Case Closed

Ever since NJ and I opened the Curious Case of the Jimi Hendrix Flying Honeybee Eyeball, I've been careful to wear the offending t-shirt under other clothes so's not to alarm her. If you're too lazy or obstinate to click on that link -- the kid was afraid my t-shirt with this on it:

Yesterday I pulled off a sweater, forgetting that I was wearing the Hendrix eyeball T underneath. But instead of getting frightened, NJ looked at it curiously, with a hint of a grin, and said "What's that?" I explained it, she studied it a few moments longer, then went back to her Play-Do. It appears that, at long last, the house is once again safe for flying eyeballs.

Don't know if this exchange had anything to do with NJ saying later on that she wanted to eat her mommy's eyeballs.

Beware The Ghost Of Christmas Just Very Recently Passed

When NJ and The Wife wake up from their respective naps, the Christmas tree will come down and the holidays will officially be over (don't tell my boss, though, because I have tomorrow off). The season didn't flash by quickly for me, as it has the past few years, but I'm always a little surprised when Jan. 1 and 2 roll around and I look back and say "Well, it's over" to myself. We just relegated the dead Christmas tree out to the side of the house, so it's all official and stuff: 2012 has started.

The best part of the h0liday season was NJ's complete and total warming up to my parents -- she got over her well-documented shyness in a big way. I knew things would go well when NJ, unprompted, crawled into my father's lap, spun around, sat down and put her thumb in her mouth. She'd glance over at him occasionally, and they'd smile at each other and she'd return to contently sit and suck her thumb. That set the tone for the week, right through to the morning they left for Houston and we got NJ up at a very early hour to say goodbye. It's been a little tough for her to get to know Grandma and Dad-Dad since they live so far away, but finally the shyness levee broke and the valleys of their hearts were flooded with deadly, raging love and affection.

The Wife and I managed to slip out a couple of nights for dinner, which was nice, too. NJ really raked it in, gift-wise -- a couple of days before Christmas I looked around and realized that yes, she was getting way too much stuff. Again.

The new year kicked off with The Wife laid low with some kind of 24-hour stomach bug and me limited by a sore back, but NJ was a pretty good kid on Jan. 1. She and I played and watched TV (thanks to a concert we saw, she now knows how to say "The Rolling Stones," and she can "whoo-whoo" like a pro during "Sympathy for the Devil") while her mom recovered (she's fine today). The only real glitch for NJ came today, Jan. 2, when her mom broke out the vacuum to clean up after we chucked the tree out of the house. The kid does not care for the noise that comes from the vacuum cleaner. At. All. I was able to successfully distract her with videos of Bert and Ernie on the YouTubes.

So from us to you, whoever the heck you are, Happy New Year!

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

The Bashful Show-Off

NJ's grandparents' visit was a success, by most standards. Much like her trip to Texas, she started off all bashful and shy with my folks, but being on her home turf apparently made a big difference, because she warmed to them quickly (if not totally).

My mother got a lot of attention -- particularly when she broke out the cookie dough for a baking session after we told her NJ often holds the TV remote to her ear like it's a phone and says "Grandma? Cookie?" She was more coy with my dad, but thankfully stopped calling him "Grandma" in favor of "Dad-dad," his now-official grandparenting moniker. She was still extremely shy with him, but she always made darn sure he was paying attention to her, no matter whether she was in her crib or high chair or on the sofa or running around the living room. He got lots of smiles and giggles, and when he carried her to the table for dinner their last night here, it looked like they were BFFs.

Daddy told me the raw cookie dough is better than the finished product. And, sorry ladies, but he's right!

We (and by "we," I mean "The Wife") were worried that NJ wouldn't play nice with her grandparents when her parents went off to enjoy the song stylings of a little musical combo from Ireland. We got her up unusually early that morning, cut her nap short and took her to the zoo in the afternoon, hoping she'd be worn out by early evening and we could get her in bed early before heading off to the concert. It worked, at least as far as we know; my mom and dad insisted they didn't have to check on her once all night. Flying two babysitters in from more than 2,000 miles away to see a show for which we held tickets for as long as we've had the kid -- it all worked out in the end.

Your mom loves you more, NJ, but she's loved Bono longer.

Yesterday I took my parents to the airport VERY EARLY so they could fly back to Tejas. NJ asked about them when she woke up, later, and again both when The Wife picked her up from day care and when they arrived home in the evening. And they came up again this morning in our breakfast semi-conversation. She's got Grandma and Dad-dad on her mind, which is good. She's got great taste.

Lord, Protect My Child

I have a new favorite among NJ's books -- a slim little volume of genius called "Forever Young." That title sounds familiar, you say? It should -- the book's text is the classic, feel-good Bob Dylan song of the same name. America's greatest songwriter has penned many tunes that could be transformed into novels, but "Forever Young" is more of a hopeful Irish toast of a song, something the man wrote when he wasn't feeling quite his usual cynical, acerbic self. Paul Rogers does a great job of matching illustrations to the lyrics that are relevant, but not on-the-nose visual repeats of the words. Much, much better than some children's book penned by the personal assistant of a celebrity. Perhaps Rogers can come up with some drawings for "Ballad of a Thin Man" next. (Might keep the kids up at night, though.)

Forever Young

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

Copyright © 1973 by Ram's Horn Music; renewed 2001 by Ram’s Horn Music

My favorite thing about the book is when I read it to her, I can break into my Dylan impression (mid-'70s Dylan, as seen in "The Last Waltz," for example) whenever I want -- and it's completely relevant. "Foreeeeeeeeeeeeeeverrr yoooooooooooooooooooooong, Foreeeeeeeeeeeeeeverrr yooooooooooooooo-ooo-oooooooooooooooong, may yooooooooooooou staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-aaay-haaaaaaay, Faaah-ev-ah yuuuuuuuuuuung." I am really, really good at that.

But enough about my favorite children's book, right? What's NJ's favorite book, you ask? Doesn't matter! I'm writing this, not her. Check back in 10 years, maybe she'll have learned to type by then.

Bloodied But Unbowed

NJ came home from day care yesterday with an incident report detailing her fall onto a toy stove. Also, with a fat lip:

You haven't seen the last of me, toy stove. I'll be back!

I'm writing about it a day later because when she got home last night, NJ wasn't too upset about it (anymore, that is -- lately she's really stepped up her game in the tantrum department, so I'm guessing the accident scene was something else) and I couldn't get any decent photos of it. All I got was a bunch like this:

Fat lip? What fat lip? It's all seashells and balloons over here!

I'm sure the first thing you thought of is the first thing I thought of, too: Will NJ have a scar on her lip like Paul McCartney's? You know, the one that popped up after he had a moped accident? The one that was used as evidence by some that the 'real' Paul had died in a car crash and been replaced in the Beatles by a 'fake' Paul? Alas: Although it's on the right side, Macca's scar is on his upper lip, so it's not quite the same.

I want to fill the world with silly love songs, and you can't stop me because I have Beatle Immunity. Go on, look it up.

Even though he's second to last on my list of favorite Beatles (sorry, Ringo), Macca has a special place in my relationship with NJ. The story about why this song is a vitally important cog in our father-daughter relationship is too long, explainy and relentlessly sappy to sum up in a sentence here -- it deserves its own post, at some point. But every time it pops up randomly on the iPod we hold an impromptu Dancing, Smiling, Laughing, Hugging Festival. In fact, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to play that video and we're going to have a DSLH Fest right now.

"This Single Parenting Is HARD!"

On the last day of my last Super Solo stretch with NJ, I was IMing with a co-worker, B, and complaining about getting up so early that day. I was thinking about the past three days and all the work I put into them, but at this point in our text conversation I had only mentioned that day's waking hour, then followed with "this single parenting is HARD!"

B, who has a daughter in college and a son in high school, responded: "laughing"

Well, yeah, I thought as I saw that she was typing more, I am pretty funny! Then she followed up with a short story about her friend who left town with one of their kids and left the other with her husband. B offered to help out, and her friend replied, "Oh, one is nothing."

"if you had 2 you could do this in yr sleep"

Ah. Not laughing with me, but at me. Got it.

So yes, perhaps I'm a little bit of a wuss for complaining about juggling a job, day care and a 13-month-old kid for THREE WHOLE DAYS. But I have no frame of reference for multiple children -- this is all I know, and all I will know. So I will lay out my experiences here and you feel free to snicker away. I've had a taste of single parenthood, and to me it looks like a pretty tough gig.

NJ's health. Her smoker's cough roared back with a vengeance the first night The Wife was gone. Exactly four minutes after I switched off the television and double-checked the alarm clock, she started hacking up a lung downstairs (Note to self: The baby monitor doesn't have to be set at maximum volume.) I booked downstairs and rocked her for a while, and after singing about half of the "Born to Run" album to her, all was well and she was nodding off again, cough-free.

NJ's sleep. The little girl who sleeps like a lamb and never has night issues, the one who was the envy of all the other parents we know, is gone and did not leave a forwarding address. Putting NJ down used to mean a kiss on the forehead, handing her one of the eleven stuffed animals, and leaving the room. But or the past few weeks, no matter how tired she is, putting her down is immediately followed by her rolling over, crawling to the side of the crib, standing up and shout-crying. A rocking-to-sleep session is now mandatory -- again, the Springsteen songbook was invaluable -- and middle-of-the-night wake-ups are common (although they usually don't happen after midnight, huzzah).

My sleep. The Wife gets up before I do and takes care of NJ in the mornings -- because she gets up earlier than I do anyway, and also so she can spend as much time as possible with her daughter before leaving for the office. So getting up early was a change, and a challenge -- particularly when I couldn't manage to fall asleep early at night to compensate. I ended up doubling my coffee intake, and anyone who knows me and the strength and amount of coffee I like knows that is a big deal. My innards are still reeling.

My job. It was a lot easier back when I was at home. The Wife would leave, but my day was already tailored to fit NJ's, so the adjustment ended up being not all that huge a deal. And hey, her nap time was my nap time if need be. Now, I've got a big chunk of work in the middle of taking care of NJ, so I'm expected to be sharp and active and alert and not napping or doing other mentally unchallenging things like building tall stacks of blocks and knocking them down. Add to that the sleep issues above and it wasn't pretty.

My time. I had none! Well, check that: From 8.30 p.m. to whenever I could manage to fall asleep, that was Dad Solo Time. The morning was all about NJ. The day was all about the job. The evening was all about NJ. Once she was in bed, I cleaned up her various messes, packed her next day's lunch, and performed a couple dozen similar tasks before I could sit down with a free mind. And then I was too tired to do anything except go to bed (and then fail to go to sleep). Oh, there was the one evening I worked late: Woo-hoo! I had no opportunities whatsoever to sit and stare at the wall, or inspect the hairs on my forearms. No Me Time at all.

NJ's whining. Still rocking her cold -- or, more likely, rocking a brand new cold -- and not napping long enough at day care, most evenings NJ was as whiny as I am in this blog post. As described here -- I used the phrase "a little irritable" to be polite to the kid. She turned it on and off like a spigot.

Oh, for crying out loud. Don't make me break out the world's smallest violin.

This is all a long-winded way of getting around to a shout-out to all the single parents out there. I don't know many, actually, but the couple I do know are raising beautiful, smart kids. To the previously untrained eye it looked pretty effortless. It was impressive enough then, but now that I've had some first-hand experience with it, I'm in awe. Kudos!

Also: The calendar tells me that today is the 70th birthday of the World's Greatest Househusband. Happy birthday, John. I haven't baked bread with my kid yet, but she's only 1 year old. Hopefully, there's time for that.

(In his last interview, Lennon said: 'I don't believe in yesterday. Life begins at 40, or so they promise. And I believe in what's going to come." Three weeks later he was assassinated. So maybe "Hopefully, there's time for that" is exactly the wrong message to be taking from the whole thing.)

My Daughter Is A Keyboardist For Spinal Tap

NJ has two things in common with Viv Savage, the keyboard player for Spinal Tap:

1. Viv's philosophy was "Have a good time, all the time." NJ hoists her sippy cup in hearty agreement.

2. Like Viv, she's mastered playing two keyboards at once.

"Quite exciting, this computer magic!"

She's about as good as him, too.

Caught You Smiling At Me

Occasionally NJ and I sit here in front of the computer and shoot a video for The Wife's enjoyment. Her company's network doesn't permit large e-mail attachments, so the clips are usually in the two- to three-second range, just a dash of cute. Yesterday's theme was Led Zeppelin:



For this particular shoot, all it took to get NJ rocking (in her new Zep shirt, which The Wife hates) was to TURN THE MUSIC UP. The party lasted longer than this clip, trust me.

I hope this is the last time my daughter ever rocks out with some obnoxious jackass shouting her ear. What are the odds on that? Oh, wait, never mind. I don't want to know.

Freedom Has A Scent, Like The Top Of A Newborn Baby's Head

I was a little surprised a few weeks ago when The Wife declared she was going to recruit my parents to babysit NJ. We had plans to attend a rock and roll show next month, put on by a little combo out of Ireland who call themselves U2. Not that the grandparents aren't willing to babysit, mind you, but they agreed to travel from Houston to Seattle to do it. So she called them, spoke on the phone for about 15 minutes in the kitchen, and came out declaring that they'd be here for a week. I thought it was a pretty spectacular feat at the time, but quickly realized that the folks will jump at any chance to see their granddaughter. They positively adore NJ and they haven't seen her since Christmas -- and, of course, she's a completely different person now.

Of course, U2 isn't coming since Bono had to have emergency back surgery. (You know you're getting old when a concert is postponed not because the star got busted for public intoxication or punching a cop, but because he threw out his back.) My parents are still coming, though, and that's great. My mother even offered to come back again whenever the show's rescheduled (that'll be in 2011, apparently). She laughed when I said that by then, NJ will be old enough to go with us -- after all, for months she fell asleep to the sweet lullaby sounds of the band -- but Mom sounded a little nervous so I assured her I was joking.

So: No U2, but babysitters. Of course, we can always pop a U2 DVD in the machine. I'm sure Mom and Dad will love that.

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.

Call and Response

The Baby Shriek gets more popular by the day around here. In fact, it's pretty much replaced laughing as the top indicator that NJ is having a good time. It's definitely been established as the bridge to NJ's not having any speaking skills at all and her uttering her first words. She's now using her shriek to respond to us verbally ("verbally" being used loosely here).

Today, as Dad Solo went through the laborious process of making his fabled Pork and Black-Eyed Pea Chili -- it takes a long time, but Son of a Bee Sting! is it worth it -- he often ducked into the living room and called out to NJ, who was goofing around on the couch with The Wife. Once I got NJ's attention I'd scream some nonsense sounds and the Smile That Slays Me would spread across her face, then she'd let loose with a good 20-second shriek of her own.

This is arguably the most famous example of Call and Response in modern music (starting at the 2.26 mark, although if you skip ahead and don't listen to the entire thing, well then ... no offense, but I really have to wonder if you're a patriotic American). It literally makes me feel good just to hear it. Of course, blues -- and, by extension, its offspring, rock and roll -- is based on chord repetition and call and response. If you've ever seen the Stones play live, you know how good Mick is at leading a call-and-response during "Brown Sugar" and "You Can't Always Get What You Want," among others. So maybe NJ has it in her bones and blood already: After all, she naps to lullaby renditions of Zeppelin, Stones and U2 songs.

Still, as charming and life-affirming as the Raylettes are, I'll take NJ's call-and-response shrieking any day. Now, she loves it when I sing to her -- honestly! -- and that's doubled the number of people who enjoy my dulcet tones (I'm the other fan). And lately both me and The Wife have been doing our best to talk to her using short, easily understandable words so she can, you know, eventually learn to talk. But it's a hell of a lot of fun to give her a little scream, then sit back and wait for the smile and the response.

What'd I say, indeed.

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.