Papa Pink Panda Blankie

Daddy, daddy.

That's how I know she's excited about what's gonna come out of her little girl squeaky vocal tubes.

Yep.

This blanket smells like you!

It does?

It does? Should I assume the best?

Here, smell.

I'm used to my four year old giving me directives. But this one, to be perfectly honest, may be a new one. I decide not to correct her this time. Thissss time.

Hmm...

The blanket is pink and lightweight - like a throw. It's not made to be a primary level of protection during Chicago winters. (For that, one should seek out the carcass of a brown bear. Hats and scarves made from timber-wolf fur and boots consisting of hollowed-out bunnies are also strongly encouraged.) But it is soft and comfy and has the heads of panda bears all over it (Not literally). And it's her current favorite.

So the fact that is smells a bit musky is a bit odd.

It smells weird, right?

She sounds almost adult as she says this. As adult as one can when sounding like a preschool-aged Betty Boop - sans the masculinity. Which makes it all the more disorienting. And, therefore, insulting.

Yeah... It kinda does, honey.

The good news is, now we know what pink pandas smell like: Me!

Hulk and Cocoa

Daddy, do you like Spider-Man?

Sometimes when we're in the potty, or getting ready for a bath, my daughter finds few distractions from her imagination.

Yes honey. I do.

Do you think he can come over to our house?

Well, I don't see why he would, to be honest. I hope he doesn't find the need to.

But he can, right?

Oh sure. It might be a little disorienting, but that would be pretty awesome.

See what I do there? I throw in a little vocabulary to add an extra level of educational awesomeness into the mix. Because nothing says "Daddy-daughter bonding" like "edutainmental fantasies."

But not Hulk, right? We don't want Hulk in our house, right?

No, no. Hulk will smash. He'll destroy everything.

Hulk is angry. He'll smash everything.

Yeah. We can't have that.

No...

My daughter's on the fast-track to becoming a Serious Comic Book Geek, in spite of her innate yet quite unnatural princess temperance. Who else ponders this stuff? Nerds, that's who.

Why is he angry?

I'm not sure. But that's what makes him the Hulk. He's innately angry. That's how he becomes the Hulk.

Oh...

Thinking. Where does she come up with this stuff? Do they have these brainstorming sessions in preschool? Or is this what she's thinking of during story time that gets her so easily distracted? Is this gonna keep her from Harvard?

She looks me in the eyes.

Daddy, what if we invite him for some hot chocolate?

The simple, profound power of imagination. God, I love this girl.

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.

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.

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.

Daddy's Little Girl 2

I got to play with Joss this whole weekend. I usually don't get to see her during the week except a few hours collectively. And usually she's just getting up or going to sleep. Or I'm fixing her diaper (yeah, because it's broke) or something in the middle of the night and I'm not at my best and I can't really be social with her since we're trying to make her actually sleep through the night.

So, we woke up early yesterday. Or rather, she woke me up early yesterday. And we hung out while mom finally got some sleep. And then we hung out this morning (and missed church) a few short (too few short) hours after she inexplicably woke up and wouldn't go back to sleep.

This afternoon, as her sleep time was nearing, I realized that I would need to leave to run an errand before the world shut down for Sunday afternoon. As I put on my coat, she recognized that version of me. It's the daddy who's leaving and won't be back for the whole day. It's the daddy that, honestly, I know that I need to be but I don't want to be.

She started crying. Severely. Her face turned beet-red. She turned around to see me again and again as I tried to reassure her that I wasn't gone yet and that mommy was there for her. She settled down and reestablished herself with mom. I washed up (man, it really, really tears me up to leave her. Literally.) and left.

I came back in about twenty minutes with a hope bursting in my heart. I would only have another twenty minutes or so with her, but they would gain some significance for me. She's becoming daddy's little girl, all the more precious because of what little awake time we spend together (her mother is far and away her favorite person. But I still like the recognition and appreciation of these fleeting moments from the moment I enter the door and her little head dramatically turns my direction and she flashes that gorgeous little smile of hers).

But, yeah, she couldn't care less. We hung out. She was on my arm and just chilling with me. She went to bed. All nonchalant like a little girl who was more than ready to go to bed.

And as she was passing into that great threshold into the deep caverns of sleep, she gazed at me and burst out her smile for one last appearance.

Here's a little story

I know so well...

The baby is going through The Teething, Act II. Which means she's not sleeping. Or sleeping very lightly. Which means that the Mrs. is sleeping for about an hour at a time, most of the time, and the most I can hope for is four hours a night. Which means that we're all a little fuzzy here.

And I'm always a little fuzzy at three in the morning.

So, she's crying. And I know I have to give her the medicine for her gums, the pain itself and then change her diaper and put her back into the crib and hope and pray to God that she sleeps for the rest of the morning. She won't. But God has been known to have mercy on the most destitute.

I take out the Infant Tylenol. It's administered in a droplet and tastes like cherry. She's never had cherry before, but she likes the flavor. She guzzles it like a toddler eating Flintstone vitamins, like a car needing gas, with just a wee bit of seepage spilling out. And then I rub in the Baby Orajel. She doesn't so much resist it this time. She tends to suck at it and relinquish it of its powers, but I've generally gotten better at getting it into her before she overcomes it.

Unfortunately, now I've got both of the medicines on my hands and I've already placed her down on the changing pad. I can't leave her to go to the bathroom and wash it off. And then I frantically search in my mind for a solution.

And I think, "Gosh, if only there were something in the baby room that is portable and wet that I could wipe my hands with. Kind of like tissue, but a little more durable. Something that would be delicate enough for my hands or a baby's behind. It would be preferable if it were white, so I could see in the dark. I need something to wipe my hands with in this here baby room."

If only...

Someone should invent this product. I for one would buy it.