Temporarily Awesome

Yesterday afternoon, I went to give Edan a kiss goodbye, and she recoiled -- like normal -- because she wants me to "wash off" my beard. But then, as I went to set her down and walk out the door, she stopped me, pushed back my baseball cap, and gave me a little kiss on the forehead.

I like this phase.

Because we've been through crappier times -- when Edan got in the habit of asking for her mom whenever she was bored, upset, or frustrated that I wouldn't let her walk through the supermarket in bare feet with seven stuffed animals in tow. Sure, it seems innocuous -- blah blah, that's what kids do. But when you worked 'till 2 a.m the past 8,000 nights in a row (because time with your darling offspring cuts the normal workday in half), and you're exhausted, cranky, and pissed at the world, your child's incessant requests to be with another parent make your life feel -- for a moment -- like some cruel and pointless comedy, where you're the butt of every joke. (Of course then Edan laughs, or says something hysterical, and I, like many fabled fathers before me, am on a heroic quest through dad-dom once again.)

Continued at ParentDish.

Dear Cat That Dumped on My Doorstep

I see you and your scraggly-ass friends hanging out, stalking the house, sneaking around the backyard and sending the neighbor's dogs into a frenzied, highly-vocal state of insanity. I get it -- someone who used to live here was nice to you, and now you miss the attention. Awww, wah wah wah -- cry me a fucking river, because you know what? They're gone, they're never coming back, and no matter how many times you shit on my walkway, I will never love you.

Accept it now, cat: you cannot defeat me. By the power of Grayskull; there can be only one; that's right Ice...man, I am dangerous; etc.

Other Adults at the Playground

Usually the moms just smile, when we're forced to acknowledge each other's existence. Sometimes they apologize if their kid does something shitty. Once I got caught in between two women, pushing their daughters on swings and discussing how difficult it is to find a hair stylist you can really trust.

So true. So. True.

The dads usually give me the manly nod and say nothing, 'cause we have no idea how masculine we're supposed to be whilst cheering on our three-year-olds for making fantastic imaginary birthday cakes out of sand.

However, a couple days ago an older dad was swinging with his toddler while I chased Edan around the jungle gym, and he looked at me and said: "These really are the best days." He repeated it again, for emphasis, but didn't ask for affirmation. I'll admit, at first I thought it was a little cheesy -- to just say that, out of nowhere, to a stranger. But, of course, the truth is that he's absolutely right.

May The Force Be With You

It's finally getting colder in Austin. Yesterday Edan and I got out of the car and strolled through some random neighborhood, just to be outside in it. She kept complaining about the wind, but didn't want to go inside -- the gusts of chilly air still novel to to a child who probably just barely remembers the last time she felt cold outdoors. To me they're a comfort -- a reminder of being young, and being home.

Only rarely do I get to share such an iconic part of my childhood simply by zipping up her sweatshirt.

Later, back in the car, Edan suddenly announced -- with the shock and urgency that generally accompany such proclamations -- that "I have to go potty!" Usually the dramatics are just for effect, and her declaration can be translated as "Excuse me, father. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but when you have a moment, I could do with quick visit to the loo. Much obliged." However this time she started squirming in her car seat, and had the kind of worried look that suggested I might soon be scrubbing that car seat with disinfectant, so I went into alert mode.

"It'll be OK honey. I'm looking for a place to stop and potty. You'll make it."
"I can't!"
"You can do it!"
"I'm gonna pee in my panties!"
"Almost there...almost there....almost....there."

And Edan smiled, because she's heard that last quote before. It's what the Red Squadron X-Wing commander says over and over as he tries to shoot a torpedo into a 2-meter wide thermal exhaust post on the Death Star -- a hit that would start a chain reaction that could destroy the station!

Continued at ParentDish

Not Dead, Just Busy

Moved in, started new bloggy-type job which has been equal parts crazy and fun, been rehearsing four nights a week. Am about to go bowling during which time my brain will be completely in the off position.

The photos is of the house before we crammed all our stuff in it.

It looks different.

It doesn't smell like smoke.

The dogs next door bark at three in the morning.

More soon.

Dear U-Haul, I Hate You

I never could understand why every time I came into U-Haul to rent a truck there was some asshole bitching and moaning. Man, I thought -- no wonder all the lifeless employees shove paperwork in my hand and maintain a customer service demeanor that barely conceals the constant threat of physical violence. Their job sucks. I'd be a dick to everyone if I worked there too.

But on Saturday night I had reason to loathe the mindless, directionless oaf of the U-Haul corporate machine. This desperately moronic, bumbling buffoon that gives dumb asses all over the world hope that -- at least compared to something -- they don't look so stupid.

When our truck broke down outside of the store from which we were planning on taking home our new sofa (directly before moving the few remaining pieces of furniture that Amanda hadn't given away), and then we spent an hour on the phone with seven or eight different, confused, and infantile U-Haul "emergency hotline" call center employees, and then waited for an additional two hours for a mechanic to come tell us that the truck had a small mechanical problem that required a little tug while turning the key to make the giant piece of shit start, I thought to myself: if this company had a soul, I would be roasting marshmallows on its flaming ass while it burned in outer-most nether regions of hell.

But finally, at 3:30 in the morning (a few hours later than we'd intended), the last box of our stuff was home. Amanda and I, exhausted, frustrated, and a little pissed at the world, went to sleep amidst the clutter, only to wake up and begin sifting through it the following morning.

At least, in the time we spent waiting for our van to start, we were able to drive home and paint Edan's room. We painted the walls pink, 'cause that's what she wanted, and as an added bonus, made one of them sparkly -- like this:

Jonathon Wants Your Christmas Decorations. Seriously.

Normally I don't write about my theater habit, because let's be real: even if you are one of the eight or nine other people in the universe that give a rat's ass, you probably don't live in Austin, and couldn't come see the shows we make. So really, what's the point?

However, dear friends throughout the interwebs, this might actually interest you.

The performance company I run with Amanda is making a big, stinking, cheesy-as-hell Christmas musical called The Ultimate Christmas Musical: The Musical! I'm hoping the set will be made entirely from other people's unwanted, tacky holiday decor.

People like you.

So, if you live in Austin, come check out the event we're holding this Sunday at La Luz, a lifestyle boutique on South 1st, where you can give us anything holiday-related that you'd prefer wasn't taking up space in your attic. Seriously. If your spouse won't let you hang it, or you bought from the dollar store in college, it's exactly the sort of thing we're looking for.

If you don't live in Austin, and don't mind eating the cost of a UPS ground shipment, drop me a quick email, and I'll give you an address where you can send that rickety old plastic tree from 1987. You know it's time to let that go.

Mom and Dad Are Getting Married, Just Not to Each Other

When two people have a child, their lives are forever intertwined -- no matter how their relationship crumbles, or how they choose to parent in the aftermath. Oh, how that which drives us to fume and rage at one another is also that which binds us inexorably together. Ah, the irony of life. Oh, blah blah blah.

But usually that's it. You have the kid, share that, and go on your separate paths -- filling your lives with separate things, meeting new people, making new friends, watching different TV shows, rooting for rival sports teams, etc. As long as it's not competitive, these many varied influences will only help your child grown into a more well-rounded adult. Hooray for separated parenting!

Although, recently, it's felt a little different.

Don't get me wrong, Edan's mother and I (plus our respective significant others) -- as much as we're friends and all -- aren't about to form some multi-family parenting compound where we eat meals together and sew each other's clothing. It's more like both sets of parents were cruising along, doing their own thing, but then stumbled upon the Death Star, and are being sucked into the grips of The Empire by the station's tractor beam. Oh my God I am such a nerd.

Continued at ParentDish

Shhh...

Earlier this afternoon, we learned the word precarious.

For instance -- every now and again, Edan is still asleep when I pick her up from daycare. This puts dad in a precarious position. Wake her up while she's still in bed, and you're stuck for 15 minutes, waiting for groggy toddler angst to run its course. That, however, is nothing compared to the shit storm you'll see if she wakes up in her carseat -- oh, the screaming; oh, the pain.

So, standing over my slumbering child is like being Idiana Jones in that freaky, booby-trapped cave at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark. As Indy sizes up the rock, gauging its weight, I size up the kid, trying 2, 3, even 4 different grips before I find one that seems least likely to get my ass shot with poison darts. But when the deliberation is over, the action must be swift -- so he switches the rock with a bag full of sand, and I hoist Edan into my arms, whispering: "Shhhh."

For a moment, I'm still, and all is quiet.

Then move, move, MOVE! Sleeping toddler in my arms, and a big ass boulder chasing me out of the bedroom, through the living room, over the toys, past those dusty skeletons that gave me nightmares as a child and out the door! -- grabbing bags, shoes, artwork, teddy bears and my kick ass leather hat moments before the front door clicks shut. She's in the carseat, belts are buckled, and we're on our way before there's time for questions.

Later that night, I spent the better part of an hour soothing, calming, coaxing and manipulating my daughter into closing her eyes, lying still, and drifting off to sleep. She didn't care that we read books in the most boring voice I'm capable of, and didn't even yawn while I rocked her in my arms, softly singing: "Go to sleep, Little Edan, go to sleep."

But then, finally, I'd tricked her into staying motionless just long enough that her body caved in, and began to rest. I rubbed her back one more time, and whispered...

"Shhh."

My House Smells Like Stale Death

I love our new house. I love the space, I love the light, I love the floors -- I even love the potential I see in the backyard (after I rip out a couple dying trees).

But I hate the smell.

Damnit, why the hell would anyone go through the trouble of re-painting every room in a house -- presumably to make it easier to sell -- and then shut all the windows and smoke pack after pack after pack after pack of cigarettes like you were trying to create some new kind of cancer that only effects dry wall.

I'm not judging you for smoking. I smoked for years, and believe me, I was enamored with my habit. It felt good, it tasted good, and I won't lie: it made me look cool. In fact, the thought of spending another day scrubbing walls and bleaching bathrooms really makes me want a fucking cigarette.

However, after mixing cleaning concoctions of ammonium, baking powder and vinegar, then rubbing it for hours on all the walls --plus bombing the bathrooms with enough bleach to burn off all my nose hair -- you'd think that the stank of stale death wouldn't great me three feet from the entrance. But that thought would be wrong.

We have some guys coming to clean the vents this weekend, we'll be scrubbing the wood after that, and I hear rumors that if you leave your windows open for days at a time the stink will eventually go away. If that doesn't work, we'll cut our losses, cover the smell with primer, re-paint all the walls, and try and take comfort in the fact that this house was as affordable as it was.

Does anyone think it'd work if I just Febreezed the shit out of everything?

PS: That's tar on the fan blade in the above photo. The white patch is where Amanda rubbed it off with the hardcore cleaning solution. Awesome.

A Greener Shade of Jonathon

For everyone who's into living green (or wishes they were into it), I'm writing for a new site called Green Daily. It's a sort of "eco-friendly for dummies" -- which is good 'cause, while I'm interested, I'm obviously no activist.

Favorite post so far: Bike/Lawnmower Hybrid Makes Mowing a Ride in the Park

The New Favorite Song

Before we flew to my parents' house back at Christmas, I became obsessed with having enough toddler-entertaining material to keep Edan occupied in during plane flights -- whatever I could do to avoid being stuck with a screaming 2-year-old while trapped in tightly-sealed echo chambers soaring miles above the Earth.

As part of the process, I bought a $10 walkman and spent a couple hours making mix tapes -- which, as it turned out, Edan never listened to.

But during The Great Purge that's accompanied our move, I stumbled upon the See You on the Moon CD that I bought to mine for kid-friendly musical material. The album as a whole is a little too sad-bastard/hippy-dippy for my taste, but the second track is SO GOOD. Because she's a discerning indie-rock connoisseur in the making, Edan asks me to play this truly awesome song over and over and over.

It's her new favorite.

After you've listened to it, imagine a three-year-old singing the chorus. It's the cutest fucking thing ever. Click here for a sample.

Oh, How the Mighty Have Fallen

As the Internet seethes with stories of Britney Spears losing her mind, losing control, and losing custody of her kids, it reminds me of a more personal parenting defeat I've suffered recently. 'Twas the final battle in a war waged over four long years -- began by my younger, more energetic, self-righteous self, who, much like the chart-topping, schoolgirl-outfit-wearing, virginity-declaring Spears of yore, was fond of making dubious yet plausible statements of personal infallibility. I was pure of heart. I was a rock. I was the center of the universe, 'round which the planets did spin.

It was this version of myself that knew, for a fact, that Disney, and their band of weak-minded, romance-hungry princess characters were, more or less, evil. I believed, in all seriousness, that by refusing to acknowledge the existence of these spineless saps, that I could somehow hold back the tidal wave of sexism in pop culture, and keep it from my daughter.

And let's be clear. I still hate that Cinderella (who's pretty, because she's good) just sits there and takes it from her nasty step-sisters (who are ugly, because they're bad), waiting around for magic to sweep her off her feet and into the arms of some hunky dude who will solve all her problems and make her life complete. Just shut up and look pretty and you'll win -- with a man! Hooray! No more problems!

Continued at ParentDish.