Daddy Training

Big Brother

Our third son, Duffy, was two-and-a-half when our first daughter was born.

He stuck to the baby and I like glue.

That doesn't mean he learned anything . . .

At the tender age of three, Duffy was enrolled in the Sunbeam class in our church.

With eight little girls.

Boys were obviously something new.

Moving on . . .

The scheduled lesson was all about babies.

A precious gift from God.

It was a beautiful lesson.

My four-month-old baby, Caitlin was invited into the class.

I came with her.

Sort of like show-and-tell.

But interactive.

And noisy.

Okay, just like show-and-tell.

After the little girls got tired of cooing over the real baby, their teacher (the mother of five girls, herself) brought out a large basket.

Filled with everything 'baby'.

There were dolls by the dozen.

Clothes.

Blankets.

Bottles.

Everything to keep the budding little mothers in the class happy forever.

Duffy was a boy.

And, though his older brother liked cuddling dolls, Duffy was more comfortable with trucks and things 'boy'.

He was handed a baby doll.

Naked.

And a blanket.

He dangled his doll by one foot and looked at the little girls around him.

All had at least one (and some two) little baby wrapped warmly and tucked tenderly into her arms.

Most were singing softly.

And rocking.

Duffy stared at them, then held up his baby.

Still by one foot.

Okay. He could handle this.

He spread his blanket out on the floor.

Then dropped the doll onto one corner and proceeded to roll it up like a sausage.

He then jammed the resulting package under one arm like a satchel.

Done.

The teacher handed him a bottle.

There's more?

He took the bottle and looked at it.

I should mention here that I nursed my babies.

Duffy had never seen a bottle before.

He frowned, thoughtfully.

What an earth was he supposed to do with this?

Finally, he pulled out his little, blanket-wrapped bundle, grabbed a corner of said blanket and gave it a pull.

The doll flipped out, spun in the air for a moment, then clattered to the floor.

Duffy again grabbed it by the foot.

This time, he examined it closely.

Ah. There was a tiny hole in one butt cheek.

Perfect for the strange little bottle he had been handed.

He stuck the nozzle of the bottle into the little hole and beamed happily at me.

All was well.

My son, father to future generations . . .

There is a codicil.

Despite this obviously rocky start, Duffy has proved to be an excellent and loving father.

Gifted with working with children of special needs.

I guess he was watching after all.

I'll Sleep Through That!

Mark. With his friend.

Our family loves root beer.

Homemade.

And our eldest son can sleep through anything.

These two facts are related.

Maybe I'd better explain . . .

My Husby loves to make root beer.

He's very good at it.

I got my first taste of his homemade brew on our wedding night.

Neither of us drink alcohol, so he had brought several bottles of the magical elixir in his suitcase so we could toast each other.

It was . . . fun.

And thus began a family tradition.

I should explain here that root beer making is an exact science requiring skill and knowledge.

And large containers.

Grant used a garbage pail.

A new one, just so you don't get the wrong idea.

Moving on . . .

He would add the precise amount of water, then the elixir, then the sugar.

And finally, the yeast, the vitally important 'makes everything else work' ingredient.

Then the stirring.

And finally, the fun part, the bottling.

One important aspect of root beer making is the two to three weeks of 'construction' or 'fermenting' time.

It must sit quietly in a warm spot during that all-important period.

That's where our son, Mark, comes into the picture.

Mark was our first-born. He was little.

We kept his room warm.

Perfect for a couple of cases of root beer bottles waiting to 'become'.

So to speak.

Now, the biggest problem with home-brew is that, as the brew ages, the pressure inside the bottle builds. And after a few uses, some of said bottles may become weak.

And you can't tell, by looking, which are so affected.

You can probably guess what happens then.

Pop! Fizz!

Mess.

It was very early morning. Grant and I were still soundly asleep.

The glorious rosy sun was just rising on another perfect prairie morning.

It's my story, I can remember is how I want.

Suddenly, there was a dull 'popping' sound.

Then another.

We were instantly awake. And knew, just as instantly, and with the instinct of new parents, what those sounds meant.

Our root beer was ready.

And we had a couple of weak bottles.

And, more importantly, they were posing a very real threat to our baby, sleeping mere inches away in his crib.

Imagining projectiles of glass flying everywhere, we scrambled from our bed, threw open the baby's room door and charged inside.

Before you get too excited, I should explain that things weren't as bad as we had imagined.

Whew.

The bottles had obviously become weak at the base of the neck.

They looked as though they had been neatly beheaded.

The neck and lid were sitting right beside each bottle.

Our sleeping baby was fine.

Visions of flying glass faded from our minds and we immediately turned to the next problem.

Clean up.

Jabbering excitedly, we gingerly disposed of the broken pieces and hauled the remaining cases from the room.

Then proceeded with the scrubbing and vacuuming.

Finally satisfied with our efforts, we prepared to leave the room.

It was then I realized that Mark hadn't made a sound throughout the entire . . . loud . . . process.

I peeped into the crib.

He was still rosily, happily, soundly asleep.

Snoring slightly in that cute 'baby' way.

Huh.

My Husby and I learned several things that day:

1. Don't re-use your root beer bottles.
2. Don't ferment your root beer
3. In the baby's room
4. Unless he's a great sleeper

Cheers!