Zachary Attack

Dance Class

Holy shit I love you.

I took this picture and beamed with pride while sitting among a covey of bitchy, smug, pretentious mothers who were appalled by your "boyish" behavior in front of their precious little snowflakes.

It was awesome

Snuggle Bug

On Father's Day I snuck into your room.

Climbing in your bed, I whispered Snugglebug, and—without waking—you draped your arm around my neck. I can’t believe there’s such a thing as you, you with your tiny arms. I can’t believe you’re three. I can’t believe we live between the sky and the grass in this world so full of gods.

Once, when your mom left for work with her hands full of bags and clipboards and lunch and things she couldn’t keep the door from SLAMMING behind her. Moments later, I heard the rain of your bare feet running into my room. You climbed in bed with me, cuddled and clung to me, and whispered Snugglebug. I acted like I was asleep so I could hear the pace of your breathing slow, so I could feel the tension in your clinging drift away.

In your bed, I listened to you breathe and wondered about sleep. Where were you? In what dream did you find yourself? Were you a swashbuckling pirate? Maybe you were a bird soaring over puffy clouds scattered through endless skies? Or were you running, afraid, through a maze of corridors with no solution? I imagined us in the distant future, sitting together on a bench. It’s late, and we just returned from some somber event, and you lean into me, grab my arm, and put your head on my shoulder. I am old and tired but not without a little future left in me. I kiss your head, whisper Snugglebug, and your shoulders relax.

This is the way my memory and imagination mingled with your dreams on Father's Day.

Got A Little Captain In You?

The Siege and Sack of LEGOLAND U.S.A.

Women and children scatter in fear as Captain Zach Sparrow storms the front gates

The terror continues at the Junior Driving School where he deliberately runs down every living creature in sight

The captain celebrates his victory by performing the most elaborate booty dance in the history of booty dances



The plunder of goods begins and Zach throws up his gang sign (Representin' Westside Indies)


Gettin' on the good foot during a sea chanty

Zach utters a hearty seaman's laugh and begins to play

and play...

...and play

Finally, the captain pauses for a quick bite to eat

Catching the hint, the crew leads Zach to the local Tavern for a more tasty snack

After a long day of pillaging, stamina begins to wain

Catching a ride with his First Mate (Slappy Saggingsails), Captain Zach Sparrow celebrates another successful raid of Legoland U.S.A.

Food Fight

My wife and child are notoriously picky eaters. Thankfully, Lesley eventually outgrew this phase on her own (by "eventually" I mean "recently" and by "phase" I mean one of 30 years), but Zachary has not had the luxury of experience nor does he harbor sufficient wisdom to overcome this idiosyncratic tendency.

That is to say, feeding my son is a nightly horrifying ride from the 10th through the 13th circle of hell.

The evening typically begins innocently enough with a chase through the house that requires a coordinated effort between Lesley, the dog, and myself using Navy Seal Ambush Tactics that funnel him into the dinning room (10th circle), restraining him in his high-chair (11th circle), subjugating him to intense psychological coercion to insert the food in his mouth (12th circle) and swallowing said food (13th circle).

Then it gets ugly.

This is a paraphrased excerpt from a random night at the dinner table:

ME: *holding spoon full of applesauce* Just one bite?
Zach: *shakes head vigorously in protest.*
ME: Please?
Zach: *Kicks spoon across floor and overturns plate for good measure*
ME: *smiling* Fair warning son, I orally dosed animals for a living.
Zach: *employs a look of challenge*
ME: *smile broadens- restrains child using the MMA Gogoplapa submission move* On three, ready? One... two... *CRAM*

That's pretty much how every bite of every meal goes down in the Williams household.

I still feel as if the potency of my problem is getting lost in translation here. Perhaps the word "picky" isn't conveying the severity of the issue. This is a kid who won't eat cake (presumably because it's made with flour and eggs). CAKE. What kind of kid doesn't eat friggin' cake? Ice cream is too cold, brownies are too chewy and cookies are too round.

And that's just deserts.

Now try to imagine his hatred of fruits and vegetables. Don't blame yourself if you're having a hard time envisioning this, you're not alone. Scientists say that the human mind has difficulty comprehending immense qualitative and quantitative values like the size of the Universe or in this case, a hatred that burns as hot as the fire of a thousand suns.

The picture at the beginning of this post? I snapped that shot as a tribute to my victory over my son and actually getting him to eat something on his own accord (granted he was eating Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream- besides, mint is a vegetable right? RIGHT? SHUT UP. WHO ASKED YOU ANYWAY)

Over the last year, doubt has been encroaching upon my judgment. How far is too far? Am I causing permanent emotional scarring by subjecting him to nightly mental anguish? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much?











(we can do this the easy way or the hard way son)

I've repeatedly brought my concerns to the attention of his pediatrician (whom I will refer to here as Doctor Retard) who always responds with well practiced condescension that only a professional in his position can deliver. Here is a recent conversation:

DR: Be sure to eat vegetables yourself. Don't set a double standard.
ME: No go. His moms' eating habits are as bad as his.
DR: Let the child select vegetables to prepare each night
ME: Do Cheetos count as a vegetable? No? Hmmmm. That may be an issue.
DR: Sneak vegetables into other dishes.
ME: Have you been listening to me?
DR: Try changing the presentation or preparing the food in a different way.
ME: Ummm
DR: Don't make food into a battle of wills
ME: Awesome. That's the best advice I've heard all day. Thanks doc!

Armed with a new tactic I went home to prepare dinner in an air of triumph. I sat Zachary down, determined NOT to battle wills. Then...

Nothing.

He just sat there. Stubbornly and predictably ignoring his food.

I was stumped. My WILL was to get him to f-ing eat. If we don't battle wills, then I lose and he wins. This was about when I realized that for a pediatrician, Zach's doctor knows very little about kids. Not battling wills was definitely out of the question. It was time for a hard-nosed, tough love approach.

Not going to eat what's for dinner? That's fine. No, you can't have a bottle. No, you can't have Cheetos. Well, I'm sorry I guess you'll just have to go to bed hungry. Much to my surprise, he went.

The battle of wills had begun.

Day one passed without much fuss as it was business as usual. Zach wasn't eating. No big deal, he skips meals all the time. But by evening I had a sinking suspicion I was playing against a worthy opponent.

On day two I was beginning to appreciate some of Zachary's more subtle moves within our mental chess match. It was here that I began to question the wisdom behind starving a growing child.

By day three I knew I was over-matched. I no longer feared for his physical and mental health as much as I was fearing for my own. I was really feeling the pressure and I was sure I was going to crack at any minute. Could this be what Doc Retard was talking about? Maybe Doc Retard knew all along that the boy is too clever for the likes of me. I can't win.

By that evening, my grip on reality was in serious question as I had convinced myself that Zach had some private stash beneath the floorboards and he was smuggling foodstuffs into his crib via elaborate tunnels. Later, Zachary's Union reps informed me that apparently eating is an infringement upon his moral and spiritual beliefs. And his choice to only eat Cheetos or milk from a bottle is his right as a God fearing American. Why do you hate America? Terrorist.

(UFCW Union Representative)


He's gone whole days without eating before, but this was getting ridiculous. His pediatrician assured me that the boy would crack first. But I wasn't so sure. Maybe I just have a weak spot for elephants accusing me of domestic terrorism. Could I be wrong? Are empty calories better than none at all? How can I enforce healthy eating on my son when his mom is just as bad? And who am I to judge? Are my habits much better? I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.

We consulted the family therapist (read: Zachary's Grandma) for advice. But she was no help at all. For some strange reason I still don't quite understand, she thought all of this was quite funny.
Whatever.

But then all of a sudden just the other day while we were at Legoland, without coercion or leading of any kind, he asked for and consumed three bites of ice cream (see first photo). I can't tell you how excited I was! Then not even 10 minutes later, he asked for an orange. A REAL ORANGE. Like, you know, the fruit.

He ate the whole thing

No MMA submission moves needed. Victory is mine.


(special thanks to Dooce for the inspiration behind this post)

Slow

When I was in the 5th grade I couldn't read. Well okay, that's not entirely true. If I was given a harangue or story to read, I could effortlessly oblige without making any mistakes. But when asked what a passage was about, I would just stare blankly as if I hadn't comprehended a single word.

Because I hadn't.

I specifically remember one time in Ms. Dillans' 5th grade class. I was asked to read a paragraph regarding two men stranded on a raft in the middle of an ocean arguing over whose turn it was to do the fishing. While my mouth had been dutifully forming the sounds of the words translated from images of letters in my brain, my mind was busy contemplating why they would eat a high protein meal when they had no water (protein, of course, requires a lot of water to metabolize and would cause further dehydration) and how they might use their rubber jackets at night as funnels to collect condensation from the air for drinking. Before I knew it, the passage was over and the Ms. Dillan was asking me what it was about. I responded by mumbling something about cellular osmosis and diffusion gradients.

Even in the 80's it wasn't politically correct to use the words "idiot" or "stupid" or "retarded", not even if those words were being used to describe yourself. Today they use abbreviations like ADHD, LD, AS and CAPD. But back in the 80's, the PC term everyone used was simply "slow".

I was slow. I knew it, my teachers knew it, my friends knew it.

Even my mother often has to admit that I was a slow child. What else can you say about a 9 year old boy who couldn't remember his right hand from his left without thinking about the way a dog turns around before lying down, the direction of whirlpools and whirlwinds, the side a cow is milked from and a horse is mounted from, the direction of a twist of oak and sycamore leaves, the maze patterns of rock moss and of tree moss, the cleavage of limestone, the direction of a hawk's wheeling, of a shrike's hunting, and of a snake's coiling, the lay of cedar fronds and of balsam fronds, the twist of a hole dug by a skunk and by a badger (remembering pungently that skunks sometimes use old badger holes)? A normal kid would just remember his right from his left without all that nonsense.

I have never out-grown this affliction, but I can proudly say that I did eventually teach myself how to read.

Anyway this rambling and unorganized post, while symbolic in its irony, does indeed have a point.

While it's not set in stone, Lesley and I have tentatively come to the decision to home-school Zachary from the age of 5 until he is 10. This means that I would be in charge of delivering my son the bulk of the most influential developmental period of his life: his elementary education.

ME: the guy who, had he been born 50 years earlier, would have probably never finished 8th grade.

Yes, I'm aware of the shortcomings of home schooling. Yes, I'm aware of the social and academic pitfalls. I've listened to the arguments and I've done my own research confirming the validity of those arguments.

Why then, can't I stop being ecstatic at the notion of teaching my son?

I don't know ... but then again I've always been a little slow.