The Curious Case Of Jimi Hendrix's Flying Honeybee Eyeball

NJ's been pretty moody lately -- The Wife put a comment on Facebook the other day lamenting the Terrible Twos and got a whole bunch of sympathetic responses (and warnings that the Threes could likely be even more Terrible ... so there's that) -- so we're doing what we can to tamp that stuff down without going whole-hog on the spoiling and caving in to every demand and whim. Sometimes it works; she seems to (finally) get the idea behind "just one more," for example.

But now it's really hit home for me how my actions can influence the course of events.

A few days ago I bought NJ the awesomest long-sleeved t-shirt ever, thanks to a discount at one of my favorite haberdashers. What 23-month-old wouldn't want to give major props to the man who taught the world how to play guitar? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you NJ and Mr. Chuck Berry:

"Daddy, I'm not going onstage until I have every dollar of my money, in cash, in a briefcase or even a dang paper bag. Otherwise, you gotta go out there and tell those kids there ain't gonna be no show tonight."

And, since I was already on the website, I figured I'd get a nice little something for myself, too. I had a discount, after all, but more importantly: I deserved it. So I did.

A couple of days ago NJ was on a real tear -- happy one minute, ticked off the next, then wailing, then laughing and crying simultaneously, the whole bit. Finally it was bath time and as usual I scooped her up to get her undressed and ready for the March of the Towel-Carrying Naked Baby down the hall to the tub. She'd been clinging to Mommy a bit, and as I put her on the changing table her cries for The Wife got louder and more insistent. Then she ratcheted things up to desperate. I laid her down and noticed she was looking at my belly with a heady mixture of fear, uncertainty and dread. I tried to soothe her, but the stink-eye persisted. I know, NJ, I know -- I gotta drop a few pounds, I get it! I thought. Then, with a quiver in her voice, she spoke as she gestured at my stomach:

"Honeybee?"

Bees are NJ's latest (and first, and only, as far as I know) scary fixation. The Wife started calling them "honeybees" in hopes of sweetening (ha!) bees' image with the kid. The PR effort has failed, at least up to now. Occasionally NJ will hesitate while playing outside because she saw a bee, or thought she saw a bee, or just associated flowers with bees and assumed bees were lurking.

But there were no bees in her room. What there was, though, was the new Wolfgang's Vault t-shirt I was wearing. It features this:

And the wind ... cries ... NJ

Yep, a tribute to the man who retaught the world how to play guitar (or tried to -- no one could keep up, really) frightened the dickens out of my kid. And it makes perfect sense that she'd associate this dodgy flying eyeball with another round, winged thing that can be scary.

Once I put two and two together -- and after I had a good chuckle while the kid lay uneasily on the changing table -- I pulled the shirt off, turned it inside-out and put it back on. And NJ's mood turned 180 degrees in a second: smiling, giggly, ready to continue our pre-bath rituals.

If it was me, I'd have been even more concerned that the flying eyeball was now inside my daddy's shirt, because just think of the chaos it could wreak there. But it wasn't me, it was her. And now I have to be sure to wear that shirt only when she's not around, or under a sweatshirt or something. Until she's old enough to appreciate Hendrix, of course. Perhaps her uncle will teach her to play "Purple Haze" one day and we can all head over to Capitol Hill, pay our respects and tell spooky stories about the Flying Honeybee Eyeball.

Maybe his eyes are closed because they flew away.

Now I'm looking over to the corner of my office, where a rolled-up poster is leaning against the printer table. Haven't gotten around to framing it or hanging up or anything, and now it's pretty clear that I won't be doing those things anytime soon. I guess it'll be safe to put it on the wall in, what -- fifteen years or so?

"It never got weird enough for me." -- Hunter S. Thompson

"It's too weird for me, Daddy." -- NJ

Socks Appeal*

*I know, I know: Lame. Saw-wee ... OK?

Big doin's here last evening, when I took my socks off in my office! (My home office, where it's allowed and normal and perfectly OK to take off socks.) It didn't take long for NJ, who shut us in the office together by pulling the toddler gate closed, to grab one, exclaim "Peee-yew!" and hold her nose. (I wonder what The Wife has been telling her ...) We played at that for a few moments, then she laid down on the floor for a few moments of deep thought.

There's no ennui like toddler ennui.

Eventually she decided she wanted to emulate her beloved father's bare-footedness.

Later on, the kid was honest enough to acknowledge that her socks, too, harbored a rather unsavory odor.

Guess what, though? NJ's goal wasn't bare feet. I turned to my computer for a few seconds, and when I turned back to her, she was trying to pull one of my socks onto her tiny little foot. I helped her, and she laughed her fanny off so we did the other one. Then, I laughed my fanny off. She had a little Nancy Sinatra go-go boots action going, with my socks pulled up to her hips. For the finishing touch, we put her socks back on, over mine. The result was splendiferous!

Check it out -- four socks at once. Isn't it just the craziest thing ever?

Coming soon to a runway near you. When is the next Fashion Week, anyway?

You Can't Always Get What You Want ...

... but if you try some time, you just might find that you get something else you want.*

We broke out the camcorder yesterday to get some footage of NJ's fast-developing walking skills. Lately she's trucked completely across the kitchen and has made several multi-step journeys to one parent or another -- these usually end with her plopping into said parent's lap, giggling. Of course, with the camera rolling, the last thing NJ wanted to do was walk. But we got some other footage that's pretty watchable, too.

Here you'll see the budding genius's anatomy lesson, followed by a quick demonstration of her telephone know-how:


Paging Dr. NJ, paging Dr. NJ ... please pick up the purple courtesy phone ...

And here, in her room, NJ shows off two of her latest hobbies -- grabbing every article of clothing within reach and putting it on her head, and tossing her adoring parents multiple hugging-and-kissing bones:


Awwwww ...

*Apologies to Mick and Keith

Lazy Sunday (And a Blog Post That Reflects It)

It's almost twenty-four hours later, and The Wife is still walking on air because yesterday, in line at Piroshky Piroshky in Pike Place Market, a stranger snapped a photo of NJ. (I know what you're wondering, the real question, and the answer is: I had the beef and cheese.)

NJ was decked out in the new sun hat we'd purchased moments earlier at a place that I'm going to have to sneak back to without The Wife, because they had some awesome rock and roll baby clothes. (Actually, I'm on the fence about returning because I overheard one saleswoman tell the other that she didn't like Eric Clapton, something I cannot abide. That's like saying you don't like sunshine.) Turning 9 months old has marked a growing milestone of sorts for the kid; no growth spurt, per se, but lots of clothes she's worn for a while have ended up in the "too small" pile over the past week. The Wife bought a couple of garments that I figured NJ would have to grow into over a few weeks; she's wearing them today, though, and they fit perfectly. Kid is growing -- pretty soon she won't be able to perform her favorite sleeping trick anymore, the Horizontal Spin:

NJ in 15 years: "Yes, Dad, it was creepy to photograph me while I was asleep."

Random Notes: NJ scooted backwards about two feet two days ago, further proof that babyproofing is in my near future ... Current favorite meal? Chicken and yogurt. Maybe NJ inherited my parents' distaste for lamb ... We think we taught her to "slip me some crimson, Timson" this morning, but her moves need work ... NJ also has been crushing hard on The Two Idiots lately, waving and/or clapping at them whenever they appear, and her affection is almost -- almost -- reciprocated. Willie the Lab has relaxed around her a great deal, and Zeus will even hang around her for a few moments. Still, there's no better way to get them out of a room than for NJ to let out one of her happy shrieks.

NJ's Ever-Evolving Social Skills: A Case Study

How She Gets What She Wants
Something I learned this week: If you go into your favorite sports replica clothing store wearing a cute baby who's happy and joyfully smiling at everyone she comes into contact with, the charmed storekeepers are likely to give her a free Seattle Angels t-shirt that she'll be big enough to wear in about three years.

How She Ignores What She Doesn't Want
NJ quite obviously and wantonly humored her father yesterday, something I'm sure I'll see again and again for the rest of my days. We were sitting on the couch playing with one of her ring toss games, and I started talking about something I'd just seen on the Internet. I'm doing my best to ix-nay the baby talk, lest she grow up thinking "boo-pa-doo-ba-doo" is an actual greeting to be used in all of society. So after I talked about what I was talking about I poked her in the tummy lightly and said "Know what I mean, kid?" She'd been watching the dog, who was by the end of the sofa, and when I poked her she turned toward me and widened her eyes a bit -- as if she'd been busted in class for not paying attention. Then she nodded her head, uttered a sound that was about ninety percent of "Uh-huh" and flashed the fakest, most last-minute, half-hearted, half-smile I've ever seen. I was actually a little taken aback at how cavalierly she'd treated me as she went back to watching the dog. Then, to add insult to injury, she darted her eyes back toward me -- to see if I was still looking at her -- and, upon seeing that I was, she quickly turned away again and began playing with toys and uttering noises that sounded suspiciously like the "duh-ta-da-ta-da" humming people do in movies when they're being conspicuously inconspicuous. It was a little soul-crushing, but a few minutes later she'd forgotten that I'd bored her silly with info on that night's starting pitchers. Hooray for short baby attention spans. I'm dreading the day she learns how to roll her eyes dismissively, though.

Otherwise, it's been a pretty uneventful week here at Dad Solo HQ. We're gearing up for The Wife's first Mother's Day as an honoree, something I need to think about this afternoon. I told The Wife my original plans a couple of evenings ago, and her response was about as enthusiastic as NJ's reaction to Felix Hernandez's ERA.

The World's Most Underrated Baby Milestone

Over the past couple of days it's become apparent that NJ understands arms and sleeves. Dressing her is no longer akin to putting a full-body leotard on a cat.

Exile on N. 74th St.

At five months old, NJ has outgrown all of her 0-3 months clothes and a lot of her 3-6 months clothes. Her weight is average, but her length (we'll call it 'height' once she stands, or at least sits up on her own) is off the charts, almost: 99th percentile. So, after a hugely successful Round One of clothes buying, gifting and recycling -- we actually shipped off infant clothes that hadn't even been worn yet to a friend who recently had a baby -- the kid needs almost a completely new wardrobe. The Wife went online the other day to get some very nice Baby Gap offerings, but I have to say, at the risk of sounding all braggy, I think Dad Solo hit a home run with this little number from the good people who keep Bill Graham's legacy alive at Wolfgang's Vault:


Uh, yes, Dad Solo has the same image on a t-shirt that he bought years ago. How did you know? Why do you ask? You think he's trying to mold NJ to his specific tastes? Is that what the rock-music-turned-into-lullaby CDs are all about? And the Beatles onesie she's been sporting lately? Why, how very, very cynical of you. I only want what's best for the child.

And sure, to me that means Keith Richards guitar riffs; Charlie Watts' swinging beat; poetic perspectives on growing up from Townshend, Springsteen and Strummer; Elvis Costello's snarky determination to make geeky be cool; and that "take me seriously, please, but whatever you do, don't take me seriously" thing that Bono has perfected. Sure, she'll cast this stuff aside one day to listen to God knows whatever will be popular in thirteen years, but I'm determined to make sure she soaks up as many Lennon-McCartney lyrics and awkward Clash chord changes as she can during her early, formative years. And even if she doesn't appreciate it, hopefully it'll give her an ingrained sense of what's important to her father. I don't listen to it now, but one of my best, earliest memories is sitting in the den getting into "Yakety Sax" on the Boots Randolph LP my mother sometimes put on to accompany her housecleaning. I think we might have even danced a time or two.

You may be thinking "PROJECTION," and you're probably right, but another relevant fact is this: I'm a little sick of looking at her shirt and seeing an adorable teddy bear or a pair of cuddly moose or a turtle with a funny hat. Roll those tumbling dice, I say. And anyway, if you saw NJ's beaming smile as we dance to "Brown Sugar" and "Oliver's Army" in the kitchen, well ... you'd know. On some level, she absolutely digs it.