Jet-lag Oscar

About 4 this morning I finally gave up. The wriggling, squirming creature next to me under the covers had finally triumphed. Again.

But today it was earlier than usual.

Actually, he’d been awake for a couple hours. But with Oscar, you see, sometimes the paci works wonders. Find it. Stick it in the mouth. He’ll probably roll over and give you a little more time. Maybe even go back to sleep for the rest of the night.

But sometimes not. Definitely not when he’s jet-lagged like this morning.

Lorena and I have seen this creature before. Last March, when we returned from our last month of driving around South Africa and Lesotho - 5,000 km of trainings, a little vacation, and a whole lot of dust and sun and scenery to open your mouth wide and hold it there – we saw this guy. And his brother, too, that time, while this time thankfully sleeping in a bit.

Jet-lag Oscar. Up early and at your service.

You win, buddy. Dada’s up.

Actually, was about to get up anyway, time for the morning workout.

Scooped the fellow up and took him downstairs. To his playpen. Worked the last time pretty well.

That, however, was a wee bit younger Oscar. Amazing the difference 4 months makes. That Oscar could barely crawl. This one can not only walk, but run. And climb, and even jump on a bed a little, if you want to call it that.

This was a different Oscar.

Lorena calls him “colocho” – curly-head – and, indeed, his hair does have a precious natural curl to it. Its also a barometer of sorts, curly as a Q in the Houston humidity, almost straight with some curls along the forehead in the frigid, dry Free State from which we’d just returned.

Hence, the jet-lag.

This morning he was uber-colocho, all wild-ase frizz and curls, and those crazy baby eyes you see when they’re angry or surprised or, say, just haven’t gotten enough sleep. As when its almost noon on their body clocks, but someone’s dragged them back across a bunch of time zones.

The eyes, the hair. And not at all about to stay quietly in the playpen.

Waited a few minutes for me to get started working out, then as I was doing crunches on the floor next to the pen, out came the toys. Literally. One after another. Dropped, flung, propelled I don’t know how, out they were coming.

Right on top of me.

With every crunch, another rattle or block or little brontosaurus would rain down on me, and above me would stand a smiling, laughing, gap-toothed, crazy haired Oscar, having quite a ball.

Couldn’t last forever, I surmised. He’ll have to run out of toys.

Which he did.

But he didn’t run out of feet or legs, and certainly not out of the clueless notions that must fill his head at times, none more so than the grand idea of, hey, let’s climb out of the playpen.

No kidding. There he was. Hands grabbing the rails, feet digging into the mesh. Making progress, little by little, up the side of the pen, grunting and struggling and giving it his all.

Oscar’s really good at that. Like Sebastian at that age, he’s a go-getter, really determined, likes to do what he likes to do.

He’s fast, very strong for his age, and can climb like kudzu.

That’s not his problem.

Its what to do when he reaches the top that sometimes tricks him up.

I’m looking at the brick floor below, looking at the Oscar scaling the pen side, thinking we’ve been here before.

Dateline Clarens. Late February ’09. The Tolle family about to return from the last South Africa trip. All safe and sound and about to tuck into the Maluti Mountain Lodge for a rest and a nice meal and final chill-out in the cool highland air the last night of a great month before returning to Houston and work and humidity.

We’re unloading our things, the grill inside smelling good, the soft Free State breeze blowing by. Success, a long trip over and much accomplished.
Bags on the pavement. Oscar in his coche. All is well.

About to strap him in. Wait, what’s that, Sebas. Look at what?

Then a sickening thud, a dull smack and cracking sound, like a melon being dropped. Immediately a cry.

It was Oscar. Unstrapped by his distracted Dada, he’d stood up in his coche, tasted freedom, and made a go for it over the edge.

Right onto his head.

Pick him up. He’s screaming. Mommies is screaming. Sebas, screaming.

There’s a gash from eyebrow to crown. Just, luckily, about a half-a-millimeter from fully breaking the skin.

Felt the bones. All intact.

Moving everything. Babbling. Consolable.

Ultimately, much worry later (where to go if we’d really needed help? Not a scanner in the area, Jo’burg or Bloem hours away, darkness had fallen. Local care? Come on. I’d just been training in the province, had just heard from the docs in Bethlehem, an otherwise sizeable town half-an-hour away, how little they had to work with there. Gulp. Prayers. So happy Oscar did so well so fast and was obviously OK…), he was fine.

So there we were again. Oscar about to get to the top, this time much higher, and with nary a plan for how to get down except that down he was going. Freedom. I’m out of this pen.

Hard red bricks below.

No, no, no buddy. Redirect. Here’s one of Sebas’ books. Please don’t tear it, chew it, or let him know I loaned it to you.

Down he goes. Good thing he loves reading like his brother.

Back to working out I go. Well, at least we’ll have fun doing “race cooings” around the neighborhood when I run in a bit.

And how I love race-cooings. Started with Sebas when he was much smaller. Even back in Dallas before we set off for the wild blue yonder we used to enjoy it. When we returned from Lesotho, he was into Cars in a major way. So he was the race driver and I, I guess, the car, and he narrated the race as we sped around the neighborhood south of Rice.

Round the corner. Seba, Dada, yeah! Here comes the finish line. Race cooings!
It was a blast. I ran hard, pushed, and he called the race.

One of those things you wish you’d done more, then you look around and your little guy no longer fits in the cooing, and wouldn’t be interested in doing it anymore even if he did.

But, fortunately, there’s another little boy in the house. And he still likes race cooings as much (well, maybe almost) as his Dada.

Jet-lagged and awake? Ok, great! We’ll get to do race cooings.

Get my shoes on, ready to go.

Oil up the cooing. Push it into the room.

Reach down into the playpen to get the little terror who’d been begging out all morning.

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Sleeping, wouldn’t you know it. Had to run by myself.

Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. No cliché, I mean it.

Jet-lag Oscar, he sticks around awhile. We’ll see what time he starts poking me tomorrow morning…