PhilosYphia » Kids

Just for Fun

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 18:12:53 +0000

Like so many other children, tonight my son will get dressed up in his scary-best and my wife and I will traipse him around town, knocking on strangers’ doors, and begging for sweets. This is no different than what a half-billion other children are doing all across the Western hemisphere.

Almost.

The difference being, of course, that my son cannot eat any of it — not a single piece. Being strongly milk-soy protein intolerant, plus a host of other food-related allergies, it almost completely eliminates him from any and all consumption of the treats he’s about to procure over the evening’s activities.

While for many the lure of the sugar high may be a great motivator, Keston only has…his costume? Prancing around in the cold for amusement? Walking two miles with an eye patch on to practice his manners every couple of minutes? He’ll see plenty of others having fun eating all the loot and he’ll get….nothing. Maybe a banana, if we have any left.

Such amusement.

Whatever his motivation is, he’s damned excited about doing it and will have a great time. Despite a major component of the entire experience being removed, he’ll be chirpy and giggly and have a thoroughly good time prancing around, spending time with us, walking hand-in-hand, and enjoying being dressed up and talking to anyone that will listen.

And really….shouldn’t we all be so excited? Do we always need a prize, a treasure of physical form, to go out and do something with others, the community, our friends, and our family?

Bless his innocence and spirit a thousand times. I do not relish the day it is snuffed by the world.

Arrr.....

Look at Your Child

Nathan Pralle — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 17:06:54 +0000

Parents: How often do you stop and really look at your child?

“What do you mean?” I hear you ask. “I’m looking at them ALL THE TIME. Gotta. They’d shave the cat with a Brillo pad, spray paint the dog bright pink, and completely disassemble the DVD player in a few minutes if I didn’t.”

One of the big problems with being a parent is that far too often we — myself included — get stuck deep into our, “parenting mode”, and although we’re looking AT our children, we’re not really looking at them. We’re actually looking past them — we’re watching their behavior, checking for signs of distress, eyeing out potential hazards, or trying desperately to stay one step ahead of their crafty little minds and anticipate what next thing they will find amusing that you certainly will not.

Other times, when we know are kids are in a safe place, we have a tendency to tune them out. How many times have you said, “That’s wonderful, dear,” as you glaze off at the TV program you’re watching and Junior is trying to show you his crayon drawing for the 14th time? Guilty! And hey, I get it; kids can’t — and shouldn’t — get 100% of our concentration 100% of the time. They’ll manage and survive fine if we don’t coo wildly over every single thing they do or jump to their every whim.

The problem comes when we fail to come back out of our parenting or zone-out mode and recognize what is truly in front of us — and how amazing, wonderful, and unique it is. And what a privilege we have been given at getting to be so involved in it.

Keston was playing on my lap the other night and he was in a mood to be a bit snuggly and close so we were sitting face-to-face as he talked to me and played with my face and beard. At first I found myself gazing past him as I talked to my wife and checked out the TV and so forth, and then suddenly, I stopped.

My eyes — and more importantly, my mind — switched focus to concentrate on him. Looking deep into those eyes like I used to all the time when he was first born, noting the expressions and thoughts behind those liquid windows. He was suddenly quiet and gazed right back at me, a curious expression on his face as he tried to figure out what I was doing. My eyes played over the delicate features of his face, eyelashes, cheeks, nose, noting all the while the perfection and beauty in each of them. All at the same time, feeling and allowing myself to recognize and savor the emotions of connection and happiness and protectiveness and pride that swelled up inside of me when I really stopped to look.

The cliché about kids growing up too fast is all too real, raw, and frightening once you become a parent. He’s only three and already I look back on pictures from his earlier years and go, “Was he THAT small? He looked like THAT!? I don’t remember!” I don’t want to be one of those parents that suddenly gets a clearing of their vision about the time their child turns 14 and goes, “Who are you, where did you come from, and are you going to do your laundry anytime soon??”

So, I’m going to try my hardest to stop and look more. To savor what I can and capture as much as I am able. To parent when I must, but to avoid the trap of familiarity. To really look.

I hope I never fail to see him.

Passing the Torch

Nathan Pralle — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 17:08:51 +0000

Time: Like Sand from a Plastic Pail

Picking Him Up with Love

Reversed Needs

Nathan Pralle — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 06:45:35 +0000

I’ll be brief, because sometimes it’s ok to be men’s underwear.

Today I had an OK day and a simply shocking, horrific evening, and the only saving grace was that I was able to come upstairs after banging my head against a brick wall for long, tedious hours, plop my ass down on the floor, and say to the cute little boy across the room, “Come give Daddy snuggles.” He padded across the room, wrapped his arms around my neck, and laid his head on my shoulder for a few moments before dragging me off to the table to play with trains and cars and to comment on the TV cartoon.

I wonder if he knows that as much as he needs me at this time in his life, sometimes I need him just as badly. Thanks a ton, buddy.

You Don’t Have to Have a Kid

Nathan Pralle — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 17:51:32 +0000

You don’t have to have a kid.

Seriously. I know how societal pressures are, especially from your parents who may be the type that are just dying to get their hands on a baby and spoil it rotten. Some can be sweet and gentle about it, but I’ve heard stories of those who are downright, “You will give me a grandchild, NOW!” to which I have no rational answer that doesn’t involve propping my mouth open like a codfish.

You don’t have to have a kid.

It’s hard when all your peers are making strides in life and you aren’t keeping up with the Joneses — I know. When everyone has a snuggle buddy and you are the third wheel, you are left out. When everyone else seems to be engaged, it’s hard not to have diamond lust and to be picking out china. And when they’re all getting married, I’ve sat right along with you in a pew and wished I was the one standing at the top of the aisle and not them. It sucks. The desire to have kids can be even worse when everyone around you is pregnant or blowing raspberries into tiny bellies.

But…you don’t have to have a kid.

I have huge amounts of respect for two groups of people — those that are parents or want to be parents and love and adore their children (or their future children), and those that have said, “I never, ever want in a million years to have children and I’m not going to and I’m ok with that.” It’s insanely harder to make that second statement, but bless every one of you for bucking society and doing what’s right for you and not what everyone says you must.

Really — you don’t have to have a kid.

The first group of people really bother me are those who fall victim to peer pressure and have a child, either because they receive pressure from relatives or friends or simply via society and marketing, but in reality, they didn’t actually want to have children as badly as everyone else wanted them to, and now they are miserable or at least not nearly as happy as they might have been otherwise. I realize, there’s a lot of accidents out there — and they happen — and plenty of people who thought they would never want a kid, but once they did, they love it. But there’s plenty of folks who took the leap for bad reasons. And plenty more who will do so in the future.

I’d like to tell all these folks — you don’t have to have a kid.

The second group is parents who already have a child, thought it would be all roses and sunshine farts, and have found out that parenting and child-rearing is tough, thankless, and really cramping their style or patience. And yet – YET — despite this personal hell that they’ve created, they want to have MORE! What the hell!? You mean you haven’t had enough of pulling out your hair, feeling like a piece of microwaved crap, or having to grip onto your wine glass tightly to avoid mentally cracking? Usually this is a result of — you guessed it! Peer pressure. Everyone else has two kids, so we should, too. Or: “I love being pregnant!” “I love babies, just not toddlers.” Or any other mind-bendingly stupid sentiment.

Get a reality check, folks — you don’t have to have a kid. Or another one.

I am not anti-children, nor am I anti-parents. And I fully appreciate that some parents are simply uncertain until they actually DO it and then they are lovely and wonderful and their kids are awesome. I’m not trying to discourage people who are simply scared of making that leap and aren’t sure how they will do — heck, I shat myself daily until I got into fatherhood and realized I could actually do it and that I really, truly did love it.

I am encouraging those folk out there who, in their heart of hearts, really know that they should never be parents — it just doesn’t suit them — or those parents that have found out that it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be to simply Think. Consider. Ponder. And make the right decision, no matter what anyone else says. Do the best for you and for your children, conceived or unconceived, and make the right choice, not just the popular one.

I, at least, am on your side. Because you don’t have to have a kid unless you really want to.

Little Boy Two

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 06:31:52 +0000

My dear Keston,

I was up very late last night (it was a Hallowed Eve, after all), long after you and Mummy had gone to bed to prepare the house for your birthday party today. I was deep in the middle of washing the floors and was idly rinsing the soiled mop when I was suddenly overcome and nearly burst into tears standing there over the sink of dirty, grey water. I don’t know why it suddenly hit me, but I was going to have a 2-year-old boy the next day and it suddenly rushed in on me. It’s not like I didn’t have warning, of course…your mum and I have been hard at work preparing for this day for some weeks if not months, but…I guess I suddenly stopped to think about it. Something as mind-numbing as mopping will do that to you.

Two years old — a whole 730 days gone by where you have been in my life, spicing it up, making me both laugh my ass off and pull my hair out, where my heart has seemingly both grown 50 times its size and I have found a wellspring of joy and happiness that — well, frankly, I’m a sour old man — I didn’t think existed in this world anymore.

And yet, there you are, day in and day out, excitedly running up to me with a, “Daddy! Daddy!” and then your usual string of words and babble as you struggle to bring me up to speed and take me in to play on the floor with you and your trains. Or as we’re wrestling and rolling around on the floor and we’ll stop and look each other in the eyes and you’ll push your nose in for an Eskimo kiss. Or how you stand there on your stool, intent on being right there as my kitchen helper, partly because you want to know what I’m doing and your curiosity is almost boundless, but mostly because I’m there, and if being on a stool in a kitchen means being close to me, then you’re happy. And so am I.

Two years ago by now we were probably hanging out in the recovery room, cooing over you wrapped tightly in a bundle and wondering what was coming next and marveling that we were now at the end of one part of the journey whilst simultaneously starting in on a much larger, unexplored one. I think at that point my heart was so torn in different directions that I didn’t know what to think of the entire experience and now…well, I couldn’t have imagined where we’ve been so far. I’m really excited to see where we’re going next.

I find it difficult to express into words exactly how much you consume me every day and how much I enjoy that feeling, no matter how difficult it sometimes is or how much it taxes my mind. You are that which I think of first every morning and the person I think of every night before I fall asleep. For nobody else do I awaken at 4:30 in the morning and get out of bed just to hover quietly by your crib to make sure you are still breathing, and safe, and warm. Everything I do when I’m around you has some Keston-content within, whether it’s watching out to make sure you don’t get hurt, wondering how you’ll figured into plans, or simply wondering what you’re up to and what you’re thinking.

I feel like your 2nd year of hanging around this blue-green ball will be an exciting, pivotal one, as you are now getting to the point of being able to really communicate, to put words into complex sentences, to have enough vocabulary to really express yourself, and we are already starting to have some cute little conversations. You get this big huge grin of satisfaction on your face when you say something, ending in a question, I say it back and give you an answer, and you smile huge as you say enthusiastically, “YES!” I think you realize that we’re really starting to make some progress on this speaking-thing and within short time, we’ll really be able to pass around information and be on the same page.

I look forward to it, because if nothing else, you’ve taught me that there’s always something more about you that I want to know, and I want to understand what’s behind those dancing baby blue eyes of yours, your funny facial expressions, eyebrow lifts, and hands tossed up in a shrug while a stream of half-words come out your mouth. And some day, when you’ve progressed far enough and understand a whole lot more, you’ll be able to read what I’ve written here and know how very much your daddy loves you and how he can’t wait to be your daddy this next year — decade — century — FOREVER.

I love you so very much, my big beautiful boy. A very happy 2nd birthday to you.

Love,

Daddy

Leafs

Nathan Pralle — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 06:08:07 +0000

I have obtained for myself a regular little helper, a little guy who’s always around when I’m trying to get supper going or dishes washed at night before settling down for a good game of trains. Once lured by the sweet serenades of PBS kids’ shows, he now finds himself irresistably drawn to the kitchen and the perch ontop of his little red stool, watching intently everything that happens and commenting on it all the while.

We were so engaged the other night as I worked up a batch of Grandma Farwell’s Hearty Split Pea Soup, one of those soul foods that is perfect on a colder night and brings back memories of a small slice of something homey in the strangeness that was four years of college. Keston had assumed his normal place on his stool at my side, watching intently as I whittled away at the various ingredients and explained them out loud, which he would repeat.

And so we put peas (peeees), a ham bone (meaties), chopped onion (on-on), and carrots (care-rot) into the crockpot along with some water. Then I opened the spice cupboard and pulled out a bay leaf and some thyme. I looked over and he had a very concerned look on his face. He looked up at me.

“Leafs?”

I laughed. “Yeah, buddy, they’re special leaves called, ‘spices’. They make things taste good.”

“Daddy….leafs???” His confusion was pretty clear that he couldn’t figure out why I was putting leaves into our food. I thought for a moment.

“Well, they smell good,” I explained. This brought from him a wuffing noise as he pulsed air through his nose. He has always smelled so good (babies, toddlers, parents, you know what I mean) and so sometimes for a goof we go and rapidly sniff him on his cheeks and neck which usually gets a peal of giggles out of him. “Right!” I said.

I proceeded to get down the container of cinnamon. “Here, Kes, smell this.” I showed him by sniffing it first with the same whuffing action and then I stuck it under his nose.

He gave it a shot. “Mmmmmm!!” he smiled and hummed afterwards. We then tried several others — basil, dried onion, parsley, thyme, and salt, just because I wanted to show him that they didn’t ALL smell. He clearly liked some and was turned away by others, but it was a cute and interesting educational exercise.

We got done with that and I stirred everything together in the crockpot before putting it in the base and turning it on for a long, slow simmer. “Seeee! Seeee!” I get interrupted about 300 times every night cooking because his vantage point from the stool isn’t enough and he wants a better look. So, I hoist him up in my arms and he leans way over and gives the stew a long, hard, investigative gaze.

He turns back to me and points. “Daddy….LEAFS!?”

Emeril, eat your heart out.

Little Boy, Big Pumpkins

Nathan Pralle — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 17:03:30 +0000

Despite the weather being a bit odd this year in Iowa, having an unusually cool summer and weird rain patterns, it seems to have fit the pumpkin vines’ preferences perfectly, as my father was able to raise a bumper crop of the beautiful orange fruit this year. This prompted us to take our son Keston over to his grandfather’s place to paw through the many different offerings and pick the biggest and best of the bunch. Aunt Katy came along for the fun, too, because really — she’s just a kid at heart.

Although it was near sunset and the wind was blowing around 75mph, the lighting was perfect and the conditions certainly didn’t deter Keston from trying to choose every single pumpkin in the patch as his own.

Pick a Park of Peppers

Nathan Pralle — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 20:39:22 +0000

The weather the other night was so nice, it would have been a shame had we not gone out and enjoyed it, so we tripped up to Clear Lake (which is anything but clear) and enjoyed some time outdoors.

Future Sturgis Enthusiast

Dueling Flags

Don't Fence Me In

Sometimes I just...think.

Orange and Blue? Why, because it's...coordinated?

I'm Coming Up!

Receipt Required for Return

I Talk with My Hands

30-Second Rule

A Volley of Keston

Nathan Pralle — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 06:20:32 +0000

A little bit of fun outside on a sunny Saturday afternoon with a volleyball can’t be all that bad, right? My son, Keston, thought it’d be a fine time to practice his ball-handling skills and understanding of basic physics.

A Father’s Day Musing

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 21:20:15 +0000

This weekend saw me spending a lot of time either being with my father or being a father which, if you consider, seems somewhat appropriate given the nature of the holiday.

For the past couple weekends, Dad and I have been spending long hours replacing the old roof of his house with shiny new brown steel in one of our typical father-and-son construction ventures. While we can certainly spend time with each other in other venues, this is a very comfortable one for the both of us — doing some work, making something new or better, working in a lockstep learned from years and year of hammering next to each other on a multitude of projects. I am by no means excellent in my abilities and Dad still retains the Master Carpenter title and is the leading force of the guild, but I know enough not to be a burden anymore.

I was reflecting as I was perched high ontop of a steep and slippery dormer roof two stories up from a certain quick fall and splat that there are few other people in the world who could make me climb that high and perch myself out on a surface that had little-to-no means of barring me from making a very rapid slide to certain doom. Dad, naturally, has no problem with doing so and climbs around within inches of the precarious edge like a monkey with velcro feet, making me cringe but ever so glad that it was him and not me. But I had the thought — that’s just like a father, isn’t it? If it was between myself and my son, I’d hang by my gums from the edge of the steel if it meant that he wouldn’t have to get anywhere near it.

At the same time, I cannot help but think when I put myself in these situations that I should really watch out for my ass because my own son needs me to come home at the end of the day because, really — who else is going to wrestle with him on the carpet and teach him how to discretely stare at boobs? I find myself doing that a lot, whether it’s perched on some high building, driving fast, or attempting espionage of a foreign government — I really have a desire to come back in one piece when possible.

Speaking of the little squirt, I spent any time I wasn’t on a roof with him, and it was one of the most enjoyable weeekends I’ve had. He’s been more clingy than usual in the past few days, whether he misses the foreign relatives that left last week, his tooth is bothering him more than normal, or he just feels cuddly, I’ve gotten a lot of run-and-crash-into-my-legs, nearly de-pants Daddy because I want up, or headbutting and giggling while Daddy attempts not to swear loudly. All these, plus laughing eyes, a bouncy countenance, and soft squishy cheeks has given me endless moments where time could go shag a tree and it was just me and my boy having fun and enjoying being together.

So, I’m thankful and I can say without my normal sarcasm that despite turning out sore and tired from the weekend, I had a good Father’s Day — a solid reminder of how much I enjoy working beside and hanging with my own dad and how absolutely much I adore being a daddy to my little boy. None of it’s glamorous or glitzy, but it’s real, meaningful, and enjoyable, the way a holiday really should be.

Playing the Cat’s Cradle

Nathan Pralle — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 06:13:59 +0000

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man in the moon
When you comin’ home Dad?
I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then son
You know we’ll have a good time then

This song has always brought a lump to my throat, no matter when in my life I have heard it (and yes, I prefer the Ugly Kid Joe version, thanks). It’s not that I had a bad father when growing up — I had a great father. But now — I have a whole new perspective.

I worry all the time about how good of parent I am being…or not. Am I being a good Daddy? Am I spending enough time with him, teaching him, playing with him, showing him enough love and happiness and direction and acceptance? And more importantly — does he think so? I know I’m not the absent father of the above song but…in this my insecurities run deep.

Sometimes…sometimes the very act of being apart from him completely shreds my heart into little flaps of pain blowing in the breeze, even when it’s a necessary or justified reason. I go to work every day, work hard, sometimes long days, because the better job I have, the higher I can get, the better I can do — the more I can provide and give him a good, happy, warm, and safe life. Of course, there’s a balance — there’s a limit to how much money and so forth can give that nothing but love, caring, and time can fill. So where do I strike it? I struggle with that daily. Ideally, all we need is love. Realistically, we need so much more than only that.

The way he runs to me when I come home, arms outstretched, huge grin on his face, is at the same time both mind-blowingly wonderful and heart-wrenchingly awful because as good as it feels to have his love and acceptance and desire to see his daddy and to get his hugs and play time, it rips at me to think about what he wonders when I’m not there. Does he get upset that I’m gone? Kids breed on familiarity and security – do I wreak his world a tiny bit every time I step out that door and drive away?

Keston, Keston — what shall we do with your daddy who sits here with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, considering all the decisions that must be made and things that must be done, both with you and without you, and how to best place my love, devotion, and committment to your well-being such that you will grow up and think, “My dad? Yeah. He really loved me.”

Whatever happens, whatever we each must do to make our way in this sometimes confusing and conflicted world, no matter how many times I can and will screw up and not do things right, please always understand that I did the absolute best, to the ends of my very existence, to try to be the best for you. Because I love you, my son, more than my feeble mind and body can ever show.

– Daddy

18 Months of Posing

Nathan Pralle — Fri, 01 May 2009 20:17:45 +0000

Happy May Day, everyone! And, happily enough, today marks the 18th month since my life and heart were gratefully pierced through by the indefatigable shard of happiness that is my son, Keston.

Naturally, to celebrate we enlisted the help of a talented and flexible Sears photographer to capture his countenance for perpetuity. Although it took two sessions since aborting naptime the first time became a bit of a trial, I think we got some pretty good takes. Now if only his Adidas contract would go through. Gotta get on that.

Happy year-and-a-half, Bug-Bug. I love you so much!

(click on each image to get a large, up-close-and-personal picture)

Daddy Time

Nathan Pralle — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 17:14:04 +0000

It was the whining that brought me out of my deep slumber at the wee hours of Sunday morning.

*whine*, *thrash*, *whine*

I was having one of those moments where you wake up but you lie there, unmoving, still fully ensconced within the cocoon of your bedclothes, snapping into full consciousness but completely unwilling to take the next step and actually use your brain to activate your limbs. It was all I could do to blink and try to discern where I was in the dull grey early morning light slipping in on the edges of the blackout curtains.

*whiiiiiiiiinnnnnne*

One thing that is universally true about parenting is that the child’s schedule is never your own and their need to be attended to will be in inverse proportion to your own desire to stay the hell asleep. Their timing is, if nothing else, impeccable.

We are a bit unconventional in how we sleep, but it works for all of us: Wife – in queen bed in one corner; in the opposite corner, the crib, with Keston usually inside, and beside the crib, me on a single mattress on the floor. This enables some pretty easy access since our kid is up several times a night to be attended. It’s also handy when I have the mental capacity of a drunken newt at 4:30am and just need to have a quiet room to return to slumber.

*whine*, *sob*, *whine* He is standing up against the side of the crib, rubbing his eyes. “Do you want to sleep with Daddy? Ok, come on.” I hoist him by the armpits and down onto my pillow where he instantly cuddles into the blankets as I pull them up to his chin. Having been crowded out, I choose the edge of the bed, off the pillow, to fall back to sleep. I wind an arm around his waist and snuggle in and he smacks his lips a few times and sighs. He’s taking up the majority of the pillow, so I only get the dregs, but it matters little when I’m so tired.

Later in the morning I awake and spend a good half hour watching him sleep, flat on his back, arms spread wide, fingers relaxed, mouth agape, and snoring – I marvel at the peacefulness he has, the utter relaxation his body contains that mine often lacks. In the dim light, his features are soft and beautiful and I marvel at him till I slip into slumber again for a few hours.

It is after 10 and we are awake; he stirs first and wakes me since we are cuddled close together. He babbles on and on and I shush him to keep from waking Mumma, but we both enjoy the interaction. He lies on his side facing me, looking at my face and my eyes, reaching out to touch my nose (“no!”) and smiles at my funny expressions. I drink in the sight of him, those dancing eyes, the quirky way he moves his mouth, his little expressions. He is all I concentrate on as I blink slowly in my sleepy wakefulness.

We retire to the downstairs once it’s determined that he will not return to the Land of Shut-Eye and we spend a good four hours, uninterrupted, watching some tube and playing and reading books. He is all over, my boy, exploring, touching, babbling, playing. I am there to keep him in one piece, to supervise, but I am also relishing my Daddy Time. I get little of it during the week, so on the weekends, despite the sleeplessness it might entail, Keston and I get to reconnect and have some fun together. I watch some TV but pause my show to read a book when he brings me one, and I make the funny voices and read in that expressive tone he likes so much, and we learn about TRUCKS! and TRACTORS! and Big Bird and his inability to dunk a basketball properly despite being a 6-foot tall freak.

But most of all, we’re learning about each other, and enjoying our time — the smell of a baby boy, the cuddle of him on my lap, his giggles and babbles and nods, and my feeling that, of all the things in the world I could be doing on a weekend morning, I don’t think I could choose one that would come even close to the happiness and satisfaction of our time – my Daddy Time.

What is this ‘Sun’ You Speak of?

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 01:53:24 +0000

This weather is why we forget that only a few weeks ago it was colder than a witch’s brass monkey tit. I’ll give this much to Iowa — it keeps you guessing.

Of course, besides the sun, the focal point is our little boy who is practically discovering a world without sub-zero temperatures all over again.

At Grandpa’s farm, he didn’t always know what to do with all the space and all the trees around him.

Frankly, he was stumped.

Of course, not everything was snow-free, as evidenced by this woodpile who is still surrounded by the enemy.

Look, Grandpa! A tree just my size!

Keston also tried out his skills as a water dowser. He found nearly every puddle on the farm.

Even the horses were humaning around.

The cold winter couldn't keep these bushes from displaying their wares. I think these are hussy bushes.

We just taught him to point, so he walked around with his gun cocked most of the day, ready to use at a moment's notice.

Up there I shall go, and my numbers shall be 3. I think.

To the upper level!

Sunday started with a good old-fashioned country breakfast. Note the eggs which are the TRUE color of yolks (dark yellow). You city folk ought to be amazed. No, the brown ones are NOT chocolate.

Contemplating our own modern amber.

Keston does tend to be the adventurous sort

I shall conquer this slide in the name of Toddlerdom!

So....much...yellow!

Give me a push, daddy!

This is just like at home, minus the carpet, and there's no slide at the top!

Heck, I can do this by myself -- it's just gravity, right?

Of course, the pebbles were equally fascinating.

A lovely day to make my parents pull me around town in a wagon, don't you think?

Perhaps swimming would be an activity best reserved for another day?

Brown now, green later -- a sure sign of hope for a new spring.

The Sun is a Tease

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 06:39:38 +0000

We all piled into the car on Saturday afternoon, intent on getting outside and enjoying what we could of the unseasonably warm weather (40+ Farenheit, if you can believe it). You would have thought we were a bunch of crack addicts on a drug run as we cruised down main street Sheffield with the windows down and our noses in the air like starving collies in the need of a good bone to chew on. My wife and I even had synchronized sighs as we drew mighty draughts of naturally-purified air into our saggy old lungs.

Of course, as fate would have it (Lady Luck was still in the process of thawing out), there was precious few places to go where we could either a) get good photos or b) let our son wander around without ending up 3-feet deep in snow, mud, or ravine. After much driving we did manage to find a small park where we got some pics and we went to Clear Lake today for a brief outing that included pictures of ice and being whipped by the wind into humancicles in short order. Needless to say, we didn’t pursue that one for very long and quickly came home again.

But, for now, here’s photographic evidence of our time outside and that, despite the Satan’s deepfreeze that Iowa is in February, we can manage to get out on occasion.

Little Boy Blue

Nathan Pralle — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 23:03:46 +0000

A few weekends ago we went for a family drive on a Sunday afternoon and ended up cruising around Beeds Lake State Park in Hampton, where we stopped and let Keston roam around on the extremely stiff lake surface. At first he was rather tenative about venturing forth on such a wide-open expanse, but he soon got his bearings and, had we not stopped him due to the many bare ice patches, would have gone for bust until he froze solid. He loved it! As it was, he was quite blue-cheeked by the time we called it time to quit and spent a good time in the car under many blankets warming up.

As is usual with these family outings, we took along the camera and between me and Yolanda, got some great shots of him having the time of his life. And yes, his eyes really ARE that blue, amazing, isn’t it?

7 Minutes in Heaven

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 16:04:13 +0000

4:27 AM

All is quiet; the world sleeps.

4:28 AM

My wife jolts me awake; our son has managed to wet through EVERYTHING — onesie, PJs, sheet, mattress pad. I jump up and head over to help her. She extracts him, still sleeping yet moaning, from the crib and I start tossing out blankets, glow seahorse (“Fin”), pillows, etc.

4:30 AM

Landa is knee-deep in stripping off our child while I’m ankle-deep in stripping off the mattress, each of us tossing wet fabric into the wash pile.

4:32 AM

She re-assembles Keston into warm, dry diaper, onesie, and PJs as I put the finishing touches on the new mattress covering, lie it back down, and re-arrange the crib bumper.

4:33 AM

I help finish off the last of dressing my son, who is still asleep but awake enough to suck on a bottle while we toss limbs into holes in clothing and zip it up. He desperately wants to go back to sleep, thankfully.

4:34 AM

We lay the little boy back down in the now-dry crib and tuck him in with copious, fuzzy blankets and Fin playing soft lullabies. A few rhythmic pats on the back and his whining reduces to moaning and sucking on his bottle with a few sighs of happiness tossed in.

4:35 AM

I drop back into bed, pull up the covers, and just before my consciousness blinks out into oblivion, I think: “Damn — we’re getting good at this.”

The Way We Snow

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 21:30:03 +0000

It started snowing on Thursday night in typical fashion – light, fluffy flakes wafting their angelic way down from the heavens to grace the earth – but quickly turned into a flurry of tiny paratroopers storming the beaches of Normandy, hard-bent on conquering and obliterating all forms of visibility and automobiles that stood in their way. In a manner not unlike that of fire ants, their might and power existed not so much in the way of intelligence and strategy but simply because there was so goddamned many of them.

Quickly following on Friday evening the atoms of the world, having been blanket-attacked by this crystallized phenomenon, decided that they’d rather be sunning themselves elsewhere and promptly stopped moving, sending the temperature of the area into digits that have difficulty showing up on any self-respecting thermometer. You could see the trees practically shrivel themselves up as they cursed the winter and snuggled down into the earth, forever glad that their genitals naturally fall off before it gets this cold.

It was into Satan’s deep freeze that I found myself heading on Saturday morning, intent on finding a means to convey myself and my family to the wild north in search of the season’s quota of pre-manufactured blessings to shower upon my relatives, friends, and those I was unlucky enough to draw out of a hat at Thanksgiving. To say it was, “crisp”, outside was a gross misrepresentation; it was insomuch as to say that plate glass is, “soggy”. Snorting a fresh cup of bleach would have been warmer and not nearly as traumatic to my respiratory system.

My thrashings about to free my vehicle from the icy depths and to awaken it (much groaning and complaining ensued) were for naught; for on the outskirts of town and heading away into the barren wastelands was a paved trail intersected by copious piles of meteorological soldiers in strategic positions, that which we so coyishly term here as, “drifts”. They are amusing when approached by sleighs, snowmobiles, and jackasses in trucks, but not nearly as pleasant when slammed into with a sedan.

Besides – by this time my nipples were tight and my shorts were not. I know my limitations.

It was not until late Sunday night that we finally ventured forth into the dangerous night, intent on our goal. The weather had settled down – somewhat – and my wife, gorgeous thing that she is, had a case of cabin fever that would make even a hibernating badger agree to go for a swim and a cappuccino. If the weather didn’t kill her, I was going to.

Our shopping was rosy, our cheeks were so merry, our bodies were shivering and saying, “Hail Mary!” The stores were pleasantly stripped of their usual compliment of assholes-with-carts, thanks to the inability to see through frozen corneas, so we were able to complete a good percentage of our mission in record time. After doing our part to stimulate the economy, we headed to the local 24-hour breakfast-all-day restaurant to replenish our expired load of carbs.

After our meal, my son took off running around the 99% empty establishment to stretch his legs and ended up behind the counter as I was paying for the meal, the workers cooing at how cute he was and so forth. They let him paw the various muffins for sale in the display case (sorry, folks) and the next thing I knew, he was marching away, lemon-poppyseed pastry in hand, huge grin on his face like he had hoisted a bank. I admonished him for taking it, but the staff was so overcome by his adorable countenance that they simply tossed it into our order and we took it home with us, sans charge.

“How useful!” you say, and I agree wholeheartedly. Tomorrow we’re going to a car dealership to let him loose on the place.

A Year of Keston

Nathan Pralle — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 20:20:10 +0000

Dear Keston,

Today you turn one year old. At this time last year, your mum and I were stuck in a hospital room, waiting for something to happen and, while she was having contractions, nothing was. It wouldn’t be until 9:43 that night that they’d finally wheel Mum into the operating room and yank you out, much to your unamusement.

I, for one, had no idea of the amount of joy, happiness, and satisfaction I was in for with having you around. Sure, it wasn’t all roses and peaches — there were some pretty long nights of getting up all the time, poopy diapers that would make the Roto-Rooter man blush, and many moments of exasperation and wondering how we could keep on doing it, but those are greatly overshadowed by how incredibly awesome you are and how much we love you.

I stayed up till 3:15am last night — not because you were up, but because I wanted to make something for you — and for us — to commemorate the first year of Keston. I hope some day you enjoy it.

Sometimes words fail me to describe how much I love you. Your love and warmth is so overwhelming, it cripples me sometimes, and my brain is unable to think with this warm blanket of happiness surrounding it. I hope you never forget or doubt that.

I love you. Happy Birthday, baby boy.

Daddy

A Year of Keston from Nathan Pralle on Vimeo.

Next He’ll Be Driving, I Suspect

Nathan Pralle — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 13:00:06 +0000

Keston learned to walk on Friday, October 3rd. We’re in trouble now!

My Lil’ Pumpkin

Nathan Pralle — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 13:00:07 +0000

On Saturday, we went to the Franklin County Historical Society’s Fall Festival, which was essentially a glorified reason to get your kid out of doors, coming face to face with animals, games, and fall harvest items, including pumpkins. It was not, however, quite as horrific as that sounds at first blush, as the weather was nice, there wasn’t a ton of people out there (although there were more than I would originally think), and Keston had a great time trying his new-found walking skills outside.

There was a jack-o-lantern contest for the youngin’s, although my son didn’t participate because he’d probably try to ingest the innards of a pumpkin rather than discard them and make something artistic. That and writing on the back, “Nathan, 30″ for my name and age seemed rather out of place in all of the, “Kayden, 5″ and “Elsie, 3″ ones that were already there.

Being Iowa, there was, of course, a lot of corn.

And what better to do with that corn than to teach the kiddos how to run an old-fashioned hand-cranked corn sheller.

A garden nearby sported these double D-cup beets. I suspect that they’re going to be a bit…uh…woody.

If you can imagine, there was a flatrack with shitloads of pumpkins there. Then again, about this time of year, there are any number of a billion flatracks sporting orange vine fruit, so this isn’t a unique occurrence.

Everyone got a hayride, either behind a tractor or behind a team of horses. My son, having been properly indoctrinated by his grandfather, was only truly interested in the tractor itself.

We met a lot of friendly animals, because that’s what you do with small children. Here a cow and Keston are eyeing each other, but not necessarily making friends.

The baby pigs were more successful — Keston actually tried to reach for them, but couldn’t actually hit them.

With the baby chicken, Kes tried to be extra friendly and would whap the poor bugger on the head like he was beating a drum till Daddy took hold and made him pet it nicely. I don’t think it was nearly as amusing to either Keston or Daddy, but the chicken certainly appreciated my intervention.

We hung out some, just sitting around on the grass and enjoying a nice Iowa fall day.

Keston decided that the big green carpet needed exploring and headed off for a good crawl.

He had actually tried walking everywhere, but the unevenness of the surface made him approximate a stone gathering no moss on more than one occasion, so for this outing, he did mostly an all-fours mode.

We met up at this activity with Yolanda’s mother’s group, which is a group of kids and parents around the area that were all born approximately in the same time frame. As per typical, we got them all together for a group photo and, per typical, they all acted up when we tried to do so. This was the best of the lot.

One of the little boys, Brody, worked with Keston to try to extract the pumpkinds from underneath the pram.

We did, of course, come home with a bunch of pumpkins, and let Keston pick out his own. Here he is concentrating heavily, trying to feel out for the best pumpkin. Either that or he is trying to fart, we’re not positive.

But once he claimed a pumpkin, it was HIS, by golly.

We got a few smaller pumpkins, too, which are both more suitable for little hands and his mother’s decorating style.

You have the world by the tail if you just have a bunch of fall fruit around you.

Endless entertainment opportunities await even the smallest of ye — as long as you have a green stem and are of the orangeish skin coloring.

I shall HAVE them! Yes, I shall!

Aw, a perfectly flawed family photo, but at least 2 of the 3 weren’t cut off.

A Little Bit Off the Top

Nathan Pralle — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 20:52:11 +0000

Keston got his first haircut the other day at Great Clips before I got my thatch whacked down to the correct summertime length. His hair had been growing over his ears and down his neck in a rather willy-nilly way, so we decided a quick evening-up would do him a ton of good and probably keep him from itching his ears a lot. It turns out, he was a really good kid through it all! The stylist was very patient and quick and he really didn’t care but preferred to generally give his Mum some smiles as she snapped pictures of him during the procedure. At the end, they even gave us a little “My First Haircut” card and envelope with his hair in it. Aren’t we a funny species, saving things like hair? You never see anyone save their first toenail clippings, but we’ll keep the hair by golly.

Doesn’t my cape look lovely?

All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.

Just a bit off the side, please — and watch those ears! I need those!

WHOA — that feels funny!

Ah, getting that pesky hair off my ears is wonderful.

What…in the heck…are you doing to me???

Daddy had to hold my head a bit (I kept turning to see the action) so the stylist didn’t accidentally remove a cheek or something.

My god, I’m covered in PUPPYDOGS!

Yummy, fresh haircape! My favorite!

Poignant Prodigy

Nathan Pralle — Mon, 19 May 2008 21:41:45 +0000

A couple of pictures for your consideration. Despite my son’s haunting look in the second one, he really does love the swings in the park.

Brace yourself for a slew of short blog entries this week. I have a lot on my mind, but no time to draw any of them out in long postings, so you’ll get short, concentrated entries with lots of room for expansion in your fervent commentary. That is, if you comment. Which you should. I think.

Red Raw Skin Problems

Nathan Pralle — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 17:37:28 +0000

Since shortly after birth, our son Keston has had a recurring skin issue. They are patches of rashes that appear on his skin, sometimes slowly and sometimes very quickly, but equally itchy. They are bad enough at times that all he can do while awake is to itch (which tears up his skin due to his razor-sharp fingernails). It also wakes him up several times a night because he’s uncomfortable and he thrashes around and itches for awhile before going back to sleep, usually with the aid of a bottle from us. This means that we’re still, at 5.5 months, getting up every hour or two to handle him.

It was originally diagnosed as eczema, but was elevated to an, “I don’t know,” status by the head dermatologist at the Forest Park Clinic in Mason City and we were referred up to pediatric dermatologist Dr. Jennifer Hand at the Mayo Clinic, Rochester, MN, to find out exactly what it was, perhaps why it occurred, and what to do about it. So yesterday I took a day off work and we made the 2 hour drive (and tank of $3.60/gallon gas) up to submit Keston to some poking and prodding and hopefully find some answers to his issues.

The trip was essentially worthless and utterly frustrating. The head dermatologist in Mason is convinced it is *not* eczema, yet once we got up there, the Dr. Hand gave him a brief glance and was like, “It’s just eczema. He looks great. What’s the problem?” Which is nice — he was having one of his good days, rare though they be — but it doesn’t give us many solutions for the nighttime itching and his outburst of rashes from seemingly nothing. Also, wouldn’t you do more if the head of the dermatology clinic in Mason doesn’t even know what the hell it is???

Sigh.

Of course, it started off badly — we were about 5 minutes late so we were rushing, driving through Rochester in the pissing rain, trying to find the parking garage, but that was no problem — we got there and checked in fine. However, when I checked in, the receptionist said, “Oh, is that paperwork for the doctor?” indicating the referral letter and the sheet of all Keston’s prescriptions and diet. I confirmed that it was, and she said, “Oh, ok, I’ll take that and make sure she gets it.” I thought that was nice, so we settled down into the very pretty and subtlety-lit waiting room.

But when it came time to see the doctor, we asked if she had seen the paperwork and she’s like, “No, what paperwork?” She sent the nurse after it, but the receptionist had run off to lunch and the nurse just came back and shrugged her shoulders. The doctor seemed unfazed by this and although we said we could wait for them to find the papers, she just said to continue on, she knew what it was and didn’t need to see the referral (which, in that letter, the doctor in Mason explains why he thought it *wasn’t* eczema). So we had to explain what was going on from memory, his entire history and meds/foods/etc. even though we had written it all down already (my wife has been extremely organized with it all, bless her).

So she weighed him (22lbs now, good thing we got the new car seat today) and briefly examined him and then she pulled out a sheet of suggestions for handling eczema and listed everything off, but we’re already doing everything on the sheet so she was like, “Oh, well, you’re doing good then. Carry on.” We did get another different antihistamine to try at night and yet another OTC skin cream but that’s about it. She said that Keston is nothing compared to some of the kids she sees whose eczema is so bad that they stop growing and get sepsis and staph infections. Which is nice enough to know that we’re not an extreme case, but we still feel like the poor sod shouldn’t have to wake up every hour or two at night itching and tearing up his skin.

So we left feeling very much like we had just completely wasted a tank of gas and an office copay. We went off and did some mild shopping and poking around Rochester, stopped to get supper at TGI Friday’s, decided we didn’t like the look and prices on the menu, and instead ended up at Famous Dave’s. As we did I kept getting madder and madder about the situation and now I’m really pissed about it. So I don’t know what to do at this point, but I think we got fucked and someone’s going to hear about it.

I mean…if we’re doing all we can for Keston and there’s nothing up with him but the eczema and so forth, fine. I can deal with that and we’ll keep on doing what we’re doing to control it. (She said most kids grow out of it by 1 years, but then they usually get asthma…joy.) But if it isn’t, I’m going to feel really bad that we were blown off and, at the time, I didn’t have the balls to tell the doctor she was being a daffy bitch (and or hunt down the stupid bint of a secretary and give her what-for for losing our goddamned paperwork).

Sometimes I envy Type A’s ability to speak up at the moment, whereas I always think about what I *should* have said at the time and then kick myself later. Hindsight…GAH!

For those of us around the Midwest, Mayo is touted as being one of the premier health care centres around, garnering the business of presidents and international dignitaries and handling thousands of cases a year. While I realize that my son’s skin problems are probably small potatoes in the the large scheme of things, don’t we deserve a fair whack at the resources as well, especially if we’ve been explicitly referred there?