The Newborn Identity

I am fairly new to the parenting world because Maddie is only nine months old. While I may not be a parenting expert yet, I certainly am a million times more knowledgeable than I was just a few years ago. This is because for most of my life I was clueless when it came to kids. I had no small cousins, no nieces or nephews, heck, I didn’t even have a neighbor with kids, so the extent of my parenting knowledge came from watching Bob Saget raise the Olson twins. The same went for my sister who was convinced that all babies were born saying, “You got it, dude.”

This all changed when my sister gave birth to her son, Spencer. Suddenly a baby was around, and my sister quickly became a very good mother. I, on the other hand, lived three hundred and fifty miles away from my sister (and my parents), so I didn’t get the kind of hands on experience with kids that she did. While she was learning the names of every kid’s toy and TV show, I was blissfully ignorant in Los Angeles doing…well, whatever it is dudes in their twenties do. (Mostly drinking beer and complaining about how much worse the new Star Wars films were than the originals.)

One day I got a call from my Dad saying that my mother had suffered a stroke. (NOTE: She’s recovered now and back to her wacky ways as my readers know, so there’s no need to get depressed!) Anyway, I quickly travelled up to the Bay Area to be with my family in the hospital. I stayed there the whole day – visiting with my mother and speaking with doctors – until around three in the morning when my sister and I decided to go back to her house to get some rest.

Once we arrived at my sister’s place it was pretty dark because my brother-in-law and Spencer were already asleep, so I fumbled my way over to the couch and lied down. My sister then brought me a pillow and a blanket, shut off the home’s one remaining light, and retired to her bedroom leaving me alone in the pitch black family room.

Despite the late hour, I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts were swirling in my head, and before long I was pondering pretty heavy, existential questions. I asked God/the universe why my mother had to have had a stroke. I mean why would a good God suddenly reach down and change a person from healthy to sick at the drop of a hat? It mustn’t be God, I thought. It must be an evil force. The devil perhaps. I then told myself I was being crazy. The devil doesn’t exist. I shook my head, amused with myself, and turned over. Just as I was about to fall to sleep, however, a horrifying, high pitched voice rang out.

“HEEEEEEE-HEEEEEEE-HEEEEEEE!!!!!!!”

I sat up, frightened.

“HEEEEEE-HEEEEEEE-HEEEEEE!!!!!!!!”

I panted as I peered toward the source of the devilish laughter, but in the pitch black house I couldn’t see anything. As my eyes slowly acclimated to the darkness…

“HEEEEEE-HEEEEEEE-HEEEEEE!!!!!!!”

Then I saw it. My blood went cold and droplets of sweat popped up on my forehead. I may have even wet myself. Standing in the corner of the room…was a two foot tall red demon. His nightmarish, high pitched voice rang out again.

““DO YOU WANT TO PLAY??????”

“Oh my God,” I thought. “I summoned the devil by doubting his existence and now he’s going to kill me.”

“WE COULD BE FRIENDS!!!!!”

“Never, demon!” I snarled.

“HEEEEEEE-HEEEEEEE-HEEEEEE!!!!”

I covered my head with my pillow and recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over again. This seemed to work as the demon stopped talking, but I didn’t dare take my head out from under the pillow to check if he was gone.

The next thing I remember was awakening with a start. The family room was filled with light, and my sister was making breakfast. I slowly sat up, then exhaled, relieved, until…

“HEEEEEE-HEEEEEE-HEEEEE!!!!”

With fear in my eyes I slowly turned to the corner of the room where my nephew, Spencer, giggled as he played with his Talking Elmo doll. He then picked up the doll and ran over to me with him.

“Uncle Mike!” Spencer said as he jutted Elmo toward me. “Have you met my friend, Elmo?”

“Yes, Spencer,” I slowly replied. “We’ve met.”

My sister later explained that the doll speaks at the time you program, and she had mistakenly programmed 3 a.m. instead of 3 p.m. Awesome, sis.

I’ve since learned that most parents think Elmo is the devil, but it’s unlikely that many of them have literally thought he was. The good news is that today, thanks to Maddie, I’m not so clueless about kids, and am confident that I could face any terror out there. Any terror except having an Elmo in the house, that is. Sorry, Maddie.

 

Maddie has suddenly turned into a gymnast in her crib, something which I attribute to the fact that Heather and I have made her watch the Olympics ad nauseum. Maddie clearly wants to be the next Shawn Johnson, because whenever I put her down lately she flops about her crib like she’s going about her own little flooor exercise. Unfortunately, at this point she is not exactly sticking her landings.

Check out the following positions I recently found her in: 

Ouch. I don’t even want to know what score the Russian judge gave her for those.

She may not be an expert yet, but Maddie is nonetheless very proud of her gymastic skills:

Keep an eye out for Maddie in the 2024 Olympics!!!

Olympic fever has swept the Spohr household, and we’ve spent far too many hours watching incredibly fit people exercise while we sit on our butts. We’ve watched so much Olympics, in fact, that I think Maddie is a tad confused about what she is seeing on the screen. If she could talk I fear we’d totally have this conversation:

MADDIE: “Daddy?”

I raise a “just one moment” finger as I cram a handful of corn chips into my mouth. After a long beat of loud chewing…

ME: “Yes, Chicken Muffin Love Bear?”

MADDIE: “Are those people on the TV human?”

ME: “What do you mean?”

MADDIE: ”Well, I know I’m new to this world and all, but in my experience humans don’t move that much. They just sit on couches typing on their computer and snacking.”

I briefly choke on my corn chips, then…

Me: “No, sweetie. They’re not human. They’re, uh, robots. That’s right. Incredibly advanced robots from the future. Now let Daddy finish his corn chips and watch the robots.”

One of our favorite robots is beach volleyball player Kerri Walsh. Heather likes her because Heather thinks beach volleyball is cool, and I like her because despite being a whopping 6′3, she still is incredibly attractive. Not to sound like a jerk, but women of her size normally look more like linebackers than prom queens. Heather is amused by my little crush on Kerri Walsh, and playfully says “Hey, it’s your girlfriend” whenever she comes  on the TV.

Anyhoo…at one point NBC did a little background on Kerri (I call her by her first name….we’re totally tight like that) and they mentioned that she is thirty and grew up in the small town of Saratoga, California. This got my attention because, up until I was ten, I lived in Saratoga, California! It occured to me that, since I was only two years older than Kerri, there was a good chance we went to school together because Saratoga only has one public grade school.

Heather suggested I call my parents and ask if they could look in my grade school yearbook and see if there was a Kerri Walsh in either kindergarten or the first grade. Sounds simple, right? Well, if you are a regular reader of this blog you know that nothing is simple when it comes to my parents/Mom.

After enough goading from Heather I finally called my parents and found myself talking to my Mom who said she would look and call me back. I looked to Heather, amazed. “Wow,” I said in the long tradition of famous last words. “That was easy!”

About half an hour later my Mom called and said she couldn’t check because the yearbook “was on the top shelf.” Before I could ask her why it was suddenly impossible to get a book down off a shelf, we had the following conversation:

Mom: “But we don’t need to look it up, dear. She did go to school with you!”

Me: “And you know that how?”

Mom: “Because I remember her!”

Me: “No, you don’t.”

Mom: “Yes, I do.”

Me: “This would have been twenty-two years, Mom, and she wasn’t even in my class.”

Mom: “Honey, I remember.  Karen -”

Me: “Kerri, Mom.  Kerri.”

Mom: “She was an adorable little thing. Just tiny!”

I look to the TV. Gymnastics is on. I sigh a long, long sigh, then…

Me: “She’s not a gymnast, Mom.  She is a volleyball player.  And she’s not tiny. She’s actually 6′3.”

Mom: “Right. Tiny, but with the potential to be huge! Just like her parents.”

Me: “You remember her parents now too?”

Mom: “Of course! The Walshes! I used to go to their house all the time! For PTA events!”

NOTE: My mother was never in the PTA.

Me: “Why can’t you just admit you don’t remember her and have Dad get down the freakin’ yearbook?”

Mom: “You think I’m making this up?”

Silence on the line.

Mom: “What are you saying? That I’m crazy?”

More silence on the line.

I get up to go to the kitchen because I realize I forgot to put our left overs in the fridge. As I place them in the fridge I take a bite of food.

Mom: “Still eating, hmm?”

Me: “It was just one bite of some leftovers I forgot to put away.”

Mom: “That’s why you’re fat. It’s after nine.”

Me: “And you would know about being fat, wouldn’t you, Mom?”

Mom: “That’s right! I do! I sure do!”

Me: “Okay, Mom. Is Dad gonna get the yearbook down or what?”

Mom: “This is ridiculous! I told you she went to school with you.”

Me: “I gotta go, Mom.”

Mom: “You know what? I’ll call the school tomorrow.”

Me: DO NOT CALL THE SCHOOL!”

Mom: “Why not?

Me: “Can I talk to Dad?”

Mom: “Why? So you can ask him to get down the yearbook?”

Me: “No. So we can discuss quantum physics.”

A long silent beat passes.

Me: “Mom?”

Mom: “Here’s the thing. We moved the yearbooks along with a bunch of other stuff to the storage facility.”

Me: “So you don’t have it?!?!?!?”

Mom: No. Not here.”

Me: “Then why didn’t you just say that?!?!?!”

Mom: “I’m really worried about your weight, dear.”

Me: Goodnight, Mom.”

I hang up.

Long story short, I have no idea if Kerri Walsh went to Saratoga Elementary School on Oak Street, but Heather and I are rooting for her and Misty to win the Gold nonetheless!