Pah!!

Max helping Mom in the backyard.

Sorry I haven't written in a while - I've taken up a new hobby which, after taking care of Max, has killed almost all my free time. But here's a quick update:  Max is mostly really fun to be around - Delia recently said if she could somehow create a baby that came out as old as Max, she'd have 5 of them. I think his main moods are happy and curious.  These moods wax and wane over time but I'd say curiosity has recently waxed.  Did I use that word right?  I meant to say his curiosity ebbs and flows, and recently his curiosity has flown....This is really difficult to write.  OK, let's try this:  He's really curious.  He always wants me to help him figure something out or read a book to him.  He's been obsessed with buckles for well over a year, but recently he's been able to actually close them.

Max taking a break from buckling the stroller.

He also constantly gets into trouble, and it's pretty natural to get mad at him (sorry Max, if you're reading this later), but I'd say 90% of the time he's getting into trouble because he's trying some experiment.  It's aggravating when I'm taking care of him, but actually kinda funny when watching someone else handle it.

Max's attention span has also increased pretty dramatically, which I'm sure is great, child-development-wise, but has....ramifications.  Like the picnic we took Max to in the park.  Max climbed up on the table and started eating the entire supply of gourmet crackers.  I pulled him away, and he got really upset - he loves crackers and goes to the kitchen if he hears a crunching sound - and in fact got so upset I had to move him about 50 yards away to let him calm down.  But calm down he did and soon Max started happily walking.  Before I knew it, he walked back at the party...to the bench...and on the table, in the crackers.

Then there was the "Pah!" incident.  I just took a (reasonably content) Max out of the bath, carried him to the clothes drawer and put on his shirt.  For some reason, though, he's yelling "Pah!"  and getting upset.  I have no idea what "Pah" is (I'm Dada, not Pah), but he's trying to squirm out of his shirt.  His shirt is itchy, I think, but it's cold and he needs a shirt.  Still, I take it off, and Max says "Pah!"  more relaxed.  I find a different shirt and almost instantly the whining begins again.  "Pah!"  He's crying.  Did I hurt him?  I don't think so... Well, screw it, I have no idea what's his deal.  I finish dressing him and put him down.

So he goes to the clothes drawer and yells "Up!"  OK, I lift him up.  He tries to jump out of my arms into the clothes drawer, yelling "Pah!"  I look in the clothes drawer and, umm, there's a shirt with paw prints on it.  

I take out the shirt and he says "Pah!"  but much happier now.  Thus, the photo below.

Fine dining in Napa

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Max demonstrating eating methodology.  

(By the way, it is difficult to photograph this kid.  He sees the camera, forgets whatever cute thing warranted the picture, and instead reaches for the camera to touch the buttons.  We may have to use a telephoto lens from 50 yards away.)

Delia and I have spent most of our evenings and weekends over the past year in the house, saying "Light!  Light!  Fan!  Fan!  Light!" whilst Max points at them.  However, Delia has recently become more intrepid and decided to book us for a weekend in Napa.  Great restaurants, a great hotel in the lovely neighboring town of Fairfield (lovely is probably too strong a word, but it is okay, it's 30 minutes from Napa and is way cheaper.)  Food, wine, hotels...what's gonna happen with Max?

We've had plenty of memories of Max barely able to sit through a lunch at Chipotle, and he's always slept in a crib at night.  Can he handle a 90-minute lunch?  Can we handle him?  Who will be left standing when we, or at least some of us, return home Sunday evening?

It's a 2.25 hour drive from our house to Napa.  This, in itself, is way too long for the kid.  The last half hour was filled with screaming and could have been worse if we didn't discover Max loves us singing in an opera voice.  However, after the conclusion of the 14-hour drive, or so it seemed, we finally made it to our lunch destination - a taco truck near a furniture outlet.

The La Esperanza Taco truck was highly rated by Yelp.  Say what you want of the rating service, but Delia and I had a seat off the 4-lane road on the artificial turf in the Furniture Mart parking lot (I forgot what Max was doing a the time, so let's just imagine he was, I dunno, wandering into heavy traffic), and had the best fish tacos we've ever tried.  Absolutely exploding with flavor, and...oh yeah, this isn't a food blog.  Anyway, it was really good, and Max liked it as well.  OK, onward.  The real test was in the evening, when we went to Bistro Jeanty, a fine homestyle French restaurant that received one star from Michelin. 

From lots of experience with this kid, I had a really difficult time imagining this would turn out well; our restaurant experiences usually involve us sitting and waiting for Max to go off, which he does, at which point one of us has to leave and entertain him while the other person eats alone.  The question was, how much taking care of Max would degrade our restaurant experience.  (Max, if you are reading this later, we may seem selfish talking about you in these terms.  All we have to say is, wait till you take your own kids to a restaurant.)

So how did it turn out?

Max and Delia at Bistro Jeanty.  Max frequently wandered over to the bearded gentleman in the turtleneck (back of photo) to check on his food.

Surprisingly, Max was great.  Basically one of us would walk him around while the other one would space out at the table.  Perhaps we're getting used to walking him around while waiting for food, but really, it's more entertaining than sitting in a chair anyway.  Max investigated the outside parking lot, the car tires, the chair arrangements, the palm trees, and of course, whatever everyone else was eating.    The food?  Fine, I suppose.  They gave a Michelin star to the restaurant.  I think they also need to award one to the taco truck.

OK, dinner done, now time for the hotel.  We stayed at a hotel in Fairfield that was close to, surprisingly, a very nice marina (the bay has lots of tributaries that go very far inland, I found.)

Max at the exercise room.

We had some time to kill so we did our normal routine - find a Borders bookstore and let Max run around.

Max found the following rabbit in the kids section.

We unloaded our pack N' Play and put Max to bed at 10pm.

Only Max wasn't having any of it. Normally, we dump him in his crib, close the door, and wait until hopefully, dear god, the wailing stops and he passes out.   Watching him stand up, stare at us, and cry 10 feet away is a whole new level of sadism.  So we gave up and let him play until 11:00, when he finally went to bed.

Until he woke up at 11:45.  And 1:00am.  And 3:00 am.

I'm not here to give morality lectures, but I think it's important for kids to have two parents, because at times like these at least one of them will think he's more valuable alive.  This night, that person was me.   I fetched the stroller from the car and took him for a ride through the hotel hallway.

Max at about 4:00 am.  Kindly tilt your head to the side to view the video.

It was a really surreal experience.  Fox News was blaring in the main lobby.  I never watch Fox News but it was riveting.  They broke to a commercial by showing Obama talking from a podium in a grainy black-and-white format, and then showed Mao Tse-Tung addressing the crowd in exactly the same grainy format.  Probably just a coincidence.  Overall, though, I did learn that Mr. Obama hates America, and Max is still wide awake.

45 minutes in, the desk clerk was clearly feeling sorry for me, and offered to take care of Max so I could go to sleep.  Hmm....that would be really helpful.  Possibly a child abductor...would that be a bad thing?  Delia would probably be okay with it now, but what about tomorrow morning?

After some rumination, I politely declined and strollered him back and forth across the first floor.  And back.  And forth.    And had these conversations:

Max:  (Pointing at ceiling):  "Ehhh!"
Me:  Ceiling.
Max:  (Pointing at carpet):  "Ehhh!"
Me:  Carpet.
Max:  (Pointing at door):  "Ehhh!"
Me:  Door.
(Repeat about 140 times).

At about 4:05 am, Max started yawning, and about 10 minutes later he finally (finally!) drifted off to sleep.  Until the stroller hit a small bump in the carpet.  He then lurched himself awake, pointed at the ceiling and said, "Ehhh!"  Eventually, though, he finally passed out for good, so I gently placed him in the crib, where he blissfully slept until 5:30 am.  Thankfully, Delia remembered she loved Max, and put him in her arms and slept in the bed with him until he woke up at 6:30 am.

It's now Sunday and we have a full itinerary!  Dear God.  We're tired, but happily, we wake up and finally eat lunch at a place called Bottega.

Max at Bottega.

Max at Bottega.  

(The alert reader may wonder, "Isn't Max wearing a new shirt?  Hmm...the table is different.  What's going on?  Hey!  What are you trying to pull here?"  In fact, Max is at a totally different restaurant in this photo, but the photo fits the story.  The blogger wishes he did not have such alert readers.  So please do not dwell on these inconsistencies and enjoy the rest of the tale.)

Bottega served Italian food, it was opened to the outdoors, and it was what we were looking for.  Fantastic food, friendly people who didn't mind Max doing a meet-and-greet with the customers, and better yet, it opened into an outdoor shopping area.  Great for Max to play around between courses.

In particular, there was a small rustic wagon outside a store entry.  On the wagon was an antique watering can.  The set was something like $140.  Max was attracted to the setup and decided to make the wagon more rustic by repeatedly bashing it against a wine barrel.  

Discipline, Part 1

It's now about 1:59 am, no one is awake, I have insomnia, and resultantly I actually have time to write something.  And the topic is guidance.  I didn't think I would have to deal with discipline with Max so early in his life, but so far, by using firm, consistent, but loving guidance, Max can get us to do pretty much whatever he wants.

Last week, I woke up around 6:30.  Max, probably listening to my pillow ruffling from 2 doors down, wakes up about 5 minutes later and cries until I get him.  I'm tired and really not in the mood to play with him, so I put him on the floor and collapse on a nearby couch.  So Max finds his toy broom and comes to me.

"Oom!" Max says, holding out the broom.  Max skips the first consonants in a word.
"Yeah, broom,"  I monotonously reply.
"Up!"  Max says.  He wants me to hold him.
"OK, Max."  I lift him up to be on the couch.
"EEEEEEAAAWAAEEEAA!!!!!"  Max is unhappy.
I put him down.  "What's going on, Max?"  I asked.
"Oom!"  Max hands the broom to me.
"That's a broom, Max."  I say.
"Up!"  Max says.  This time he's slapping my leg.  Does he want me to get up?

I stand up, holding the broom.  Max then started pushing on the back of my leg.  Does he want me to sweep?

Yes, that is exactly what Max wants.  It is now 6:45 am and I am sweeping the floor while Max is following 2 feet behind me and overseeing my work.  I can't believe this is happening to me. Worse, I unwisely tell my coworkers about this exchange and lost whatever respect they used to have.

Exchanges like this are actually fairly common with this kid.  I remember the first of many times Max waddled over to our shoe rack, found a shoe and put it down next to my foot.

"Off!"  He said.

That is technically correct.  The shoe is off, but he wants it on my foot.

There's really only one way to avoid him screaming at this point - let him put the shoe on.  If the shoe happens to be Mom's and the foot is Dad's, there are zero ways to avoid him screaming.
So let's say, for the sake of discussion, he chose one of my shoes.  I put it on.

"Up!"  He then says.
I pick him up.
"Out!"

The deal is, he wanted to go outside all along, but he knows Mommy and Daddy need (a) shoes to go out, and (b) simple, step-by-step instructions to give him the desired result.

Guest Editor, Part 2

Today's blog is written by my parents, Mom and Dad.  OK, that's probably too general so I'll awkwardly use their common names:  Mike and Karen Kaplan.  

Max: Renaissance Toddler

As proud grandparents, we were shocked and dismayed reading about the stranger who accosted Todd and insinuated that Max was something less than perfect, or at least something less than average. We knew that just wasn’t so. No bias here!

In keeping with our grand parenting obligations, we keenly observed Max in a multitude of situations in order to determine his aptitudes. One can’t start too soon! During our two last visits with Max and his parents, we saw countless indications that he has an incredibly bright future in a wide variety of occupations. Here is just a sample:

Undercover Librarian

This was a red-letter day for Max. Not only did he find 3 books inappropriately shelved in the children’s section, but he also identified a person who has eluded capture for months. Two-year-old Nathan Smith has stolen books by hiding them in his diaper bag. Max was delighted to point at Nathan as he was trying to make his get-away. 

Park Ranger

It was no picnic for Max to lead his parents and grandparents down from a remote and treacherous mountain region. When the Kaplan party wearily re-encountered civilization, Max took a well-deserved nap.

Author

Here, Max is carefully scrutinizing his Grandpa’s handiwork. Shortly after this photo was taken, Max got impatient, put aside his piece of stale French bread, seized the crayons, and wrote and illustrated his first book, The Universe According to Max, vol. 1.

Talent Scout

Max is urging his Grandma to leave her humdrum existence amid the produce and hurry to the American Idol tryouts. He is confident that her utter lack of talent will set her apart and endear her to similarly untalented viewers.  The piece of stale French bread is to tide them over until they receive the recording contract.

Marine Biologist 

Ichthyologist

The San Francisco Museum of Science Aquarium provided Max with many opportunities to demonstrate his fitness to join the Cousteau Undersea Expedition Team. Above, you see Max teaching museum visitors that although clams don’t have legs, they indeed are our friends. To the left, Max is memorizing the scientific names of all the fish on display.

We were sad to hear from the Cousteau group that Max didn’t get chosen for the expedition. He lost out to a 3-year-old girl who had grown gills.

Household Organizer

Max is proud to be the first toddler who has earned the coveted Household Organizer Certificate of Authenticity. He won this award due to his design of a series of storage containers: Max’s Modules.

Sherpa

We were lucky to capture a picture of Max practicing for the final ascent of Everest. Note that he is making this attempt without the aid of oxygen.

Hostage Negotiator

Max demonstrates his skills during a desperate situation at the Grass Valley International Food Expo. As seen in this exclusive, on-the-scene photo, Max is gaining the trust of dastardly fiends holding 12 hostages. He shows that they have nothing to fear because he is unarmed except for a piece of stale French bread.

Food Critic

Here, Max expertly contemplates the rating he will give the yogurt he is sampling. Between tastings, he cleanses his palate with a few Cheerios.

And that’s not all!  He has capitalized on his growing popularity among foodies and initiated the research necessary to launch his signature cookware line by 2012. TV offers are pouring in.

We won’t be hearing from Max in the next few weeks. He has been called to the Gulf Coast along with other esteemed scientists to address the oil spill crisis with BP. He is bringing his carry-on suitcase, a laptop, and a piece of stale French bread.

Status report 5/10/10

Status Report 5/10/10

Arial view of Max on swing.

Max at grandparents' (Delia's side) house.  When he has this pose, you may assume there is a fan above him.

Max and Lulu.  Lulu is, thankfully, very affectionate, because she could break him in half.

Hello, I'm back, and am here to give a quick progress report.  Now, Max is, umm, a lot older since my last blog.  He's really fun these days, which is hard to capture on the blog because (a) Google changed the format and took away the "Upload movie" thing (so far as I can tell), and (b) every time we point a camera at Max, he stops whatever he's doing and stares at the camera with alien saucer eyes.  That said, he can walk now, say a few words, etc. and does what I assume is about in the normal range for kids his age.  From what I understand, also, "normal" is a fairly silly word when describing kid development - there's a huge variation for when kids hit certain milestones, and my guess is it's a much bigger function of what interests the kid (and the parents) than any innate goodness the kid has.

Which doesn't stop the comparisons.  Lots of people get a smile when they see him, which is great.  Then there are the conversations like the one I had at Raley's a couple days ago:

Stranger:  (Neutral opener:)  Wow, look at the little guy!
Me:  (Neutral, defensive response:)  Yeah, he's a handful.
Stranger:  (Establishing measuring stick):  Say, how old is he?
Me:  (Getting paranoid:)  Oh, 16 months.
Stranger:  (Establishing benchmark for children Max's age):  So does he wave bye-bye yet?
Me:  Yeah, sometimes.
Stranger:  (Establishing that his/her son/daughter/relative is more advanced):  Wow, my grandson is a couple months younger than Max and he waves all the time!  And he even knows "Touchdown!"  He'll put both his arms in the air and everything!
Me:  Go #@$@  yourself?  (Oh, wait.  That's under my breath.  Did that come out?)
Me:  Sounds like a great kid.

Delia's Mom said, "Get used to it."  Really, truly, on a rational level, I don't care.  It actually brings to mind a recent book I read that basically said everyone thinks they're above average.  How does that work?  They change the measurement criterion to fit their strengths.  For example, someone who's a hard worker but has no social skills would say hard work is the most important aspect of a manger, and the more social goof-off would emphasize the importance of motivation and communication.

Nonetheless, I wanted to take time off from teaching Max "Touchdown" to mention Max's clear potential as a chef.

Max shopping.

Max selecting the garlic grater, which is the sharpest object he can currently reach.

His first recipe is as follows:

VEGETABLE SOUP
Max Kaplan

Ingredients:
1 carrot, chopped
1 celery, chopped
Romaine or other lettuce, loosely chopped
1 tomato, chopped
1 salad bowl

Procedure:
1)  Play on futon.  Wait for Daddy to eat salad next to you.
2)  Point at salad furiously, make lots of impatient noises, and wait for Daddy to give you some.
3)  Chew on salad piece for roughly 30 seconds, then let the spittle/vegetable paste dribble onto futon.  Shoot for roughly a 2" diameter puddle.  Repeat for other vegetables.
4)  If vegetables on futon are too hard or not watery enough, re-insert in mouth, chew and dribble remains onto futon again.

Max enjoying restaurant food.

Max finishing cleanup.

Our attempt to branch Max out into other household chores.

Max's Colorado trip (from guest bloggers, Grandma and Grandpa Kaplan)

Today's blog features guest editors!  In December, we visited my parents in Colorado.  My parents' version of the experience is published blow.

A Max Colorado Chronicle: December 2009

Max and his parents recently spent nine wonderful days with us. Here is a picture of Max. Notice how happy he is:

Why do you suppose that is so? Is he happy because we just celebrated his first birthday? Probably not. Is he happy because he is about to get into something he knows he shouldn’t? Possibly. Is he happy because he has trained his doting grandparents to do whatever he wants? Absolutely!

We dutifully followed him around the house as he tried to explore everything. Here he is going where no Kaplan has ever gone before.

Notice that his pants are on backwards.  Not our fault. He has his own ideas about fashion and firmly insisted on wearing them this way.

Despite being surrounded by toys, Max was more interested in other things. Here he’s using Mike’s CCNY slide rule to calculate the probability that we will let him play with the TV remote (close to zero).

Here he is reminding us that it is bedtime—for us. We were asleep hours before he was even thinking of retiring.

Of course we didn’t stay indoors the whole time. Max went for a hike with his parents and grandfather. Taking a cue from the age-old saying If you aren’t the lead dog, the scenery never changes, yet somewhat confined by his father’s carrier, Max made the best of it. No wonder his father felt a little out of balance:

We were determined to introduce him to cultural highlights of the Denver metro area. First, we took him to the Museum of Nature and Science to see the Genghis Khan exhibit. It told the story of how Khan conquered a large part of the known world and included tales of the ruthless carnage that contributed to his success. We are sure those lurid and bloody stories will not lead Max to a thirst for violence.

Here is one of Max’s favorite parts of the visit:

Here is the other:

Note how proud he is of a discovery that somehow eluded the notice of everyone else.

Finally, we all went to the Butterfly Pavilion in Westminster. This is a unique exhibit, featuring all sorts of creepy crawlies as well as an indoor rainforest. Each day, hundreds of multicolored butterflies and moths are released for the wonderment of visitors. Almost all of us looked up at the treetops, hoping to glimpse a flash of color in flight. Max looked elsewhere:

You are probably wondering how we did it. Lifting a 22.5 lb. child, putting down that same 22.5 lb. child, running after that extremely inventive crawler, cooking, and keeping the house reasonably baby-proofed would be a daunting challenge for anyone—especially anyone as old as we are.

Well, it was simple. We decided to be proactive. We went to a few workout sessions, bought appropriate clothes, and changed hairstyles. It is amazing how a few lifestyle changes can make all the difference. See for yourself. Here is a recent picture of us during our last session at the gym:

Grass Valley Vignette #1

I've been meaning to write about Grass Valley for some time, and I keep getting stuck. Mostly it's because I'm having trouble summarizing the place, even though as small as it is it should be very easy to summarize.

OK, I'll summarize. Grass Valley has 13,000 people in the city limits. It's a very small town. Nevada City is right next door (I can walk to it from my house) and it has another, oh, 8,000 people. You can Google them to see the location - they're in a forest about halfway between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe.

Now that the summary is over, I'll drop in some stories about the place here and there. And the first one is:

Vignette #1. The Story of Weston A. Price

Strolling through the Farmer's Market in Nevada City, I saw a slow food booth. The slow food movement, I think, basically promotes the opposite of fast food - I wasn't sure if it meant using crock pots, but it did have something to do with home cooking. I was familiarized to the movement from a huge slow food exhibition in San Francisco's Civic Center Park. In this exhibition, you basically waited 45 minutes in one of many massive lines to buy an apple for $4. Still, the Nevada City branch was hosting a free potluck with a presentation - something about "Fast meals with slow food". Perhaps we could meet other foodies. We cooked a couple quick vegetarian dishes, handed Max off to our babysitter and went to a meeting room in an office park.

There were about 10 people there, mostly elderly. I put my food down next to...some butter, bread, milk, jam, yogurt, oranges...very strange potluck. After some conversation, one of the statelier ladies slowly shoved some handwritten pages together and started talking.

Essentially, she said that you could make soup faster, for example, by making your stock once per week (after killing the chicken for the stock). Her mouth watered as she talked about living off cheese for a month - milk your goat a couple times a week, let it curdle, and store it in your barn. We started realizing slow food meant local and from scratch. From, I believe, ideally, your backyard. Oh. That's why that butter in the potluck was so freaking good. (Our chickpeas were canned in New York. Oops.) Next, she talked about how to make a good stock, the value of the gelatin in the stock, about the wondrous fats in butter and cream. I really wanted her to cook a meal for us. She mentioned Weston Price in passing. I should have paid more attention to the name.

Delia then asked how to make a vegetarian stock. After a bit of uncomfortable silence, the speaker said to avoid it if possible, but to use celery, carrots and onions. She talked more about Weston Price and soon the conversation in the room centered on similarities between slow food and Weston Price.

Figuring it's my turn to generate uncomfortable silence, I asked who Weston Price is. I was told he started a very well known food philosophy. After rudely blurting out that I hadn't heard of him, I was told in no uncertain terms that Weston Price is very famous. I was then given the Weston Price story.

Here's my recollection, in case you are one of the very few people not knowledgeable of Weston Price. As the lady explained, Weston Price was a dentist in the thirties who visited indigenous tribes to examine commonalities in their diets that led to excellent teeth, and hence, excellent health. The healthy diets, he found, consisted of plenty of meat and saturated fats. Unsaturated fat, it turns out, is horrible for you, but a large conspiracy of cooking oil manufacturers have covered this up.

I'm now looking uncomfortably at the two vegetarian dishes I brought - yams in sesame and peanut oil, and garlic chickpeas soaked in olive oil, and, umm...oops again. Still, I'm not sure I'm killing the participants. It's not clear to me that your teeth indicate your health. Doctors don't stare at my teeth during checkups and dentists don't give me nutrition advice. Perhaps that's a conspiracy also. Second, I read in a book "What to Eat" that you can boil a proper diet down to "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." From this book, I read people have known for a very long time that animal fats are bad for you but, under pressure from the cattle and pork lobbies, government warnings state that saturated fats (a fat in animals) should be restricted instead. In other words, if there is a conspiracy, it's exactly the opposite of Weston Price's. Also, don't all these indigenous tribes have 35-year lifespans?

By the end of the potluck it's pretty clear that the majority of people there follow Weston Price, so I decided to ask one of them if the Weston Price diet increases lifespan. She said, instantly, that Weston Price followers live 7 years longer. Someone else said their mom moved to India, switched to a vegetarian diet, and died prematurely.

My head still hurts from the cognitive dissonance. Delia wants to go to the next Weston Price potluck. I don't because I'll have a hard time shutting up. But we did leave with a jar of perhaps the best apricot jam we've ever had.

In any case, how is this a Grass Valley vignette? According to the speaker, about 70 people were in the Weston Price club of Grass Valley. Given the size of Grass Valley, that's a really big number. But it doesn't surprise me that much - if it's an alternative movement, it's probably in Grass Valley.