As I write this, my daughter is in plain view -- breaking the rules.

We've been having a little naptime debate, and I'm getting my ass kicked.

For awhile now, Little-E has been lulling herself to sleep by talking whispering aloud. I presume it's to herself, but who knows -- it may very well be some imaginary gaggle of supporters, urging her on as she valiantly defends the God-given rights of toddler's everywhere. Rights that look something like this:

We, the toddlers of the universe, will succumb to the every whim of our "id," abandoning forethought in pursuit of unobstructed playtime, sugar, and the right to sleep whenever we damn well please -- not when our parents ask us to, but in mid-sentence, in the car, an hour before bedtime, so we have the energy to stay awake well into the night. In this quest, we are united. On this mission, we shall not fail.

We read some books and I put her to bed, and, like normal, the whispering started. For the past hour, I've been in and out of her bedroom, asking, coaxing, begging, and finally demanding that she lay still, because even if she'd "not tired," naptime is important, damnit. Finally, I threatened drastic action -- I mentioned "time out."

Normally, such a threat immediately rectifies whatever behavior I can't be bothered to parent my way through, but not this time. In fact, instead of letting me leave the door closed (so I could clack away at my keyboard in peace), in the wake of my "time out" ultimatum, asked me to leave the door open, just SO I COULD SEE HER BREAKING THE RULES.

And let's get real. Little-E totally called my bluff. I'm currently pretending not to notice as she walks around on her bed, telling stories to her stuffed animals as she revels in her defiance. Because if I notice, I'll have to do something, and if I put her in time out, she'll get so worked up that she'll never fall asleep anyway.

I've been outsmarted by a 2 1/2 year-old that knew I'd parented myself into a corner.

And now, I leave to go and admit defeat. "Naptime" is over, but there has been no sleeping. Only the subtle reminder that I am not the one that runs this household.

tags: My Toddler Is Smarter Than I am, Live Blogging Naptime
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This is how we torture Little-E.

Happy Monday.

tags: candyland losing board game
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"At my cousin Ya-Ya's birthday party she wore her whore dress."

Pause.

"Her what dress?"
"Her horn dress."
"A dress with horns on it?"
"Yes!"

tags: whore dress, cousins
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"Ow! Owwwwie!"
"Where does it hurt?"
"Daaaaaaady! I have an OWIE!"
"Can I see your owie?"
"NO! Daddy, it hurts! It hurts! It hurts!"

That's about when I noticed a large splinter wedged underneath the skin just back of her big toe. I immediately started pinching it with my fingernails and yanking as hard as I could.

"Stop it, STOP IT!"
"It's ok, honey, I've got it."
"You're hurting me!"
"Just give me a minute."
"Quit moving around!"
"OWWWWWWWWIEEEEEEEE"
"Damnit!"

Exasperated, I gave in, scooped up Little-E, and marched into the closest grocery store. Because it was a Whole Foods, even the tweezers were $20 (twenty.freakin'.dollars), but we were obviously in a moment of crisis, and the helpful employee assured me that the brand I bought were particularly sharp -- good for removing splinters.

"These will get it out."
"Will it hurt?"

I'm not above withholding the truth from Little-E when I think it's in her best interest. But I wasn't on my game today, and accidentally told her the truth. That it would hurt, and she'd just have to be prepared for it, because in the end, we'd remove the splinter, which was more important. I told her the story of a boxer named Rocky, who got hurt really bad, and had really big owies -- I told her that when he got hurt, he said "ain't so bad!" Because he was tough. We were going to be tough. Say it with me: "ain't so bad!"

"I don't want it to hurt!"
"It'll make your owie better."
"It will hurt."
"Don't you want your owie to be better?"
"NO!"

So I strapped E into her carseat -- the look of fear in her eyes -- and proceeded to use my new ridiculously sharp pair of tweezers to dig out the wood chip embedded in the sole of her foot.

While she sobbed, I silently apologized to my father, who, on more than one occasion, got stuck digging splinters out of my hands and feet. I always felt so betrayed -- so shocked that he'd get frustrated with me when I'd recoil, cry, or ask him to stop. It was only as I heard myself say "STOP. MOVING!" while trying to pin E's leg in place with my free hand that I understood how frustrating it is to try and grab anything with a pair of tweezers, let alone when the thing is moving, and your every failed attempt only sends your child into further hysterics.

But in the end, we prevailed. She was brave. And very surprised that I managed to get the thing out of her foot. She kept looking at the spot where the wood used to be, saying: "It's gone! My foot's all red but my splinter is gone!"

"You were so tough!"
"Yeah."
"And very brave!"
"Yeah. That hurt."
"Do you feel better now?"
"Yes. But that hurt. I'm going to have to tell my mom about that."

Totally busted.

tags: splintrs, tweezers, Whole Foods
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This morning I picked up Austin's daily newspaper to see the arts section (where the performance I'm working on got a write up). In all the insanity of putting up this show, I'd forgotten that I'd written an article appearing in a different section of said paper.

What a pleasant surprise to see my article in the centerpiece of the Style section. (It's all about hipster parenting, so if you hate that, consider yourself forewarned.)

An even bigger surprise, is that my daughter's photo was on the paper's front page. A few hundred thousand people can now recognize her on sight. Weird.

We'll be walking around downtown all afternoon, hoping to get "spotted."

So. Famous.

(Holy shit, I'm such a dork.)

tags: hipster parents, jonathon is a dork, totally famous
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I've been writing less these last few weeks -- not because I have less to say, but more because my life has been consumed by mounting a live performance event. In any case, this fake french "art film" appears as part of the event (it draws the main character to the "dark side" thoughout the evening).

More on live performance some other time.

Happy Monday.

tags: theatre, frenchness, i am not tartuffe
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In Austin, winter is over.

In other cities I've lived in, the winters were so awful that you shut down, closed completely. Not just houses, but people wrapped themselves up, locked until Spring. I'd see someone every day but still feel like it'd been weeks since we'd actually spoken to one another.

Here the wind never bites, and the cold can't sneak into your bones, but the sun disappears, and people can't seem to focus. It's like that friend that always has something nice to say -- who seems to make purpose in their lives through lifting other's spirits -- but their dog died, and they're just not...quite...up to it.

Today we were sitting in the late-afternoon heat -- actually sweating it was so warm -- and everything felt slow. The hippies were out, wandering around, while grubby-looking granola kids formed lines at the gas station, waiting to put air in their bike tires for the first time this season.

Everyone, everywhere, let out a nice, long sigh.

This is such a fantastic time of year. When an entire group of people rub their eyes, take a step back, and smile at one another.

Happy Spring.

tags: Austin, Spring
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My weekly column continues on Blogging Baby:

The two high school girls who'd made doey eyes at Edan when we walked in had heard her screaming, and now looked like they'd been hit by a truck. As I walked out, clutching a whimpering infant my arms, I wanted to say: "THAT'S RIGHT. DON'T YOU DARE HAVE SEX. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU HAVE BABIES."

tags: screaming babies, wiping poop at baby gap, blogging baby
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Resolved: toddler's take mildly out of control situations and explode them into flame-throwing, panicked, stampeding-holy-shit-the-sky-is-falling episodes of unbridled chaos.

Case and point: I'm revving my engine in a Walgreen's parking lot, shooting threatening looks at other drivers as all 12 of us fight for the final remaining spot.

Why so testy?

Normally, the fatigue from working 'till midnight all week -- trying to mount a theatre production, while racing toward a deadline for a newspaper article, while generally trying to write enough to pay the bills -- would be crazy (and fun). But today, there's more.

We're only in the parking lot because I've been sneezing a steady clip for the last hour and half, so all morning I've felt like the quintessential nerd on 90s high school television shows (ala Save By the Bell) who could never talk to girls because "of his allergies." I am desperate for high-powered anti-histamines and an assortment of colored pocket-protectors, so we merge into the fray -- snot racing into my moustache (gross, I know), eyes blurry, constantly interrupted by gale-force AH CHOOs.

Meanwhile, "Daddy! Daddy! I WANT MY LOVE CANDY!"

Normally, I don't let Little-E pick and carry rocks around for this very reason (plus, I'm always worried that she'll toss 'um and hit some kid in the eye), but like I said, I was pre-occupied by blowing my nose, so she snuck these past me. Now she's dropped her rocks/"love candy" and they're buried amidst the enormous pile of trash, soiled children's clothing and CD cases underneath the passenger seat.

As I scrounge around with one hand, the other trying to steer, shift gears, and wipe the goo from my face, I realize I have to piss like a racehorse. I'd been downing coffee at the restaurant where we'd eaten lunch (see above: fatigue), but opted to skip peeing when I took E to the bathroom because damnit, I hate commanding her to stand in the corner of the stall, but know that if I don't, she'll wander into men's-room-at-large while I'm stuck waiting to finish, or, worse, insist on watching me go. I know I should be cool about this, but I'm no hippie, and it makes me uncomfortable. Then I worry that if she sees that it weirds me out she'll grow up with some unfortunate potty issues that, after years of expensive therapy, will be revealed as the reason she never succeeded like she "should have" -- the therapist calling me at home, berating me for my awkward bathroom antics, demanding that I come in for a dual session.

Ok.

And really, she has nothing to do with it. I'm just a nutcase.

A nutcase that feels like ass today, and will now be brewing a 2nd pot of coffee.

tags: allergies, therapy, needing to pee
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