We Promised!

Jeremy's foster mother, Dolly, who took him under her wing for the first eleven weeks of his life, made us promise to put a golf club in his hands by his first birthday. Dolly believes Jeremy is the next generation's Tiger Woods. Jeremy enjoyed swinging this 7-iron around. He especially liked sinking his teeth in the grip.

Parenting in the 21st Century sure is strange. Last Friday, Barb & Jeremy & I were driving around town. Nothing unusual, right? Except it was a work day, and neither Barb nor I were at work, and we were paying TWO licensed day care providers to NOT take care of Jeremy. Huh? Barb is still on leave, convalescing from her surgery. Fridays are my typical work days, when Jeremy goes to Teacher Robert's to school. Since Barb cannot lift anything over five pounds while she heals, Jeremy goes to school even when Barb is home. Last Friday, however, Teacher Robert went gallavanting to Mexico. Most day care consumers know that many licensed child care providers take two weeks of paid vacation per year, which means that parents pay the weekly rate even though the child care center is closed for business. In other words, you pay for the opportunity go find -- and pay for -- back-up day care. So, we found a trippy woman named Deanie who lives in our neighborhood and has cared for dozens of foster children and now runs a day care in her home. She was willing to take Jeremy as a drop-in, depending on the daily space available in her "Happy Kids R Us." Unfortunately, Jeremy was not a Happy Kid last Friday, through no fault of Deanie's. He woke up with green goop oozing out of his nose and rattles in his chest, and we didn't want to subject any other kids to his body fluids. Most day care consumers also know that you pay for the day, even when your child is sick. Since we had reserved a space for Jeremy for the day, cha-ching! So, the two mommies, neither of whom were earning any money that day, were paying $110 for the pleasure of watching our own son.

Odd.

On Sunday, we decided to visit our favorite Midtown creperie for brunch. Since Jeremy arrived in our lives, we have spent more time in raucous "kid-friendly" chain restaurants where the waiters are used to sweeping up Cheerios and other detritus from under the tables, and less time in hip eateries with interesting food and ambience to match. But Sunday, we felt brave, banking on the odds that Jeremy would sit through a meal with the help of our Cheerio/sippy cup/teething ring/bottle regimen combined with a little luck. On this beautiful Indian summer morning, the cafe was bustling, but our good karma opened up a table at the right time, and we began salivating in anticipation of our crepes. The waiters scurried back and forth past our table with plates full of waffles, crepes and scrambles. Barb & I drooled more. Jeremy dutifully munched on his Cheerios. Barb & I chomped at the bit. Jeremy happily scanned the crowd for interesting faces to flirt with. Barb & I began fidgeting. Jeremy slurped on his bottle, lazily swinging one foot. Barb ate one of Jeremy's Cheerios. Jeremy gnawed rhythmically on his plastic bubbles. I shifted in my seat, worried that we would soon run short on Jeremy's patience quota. My eyes yearned to lock gazes with our waitress, or anyone who would care. The staff mouthed disinterested platitudes ... "I am sure your order will be right up." But our karma ran out. An hour had gone by. The table next us got served within five minutes after ordering. Jeremy was ready to jam. Not that he was misbehaving by measure. No, he was just ready to move, like any one year old after sitting patiently in his high chair for an hour, and it was important for the experience to remain successful, at least for him. So, even after the anticipation and the drool over these particular crepes, we got up and left, with our stomachs rumbling loudly and our moods rumbling darkly. Jeremy continued to behave delightfully, unlike his Mama Nay, whose best shot at the cafe manager was that the service was "ridiculous."

We ended up at Quiznos.