There Are No Instruction Guides That Come With Newborn Infants

We rely on what we remember from our childhoods as a basis for information, thoughts, ideas, and so on in regards to bringing our own children into this world and then doing the very best that we can given that limited database of information on how to raise and nurture them.

Dr. Spock, for many of us, was the expert on childrearing.  Bar-none, the best.  And over time as infancy and middle childhood were studied in clinics, some labs and colleges and universities, some of Dr. Spock’s work was updated and revised. 

And all the while, you as the parent, are buying new clothes, trying new techniques and trying out new foods in order to again, do your very best with this amazing little person who depends on you 24/7, one hundred percent of the time. 

But, again, you’re making this up as you go.

Somewhere in there after you’ve exhausted your family-leave from work, you have to about the daunting task of finding someone who can trust and feel comfortable with leave your precious bundle of joy.  Maybe it’s a church-based program.  Maybe a trusted neighbor or family member, or like most of us, a daycare near your home.  It’s basically a crap-shoot trying to decide where your little one lands, and yes, it’s absolutely nerve-racking, and not unlike leaving junior with a babysitter for the first time.

And keep in mind, this isn’t even for a special needs child, just a regular run-of-the-mill Dick and Jane type kid.  (Let me clarify because I know you’re scratching your head – run-of-the-mill refers to most average children, non-special needs ones.)

Which brings me to the point of this piece, the following Facebook post:

Here’s a young mom, don’t know if she’s single or not (not important) who is struggling with her baby, trying to get him to eat properly, something most young parents work on.  And the daycare, in its infinite wisdom fires back with this mean spirited, snarky remark:

“NO! Put him on a diet & GO AWAY!”  

Seriously?

Instead of just reading the note to Kyler, what does the daycare worker do?  That!

Clearly the worker is lacking empathy and understanding and could use some pointers in those areas, but beyond that, maybe find another line of work where you can see outside yourself and truly enjoy what you’re doing.  Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and other adults trust you with the care of their delicate little ones while they’re at work.  Be helpful here, not hurtful.  She could have been having a bad day, but that's no excuse.

Having worked at a few daycares early on in my education career, I can tell you it is very hard and challenging work.  But, that’s no excuse for this behavior.  There were a couple of the daycare centers in my city that I helped shut down for their egregious procedures in regards to child care.  Little things like, “Let us know when you are going to stop by for an impromptu visit.” 

NO, don’t do that.  You have to catch the daycare going through their regular, day-to-day routines, not some scripted set up.  

Final point:  Ms. Easdon is absolutely correct.  You HAVE TO monitor closely the daycare in which you put your child’s safety.  Shop around, like you would with any service and find one with which you are comfortable. 

Are they perfect?  No, none of them are. 

Are some better than others?  Absolutely, but you have to do your homework.

In some states, daycare facilities are licensed and sanctioned by those states, Department of Human Services, Department of Child Welfare, and/or similar departments.

Childhood Memories

Me, and My Two Brothers, circa 1967

I think the Christmases of our youth, when we're young and the world is a new and exciting place, those are the ones we remember the most.  We're young, happy, we have our families, pets, friends around us... those days are filled with joy and anticipation.  

Waking up early, running out to the living room, marveling at the Christmas tree and all the goodies Santa Claus had left us while we slept.  Magical!  Mom and Dad would stumble out of their bedroom, half awake, half asleep and trudge to the kitchen to make coffee for themselves and hot cocoa for us kids.

We dared not even touch our stockings, hung by the chimney with care of course, as it was all part of our family's tradition to do every little thing like that together.  We weren't even allowed to open all of our presents because we had to wait for our Grandma and Grandpa to arrive from across town.

Coincidentally, they actually did live over the river and through the woods.  Well, not actually woods per se, but lots of neighborhoods!

My younger brother, Danny, got a bright red fireman's helmet with a built-in speaker and microphone.  I remember what fun he had running around making fire engine sounds through the speaker... until my Mom told him he needed to take his fun outside.

I don't remember a whole lot from those days gone by, but mostly how warm, cozy, and happy we all felt just being there with our Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, and yes, even my two brothers.

It was truly a magical, joyous time of the year, one that I've held dear to my heart ever since.

Merry Christmas Dan & Barney!

And a wonderful New Year to you and your families!

My Life With My Guitar

I started playing guitar in 3rd grade.  I was 9 years old; very young and very eager to please my mother.  She decided, or saw something in me, that led her to believe that I had talent.  Bless her heart for that. 

Sally Bennett was my teacher's name.  I think she reluctantly agreed because I was so young.  I don't know how my mother found Mrs. Bennett, but I am glad to this day that she did.  My guitar has helped me through some very tough times, and it's a constant reminder that I can do something well.  I have that if nothing else.

I remember piling into my step-sister Jill's V.W. bug and riding off to my lessons.  I don't know that Jill was fond of me or of having to take me to my lessons, but she did it without complaint. 

During each lesson, I would sit in a folding chair across from Mrs. Bennett, with one of those old nickel-plated music stands between us.  On the stand was last week's lesson, and a copy of this week's lesson.  I was a very awkward 9 year old, as most children that age are; still trying to figure out how their little bodies work and so on.  My fingers just barely reached around the neck of the guitar in order for me to form the chords in each week's lesson. 

My first guitar - Yamaha-c40 classical guitar, nylon strings

The other thing I distinctly remember was the sound the nylon strings made.  The nylon strings of a classical guitar, although softer and easier on the fingers, give the guitar a sort of softer sound when strummed.  Also because they tend to be thicker than their folk counterparts, they are more of a challenge to press against the frets.  I recall the deep burgundy color of those nylon strings and strumming them made me feel like a true musician!  It was magic... or, well, soon it would be magic.  Those beginning chords that I struggled with were killers. 

One of my first performances was in my own 3rd grade class.  I was incredibly nervous!  The first song I learned to play well, meaning that I was able to switch between chords quickly, was Silent Night.  It had three beginning chords:  A, D, and E seventh.  I am sure it sounded like nothing, but to me it meant I was a musician... a rock star!

I still have my second guitar, a gift from my mother and step-father, Russell, and it too is a Yahama.  I have semi-retired that one as it is 40+ years old.  My current one is a Takamine Jasmine, consequently the same model that I gave my son on his 12th birthday.  He seems to enjoy playing very much because he and some friends have formed a local band here in Portland, Autistic Youth.

I still offer guitar lessons, and the method I use is the same simple one I learned many years ago, by example.

Childhood

We had a fairly "normal" childhood:  played with friends in the neighborhood, family gatherings, supper at 6:00 pm, cold cereal for breakfast, waffles on the weekend, and so on.  

Grade school was rather uneventful, other than breaking my right leg in 1st grade and spending the year in a half-body plaster cast.  I hated that thing, but that's what was available back then.  I don't recall how long, but I was in traction in the hospital for at least a month with a steel rod piercing my leg diagonally just below my knee cap.  I had lots of visitors, too.  That was fun... but, I was 6 and got bored very quickly.  I had a few stuffed animals and a View Master my great aunt, Louise, had given me.  She was like a second grandma to me in many ways.

(This is an aerial view of the front of the building, hidden by the shrubbery.)

I actually started here at Ridgewood Elementary in 2nd grade.  I don't recall any difficulties walking, although I'm sure there was some recovery period.  It was at Ridgewood that I met a longtime friend, Tim.  We became fast friends, hanging out and eventually sleeping over at each other's homes, going on long bike rides together and so on.

The highlight of my Ridgewood "experience", was winning the school-wide 3rd grade Spelling Bee.  Consequently now, I rely on Spell Check!

I think Tim and I met in 5th grade, maybe 6th and had a the same teacher, Carel Dermott; Danish descent, I believe.  I think in a former life he must have been a Catholic nun or something because he had a propensity for breaking rulers and yardsticks on kids' desks, one time, clipping my knuckles.

One time Tim and I were caught messing around, tossing Elmer's glue bottles around behind the teacher's back and were sent to the Principal's Office... not unlike walking The Green Mile.  Keep in mind that this was back when Corporal Punishment (spanking with a wooden paddle, belt, etc.) was quite common.  

Our "crime" didn't merit anything like this, but I know for my part, just being in the Principal's Office was enough deterrent for me to recognize the error of my ways and never re-offend.  Tim, well, he was a different story, always living on the edge from what I could tell.  And quite happy there.  The problem was that he kept taking me down with him.  Of course, I was happy to go, rarely saying no to him.  He was the rebel, and I was happy to follow blindly just wherever and whenever he went.

The Day The Music Died

About me:

I was born exactly 1 year to the day, prior to "The Day The Music Died", February 3, 1959.  That was the day on which Ritchie Valens ("La Bamba"), J.P. Richardson ("The Big Bopper" - "Chantilly Lace"), and Buddy Holly ("That'll Be The Day") were en route to another gig on their 24-city tour.  Tragically, their plane went down, ending the short lives of three up-and-coming new rock and roll stars... 

Mine was a happy childhood, along with my 2 brothers.  The very early years found us living and playing around SE Portland, near 92nd and SE Division Streets.  We lived in a small three bedroom home during the famous Columbus Day Storm of 1962.  

I remember that storm because my older brother was sent home from school early, and I recall him walking down the sidewalk toward our home, the trees nearly bending down to the street.  That's how strong the winds were.  (Consequently, a similar storm hit Portland almost 30 years later.)

The other thing I remember about that day was that our neighbor's chimney, made entirely of bricks, was blown over and its bricks spilled into our basement.  Amazing!  I don't think there was anything left of that chimney... only its remnants.  The only other memories I have of that house was my younger brother coming home from the hospital in April, 1962.  Shortly after that, in the summer, I believe, we moved from SE Portland to NE Portland, in the exclusive Maywood Heights neighborhood.  (This is now the area where the I-205 freeway intersects with I-84; the Parkrose School District.)  

That was where I climbed up the trails to the top of Rocky Butte, overlooking NE Portland, and the Gateway area.  My older brother's friend accompanied me, I don't recall why.  Anyway, we get to the top and there was this cool rock formation we called The King's Chair.  As I sat there, my brother's friend sneaked up behind me and either pushed or scared me so that I fell down the rock face, some 50 yards straight down.  I broke my right leg at the knee cap, and spent most of 1st grade at home in a plaster cast that weighed almost as much as me.  (Now, my right leg is about 3/4 inch shorter than my left.)

Sadly, within 2 years of that move, my mom and dad decided to get a divorce.  He moved out-of-state, while we moved across town to SW Portland, near Cedar Hills.  We lived in the apartments behind the shopping center for not quite a year.  Then a wonderful thing happened:  She met an amazing gentleman... Mr. McJury.

In many ways, I truly feel this is when my life began.  Yes, my father brought me into the world along with my mother, but after their divorce, he left the city and moved out-of-state.  We wouldn't see him for about 5 years, and then when we did, he'd remarried.  We hardly knew him.  He spent the next several years trying to be a father, when he should have spent that time, trying to be our friend.  Things were just never the same after that divorce, not for us kids anyway.