Parenting

iBoobTube (or How I Tried to Stop My Baby from Eating My Android)

~ Randy Blazak ~ 1 Comment

February 25, 2015

I was a latchkey kid. I know way too much TV trivia. My parents knew that if I was watching Gilligan Island reruns, I probably wasn’t roaming the streets, starting fires or chasing girls up trees. Weekday afternoons, prime-time line-ups, Saturday morning cartoons, Sunday golf tournaments with Dad. It’s a wonder I wasn’t plumper than Honey Boo-Boo. Fortunately, I also liked to ride my bike, run through the woods, and shoot hoops (imagining that I was Pistol Pete Maravich).

During the great radicalization that was college, I read a book called Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television (1978) by Jerry Mander. It compared the process of watching TV to the process of hypnotization. It also discussed how visual media supplants our imagination. (What kid can read Harry Potter without imagining him looking like Daniel Radcliffe?) So I went straight off it.

In the 1960s there was a lot of concern about the “vast wasteland” of television. That people were staying home with the boob tube, instead of engaging in the world, turning their brains into green slime. It felt good to turn the box off for decades, occasionally popping in for a trend or a pop culture update only to find, like Springsteen sang in in 1992, there were 57 channels and nothing on.

Somewhere along the way, TV got better. Show’s like The Wire and Breaking Bad pulled me back in. Then we got pregnant, so instead of going out and “engaging in the world,” it was staying in and binge-watching episodes of The Good Wife (the feminist Perry Mason).

Now that I have a child, I’m worried about it all over again. I see how she reacts when the TV is on, like it’s some cosmic god speaking secret messages to her. And the TV is now the laptop and the phone as well. She’s drawn to all of them in a way that freaks me out. Am I a bad dad for flicking on Kelly Ripa to get a break from the intensive parenting duties?

The conventional wisdom is to turn the TV when the kid is younger than 2 (uh oh). That TV does two things to your kid. First, it takes time away from conversation and playtime that actually stimulates the brain more than the flickering images on the screen. The second thing is that it retards cognitive development, creating lasting effects on language development, reading skills, short-term memory, sleep patterns and attention issues. Great.

Why to Avoid TV Before Age 2

It’s a scary time to be a new parent. Research shows that the average 12-month old baby gets between 1 and 2 hours of screen time each day. Plus there’s all that Baby Einstein crap targeted at young parents that probably turns your child into a babbling imbecile who votes Republican and thinks Kenny G is “jazz.” Fisher-Price-Ipad-Apptivity-Seat-for-babies-537x402 On top of that, the massive push to give kids iPads as pacifiers is horrifying. The research here is even worse. The more screen time a kids gets the less they can emotionally connect with others. And that’s just one of the problems ahead for kids transfixed on their iToys. Have you seen Wall-E?

Kids And Screen Time: What Does The Research Say?

I see this at the university level. I banned laptops in my classes because students zone out on their Facebook pages or download compromising pictures of Nicki Minaj instead of taking notes. University administrators are pushing for more online education, replacing tenured faculty with websites run from Mumbai. The results are in. These students learn significantly less, but the university will tell you it’s the “future of education” (and administrator pay raises).

So I’m gonna turn off the TV and get out a box of blocks. Cozy can entertain herself just fine (Sorry, Ellen). Sure, we will occasionally do some screen time for fun. She loves  to laugh at videos of herself. (I’m worried she’s already headed for Hollywood, the little vixen.) But I have to think I would be a lot smarter with a few less episodes of The Brady Bunch in my brain. Why not give my kid’s brain a better start?

I know it’s easy to be lazy. “Baby’s crying. YouTube an episode of Teletubbies, stat!” But this kid’s brain development is too important. So I’m going to close this laptop and we’re gonna go read some books. I don’t want to turn her into a knuckle-dragging, mouth breathing fan of Jerry Springer who thinks global warming is a lie because it’s kinda cold today. If I can’t entertain an 6-month old, I should just quit now. (This the where I do my James Brown dance and she craps in her pants in approval.)

Here’s a great post on the subject by another blogging dad: Raising Baby in a Digital World

This book was mentioned in the above post and is available at Powell’s.

Dad Love, Pt. 2: A Star is Born

~ Randy Blazak ~ 4 Comments

Feb. 16, 2015 My daughter Cozette turns 6 months tomorrow. In 30 weeks, I think I’ve gone through every emotion on earth. Part of it is about the things that Cozy has done. (She almost said “Dada” last night, kinda, “Dawah”). Part of it is the anticipation of the things she’s about to do. (She’s so close to being able to sit up on her own). And part of it is the recognition of the the things I am now capable of. (More than once I’ve put my hand in her diaper to see if she’s wet and then run my fingers through my hair. So what!).

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One of the most amazing things is to see her evolve as a person with her own personality. She is incredibly curious. I love when we go to the grocery store. I put her car seat in the grocery cart and see her face light up. She’s going to have lots to look at at our local Fred Meyer. The Valentines Day balloons blew her freaking mind. Watching her eyes focus on the items we pass by as we go down the isles makes me think about how a year ago those eyes were just forming inside mother’s womb.

She already has mad social skills. She loves being around new people. But you can see her size them up. Trust, but verify. She knows she’ll get a reaction with her smile. I think Cozy will know how much happiness she can bring the people around her.

Cozy is also really strong. She can stand up when she leans against something and even do a little dance, kind of a boot scootin’ boogie. And then she falls over like a drunkard. This week she started using my hands to pull herself up and it’s impressive. She’s got a seriously strong core. My bet is she will be sculling in the 2036 Olympics. (Google it, you layabout.)

I think her best quality is her empathy. It’s the one thing I want to give her but she’s already got it, when so many adults are devoid of any empathy whatsoever. Anyone who has read my first novel, The Mission of the Sacred Heart, can guess that I have struggled with intense depression at different points in my life. Anyone who understands this knows that it can get the better of you when you least expect it. In many ways, Cozy knows exactly what I need in those moments.

One of those moments was last week. I was just laying on the floor of the nursery wrapped up in the uncertainty of life right now. For the first time in decades, I have no idea what my future looks like. I’m scared shitless. Maybe I should’t have quit PSU. Maybe I should’ve gone one more round with the administration and perhaps (finally) won, winning the financial security my young family deserves. On one hand I’m excited by what I think is going to be a thrilling and successful new chapter. On the other hand I feel like we’re going to be living in a trailer down by the river, undone by people who could care less about the well-being of my child.

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Cozy was laying on the floor next to me. I just couldn’t move, stuck in a black cloud. Instead rolling around (like she usually does), she just stuck close to me. She put her little hand on my cheek and stared right into my eyes, like she was saying the thing I’ve told so many others who are sunk in the trench of depression, that at some point the bad stuff is in the rear view mirror and you’ll feel so good for getting through it. It was such emotional moment. I was having a deep conversation with a little baby who needed me to be there for her but also for me. I was about to cry and then she farted so loud her diaper fell off.

I’m super glad Andrea and I are Cozy’s parents. I think we’ve got a strong set of values rooted in love, justice and creativity.  But I think Cozy would turn out fine if she was raised by Kim Jong Un and Mama June. This baby has soul. And she saves me every day.

Dad Love, Pt. 1 (Here)

And you can get my book at Powell’s by clicking below:

The Oral Phase Sucks (INSERT FREUD JOKE HERE)

~ Randy Blazak ~ 5 Comments

February 3, 2015

My baby’s face is quickly becoming a vortex, something between a Dyson vacuum cleaner and super massive black hole. Suddenly everything that’s not nailed down is headed for her mouth. Where are my car keys? No, no, no, not the beer bottle! Your toes are safe, kid. That will come in handy when dad sends you off to Yoga Camp.

Toe

I’ve been lecturing about the good Doctor Freud for over 20 years. His phases of child development make a lot of sense. Birth to 2 years old is the Oral Phase. Cozy is coming up on 6 months and you can see her discover her mouth. It started with nursing and now it’s not just the boob she wants.

It think the turn was the moment she realized she could put the binky in her own damn cake hole. Since then everything has to be tried for tastiness. Last night she chewed on my belt for 20 minutes like a puppy. Hey, I was watching The Bachelor and wrapped up in Kelsey pimping her dead husband story. The kid’s fine.

But that’s the thing. Now you’ve gotta be Eagle Eye Cherry. At any moment some choking hazard could be going down your precious child’s gob and you better have had that baby choking class. The other day Cozy was napping in the crib. Or so I thought. She had quietly chewed the tag off of a stuffed animal and had it in bits in her mouth. Those two little teeth are like a super cute version of the wood chipper from Fargo.

So here is another thing to constantly worry about. I’ve finally stopped staring at her to make sure she was breathing. Now I worry she’s going to find a rubber band or an old Cheerio and it’s gonna be lodged in her larynx. It never ends. Do they make masks for little babies? Like ones for tiny Japanese people. Baby Gap must carry some kind of face filter.

The next stage should be even more fun. Freud believed the Anal Phase was from 2 to 4 years old. This is when toddlers get a rude awakening because “society” says there are rules to follow, the main one being pooping in a toilet. For Freud, potty training was the key act that shapes the personality. Oh, joy.

Third is the Phallic Phase, from 4 to 6, when kids discover their sex parts. Nobody wants to think of a 5-year-old masturbating, but it happens. Just keep your hands out of your pants, thank you. Feminists have had issues with Sigmund at this point because of his assertion that girls begin to develop “penis envy” here. (I saw a bumpersticker in a feminist bookstore that said, “War is Menstrual Envy.”) The “biology is destiny” bit is seriously problematic.

But Psychoanalytic Feminists (yes, they exist) think penis envy is just “patriarchy envy” and we shouldn’t write Freud’s theories of the unconscious off over a little dick. Freud argued that you need to make it through the three stages without becoming fixated. We all know people who are anally fixated. They are called “Virgos.”

But Cozy is a long way off from any phallic fixation, symbolic or otherwise, thank the psychological gods. I’m just trying to get her through this phase without choking on a pen cap or becoming orally fixated. Lord knows what that could lead to.

It’s always a balancing act with Freud. Not enough oral stimulation (mostly from nursing), the kid is neglected and will manipulate others to get something in her mouth. Too much stimulation and she stays in baby mode. So how we handle this phase could turn Cozy in to a manipulative nail biter or a sadistic homicidal maniac. Can a neurotic parent get a break?

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The good news is Freud’s theory from 1905 has lots of modern critics. There’s no evidence that extended breastfeeding turns a kid into Bette Davis, chain-smoking her way into the grave. But Sigmund still has his supporters. And do I really want to risk it? Just get me to the Anal Phase in one piece, OK?

Parenting Advice from the Pez

~ Randy Blazak ~ 3 Comments

January 7, 2015

If babies could all have a bumpersticker on their rubber baby buggy bumpers, it would say, “If it feels good, do it.” We’re all born these raging Freudian ids who just want it now. Honestly, babies are selfish little beasts. They don’t care if it’s the middle of the night, they want the tit! They don’t care if you have a weak stomach, they want that WTF poop wiped out of their crack!

If babies weren’t so cute, it might be easier to put tape on their mouths. They have no concept of delayed gratification. I was just getting ready to feed Cozy but the bottle was too warm. The problem was she could see it setting on the dresser to cool. She flipped out. “Give me that damn bottle! Baby needs a hit!” She was fixated and I could feel the hate directed at me. “Stop fucking with me, Dad!”

I tried to explain to her that the anticipation is the best part. Christmas Day sucks compared to the lead up, right? By 3 pm on December 25th you just feel deflated. When it’s over, it’s just a memory. When I went off to college my big act of independence was to get a subscription to Playboy magazine. (Sorry.) Very quickly it was clear that the best part of the magazine was the anticipation  of receiving it, not actually “reading” it. In fact, my favorite part of the magazine was the last page that let you know who was going to be interviewed (and naked) in the next issue.

I’m sure I will discuss the Playboy thing in some post. That subscription is decades gone (but my Beatlefan subscription has been uninterrupted since 1984). I now look forward to my Voice Male magazine, but I actually read those from cover to cover.

When I first moved to Portland I was volunteering in a residential facility for juvenile offenders. One night I was sitting around with a half dozen teenage car thieves and gang bangers, showing them my Spiderman Pez dispenser. They had never seen Pez! (Obviously why they became cruddy JDs.) I explained to them how you take the candy out of the foil and load it into the dispenser (as one candy lodged in sideways).

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“Why don’t you just eat the candy?” one kid asked. Good question, I thought. “Because you get to put in the dispenser and make each piece pop out of Spiderman’s neck.” It didn’t seem like a very satisfying answer. I mean, think about it. Maybe that was “fun” in 1975, but these kids had Xbox.

In that moment I saw the importance of Pez and metaphor for delayed gratification in our culture. These kids were essentially babies. If it felt good, they did it. And since they were boys, that included violence and criminality.

So the challenge is to make Cozy wait, but to enjoy the waiting. To sit in the moment and anticipate what’s to arrive; a bottle of milk, a birthday present, a bachelor’s degree in pottery. Tom Petty once sang, “the waiting is the hardest part,” but sometimes it’s the best part.

She doesn’t get it at the moment at only 4 1/2 months old, so I’m still OK to spoil her. I’ll get this lesson started later. And enjoy the anticipation.

Sex with Elf on the Shelf

~ Randy Blazak ~ 3 Comments

December 23, 2014

There are a lot things they don’t tell you about being a new parent. Everybody talks about the sleep thing (so true). What nobody talks about is what happens to your sex life. You’re going full speed in baby-making and then comes the wild and wooly world of pregnancy sex. (I think that’s what Beyoncé meant when she sang, “Bow down, bitches.”) And then screeeeech! Where is THAT movie?

The first two months must be the roughest. You’ve got a baby that wakes up every few hours and screams for mama’s breasts, which, all of sudden, have a new purpose on earth, dammit. And of course the vagina needs some time to recover from a 1-week late kid climbing out of it. That can open up some exciting alternatives if it weren’t for said baby wailing constantly and filling her diaper with sticky poo that requires numerous wipe downs each time. Kinda kills the mood. The bed becomes a sacred place for a few minutes of sleep and only sleep.

Of course, dear sacred mother is dealing with the fact that her body is transformed after 9 months of cooking the kid in oven. Us Magazine will tell you that celebrities get their pre-baby body back in weeks, with the help of a shit-load of airbrushing. Real-world mom has to compare herself to fake supermodel mom and suddenly the lights are off and the culturally produced shame is on. (Personally speaking, I think the post-baby belly is awesome. It’s what the Elizabethans called the “silken layer” and that’s where you will find my hands.)

Once things get settled, the question becomes where to have sex. If the baby is not in eyesight, there is constant fear something might happen. OK, baby is taking a nap in the swing in the living room, let’s shove the binkies and the breast pump off the bed and get busy! Wait, is she still breathing? What if she falls out of the swing? Somebody could grab her! And… we’re done.

In most tribal cultures people just have sex in front of their kids. Everybody lives in the same hut. It’s not like you can send your kid for a sleep-over to the hut down the road. Christopher Columbus remarked on his first trip to the “New” World about how the savages demonstrated none of the decent Catholic guilt around sex and were just out doing it like animals on the TLC channel. That may be a rational option now, but you have to think a knock is coming from Child and Family Services and you’ll have a registered sex offender sign in front of your house. (Has this actually ever happened?)

So the option of having sex with the baby in the room becomes very real and, not surprisingly, is a hot topic for internet discussions. (Apparently, it won’t turn your child into a pervert.) But the logistics of it are a bit different. Where should the baby be? Cozy sleeps in our bed. How do we not wake her? I guess the role play where I’m 49’er panning for gold and screaming “Yeehaw!” is off the table. And what if she wakes up?

Whenever I look at my baby, I’m filled with overwhelming love. But’s not the kind of love you feel when Marvin Gaye is playing. It’s parent love and it warm a smushy and filled with hope and will kill a boner like THAT. Sex requires focus. (Unless you are a guy and trying to prolong things by thinking about taxes. Holla!) The worst is when you are In flagrante and suddenly baby opens her eyes. Elf on the shelf.

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I don’t really know how this Elf on a Shelf thing became so big, but there is increasing debate about it. Some sociologists have argued that it prepares kids for an Orwellian surveillance state by reporting their misdeeds back to Santa. The elf is always watching. Well, your baby is always watching, too! And she’s reporting to the mothership of her future subconscious. If papa is slapping mama on the ass and whispering, “Who’s your daddy?” you don’t think baby elf is filing that away for a future therapy session, and making a copy for DHS?

This jujitsu kick the balls of sex-life has to be a temporary thing, right? I mean there is a crib in the other room waiting for this kid to move into and take up residence. We won’t have to worry about Cindy Lou Who waddling in and asking why mommy and daddy are Roman-Greco wrestling? Right? Maybe second babies really do come from storks.

I’m sure there is a culture where they have babysitters that magically appear when parents want to have sex. Japan seems like a likely, bet. But for the rest of us, who have a baby elf staring at us, it’s just going to have to be a little tribal for a while. Don’t tell Santa.

My daughter’s first words will be “What the fuck?”

~ Randy Blazak ~ 5 Comments

December 16, 2014

Parenthood offers plenty of surprises. It seems like everyday there is something new. A lot of it has to do with bowel movements. Some of it has to do with my own stress level as a stay-at-home dad. Yesterday, Cozy was screaming for her afternoon bottle. I got flustered and spilled half the pumped mother’s milk on the counter. What the fuck?

I swear a lot these days. I try not to but it just comes. I would like for my daughter’s first word to be “intersectionality,” but I have sneaking suspicion it will be “whatthefuck.” It’s possible it could be “fuckaduck” which is the more child-friendly version I’m trying to move to. I recognize that that phrase my create later problems with waterfowl, but it just seems less harsh. For infants, it’s all about the tone.

I try to be zen, but sometimes it just overwhelms me. Sorry. She’s peeing while I’m putting a new diaper on. What the fuck? She’s screaming bloody murder while I’m singing “Yellow Submarine” to her. What the fuck? She puked up 90% of the milk I just gave her and it went down my pants (Don’t ask). What the fuck? She was crying for the bottle and now that I have it ready, she’s asleep. Fuck a duck.

Many what the fuck moments have to do shit. The shit is leaking out the diaper and running down her legs (both of ‘em). What the fuck? Her diaper-liners are shit-stained beyond redemption. What the fuck? That wasn’t poop, just a big fart (after taking off layers of clothes). Da fu? While changing her, her ass becomes a firehose of baby shit, soaking the carpet brown. What the fuck and fuck a duck.

Then the WTFs get exported to everything else. Where are the wipes? What the fuck? Why won’t the microwave work faster? What the fuck? I forgot to eat lunch. What the fuck? Mom’s watching TV when there is a giant pile of laundry. What the fuck? The Walking Dead isn’t back on for months. What the fucking fuck?

I know, I know. What’s new about this? Maybe I just need to lay off the coffee. But I know there are big WTF moments coming for my daughter. Soon it will be, “I gotta poop in that? What the fuck?”  “What do you mean, ‘You’re just a girl’?” What the fuck? Then comes, “Wait, I only make 80% of what you make? Seriously, what the fuck?”

Modern society gives us too many of these moments of incredulity. Sometimes I feel like I live in Whatthefuckistan. From streaming rivers of baby poop to the top stories on the 5 o’clock news (She hears WTF then, for sure). I should be immune to it. But I don’t want my child to be immune to it. I want to protect her but also instill a certain amount of naivety so she can react like human and not a jaded baby who has already seen it all. Deep breaths, but I mean, really, what the fuck?