Little-E's baby (named Baby) has escaped -- fleeing torturous, arbitrary punishment, ruthlessly enforced nap times, and occasional beatings for the tranquil serenity of plastic-doll Club Med, or a Florida retirement community, or a bitchin' coke party, or something. We've told E that Baby is "on vacation," but truth be told, Baby was looking pretty roughed up when she checked out, so chances are she's dead in a gutter.

The new baby, who E has most recently named Israuak-spak, is quite the hard ass.

But the real reason we bought this doll rather than the one E wanted, is because this one didn't call her "mommy."

Why in the Sam hell fuck is a doll telling my two and a half year-old daughter that she's her mother?

I've always been suspicious of baby dolls for girls. I recognize that this is something I'm in the minority on. Nearly every girl has, does, and will play with dolls. Just like most every child watches Disney cartoons in which bad guys are old and ugly, good guys are young and attractive, and women -- even the really feisty ones -- are nigh on helpless without the aid of a dashing young suitor. And they all turn out fine.

This is why I relented. On the dolls. Disney can kiss my ass.

My fear was, that by encouraging E to play with plastic babies, miniature strollers, etc -- especially seeing as almost none of her male peers would be doing so -- that we'd be re-enforcing a gender delineation that I don't believe in -- teaching E that her "role" is to be a caregiver, while boys run around smashing up trucks (or whatever). But now that I've seen the doll play in action, I find that it's not like E's practicing for her future as a caregiving baby incubator, but more that she's working out social skills -- mimicking adults as part of learning to interact with us. In fact, in addition to all the baby stuff, she also mimics our behavior by taking pictures with my camera, playing the guitar and pretending to drive -- all of which I've never given a second thought.

But seeing E's face light up when that plastic abomination shouted "mommy! mommy!" every time she squeezed the fucker's chubby little palm, I couldn't help but get totally, completely creeped out. Was E was laughing because she, too, found it ridiculous -- enjoying the odd little doll in the same way that I enjoy the music of White Snake, or the Flash Gordon movie -- or because this doll finally engendered her with the same power as Mother, one of life's ultimate authority figures, thus becoming the first of many followers in E's dormant-up-until-that-moment desire to conquer adult-kind?

Obviously there's nothing wrong with being a caregiver, or a mother -- in fact, I hope I'm able to set a good example for E in this arena, should she ever want children of her own.

But that's just it -- should she ever want. Not should she ever fulfill what she perceives to be her destiny, because everyone -- including her parents -- has been telling her since birth that grown-up women are required to breed.

tags: baby, dolls, gender politics
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I was rummaging through my wallet at dinner, scrounging for an old Borders gift card that I got in my stocking last Christmas -- a card that I may or may not have already used, or given away, or lost -- all in the hopes of scoring an extra $30 bucks worth of books for Little-E. We've set a limit on how much we'll spend on Christmas presents, but, the way I see it, gift cards shouldn't count against the tally, as it was never really our money in the first place.

Right?

In the process I stumbled on some weathered old photos of Little-E.

Photos I took days, or even moments after she was born. Stuff I hadn't looked at in over a year.

And as if only seconds had passed, there I was, all over again, sleep-deprived and blissful, holding my new daughter between my elbow and my hand, gasping for air every time she looked at me. Resting with her tiny body asleep on my chest. Staring, and staring, and staring at how beautiful she was.

I kept tapping my credit card on the table at the restaurant, trying to hide my shortness of breath -- laughing nonchalantly to stave off tearing up. Their food may be delicious, but that does not grant the staff of Madam Mam's Thai Restaurant the right to see me blubber.

In the end, I never found the gift card.

tags: baby, newborn, sappy father stuff
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I grew up rejecting the idea that I'd ever breed.

This declaration upset my mother to the point of tears on more than one occasion. ("What did we do to make you think that being a parent is so horrible?" Etc)

It's just that I thought all parents were painfully, excruciatingly, "the man has you by the balls" normal. I, on the other hand, was not normal. When my high school girlfriend playfully suggested that I'd wind up as an East Coast investment banker with three kids and a house in the burbs, I took it as a serious threat, and did not laugh. (She and I almost completely lost touch, but years later, a couple hours after I found out I was going to be a father, I remembered that conversation and thought, "oh shit, the prophecy is coming true. That bitch.")

Of course, it all looks a little different now that I'm on the inside. So much so, that I've made a list of things that, especially given my pre-baby disposition, have been quite a surprise.

1. Babies and toddlers are funny. Not just funny as something to laugh at -- like, look at the helpless miniature who unwittingly blows spit bubbles (though that phase certainly did crack me up) -- but genuinely, you-have-a-perspective-that-I-find-both-shocking-and-refreshing, funny.

2. All babies are not the same. In fact, now that I've had one, they no longer even look the same.

3. Yes, some kids are lame -- just as I had suspected -- but most are unabashedly themselves, which is a respectable quality in a being that still needs someone else to wipe his or her ass.

4. My child has amplified my neurosis. By a lot. Coupled with this, is the smack-in-the-face reality check of seeing myself through my daughter's eyes. This used to be scary as shit, but I eventually got comfortable with it, and, slowly, am accepting that I'm unhinged.

5. In fact, despite all the fears I used to have about giving up who I was in the wake of having a child, I've discovered that the opposite couldn't be more true. The moments I spend with my daughter are my most sane, and the most myself I could ever hope to be.

tags: baby, parents are cool
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"Little-E, sometimes you have this look. It's like you're judging me."

Pause. A few little giggles.

"I am judging you!"

tags: judgement, talking baby
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Filled with the hope of a grade school child -- reveling in the sweet, blissful serenity of a world in which pilgrims and Indians once feasted as friends -- but yet plagued by the fatigue and cynicism of a just-got-fucked Native -- chalk-full of the invading white man's venereal disease -- we set out for Thanksgiving.

Like Americans.

And, days later, Lady-A still complaining of intestinal distress, and me grimacing at the sight of my ever-expanding gut du triumph, here we are: with only our memories to tide us 'till next year.

The 2006 Turkey Day celebration was a little low key. No alcohol-induced, limb-severing family catastrophes, no exceptional or innovative culinary triumphs. But, as we were careening around the aisles of our local urban-yuppie-mega grocer on Wednesday night -- locating the bag stuffing, packaged gravy and pre-made pie with seasoned aplomb -- the mood was momentous. 'Twas the beginning of an epic little holiday.

Huzzah, indeed.

For starters, we had company, which is out of the ordinary for our house. Our Classy Friend helped remind us to be thankful for little things.

Like quiet nights in.

Down comforters.

And quiet walks on Thursday mornings, when the rest of your hippie-burg is asleep and/or feasting.

But the meat of this story is the meal. The preparing of which was an hour-long endurance fest of culinary acrobatics, flavored with blood sweat and tears. We heated stuff up. We let stuff cool. We turned on the oven, and turned it off again. Thus, we, like our forefathers before us, paid homage to the season in the usual way.

It satisfied the inherent obsession of every normal, red-blooded American man, woman and child. It allowed us to gorge ourselves on savory food until our stomach lining started to scream like a pissed-off baby, trapped in the highly-reverberant, air-tight passenger cabin of a trans-Atlantic flight. Or something like that.

In short, it felt fuckin' good, dude.

Shortly followed by the blinding panic of a young man who's realized that there's no room for desert.

Yes. Sweet, sweet cherry pie. 'Twas the end. Of the meal. Of the day. Of me.

And as our afternoon lulled off into a night mired in post-consumption food coma, my eyes glistened with the kind of contentment only known to those whose lives are truly wonderful.


The end. (Until tomorrow.)

tags: thanksgiving, food coma, glamorizing making myself fat

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Here's to a quiet couple days at camp Little-E. The toddler du defiance is with mom this year, so our festivities will be low key. No car trips, no plane rides, no making an 8 hour rock opera of dad burning the turkey to shit. Just food. And football.

I'll be looking ahead to Christmas, when E will be joining us in Cleveland -- bunking with my family and I, and getting her first real-live taste of snow.

She'll also, incidentally, experience the kind of holy-shit cold her Texas-bred imagination can't even conceptualize.

That makes me laugh just thinking about it.

So happy Thanksgiving, everyone. May your meals be truly awesome.

tags: Thanksgiving, holidays, snow
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Let's get it out in the open. I have a raging potty mouth. My mother probably gets red in the face every time she comes across a post in which I lambaste you all with fucks, shits, damns, and so on. (Sorry again, mom. You raised a demon. But you love me, so it's cool.)

Though I swear on all that's fucking holy to me, Little-E has never heard that particular linguistic abomination escape my lips, but she has somehow inherited -- as if it was implanted in her genetic fucking code -- the ability to form that word in a way that is purposely challenging to my authority.

Oh, my. How did we get here so soon?

I've always rejected the idea that dropping the f-bomb makes a person sound less intelligent. On the contrary, I think it provides for effective emotional emphasis in the appropriate context -- creating more succinct communication, not just of the stale, factual meaning of whatever concept I'm trying to verbalize, but also the gushy, connotative shit surrounding the facts -- which, arguably, is more important anyway. (Republicans have been winning elections like this for years, only instead of "fuck," they say "Jesus.")

While Little-E was still theoretical, I used to wax lyrical about all the ways in which my incredibly progressive parenting was going to change the way people viewed their interactions with children at large. I intended to let my burgeoning, but-at-that-time-not-yet-fully-realized new daughter make her own destiny -- refusing to indoctrinate her in to the superfluous, arbitrary social courtesies that have become disturbingly common practice. No longer would I cave to our own apathy towards the increasingly conservative degeneration of our society's natural resolve! The buck stops here! This is my daughter we're talking about! No more compromises! If they can't take a kid saying "fuck," then to hell with 'um!

As is the case with a number of things, now that Little-E is a real-live, walking, talking responsibility, my hard-line, parent du resistance approach to child rearing has become more amicable to practicality. She wears a lot of pink, has normal toys instead of gender neutral dowel rods, has never been a vegetarian (even when we still were), and in now well versed in the Santa Claus mythos.

So, what do I do now that she's saying "fuck?"

It'd been slipping out for a couple days before I really caught on. E's in the habit of stringing random vowels and consonants together into her own little language. Usually it's sing-songy, just to play with the sounds, but sometimes it comes out when she's holding court with her stuffed animals -- or, occasionally, when she's trying to tell us something. So when I heard something a lot like "fuck" coming from the other side of the playground, I wasn't alarmed. I asked what she'd just said, and she responded "glockup!"

Yeah. Sure. Glockup. I must've mis-heard.

Then after a friend's first birthday party (lots and lots of babies -- holy shit, they're cuter then I remembered), we plopped down in the car, and that's when Little-E looked at her party favor and said:

"Fuck."

Lady-A and I looked at each with that "are you going to do something about this/are you going to make me do something this?" look that's become increasingly common since we began the twos.

"Little-E," I asked, "what did you just say?" (Please say glockup, please say glockup)
"Fuck." She responded.

And there it was. Are you gonna stick to your guns, dad? Or are you going to cave?

"I'm not sure we should be using that word, E."

Might as well pack up your shit, move to the suburbs, by seven SUVs, or Hummers, or whatever, cut your hair, shave your beard, buy a few J-Crew outfits and call it done, dude. You are so lame.

"Well. Actually. Hold on a sec. Do you know what that word means, E?"
"No."
"Ok. Here's the deal. That's a word that makes some grown-ups upset, because it's not a very nice word."
"Oh."
"And when you're older, and you know what it means, it's ok for you to use it. But for now -- while you don't know what it means -- I think you probably shouldn't. Ok?"
"Ok."

I'd like to think, that this means technically I'm still cool with her saying it. Right?

Tell me I'm not a sell-out.

tags: parenting, fuck, dad is a sell out
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So there we were, Sunday morning at the breakfast table. I have no idea why Little-E has become hell-bent on returning compliments, but I'm rolling with it.

Me: Little-E, you're so smart.
E: No, Daddy is so smart.
Me: You're so funny!
E: No, Daddy is so funny.
Me: You're the coolest, Little-E.
E: No, Daddy is the coolest.
Me: You're the best Dad in the whole world!
E: BULLSHIT.

Little-E actually responded with an incredulous "WHAT?!?" As if to say, "there is no way in hell that could be true, Dad."

But, seeing as this weekend was the first time E said "fuck," I thought I'd spice up the above re-enactment.

Apparently cursing like a sailor with tourette's is hereditary. More on that story tomorrow.

tags: potty mouth, lame dad, disenchanted toddler
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At dances in Junior High, I was not where the action was.

I'd spend the evening huddled in the corner, flailing through mangled conversations with other malfuctioned social misfits -- staring with desperate, overwhelming awe at the boys who didn't implode while talking to girls. When I wasn't obsessively fixing my hair, or desperately tugging my shirt in tiny increments (trying to re-create the perfect position I'd discovered in the mirror mere hours before), I'd lust after the chance to slow dance.

With anyone.

Once, about halfway through my two-year battle with braces and the notorious penis-tip haircut, I -- sensing my opportunity in the 2nd minute of "Stairway to Heaven" -- asked Meredith Wilson to dance.

When she said "yes", I was so relieved that a girl had finally agreed to dance with me, that I nearly exploded with unchecked adolescent enthusiasm! I scared the shit out of her. Meredith spent the rest of the evening hiding in the bathroom -- my friends encouraging me to go after her, her friends warding me off.

Ah, Junior High. It's like being trapped in the middle of a big, awful, fucking skiing accident for three years.

I like to think I'm a little different then I used to be. I lost the braces, played in punk bands, drank beer, smoked some pot, and finally managed to slow dance with a chick in 8th grade that had really big boobs.

And finally, years later, I've managed to morph into a relatively successful, self-confident adult.

But as I stood amongst Austin's urban elite last night at a "young professionals" mixer, I realized that -- while I am a lot different then I was at 13 -- I'm still the kid who'd be more comfortable somewhere else. Everyone was nice, eager to make friends, and into laughing a lot -- it was like one giant, uber-witty, live-and-in-your-face text message conversation with a few dozen strangers. And I just didn't fit in.

So yeah. Fortunately for me, these days, I've got better things to worry about.

tags: junior high, lame all grown up
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Little-E took awhile to say "I love you."

And when she did -- at first -- I was convinced it was a silly baby trick -- a learned behavior to provoke the absurd faces adults would make in response. Or I was just bitter because she never said it to me.

Regardless, vanity required that I trick E into saying it -- capitalizing on the "let's repeat daddy" game by tossing in "love you!" amongst the pointless, smart ass, crude multi-clause, educational phrases I'd have her regurgitate. Cheap, sure. But worth it.

In the last few months it's finally started popping out spontaneously. Still though, the only consistent "I love yous" are at bedtime -- generally right after I've sang her to sleep with songs of sloshing shit -- and, if I'm honest, the truly unprovoked exclamations of affection are probably Barney re-enactments (or somthing). Nevertheless, I get a little choked up every time.

So I've decided E now knows what "I love you" means.

A few evenings ago -- according to E's mom -- she'd woken up in the night, calling for mommy, awash in toddler panic. And as she calmed her down, E's mom asked, "do you know who loves you?"

"My mommy does," E replied, as always.
"That's right."

And then, as her mom left the room, E added -- as a completely unsolicited interjection --

"And my daddy does, too."

...It's a little hard to put into words how perfect that is. I feel like I've done something really, really right.



tags: sappy, mushy, you'll like this post if you like smooth jazz and the lifetime channel
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"Daddy, how did mommy get in Grandma's tummy?"

I nearly choked on the pancake I was eating.

"Uh...(a strained wheeze of a laugh)...well..."

That should do it, I thought, as I trailed off, looking over my shoulder to see if our waitress was coming to save me. Surely her two year-old attention span has moved on to something else by now.

But, oddly, no. Little-E is still staring at me. Blankly. Waiting for my response. Panic, panic, panic--

Damnit! Don't panic! From the very beggining -- from the outset of this entire parenting ordeal -- you've known -- with absolute certainty -- that you are not the kind of father that lies to your kid. Ha! In fact, you scoff at the notion of making up some bullshit euphemism for sex just because it makes you uncomfortable. Come on, dad -- get your shit together!

"You see...when a man..."

Hold the fuck on, dude. You're about to have "the sex talk" with a two year-old, thus making a royal ass out of yourself while everyone else in this very crowded restaraunt starts gettin' squeamish and shootin' you the look.

You know. The "we've all been secretely agreeing you were a fuck-up parent, and this just proves it" look. Try a different tactic. Pull yer head outta yer ass!

"E, did you ask your mommy that question?"

Yes! Perfect. Find out what mom said and ride the party line.

"Nope."

Fuck.

"How did she get in there, daddy?"

Do it, dude. Don't be a pussy. You're gonna fuck up her understanding of sexuality forever, leading to countless insecurities and painfully awkward social dilemmas if you can't get your shit together and tell it like it is! Just do it!

"When a man and a woman love -- er -- when a man and a woman decide the want to have a baby... "

SKIP THE SEX! SKIP IT! PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY SKIP THE GOD DAMN SEX SHE'S TWO YEARS OLD!

And then...finally.

"... ... ...Yes. They decide. They decide to have a baby, and then the baby grows in the mommy's tummy."

Nice save, dude. Nice save.

"That's how mommy got in Grandma's tummy."

"Oh."

Long. Ominous. Pause.

"E! Do you love that hamburger, or what?"

"Yes! It's awesome!"

Ok then. My job here is clearly done.

Note: I relayed this story to Lady-A later that evening, and she of course informed me that the best answer to this question would have been, "your mommy started out very tiny in Grandma's tummy and grew bigger and bigger until she was so big that she had to come out". E wasn't asking about sex, after all, just how in the hell a walking, talking baby is consumed by the exceptionally round belly of a grown-up. Once again, dad is a nerd, and flips out for no reason. Le sigh.

tags: the sex talk, uncomfortable, dad chickens out
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What follows is a tale of two parking lots. Two supermarkets where courage, poise and cunning are your only tools in an unbridled, impassioned quest to achieve the premier parking spot.

Battle begins in the small college town South of Austin where I work. I'll often pop into our regional grocer's local mega-uber-market for lunch, which means navigating a parking lot full of shopping carts, drunk hungover stoned distracted college students and geriatrics weaving in and out of narrow passageways like goober monsters from the old skool Mario Brothers games on NES. It's not uncommon for a barely post-adolescent young lady, whose social affiliation is proudly announced by the Greek letters stamped on her ass, to demonstrate her frustration with a labored sigh as some old guy throws his hands in the hair, mouthing obscenities to his bemused wife as his car wanders -- with an unbelievable slowness -- ever closer towards collision with the young lady's pretty red Ford Mustang.

Here's what I imagine he must be saying:

If their damn sunglasses wernsobig then maybe they'd by able to see just where in the hell they're driving. The rest of us seem to SEE JUST FINE! What?!? Whaddya want me to do lil missy?!? Sit in m'damned parkin' spot all horse-shootin' afternoon?!? I'VE SAID IT -- I've said it before -- we're moving! I'm not livin' with these theivin', disrespectful, SEXUALLY PROMISCUOUS, drug-takin' little drunkards anymore! Enough! Humanity! I didn't make it to 85 just so I could put up with this shit at at the GOD.DAMNED.GROCERY STORE! GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY WAY YOU LITTLE DEMON!

Then, if I need to buy food in the evening, I stop by that same grocer, but the location closest to my house back in Austin. It's in a neighborhood that's only recently been gentrified, but where houses costs upwards of $250,000 (at least! Needless to say, we rent). Thus, there's an eclectic group of folk who shop there -- hippies, yuppies, Austin's famed thong-wearing homeless dude, and that old Mexican farmer I saw pushing around a wheelbarrow full of dirt while he made his way through the fruits and veggies.

The parking lot acts as the proverbial level playing field -- the great social equalizer as we all fight like rabid fucking banshees for a space to park our cars. You're only option is to drive like a dick, shove your car into the parking procession, and hope you don't know the person you're inevitably pissing off.

When Lady-A and I shop together, we're a team -- her competitive streak egging me on as I cut off some dudes blasting hip-hop, deftly whizzing into a spot only just vacated by a soccer mom -- a woman who will proceed to verbally lambaste the other drivers, laying on her horn as she attempts to get in the line to exit.

"Don't even try that shit!" Lady-A commands, with her first raised defiantly in the air!

"Yeah, motherfucker!" I cry as I secure victory, "just 'cause you put your little blinker on, doesn't change the fact that I WAS HERE FIRST! SUCK IT!"

"They can't pull that," Lady-A confirms, "that turn single is bullshit."

The dudes drive past, annoyed, but understanding. They would've done the same. And thus, we shop. Co-existing in peaceful harmony, all of our cars parked, all sins forgotten.

tags: shopping food driving
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After I recorded this little video, Lady-A told me that if she had a blog, it'd be called "The Tyranny of Little-E". Even though you can't understand a word she says, I love watching my little despot bring the smack down, toddler-style.



But don't think I let my child get away with acting like a Napoleonic dictator -- it's just a game. I've had to get stern with E on more then one occasion when she's refused to go to sleep, and as a result she thinks it's hilarious to make up games in which she's allowed to inflict similar torture on Lady-A and I.

My other favorite thing about this video is Lady-A's face. She's hasn't been awake for very long, and the mix of hilarity, confusion and terror cracks my shit up.

tags: baby sleep naptime
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I like to joke that I'm raising a "toddler du defiance". Occasionally, this means encouraging the sort of punk rock behavior that would earn a person said monikor. As such, I become teacher, E becomes pupil, and together we discover..."the way".

Today's lesson: shitting on tradition/defacing public property.



In downtown Austin, there's a large bronze statue of a pissed-off lady with a cannon. In 1842 -- back when Texas was actually a separate country (and not so only in the minds of it's citizens) -- legend has it that Angelina Eberly and her trusty "for recreational use only" firearm (pictured above) thwarted an unruly band of Texas Rangers from thieving state records. Really, the government just wanted to move said records to Houston for safekeeping.

Unfortunately, no one alerted the psycho librarian Angelina. And they should have, because she's obviously not takin' any shit.

And besides, we don't need reasons in Texas. Reasons are for pussies. You come to take my stuff, I'll shoot you with my big fucking gun. You don't like it? I'll shoot you with my big fucking gun. And, if we're really lucky, we'll be forever immortalized on the streets of Austin as a hero! From my cold.dead.hand! Huzzah!

Anyway, so E, Lady-A and I were exciting the hippie coffee shop across the street when E exclaimed, "daddy, DADDY! I wanna go on that big black thing." So, of course, we did.

After E tried (unsuccessfully) to steal the angry lady's firing stick...



I coaxed E up on the beast's shoulders...



But from here, despite repeated requests by both Lady-A and myself, E flat out refused to pick the angry lady's nose. This, we thought, was absolutely ridiculous. E picks her own nose all the time, and -- if properly coerced -- will even pick other people's noses. So what gives? "Don't let that cannon-brandishing nutcase retain her dignity, E! Deface her memory for the fine people of Austin!"

"NO!"

So, I, the teacher, showed E..."the way".



And after a moment's consideration, E followed.



Take that Angelina!

Lesson.learned.

tags: punk rock toddler, Angelina Eberly, Austin
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When it comes to hiding, Little-E has a special gift.

It's an astoundingly simple, but inherently genius strategy for practically applying the fine art of physical deception. In short: she says, "I'm hiding", and -- with no help from other-worldly whiz-bangs, radiation-induced super powers or otherwise -- immediately disappears from view. Poof. Transparent to the naked eye, E (delighted by her own cunning) is subsequently free to squirm like a salted snail and giggle like a stoned high school band geek -- eventually bursting from her cocoon of fraudulent invisibility shouting "I'M RIGHT HERE"; which provokes -- without fail -- the following response from any adult within earshot:

"OH MY GOODNESS! I didn't see you hiding there! You scared me! Wow! You're such a great hider!" Yadda yadda.

It sounds silly, but my secret hope is that she's actually been fooled. Instead of understanding our behavior in the context of a child's masquerade -- E (hopefully) believes that she really does have the power to render herself see-through. I sincerely hope, in fact, that she continues to hold this belief throughout her childhood, and -- ideally -- through puberty and into adolescence.

Just think of all the shit she'll try and get away with assuming we can't see her.

Trying to sneak an extra 15 handfuls of Halloween candy? Go ahead and try it -- we can't see you! Thinking about playing with scissors, coloring on the wall, or taking a shit in the bathtub? Knock yourself out -- you're invisible! Hoping to sneak out after bedtime, steal daddy's car, speed off down the highway like a racecar driver with a deathwish as you slam another beer, hit the bong and tattoo "bite me" on your forehead? What the hell -- you're a magically transparent being!

It's only when they think they have you totally beat that they let their guard down. This will be my advantage. It may be, in fact, my only hope.

tags: invisible, a father's only hope
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So I've got this "I'm no longer fucking around" voice I use whenever I want E to know that shit has really hit the fan.

Like, "Gosh darnit E! I've had just about enough of this screwin' around. If I have to tell you to go to sleep one more time, you're going straight to the naughty spot*." You know the voice. It's a close cousin to the "don't make me come back there" voice you use when your kid keeps spitting out their water -- on purpose, for no reason -- all over themselves, their carseat, and whatever else they can splatter -- while you helplessly attempt to re-direct their malevolent behavior, careening down the highway, trying not to crash.

Sunday, as E drew Picasso-esque faces on her miniature orange holiday gourd, she instructed me -- preemptively, I might add -- "not to touch her pumpkin." I'll admit, generally I am the kind of annoying parent that's all up in her grill about shit like this -- mostly because I think it's cute and/or am borderline obsessed with "being involved". But let's get real, I didn't want to touch the pumpkin, nor had I given any indication to the contrary. Little-E, oh, how you misjudged me.

Regardless, she repeated her instructions for emphasis -- but this time, employing my "I'm no longer fucking around" voice with the poise and grace of a seasoned master:

"Dad, don't touch my pumpkin! Bitch!" (I'm joking. She totally didn't call me a bitch.)

Normally I'm not into my two-year-old wielding power over me like a CEO bringing the smackdown on middle management, but she seemed really serious, and it was really funny, so I let it slide. I know this is shitty parenting, but when my kid cracks me up, she gets a couple "get out of jail free" cards. However, then she said:

"Dad, don't touch my pumpkin. Don't touch my pumpkin or I'll tell.my.mom!"

What the shit? I'm nowhere near your damn pumpkin. Let it go, Little-E, let.it.go.

"You touched it! You touched me pumpkin!" (Meanwhile I sit across the table, hands at my sides, pretty much silent as the ordeal continued.) "You touched my pumpkin and I'm TELLING MY MOM!"

And with that, she picked up my cell phone, flipped it open, waited a moment (as if it was ringing), and pretended to inform her mother of my imaginary transgression. "Yes! He really did" -- like it was wholly unbelievable that any decent human being would be so heinously out of line without provocation -- "Daddy touched my pumpkin, mom." Presumably vindicated by her mother's imagined response, she closed my phone and placed it back on the table with some "showed your ass" attitude. At this point all I could do was try and get E to at least admit that she was "pretending", but she scoffed and rebuked my repeated assertions.

Little E - 1
Dad - 0

At this age, stuff like this cracks my shit up. Later, I feel I may not be so impressed.

*I didn't coin the term "naughty spot". It's just a time-out. E's mom is originally from Texas, so I'm introduced to new parenting terminology every now and again.

tags: Commanding Child, Don't Fuck With Me
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Last night, as Little-E clamored from door to door with an unrestrained obsession, leading the train of children with cries of "TRICK OR TREAT!" -- and then, as soon as the candy was in the bag -- "LET'S FIND ANOTHER SPOOKY HOUSE, GUYS!"

I remembered why I loved Halloween when I was a kid.

The night was also a little bittersweet. As I wandered from house to house with E, her mom (she and I haven't been together since before E was born), and the three more traditional sets of moms, dads and children we were out with, it was a window into what I miss during the week when E's not with me and Lady-A.

And while I'm certainly not complaining about a life full of wonderful things and amazing people, I couldn't help but be a little jealous of the dads who took their witches, ghosts and bumble-bees home for the night. Like they do every night.

And while it was a blast, I just couldn't help but be a little sad as I drove off alone, with only my photos for company.

tags: Halloween, trick or treat, photos
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