I’m tired now because Simon woke up twice in the middle of the night last night, which is uncharacteristic for him. Suffice it to say that our little one-year-old is going through some “changes” (no, not puberty; no, not menopause, either; please don’t make me talk about poop on the Internet … oops, I’ve said too much!)

But a year ago, I was tired because I hadn’t slept all night. Not that I was thinking about that, a year ago today. There was far too much going on. Too much anticipation. Things were happening. And I remember it all so clearly, unlike the blur of the days and weeks that followed.

So yes, Simon is one today. It’s a ridiculously small number, as whole numbers go. One-thirty-fifth of my current age (though, God willing, that ratio will be decreasing as time goes on). But — and I know all parents say this — so much has happened in that time.

We haven’t been the best chroniclers of all 365 days on this here blog, but so it goes. But I did want to mark the occasion with a post today. Happy birthday, son.

And while the Mt. Scott Community Center has what we’ll call a normal pool, with the lanes and the staid, elderly adults serenely paddling back and forth and the what-not, we were there to enjoy the spectacle that is the “leisure pool”. Which, as the aforelinked Web site notes, comes with “slide, current channel, vortex, and interactive play features, heated to 88 degrees.” Oh, and as we were also there on a Saturday during “Family Swim”, it also came with several thousand young children and just enough water to keep them all buoyant.

Actually, the kids weren’t too crazy, but the pool was a little bit crazy. I mean, in a normal pool, you have to deal with splashing from all the kids, right? But at the Mt. Scott pool, you could have water directed your way from any number of sources: from arching jets near the edge of the pool, from an intricate series of  pipes and buckets that looked what we’ll call “Seussian”, or perhaps even from water spilling over the sides of the multi-story water slide. Oh, yes, and from the splashing kids. Basically, Mt. Scott is pushing the boundary between “community center pool” and “theme park”, but without the smell of funnel cake.

Oh, and hello? Did I forget to mention the current channel and vortex — vortex, mind you! Only now do I truly understand what the ancient Greeks (and/or Sting) were dealing with when they referred to Charybdis! I guess if I had to further stretch my scant knowledge of Greek mythology, I’d have to say that the “Scylla” in this scenario would be the rough floor a mere three feet below the surface of the water, which made for several scraped foot-tops as adults with long limbs attempted to swim in a current channel apparently designed for much shorter people.

Anyhow, point being: This was quite possibly the most fun I’ve ever seen Simon have, ever. We’d support his body, his head above water, and he’d just grin like a maniac while wiggling like some sort of water-activated,  um, wiggle-worm. So happy was he that my similes fail me.

Such was Simon’s wiggling that, when we got him home (and had given him a quick bath to wash off the chlorine — “Sorry, son, this is the water time where splashing is less appreciated; I know that’s confusing”), he succumbed to a nap that, for him, was mind-blowingly long. That would be 2.5 hours — not so long for some children, but then ours is a child who not infrequently spends most of his 30 minute “naps” rolling around quietly to himself in his crib, as we only recently learned due to the purchase of a surplus military drone spy cam baby monitor.

Two-and-a-half hours! Just think of it! That’s over one metric hour of time to ourselves, to do whatever we wanted (provided, of course, that we not leave the house)! Why, we could read a book! Or engage in fancy grown-up conversation! Or surf the Internet, making sure to only read things of value!

And we did … some of those things! Sort of. For an hour or so.  At which point, as seasoned parents, we decided to turn this blessing of extended naptime into Yet Another Opportunity To Worry.

“He’s been asleep an awfully long time. This isn’t normal. Turn on the baby monitor.”

“Well, I can confirm that he’s in his crib, but he isn’t moving. That either means something’s gone terribly wrong, or he’s asleep. One of the two.”

“Can you hear him breathing? Turn it up.”

“All I can hear is the clock ticking. Oh, why did we have to purchase such a loud-ticking clock? I can’t hear if he’s breathing or not.” [It should be noted that, had we heard him breathing, as professional parents, we would have switched to worrying about why his breathing was so loud.]

“But I don’t want to go in there to check on him, because I might wake him up — assuming everything’s okay, that is — thereby ruining the Longest Nap Ever!”

And so on. Okay, maybe some of that dialog was only running in my head. And yet my point remains: pool time is fun time.

Simon ...

has ...

learned ...

to ...

scoot!

Or you can watch it in slightly over-the-top video form:

There we were, putting Simon in the car, getting ready to head over to some friends’ house, when we saw the teenager, walking down the middle of the street.

Now, of itself, that’s not all that weird. It’s a fairly quiet street, and our proximity to the local high school means we not infrequently see teenagers walking around the neighborhood, not infrequently choosing to walk in the  middle of the road. Hey, they’re teenagers.

No, what first caught my eye was the way he was holding his skateboard. Hugging it, really. And, I asked myself, was he wearing hot pants? Ah, no, those were his boxers. He had pants with him, it’s just that he was carrying them. But, you know, teenagers. They can be like that. And as we had some socializing to do, Julia and I merely exchanged glances that said, more or less, “Teenagers, [shrug].”

It was when three more teenagers, about the same age — which was around, oh, fifteen — showed up trailing behind him, two of them carrying the third around their shoulders, that we began to suspect the influence of more than just abundant hormones. I believe it was the phrase, “I can’t believe I drank that much!” that tipped us off. Too much what? Milk? Soda pop? Soda pop and milk mixed together?

No, these boys were clearly drunk. Or, at least, clearly to us. To them, of course, their lack of sobriety was top-secret, as evidenced when one of them — the one being supported by his two friends — turned to us and said, a bit too loudly, “Happy Saturday!” For which his friend reprimanded him to be quiet. Indeed, or else we might have suspected something was amiss, had he not wished us a happy day: “Oh, it’s just two teens supporting their other friend, all somewhat staggering down the street, talking about drinking too much, ho-hum.”

At that point, I was inclined to wait before getting in the car, just to make sure that they passed by our house without doing anything stupid … or, at least, any further stupid activities.

When, just then, a police car drove down our street. “Should we tell the officer about those kids?” Julia asked. This quickly became a moot question, as the car, slowly following the boys, eventually got their attention by flashing his lights. (Perhaps they’d thought they could play it cool while the police car drove on by, with no authority figures the wiser, just like they managed to get by us without anyone noticing they were drunk … ahem.)

And then another police car showed up. Oh, and, eventually, two more. An otherwise slow night in Portland, it would seem. One cop car per drunken teenager. The police had the teenagers sit down on our lawn while they searched one guy’s backpack, which pretty much forced us to sit and watch the spectacle for a while. Some neighbors from up the street made their way to the scene — somehow, somehow, they had also detected alcohol in the boys’ bloodstreams, and filled us in on details we’d missed in the boys’ behavior.

Like their going down the street, banging loudly on cars. And attempting to skateboard, poorly, while drunk (I’m guessing that was Mr. Boxer Shorts), leading at least one of them to have bloodied palms. The neighbors also pointed out that at least one of them had vomit on his shirt. On the back of his shirt, no less. Ah, always the sign of a Good Time, when there’s vomit — likely not yours — on your shirt.

After a while, it got boring watching the boys sitting (and, occasionally, laying) there, and we figured the four police cars (with at least four officers inside) could probably handle the four boys on their own, so we went off to our evening activities as planned. But I’d like to close with a handy decision chart for any teenagers who happen to be reading this blog (and heaven help you, because if you are reading it, you’re already making some poor choices in time management, but never mind that now).

• Don’t drink until you’re of legal drinking age. This keeps things simple, and is the easiest route. But, you’re a teenager, and you often make choices that are, at best, rash and poorly thought out, so let’s move on to the next option …
• Don’t drink to the point of drunkenness. Yes, alcohol can have that effect on you, but many adults have actually discovered that one can enjoy alcoholic beverages for their flavor! Probably not the cheap swill you bought, however …
• So you’ve decided to get drunk even though you’re underage. Okay then, can I at least recommend that you do so at a place, such as your own house, where you can stay after you’ve gotten drunk? You know, just sit around, watch TV, sleep it off, whatever? And not have to, say, walk home in an obviously drunken state for many blocks?
• No? You have to get drunk at someone else’s house? You want to add Public Intoxication to your eventual Minor In Possession? Okay, well, we’re pretty much well off the “wise” path at this point, and it’s all about mitigating poor decisions, so can I suggest you try getting drunk at night? You know, when the professionals do? Now, admittedly, there is something to be said for the safety of stumbling home in the daylight, in that cars and bicycles (if not, sadly, sidewalks) can swerve to avoid hitting you as you suavely stroll the streets, without anyone catching on whatsoever that you are, as they say, blotto. And yet, if we assume you will get home safely (“safely” being defined relatively here, given that you’ve already shown you are a middling skateboarder at best when drunk), there is something to be said for the cover that nighttime provides. Because, you see, there’s less light out at night, so any visible evidence that may tip off others to your inebriation is thereby obscured. Besides, if it’s really dark out, you may be mistaken merely for obnoxious, drunk adults, and not the obnoxious drunk teenagers you are.
• What’s that? You’re ignoring all my advice thus far? Going to get drunk, illegally, at someone else’s house, while it’s still light out, forcing you to walk and/or stagger home, for many blocks? Then at least this advice: zigzag. Because as you leave a trail of alcohol-inspired stupidity in your wake, you will also leave a trail of phone calls to the police by the people you pass. And when they tell the police that they saw you going down Thus-And-So Street, and you continue walking down Thus-And-So Street block after block, with all the more people calling the police on you, well, it’s not terribly surprising that, when you get to the end of Thus-And-So Street, there are four police cars waiting for you.
• Really, it’s come to this? Well, it goes without saying that you’ve made some Very Bad Choices to get to this point. One final bit of advice: keep your pants on, doofus.

It’s not that we don’t have stuff to blog about, of course. We’re raising a child here, people, of course there are stories. But nearly all of them have to do with poop, which unfortunately triggers the bad-words filter on our blogging software*.

But a while back, Julia decided to enumerate Simon’s feeding times, complete with names, as they were rather stable at that time. Of course, in the intervening weeks, Simon has decided to throw off the shackles of his oppressive feeding regime, but for posterity’s sake, here’s the official list:

• Midnight snack (3am)
• Pre-breakfast (6:30am)
• Breakfast (8:30am)
• Brunch (11:00am)
• Lunch (1pm)
• Second lunch (3:30pm)
• Dinner (6:30pm)
• European dinner (10:00pm)

I might have chosen to call the 3:30pm feeding “tea time”, but then I am an admitted anglophile**.

Anyhow, for those of you who, until this post, were beginning to wonder why you even bother reading this blog, we here at The Stadlers (“dot org”™) would like to remind you that we also put out content elsewhere — even more frequently than we blog, guaranteed***!

Short random snippets can be found at Todd’s Twitter account****. Photos, nearly all of Simon, can be had at  Todd’s Flickr account. And, yes, the Stadlers have a tube you can watch. Here’s a recent video from the latter that you may enjoy, if you haven’t already seen it:

*This is a lie. Our blogging software doesn’t have a “bad-words filter”, and if it did, we’d be too lazy/busy to install it, which perhaps gives you a hint as to why we also haven’t been blogging as much lately, as if you hadn’t already worked that out yourself.

**Not true. I did very much enjoy our trip to Scotland, with its many B&B tea times, but I have never hinted to anyone about, much less admitted to, my anglophilia.

***Not guaranteed.

****Not to be confused with this guy’s Twitter account, as Todd does not tweet in German. Repeat, Todd does nicht tweet auf Deutsch! Achtung! He does, however, occasionally sprinkle it into footnotes of dubious quality.

Of course, there was his original in utero nickname, Grendel, now largely abandoned (at least after the first few days, when we occasionally forgot Simon’s real name), in part because when we called him Grendel, we thought he was a girl. Yes, in spite of Grendel’s being a male in Beowulf, we know, we know.

I don’t know if it’s due to his cleft palate or if all babies do this to some degree, but early on, Simon made lots of, well, snorting noises. It was actually fairly comforting to us back then, because it made it easy to know if he was breathing in the middle of the night. Still, several names came from this attribute, among them Snuffleupagus and Snorky Doo.

Snorky Doo was likely derived from the similar Simon Doo, no doubt itself derived from the name of popular mystery solving canine, Scooby Doo. (I guess. Julia never actually explained this to me. And since she only ever spoke these nicknames aloud, it’s possible I got the spelling wrong, and these nicknames are actually references to influential punk band Hüsker Dü. Except that Julia is almost certainly more familiar with Scooby Doo than Hüsker Dü. Anyhow.)

Also owing to a particular bleating-like noise Simon was prone to making before turning to a full-blown cry, Simon was also not infrequently referred to as Lambikins or, more simply, Lamb.

Fans of the former TV show Arrested Development may appreciate that, owing to his surname, Simon was sometimes called Mr. S, with the attendant three-note jingle that went along with the name “Mr. F” in that series.

Julia and I share a love of robots (defined as anything from the pre-robotic age, back when robots were cute and didn’t have boring jobs like assembling cars), and it’s difficult not to envision Simon as some sort of mechanical automaton (in a good way). Thus he’s been called Wigglebot, Lovebot, or Rollbot, depending on whatever best characterizes him at the time. Note that Simon isn’t actually able to roll when lying on his back yet, but he does a fine job of dislodging himself from the burping or feeding position, largely by tossing his head to the side and having the rest of his body follow.

But by far the most popular — and enduring — name so far has been Beets, or Mr. Beets (when we’re feeling respectful, I guess). The etymology on this one is tricky, but it seems largely based on how he acts when he’s hungry, turning (beet) red, and exhibiting the rooting reflex (beets being roots, you know). Factoring somewhere in there is an auto repair shop in Southeast Portland called Beets Auto Body, whose sign features the outline of a beet with a man’s face on it. The name Beets often leads to ad-hoc songs, such as the Go-Go’s influenced “I got the Beets”. There is no end to the cleverness in this household.

Anyhow, I’m sure there’ve been, and will be, more, but those are the ones that spring to mind right now. Oh, and I guess we still do occasionally call him Simon.

Of course, Simon comes by this naturally — there was the time his dad, after learning about Earth Day and recycling, insisted that his parents save up all cardboard scraps (which were then not recyclable at the curb), which he then drove many dozens of miles away to be recycled. Because he cared about the environment. Or that was the idea, no matter how much gasoline it actually took.

And then there was the time Simon’s papa earned the nickname “The Recycling Nazi” in college for going through the trash cans outside of people’s dorm rooms, looking for soda cans that had been thrown away (and leaving a note on the offender’s whiteboard — every college door has a whiteboard — about recycling).

But Simon, part of the next generation, has exceeded his father’s environmentalism. You see, he hand-mulches. That’s right. He’s taken mulching to the next level.

Fig. A: Harvesting more organic material

I guess Simon has noticed that his parents consider hair and lint to be detritus, worthy of throwing in the trash, and he’s concerned about the inevitable effect this will have on our landfills. In response, he seems to have come up with a plan that involves tightly clenching said hair and/or lint in his fists for hours — possibly days — on end, apparently so that, with the attendant moisture, heat, and pressure provided by his fists, he could … um, I don’t know. Make a tiny amount of rich compost for his miniature garden? He hasn’t explained that part to us yet.

But there is definitely lint and hair — sometimes his, sometimes the hair he’s happened to find around the house, hopefully Julia’s or mine — in his fists, and, owing to his frequent desire to keep his fists clenched, it sometimes gets a bit gross. But who am I to question the next generation’s environmental fervor?

I love my mom, and she’s a wonderful parent (same goes for you too, Dad, but I’m not supposed to say anything for a month — you know, legally).  Loving, giving, patient … all that and the proverbial bag of chips, to this day, even now that I’m old enough that I don’t feel like anyone’s baby.

But this year, on Mother’s Day, I find myself with more than one mother figure to contemplate. Because, you see, my wife has somehow managed to — while still remaining fully my wife — also become a mother. Now, at some level, this was fully anticipated — I’ve read up on all the biological underpinnings of this transformation and all. But it’s still something of a shock that this beautiful, fun woman I’d known for many years had all this mothering inside her. Who knew?

In times past, I had always considered myself the tough one. When hiking up a mountain (or its Scottish equivalent), I was usually the one in the lead. I was the one, say, who went on a bonus hike to the relatively creepy garden of carved wooden objects while Julia rested up from the morning hike to the waterfall. And so forth.

And then Julia told me that she wanted to have a drug-free childbirth for Simon. Now, I will admit that I initially took this in the same way that I might say that I want to have a chocolate milkshake appear in my hand: it would be nice, if not terribly likely. But Julia kept saying it. More importantly, she said it to the nurses when we checked into the hospital the night Simon was born.

And after seeing her go through that labor without any drugs, I relinquished the title of Toughest Stadler. Which title, you know, technically, I had never actually won. But Julia certainly did, that night.

But it wasn’t just some extraordinary burst of strength on the occasion of Simon’s birth. No, her amazing abilities have continued the whole month-and-change that is Simon’s life. It hasn’t always been easy — there have been challenges for both Simon and Julia — but through it all, she’s just kept going. And doing amazingly well, no less.

It’s like finding out that you’re married to Wonder Woman after years of thinking you’d been living with a very nice Diana Prince … only without the invisible plane and so forth. (And yes, I did have to look up Wonder Woman’s non-secret identity on Wikipedia. What the heck, Wonder Woman can fly? I mean, without the invisible plane? What?)

Point being, my wife — and, more to the point on this day, my son’s mother — is amazing. She’s tough, she’s loving, she’s beautiful. And I love her.

(Booyah! How’s that for a dramatic opening? And now I’ll deftly cut to the visual payoff …)

Anyhow, while you’re thinking about whether you were actually in the office bathroom at the time he was born, and whether you’d like to change that to “I was thinking about you and Julia and composing an appropriate celebratory tune upon the hoped-for birth of your son,” here are some statistics to bide the time (but do get crackin’ on that tune, please):

9 lbs., 4.5 oz. Not quite Gigantor status, but no shrinking violet, either.

22.5 inches long. Yes, my metric friends, that is inches, not centimeters. Though born in Oregon, this child is clearly a result of his Texas-sized genes. Whatever that means.

14.5 inch head circumference. I have no idea how that compares in the Baby Statistics Land, but given the size of his father’s head, that’s likely fairly high on the “orange on a toothpick” scale.

So yeah, Simon. Welcome to the world, son.

Uh, that opening got too complicated. Here’s the upshot: J’s Science Olympiad team won yesterday for the third time in as many years, earning them the right to advance to the national Science Olympiad competition this May in Augusta, Georgia — which competition the careful reader will note J is not attending (somewhat sadly) for the first time, since we will almost certainly have a beautiful new baby to care for and teach simple ion formulae and basic music theory to and whatnot.

But eyes on the prize(s): we won! Huzzah!

Actually, this is a somewhat tricky thing for me to exult in (to be cockahoop, if you will). First off, while winning any competition is reason for happiness, it should be noted that there aren’t a lot of schools competing in Science Olympiad in Oregon — five this year — so the state competition is a bit more like a regional event in more competitive states (like just across the Columbia in Washington, where there are over 100; this also makes hobby shops in Portland suburb Vancouver, Washington much more likely to be able to offer advice on whether you want to use balsa or bass wood in building your elevated bridge for Science Olympiad, say).

Second, there is the awkward nature of being associated with a team that has won first place every year it’s competed. I don’t want our team to become the Yankees, if you will, of Oregon Science Olympiad. The other schools also worked hard, were worthy competitors, won many medals, and I hope will continue to compete for years to come. I was especially impressed by the newcomers this year from Sunset, which fielded only half a team (in terms of the maximum possible), and yet won third place and no small number of medals, including several golds.

But in the end, our team did better across the board and won, and I can’t help but be happy for them. While there were times I was worried they weren’t working hard enough, in the end they worked really hard and pulled it off. And, thinking back to my own very, very late nights (occasionally becoming mornings) of last-minute work in high school, I can’t really fault them. Too much.

And now, some notes from the Science Olympiad.

As can be seen at the national Science Olympiad site, www.soinc.org (pronounced “soink!”), there are corporate sponsors, most of whom are what you might expect in the whole “promoting science and engineering among the youth” milieu: DuPont, Texas Instruments, 3M. There are, however, two sponsors I find a bit … odd, if nonetheless appropriate. One is the National Association of Watch and Clock Collectors, sponsoring It’s About Time, a competition in part about building a functional time-keeping device. I guess I’m just surprised that such an association has apparently as much largesse as your corporations that I assume are generally much better funded. Also: watch and clock collectors? Really? The association of, you know, clock builders was too busy?

And then there is Egg-O-Naut, an event in which the competitors build water-powered bottle rockets, with the intent of having an egg-bearing capsule separate from the main rocket in mid-flight and make it safely back to earth as slowly as possible. Perhaps you saw this coming, but that event is sponsored by none other than the American Egg Board, the people who brought you “The Incredible, Edible Egg” campaign. Actually, they’re still bringing it to you, it turns out — and brought several bright-yellow “Incredible!” egg-picturing t-shirts for the winners of said event, which was our team. I will refrain from speculating as to whether the t-shirt or the gold medal was the better prize.

Regarding Egg-O-Naut, that was a rather difficult event at the tournament, given the strong wind and rains that plagued the area. But the Egg-O-Nautery must go on, as they say, and so most of the rockets, designed for much more favorable conditions, were, my friend, a-blowin’ in the wind after a prematurely short ascent. The winning rocket faced even more difficult conditions, as one section of it — thankfully, not the egg-bearing part — was also run over by a car, what with the event taking place in a parking lot, the winds having carried it beyond the car-free section of said lot. Regardless, the egg survived.

The events at such tournaments are supervised by volunteers, who, in addition to coming from the various competing schools, are also pulled from local Industry, as the academics say. This year, J also managed to snag some of our friends (who do, after all, work in Industry) to supervise, and it was really fun to see them working with the events and kids we’ve come to know so well. Even more fun was hearing that they enjoyed preparing tests or seeing what the kids had come up with. What can I say, we’ve got good nerd friends.

Our team is also, not surprisingly, blessed with many good nerd parents, several of whom helped out over the season as assistant coaches of sorts. Given that these parents come from engineering backgrounds, it’s not too surprising that our team did especially well in the engineering events this year (in previous years, we had been stronger at the knowledge-based test events). And yet this was no case of overbearing parents doing all the work. On the Trajectory event, involving the construction of a launching device that can hit any target within certain parameters, made her own unique mark on the event — she enjoys sewing in addition to Science Olympiad, and I couldn’t help but notice that her device’s launching mechanism involved a Rube-Goldbergian use of fabric scissors to cut through embroidery floss to send her projectile flying. It’s all very clever and endearing, frankly.

I’d write more, but frankly, editing this post has already prevented me from posting twice in one day. I’d hate further writing and editing to prevent me from a still-unprecedented twice-in-two-days series. So, yeah: Science Olympiad! Huzzah!