And Now UPS Hates Us

I left to go pick Edan up yesterday and there was a package on our door. No doubt the UPS guy had left it hours before -- and yet, it was playing music. Was it Christmas? Was it a bomb?

I took the package in and examined it thoroughly.

Confident it wasn't some Joker-esque explosive in disguise, I left it sitting on Amanda's desk chair (as, after all, the singing box of death was addressed to her).

Hours later, when she opened it, we discovered that it was, in fact, this ever-so-charming house ornament thing. A gift. For her birthday. How awesome.

The weirdest part was, that when we opened the package, we discovered that it, in order to work, it needed to be plugged in. So, while it won't blow up, it does appear to be possessed.

Creepy.

The Clouds Are Made of Marshmallows

Last week, for a moment, I convinced Edan that the clouds were made of marshmallows. I know that, technically, that kind of stuff is lying -- but if I can justify Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the idea that all of our dead fish are "someplace where they won't be sick anymore," then I figure clouds made of candy is a small transgression.

And there's nothing wrong with a little magic from time to time.

We were finding shapes in the sky, because soon we'll be in it -- flying in a plane to visit my parents at their new place in Florida. It's our first flight since Christmas, and Edan seems (and is, I guess) so much older now. Before I worried about a toddler meltdown -- the kind that, when I was younger, used to make me swear off kids forever -- but now I'm only worried that she'll get bored and start singing at the top of her lungs, then get pissed and ignore me when I tell her to stop.

'Cause then I'll be bored.

Because there's only so many times a person can read Sky Mall magazine before it starts to get old. Not that I don't need a new GPS toaster that doubles as a flash drive, massage chair and 5-iron. That shit is totally awesome.

To Nanny and Grandpa's House We Go

I stood in the delivery room, my brand-new daughter grasping my finger for the very first time, my shaky hands trying to call my father, my voice barely audible as I mumbled that I had a child. It's hard to say what he was feeling -- I'd woken him up during a business trip in China, and I was practically delusional the room was spinning so fast. He asked if I was OK, and I probably told him I was, but all I remember thinking was that -- even though he'd been the voice of reason throughout the incredibly frightening 9 months leading up to that moment -- I could hear the crack in his voice. She was finally real, and he wasn't there to see it.

And since then, that's been more or less the story. I made the thousand-mile move down to Texas hoping that physical proximity would improve my chances of knowing my daughter -- but obviously my family couldn't come with me. So here we are, with me perennially overwhelmed at the little person Edan's becoming, posting lots of photos, and telling lots of stories -- trying to make up for the months that pass between visits.

Sometimes, however, we're able make the trip to see Nanny, Grandpa, Aunt Kristin and Uncle Nick -- and when we do, it's a big deal.

Continued at ParentDish.

Short and Sweet

Edan enjoys taking any one of her thousands of stuffed animals, shoving it up her shirt, and telling everyone that it's "inside her tummy -- like a baby!"

I think this is creepy, just like when she goes to the toy store and plays with dolls that bat their eyes and call her "Momma" -- as if that were cute, or sweet, and not a trifle disturbing.

So I always ask: "Well, how did the baby get in there?"

"I PUT IT IN THERE!" She responds.

Because I am a dumb ass.

Pulling Back the Curtain

Because toddlers live in a world where no one is at fault for anything ever, it's hard to explain why bad things happen. "Just because" makes life sound like a series of random, unfortunate mini-disasters that are impossible to predict or control (which may be true, but I'm sure Edan will figure that out for herself once she's a teenager), but the idea of blaming something (or someone) every time life throws a curveball seems like a cop out.

However, sometimes people are mean.

I remember, as a boy, that sometimes my dad would talk to me "man to man." For a moment, he'd cast aside my 4-year-old facade of faultless existence and give it to me straight. It always felt like adults were hiding something, so I appreciated the moments when dad would cut through the bullshit pretense that he knew -- and I knew -- we were both living under.

So, when one of Edan's little friends was getting out of line, this was my approach.

It was basic stuff. Edan would declare that she was going to read a book, so the other girl would take it from the shelf before Edan coul grab it -- pretending, of course, that she had no idea Edan had wanted it in the first place. I immediately recognized it as the same sort of crap I pulled as a kid -- incessantly taunting my little sister until I'd succeeded in making her cry.

Sometimes people are mean.

Edan was confused when I revealed this truth. But after the initial shock of hearing her father openly assign blame to her temporary playtime nemesis, she looked at me with the same recognition I gave my father those many years ago -- a look that says: "I thought so."

I explained to Edan a number of things that, still, at the age of 24, I have difficulty implementing -- hoping she'd somehow be able to take it all on board. Like how people who are trying to piss you off only succeed when you get angry. And, even though all you want to do is pound your fists and scream in their face, the only way to win that game is not to play. To remain detached, call them on their bluff, and -- over time -- wear them down until they're revealed to be the coward you've always known them to be.

"Yeah..." She said. And I think she felt a little better.

Lars, His Daughter, and My First Year in Texas

In college, I hung around with a guy named Lars (which he pronounced "Lahhhhhhz"). Technically, Lars was German, but he came from Croatian roots, and was thus prone to a more romanticized existence -- like an artist, and a true Mediterranean man. He fell in love with women he passed on the street, spoke passionately about jazz, and the guerrilla art installations he'd created in European parks, and was seemingly incapable of arriving even remotely on time for anything -- ever.

Lars also had a daughter, Josefina.

Continued at ParentDish.

Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere (ish)

It isn't long before the road out of Austin becomes a lazy country highway, rolling over hills and out into the Texas sunset. Heading west, it isn't hard to romanticize simpler lives and simpler times, gazing into the clouds, the everyday chaos fading into the quiet hum of the engine.

We got to Fredericksburg at night. The house we were renting was a few miles out into the country, but our keys were in town -- waiting for us in a mailbox on Main Street because it was after hours, and the office was closed. I wondered if we were in the kind of place where people don't lock their doors.

I wondered that again as we crept into the first house on the right, tucked away on a lonely little road our directions had told us to follow. The man who left us the keys said it was ours for the weekend, but it could've belonged to anyone. So those first few hours in our short-term abode were full of the awkward, apologetic, intrusive voyeurism that always accompanies my first visit to someone else's home. In the quiet, midnight hours -- alone with the creaks and ticking clocks -- you're suddenly something more intimate than a traveler.

And I slept.

After a hot, summer morning spent strolling through the shops on Main Street, it was clear that Fredericksburg is a small town designed for a big city people. An antique store selling dusty German religious trinkets neighbors a shop making boob jokes for cancer awareness, which bordered a clothing boutique that -- as far as I could tell -- didn't cater to the local population. We poked our heads in all of them, casually evaluating stuff we wouldn't buy, purposefully taking as long as we could to do as little as possible.

At a winery we passed on the highway, Amanda tried -- very unsuccessfully -- to pet the lambs that lived there, and I tried -- also unsuccessfully -- to get the surly old wine server to say anything more than she had to. And we saw the oddest roadside attraction this side of the World's Largest Frying Pan -- a half-sized Stonehenge, complimented by replica Easter Island statues, sitting silently in a field outside of Hunt, TX (thanks to Tim for that recommendation).

It was nice to rest. It was not to feel so tired all the time. And it was nice to slow down. And breathe.

In. And out.

Before heading back into real life again.

This is How We Kill Time When it Rains

Note 1: The music is by Arcade Fire. If you are a member of Arcade Fire and hate that I used your song in this 28-second video, please let me know -- I'll take it down, apologize profusely, and say nice things about your band on the Internets.

Note 2: I have no idea what this song is about, so it's entirely possible that the subject matter is completely inappropriate for a video featuring a toddler. I didn't listen to the whole thing, I just happened to have it on my computer via a podcast I subscribe to. In short, I'm saying: don't judge me. For all you know I could making all of this up -- a 75-year-old, childless Romanian lesbian who enjoys mascarading as a smart-ass, 24-year-old American father. In fact, my limited understanding of indie rock is the least of your concerns.

We Saw Shamu! (Part II)

The life of a never-been-married, non-custodial parent is one of small increments. You raise the bar, up the ante, and give yourself increasingly demanding challenges until you finally feel like you're a real dad.

Sea World, and it's heaving throngs of like-minded aquatic enthusiasts, is one such challenge.
I figured we'd face a level of insanity and chaos on par with, say, the minor league baseball games we go to in the suburb north of town -- busy, loud, and with a larger sampling of potential Jerry Springer guests than we're normally accustomed.

But holy crap was I wrong.

It is giant. It is vast. It is enormous. It is a -- if not the -- overflowing melting pot of humanity. That Saturday was one on which TVs sat silent, phones never rang, and barely a whisper was heard on the vacant streets of towns throughout Texas -- because every single person in the entire state was at Sea World.

Continued at ParentDish.

Vacay Baby, Vacay

Let's be real: I have a kick ass job. I get to be an Internet dork all day, scouring through my feedreader like an honest-to-goodness media junkie, then writing about the latest Britney Spears PR fiasco, or whatever fashion-forward products I happen to stumble upon.

Sure, for some, this style of occupation mind-numbing and pointless, but stored in my brain is enough cocktail party conversation fodder to last me decades. If you want pointless but novel bullshit for casual social encounters, I AM YOUR MAN.

Nevertheless, sleeping in and playing hookey is so appealing that I feel like a high school student, 20 minutes before class lets out for summer.

And we're only leaving for a weekend.

Edan is out of town with her mom, so Amanda and I are heading out into Texas. It's worth noting that Austinites don't think we live in Texas. We exist under the belief that Guia joined forces with Buddha and Sufi to uproot some small hipsterburg (possibly the bastard love child of Seattle and San Fransisco), but then got stoned, and completely forget she left us down here with all the cowboys.

Just to the west of us is some of the most beautiful, rolling, tree-covered land I've ever seen. And in a few hours, I'll be driving through it -- without a schedule, without deadlines, and with a a smile on my face.

Ah.

Rock Star Face

We saw this random mannequin on a motorcycle in front of a South Austin shop. I told Edan to stand in front of the fake lady on the bike and make her rock star face.

She obliged.

Fuck yeah.

We Saw Shamu! (Part I)

When I was packing for our day at Sea World, I suddenly became my mother. Not like a weird, Freudian thing, but in an ultra-fastidious, slightly OCD, plan-ahead-for-every-possible-scenario-like-we-were-traveling-into-an-uncharted-forest kinda way.

I was addicted to Ziploc bags, and created a separate, air-tight plastic capsule for every food item -- even the throw-away knives and forks (just in case the salad dressing leaked from its Tupperware container and spread to the rest of the cooler). I packed two changes of clothes for Edan, Amanda and I -- one, in case we went on a water ride, and the other because we were going to place called "Sea World," and I only assumed this meant we would get wet, repeatedly, at random, and would then be impulsively compelled to change into dry clothes before getting wet again. These clothes were sealed in the larger, more hefty Ziploc freezer bags, because that way they would stay dry even if my bag got wet -- mWA HA HA! Genius!

If only I hadn't waited until 1am on the night before we left to start this process.

Continued at ParentDish.

Classically Inclined

I try and have at least one children's CD full of subversive and/or non-irritating musical content in the car at all times -- but when we've cycled through these, Edan often asks for me to turn on "string music." This idea was obviously implanted in her head by aliens, or Dora, or some nefarious Bach enthusiast because I think classical music is even less entertaining than classical literature or "classic" TV (not that I can't appreciate these things -- as you can tell, I'm VERY SOPHISTICATED). Nevertheless, I feel like this refined musical taste is something I should encourage -- just in case it's going to make her a genius.

Recently, while Edan and I were rocking out to our local string music station, she asked me: "are they playing music so we can see the world?"

"...Actually, I think so," I replied, a little overwhelmed by the power of her statement. "You know, it's funny you should put it like that because--"

"HEY!" Edan shouted, at me, noticing that I'd made the music quieter in order to make my point about the intersection between poetry, music, and the true meaning of existence.

"TURN IT UP!"

So I did, and we just listened for awhile.

Taken for a Ride

In the early days, when fatherhood was an ominous cloud of impending doom, my friends and family tried to soften the blow by sending greeting cards and refrigerator magnets that, in their attempt to capture the true essence of the bond between man and his offspring, inevitably depicted some dude dressed in Eddie Bauer, walking through an impressionist forest with a kid riding on his shoulders.

That served as my primary image of fatherhood for the first year of Edan's life.

Throughout the time that she was learning to stop her head from bobbling uncontrollably, right through the days when she was stumbling around the apartment, trying not to faceplant -- I longed for when I could prove myself as a man, and as a caregiver, by allowing my child to ride perched atop my boney scapula.

Oh, what a glorious day it would be.

And Edan has totally called me on it. She knows that, chances are, no matter where we go, she's walking. Not that I mind carrying her, but Christ, the girl is 3-years-old, and there's only so much my arms can take before they start to burn and fuse together in a slow (but consistent) wave of pain.

However, she doesn't really like walking, and knows that if she asks to ride on my shoulders, I always say yes.

Not only is this far less work than the traditional one-arm sling, but one day, out of nowhere, I know Edan will suddenly decide that she doesn't like riding on my shoulders, or that it isn't cool, or she's too big, or something. Something will make it impossible to continue taking for granted the fact that I got to spend my entire afternoon traipsing through the woods with my toddler laughing on my shoulders like the dude on the magnet, my dad, and the father I spent that first year dying to be.

And is that worth being manipulated by 3-year-old?

Yes.

(Although it's worth noting, I wasn't wearing Eddie Bauer.)