One More Round Of Applause For The Kid

NJ turned 3 the other day, and a while back I decided that I'd write this blog's last post in honor of that occasion. Mainly for reasons outlined here.  (This is probably no surprise if you've noticed the dearth of posts the past few months.) There is one more story I'd like to share, though, before I sign off. It's about NJ and Paul McCartney.

A few years ago, my wife and I had only been expecting a few days when I heard Macca's then-new single. 'Dance Tonight' is the kind of song he's been writing for 40 years -- simple, sweet melody, nice beat, lyrics that get straight to the point, however slight that point may be. "Listen to this, it sounds like a children's song," I said. Then I read that he wrote the mandolin-heavy ditty, pretty much filler in the McCartney songbook, because his 3-year-old loved dancing when he played that instrument. As a prospective father-to-be, that warmed my heart. And since I can't play the mandolin, I vowed to play 'Dance Tonight' and dance around with my child when he or she was ready to dance.

A few weeks later we miscarried. I did the best I could to comfort my wife, and I held myself together pretty well (I thought). Until I was sitting at my desk the next day, sort of zoning out, when this song popped up on the iPod. I was so overcome that I kind of went numb for a few seconds before shutting off the music, getting up and storming out of the room. It was a bad night.

The thought of the song always took me back to that place, but I never got rid of it because I thought that would be cowardly, somehow; I skipped over it once, I think, but I have thousands and thousands of tracks and it certainly didn't come up often. It did come on again, though, about two years later when my wife was about four months along with NJ. I immediately felt a catch in my throat and a rush of bad feeling, very Pavlovian. But my wife was happy (as happy as a pregnant woman can be) and healthy, and NJ was, too. This was different. I skipped over the song that time, too, but it was more of a don't-jinx-anything move instead of despair.

Once NJ was here, bright and fresh and new, I never sought out 'Dance Tonight' on my iPod. The first time it came on NJ was more than a year old, not quite walking but otherwise up and about. She was in the room, too, and I'll tell you what: We danced. Since then I've dialed it up on the device a lot, sometimes with NJ and sometimes without her. It always makes me think of her. It usually makes me cry, too. Always has.

Oh, don't worry. He'll probably write stuff here once in a great while. He really can't help it.

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

Shameless Blog Padding, Warholian Edition

Very few records make it through the production process with a complete lineup of stellar tracks. The Boss has done it, a couple of times; the Stones and the Clash have done it (and double-albums, no less -- very impressive!); The Band did it. Usually, though, there's a song or two of filler: U2, for example, has never issued an album that didn't have at least one ignorable track, including these two masterpieces. And even what many consider arguably the greatest rock record ever gets a little bogged down by "She's Leaving Home," a song that, while I appreciate it more than I used to now that I'm an old man, usually gets skipped when the iPod dials it up.

Which is all a long-winded way of saying that this post is my "She's Leaving Home." But if you're a Dad Solo completist -- and OF COURSE YOU ARE! -- please forge ahead.

Andy Warhol. Never had much use for him, myself. He's one of The Wife's "Brush with Greatness" experiences (Manhattan street corner, a young assistant, a free copy of "Interview" magazine), and he gave the great Velvet Underground a platform -- these are two good things you can say about the man. On the other hand, he also made some truly unwatchable films (not even good, campy "bad" films that are fun to watch and riff on -- just terrible, excruciatingly awful films that can make you queasy) and that idiotic "In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes" ethos that's made Kim Kardashian and her ilk household names. And ... that hair. Oh, that hair.

Something I've come around on lately, though -- much like my aging heart now has a soft spot for Paul McCartney (of "She's Leaving Home" fame!) -- is Warhol's silkscreen works. I've grown to appreciate the DIY ethos, and the bright colors. And when you get tired of looking at portraits of Andy's celebrity pals, there's always a soup can, Coke bottle or automobile crash for a change of pace. Maybe Andy would have won me over sooner if he'd had a compelling subject. Like oh, say, this:

Take a hike, Edie.

Yes, thanks to the Warhol Museum, there's now an iPhone app that lets you "silkscreen" photos. And thanks to me, that app now resides on my cellphone. You can expect to see a lot more images of NJ rendered in vibrant, soul-enriching, life-affirming day-glo. You're welcome!

"In the future, everyone will be famous for as long as their doofus dads insist on chronicling their every move on the Internet."

As you can see, I need to work on my technique a bit -- these are rather crude silkscreens, at least compared to something as elaborate as this. But don't worry, dear reader -- I'll work on it.

... As Easy To Learn As Your ABCs

Who doesn't love giggly, funny-voiced childishness?



The kid's good, too.

This El Emenopee character sounds a little sketchy. He was one of Don Quixote's arch-rivals, right?

Overheard At The Dinner Table

"Daddy's funny."

Cheers to a job well done, Dad Solo!

A Bib And A Rib

After her introduction to barbeque in Houston, Texas, U.S.A. a couple of weeks ago, this past weekend NJ learned to eat ribs. What follows are some photographs of her with greasy hands, a greasy face, and a couple of ribs in the aforementioned greasy hands and face. And no, there's no barbeque sauce -- she's a toddler, not a heathen.

So, just eat the soft outside, right?

When Daddy eats a rib, he looks all dog-dumb and glassy-eyed, so I guess that's what you're supposed to do. Full speed ahead!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand here we go.

Hmmmm ... a little chin-stroking contemplation is in order, I do believe.

It's good! I like it. The skin is crunchy and peppery, and yet the meat isn't tough or overdone. It's a tangy, succulent taste treat. I give it four dirty diapers out of five!

Back off, Zeus! Don't even think about it.

(Not pictured: "Cookie ... one?")

Under The Radar

The Wife's been out of town since Thursday morning -- she had to leave America on business -- and she returns tomorrow (Sunday) morning. I haven't mentioned it yet because nothing extraordinary has happened with NJ and me, other than a full metric ton of adorable cute stuff that, if I listed in full, would go on and on and I'd end up looking like even more of a proud, hopelessly smitten daddy than I actually am.

The Wife was particularly worried about being gone for a weekend day, but NJ and I handled it just fine -- both slept until 8 a.m., took a long walk to a great bakery -- cheddar scone for me, small baked custard cake for NJ -- shopped Costco, napped, shopped the supermarket, ate, bathed (her), and partied. We've had a great time together, although we can't wait for The Wife to return.

Dad Solo misjudged Costco-vs.-naptime a little bit, but everything worked out OK.

Random notes:

• Other than a couple of expected tantrums -- food not coming fast enough, only one cookie proffered, the dreaded Shampoo Night -- NJ was the absolute picture of sweetness and light. I actually pinched myself once to make sure it all was actually occurring.
  
• For the first time in her life, I caught a whiff of bad breath on NJ. Stale, stinky morning breath. Now, if I smell it on her another 578 times, we'll be even.
• Her mastery of the English language continues to expand exponentially. The latest: She can say her name, and uses it instead of "bay-bee" when I show her a photo of herself.
  
• Couscous is her favorite food of the moment. She requested "coo-coos" for dinner last night and ate it with breakfast, lunch and dinner today.
• The buffalo-and-cheese patty melt I made her for dinner tonight? The dog loved it.
• When I took a box of Annie's Cheddar Bunnies off the supermarket shelf today and showed it to NJ, she exclaimed "Bunnies!" and pulled the box to her, hugging it and, I think, even kissing it. An elderly woman on the aisle almost fell over with a Cuteness Blackout.
  
• I think maybe my favorite thing ever is showing up to get NJ from day care and standing the big picture window, watching her play or read or sit, until she notices me. Then she kicks into action, heading first to the window with open arms and "Daddy!" on her lips, then to the door I'll be coming through. Once I pick her up, she beams and looks at her teachers and the other kids as if to say, "Yeah, I'm happy to see this big doofus because, gosh dang it, I love him." I hurt my face smiling every time it happens.

Daddy's got this single-parenting thing DOWN, suckas!

So, This Evening? The Cat's Away

And boy, did the mice play.

The Wife met a friend from out of town for dinner, so NJ and I were left to our own devices for dinner and amusement time in the evening. All my good socks were freshly washed and in the overflowing laundry basket, so I sorted the clean clothes while the kid cooed at the dog and played around on the bedroom floor. I tossed down a fresh, clean (I cannot stress that enough -- clean) pair of my jockey shorts near her, and the next thing we both knew about fifteen minutes of laughing and giggling had passed and NJ was sitting in a gigantic pile of underwear. When I reared back to toss a pair at NJ, her face lit up. When I launched them, she smiled (showing her two teeth and three of the four that are on their way). If a pair landed on her head, she laughed and laughed. When it fell off her head, she'd grab it and put it back, then move it for the next incoming pair. She even pulled a couple over her head and wore them like necklaces.

I thought about getting the camera, but do you really want to see my underwear? Yeah, I didn't think so. You're welcome, Internet!

The World's Most Underrated Baby Milestone 4: The Ultimate Baby Milestone

Sure, crawling and standing and walking are all big deals for a little kid. But last night I saw what has to be the be-all and end-all of baby milestones.

NJ was cranky in her high chair, and The Wife and I may or may not have been trying to cheer her up by busting moves from the world's most obnoxious wedding reception ritual, the Chicken Dance (apparently a day care fave), and/or imitating Mick Jagger's stage dancing (which also involves flapping chicken arms). NJ found this all quite amusing and laughed, then she pulled her hands into her chest and stuck her elbows out wide to make chicken wings. She smiled as though she'd just been accepted into a very exclusive club.

My little girl made chicken wings.

I'm getting a little misty-eyed just sitting here thinking about it.