Where we tread, adventure is sure to follow.

I have succumb to the call of the wild, haulin' ass off into the big Texas sky like a noble, intrepid explorer -- compelled by fate to silence the faint murmur of personal demons, and beckoned -- alack, no -- mysteriously seduced by the great beasts that commanded our planet many millions of years ago. I led my family on a Quest this weekend. A Quest with a capital "Q".

A Quest...to Dinosaur Park.

Preface:

When I picked Little-E up from her mom's, she wanted a story. E -- narcissistic two-year-old that she is -- is fond of tales in which she and her posse of Baby (a doll), Hippo (a hippo) and Christmas (a bunny) play central characters. Like any decent parent, I use these stories as opportunities to manipulate my child -- underhandedly attempting to modify whatever behavior of E's that currently tops my shit list. Or, when I'm in a more benevolent mood, to get her pumped for whatever we'll be doing that day.

"Once upon a time," I began, "there was a little girl named E. And she was going with Baby to find some dinosaurs!" As a side note: it's important -- especially on words like "dinosaur" -- to use the "we're talking about sooooomething maaaaaaagical" voice. By raising your pitch and extending the vowels, you're indicating to your child that he/she should be impressed with this particular noun. It's like an applause sign on TV.

"And so they drove in the car, and Little-E and Baby didn't whine or fuss at all, because they know that it's not effective to communicate by whining and fussing, right?

Then Baby and E were walking through the forrest and they saw a great big dinosaur and it went ROAR! Baby was so frightened by the big scary dinosaur -- she cried 'no, no! Help me, Little-E! Don't let them bite me!' But the dinosaurs didn't bite Baby, because Little-E protected her and saved the day!"

And so on.

Cut to The Dinosaur Park, an hour later.

The Dinosaur Park is one of those those funny/tacky/kitschy road-side attractions that you whiz past at 70mph on road trips but never stop to check out. As we drove past an RV park and a number of more permanent trailers down a small dirt path toward a hand-painted wooden sign inscribed "DINO PARK", I thought: this will either be completely lame, or wholly fuckin' awesome.

We entered the "park" serenaded by highly over-dramatic classical music (think big brass and lots of timpani drums) blasting through a small speaker and into the "nature paths". And it was out on these rugged paths of pre-historic wilderness that we'd spot some honest-to-goodness, life-size, plastic renditions of long-extinct, over-sized reptiles. Hot damn!

But just when I thought we'd hit gold, E scuttled behind my legs with a girly little shriek. "I'm scared, Daddy!" How odd, I thought. She's no dummy, she knows they're not real. "Like in the story, Daddy! I'm scared, but you will protect me! Just like in the story!"

And then I felt kind of like an ass. My plan had totally backfired! Not only did she still whine in the car, but now I've made her afraid of plastic dinosaurs. Great. Shit.

Fortunately, I'm not a very impressive story-teller, and E's a brave little soul who likes a good scare, so we made it through to see all the beasts of yore.

You may have scared us, Mr. T-Rex, but we -- the adventurers -- conquered you in the end.

tags: dinosaur, road side attraction, scary
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Oh, Little-E.

When you were so small that you seemed capable only of shitting, puking and crying, the only way I could stop you from screaming (while you pined for your mother) was to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider. I'd make the silly little hand gestures while you spit up and flailed your arms. I think we both had fun.

Then you got older, and you learned to demand said musical number by shouting "ITSY ITSY! ITSY ITSY!" At this stage you could could twiddle your fingers and hold up your hands (for when the rain came down and "washed the spider out"). I thought you were pretty damn smart, and very, very cute.

You've raised the bar again, my friend. You're taken Itsy to a whole new level. You are so fucking awesome.

Love, Dad.

tags: video, Itsy Bitsy Spider, song
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Admit it, dude. You're probably pissed about something.

One of the funniest things about being a guy in your 20s, is the total inability to let shit go. For years -- mired in countless foiled attempts to resolve conflicts like the rockstar action hero you know yourself to be -- you still stomp around, endlessly plagued by aggression’s equivalent to blue balls.

Most of us recognize -- despite the gurgling pod of angry goo we harbor -- that throwing public tantrums like unruly two-year-olds will undoubtedly end.in.tears. We never want to be that guy -- the publicly embarrassed guy – shuffling your meek ass home, tail between your legs, shamed amidst a sea of wagging fingers. Instead we suck it up -- temporarily deceived by the notion that "being the bigger man" actually offers emotional solace -- and wander off down the path to spiritually-centered one-ness like the modern man we imagine ourselves to be.

But, chances are, we’re still pissed.

This leads to ridiculous, rage filled fantasies in response to the most mundane, everyday aggravations. Mini-mental outbursts that, while fortunately hidden from friends and colleagues, ultimately expose you as the flaming nutcase you really are.

For example, Lady-A, Little-E and I rent an old house next to an even older tree – the insides of which are monster cockroach Mecca. More often then I’d like to admit, one of these mouse-sized motherfuckers will wander in through an unsealed crack in our house’s exterior, thus forcing me to hunt down his many-legged ass with paper towels and industrial strength grease-remover (the only thing we’ve found that’ll actually kill ‘em).

One such cockroach invaded my home this morning, but escaped before I could squirt him enough times with the grease remover to secure his demise. I’d like to share the following thoughts – my unspoken inner monologue as I saw, chased, and eventually lost to that crafty little bastard.

Aw, naw. Naw! WHY? All I wanted was one quiet morning. JUST ONE! Can I please, for once, just make some fuckin’ coffee in peace – HEY! Don’t you move! Stay RIGHT. THERE. Where’s the grease remover? FUCK! DON’T MOVE! It’s on the wall. Ew. The goddamn bug is ON THE WALL. I HATE CONSTANTLY CHASING YOU LITTLE BASTARDS! Why-do-you-come-in-here-all-the-time-you-little-Satan-spawn-sonuvabitch! This is AN INVASION! I’ll get you. I’ll get you disrespectful little shit. YOU WILL BE MINE. I WILL TAKE YOUR DEAD CARCASS AND HANG IT HIGH FOR YOUR BRETHREN TO SEE, TO SMELL – AS A POSTED-FUCKING-NOTICE TO ALL WHO WOULD DARE INVADE MY HOME. Die! Die die die die die die die die!!! DIE!

Then, the cap on the grease remover broke, so it wouldn’t spray. Dismayed, and still disoriented from my usual morning fog, I lost him. I’m sure he’s currently scurrying around my kitchen, laughing in my face as he nibbles on whatever food we haven’t sealed.

Alas. Today, victory is yours, Mr. Roach.

tags: angry, cockroach, emotionally stunted
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Little-E, in true expression of the genetically instilled, punk rock roots of her little rebel psyche, is in a phase where her standard first response to anything is to casually brush it off with a barely-motivated "no."

Like, "I can hardly be bothered with such un-inspired drivel, please refrain from further interrupting my solitude with your pointless, bullshit suggestions, thanks."

We're kind of nu age and hippy-dippy, so we react as if she actually means "no" every time she says it. (You know, like if she were part of the dwindling percentage of adults that actually mean what they say.) And yeah, I'll admit, my closet curmudgeon/junior-high-football-coach-in-the-making thinks we're "teaching her a lesson" by occasionally depriving her of the things she refuses, but it's not like we're letting her starve (or whatever). We continue to trick E into eating spinach -- staunch denials, flying food and all, and still enforce naptime with stern voices and an iron fist.

But this kind of open minded parenting eventually grows tiresome, so we take a break by toying with her every now again. We ask a series of rapid-fire, totally random, relatively non-sequitur questions (to which E of course responds to with "no"), purely for our own amusement. It's not like E understands what she's rejecting.

Or so we thought.

In the car the other day we drove past a Jesus-rock festival called "The Crossing". (This becomes important in a moment.) Here's a running narration of the seemingly un-related conversation both pre and post Jesus:

Jonathon: Do you want to go home?
E: No.
Lady-A: How about we go to the park?
E: No.
Jonathon: How about we sing a song?
E: No.

Etc. Then we drive past The Crossing festival. (This is where Lady-A's Catholic upbringing comes in very handy.)

Lady-A: How about...Genesis?
E: No.
Lady-A: How about Exodus?
E: No.
Lady-A: How about Peter?
E: No.
Lady-A: How about Paul?
E: No.
Jonathon: How about Mary?
E: No.
Lady A: How about Magdalene?
E: No.
Jonathon: How about Jesus?
E: NO!

And then a short pause.

E: NO JESUS! NO JESUS DADDY! NO! NO.JESUS!

It's like she'd be warned. Or she's Rosmary's Baby. This leads me to an entirely different parenting challenge (re: religion), the discussion of which is going to have to wait for another post, I'm afraid. For the moment, I'm busy roasting in the fiery pits of hell.

tags: Jesus, hell, no
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Before I had a child, the thought of spending an entire morning near anything that employed "family fun" or "all American" as it's solitary marketing gimmick was not only distasteful, it was scary as shit. But dude, dude, I was so totally wrong.

For you, the childless, who may not have experienced a "Family Fete", or "Kid Fun Nite" (you know, "nite" with a "te" because kids are "stupid" and don't "think good") or -- in this particular case -- the almighty "Pet Fest", it may be impossible to understand the feeling of ironic joy derived from witnessing some of the lamest goal-oriented activities imaginable, coupled with the actual, honest-to-goodness joy that comes from making your child happy. It's pretty awesome. I'll do my best to explain.

Exhibit A:

These dogs are performing "tricks". The lady in blue (one of the owners of the "company" where you can take your dog to learn it's own "tricks"), has been attempting to make that rascally devil give back the frisbee for a really long time. Even better was when the same dog managed to jump up on a stool. And then jump down again. All while the lady was holding it's leash, tugging and pleading.

"Tricks", indeed.

Then this guy (husband to lady in blue, and co-owner of the dog "training" "company") saved the day by making the most amazing fucking joke I could've possibly imagined:

Man: What's the difference between terriers and terrorists?
Audience: (focuses on dogs to hide discomfort)

Then, after a pause for comedic effect...

Man: You can negotiate with terrorists.

Yep. Terriers are so dumb, I bet they spell it "nite" instead of "night". Dumb ass pricks.

So yeah. Amazing. Amazing like watching the lovechild of Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show -- but live -- and taking itself completely seriously. Irony is pretty much lost on Little-E, however, and she subsequently couldn't have cared less about the dog show. But, this leads me to...

Exhibit B:

There's Little-E, all set to take a ride on the train some nice college kid was towing around behind a golf cart. As per usual, she just about crapped her pants at the chance to ride on anything that even remotely resembles an actual train. Added bonus: in a moment of "aw, what the hell, it's the Pet Fest!", I let Little-E ride on the train by herself.

It was like she could taste freedom, sure that this festively-colored escape pod would take her to the magical place where teddy bears talk, Elmo loves only you, and kids gorge themselves on cookies all day.

I loved it. E the bravest little girl I know.

We also got to pet some awesome puppies,

and played with bubbles.

And so I've realized, that the snobbish Euro-centric perspective I developed while living in the UK -- the result of which was a scoffing, passive-aggressive dismisal of anything I perceived to be too "all American" -- has finally receded. I used to fret this day, fearful I'd succumb to the gross excesses of American culture -- forced by mass-hysteria to submerge myself in the filthy, consumerist, gluttonist wasteland of firearms, fried food and 2.7mpg automobiles -- but instead, I think it's rad.

To surmise: I fuckin' loved Pet Fest.

PS: If you read yesterday's post, you might like to know that this photo was taken immediately after E'd taken a great big shit in her pants. Hence, the funny look on her face.

tags: pet fest, Americana, puppies
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This is the walk of a child who's just taken an enormous shit in her pants.



Speaking of shit, whilst cleaning up this Texas-size defecation -- in the car, guerilla-style, with damp paper towels (because I forgot to pack wipes...of course) -- it occurred to me that I may have brought this upon myself. (You know, like it was karma coming back to get me, or something.)

Lemme explain.

Little-E has become obsessed with the following bedtime song. It's the song my dad used to sing to me as a child (and subsequently sang to E during a recent visit). In light of his success, I mumbled it to her absent-mindedly -- like twice at the most -- during a couple particularly bad bouts with bedtime refusal.

And now it's the only song she'll go to sleep to.

(Sing it to the tune of a slow blues number for best effect.)

'Cause he's Sam,
Sam.
The Lavatory Man.

Outhouse keeper,
Of of the outhouse clan.

Hands out the paper, hands out the towels,
Listen to the rhythm of the human bowels.

He goes deep
Down,
Under the ground.

Hear the little farts come
Rollin' down.

Splish, splash,
All over your shoes.

Listen to the rhythm of The Outhouse Blues.

So now you know. My child is lulled to sleep with images of sloshing shit and some dude cleaning port-o-potties.

tags: Outhouse Blues, shit, baby video
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It's times like these when a little Lifetime Channel-inspired devil-on-my-shoulder begs me to write "a weight has been lifted."

But it's totally embarrassing to admit that such drenched-in-my-own-emotional-narcissism, saccharine crap could not only form in my brain, but bypass my personal sensor and escape into print. (Or, whatever you call print when it's only home is the interweb.) So I'm not writing that, and I'd prefer if you'd forget that I mentioned it. (Thanks.)

Insecurities aside, however, the sentiment is pretty much accurate.

For the first time in months I'm breathing without weight in my chest. While part of me feels like Eeyore without his little black cloud -- ever so slightly naked when I'm not holding back that niggling, impending sense of doom -- it's mostly just...nice. Without any strings. Without looking over my shoulder.

It's the kind of day when -- prompted by perky department store employees' half-assed demands that I "have a nice day" -- I'm tempted to respond with "Hell yes, bitch! Happy to be alive! Thank fuck for days like these! Right? Right? Are you with me?"

So, with that deep breath in mind, I'll be getting a little a more coffee, and doing my job (for a change). Then tomorrow I'll be taking Little-E to watch Weenie Dog Races, carving some pumpkins, and taking pictures.

More on that next week.

tags: sigh, gushy stuff, My Oprah guest star moment
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Holy freakin' crap, Little-E is obsessed with puppies (or dogs, really -- but to E, any four-legged crotch-licker is a "puppy").

So obsessed, in fact, that the event at right is something we'll probably be attending. (While I'm admittedly excited by the thought of actually witnessing, in person, some real live "Weenie Dog Races", this event is in a town 30min outside of Austin -- in that great big red part of the state you're used to seeing on maps close to election time -- so the "Blessing of the Pets" has me somewhat concerned.)

Anytime we're out of the house and E spots a puppy, immediately she's tugging on my shirt, declaring to all within earshot that yes, it's true, just in you case you weren't already excited, THERE'S A PUPPY! THERE'S A PUPPY, DADDY! And of course, this is immediately followed by "can I pet the puppy?" This is quite possibly the cutest thing that my child has ever done. More so, because we make E ask the pet's owner permission before petting the puppy -- even if the owner is 20 yards away. While she's hoofin' as fast as her stubby little legs'll carry her, we're checking out the dog and it's owner to make sure it doesn't look like the kind of animal that'll rip her face off.

Side note: I don't know why I'm cautious, really. We've never met a mean dog on leash at a city park, and the only time E got close to a mildly bitchy canine, it's highly queeny gay owner immediately reprimanded her -- wagging finger and all. A small part of me wanted to say something -- like "hey buster, that's my kid, and I'll do the scolding, thanks" -- but E was so shocked at being told off by a stranger, and I was so amused that she was so shocked, (besides the fact that the dude was totally right), that I let her navigate the ordeal by herself -- including the awkward petting of said dog that would eventually follow.

But back to the point.

We don't have our own dog. We'd like one, but the schedules we keep make it nigh on impossible. (Work during the day, rehearsals at night, etc.) However, in the next year or so, one or both Lady-A and I may be self-employed. Thus, the following fiery debate:

What's the best kind of dog? Aka, what kind of dog would be buy, in the event that we were going to buy a dog? It's a hotly, hotly contested topic that usually ends in muttered misgivings and references to previous conversations in which eithe Lady-A or I relented to the other's wishes.

Her vote: a Poodle. I sees the pros as follows:
-Doesn't shed.
-The big ones don't look quite so wussy.
-They're smart.
-They seem to be pretty happy dogs.

The cons:
-I'm afraid I'll always look like I'm walking my girlfriend's dog.
-They're goofy.

I want something I can wrestle with. I want a dog Little-E could ride around the house like a horse. I want a dog that's a buddy, a dude, a bro -- an animal that I wouldn't be embarrassed to call "friend."

Like Hootch, from Turner and Hootch. That was a fuckin' dog, man.

Anyway, the truth is, we'll probably end up with a Poodle. I'm cool with that. But if ya'll have any other suggestions for an ok-living-neurotic-people family dog, I'm all ears.

tags: dog puppy poodles are lame
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The women in my life. I love them dearly. Yadda yadda.

In other news, Lady-A engages in a particular behavior that -- undying love for her aside -- I find very difficult to tolerate. For real. Even more troubling, is that she seems to enjoy said behavior in reverse, thus making it impossible for me to demonstrate through reciprocation just how annoying it actually is. (Fie! Damn! And so on!)

Ironically, she finds her obsession with aforementioned activity embarrassing (not that this makes her any more capable of curbing it, despite my repeated cries for respite). So embarrassing, in fact, that I've been forbidden from describing it here.

So I'm not going to.

The point is, the most recent argument surrounding her heinous acts of domestic torture resulted in the following:

Me: (in response to said behavior) Stop, stop, STOP!

Lady-A: I can't! I can't stop!

You're asking me to be something that I'm not. How can you, you of all people, possibly ask me to be something I'm not?

Me: Oh, come on.

I'm asking you to stop being something you already are.

Partner.of.the.year. That's me. It's official. I'm lame.

tags: sleeping on the couch
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Like a 13-year-old in ancient Thrace, grasping the first spear bestowed upon him by his village, or a pre-pubescent gradeschooler, finally courageous enough to swipe his mother's Victoria Secret catalogue, I, Jonathon, have today ascended into a new stage of manhood.

I've purchased a grill. And it kicks ass.

My rite began at Lowe's, where I -- either a) overwhelmed by a socialized positive response to consumerist excess, or b) hyped up on testosterone -- failed to heed the "some assembly required" warning we received from the helpful salesman. "It took me about 30min to put together my first grill," he said, "I reckon it'll take you about an hour." An hour? Come on, dude. I may not be the handiest man that ever lived, but I'm no dummy. People put these things together all the time.

"Give me one of your finest Char-Broil GS-2161s -- the model I learned about by reading ConsumerReports.com," I declared, dropping my voice to it's lowest possible octave, "and one of those propane thingys the interweb told me I'd need to make my new grill work!" I felt so possessed! So assertive! So in control!

I was so excited, I took a picture on the drive home -- commemorating my manly cooker's first moments out of the box, like the celebrated entrance of a new baby into the world. "This," I exclaimed, "is my new grill!"

And this, is Lady-A -- totally not sharing in my excitement, and trying not to laugh at me.

Whatever. I was going to cook more dead animals outdoors then anyone had ever cooked dead animals outdoors before. I would be master of the grill! Master of the universe! I would be Heman, screaming HOOOOOO as I thrust my oddly-phallic sword high above my head!

With that in mind, I set to work putting together my new masterpiece du manhood. The time was 6:15pm.

30min later, I'd successfully removed all the pieces from their packaging. 30min after that, I had lost all remaining sunlight, and woefully succumb to seasonal allergies -- stopping my work everything 37 seconds to blow my frickin' nose as I tried desperately to read poorly-marked diagrams through red, blurry eyes.

FB-1 into A Front 7. SNEEZE. BLOW the nose. Sniff sniff. Find a screw. Check the diagram. Oh yeah. FB-1 into A Front 7. Where's the screw? SNEEZE. "Fuck!" And so on.

But there was no way I was going to give up -- give in and let Lady-A put together my brand new grill because of "my allergies". Christ. I can't think of a dorkier way to end an already embarrassing ordeal.

So I pressed on. For three hours. Three.fucking.hours. Finally, at 9:23pm -- the 2 celebratory steaks, seasoned hours before, waiting patiently in the kitchen as the rest of our meal grew cold -- the task was completed. I was hot, sweaty, snotty, and generally felt like dogshit.

But nevertheless, I was victorious. I had overcome.

And, like the Thracian teenager upon his glorious return to the village (spear in hand), we feasted.

I will now be eating grilled meat 6 nights a week. Just because I can.

tags: manhood grill allergies
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Oh, Little-E. Sometimes life's a bitch.

As your two-year-old brain shines the cold, hard light of reason onto the familiar constructs of your angsty little world, it reveals your parents' boundaries as mere shoddy facades. You've taken the red pill. We're not in Kansas. Elmo is a piece of red cloth with some dude's hand shoved up his ass.

Let's take a look at the word "please".

You've been led to believe this is the "magic word". When all other tactics have failed -- after you've begged and screamed and prodded and pleaded -- "please" always comes through in the clutch. It can move mountains. It can change people.

But something just doesn't add up. Sure, we make a big show -- a great big, God damn celebration of generosity -- every time you "ask nicely" for milk, or more pasta, or to go outside and play in the yard.

"Please", you say.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, OF COURSE", we respond!

But sometimes you get those things without "asking nicely", which must mean that daddy and Lady-A were ready and willing to relinquish said coveted collateral sans please. And that means that A) that these "magic words" are deceptively inconsequential, and B) everyone's been purposely, maliciously mistaking "manners" for stupid fucking Pavlovian parlor tricks. Thus, you shake your fist at the sky in defiance.

Even worse, is when you really want something, and "asking nicely" doesn't do shit.

"Daddy, DADDY! I wanna watch Shrek 2 and play outside by myself whilst twirling a poopy diaper around my head like a lasso! I shall never sleep again! I am a tiger!Take me to my cave! Bathtime and bedtime be damned forever!"

"I'm sorry, Little-E, but no."

"Please?"

"No."

W.T.F? Didn't you "ask nicely"? Why does your daddy resist you? How has he built this defense against your clearly superior powers of persuasion? That "magic word" can kiss your ass!

And just like that, nothing makes sense. Your world is crumbling around you as you sit, somberly picking at blades of grass in the neighbor's yard (see above).

I'll come clean. I thought I was the cool dad who knew, for certain, that the idea of manners for their own sake is outdated, bourgeoisie crap. I knew I could teach you the reason people say "please" and "thank you" (and other pleasantries). You're not some trained chimp, but instead a little person -- a little person capable of empathy, respecting others' feelings as you confidently assert your own wants and needs.

But, E, I gotta tell ya, I'm not sure it worked out that way.

And just like that, nothing makes sense.

So E, save daddy a spot, and we'll pick grass together for a little while.

tags: oops facade
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About once a year I miss Cleveland.

As a kid who's life kept time with changing seasons -- school as the leaves started falling, barely controlled, hyped up anticipation as we pulled out the heavy coats, and prepared for the holidays -- I feel a little lost on these hot, sunny October afternoons in Texas. Because the leaves won't change color here. They'll fall, sure -- but all in rush, like someone up in the Midwest threw a party ... and we're running late.

I used to love feeling cozy, wrapped up in extra layers, warm in the house. It's the same feeling I get by watching thunderstorms from my apartment -- like all my chaos has been projected onto the sky, but I can sit quietly, watching it, because I'm safe. It's a feeling that used to embrace me on lazy Sunday mornings, while I sipped hot drinks. And watch football without moving too much.

And I think everyone felt that way -- or at least that's how I've remembered it -- because it was the time of year when it felt like we lived in a real, honest-to-goodness community. Most likely it was because I grew up in a suburb full of families, and most everything revolved around the school year -- friends, neighbors, and all -- coming together as classes started, and to watch high school football together on Friday nights.

But part of me likes to think it was because we all knew winter was close (and winter in Cleveland is the reason that city gets hit with slogans like "Cleveland: You Gotta Be Tough"), so everyone made an extra effort to reach out and connect a little bit -- just a tiny bit more then normal -- 'cause they'd need something to hold onto during the cold, isolated months ahead.

But now my parents are leaving Ohio -- moving South where snow only falls in fairy tales -- so I won't be going back much anymore.

Instead, I'll just have to reach out for no reason, and take late night November walks, bundled up in a sweatshirt, closing my eyes to see the color in the trees.

tags: fall seasons Cleveland
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Huzzah! Holla! Etc! For I alone make the zen toddler. I, patriarch du champion, am the keymaster.

I know why the caged bird sings.

(And thus begins the story of daddy's trip from zero to hero.)

Part One: I Suck. We picked Little-E up from her mom's and it was a total nightmare. Usually E greets me with shrieks of joy, demands that I watch her jump ("so high, daddy, I'm in the clouds"), and insistently prods us with "let's go! I'm ready! Let's go!" almost from the moment we walk in the door. Time with daddy and Lady-A is a kick-ass-kiddy-free-for-all. Give it up for the grown-ups, hangin' out with us rules.

But not this time. Mom had started a new job, and thus E had started a new daycare. E'd been playin' it cool, but the schedule shift had clearly pissed her off somethin' fierce. After the initial excitement died down and we started to leave, E had a freak out.

Like, a big one.

I can't describe to you how much it fucking sucks to watch your child scream at the mere thought of spending time with you -- especially when, as result of an embattled period shortly following your child's birth (that I won't get into here), you're rife with insecurity about your role/importance in said child's life (oh, the agony). This resistance to daddy-time has only come up once or twice before, and E's mom and I have (thankfully, despite our differences) held the same position: this is the schedule and we're stickin' to it (plus, time with dad is important, damnit).

Anyway, so I exit with E in my arms as she screams bloody murder ("MOMMY! I WANT MOMMY!") and curses my very existence -- all the while I keep my head down so as not to make embarrassingly awkward eye contact with anyone who may be in ear shot. Holy crap. This blows fat chunks.

We get in the car and it's more of the same.

"Do you want to go to the park?"
"NO! I WANT MY MOMMY!"
"Do you want to sing a song?"
"NO! I WANT MY MOMMY!"

Etc. As my soul turned black with unbearable, indescribable self-loathing, every tactic we tried to dissuade E from further sniffling, sobbing, snotty verbal abuse was met with even more wailing and discontent.

Finally, I just couldn't fucking take it anymore.

Part two: I Am a Parenting Genius. Exasperated, I turned around, and in the "do I need to stop this car?" voice my dad used on cross-country car trips I blurted out:

"Do you want to scream and cry?"

E was confused. She's not usually presented with this option. Normally, when E flips out, the options (paraphrased) are A) "do you want keep acting like this and get in trouble?" or B) "can you cheer up and act like a sensible human being?" Clearly, what she wants to do is act like a neurotic child possessed by demons, and thus, a feeble, wobbly response floated up from the backseat in response to my question:

"...I want (sniff)...to scream (sniff sniff) and cry."

So fine, I thought. Knock yourself out, at least we're on the same page. At least you and I know that you're doing this willingly, and on purpose, just because you're pissed, so there's no need for more of this "mommy" bullshit. The jig is up. The curtains are drawn. You're a spade. Etc.

But there was no more crying. No more shouting. Just a sheepish looking toddler, staring stoically out the window. Lady-A and I were stunned. We moved slowly, as if any sudden moves could set the beast afire with rage once more. After a beat of silence, I prodded further...

"Would you like to scream and cry at home, or at the park?"
"...(sniff)...the park."

Ok then. And to the park we went, inspired by our moment of honesty, and filled with a kind of warm, "let's try and make this work" feeling -- like they used to have on Full House, back in the day. We played on the playground. We rode the little train. E was happy. We felt like a family.

tags: tantrum parenting breakthrough
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*PS: this same "do you want to be upset?" tactic worked again later that day when E woke up enraged after her nap. Please, oh please, let this solution be permanent.

My daughter, Little-E, is a complete and total rockstar. I love her. She is truly awesome. But let's be real, people -- these days she's a shit half the time. I presume being two must suck big fat ones, and E seems determined to make sure we know it.

Because I often write about these difficult moments, I thought I'd take a second to remind us all of just how damn-you-crack-my-shit-up hysterical Little-E can be. So here she is, acting like a tiger.

tags: video tiger funny baby
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In moments of forced stagnation, times when my progress is stunted by the asinine impediments of everyday existence (traffic, excessively cumbersome grocery store patrons, etc), I find self-examination thrust upon me -- forced to sit back and question just what in the fuck I think I'm racing toward.

And last week, as I sat, inching ever-so-painfully along one of Austin's many over-crowded highways (about 54.5 miles below the speed limit), I found myself behind a moving proclamation of He that is The Almighty.

"The Afterlife Cometh. What are you going to do?"

Yes, it's true, the man driving the beat-up beige Ford from 19beforeIwasborn had dutifully succumb to the will of God, and was disseminating His holy message via handwritten scrawl on discarded plywood -- blessed with mobility by the sacred automotive and oil industries: America's proverbial Andrew and Peter. Admittedly, this is tame compared to some -- there's a town in South Texas called Cuero that proudly proclaims "Jesus is king of Cuero" to all who enter it's hallowed streets of ignorance xenophobia alcoholism God fearin' American "values". And, as all of us who've taken a Midwestern road trip will know, abortion will send you straight to hell without passing Go. (So there! Humph!)

But nevertheless, this man's handmade sign was the message of Truth. The message of Fear. The message that What You're Doing Just Isn't Fucking Good Enough.

It's a good message -- a message I've been hearing a lot lately, in fact -- as I sit, still crawling Northbound, taking deep breaths, trying to discover zen nirvana in succumbing to traffic-bound helplessness -- really just doing anything instead of screaming to Whatever Higher Power Will Listen, "why? Why? WHY? If we'd all just drive faster, we'd all get there faster, RIGHT?"

But moreover, why am I doing this to myself?

Years ago, like a lot of socially awkward geeks who needed an accepting group of friends, I tried out for the school play. Ever since then I've been involved in the theatre, slowly rising through it's rag-tag ranks with determination, and (some would say) an over-zealous work ethic to a position -- at least relative to my age -- of success. I've long thought it was my "calling" -- even though I don't normally believe in that shit.

But my most recent gig -- while I'm pleased with product, and think others will be impressed -- has been -- at times -- an unbelievable chore. (I'd launch into a rant, but this blog is only kind of anonymous and I've met some great people along the way that I'd rather not hurt -- so just trust me, I've been frustrated.) For the first time since I started this theatre crap, I've thought to myself -- does this really do it for me, or has it all been just a phase? Would I be just as happy in one of the myriad of other occupations that have seemed interesting at one point or another?

Maybe not. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe this has been a particularly trying process laced with a few bad apples (read: real assholes). But for the moment, I'll be wandering around, head my hands, railing against the wind in yet another cliche moment of "what does it all mean?"

Because really, what the fuck does it all mean? Or, more to the point: what the fuck?

tags: God traffic theatre what the fuck?
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A "quick" letter I decided to "jot down" for Little-E's babysitters.

Dear Friends Who Shall Remain Anonymous Because You Didn't Give Me Permission to Post Your Names on the Internet,

You guys are awesome! Thank you (!) for lookin’ after Little-E tonight. I've compiled a quick note – not because I think you guys are stupid and/or couldn’t figure it out by yourselves, but more because this is the first time neither I nor Lady-A has been there when E got dropped off at the house. It’s new for us. So bare with me.

The main objective for this evening is to put Little-E to bed. It sounds simple, but it probably won’t be. Here’s a little schedule:

1. E's mom will bring her over already in pajamas. You may want to change her diaper before you put her to bed. For whatever reason – soiled or not – she feels inconvenienced by the diaper change (or any suggestion that her diaper might need to be changed) and will probably tell you so. Over and over. Then she’ll run away from you and/or become conspicuously/conveniently distracted by something else. It’s ok. You’re bigger then she is. Diapers and wipes are both on the kitchen table.

2. Last thing before bed, she can have some milk. She’ll be pumped about this. Milk is like baby crack. The sippy cup is also on the table.

3. Now comes the hard part. After the milk, it’s time for bed. E will resist, but don’t take that shit. (I’m kind of joking, but also kind of serious.) Here’s a few tactics she might employ to escape bedtime.

“I’m not tired”
“I want to brush my teeth.”
“How about we watch Shrek 2?”
“Where’s my Daddy/Manda/Mommy?”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’ll do whatever I want.”
“NO!”

My response to questions like this is usually, “I understand, Little-E, but its still time to go to sleep.” Sometimes I find that I can trick her into bed by telling her all the fun stuff we’ll once she’s there – stuff like reading books, singing songs, etc. I think she knows I'm trying to manipulate her, but if you're lucky, she'll go along with it anyway.

4. Once she’s in bed, she’ll tell you what she wants to read (the following selections are also – as you may have noticed by this point – on the table):

-Mary/The Lamb Book = Mary Had a Little Lamb
-Hands hands/The Monkey Book = Hands, Hands, Fingers Thumb
-Goodnight Moon = Self Explanatory
-The Bear Book = I don’t even know what this is called. It’s the tattered-as-shit paper book at the top of the pile. She can pretty much read this to herself. It’s her favorite.

**Word to the wise: if E asks for “Max”, she’s asking for those skinny educational books with the cartoon monkey on the cover. I’d recommend against these, as they only make her more awake. These are not on the kitchen table.

5. After you read a book, Little-E will want a song. I’d pre-empt any suggestions she has with something you already know how to sing. Otherwise, you risk getting trapped trying to figure out the “Little-E Go to Sleep” song based on her attempts to reconstruct the crappy melody I made up in a panic 10 months ago. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, and Mary Had a Little Lamb seem to work alright. If you decide to make something up, I'd try to encorporate the lyrics "Little-E goes to sleep now", just so she doesn't think you're just dickin' around.

6. Now she should try and go to sleep. I’m not sure what’ll happen here. Either you’ll leave the room, turn out the light, and she’ll go to sleep – or, she’ll flip out, demand that you return, beg for people who aren’t there to come and save her, etc. She also likes to try and sneak out of her room (as if you wouldn’t notice).

**General note of caution: while E is generally sweet and adorable, lately, she’s discovered a dark side – an alter-ego I like to think of as the fiery hell-cat of toddling doom. This is ok. She doesn’t hate you. Usually she’ll calm down, but if it looks bad, let me offer the following get out of jail free cards:

Milk. It’s like baby crack.
Shrek 2. I think they’ve added subliminal messages to this movie to make it addicting for children under 6.
Shrek 1. Just in case she’s weird about Shrek 2.

If there any problems, just call.

tags: babysitter nuerotic bedtime
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Today I understand the cold, hard pain of rejection. Today, I empathize with the whacko right wingers, hell-bent on availing this world of anything that could possibly be construed as fun for their children. Alack! Alas! Hark! My daughter has found a new love.

Enemy: thy name is Cheap Puffy Carnival Slide. You foul, inflatable demon. I curse you! (You, and that bastard Harry Potter!)

Where I have but tried, you have succeeded. With you, CPCS, Little-E has experienced an unqualified joy to which I -- with my humble powers of fatherhood-dom -- simply pale in comparison.


Not that I'm making this a competition or anything. I'm just makin' funnies.

Really, I would never begrudge anyone a good time, and, while I do find it slightly unfortunate that a teenage carny holds the key to Little-E's happiness, I was pumped to see her embrace the daunting climb with panache and abandon. The mountain stood before her, and she kicked it's ass.

And when I wasn't trying to convince her to take the slide head-first, I was -- albeit mildly self-consciously (this is all surrounding a carnival ride, after all) -- in love with this moment. I love that Little-E was so bold. I love that she was so proud of herself when she made it to the top, and looked down at us to make sure we'd seen her accomplishment. I love that after careening face first into the mat she gets up, and does it again.

And I love that Little-E is able to unabashedly experience complete and total joy over something so simple.

Of course I've seen her happy before. It's not like we live in Courtney Love's casa du bummer. We run around the house, chasing imaginary pigs and dinosaurs en route to Little-E's power cave, and I've seen her scream with girlish delight whilst chasing around new friends at our local kiddie rock shows, but I rarely see her so carried away. At an age where she's only just realizing her own relative powerlessness (and how much that sucks), she was -- at least for a moment -- allowed to be out of control. It's like she was empowered by her own self-determination (or flyin' high on an adrenaline rush).

And while I'm still not sure why I'm so enamored with our art market carnival experience, I'd like to close with this surprising realization: it was awesome.

tags: carnival harry potter is evil joy

Like a big-leaguer, striding out into the gameday sunlight, Little-E clutches her ball and mitt -- tools worn and familiar, sacred companions as they've been to many generations before her. The smell of freshly cut grass, the roar of the crowd, the final few steps into one of man's last unbridled attempts at making something pure. It is a game. It is a life. It is a passion.

But let's get real: Little-E could give a rat's ass about baseball. She likes her ball and mitt because they're pink. She won't even wear the damn glove. For awhile she had a big red ball that she'd chase around the yard/throw at daddy's face, but now even that's been forgotten -- left in the toybox to rot, decaying in silence next to farm animal puzzles and well-used Elmo-riffic coloring books.

When I was a child, sports mattered, damnit. I can't remember what's it's like not to know the rules to baseball, football and basketball. As far as I know, I was born knowing how to play catch, and since then -- even well into adulthood -- have spent many, many hours throwing things back and forth with my father. (Baseballs, footballs, frisbees, weird nerf shit, whatever.) That same father and I spent an additional many hours watching sports on TV. We bonded, and I fucking cried when Christian Laettner hit that jumpshot to beat Kentucky in '92.

Don't get me wrong, E and I get along just fine without these things -- great even -- but there's a confused little part of me, possibly because of my overly-athletic beginnings, that thinks sports are a necessary component of a child's upbringing (for better or worse).

So my dilemma: is it alright to trick Little-E into liking sports?

I've got big plans. For one, because she'll sit gazing at the TV whenever it's on, pretty much regardless what's on it (isn't that scary), I think I've found my "in". If Little-E can sit patiently through the Groovaloos "Street Dance" videos Lady-A used as inspiration for a children's hip-hop class (holy crap were those videos lame), then E can sit through anything.

Anything, like college football.

We'll have long, lazy afternoons on the couch! I'll let her eat food she's normally not allowed! She'll learn the appropriate times to yell at the screen while I watch my language -- it'll be great! When she's ready, I'll teach her the rules. When she's older, we can actually go to the games (an additional opportunity to re-enforce the positive association with sporting events by providing her with sweet, salty, addictive foods)! We'll talk about life during timeouts, waxing lyrical on the trials and tribulations of being five, or seven, or fourteen, or whatever -- all the while reveling in our passionate common interest.

Or maybe not. It just seems a shame to let a cannon like this go to waste.


tags: laettner sports deceit

I have been shamed.

Naptime at our house has become ground zero for the most explosive, venomous, spiteful conflict between Little-E and I. If I even insinuate that she might be tired -- a bashful, timid pre-cursor to naptime suggestion -- E verbally lambastes me with pre-emptive defiance -- "no! I don't want to! I'm not tired! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" It's gotten to the point where I could really give a shit if she sleeps, I just want to win.

So we came up with "quiet time". As if E was really that dumb. She knows it's just naptime in disguise. She knows I'm only trying to trick her into settling down for two hours an hour 15 God damn minutes. Regardless, I press on -- knowing full well that I'm willingly placing my head inside The Lion's Mouth -- the proverbial Roy of Siegfriend and Roy -- tempting fate time and again -- nervous and fearful for the moment when karma repays me with The Ultimate Justice.

This weekend, I was paid in full.

After 15 or 20 minutes of cat and mouse -- when we'd put E in her room, requesting only that she sit quietly, read a book, play with her toys, whatever -- she pulled out the big guns. Tearful, fitful, piercing screams of horror erupted from her bedroom. This isn't the first time she's flipped out. In fact, it's become relatively common as we wade through the terrible two-dom we were sure couldn't be that bad (right?). So we waited. And waited. Just let her cry it out, we thought. Cry.it.out.

But see, Little-E has this habit of talking to herself and/or an imaginary friend when she's alone -- narrating her experiences, often as if prompted by questions. This gives her the power to narrate her distress for public consumption -- masterfully slicing holes of acutely painful guilt in her father's heart as he listens to her sob so hard she's gasping for air. An excerpt, immediately after a failed attempt to escape her room:

"But I did. I did see my daddy. I saw him. (Sniff, sniff) But he closed the door on me. My daddy closed the door on me!" A brief pause, then: "Now I'm gonna cry some more." Another brief pause -- presumably for breath. Then, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I almost cried. I tried to be strong, understanding that it was wrong and a big step down parenting's Primrose Path to cave in -- even a little bit -- to such obviously manipulative behavior. But I am weak. I was defeated. I went in Little-E's room, held her as she sat crumpled in a little ball in my lap -- sniffling and muttering to herself as she came down from the tirade -- and bit back my tears.

The storm settled, and E returned to sanity, I explained to her that quiet time wasn't so bad, and she could pretty much do whatever she wanted, as long as she stayed her room. Begrudgingly, she agreed, and five minutes after Lady-A and I left her room, she passed out on the floor, exhausted.

tags: psycho baby terrible twos imaginary friend

My daughter, always where the action is.


Yesterday Little-E insisted that I join her for a "secret meeting" in the hiding spot underneath Lady-A's desk.

"Hide with me. Come on Dad. Daddy! Come on! Hide with me! Hide me with, Daddy! Come on! Hide! Let's hide! How about we hide? Come on Daddy! HIDE WITH ME!"

And then, after her demands fell on deaf ears, she revealed what was really going on. "Dad. It's a secret meeting (as if I was completely stupid for not recognizing this earlier). Come on."

Once safely stowed away, E shushed me, repeatedly, ensuring that I understood this conversation was strictly in confidence and highly confidential. I agreed. My lips were sealed. E whispered, "we're going on a boat."

"Where are we going on a boat?"

"To the airplane."

Now I'll admit, when E revealed that we were taking a secret boat to an even-more-secretive airplane, I was pumped. I felt like James Bond. My daughter kicks ass.

"Where are we going in the airplane?"

"To the grocery store."

Ah-HA! The grocery store -- clearly code for "multi-national center for spying and espionage". Once there, we would meet with Elmo, Dora the Explorer, Hippo the stuffed animal and Blanky the blanket to hold further secret meetings in which we would plot the overthrow of evil forces imposing potty training, naptime, and the rule prohibiting children from watching Shrek 2 over, and over, and over, and over and over again. Or, maybe we'd co-ordinate Juniper in Detroit to unleash the great baby escape to Canada on millions of unsuspecting American parents. Whatever the case, the grocery store was destination action!

"So E," I prodded with excitement, "what are we doing at the grocery store?"

She pulled me in closer, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one could over hear. Then, in her softest whipser -- a sound laced with urgency and determination -- she told me...

"we're getting FOOD."

tags: baby spy espionage

As Little-E loses patience with her toy puppy, she and I have truly empathetic moment of complete and total understanding. (The word of the day is "listen".)

tags: baby video puppy empathy