Day 4

 Hoping to catch up on my blogs today! Writing this on day 6, on the outer limits of my active memory. I blame my prom weekend, truthfully.

I wake up on day 4 at 4:20, a marginal improvement. Something's gotta change. I'm up and slightly tired - so I call Becca and we chat for a bit on her commute to work... or from work? Don't make me do math in the middle of the night. I dawdle a bit but get out of bed by six or so to hang out with the kids before school.

On usual weeks Jacki will work from Wednesday to Friday, where Lennox is watched by Lynn and Pete (His grandparents across the street) or daycare. It's Tuesday today, and Jacki agreed to fill in for an extra workday because Uncle Jesse is in town for babysitting duties. Of course I am! I'm genuinely happy to help. Jacki leaves ample instruction on what the kids need for school, written down on computer paper with a purple marker, a subtle metaphor for how a house with three kids morphs all aspects of life to something more colorful... and less legible. I'm on the hook to walk the boys to school, too. Should be fun!

Huxley and Callan are a wonderful mix of personalities. I often lump the two of them together as the "older boys," an intuitive simplification, mostly since the difference in behavior between six and seven is a lot more narrow than six and two and a half. Still, it's important for me to remember that these are two fully separate children, at two unique developmental stages. While the similarities are apparent - Blonde boys with blue eyes, highly active, and deep affinities for a non sequitur - they are starting to pull away from each other with key personality traits.

Huxley, 7,  is the most comfortable with challenging authority, perhaps due to him being the oldest. He's often stretching the boundaries of what's appropriate, trying to figure out what he can get away with. Later on he pulls his most boneheaded stunt to date, but I'll talk about that later. Hux is a chatterbox, highly energetic, and very smart. He's an advanced reader and picks up new skills quickly. One of my missions while I'm here is to teach him how to juggle, and I anticipate that he will be able to figure it out, but not in a way I will expect. By all accounts this bright, loving boy has undiagnosed ADHD. He will be very successful in life but might struggle in school. This world is not structured for Huxleys, it's primed to be dominated by them, though. I love the kid.

Callan, 6, is a sweet boy. He's found himself in a positive feedback loop of doing the right thing and being recognized for it, so good behavior can be expected from him. Still, he is quite young, so his desire to do the nice thing is, sometimes, transparently an attempt to kiss ass. Callan is equally active to his older brother but is a year and change behind him in development, so the challenges and games between them often go as expected. Thankfully he keeps up, and I anticipate that the constant "almost there" aspect of their play will continue to push him to develop a strong work ethic. Callan's unique talent is his art - I can't speak to how good his work is compared to others his age, rather his talent lies in how he enjoys the process of making art. That's all that counts in my eyes. He's found his thing. I love the kid.

We make our way to school, Huxley on a skateboard and Callan on his scooter. I have Lennox in his stroller with his own scooter tucked underneath, which he quickly calls for as soon as we're on a proper stretch of sidewalk. I forgot his helmet, so I tell him to go slowly, but he's an absolute demon on that scooter and blazes on ahead. Again, cortisol. I text Jacki about the helmet situation, and she replies that, at times, she also forgets his helmet. He's going to be fine. He shreds. Doesn't help my stress level, but I decide to stop being so neurotic and give the kid a chance to give himself brain damage. Maybe it will calm him down a bit or take care of his lisp.

After dropping the boys off Lenny and I hit the park for a little bit. We had a moment on the swings where I kept trying to put his legs into the holes, not knowing that those are for kids a bit younger than him. He gently, confusingly, guides me into letting him on the seat the correct way. "Let me down" he mutters - and he's right, he doesn't need the leg holes. Combined with my poor attempts to get him in and out of the stroller I can tell he's losing faith in my ability to navigate his world. I see it in his eyes. Contempt. He still loves me, but he believes me incompetent. No, you're projecting.

Swings are the greatest thing ever invented. Simple and elegant, they allow a child and their guardian the chance to connect in a peaceful and thrilling activity. It feels like you're getting away with something, the swings. How are these free? How can we snatch such joy from the universe? This pleasure is too pure, it must be of the gods themselves. One big push and you're guided by a piece of Apollo stolen within a Greek myth of demigods and heretics. A child has no match for the unencumbered ecstasy derived from cheap metal and centripetal force. He must be happy. In the moments of holding the child's back, this happiness crosses to the pusher as well. "Fuck yea, I love the swings" is an essential and natural thought that crosses every adult's mind. I like to believe the kid allows themselves an internal F-Bomb as well. The swings deserve it. Fuck yea, swings.

The swings run their course and we make our way across the street for a cookie and a coffee. I meet one of Brendon's friends, Leon, who's working the cafe/bar. A quick howdy and hello, a sweet and a cup of joe. We make our way back to the house and I start to feel the fatigue.

It's hardly 10 and I'm losing steam. I gotta entertain you for two hours before your nap, huh? I'm immediately lost. I've tried nothing and I'm all out of ideas. He points to the wooden train set that's out in the living room. Cool, yeah, go nuts. "You play too?" he asks manipulatively. "Of course" Who would say no to playing trains to his sweet, cute nephew? Only a psycho. I clock myself moving out of obligation, fighting fatigue. No wonder parents always look so tired. Would having my own kid be like this? I shake off the thought... Come on man, get a grip. I'm jet lagged, not incapable of being a father. Just grab another coffee and figure it out. I settle on a banana and a water for now. He puts on his favorite television show about super powered puppies.

Paw Patrol is a fine television show. They like to play around with dialogue in a way that keeps things fresh for adults, primarily through rhyming and alliteration. The show's structure is predictable in a way that comforts kids, varied enough to prevent their caretakers from committing seppuku, and well-acted enough to warrant being a toddler's show of choice. I didn't anticipate becoming inexplicably angry at the Paw Patrol. I've been channeling this rage into cutting criticism and sharp commentary. I'm sure I haven't seen the last of it in my time here, so I'll hold off for now. The worst part of today's PP madness was Lenny's insistence on replaying one specific episode. I'm rubbing my face at the thought of writing a synopsis. I'll refrain. We watch it four times before I let the episodes play out normally. 

According to Jacki, Lenny sleeps better when he's full. As we approach his nap time I start to scheme up a strategy to get this kid to eat. Teddy crackers, string cheese, ritz and grapes. I'm armed to the teeth. I stick him in the chair and tell him he needs to eat his least favorite, most filling food. String cheese or death, I say to him. At each request he looks up at me, cutely, and sticks another grape in his mouth. He's still eating something, right? It's not the same thing brotherman. Eat the damn cheese. He does eventually. In a few minutes he'll be ready to nap, but he stalls by playing with a race car down the Hotwheels track. "One more!' He keeps saying. "One more" I agree, knowing he means at least six. Finally he resigns. "Time for nap" He says to me. Little shit, that was my idea. I warm up his milk bottle and head upstairs.

Here's the thing about potty training... It's not up to anyone to decide when it's right. Jacki and Brendon are fantastic parents. They have a lot going on, and truthfully, they know what their doing in regards to letting their 2.5 year old shit his pants. There's a world where I try to achieve the coveted "Uncle of the year award" and go through the steps to potty train this kid. I don't know where to start. It sounds difficult. I take him to bed and give him the bottle, hoping beyond hope that today is the day he skips his nap time splatter. I keep the door cracked and head downstairs to try to sneak in a nap of my own. He babbles on for thirty straight minutes before starting to call my name. "Jesse, Jesse, Jesse." He's not yelling for me, he hardly seems interested. But he insists. "Jesse. Uncle Jesse." I call up to him, "Yes bud? Did you poop?" "Yesh" he dootifully replies. 

I've changed three poopy diapers in my life up this point. Shoutouts to Mason George, of Pacella acclaim. I'm not sure if it's because they're not my kids or because I haven't hit double didge, but I have not gotten remotely closed to used to it. I am scared and stressed. My central nervous system, in an effort to help, begins sending signals across my body akin to being chased by a lion. I'm looking for a way to avoid getting shit on his bed so I use five wet naps underneath him. I use another twenty to scoop the brown. I look at him again, he notices how poorly I handle the situation. "No more wet naps" he says judgingly. His mom probably uses three. The insult is too cutting, I don't have a comeback. It takes two hands to hold the mass of diaper and wipes I've accumulated. I tell him to go back to sleep. He babbles for another half hour before calling my name again. He had a small sleep. Wonderful.

The next hour or so is a blur as I shake off my sleep and make another cup of coffee. More trains, more paw patrol. I read him some books that are laying around. He seems completely happy and full of energy. the kid's gonna crash eventually I just know it. By three and ten we get sorted to go get his brothers. On the walk he asks to ride the scooter again but gives up after a few minutes. He then falls asleep in the stroller. Serenity at last.

We pick the boys up on the walking path then start to head back home. Lennox stays asleep throughout his brothers' incessant babble. I enjoy their incessancy. Between the two of them, in simultaneous outbursts, I gain a marginal improvement to conversations I've had all afternoon. They talk about their day, phonics class, maths, and fractured retellings of tiny incidents wherein the recalling of who was there outweighed any sort of action driven plot three to one. "Jimmy, Harold, Xavier, Charles, um... Darwin, no, Darwin wasn't there. Aiden, Chris, Nick P, Charles. Did I say Charles? Aiden. We all found a salamander and it was dead." Marvelous.

Jacki meets us before we reach home for a lemonade and some bags of chips. I grab a beer, and then another one. I've never had a more satisfying sip in my entire life. Lots of sun, lots of sons. The physiological downer does the trick and I chill out. It's almost four in the afternoon and I'm only three hours from falling asleep. The boys play around outside while Jacki and I chat about the day. I'm losing a bit of steam, truth be told. 

Seen below: Lennox eats a salt and vinegar chip moments after waking up from his nap. The picture speaks for itself.

We get back and I start on dinner, a massive plate of loaded nachos with guacamole. Simple stuff, but I'm running on fumes. I make Huxley grab a few more beers for me. He's proud of his ability to open the corona bottle on only his second try. I'm trying not to drink too much while I'm out here, but in for a penny in for a pound. These get me through the finish line. Callan helps me cut avocados. He asks me when the next time he can help cook will be. I tell him every time. My little helper. Cute as FUCK.

We eat and the adults seem to like their meal. I'm getting immense pleasure out of cooking dinners. It seems like the least I can do while I'm out here, no? This night, though, I tell them I can't do the dishes. I have a second interview at 11pm local time and there's no way in hell I'm staying up for it. I decide to hit the sack early to get some rest before the call. It works out well, I think. I smashed the interview.