Pre-school Stars, Steve Ditko, and Ladybugs

My four year old is The Clasroom Star this upcoming week. Which means that her class will be decorated by a poster all about our daughter and that all the other snot-nosers will finally worship her, or something I suppose. I was never filled in on all the details, but then I never asked for them. After all, she is a growing young woman and I gotta trust some of her choices.

Some...

One of the spaces she was supposed to fill out in this poster asks what she wants to be when she grows up. Independently, and with no prompting from either parent, she told both my wife and I of her plans to be a piggy when she reaches full maturity.

My wife thinks she talked her down to a the possibility of being a farmer. Which is kinda cool because it goes along nicely with my whole localism/agrarian-based society of the future thing-y. But Joss' dreams were not dashed. She still insisted she'd make a wonderful - if not tasty - piggy.

After it became obvious that her uncle and I were not going to let this one go, she found an alternative suggestion while getting ready for bed.

"Ooh, how 'bout I be a ladybug?"

"Well, you're going to be one for Halloween."

She's well-rounded. She believes in fairy tales AND comic book heroes.

"And as a grown-up?"

"No, sweetie. Only for pretend. You can't turn into one. It's physiologically impossible. You won't *grow-up* to be a tiny little ladybug."

Thinking I could turn this into some kind of awesome parent lesson about the interconnectedness of all of creation or whatever, I continue.

"But you know who made the ladybugs?"

"Jee-- Jeeb--?"

"That's right, 'Jesus'."

"Wow... (Sparks flying) All the ladybugs?"

"Yes, honey. All of them. Do you know who else Jesus made?"

"Spider-Man!"

"Well, Jesus made all the spiders. Though I personally am no big fan of that action."

"But not Spider-Man?" She actually sounds a little bit disappointed here. As if let down by this glaring omission of Jesus'. Was Spidey merely a freak of nature as J. Jonah Jameson has suggested for all these years?

"No, Spider-Man is pretend. He's not real. But Jesus did make the brilliant minds of Steve Ditko and Stan Lee, who invented Spider-Man..."

"Oh."

And that, kids, is how nerds are born.

Hair, Glorious Hair

This is 'Nyssa. One of my daughter's best friends. And she has glorious hair. But being African-Latino, she wouldn't know it from listening to and watching mainstream ideas of beauty. By "mainstream", of course, we mean most images pumped through our psyches via commercials, television shows, ads, movies, dolls, cartoons, magazines, videos, websites, big fashion shows...

Sure, there are some black and Latino actors/models/spokespersons/casts. But they are the very exception to the Rule of White Supremacy in Body Image. And they seem to merely prove the Rule of White Supremacy in Body Image: White people look best. Blonde is sexy - straight or curly, but definitely controlled. Barbie is the ideal female, and the norm is Jennifer Anniston. Non-white women are usually accepted by the larger culture based on Euro-American ideas of beauty.

So it was pretty awesome when Nyssa decided one day to have her hair out. She looked different, but it's a look that's not only natural, it's tremendously beautiful.

It's amazing that, even before the age of four, she understood and internalized the RWSBI. She was ashamed of her hair. Being part Puerto Rican, with dark, thick curly hair, I can relate a bit. When I was an awkward teenager, I wanted the long, straight hair of the rock stars I saw on MTV. But it would never come out long and straight, but frizzy and all over the place. The closest approximation I could give is that I had an unkempt Jewfro. And for a White boy, this was unacceptable.

Some years later, my wife demonstrated that she loved me and really liked my curly, curly hair. Feeling accepted (and in some ways, exceptional) made me accept my own self, my own body, my own glorious mess of hair (which, fortunately, our daughter adopted. It looks magnificent on her, dang it).

Somehow, the message of love and self-acceptance got to my daughter's gorgeous best friend before she turned four. She woke up one morning and decided she wanted her hair out.

Of course, when Joss went with me to pick Nyssa up a few days ago, she walked right past 'Nyssa to her mom and asked where her friend was. Boldness sometimes takes some adjusting to...

Sometimes-Friend, Always-Daddy (II)

Part 1 available here.

Fortunately for me, "I'm not your friend anymore," is too easy. I saw and anticipated this photo © 2010 Newsbie Pix | more info (via: Wylio)
maneuver from miles away. And believing as I do that friendship with your child is fleeting, believing in the discipline of healthy boundaries of love and respect, I firmly and exuberantly shot down any hopes she had of marionetting me. In the future, she would be a teenager, but, today, she would not make me cry!

I did not miss a beat*. "That's okay, Jocelyn. I don't need to be your friend. But you know what? I'll always be your daddy. And you'll always be my daughter. And nothing, ever could ever change that. No matter what, I'm your daddy, and you're my daughter."

And it worked!

It worked so well, in fact, she repeats this refrain to me every time she is bothered by my inability to acquiesce to her every diva whim:

"(Nodding. Stern. Index finger blazing and blond eyebrows scrunched.) I'm not your friend. (And then open, warm, thoughtful, almost repentant.) But I'm your daughter."

In hindsight, I probably could've warned my wife. But her shock at this statement amused me, and I don't like wasting amusing opportunities.

----------

*It's a rare moment of genuine pride in myself. Can you tell?

pt. 1

Sometimes-Friend, Always-Daddy (I)

part 1 of 2 (concluded on Sunday)

Image courtesy of our friend Ysenia. Model: Joss. Clothes: not sure.

"I'm not your friend! I'm your daughter!"

The first part of that statement came from school - from the subtle, controlling interactions that kids have with each other.

"Oh, you're not going to let me get my way?," the three-year olds threaten each other on an hourly basis, huddling next to the toys like war chiefs over weapons and suitcases full of money. "Well then, you'll just have to get by without my friendship. See what I did there? I played you like a puppet, child!"

It is manipulative, of course. Children themselves are easily duped because they don't have their guards up (yet). Because they are the victims of manipulation so frequently, it is only a matter of time before they learn easy ways of pulling each others' strings.

They're like political parties in that sense.

In about five-to-ten years, she will develop much more subtle, crafty, nuanced, and yet sharper-edged tools to move her parents like pawns on a chess board. It will be hard during this period to keep up. But afterwards she will become a full-fledged, emerging adult.

And then we can finally give up trying.

Stay tuned for Part 2

and find out how this puppet gets played!

Being There

Johnny Cash and Russ Taff have trembling, earth-shaking voices. So when they sing "Were You There?" - the Good Friday-through-Easter spiritual - you can't help but tremble and shout alongside them.

But my daughter has been singing it recently. She doesn't have the gravitas of voice, of course. She's only three, so her little high, girlish falsetto hasn't begun to develop, much less into something that she could know how to control.

But it's the fact that it's her, my little mortal princess, my darling, the little girl who comes to sleep with us in the middle of every night. This little girl who we sometimes struggle with to get her to take her three-times daily life-saving treatments. This little one who, today, I figured wears full-body pajamas that have as much cotton as my t-shirts. It's the fact that it's her whom I touch and hold and gives me besos and huggies that sings these lines that makes this song immediate and tangible and transcendent for me.

It's her that embodies something very close and personal and wonderful and scary about the rhythms of life and death and life again in ways that are new and earth-shattering for me.

Somehow, though she doesn't quite understand the gravitas of the two thousand year old mystery of the death and resurrection of a Jewish prophet/homeless teacher, man/God, she conveys it to me in simply profound, understated, and relational ways.

Thank you, Jesus.

Come on, vamonos! Let's explore!

De-da-da-Dora!
- Theme song

A couple years ago, eeeeveeeerything was about Elmo. Elmo toys, Elmo movies, Elmo videos, roughly four Elmo plushies, Elmo dishes... Our daughter has since diversified, but the big game winners here, in terms of merchandise, are the Disney princesses* and Dora the Explorer.

Dora... has her weaknesses. She's bossy. She's always telling the kids what to do ("Say, 'Delicioso'!") and she treats her animal friends a bit patronizing. And then there's the coying, pat-on-the-backs for every little effort. I mean, seriously? Some kids repeat "Vamonos" and Dora and Boots treat them like some kind of liberators! And my kid hardly even repeats the phrase. So not only is it hyped and unmerited praise, it's totally false and unearned.

One recent episode had Dora and her monkeyfriend Boots warn their woodland friends about an impending storm cloud - which was personified as a bratty eight-year old bully. Each time the cloud would surface, he'd rain a little bit and then Dora would lead all the others into singing the "Rain, rain, go away song." And then little Rain Cloud would go, "Ohh! I hate that song!" (He's not alone) and go scampering off, as rainclouds are wont to do when they hear children taunting them. Now, it made sense to do this until all their friends could find appropriate (and even build) appropriate shelter - but then, at the end, when everybody is safe and dry inside, she has the whole county teasing the misunderstood cumulus until it vows to never return.

Ain't that just messed up? She totally destroyed the ecosystem that she lives in just to show him who's the bigger bully!

But then...

Complaints about kids shows are superfluous, of course. The best shows are no replacement for decent parents. But sometimes, they can be a little extra. I've heard, for instance, that it takes nine positive encouragements to make up for one negative harsh statement. If that's the case, a lot of children are running a large deficit in appreciation, and characters like Dora help to fill in the gaps for some of them. It'd be nice if we could expect a television show to give realistic expectations to the children, but... um... it can't. That job belongs to the parents and the community (which implies, yes, we're *all* involved).

photo © 2007 Pedro Szekely | more info (via: Wylio)

Furthermore, in a time when White American children throughout the country witness their parents' apprehension of a new terror (Fear of a Brown Planet), they are becoming encultured to Spanish language, Latino foods, and dark-colored heroines. Latino culture is being normalized in the children at the same time it's being villainized on the radio. And that gives me a ray of esperanza.

I believe the children are the future...

*As per the Disney princesses, well... I'm conflicted. Of course I don't want her waiting around for her prince to come, but I see a level of empowerment and activism (and sensitivity to nature and the little ones) in the 'princesses' that I think is rather inspiring. But enough about those, they've been dissected so much by feminists and pop-cult analysts that I hardly think it's worth breathing the formaldehyde.

Loving the Individual Sinner, Hating the Institutional Sin

... and forgive us of our sins as we forgive the sins of those who trespass against us...

- Jesus

I just got back from a retreat that was bookended by some furious moments*. Rising early on Monday morning I was greeted (if that's the word for it) by an email from a friend of a friend**. In an honestly odd and disturbing manner he took me to task for standing up for African Americans in a conversation with our mutual friend. And then he practically ordered that I defend him as he - according to his story - is constantly under attack by the African Americans that live around him. After telling him a truncated version of my life story I assured him that I stand and advocate for all who are abused, marginalized, oppressed and beaten-down. And then I challenged him and told him that he should stand WITH those that attack him.

He didn't like that. His response showed anger that I wasn't siding with him and against them. And with that, he showed his true colors.

But I'll talk more on that later.

I was in a rush to see my wife this evening. As usual, running late to an event (this one an appreciation dinner for volunteers - of which I'm one, though a small part - at a local social services organization) and passing a group of African Americans, one of whom calls me by name. I couldn't recognize him instantly, but he did me and asked me about church, etc. Feeling bad that I was running behind and frustrated that I couldn't place him, I told him I had to get going to this event. As I made way down the block, some kid (I can only presume) throws a pen at my back. I didn't have time (or the patience) to return to the scene of the crime, so I kept walking and lifted my shoulders as if to ask, "Why?"

There is something that I want to say to both of these people, to the child and to the man:

Open your eyes and realize that you are enslaved. Break the shackles off your mental slavery, from your feelings of woeful inadequacy. You are better than what society has told you you are, and you do not need to hurt others to feel better about yourself. Together, we can defeat your mindset and the tools and armies of oppression that surround us all. Divided, we only fight and die divided.

But it was my toddler's near-ragged, relentlessly exhausted and exhausting, cragginess and violent rebuttals to night-night that caused me to look inward as well. I struggle to not continue the cycle of violence and shame that I learned from my own dad and thus drag her into it. And that's harder to perform than swinging a good, swift swat. But I also have to remember about grace, and redemption. And about not continuing the same block-headed stubbornness that my father and I were locked into for some eighteen long years.

Sure, Jocelyn - the sinful and stubborn little booger that she is - needed a time-out. She needed to learn to listen to her daddy and sit in that corner until the bell rang as a reminder to not hit. But she also needed grace. And a blankie. And forgiveness. And a long hug.

I gave her those things. And sent her back to her corner for the last minute or so. And then we cleaned out her nose and read stories and laughed.

And I asked if I could pray for her. And as she was falling featherly deeper and sounder into her sleep-state, I prayed the Lord's prayer over her. And I decidedly meant every word. Whether or not my child understood every word, I felt her approval as if God were nodding as she was nodding off.

Forgive me my pettiness, Oh Lord.

........

Now on to the title of the piece and the idea of true colors:

A motif that I've noticed recently is that people (and this tends to be White people, but they're certainly not the only ones. But what I've noticed recently has to do with Whites' responses to racism and racial injustice) have this incessant need to be forgiven for the systemic sins that they have no intentions of repenting from. It is ridiculous and stupid and evil and immoral and needs to be corrected, but I also realize that they are slaves to the institutional sin that they propagate (and that has been practiced on them). It is a sign of true colors: we're all slaves in one way or another to some system of sin, some - as we Christians sometimes call it - demonic stronghold.

This stronghold, this institutional sin, this immoral injustice needs to be rectified. And the person practicing it and legitimizing it needs to be corrected. But she also needs grace. He also needs to be loved. The hope is that we get to save both the lost sinner and end the enslaving system. That, in the long run, is win-win.

And I like those odds.

*There is one more moment that I can not stand to testify about, at least at this moment. But in sticking up for a (somewhat righteously) stigmatized group, I was labeled with the same stigma. I can only imagine that the young man who made such uncharitable, inflammatory and just plain hurtful remarks toward me has suffered some deep, uncharitable, inflammatory and just plain hurtful pain himself - possibly in a related way.

Or, he could just be a self-righteous prick hiding under the relative anonymity of Facebook. I did offer to kick his ass if he so desires to come to Chicago and he hasn't taken me up on that offer yet...

**Friend and email both being loose terms as this was all done through the miracle of Facebook.

5 Lessons Learned from Continuously Reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar

1) Caterpillars are very hungry.

2) Fruit, no matter how much is eaten, does not fill you.

3) Leaves make for a good elixir if overeating is what ails you.

4) When you get too heavy, you should build a house of shame around yourself for three weeks.

5) Excessive junk food leads to you being a beautiful butterfly.

Happy birthday, dear Joss.

The terrible two's, eh?

It seems weird in that when she's not sick and holding on to us for dear life (and giving us kisses in an apparent decision to share her diseases), she's fiercely independent.

But when has that not been the case?

In honor of her turning two, I gathered up 18 photos representing the last twelve months of her life (because we only took three pictures for every two months) and put a little She & Him on top of it like so much butter and maple syrup on your favorite pancakes. Mmm, 'joy!

And I took the road less traveled... Or maybe not. Can't quite remember

Jocelyn turns two in a couple days (and of course, a powerful, rockin' montage set to a power ballad by White Snake is due). This isn't in itself great news. I mean, it would be if anybody at any particular time ever looked forward to their child becoming a two-year old monster. I imagine Joseph fretting about the decision he made a couple years back to stick with Mary and her "miraculous birth": "Why is this child throwing temper-tantrums in Egypt of all places?!"

We are excited, though, because it marks another era in our tot's life: day care. For the last two years, Jennie and I have traded duties watching the child. For a few months, my wife even went to work with the baby several days a week - wherein there was no nap time and there was plenty of screaming (mostly from Jocelyn, I'm assured). In a highrise office building. In downtown Chicago. The Loop.

For the last year, I stayed home with the child nearly full-time as I weighed my job options. Which, to be frank, were very limited to begin with - and moreso limited as the recession took hold of the pay-for-words world. But also during that time, I've begun to heal. I've faced some demons, and still have many others in my closet that I've yet to eradicate - but the process has begun. Life has slowed down to a crawl so that I may listen to someone who does not yet know how to speak her needs or wants. My hopes are that I continue to listen, I continue to grow and learn in this area for my family's sake and that I can take that with me wherever I go - that I may be a listener.

And I believe that those first two years were crucial for the child as well. She got to make permanent bonds with her parents that - Lord willing - will never, ever, ever break. But she is also ready to move on. Her first and primary inclination is to be inquisitive. We may as well have named her Georgetta. Secondly, she's sociable. Especially with people her size. She cried twice yesterday when we left two groups of neighborhood kids.

See how she gets along so well with others?

In short, three roads are converging right now, and they meet at Kedzie and Diversey at Diversey Day Care. Financially, we're about as ready as ever. Psychologically, I'm ready for the change. Socially, Joss is more than ready. Relationally, our family is ready.

Boys don't cry

I know that there's other, more important stuff in the news today. Like Derek Webb releasing his sh*t-filled record online today only to have complications with the ordering process. And Facebook is acting mighty peculiar - maybe because they're so busy turning our status updates over to the robots and general stalking populace.

But I got caught up in just how naive this couple is. Parents of a 2 1/2 year old child are being purposefully ambiguous about the sex of their child. They dress "Pop" up in both boys' and girls' clothing (jeans and dresses, which, incidentally, my 2 year old girl wears) and have sported the child in traditional hairstyles of both genders.

Why? Well, they believe that gender is a social construct, according to The Local (Sweden's News in English, according to the virtual masthead). Further:

“We want Pop to grow up more freely and avoid being forced into a specific gender mould from the outset,” Pop’s mother said. “It's cruel to bring a child into the world with a blue or pink stamp on their forehead.”

The child's parents said so long as they keep Pop’s gender a secret, he or she will be able to avoid preconceived notions of how people should be treated if male or female.

I will not argue that gender is not a social construct, just that it isn't fully. Nobody forces a boy to like a Tonka truck or to be more aggressive in his pursuits -- sometimes ostracizing girls - like my infinitely curious child- in the process of protecting their GI Joes, as I noticed at a Reading for Tots on Monday morn. Or ostracizing nearly everybody else in declaring their Alpha-ness as I noticed in my childhood - being quite the Zed kid. Neither my wife nor I are crazy about phones, so it strikes me as a bit odd on first view to see how much Joss loves to take just about anything (including plates, cups, stuffed monkeys and the loose cell phone) to pretend talking on it. As curious as she is about objects, she's much more interested in people and in social circumstances. It wasn't our expectations -- or others' -- that forced that on her.


What is it? I'm not sure. It doesn't sound like anybody's exactly sure. Some very heterosexual girls prefer playing with cars and straight boys would prefer to wear dresses if they get the chance (as many married men have been caught doing while the wife's away).

Psychologists differ on the overall effect of this experiment, but I'm left wondering why the same people who believe that gender is primarily 'learned' do not believe also that sexual identity is learned, but rather primarily biological.

Just sayin'...

Oh, yeah, and then there's the whole Xianjiang-China civil strife thing.

And some influential pop star died.

Baby Urban Outfitters Model?

Note the dispassionate, detached look, the post-ironic koala shirt and vintage sweater, the black skinny-pants and the sparkly shoes. I think we have a toddler hipster on our hands.

My question: if one is posing as a member of a group that is made up of self-aware poseurs, doesn't that automatically make one an authentic member of that group?

In other words, does Joss get a pass to subscribe to Paper and argue about hipster bands that are so new they don't even exist yet? PBR is out of the question, as is American Apparel, but PB&J and the Cool Kids are okay, right?

Ready for our close-up, baby!

First ever YouTube video. I may or may not take it down soon. In fact, you may never, ever hear from me again, depending on how my wife feels after finding out I uploaded this little ditty. (And yes, I always have hated the song in the background.) Anyway, I think all the hot chicks in this video are smookin'!

Eleven Months Old!

Let us start off with a little story:

Jocelyn has been rather fussy these last few days, largely because her molars are finally starting to come in. So, despite her best fights, screams and - today - clamp-downs on my fingers, I rub her gums down with Baby Orajel as often as I remember before naps and bedtime. I got all four sides of her mouth (her four-sies serve as the dividing line) with no small struggle, of course (did I mention that she nearly bit through my finger?).

Now, I must mention that Jocelyn isn't much of a kisser. She just doesn't show affection in that manner. When we move in to kiss her on the cheeks, she juts her whole neck and head as far away as possible. So, a delightful little change that she's shown recently is initializing the face rub and kiss. It's really cute. When she was younger, I used to have her "bite" (pre-raptor teeth) my nose. This is even more precious on the rare occasions that it happens. So of course I went in for the full kiss. It was sweet.



A moment later, I'm calming her down with some juice as she's on my lap. And I notice something on my lip. I pick out my tongue for a taste. It tastes like Dentist Office. While trying not to freak out the baby, I try to wipe the smear, but it's too late. My lips have gone numb.

She tricked me.

Now, on to developments:





She's been experimenting with standing and walking for the last month and a half now. And although she's not quite able to do either independently just yet, she has made some tremendous strides. For instance, she's able to stand on her own for about ten or so seconds at a time, sometimes more, sometimes less. I think it has a lot to do with fear. We've noticed that when Joss isn't so self-aware, she'll continually stand on her own (she's yet to learn to stand-up without support, but we're confident she'll get there) while freeing up her hands to grasp something else.


And then she'll realize that she's standing and that that's a bit risky.


I'm constantly amazed at how she figures to move from one object that is supporting her to another. It's as if Joss does risk assessments and physics problems in her head in a way that would make Big Blue green with envy and give a heart attack to steroid-addled mathematicians.


And she climbs. She sometimes climbs down, too. We were at the Field Museum here and going up and down the steps was an adventure for her. It was like Rocky.

Her little laugh-thing now is the shaking of the head. Shake heads with her, it's the cutest and funniest thing in the world. Nod your head every once in a while to keep things interesting. But, if you want to see the most joyous smile in the US, shake your head with our li'l Joss.

And, she adores, loves, worships at the paws of dogs. Dogs! Of all sizes - though she seems to prefer dogs that are just her size and dogs with a funny walk. Sometimes she'll cry if we pass a dog without giving her proper time to acquaint herself with it. Sometimes she'll cry if we don't spend forever with that dog.




Alas, animal lovers, we ain't getting one. We'll just freeload off our neighbors.

This Dad in Media?

This is a late addition to the Dads-in-Media Blogathon, hosted at RC's Strange Culture site.

I have a Gerber baby. Blond hair. Big, blue engaging eyes. Wide smile. Button nose. Balloon cheeks. Dimple on her right cheek.

But don't take my word for it.

Much more are available at our family blog.

And that's quite a nice thing. Because I am not such a looker. So I live vicariously through her.

Sometimes we go out and people gawk and whisper and aww and laugh and giggle at, with, or to my sweet Jocelyn. And I am the proud papa.

And then every once in a while, I have to question my pride. Or what my pride is based on.

For instance, the other day we went to a festival here in the city. And, once again, a random person looks at Joss and says something to the effect of, "O my. She's so beautiful. God bless her."

I know I sound insulted and frankly patronizing. I shouldn't be. In fact, I'm quite grateful and taken aback every time she is complimented. But this comment automatically - partially because I am cynical - made me revert to its negative. And I said to my wife, with maybe too much audible disgust, "So, if she wasn't beautiful, then what? God d**n her? What if she were ugly?"

I then reassured Joss, tucked away by then in her stroller, that I would love her just the same. That she is my daughter, completely novel to the wily ways of the world, and I am hers to love her and protect her - no matter what.

But that doesn't mean that I'm not guilty of not thinking about capitalizing (exploiting?) her natural beauty and other talents. She is - like her mother and father in the days of their youth (and had we not been corrupted by adult evils, still to this day) - easy-going. That is, unless she is teething. Or sleep-deprived.

Sometimes, she doesn't get her way. She gets hungry. Did I mention that she's cranky when she doesn't get enough sleep, and sometimes that goes hand-in-hand with her teething? We're still trying to recover sleep lost in early January.

But, generally speaking, she is a low-key, low-maintenance baby. And telegenetic. So much so that she should be in advertising.

So we, her humble parents, think.

But every time that we've tried to pursue that course of action (or thought we were pursuing that course of action) we ran into that dreaded A word. Agent. Or, just as bad, Manager.

That brings to mind other words, parts of a culture and lifestyle that admittedly need to remain distant from our lives. Other people like, stage parents. Directors. Stylists. The Ramseys. Other matters like exploitation. Makeup. Baby Beauty Pageants. Stage parents. Other stage parents. All of the other kids in Little Miss Sunshine. Us becoming stage parents.

Sure, we could use the money (considering the possibility that we may actually turn a profit from exploiting our baby, that enough people may want to use her image and pay handsomely for it to make it all worthwhile for the time and energy we would put into it). But it would all go to her for her own future use. And, to be honest, we could use the money now. She eats. We can't watch her and work at the same time. Y'know, stuff like that. College? Both of us paid out of pocket (or are still paying...). Why should she get off easy?

But all that aside, I don't think that I'm ready to be a Gerber Daddy.

Weekly Links We Like to Link to - Narcissist Edition

I remember the first words that came out of my mouth when I first saw our red-fluid-covered daughter. "Oh, baby, look at her. She's beautiful!"

I'm convinced that Joss gets more cute each and every month. When she's 5, there will be no stopping her. When she's 7, we will attend her coronation as the first ever Princess of the USA. Obama will bow down before her awesome radiance. Of course, she'll give all glory to the giver of good things, the maker and redeemer and originator of all beauty, God.

You want proof? You say, you need evidence from Day 1 on?

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Exhibit A: familydyegest.

Just a few images from recent history:






In August, we are going to Colombia. It's a country. It's in South America. It's about 75 degrees there all year long. We'll be working with the displaced.

Want more information? This is our Journey Journal. (It's in Wordpress, which is a different language altogether. We're still working on it.)

Used to be...

When she was younger and would be able to fall asleep on my shoulder rather than almost exclusively in her crib, other fathers with more fatherly experience would advise me to treasure these moments. These moments of your little child clutching your shoulder, fixing her face into the shape of your neck, resting. They are precious. They are fleeting. They will not last. She will soon be a holy terror, without the holiness.

Listening to her breath bob up and down like forced waves or a sleepy Miss Piggy (she used to have a breathing problem that we still aren't too sure about, but it seems to have resolved itself finally; so, God is good), watching her back expand and retreat slowly, noting her deep icy blue eyes lost to the world as they are covered by a heavy drape, and looking at her little mouth curve in lazy smiles and frowns - it was all so and too wonderful for me.

It was a good thing. And like all other good things, its days are numbered.

She learned to crawl on my birthday, one month ago. Let's call that day Day 1. Of Armaggedon.


Before, my wife and I used to be able to do activities while she was awake. All we needed to do was spend some time with her, make her feel loved and appreciated, read to her, change her diaper. And feed her. Comfort her when her gums were splitting open with new aspiring teeth. That sort of thing. But generally, she was pretty self-sufficient. If she was feeling particularly angst-y, we could plop a Baby Einstein video in. Baby Einstein - either to its credit or our detriment - worked in a magical way that no other drug or affection has been able to replicate.

It used to be so easy.

It used to be that she would eventually go to sleep if we let her alone enough, because she had no other options. She had nowhere else to go, unless she decided to keep turning (and every once in a while, get a limb stuck between two posts and in need of rescue). Eventually, if all is taken care of, her boredom would get the best of her and she would enter the dream world of infants, possibly facilitated by one of the plush elephants from the Baby Einstein world. You see, it used to be easy.


Nowadays, however, she gets into every thing. Every. Possible. Thing. She stands up in the crib; so putting her down for a nap usually entails taking her out in her stroller until she conks out from all that exposure to the sun and vehicle exhaust. It used to be easy.

Resultingly (beat that, OE), she is constantly tired and cranky. Her high-maintenance is at a peak generally by the time I get home, although I am assured that she has never, for one moment while I was gone, let up or allowed her mother to find a moment's rest. I only have the baby for her first waking hour and her last three hours (some of which may be in that pseudo-sleep stage where she merely pretends to sleep but is really playing Godzilla in her crib, practicing terrorizing all of the other pre-K kids by taking their lunch money and organic granola and yogurt), so I cannot complain too much. But, c'mon! It used to be easy.

I'm not so sure of what I'm doing all the time with her. So, sometimes, she screams in my ear. And I run out of tricks to calm her down. It used to be easy.

She also walks. But it is highly assisted walking. The sort of walking that she does merely by putting it in her mind that her legs are going to goose-step in a rapid succession to a particular place, but her core doesn't yet know how to respond. So we give her a little moral and physical booster by holding her little hands aloft, so that she remains vertical, or at least at a bit of a slant (she walks like an over-joyed version of a cartoon character with purpose). My back hurts.

It used to be easy.

She's entirely social and aware. She laughs an excitable and contagious laugh whenever she encounters another pre-adolescent. But sometimes she seems like she wants nothing to do with members of her own family. She screamed bloody murder when my brother came to pick her up one time. If we hadn't learned our lesson then, she may have done the same with Jen's family (she certainly gave the cringing 'I'm ready to scream' look).

There was a time, it used to be easy.
When she was younger and would be able to fall asleep on my shoulder rather than almost exclusively in her crib, other fathers with more fatherly experience would advise me to treasure these moments. These moments of your little child clutching your shoulder, fixing her face into the shape of your neck, resting. They are precious. They are fleeting. They will not last. She will soon be a holy terror, without the holiness.

Listening to her breath bob up and down like forced waves or a sleepy Miss Piggy (she used to have a breathing problem that we still aren't too sure about, but it seems to have resolved itself finally; so, God is good), watching her back expand and retreat slowly, noting her deep icy blue eyes lost to the world as they are covered by a heavy drape, and looking at her little mouth curve in lazy smiles and frowns - it was all so and too wonderful for me.

It was a good thing. And like all other good things, its days are numbered.

She learned to crawl on my birthday, one month ago. Let's call that day Day 1. Of Armaggedon.


Before, my wife and I used to be able to do activities while she was awake. All we needed to do was spend some time with her, make her feel loved and appreciated, read to her, change her diaper. And feed her. Comfort her when her gums were splitting open with new aspiring teeth. That sort of thing. But generally, she was pretty self-sufficient. If she was feeling particularly angst-y, we could plop a Baby Einstein video in. Baby Einstein - either to its credit or our detriment - worked in a magical way that no other drug or affection has been able to replicate.

It used to be so easy.

It used to be that she would eventually go to sleep if we let her alone enough, because she had no other options. She had nowhere else to go, unless she decided to keep turning (and every once in a while, get a limb stuck between two posts and in need of rescue). Eventually, if all is taken care of, her boredom would get the best of her and she would enter the dream world of infants, possibly facilitated by one of the plush elephants from the Baby Einstein world. You see, it used to be easy.


Nowadays, however, she gets into every thing. Every. Possible. Thing. She stands up in the crib; so putting her down for a nap usually entails taking her out in her stroller until she conks out from all that exposure to the sun and vehicle exhaust. It used to be easy.

Resultingly (beat that, OE), she is constantly tired and cranky. Her high-maintenance is at a peak generally by the time I get home, although I am assured that she has never, for one moment while I was gone, let up or allowed her mother to find a moment's rest. I only have the baby for her first waking hour and her last three hours (some of which may be in that pseudo-sleep stage where she merely pretends to sleep but is really playing Godzilla in her crib, practicing terrorizing all of the other pre-K kids by taking their lunch money and organic granola and yogurt), so I cannot complain too much. But, c'mon! It used to be easy.

I'm not so sure of what I'm doing all the time with her. So, sometimes, she screams in my ear. And I run out of tricks to calm her down. It used to be easy.

She also walks. But it is highly assisted walking. The sort of walking that she does merely by putting it in her mind that her legs are going to goose-step in a rapid succession to a particular place, but her core doesn't yet know how to respond. So we give her a little moral and physical booster by holding her little hands aloft, so that she remains vertical, or at least at a bit of a slant (she walks like an over-joyed version of a cartoon character with purpose). My back hurts.

It used to be easy.

She's entirely social and aware. She laughs an excitable and contagious laugh whenever she encounters another pre-adolescent. But sometimes she seems like she wants nothing to do with members of her own family. She screamed bloody murder when my brother came to pick her up one time. If we hadn't learned our lesson then, she may have done the same with Jen's family (she certainly gave the cringing 'I'm ready to scream' look).

There was a time, it used to be easy.

The apartment is anything but childproof. And we don't have enough vertical space to move everything three and a half feet off the ground. Which means that we have to watch her. All. The. Time.

She's in an in-between stage right now. In between a dependent aloofness and an independent aloofness. In between needing to be carried and needing to walk on her own. In between an almost permanent smile to a shifting curiosity.

It's a foreshadowing. This is what her teenager years will be like.

Life used to be easy.
The apartment is anything but childproof. And we don't have enough vertical space to move everything three and a half feet off the ground. Which means that we have to watch her. All. The. Time.

She's in an in-between stage right now. In between a dependent aloofness and an independent aloofness. In between needing to be carried and needing to walk on her own. In between an almost permanent smile to a shifting curiosity.

It's a foreshadowing. This is what her teenager years will be like.

Life used to be easy.

The Cutest Giant

The revelation struck Jen yesterday when she took our princess out to the park. It's a park that we've had our sights on for the last year and a half and had high hopes of eventually bringing our playing baby to, once the weather and her aptitude permitted. And so, for the last week, my wife brought our daughter (sometimes with daddy in tow) to this cute little baby/toddler park with the cushy ground. (Remember when we were kids and the concrete under the monkey bars was softened by jagged rocks, broken bottles and syringes? No more. The floors here are so soft, you could use them as pillows. In fact...)

Jocelyn is learning how to walk. Or, at least she gives it the ol' college try. One foot in front of another while holding on to mommy or daddy with her fingers. As she was leading the way (and she is getting really choosy about the things that she comes in contact with), she was getting excited about following a group of kids that Jen noticed were smaller than her. But apparently, these kids could move all on their own.

The three little ones are having a good time at it with a lot of back-and-forth rapport, and the mothers start talking. One of the mothers asks my wife how old our daughter is. "Eight and a half months." Jen asks in return.

"Sixteen months."

We knew she was tall. But. Wow.

Wow.

But it was connecting with other things I was noticing. While on the swings a couple days before that, she was looking and laughing at a girl beside her who had obvious verbal skills (you know, like sentences and queries and the whole bit) and I noticed that Joss had to be nearly as big.

And her neck has just started showing up. It's identifiable, no longer hidden in folds of baby-chin. It's definitely my neck. Long and skinny. But with her cute hexagon-shaped head on top of it, she looks like a pumpkin on top of a tooth-pick. And with both mine and Jennie's Irish family roots, things just don't bode well for her.

And her legs. I was changing her yesterday and noticed her legs are about as long as a Rockett's. But baby-chunky, especially in the thighs. The length, at least, is another thing she got from me.

She is, indeed my precious, adorable giantess.

God bless the little man who falls for her.

For my birthday

Jocelyn started crawling.

She's been turning over and wiggling her little way all over town for about the last month.

Of course, this would happen on the one day of the week when I'm not at home...

(cue the violins)

Now, what this means in practical terms is, we gotta start baby-proofing. And fast!

Baby on Board

I picked up Joss from my wife's work today. It was a late day for both of them, so I made it as soon as I could. But I'd yet to vote and didn't expect that I would have needed to pick up the baby. But that's cool. I love being with her and I love watching these otherwise cool and detached passengers react to seeing this big, gruff, stay-puft marshmallow of a man play tender with a pink-encased six month old in a sling.

But this one ten year old gets on board with his father about half-way through the subway ride. The child is pesky, talkative and generally grating on my nerves. I take care of baby - who's a bit tired and sad-looking. She's not making any noise, but it's the hour that we put her down for bed and she is a bit hungry. And to top it off, there are a lot of people on the train. Just previously, she was reaching out to touch the fabric on some men's jackets. After getting a kind of stern look from an older gentleman, I had to remind her that that type of action is inappropriate.

The kid is complaining about some dinner arrangements. He only likes oatmeal, he tells and reminds his father and anyone else with ears to listen, over and over again. And the train - which is moving at a remarkable rate for rush hour, I think - is moving too slow for his taste. Which he also informs us about, to our passenger pleasure. But his father is patient and, probably much like I'll be, conciliatory toward the child. He's reassuring him, but only half paying attention. As any good parent would be at this stage.

I'm stroking her cheeks and chin every once in a while. Lifting her up and down. She's not smiling even when I blow on her. Neither is she so impressed when I - as we ascend from the subterranean pits to the sky like a freight train to Valhalla - show her the great, wet outdoors.

She looks around at the train* and the passengers. Setting her sights on a few faces or shapes, but never committing. That may be a major relational problem at a later stage in life. But, for now, she's just tired and hungry, but not tired and hungry enough to make a show of it. In fact, it's more of an anti-show.

The son and the father are making their way to the doors on the right side of the train, the ones to exit when the train is elevated. As the train pulls into the station, I notice that the son is walking out while the father, in a last fleeting moment, grasps some perspective on the train and notices what - or who - is in my sling.

Like really notices her.

"Oh my goodness. What a be-yootee-full baby. Mijo, she is so pretty! Those are the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen. O, son, you have to come look. Look at the beautiful little girl with the beautiful blue eyes..."

At this point, I begin to worry that the man may be disconnected from his own son, who doesn't give a flip, when the doors shut on him as he reluctantly makes his way to the exit.

"You have a very bee-yutiful girl!" he informs me as he steps onto the platform. There is always a mix of a sense of pride and a sense of embarrassment when people throw superlatives at her, or about my wife. I've personally never been very good at handling compliments. I had learned that pride is a sin and accepting compliments (even if they're not directly addressed to me) is an endorsement of my own pride (which, for whatever reason, is pretty big) and has therefore always been a tricky thing.

So I sheepishly say, "Thank you" and blush out my cheeks. The doors close, the car erupts in laughter.

Everyone shares a laugh in this except for Joss. Who just wants to go home.

* The train, it should be noted, is her friend. She sleeps by the train. Literally, she probably hears that same train we are riding in pass by her windows five times a day. It soothes her, it excites her, it sometimes forgets to call. The train is her bff. But I think that relationship is mostly with the exterior of the train. The inside is a different beast altogether.