She Probably Thinks This Blog Is About Her

Can it be that NJ is turning into a little narcissist? Or at least she's really working on her vanity, right along with her vocal and motor skills.

A couple of weeks ago we had a photographer in for a wide-ranging Vanity Fair-style photo spread of the child. NJ playing in a pile of toilet paper, NJ looking pensive in her great-grandfather's rocking chair, NJ looking slyly through the slats of her crib, NJ thumbing through her big cloth books. You know, the typical up-and-coming Hollywood star stuff. When the photos were done, The Wife and I were clicking through them on the computer here and NJ caught a look at the screen. She laughed and The Wife asked her if she recognized the kid in the photo. She laughed a little more, and I clicked on to the next shot. NJ was delighted when the next photo of herself materialized -- arms waving, beaming smile, adorable giggle. This continued, and escalated, with each new photograph. After a while I expected her to lean over and whisper "Let's use that one for the head shot, send it to Miramax stat" in my ear.

Over the weekend, NJ's fascination with herself spiked even higher. I've talked about our stops in front of the hallway mirror before, but a few days ago I noticed that it's no longer about me making a funny face, or the adorable juxt of big, beefy Dad Solo and his tiny, cute-as-hell daughter. No, it's all about her: NJ squeals, flaps her arms like a bird, kicks her legs and generally goes nuts, staring at herself. And just when I think it can't get any worse, she almost falls out of my arms reaching out to touch herself in the mirror. I guess I'd better not take her to the lake any time soon.

Oh well. I suppose it's hard to blame her. Who could resist this? She's not made of stone, after all.

Caption Contest

What mood/attitude/thought is going on here?

Super Solo Dad Diary, Day Two

12.30 a.m.-ish: I finally drop off to sleep. NJ went to bed at 8 p.m. and only stirred once -- when I shut the dishwasher door too hard. Three minutes of half-hearted warbling and she was back sawing logs.

4 a.m.: I wake up and lock eyes on the baby monitor. Why isn't that kid freaking out? It's quiet. Too quiet.

5.45 a.m.: Willie shifts position on the bed -- I never get the entire bed when The Wife is gone because he takes her place -- and wakes me up. I could get back in bed, but surely she'll be awake any minute, so I get dressed.

6 a.m.: The dogs are fed and in the back yard. NJ is smiling sleepily at me from her crib. She slept, or at least was content in her crib, for ten hours. I didn't think I could love her any more, but this cranks the dial to eleven.

8 a.m.: The Wife got some early-morning photos, NJ slammed down eight ounces (today's feeding movie: The Last Picture Show), and we played on the quilt for quite a while. Now, though, she's nodding off in her bouncy chair on the dining room table. An e-mail dings my cell phone awake: "She looks sleepy," The Wife replies to the last photo. We head downstairs to the napping swing.

10.30 a.m.: For the entire time NJ napped, almost two and a half hours, I was on the phone with tech support. Finally, with the computer healthy again, I turn on a basement light. By the time I get to the swing there's another sleepy smile waiting for me.

12 p.m.: It's too cold and drizzly to leave the house for no reason, so we don't. Dad Solo smokes up the kitchen frying bacon for a sandwich. NJ coughs a lot, but I think she accepted my apology.

12.30 p.m.: More play time. NJ is in a particularly flirty mood, which is awesome. Later, just as I'm thinking that my t-shirt is a little gamey, NJ yaks all over it. I get the hint, kid.

2 p.m.: Afternoon nap time. Dad Solo had three and a half cups of coffee in the morning, but nonetheless takes a nap, too.

3.50 p.m.: In the office, I hear cooing from NJ's swing. I smile.

4.45 p.m.: The sun is out now. NJ and I leave for the supermarket. Not only is The Wife going to come home to a happy baby and husband, but she's going to get a big bowl of delicious -- delicious! -- pork chili when she sits down. NJ is an adorable, smiling hit with both customers and the cashier.

6.30 p.m.: I tell NJ that her mother is going to walk through that door any minute now. She seems to perk up -- a very serious look crosses her face. Might be the aroma of sauteing garlic and jalapenos, might be her weighing the gravity of the situation. Who's to say? I put her in the Baby Bjorn.

6.38 p.m.: The Wife walks through the door. I can't see NJ's face, but her flailing arms and legs tell me she's happy to see her mom. The Wife beams, pulls her out of the harness and hugs her tight.

7.15 p.m.: Dinner is served. The Wife expertly eats a bowl of piping hot chili over NJ, who's delighted to be supping on real milk instead of formula.

All in all, Super Solo was a smashing success. Not a single bad moment and lots of good ones. My game plan of nervous anxiety seems to have worked again. I never celebrate a Texas Longhorns victory until the final gun sounds, and likewise I never declare a Super Solo victory until time has expired. Now, knowing this went well, I can look to future Super Solos without fear. Hopefully NJ has an inkling that if one of her parents disappears for an extended period of time, she's still in good hands with the other one. After all, they're both nuts about her.

Let's Do It Again

My parents were here last week, so Dad Solo wasn't so solo. In fact, I got to sleep in every day while my mother handled NJ after The Wife went to work, came and went as I pleased, and often handed off a cranky baby and just left the room for a while. And sometimes I practically had to wrestle NJ away from my mother; she's quite smitten with her granddaughter. My parents went home today after a nice Christmas holiday (NJ's new toys are strewn about the living room), so I take over again tomorrow. The two-day run a few days ago went so well, I'm sitting here Sunday night with a short, neat Talisker at my elbow thinking that things can only go downhill from here. I'm probably wrong about that: I was wrong a couple of weeks ago when I braced for disaster. But one thing I've learned from being a sports fan is that pessimists have more to savor when things go well. An ass-backwards way to live life, perhaps. It works for me, though.

Also, here's some video evidence of NJ laughing and smiling. You're probably thinking that a mere three days after I took to the Internet to declare her camera-shy, she indignantly set out to prove me wrong. Not necessarily so: The Wife got her to laughing up a little storm, and I surreptitiously leaned over the coffee table and captured the moment with my iPhone. A hidden camera trick that worked.



A happy NJ absolutely slays me.

My Daughter Is a British TV Janitor

On the (superior) Brit version of 'The Office,' about once every two episodes a janitor going about his business will move into view in the background. He'll stop whatever he's doing and stare into the camera with a severe case of Red Light-itis. The poor guy freezes, totally unable to move. The camera usually lingers on him a moment, then pans away or cuts to another scene.

NJ may have a future in cleaning suburban British office parks. She does the same thing.

Her smiles range from big, beautiful, open-mouthed beamers to wry little grins that see her lips pressed together in a light-hearted, innocent smirk. (She's too young to have her father's sarcasm, right? Maybe not -- she also does a single, arched Belushi eyebrow.) Recently she started really laughing, particularly at a language I made up specifically for the purpose of provoking guffaws. But whenever the camera, camcorder or iPhone is pointed at her, she clams up and looks at the device like it's the weirdest, most fantabulous thing she's ever seen (maybe it is, I don't know). And smiley NJ turns into curious, serious NJ. So for every photo we get like this:


There are a dozen or more in the series that look like this:


The smile photo is usually toward the end of the series. There's eight or nine shots of serious NJ studying the camera, then one with the beginnings of a smile, then a smile, then two or three like this one where she's past smiling and on to wondering why her mom and dad are acting like fools two feet away from her. Because to get that smile shot we end up really turning on the baby talk and silly behavior. (That usually means at least one good smile shot will be blurry because Dad shook the camera as he bounced around like a meth-addled chimp.)

The smile photo sessions usually start with a parent playing with NJ and realizing that she's laughing/smiling like a fool and rushing off for a photography device of some sort to capture the moment for all eternity. But retrieving the camera costs valuable time, and involves motion and maybe baby displacement, and once we're back the Red Light-itis sets in. It's like capturing lightning in a bottle.

On 'The Office,' it's a recurring gag that started off as a lark: The actor is the father of Stephen Merchant, who created the series with Ricky Gervais, and they just thought it would be funny to get his dad a bit part. What started off as a goof ended up being something 'The Office' fans ended up looking for expectantly, sort of a visual catch-phrase.

Here at home, I hope NJ grows out of it. I feel like I gain an extra ten minutes on my overall life span every time she laughs or smiles at me, so I'd like to see more of them. And one day when she's a sullen teen who sneers at every word that comes out of her father's mouth, I can remember a simpler, more innocent time when I could make her smile with a stream of jibberish.