Leggo My Ego

Children can be great for our egos - especially when they're full of hugs and kisses and can't say a damn word. Then language comes and still, for a little while, things get even better.
"My love you, Dada."
"You're best my friend."
"I love you to the moon and the stars and the fan."
These were all things Amari has said to me since beginning her mastery of the English language.

Even without words, she has made given me magical powers to heal boo boo's with kisses and dissolve fears and  sadness with hugs. She has helped me to finally feel like the grown-up I always imagined I would one day become. And then, in a matter of moments, she reduced me to the insecure teenager I used to be.

The scene was our front yard, a sunny enough day to pull out the dinky, fifteen dollar, plastic pool. While she splashed around, I decided to get some vitamin D on my magic hugging arms so I took off my shirt and lay down on a towel. I've never been a confident fan of sunbathing, but I was with my "best friend" who loves me "to the moon and the fan," so I went for it. Seconds later, on one of her jaunts outside the pool, Amari sat next to me and said, "Dada, your boobs are wobbly." I took it pretty well, and promptly rolled over onto my stomach. She took that well, and as an opportunity to climb on my back, poke my shoulder, and ask, "Dada, is your pimple happy?" For the record, it was a mole. But nonetheless, neither my mole nor I were exceptionally happy. It was all pretty funny, though.

Yesterday, I told Amari we might go to the park in the morning. With the weather changing quickly and creating some uncertainty about outdoor activities, I tried to disguise our plans during a phone call with Jim.
Jim: What do you have going on this morning?
Me: We're thinking about going to the P - A - R - K.
Amari (angrily): No, I don't want to go to the P - A - R - K. I want to go to the park.

And finally, tonight at dinner, she was talking to her food, creating a little dramatic scene between her and the starch. Playing both rolls, she says:

Rice says, "Are you going to eat me?"
Amari says, "Yes. I'm going to eat you."
(Pause to take giant bite of rice) "Mmmmm."

Your Frinds All Think It's Funny But It's Snot

First an update on the Isaac/Dada situation. Returning to the parenting philosophy upon which I base most of my actions - that you get more of what you pay attention to - I realized my retelling of Amari's new-found amusement with calling me Isaac was reenforcing it. The more I told the story, whether with a tone of amusement or sorrow, the more she called me Isaac.  Finally, I just stopped talking about it. And so did she. Almost instantly.

I was getting so discouraged that I even dreamed about it - a nightmare that an elderly woman drove Amari into a large crevasse on the side of the road and all I could hear were the faint cries of my daughter echoing from the darkness - "Dada...Dada..." I waited almost forty years to be a dad - I wasn't ready to let it go. Now I'm Dada again, and even when it comes with a "No," a "Pick me up," or a mini-tantrum, it sounds pretty sweet. Makes me wonder who's teaching whom here?

Meanwhile, back at the Hall of Useless Parents...

Okay, I'm still new at this whole parenting thing and I certainly don't claim to know everything. That being said, I'm pretty sure I did the right thing here. You be the judge.

The story began two weeks ago, but I didn't know it at the time. In the days that followed, Carrie came home sick with a cold - a not entirely uncommon occurrence as a high school English teacher. A few days after that Amari followed suit, while I began to wonder if my gratitude for our long run of health might have been misunderstood by the Universe as boasting. On the final day of our road trip last weekend, I finally caught a much milder version sans coughing and congestion - just a sore throat and low energy for a couple of days.

Mildly afflicted, I decided to go about my week, beginning with toddler yoga on Tuesday. It was then, confronted with a round-faced, profusely snotty, extremely affectionate fourteen month old that I flashed back to the previous week when the same child with less and much clearer snot had bee-lined for me when I entered the room, put his arm around me, smiled, and maybe even put his head on my shoulder between deep, rumbling, frightening coughs.

Even though my neck and head were doing the Tae Kwon Do stance I learned from bosses with bad breath, his seemingly well-kept and pregnant mother across the room did not take the hint, but simply enjoyed the reprieve from her repulsive child and said, "Oh, he just loves men." I smiled, made some comment about yoga not being the best place to meet them, then did my best to keep this disgusting disease-ball away from my daughter. I couldn't help but wonder if he was the reason we all got sick, and even though all my wrath should have been reserved for his mother, I couldn't help but direct some at him

This week was even worse. The once-clear snot hanging from the child's nose was now a multi-colored stream of yellows and greens dripping from his upper lip into his mouth. Seriously, I thought. Is she fucking kidding me? Was this some kind of hippie therapy where you just let the kid drink up the goop his body is trying to get rid of? She smiled again as her son plopped himself in my lap and looked up at me adoringly. "Something about guys," she said happily. Yeah, probably handkerchiefs, I thought. It's like his holy fucking grail. You will find the Kleenex in the Lost Tomb of Parenting Skills, young Indy.

Three times I watched this kid walk back to his mother and three times he returned with a growing river of snot. Finally - mercifully - Reya (who had joined us for yoga) asked me for a glass of water, which gave us an appropriate and well-timed escape. Unfortunately, this kid's love of men knew no bounds - including doors and hallways - because as soon as we left he followed us, walked into a wall and burst into tears - which is always really helpful for slowing down the flow of mucous. "Men, men, men, blah, blah, blah," said his mom, following him out.

By now the kid's tears are swimming in snot, pulling it down around the edges of his mouth. His arms are raised up to me while I'm fighting to conceal my look of contempt and disgust. He wants me to pick him up and all I want to do is wrap him in a thousand of those warm towels you get on International flights before take off. Finally, in lieu of those, I grab a paper towel from behind the water cooler  and politely ask, "Can I wipe his nose?" Unbelievably taken aback for a moment, the mom actually pauses, before saying, "Yeah, I guess," as though I were asking to share something precious to her.

Un-freakin' believable. If you're not going to take care of the babies you have, stop making more. It's a scary world we share...

The End

That's Mr. Fishman to You Lady

Albeit brief, it was unequivocally the best experience I've ever had. Alas, I am Dada no longer. Yes, I'm still a dad, but for some reason about a week ago Amari started calling me Isaac. I used to enjoy quizzing her on what the names of all of her relatives were - from mom and dad to CC and Babaji - and was delighted by the sound of my name squeaking past her lips. Even last week in its modest beginnings it was pretty darn cute - a potential party trick if time correctly. Unfortunately, however, where she was mixing it up as recently as this past weekend, throwing in the occasional "Dada" to keep me on my toes and under her spell, she appears now to have made that title obsolete.

"Wait for me," she calls as we're walking to the car, and when I don't immediately stop she emphasizes, "ISAAC, wait for me." Initially it was just situations like this that she would use the informal (formal?) to get my attention, but I think she's overheard me tell the story of this new development several times and has perhaps misunderstood the tone as pride.

Fortunately, she has also adopted some of the terms of endearment Carrie and I use around the house, so in addition to Isaac I sometimes get called "Honey," "Babe," or "Lady." The latter is something we often call her. "What are you doing, Isaac?" and if I don't answer quickly enough she repeats, "What are you doing lady?"

I'm sure Dada and its variations will be back soon, but I already miss them. I remember experimenting with calling my parents by their first names when I was in high school. My dad didn't care, but I could tell my mom wasn't into it. Now I know why. There's something special about hearing the word "dad" - a constant reminder of the magical little being I had a part in creating.

I've also noticed that Amari is becoming very interested in being a part of our conversations - not just adding her own commentary on the world, but listening and responding. Tonight at dinner Carrie was talking about one of her students saying, "She got a full ride to UCLA."
"She got a full ride?" Amari asked.
"Yep."
"A full ride?"
"Yes."
"A full ride on CC's tractor?"
"Yes." And to her, that's a much more interesting ride.

Here are some pics of recent visits Amari had with some of her new BFF's, Eric, On, and Uncle Matt

The Lorax

Today we took Amari to her second movie - the 2D version of "The Lorax." We figured the 3D glasses alone would be too distracting in and of themselves. What we didn't figure was the previews to this soft, fun, colorful, musical, whimsical animated feature would be dark, loud, and frightening.

When we saw "The Muppets," I think the previews were for "The Lorax" and some other G-Movie. This time, after five minutes of fielding questions like, "Where's the movie, Dada? Is the movie coming? Is it? Is it? Really?" (this is a new behavior which toes the line between cute and crazy-making), the theater lights dimmed simultaneously with loud music filling the darkness before giant images of goofy teenagers, spiders, and bad guys filled the screen. Really? Another Spiderman movie? It looked like a "Smallville" version of "Superman," but a la standard preview style it showed a lot of action and frightening images which left Amari saying, head buried in my chest and her little hands covering her ears, "Amari wants to go bye bye now."

Fortunately the second preview, "Franken-Weiner," a new Tim Burten production I believe, was a little less frightening. Claymation makes reanimation less terrifying. At the end of each preview, as she does when her cartoons are over at home, Amari blurted to our fellow audience members, "The End." Needless to say, we were all grateful when the stunning, colorful animation of "The Lorax" began.

With the exception of a single bathroom break, Amari sat riveted the whole time. I kept checking in with her early on to make sure she wasn't just paralyzed by the fear of giant cartoons, but her gaze and mindless munching of popcorn set my mind at ease.

As we walked out of the theater, Carrie asked what her favorite part was and she said, "My favorite thing was the orange guy." He was very endearing. And so was she.

Thing Best Ever

This afternoon, amidst a lengthy, rain-soaked, March Madness-filled, indoor activity only day, Amari cozied up next to me on our couch, put her head on my shoulder and said, "Dada. You're best my friend." Much like when she said, "My love you," I hadn't the slightest desire to correct her. Instead I leaned back and said, "You're best my friend, too."

And now for something completely different...

One of the reasons I started writing this blog was to be able to answer Amari's future questions about her childhood. Sure, I've earned the right to say, "I don't f-ing remember. Check your blog," but in case we still get along, I'd like to be able to check it myself, share some proud and/or embarrassing moments with the boy or girl or she one day brings home.

Also, I recently realized with all of the photos and videos I take of Amari, there are very few of the two of us together. In case I die, become irrecognizably disfigured, or simply have to be place in WitSec for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I've decided to chronicle a few of our days together.

In case I get relocated, Amari, look for the Panda hat. And don't go to Giants games, it will only confuse and upset you.

Love,

Dad

Taking the Leap

Today I learned two things:

1. Amari's little two-year old body is perfectly designed to survive an unintentional, inelegant roll down our flight of stairs.

2. Be it in writing, words, or even thoughts, one should never tempt the universe with over-confidence in that which one knows is ever-changing and always fleeting.

The second lesson actually began last night. I had one of the best days I've ever had as a parent. Amari woke up in a good mood and hit the ground running. She didn't complain about transitions, put her shoes on by herself, pooped in the potty - things were looking up. When we hit the sometimes crowded, often unpredictable local playground it was completely empty except for the two kids we were meeting there. Could it get any better? Yes, it could. Fifteen minutes later, Amari was taking her first solo trips down the big kid slides she'd always been afraid of. What was going on here?

Next up, toddler yoga. Hit or miss up 'til this point - one week Amari was all about the tree pose, the next one she stuck with shivasana (the corpse pose) across my lap for thirty minutes. This week, she was like I'd never seen - except occasionally on way too much sugar or way to little sleep. She was out-going, funny, doing poses, making noises, rolling on the ground, giggling, dancing. It was so great to see her enjoying herself so much. She's like that at home a lot, but I hadn't seen her cut loose like that in a social setting.

I loved it.

After yoga, we had lunch with Mama at the high school, then went home for a nap that was long enough and deep enough that I could put on the monitor, get an hour of exercise in and still have some time to relax. This was unbelievable. Post-nap the good vibrations continued. We built a fort, picked up mom, and had a yummy picnic dinner on the living room floor. That was when I made my fatal mistake.

Sitting on the couch by our blazing wood stove, listening to the lilting sounds of the bathtub filling over a chorus of Amari chattering and music playing, I reflected on the day and thought to myself, "This is awesome. What a great age. I totally have this parenting thing dialed." I may have even gone on to toot my own horn even more and wonder how on earth I would be able to relate to other parents at the next bitch session.

Big mistake. Huge. Next thing I know it's taking an hour for Amari to fall asleep, while I lay there cursing myself for even thinking such stupid thoughts.

Today, and I'll hyphenate as I've learned to do with almost everything, was an F-ing N-mare. The details aren't important, as I'm sure everyone has had a day like this in one of its insundry forms. Mine came in the shape of a moody two year-old and a mother-in-law. It was a day of spills and falls and bad timing. Even when I tried to go with flow, breathe in the bad day and breathe out acceptance, it backfired.

The first incident was the staircase. I have a rule I try to enforce where Amari is not allowed to carry things up or down the stairs. I feel like she has enough to focus on as it is. Recently she has taken to sliding down the (carpeted) stairs backwards on her stomach. It's fast and fun and safe and I don't mind at all. Today she wanted to try going head-first. I said, "I don't think that's a good idea." She tried anyway and got stuck on the first stair.

Later on, despite my rules and suggestions, Amari carried two "Little People" (small plastic toys) up the stairs. I can only imagine that she then tried to roll down the stairs with them, because the next thing I heard was "Ahh...thump...Dada...thump...help...thump...thump...thump..." By the time I got to the landing, she was bouncing off the second to last step into my outstretched arms. I did dramatize it a bit - a la Grady Sizemore - and dive unnecessarily after the catch. Amari was red-faced and in tears, burying her face in my chest, saying some incoherent things between sobs, and all the while clutching firmly to the "Little People" she had obviously saved from injury.

Scary.

The day went on...and on...and I can't even remember why it sucked so much at this point. Like childhood amnesia spares children from the horrific memories of birth and teething and lousy parenting, we parents have a similar mechanism that allows us to block out the hard days and continue to love and adore our children the next.

Later on, the days of adolescence are too vivid to repress and we look forward to them going off to college, getting a job, joining a cult, or whatever else will get them out of the house. So in this moment, I humbly think, write, and say out loud, "I have nothing dialed." Like my recovery from alcoholism. All I have is today.

Amari with her various Homies

Coming of Age

Amari will be two and a third in early March. That's right, we've moved on from weeks and months to fractions. I'm really looking forward to mid-April when she's two and six-thirteenths. I hear it's an awesome time in a toddlers life.

In all seriousness, this is the age I imagined writing about when Jen suggested I write a blog of my parenting experiences. Sure, babies are cute and ever-changing, novel and priceless, and the milestones of rolling, crawling, walking, and talking are note-worthy (I took many notes), but now that Amari's stringing together sentences, putting the pieces together, and dare I say cultivating a world-view (sort of), I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for what she might say next. Reminds me of that old Bill Cosby TV show, "Kids Say the Cutest Fucking Shit." 

Just the other morning I woke up and toyed with the idea of getting out of bed. Amari was still asleep next to me, tossing and turning, probably contemplating the same thing. Finally she noticed my eyes were open and she lift her weary head and said (with more enthusiasm than I ever say it), "Amari need coffee." That's my girl. The interesting thing is that she still doesn't use the pronoun "I." Early on I read in a parenting book that we should avoid "I" and "you" and instead use more concrete pronouns, "Dada loves Amari," and I took it to heart. As a result - for now - everything is "Amari..." 

Here are a few episodes of my own, home-version, of that funny, old Cosby show.

 --While cutting Amari's hair the other day, evening up a few stray pieces, she asked me, "Can Amari cut Dada's hair?" to which I replied, "Sure. When you're older." She paused for about five seconds and then asked, "Am I older now?"

--Although the two's have come with the whole-hearted development of the word "mine," I recently discovered a couple of advantages. The first is during moment of resistance - PJs and bedtime. When I claim it's time to put on my PJs and drink my bottle, Amari will let down her guard and claim her ownership. "My PJs, my bottle," and it's off to bed. The other advantage came during an apology. I can't remember the details, but when I said, "I'm sorry Amari. That was my fault," she was immediately up in arms saying, "No Dada, my fault." I'll enjoy this stage for a while.

--I brief truth-telling about potty training. Several months ago Amari took toe pee-pee-ing on the potty at home and we thought we were free and clear of diapers. I was excited, but the excitement quickly wore off for Amari and it became hit or miss - and there was certainly no training going on outside the house. I got lots of feedback from other parents including one who said, "When she's ready, she'll tell you." When I heard that I thought, "That's ridiculous."

Sure enough, after the quick and successful training of her friend Hunter, Amari was putting up her normal diaper-changing fuss, complete with kicking and whining, when I finally said, "Listen, if you don't want to wear diapers anymore then you have to potty train like Hunter. If that's something you want, then tell me." Silence. Diaper on. End of conversation. Three hours later, rolling around on the floor and playing with something or other, Amari paused, looked up at me and said, "Dada, Amari want to potty train." That was the beginning. An accident a day for the first three days, and since then she's been pretty solid. Except for the solids. Poop has been an issue, which appears to be resolving itself, but pretty traumatic for a while. Really traumatic for a while after that. We had to model making grunting noises/faces and helping her push them out, and I think she's getting better at letting go. A therapist friends says it's a very existential experience for some kids, but who knows.

--An indication that she is getting the poop idea came when I was trying to get a sticker off a page for her. "What's wrong, Dada?" Amari asked.
"It's really stuck," I said.
"You have to Mmmmmm (grunting poop noise with accompanied face) like poo-poo."
I obliged and the sticker came right off.

--And finally, the other night at dinner, Amari passed something to her mom and said, "There you go, babe." We definitely are watching what we say more closely, and I'm really grateful she didn't say, "There you go you ungrateful bitch."

More cute fucking shit soon.