MetroDad

Nobody puts baby in a corner!

Many years ago, when I was a young and idealistic teenager, my family and I used to spend summer vacations at an old mountain lake resort in the Catskill Mountains.  Though we were surrounded by vast wealth, I always chose to spend my time socializing with the resort staff.  It was there that I learned about people from different worlds.  And while I learned some major lessons about life during those memorable summers, I also learned a thing or two about dancing.   

Fuck, I'm sorry.  That wasn't me.  It was Jennifer Grey in "Dirty Dancing."  I always get the two of us confused.

This past weekend, BossLady and I took the Peanut to a great resort up in the Adirondack Mountains.  While it wasn't quite "Kellermans," there were enough similarities that, every once in awhile, BossLady and I would see something that would immediately make us break out into our karaoke version of "I Had the Time of My Life."  I won't go into all the details but let's just say that when we went to dinner, most of the men were dressed in navy blazers and white trousers.  I couldn't figure out if they looked more like Captain Steuben or like Ted Knight in "Caddyshack."  Crap, I don't think I would have felt more out of place if I had been dressed in drag!  Ever seen a 6' Asian guy in a muumuu?  Me neither but I can't imagine it's a pretty sight. 

Anyway, I shouldn't make fun.  The resort was absolutely gorgeous, the weather was perfect and our suite had a private deck overlooking beautiful Lake George.  I'll post more about the trip over the coming week but, right now, I just got my new Mac and the two of us need to spend some quality time together. 

So, in lieu of a real post, I'll leave you with some photos of the weekend...

"Boat, shmoat.  Hook me up with some more snacks, Gilligan."

Peanut, with requisite tiny dog in her handbag, channels her inner Paris Hilton.

Back home again, Peanut comes to understand that you never really know a man until you've walked a mile in his loafers. 

I hope you and your families all had a great Memorial Day weekend and that, between beers and barbecues, you took some time to remember and honor those who died in our nation's service.

Amen!

(P.S. Turns out I never backed up any of my bookmarks and ended up losing all of them.  If you've got a chance, please send me the url not only for your site but also any others that you think I might like.  I lost EVERYTHING!  So whether it's news, literature, entertainment, humor, or anything else...please post your favorite links so I can rediscover this whole internet thing.  Thanks!)

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Mac Attack

I got my first Apple Computer in 1986 when I was 17 years old.  It was an Apple IIC and it was love at first sight.  Ever since, I've been a die-hard Mac addict.

My Macs have been with me through the good times and the bad.  They've traveled all over the world with me and been time capsules of many fond memories.  Over the past 20 years, I've gone through countless Macs, converted hundreds of people and loved each Mac greater than the last.   Their simplicity, elegance, beauty and power had only served to reinforce my undying faith and devotion.

Sunday, for the first time ever, my hard drive crashed. 

I'm crushed. 

On the one hand, it gives me a perfect excuse to go out and get the awesome new MacBook Pro.  On the other hand, I'm bummed because I hadn't backed up all my data in about a month.  Not only may I have possibly lost some great photos of the Peanut but I also lost quite a bit of valuable data (including my work on Fermat's Theorem, cognitive science and the origin of language.)

Oh yeah, I also lost some funny posts about constipation and my collection of "yo mama" jokes.

The worst part of my hard drive crash?  For the entire  week, I'm forced to use a Windows PC for the first time in my life.  Personally, this makes me feel like the love child of Aldrich Ames and Ethel Rosenberg.  I think I'd rather see my mother in a whorehouse than on a Windows PC. 

Of course, that could just be me.

Anyway, posting will be light this week.  However, MetroDad would like to offer a public service announcement to all of you, recommending that you back up all your data as frequently as possible.  Otherwise, like me, you may be taking out a second mortgage on your house to pay a team of NASA-trained data-recovery specialists to retrieve your valuable collection of "yo mama" jokes. 

Now, excuse me while I go try and figure out what the hell "C:\<Directory>\D" means.  Aarrgh!

How to order bologna in 3 different languages!

After I was born and my mother returned to work, my parents left me in the care of a 70-year-old Korean nanny.  Although she was a very warm-hearted woman who doted on me as if I were her own child, the only thing I really remember about her is that she was really old.  Also, that she smelled like a combination of Old Spice and kimchi. 

Being very old, the nanny tired easily and would often take several naps throughout the day.  Whenever the urge to sleep hit her, she would just plop me in front of the TV and allow me to watch hours and hours of Sesame Street.  Unfortunately, she only spoke Korean and didn't realize that I was watching Sesame Street in Spanish.  To her, any language besides Korean was pretty much all the same.  Can you really blame her?   

After a few years together, the nanny either left our family for greener pastures or passed away.  Her absence was never fully revealed to me.  It was only years later when I saw "The Vanishing" that I thought about her again.  However, what I DO remember is being a young boy sitting on my bed as my mother introduced me to our new Colombian nanny.  Needless to say, the new nanny didn't speak Korean. 

But, more importantly, she did allow me to continue watching Sesame Street in Spanish. 

I tell you all of this only to explain how it was that I ended up going to nursery school speaking a strange amalgamation of English, Korean and Spanish.  I like to refer to it as "Spanklish" but, in all honesty, it was like a really fucked-up version of Esperanto.   Needless to say, nobody at nursery school could understand a single word coming out of my mouth.  This was a very traumatic situation for a sensitive 5-year old kid like myself. 

For all I knew at the time, EVERYONE on the planet spoke Spanklish.  It wasn't until that first day of school when I realized that I was much "different" from all the other kids.  The first clue was when I looked around the room and realized I was the only Asian kid in the room.  Although I'd seen white kids on television, they were usually speaking Spanish.  How come all these kids knew how to speak English?  Is it any surprise that I wouldn't let go of my mother's leg and that she had to use her vacation time that week to stay with me as I adapted to this freaky new environment?

The second clue was probably when I turned to my mother and said, "Mama, donde esta le byun-soh?"  (Spanklish translation: "Where's the bathroom?")

Over time, I eventually learned to speak only English and began to communicate with other people.  Not only that but I also started making my first friends.  By the time I reached first grade, I thought I was the All-American kid and I was ready for the next phase of my cultural reimmersion project...the after-school playdate. 

Now, if discovering that you were the only person on the planet who spoke your own language wasn't shocking enough, imagine how my little mind was blown away when I started to see how OTHER people lived.    

See, my mother was a bit of a maverick in the early 70's in the sense that she believed in eating only healthy foods.  This would have been unusual for MOST mothers of the time.  Imagine how weird it was that an IMMIGRANT mother chose to adopt this lifestyle.  I don't know where she came up with this but I'm thinking it came from the Korean-language version of Reader's Digest.   For years, that was the only periodical I ever saw in our house.  Her obsession with this magazine dictated a lot of what went on at home.  (It also explains why her jokes were never that funny.  Apparently, the anecdotes from "Laughter: The Best Medicine" didn't translate well into Korean.)

Unfortunately, Mom's nutritional policies were quite confusing.  Steamed fish, rice and vegetables were on the "OK to Eat" list. However, so were Big Macs and Kentucky Fried Chicken.  My entire concept of beverages consisted of juice, milk and water.  I didn't even know there were other choices available!  Most of the time, I subsisted on rice, seaweed and bananas.  A little bland, yeah, but what the heck did I know? 

Imagine the shell shock I had when I saw what all my little friends were eating at their houses.  Holy crap!  Soda, cookies, potato chips, hot dogs, sugared cereals, Wonder bread!  What was all this stuff and who did I have to kill in order to get more of it? 

It was like entering another world that had been closed off to me for my entire existence. I immediately vowed to myself that I would start making up for lost time.  Sure, the first 5 years of my life may have been lived in ignorant bliss but, dammit, if I had anything to do with it now, those wobegone caveman days were over!

Soon enough, I started arranging my own play dates.  I stopped chosing friends based on their personalities or any shared mutual interests but rather on what kind of food their mothers kept in the fridge.  I couldn't get enough of this American food.  I'd do ANYTHING to get it.  I was like a 3-foot tall heroin junkie dressed in a Mighty Mac and Buster Browns.

But, in all honesty, if there was one food that fascinated me more than anything else, it was bologna.  What was this creamy, delicious mystery meat and where did it come from?  Who was this Oscar Mayer man and how could I shake his hand? 

I loved EVERYTHING about bologna.  I loved the rounded plastic packaging that perfectly enveloped all the slices like a custom-made glove.  I loved peeling off the outer rind and eating it separately.  And I loved the fact that bologna was a gateway drug leading me to the wonderful world of condiments.  Cheese!  Mustard!  Mayonnaise!  What a glorious food this bologna was!  It went well with virtually everything!  Only a country as great as America could invent it.  Clearly, my parents had made the right choice in deciding to move here!

Apparently, the love of processed meat products is handed down genetically to subsequent generations.  My 19-month old daughter, the Peanut, absolutely loves blogona.  Last night, I watched as she smiled gleefully and shoved tiny little handfuls of bologna into her mouth as fast as she humanly could.  Every time she finished a slice, she would look up at me with her big eyes, hand me her bowl, and say, "More?  More?"

Me?  I just sat there looking at her lovingly and thought about when I was her age.  About my weird trials and tribulations.  About how bologna opened up a new world for me.   And about how different my daughter's life would be from mine.

And so, as I refilled her bowl, I leaned over, gave her a kiss on the cheek and whispered, "Konbay, mi hija yep-boo-dah!  Bologna es chway-go-da, isn't it?"

(Spanklish translation:  "Cheers, my beautiful daughter! Bologna really is the best, isn't it?")

Time & The Theory of Relativity

If there's a single common refrain among the plethora of parenting aphorisms, it's that "time flies."  And while you can find many pearls of wisdom about the relativity of time, nothing ever quite prepares you for the acceleration of time that you experience after becoming a parent. 

Right now, the Peanut is 19 months old. 

And I have to tell you, my friends, that ever since I became a father 19 months ago, time has been flying faster for me than the half-life of Eva Longoria's acting career.

Honestly, the passing of time has been blowing my mind lately.  In my 37 years on this planet, I'm pretty sure that there are entire 19-month periods that have either completely vanished from my memory or can adequately be summed up by the phrase, "fun party, work sucked, broke up with her, took a vacation." 

For those of you with teenagers?  I can't even begin to imagine how you deal with it.  For you, I would think that the dilemma of lost time is even more shocking.  One day, you've got a little princess who likes dolls and thinks her daddy is the greatest thing in the entire world.  Next thing you know, she's uploading photos of her new "Born to Ride" tattoo on her MySpace account and is getting so many piercings that you think Marilyn Manson might even be concerned.  Holy crap!  Where's Dr. Emmet Brown and his magic DeLorean when you need him? 

In all honesty, I don't know what the future brings for the Peanut.  I'm just enjoying being caught up in the Here and Now!  And while I'm not going to wax the light nostalgic here, I will say that lately I've been amazed at the increased development of my newest roommate.

Last week with my parents, the Peanut threw her little "Hello Kitty" handbag over her shoulder, strapped her doll into the toy stroller, and started walking around the apartment in a pair of the BossLady's high heels.  Saturday, she grabbed my hand and demanded that I walk away from the saleswoman at Janovic Plaza so we could dance and sing "Ring Around the Rosies" together.  Then, as we were leaving the store, she turned to the saleswoman and blew her a kiss.  Yesterday, at brunch, she spent the entire time sitting calmly in her seat, stuffing dim sum into her mouth off her own plate, and when she was finished, quickly descended and tried to leave the restaurant without us.   

Now, either my girl's growing up quickly or she's turning into the second reincarnation of Mariah Carey.

Who is this independent and petulant diva that a mere few months ago couldn't eat a pea by herself and wouldn't walk outside on the street without holding my hand?  Wasn't it just the other day that I could palm her entire body like a basketball?  And how did I miss the memo that all household bathing policies now required the pre-approved written consent of all minors under the age of two?   

So yeah...time is definitely flying for me here.  And while I'm less concerned about what this means for my own sense of mortality, I'm also determined not to worry about what the future brings. 

Because right now?  I've still got a little princess who likes dolls and thinks her daddy is the greatest thing in the entire world. 

Besides, who's got time to worry when there are unicorns to ride?

Pulling the Goalie!

When it comes to power struggles in spousal relationships, I like to think that BossLady and I are two global superpowers choosing to maintain hegemony by dividing the world between us.  In the realm of financial issues and our social calendar, I am the all-powerful leader of the free world.  In the realm of everything else?  My opinion is about as important as Guam's. 

Now, surprisingly, this works out pretty well for us.  Like any great couple, we've learned to pick and choose our battles.  For the most part, I'd say we split most of our differences amicably and we each usually end up satisfied half of the time.  We're like the Atlanta Falcons.  Every year, we go 8-8. 

But obviously, there are certain family decisions that need to be made unanimously. 

One of these decisions is having a baby.

Now, raising is a child is an awesome responsibility that ideally requires the full determination of two willing and able adult participants.  Therefore, you'd like to think that most husbands have a choice when it comes to adding additional members to the family.  However, I've learned that the part of the marital contract detailing a husband's voice in this matter is about as relevant today as Hammurabi's Code and probably about as useful as an Iraqi constitution.   

You see, my friends, the BossLady has decided it's time for us to have another baby!

The Peanut is 19 months old right now and we've been discussing the idea of L'Enfant Part Deux for quite some time.  Since we decided long ago that we would only be having two kids, I assumed that we weren't in any hurry to have the second one so soon.  After all, Peanut is just starting to get to a really enjoyable age where we can communicate with one another.  It's only a matter of time now before she starts speaking in complete sentences and we can have actual conversations.  I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to that time.

Now, I wish I could say that BossLady's desire to have another child is not based solely on emotion. However, I know this woman like the back of my hand and part of what makes us a great couple is that I always know what she's thinking.  Here's what I think she's thinking...

• BossLady started a new job in January.  Although she enjoys the work, the hours suck ass.  She's surrounded by a bunch of ambitious, soulless and childless Type-A workaholics who don't mind logging 16-hour days.  It kills her that she often gets home after the Peanut has fallen asleep.  I can't really blame her but I know that she's thinking that if she gets pregnant, she'll not only get at least 3 months of maternity leave but there's also the slight possibility that she'll never have to return to work and can just be a SAHM.

• BossLady also has "The Baby Fever."  Quite a few of our friends are pregnant now and she wants nothing more than to hug and cradle a tiny newborn.  Since the Peanut doesn't like to cuddle anymore and squirms more than Dick Cheney at a congressional hearing, we need a replacement.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

As usual, I don't entirely disagree with the beautiful BossLady.  There's a part of me that would love to have another child right now.  Shit, if money were no object, I'd knock her up until we had enough kids to form our own Little League team!

But unless I win the MegaMillions, this probably isn't going to happen.  So, in my opinion, we don't need to hurry and we can at least wait until the Peanut is a little older before we start trying for another kid.  Or at least that's MY opinion. 

I have to admit that another reason I'm a little hesitant to jump back into the baby-making business is because other parents keep telling me that the second child is usually the complete opposite of the first.  Frankly, that scares the crap out of me.  The Peanut has always been an unbelievably easy kid.  She's healthy.  She's a good eater.  And she's always slept great.  She practically came out of the womb with a smile on her face and she's got an adorably friendly nature that warms the cockles of my heart. 

So, when I think of "the opposite," I conjure images of our next child entering the world with devil horns and a pitchfork or maybe looking like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I have visions of raising a colicky insomniac who won't eat, won't smile and hates me with every fiber of her being. 

Now, I want to emphasize that, despite our slight differences in opinion, BossLady and I have not been arguing or fighting over the decision of when to have another child.  Let's just say that we're continuing the current discussion with increased frequency. 

But, every once in awhile, she'll make a Freudian slip and say something that reveals just how badly she wants to have another baby RIGHT NOW!  Last night, for example, she was trying to get me in the mood  and she accidentally said, "C'mon, baby.  I'm ovulating!"

Memo to all you women out there:  When you're not sure that you're ready to have another child, this is akin to telling your husband, "Hey honey.  Doesn't this nightie make me look like your mother?" 

It's funny.  BossLady had an extremely difficult childbirth.  I'm not kidding when I say that she was in labor for well over 36 hours.  In fact, her first words to me after the birth of the Peanut were, "She's cute.  Too bad she's going to be an only child!" 

I'm just kidding.  Actually, her first words were, "YOU did this to me, motherfucker!" 

In all seriousness, I didn't quite realize that my wife's biological need to reproduce again was stronger than Star Jones' chair on the set of "The View."  I actually thought the pain and anguish of childbirth were so strong that, in a year or two, I would be the one who would have to convince HER for a second child. 

Shows how much I know.

So what do you think, Internet?  Any opinions?  What are the pros and cons of having another child right now versus waiting a little longer?  For those of you with multiple kids, is there any age difference among them that works out well? 

Shit, I gotta run.  I think I hear my wife's uterus calling me from the other room!

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In Praise of All Mothers!

In celebration of the impending Mother's Day holiday, Kara has asked a diverse group of parenting bloggers to write a post about Mothers and Mothering.  She's assembled a virtual all-star cast of some of my favorite bloggers and I'm honored to be a part of it. 

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For my part in this group celebration of Mother's Day, I thought I'd take this opportunity to thank all of those mothers who, for better or worse, have turned us into who we are today. 

After all, where would we be without those selfless nurturers who changed our diapers, cleaned up our vomit, kissed our boo-boos, and stayed up with us all night when we were sick?  Who else in our lives would cut the crusts off our bologna sandwiches, hide little notes in our lunchboxes, and, every once in awhile when you had the blues, cheer you up by giving you a cupcake for dessert?

Like borrowing money from the mob, motherhood is almost always a debt that you can never repay.  The woman who selflessly pushed you out of her uterus will always be your mother.  She made you!  No gift to her can ever equal her gift to you---Life (and make no mistake, it's a mother's right to remind you of that on a semi-annual basis.)  But really, for many reasons, motherhood is so much more than just a giant credit card balance in the shopping cart of life. 

As Dennis Miller once said...

"Unshakable bastions of well-meaning dysfunction, mothers somehow teach us about the world while protecting us from its dangers, encourage us to be independent while carefully rationing our freedom, and manage to instill in us the belief that we're the best while simultaneously making us feel like we're never good enough.  Only a mother possesses the unique ability to envelop you in a soft, warm blanket of unconditional love at the exact same moment that she's driving you fucking crazy!"

I couldn't have put it better myself.

The truth of the matter is that, although the umbilical cord may have been detached years ago, all mothers have a hold on their children that never fully disappears.  It's an unalienable law of the animal kingdom.

To this day, my mother always calls me on my birthday and tells me that she vividly remembers giving birth to me and that it seemed like it was just yesterday.  Of course, I always ask her how she can recall something that happened almost four decades ago yet can't remember where she parked her car at the mall.

Me?  I'm a 37-year-old man with a wife, a child and a mortage.  But there are times that my mother can still make me feel like her little boy.  Whether it's by telling me at dinner last week to put my napkin on my lap and then reminding me about the time I swallowed ten pennies and had to be taken to the ER when I was 5-years old, I sometimes feel like it's her full-time job to both annoy and embarass me at the same time. 

And, speaking of jobs, I think mothering has to be one of the most thankless ones around.  As children, we're always seeking to push the bounds of authority and claim our right to independence.  However, our mothers know that we're not quite ready to leave the nest on our own and therefore the mother-child relationship becomes fraught with conflict.  But, in retrospect, we all come to realize that our mothers WERE right.  It's wasn't a good idea to go to school dressed as Spiderman in the middle of a snowstorm costume.  It's wasn't a good idea to eat that giant Hershey's Kiss in one sitting.  And it DEFINITELY wasn't a good idea to cut your own hair and spend your entire allowance on a pair of purple parachute pants.  But really, how were we to know?

A good mother lets you figure out some things on your own.  Other times, she chooses to teach her lessons through constant repetition.  Even now, when I leave the refrigerator open, I hear my mother's voice yelling at me to close the door. I swear, sometimes I have to turn around to confirm that she's not really standing in the middle of our kitchen.

Now, maybe times are changing and this generation's children will end up learning many of life's important lessons from their fathers.  However, I think there's something embedded in the human genome that will always ensure that mothers are the true teachers of life's important lessons.  This probably goes back to the Stone Age when neanderthal moms nagged their children about wearing clean bearskins when leaving the cave in case they ever got into an accident. 

I know a lot of you out there are mothers with relatively young kids.  And I know in this modern MTV-age of Desperate Housewives and O.C. hipness, there's an emerging trend of wanting to be a "cool" mom.  I beg of you to ignore it and let it go.  Because if there's one thing I have to say about motherhood, it's that a mother's sole responsibility is to flaunt convention and, over the course of a lifetime, simply prepare your kids for everything they might encounter in the world around them.  Nowhere in the job description should it say anything about wearing the same clothes as your teenage daughter while driving to mall in your Hummer for a round of Cosmos.

As many of you have probably figured out by now, motherhood isn't the easiest job in the world.  The job responsibilities involve equal parts Stalin and Mother Teresa: strict disciplinarian on one hand, unconditional nurturer on the other.  Only a mother can kiss and scold you at the same time.  Only a mother can make you laugh and cry at the same time. 

And only a mother can convince you that it's probably not a good idea to go to school dressed as Spiderman. 

So, to all the mothers out there around the world...thanks for everything!   There's no way that we  can ever really thank all of you enough.  Whether you're wiping snot off our faces with the sleeve of your blouse or swatting flies away from our face as we sleep, we thank you for all the love, wisdom, compassion and patience that you've given us.  Who knows where we would be without you! Like the Jewish proverb says, "God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers." 

And as the grand poo-bah of eternal wisdom, Mr. Vanilla Ice, once said, "Word to Your Mother!"

Peace out, yo!

"I'm Not a Playa, I Just Gush a Lot!"*

Thanks for the concerned e-mails about my lack of blogging lately.  Things have been a little hectic here at Casa Metro.  For the past week, we've been on a massive Spring Cleaning kick.  Since BossLady and I are both completely OCD, we've being going a little nuts.  Even the dog is starting to look at us funny (probably because, in a moment of fatigue, I might have tried to Dyson him.)  Also, I've been getting killed from my allergies lately.  My nose seems to be alternating between complete congestion and total drippage.  My eyes are being stabbed with tiny little knives.  I'm waking up with sinus headaches.  And this admixture of Zyrtec, Allega D, and Benadryl doesn't seem to be doing anything.  To top it all off?  BossLady and I have been having renewed discussions about her career.  Although she loves her job, she feels like the whole work vs. family balancing act has swung entirely out of whack and that she's not getting enough time with the Peanut.  I couldn't agree more.  Now, we just have to figure out her exit strategy. 

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming... 

Dear Peanut,

Sometime in the future, you'll read this letter that I'm writing to you now.  Pay close attention because it may provide a brief glimpse of what your parents were like when you were only 18-months old.

I know it's hard for you to imagine your parents when they were in their 30's.  After all, Daddy is now the weird guy with smelly feet who stays up reading all night with a glass of scotch so he can harass you when you come home from an evening out with your friends.  Mommy is the crazy lady who goes to bed every night at 8:00 pm and is always telling you how to dress.  And both of us are always driving you nuts and giving you a hard time about everything (i.e. your studies, your friends, and your wardrobe.)  We seem like such buzz-kills, don't we? 

There was a time when your parents were much cooler, Peanut.  Hard to believe but it's true.  Before you were born, your mother and I used to have quite an active social life.  We would go to fun parties, attend Off-Broadway plays, check out new bands, chill out in cool lounges, and discover new restaurants.  After you were born, things slowed down quite a bit.  You were the only social life that we wanted to have.  From the moment you were born, everything else fell by the wayside and you become the amazing epicenter of our new lives.  We spent every moment of every day trying to figure out how to spend more time with you.  In all honesty, we couldn't have been happier. 

The transition into our new roles as DADDY & MOMMY took awhile.  I don't think we realized how far we'd come from our child-free days until fairly recently.       

Last week, we went to a dinner party for your Uncle Jimmy.  It was in a private room at his uber-hip NYC restaurant, La Esquina, and though the party was ostensibly to celebrate his birthday, it was also a chance to catch up with some of our old friends and ogle celebrities. 

Lindsay Lohan was there (you know her as the soft-porn actress on Cinemax but, in 2006, she was quite popular.)  Colin Farrell was there (this was years before he got gonorrhea, syphillis and lung cancer in the same month.)  Bridget Moynihan was there also (before she became Mrs. Tom Brady.)  And, after we left, we heard that Ed Norton showed up (the 5-time Academy Award winner was always one of Daddy's favorite actors.)

A lot of your friends' parents were with us that night also.  In total, there were 10 couples eating together and having a "big" night out on the town.  At the time, many of them were working in really interesting and diverse fields such as film, publishing, fashion, real estate, art and architecture.

Between the celebrities and the interesting group of friends, you'd think we'd spend the entire evening having lots of diverse and interesting conversations, wouldn't you? 

Nope.

All we could talk about was YOU!  And all everyone else could talk about was their kids.  I'd say that the VAST majority of all our conversations was about you and your little friends.  Mommy and Daddy talked about your ever-increasing vocabulary and your penchant for climbing.   Uncle Jimmy told us about how Little A is learning how to walk.  The Doctor relayed Junior's eating habits.  Aunt Sarah talked about E's funny faces.  Aunt Jennifer gave us updates on the twins and their trip to DisneyWorld.  Uncle David told us about Fi's insomnia.  Auntie Franny talked about getting Little C used to the idea of his new sibling's impending arrival. 

These conversations about you and all your friends went on all night.  It even got to the point where your mommy and I looked at each other and started talking about how much we missed you.  And even though we knew you were home sleeping soundly, we decided to come home early so we could just watch you lying peacefully in your crib.   So, that's what we did. 

Because even though it's fun going out and seeing all of our friends every once in awhile, we'd much rather spend all our free time with you.  Now that you're a teenager, it probably seems hard to believe but it's true, Peanut.  You've changed our lives in so many ways and we're so grateful for having you with us.  When we think about how much we love you, it brings tears to our eyes.

In our book, you're the coolest cat in town. 

Love,
Dad

*In coming up with the title of this post, I started thinking about other titles of songs that I could write if I were a rap star who dropped beats about parenting.  Here's my short list...

Crapper's Delight
Get Ya Nap On, Girl
Bitch Better Have My Binky!
Straight Outta Daycare
Nuthin' But an 'ABC' Thang
Pranksta Nation
Where The Potty At
A Hug's Life

Any other ideas?  Send 'em in.  I've got an extra copy of Ghostface Killah's new CD, "Fishscale" for the person with the most creative entry. (You're the odds-on favorite, GGC!)

P.S. Oh yeah, in case you were wondering...Lindsay Lohan really does have a freckled ass.  Bridget Moynihan wears leopard thong underwear.  Colin Farrell is a chain-smoker.  And Ed Norton likes shots of fine tequila.