The Dynamic Duo

Happy birthday, UltraBob! Of course I know that January 5th was actually yesterday in Japan, so I thought about you on that day as well. It seems like only yesterday I was writing a post to commemorate your 31st birthday, but it was actually yesterday and a year ago.
I know this is where I am supposed to wax nostalgic and tell you all how wonderful UltraBob is and what a great job we did raising him, etc, etc, but I’m just not in the mood. Besides, I’m not sure we did all that well.
Lets go back to the beginning and see if we can figure out what went wrong…..
First of all, there are the scars, one under each armpit. I have no issue with the reason for the incisions. After all, breathing without turning blue is a basic right that should be denied to no man or infant. But you would think a surgeon, someone whose living involves knives and precise cutting, could have made them somewhat symmetrical. And so, the doctor must bear part of the blame of the trauma leading up to….

the pacifier! The addiction to the big, ugly, bulbous pacifier without which there would be no peace in the house, let alone sleeping by any of the inhabitants. If the adored object was out of sight, (usually having been thrown on the floor by the young prince himself and covered with lint and dog hair), a predictable sequence would ensue. First the lip would quiver, and the howling would begin, first softly and jerkily, steadily rising to an admirable crescendo. No distractions could entice the young Ultra from his single mindedness. If the physical locality was such that washing the debris off the pacifier was not possible, the grossest and most removable lint was removed before poor half-crazed UltraMom shoved the offending article back into its receptacle. In the next scene, baby UltraBobby would be noisily sucking, content for at least 1/2 minute until he got bored and decided to play the retriever game once again with the highly teachable UltraMom.
This was only the beginning. Once UltraMom proved she could fetch the pacifier, he decided to move on to throwing toys out of the playpen, and food from the high chair tray. A little fist pounding and a few screams were usually sufficient incentive to sharpen UltraMom’s fetching abilities.
Some kids have great capacity for entertaining themselves. UltraBob did not. I had to be close at hand to help with and admire block towers, pull the string on See and Say toys and listen to the rooster and pig, and read “Jim Jump” and “The Saggy Baggy Elephant” ad nauseum. He also quite liked “I’m a Big Boy Now” that featured the potty training of Elmer the Elephant and his graduation to training pants and big boy underwear, but seemed to enjoy the concept more than the actual practice.
The growing UltraBob soon became a big brother 3 times over. He ( and UltraMom) enjoyed the company of the younger siblings. No longer must she be the constant companion, but now the arbitrator. As eldest, UB felt everyone should play his games, his way. The others did not always agree.
Of course, I was not the perfect parent. Just a year ago, my oldest son informed me that I was responsible for his having to relabel all of his Nirvana cassettes. “I don’t remember that,” I responded confusedly. “How did I do that?
“You told me to get rid of them,” he answered coolly. “So I had to change the names on all my Nirvana tapes. ‘Surprise’ became my new favorite band.”
So, UltraReaders, there you have it. Not the usual, feel-good birthday piece , but a little slice of the truth…. kind of. And the result is what you see: UltraBob the 32 year old man, soon to be a parent himself. Smart, funny, a little short tempered, but ultimately patient and considerate. Come to think of it, maybe we didn’t do such a bad job after all. Happy Birthday, Honey.

Love you,
UltraMom