Turn up the volume?

I knew something was up this weekend. It was Saturday night and Dad was filling this blue bladder looking thing up in the sink. Every time I walked past it, he stuck a tube in my mouth and told me to bite on the nipple thingie. Hey now...I know nipples and this is a poor substitute! So I bit on the faux nipple and lo and behold, water came out! Water, which I immediately spit out on the kitchen floor! Dad sorta looked at me askance and said, 'Babushka, you need to bite, drink and swallow the water. Not spit it out on the floor!' 

So we tried again. And again, and then I finally got it. Dad was happy, so happy he started to dance in the kitchen. One of the fundamental things I've learned in my short time on this planet is that my Dad doesn't sing well, nor can he dance. I really hope I don't inherit these shortcomings from him.

 I think the big, black Sherpani hiking backpack clinched it though. Whenever I see that thing, I know I'm up for an adventure. The last time Dad got it out, we went hiking up Kuli'ou'ou with some of his biking friends. That was ages ago, back when I only weighed 19 lbs, 10 oz and I only knew five words! 

 With a sly smile on his face, Daddy-oh started to explain to me that he was 'volunteered' to join a team for the 2009 Swamp Romp. I used my questioning look at him (rather then the 'I need to pass gas' face) and he explained that the Swamp Romp is a 10k team 'run' (he laughed/grimaced with his 'I need to pass gas face' when he said 'run') through the wilds of Kane'ohe Marine Corps Air station. Over hill, over dale, through muddy pits, under barbed wire, up over wooden walls, basically an adult playground.

 So this was to be a hiking/training session. And poor me, I was going to be ballast up Koko Head Crater. I'm not doing the race, Dad just needed to watch me while Mom was at yoga and figured I'd help him work out. 

Dad went on to explain that he and Pop'scle used to hike it on occasion when Nana was working at the old Job Corps. At the top of Koko Head Crater are some old military installations, left over from WWII and then further developed during the fifties and sixties. There's a helicopter landing pad, some concrete 'stuff' (notice how I’m learning all these good, technical terms) and the peak of the mountain is actually hollow with rooms and a pitch-black shaft with a rusted ladder. 

Here's where the ballast came in; you hiked up to the top of the crater by walking up railroad tracks. Straight up. Up the mountain. To the top. Upupup, it's a great day for up! 

Dad packed a lot of food and milk and diapers and extra clothes for me, and I went to bed looking forward to our adventure!

Sunday morning came and Dad smeared some of that foul smelling sunscreen on me that Mom hates. She won’t kiss Dad when he’s got it on.  He explained again, putting big floppy hats on the both of us, that since he and I are so fair skinned, we needed the protection before going out in the sun. 

After everyone arrived at the parking lot, Dad loaded me up and we started. I was fine for a while, and then I started to notice this uncomfortable rubbing sensation between my legs. I thought about it, it wasn’t the same as having a wet diaper, but something was getting uncomfortable.

Let’s let Dad know, ‘Waah!’

“Hey Chase, you having fun? It’s gorgeous out here.”

Okay that didn’t work. Let’s try “Waaahhhhh!”

“Sorry Babushka didn’t mean to stop. It’s a lot of work, carrying you up this hill. I’m getting tired.”

Still not getting the message, let’s dial it up a bit. “WAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nope. Dad didn’t get the hint that the pack was rubbing my calves raw. There’s this piece of sharp nylon webbing and with my feet in the stirrups, rubrubrub! I was very upset at this time, and if I could have figured out how to conk him on his head, I would have. So I just cried. And cried. He stopped and changed my diaper, that didn’t do it. Since I had on long shorts (or was that ‘short pants’?) he didn’t see the rubbing.  Tried to get me to drink from his Camelbak nipple (again with the fake nipple!) and food. Nothing worked. I was angry and was going to tell everyone on the hiking trail about it. Which I did. I can cry really loud.

So here it is, a week later and I’m rocking cute Batman Band-Aids on my raw calf. Dad is annoyed with himself that he didn’t figure out what was going on (Point to Nana, she was changing my diaper and noticed the symmetrical rubbing and THEN Dad figured it out. Sometimes he’s not the cleverest monkey in the forest, hairiest yes, cleverest no.) I have a new ‘phil & teds’  pack (which both of us like better) once he figured out what the problem is and just needs to box up the Sherpani and ship it back to REI. Despite having a new pack, I don't think Dad is in any hurry to carry me up the over four million stairs, but I'm only eighteen months old, so I might have miscounted a wee bit.