hurler of stones so we spent a good deal of time casting rocks into the creek before returning to Brian the Subaru for lunch. "Let's hit historic Troutdale!" I suggested and Espen smiled in assent.

We landed at an Italian joint run by Latinos and wolfed down mac and cheese. The wind was blowing outside and we were both looking forward to a cozy drive home and the ensuing nap.

I carried Espen to the car, handing him the key fob to distract him as I buckled him into his car seat. I have gotten extremely efficient at this maneuver-it takes me less than five seconds. I've timed myself. Then I grabbed the fob, threw it on the front seat, shut the back door and jogged around to the driver's side.

Up goes the handle.

It stops just shy of opening.
And by "just shy", I do mean, doesn't. Open.
As in, Is Locked.

I know Espen can trigger the fob to make honking noises I cannot reproduce with any combination of buttons. It also takes him at least a minute to achieve so I figured it was safe letting him have free reign of the fob for five seconds. There is no telling how the baby managed this; I suspect that even high speed photography would miss the prestidigitation Espen performed on the fob.

The facts are these:
-All the doors were unlocked when Espen's buns hit his car seat .
-In the five seconds between initial contact and separation, he managed to lock every door in the car. And do it under the ever watchful Eye of Mom.

I stood frozen in place on the main street of downtown Troutdale, the handle glued to my clenched fingers.

Dear God, not again. 

Of course the spare key was at home so I reached into my pocket to phone Tobias.
Where was my phone. For that matter, where was my wallet?

I stared at Espen, wondering how I was going to break the news to him. "Honey, you're locked in the car again. Care to learn how to unbuckle yourself from your car seat this afternoon?"

Once, I can understand, but this just felt like negligence.

The irony was that if he'd been free ranging, the door would've been opened before you could say "GAH!" He's very good at opening car doors now. I made sure of that after the Lincoln Episode. But like any smart monkey, Espen has kept his learning curve steep enough to lull me into a false sense of security.

He smiled and waved from his car seat. He looked at the front of the car. There, on the seat next to the keys, were my thoughtfully placed phone and wallet.

I did what any self-respecting parent would at that point in time. I left my baby unattended and ran a block up the street to the restaurant we'd just left.

"Can I use your phone?" I gasped to the lady at the front desk. "My baby just locked himself in the car."

Yes, I felt guilty for a moment. My BABY locked himself in the car? What kind of lame parent puts it on the toddler? And yet, in moments of extreme intensity, I find myself yelling out the truth, even if it would be wiser to just fib a bit. Or maybe fob.

She smiled at me and said in broken English, "You have triple A? Call them."

Well no, as a matter of fact, I do NOT have triple A because my car insurance provides road-side assistance, but their number is also LOCKED IN THE CAR WITH MY BABY. 

Thankfully that was kept internal.
Still, I didn't want to panic so I dialed Tobias. No answer. WHAT the F.
I called my sister on her cell phone. No answer. Seriously?
I called the hard line at Grandma and Grandpa's house. My sister picked up. Honestly.

"Please go tell Tobi that Espen has locked himself in the car and we are stranded in Troutdale. Tell him to drop everything, get the key and come."

"Oh my god." was my sister's response. Yeah. I'm aware. Thank you.

I was on my way to race outside when a Latino man intercepted me. "You lock baby in car? I bring hanger."

Bless you sweet man and damnit, damnit, damnit.

At least four minutes had elapsed by this time and I ran back to the Subaru where Espen was looking around, still calm, waving, like, "Come ON mom, hello, NAP TIME."

Brian the Subaru was parked next to a metal sculpture gallery which I was casing to see if any pieces could be used as blunt objects to break a window should Espen panic before help arrived.

A woman parallel parked in front of us and smiled. "Hi, how's it going?"

"My baby locked himself in the car."

"Oh! You can call triple A."

So helpful. And off she went. Part of me was extremely baffled. Apparently a section of my brain puts stranded baby above the crowd appeal of rescuing a cat. This, I learned, is another example of my unrealistic views. Several groups of people passed, asked what was wrong, suggested triple A and moved on.

Meanwhile, Restaurant Hanger Guy had appeared with pliers and hangers in hand. For the next fifteen minutes we shoved metal rods through the rubber flashing around the driver's side window and came annoyingly close to touching the keys. Finally, I grabbed the pliers and jammed them between the window and the door frame. Not a word was exchanged between Latin Rescuer and myself besides groans and sharp inhalations when the metal would scrape over the "unlock" button.

As a consumer note to the key fob designers at Subaru. NEVER make the the Unlock button slippery and convex. It should be a concave, sticky chasm that sucks metal hangers to it like a magnet.

Around this time, Espen started to wilt a little. To his credit, he remained optimistic, even amused, for twenty minutes, but after awhile, even the Brave reach their Limit. He began to emit little sobs punctuated with high pitched wails that pierce the most stalwart heart. I started towards the metal sculptures.

As I turned, I saw a looming beacon of Red Hope cruising down the street towards me. The firetruck slowed as it approached, no doubt because my Latin Knight and I were furiously trying to break into the Subaru. They had their headphones on so I pointed at them, then pointed at my car and made a twisting key motion. A ginger fireman laughed and said, "We'll turn around."

That calmed Espen right down. He loves machines. Restaurant Guy gathered his tools (pliers and hangers) and headed back to his business. "Thank you so much!" I yelled after him. He smiled and kept walking.

The firefighters pulled right up next to Brian the Subaru and
brought out a zipped bag that looked like it contained a huge axe. "Where the blazes is Tobias?" I thought. "This could get expensive."

They extracted a plastic wedge the size of a hammer and a metal rod that looked like a thick hanger with a hook on the end. Their plan was the same as mine, just with better presented tools. Fine. Just get my baby out of the car.

The second before they hooked the lock, Tobias and my sister showed up in a cloud of dust and screeching brakes. "Stop!" they yelled, "We have The Key!"

Summer tossed the key over the firemen in slow motion, I snagged it and opened the door before they could trip the latch. Tobias lunged into the back seat and freed Espen from the car seat with the drama of a late night talk show host. Espen wanted to climb in the firetruck. He also wanted a hug. So torn. So close to nap time.

Tobias and I loaded Espen into Evie, the electric car, which is impossible to lock yourself in or out of. Summer drove Brian home.

One of my friends has assured me that her toddler pulls the same kinds of shenanigans. All I can wonder is, "What's next? Bank vault? Speeding train? Cockpit?" Stay tuned.

I'm 1, Walking Independently and Mom Stopped Pumping!

Momentous things tend to happen in threes.  Celebrities are born or die in triads, godheads tend to run in trinities and babies and moms make big transitions in trios.  Also, cake. Danish Layer Cake, to be specific.

.

Case in point.  Espen is officially out of babyland according to Tobias' boss Heine, who is apparently an expert on both Business Intelligence empire building and accurate nomenclature for aging transitions of children.  Espen is now a child, thanks to turning 1.   

Not only has he graduated infancy, he also decided to make the transition from largely assisted steps to predominantly unassisted toddling on his birthday.  

The Brain of the Bear has a flare for well timed revelations.  For the majority of March 31 he ambled around, sitting on balloons, sloshing about on other babies and cackling without restraint as he walked from chicken coop to flower pot, down the canyon and back again.  You'd think he'd discovered the wheel, cause this kid was rollin'. 

He gets the most blissed out expression on his face as he experiences uninterrupted walking stretches.  It's as though he's realizing the freedom of his feet, that the possibilities of mobility are as big as his wanting. The uncensored joy, free from ego, purely present, is phenomenally inspiring.  It makes me want to learn to walk every day, which I can, if I am willing to let go of expectations of rightness.

I was also experiencing some liberation on his birthday.  I pumped the Milk Bags for the last time with the fancy pants Medela pump that has been a permanent accent in our house for the last year.  It's hard to believe that I now have 4-5 hours back that I can spend playing with Espen or working on other projects.  

Getting back both the time and the "milk energy" as Tobias calls it has resulted in a renewed application of will towards my writing and singing.  Suddenly, all of the perseverance, patience and will to nurture developed over the last year has the opportunity to extend to myself and Tobias and hopefully, the larger world.  I aim to make a real go of using my voice on this planet and to expand into the Largeness of Being.  Producing good writing and free singing is where I'm starting now that time is flowing into my court again.  

Now that everyone is fully afoot and Spring is in the air, the blog posts may become a bit spare but the adventures will continue apace.  Check Facebook for up to date happenings and I will endeavor to keep the truly momentous stories and happenings on this site in perpetua.

P.S. If and when the word "Deutna" (DOOT-nah) becomes a new linguistic meme, Espen is to be credited with its creation.  We believe it means something to the effect of, "Hey! Woah.  That's oooh."

Locked In A Lincoln

Someone once told me that the difference between comedy and tragedy is that everyone ends up either married or dead.  Since Espen is not yet old enough for nuptials, neither is he dead, this story lies somewhere betwix the two poles. I leave it to you, the jury of one and all, to decide whether to laugh, gasp, or cry.

You may chuckle when you mention that friend of yours who still lives with his mother at the age of 35, and I would join you...except that I am 35 and my husband, son, and I all technically live with my mother.  I am proud of this because are part of a real community of mom, dad, aunt, aunt's dog, and the three of us.  Out here in the country we help each other out.  We work together on the garden, we share eggs, we pick up each other's mail and we transport each other to and from the airport.

That said, my parents, grandmother and great aunt were returning from New Mexico Friday last, and it was up to Espen and I to fetch them at 2.50pm from the Southwest departure area.  A simple enough task, but one that could only be completed in the Montero due to its two jump seats in the back.  With five adults and a car seat, none of the other vehicles could accommodate.

The Montero has been a faithful workhorse for my mother over the last decade, squiring her around in an elevated and four wheel drive cocoon that has kept her above and out of harm's way.  Since she and dad retired this year however, a little style has been allowed to trump functionality.

Enter the Lincoln.

The Lincoln is a sacred family relic kept in mint condition since 1997 or thereabouts.  It had been sitting in state, kept away from dust, rust and an early demise, in MY grandmother's garage with 20,000 miles on it and regular outings once a month to keep it in tip-top shape. Since she is now well into her 87th year, grandma decided it was acceptable to pass it on to my parents to enjoy in all its grey leathered, crimson exteriored glory. It now sits in the double garage bay while the Montero is crammed next to it  in the single garage, largely ignored, and grateful to be out of the elements.

Espen and I made our way to collect the Montero on the day of aforementioned airport pick-up. I pushed the garage door opener.  Nothing happened.  Not even a noise.  Not deterred in the slightest, I placed Espen in the driver's seat and shut the door so I could manually release the door and free the car.  Due to some technical malfunctions I still do not understand, it took me at least 7 minutes to pry the door open while Espen merrily pretended to drive the SUV, cackling with pleasure.

That done, I returned to the driver's seat, placed the babe on my lap and turned the ignition. The theme of nothingness continued.  Oh, the lights flashed blearily and the wiper blades limped from side to side, but there was no sign of further life.

My best guess was a dead battery but in the heat of racing against the clock, I couldn't be certain. Still, there were jumper cables in the back and I had  no other ideas so what the hey.  I grabbed the cables, Espen and headed to the Lincoln.  Espen went in the driver's seat,  I flipped the hood release and went to the front of the car to spring the latch and open the hood...except it wasn't there.  I ran my hand under the entire lip of the hood. Nothing. Time was not standing still.  Espen waved at me. I re-released the hood and tried again. Nope. I crouched down and peered under the hood as I pried it up with my fingers.  It giggled at me and then I saw it. A tiny, yellow lever almost flush with the bottom of the hood. Jerk Lincoln designers.

That done, I managed to get the jumper cables hooked up to both cars without using myself as the ground.  Pleased, I returned to the Lincoln and lifted the driver's side door handle so I could start the car.  Espen smiles at me.  From the other side of the window.

I slowly try the handle again, a creeping realization making its way through my brain.
My.
11 month old.
Is locked.
In THE LINCOLN.
with the keys.

Now some parents might have panicked, or experienced profound guilt and shame wash over them at this moment. Maybe it was my lifeguard training kicking it.  Perhaps a morbid sense of humor.

For a second, I imagined Espen's face looking like this, but what I really saw is displayed below. He was having a blast.  Part of me that still remains a child whispered that if I just jumped the Montero and prepared to leave, the Lincoln would magically unlock itself by the time I tried the door handle again.  The other parts of my brain were saying:
1. Get the baby to unlock the door.
2. Find something to break the window.
3. Guess the key code for the door number pad.
4. Take a photo.
5. Write this story down.


Espen DID try to mimic my ambiguous hand movements, but to no avail.  Bored with trying to interpret my intentions, he returned to throwing the turn signals on and off and bouncing on the leather seat.

Since my parents were flashing through the air in a plane at that moment and Tobias had taken my phone with him to work, I thought I'd better buy myself some time to come up with a suitable plan. I returned to the Montero and climbed in the front seat.

There we sat, mother and child, side by side in our respective vehicles, both in the driver's seat where we like to be.  It was like that internet meme of the dad who photo-shops his baby doing all sorts of dangerous looking things like, handling cleavers and blowtorches. Sans photo shop.

I am glad to say that the irony was not lost on me in the moment, surreal though it may have been.

Is it safe to jump a car when the donor car isn't running? Who knew.  I figured I might as well try since there was no way to either roll the Montero OUT of the garage nor to get another vehicle close enough to jump it. I turned the key and waved to Wesp. He jumped up and down, a muffled squeal emanating from the Lincoln.

Presto. The first thing that worked.  Great. I unhooked the cables, backed the Montero OUT so as not to carbon monoxide the baby and visited him at the driver's window again. By this point, he'd begun to wear out the toggling options and held out his hand for me to get him.  Oh dear.

I had no idea if or where the spare key could possibly be due to a recent total house purge by mom and dad, so I ran to the phone booth to try and find my grandmother's phone number. Not there. Called Tobias.  I believe the words that came out were in this order.

"Hello. I do not need your judgement right now, I need your help."

I then asked him to call Aunt Rebecca and get grandma's number and then call her to get the key code and then call me back. If I didn't answer, it was because I was breaking the baby out of the car, so just leave a message.

And then I became a human pinball between the garage and the phone, ricocheting crazily back and forth trying to keep the baby in good humor and not miss vital information.  Five minutes became an eternity. On the third pass to the phone I detoured to the junk door, JUST IN CASE.

This junk drawer has been known to swallow entire solar systems without blinking.  If something goes in, it does not come out and I was reticent to even slightly buoy my flagging hope for a simple solution.  Still, desperate  times call for desperate measures. I opened the drawer.

The Great Purge had found its way to the Junk Drawer as well.  I saw a single key and grabbed it.

By this point, Espen had been in the Lincoln for at least fifteen minutes and was ready to be done with the Giant Crimson Steed.

For a moment, I stood at the front of the car looking at him, the key and the Lincoln.  There were two upright rectangles staring back at me from the key and grill.  This was the moment everything boiled down to.

I inserted the key and turned.  Nothing.

I took a deep breath, summoning all the magical thinking in the universe and slowly turned the key backwards.

Click.

Espen smiled with delight as I unlatched the door, scooped him up and ran back into the house to call Tobias off the chase.  Then it was off to the airport and business as usual.


The Lincoln sat serenely in the garage as we bounded down the road towards the airport as though carnapping infants was a favorite past-time.








 

Baby's First Scar

Parenthood is about finally doing everything your parents forbid you to do as a child.  Rules regarding things like sanitation, "FOR GOODNESS SAKE! Don't Eat Things You Find On The Floor!", and personal hygiene, "Honey, you should BATHE before going into public!" are suddenly optional values.  I have eaten things and fed them to my baby MINUTES after they have hit the ground without blinking.  Though I try to shower every day, sometimes it's just not as attractive as a nap, even if the public may be scandalized. Wound care and injury prevention are another fluid meme.

I grew up with a mom who poured hydrogen peroxide (or Fizz, as she liked to call it due to its rabies like response to air and GERMS) on EVERYTHING that looked hurt.  That was after she scrubbed it until it bled good and long. Blood washed the germs out too.  As we got older, she'd come at our scratches and cuts with a clean toothbrush and a choice.  Either we could scrub it or she would.  She'd be the one to "Fizz" it after the dirt exorcism for complete absolution.

It was only a matter of time before it was revealed whether I would take after her or grow bacterial colonies between my toes for fun.

Enter the catalyst of parenthood.

Espen is learning how to walk. Most of the time he is very well planted before he makes a move. Occasionally, the call of upright mobility overwhelms his need for stability.

In fair dining room is where we lay our scene.  Espen crawls to mum and tugs at trouser leg.  Mum crouches down to give Wesp a hand. He scrambles to his feet rapidly, proud, beaming at mum. His legs wobble and collapse as mum reaches to stabilize him. There is no need.  He has arrested his fall with his teeth. Punched clean through his lower lip.

Now the baby is languishing in waves of woe, blood filling his wee mouth and dribbling down his chin.  He is still proud, but shaken.  Mum recalls The Incident Of The Cut Finger and all the drama that resulted from attempting to sanitize and bandage the baby without physical -containment of any kind .  She grabs dad instead and makes him hold the baby while she presses a towel to The Bear's lip.  Espen finds this capital fun.  Blood everywhere.  Cleanliness dubious at best.  Scars imminent.  All is joyful.