MetroDad

Housebreaking 101: Dogs & Babies Need Not Apply

You know how television commercials always show parents waking up by slowly stretching out their arms and luxuriantly getting out of bed while the warm bask of the morning sun envelops them?  As they put on their imported Turkish bathrobes and enter their enormous kitchens, they're greeted by the aromatic pleasures of freshly-brewed coffee and some buttery croissants.  In the background, you can frequently hear the dulcet sounds of a cooing baby. 

Needless to say, BossLady and I don't wake up like that.

These days, we've been waking up to the sounds of a two-year-old girl screaming at the top of her lungs, "Mommy!  Daddy!  Come 'ere!  Come 'ere NOW!" 

And the aromatic smell with which we're awakened?  Lately, it's the pleasurable aroma of a pile of steaming hot dog shit. 

Yeah...just like on TV, man.

I don't know what's gotten into MetroDog lately.  Maybe he's getting older.  Maybe he's dealing with some personal issues.  However, for some reason, he just can't seem to make it through the night anymore.  He's only five years old so it's hard to imagine he's getting incontinent.  In dog years, he and I are about the same age.  Shit, if I can make it through the night, why can't he?

When we first got MetroDog, we had a tough time housebreaking him.  It's not like we had a backyard where he could roam around.  Learning how to poop on a New York City curb is fucking tough.  Cars, fire engines, and dump trucks are rumbling by and dozens of people are watching your every move.  For a few months, BossLady and I would take MetroDog out every morning and would end up walking around for hours before he finally pooped.

Finally, a dog trainer suggested that whenever we walked outside the building, we should just insert a paper matchstick up his butt (the dog's butt, not the trainer's.)  The act of anally pushing out the match would force the poop out of MetroDog and train him to go in the same location every day. 

Man, have you ever tried to stick a match up a dog's butt?  It is not fucking easy.  The first few times we tried it, the fire kept going out before he would poop. 

(Chill out, PETA people. That was a joke!)

Actually, that little Dog Whisperer trick totally ended up working.  And to this day, whenever I'm feeling a little constipated, BossLady will just hold up a match stick and start laughing.  Yep, works for humans too!

When it comes to the Peanut, BossLady and I are taking a fairly low-key approach to toilet training.  Basically, that means we're leaving it up to Sesame Street (as usual.)  Between "Elmo's Potty Time" DVD and the "Ernie's Too Big for Diapers" book, we figure we're covered.

The Peanut's only two so we don't want to start pressuring her.  However, our low-key approach seems to be having an effect and it appears we're getting her closer to being potty trained.  Or at least potty-aware.  Just last week, we were chilling out and eating dim sum in Chinatown with a bunch of friends when the Peanut ran up to me, pointed at her butt, and yelled, "POOP, Daddy, POOP!  Let's go!"

Unfortunately, her yelling "POOP" didn't mean she was READY to poop but rather that she already HAD pooped.  But that's cool.  Baby steps, man.  Baby steps.  That's what I keep telling myself. 

One inadvertent and highly entertaining repercussion of toilet training the Peanut is that she is now completely obsessed with watching both BossLady and I go to the bathroom.  It's not like we encourage it but, any time that one of us enters the bathroom, the Peanut is right there with us.  Most of the time, she just likes to watch us do our business.  However, sometimes if we're sitting on the toilet, she likes to lift one of our cheeks out of the way or spread our legs open so she can peer into the toilet bowl and get a better view.  Not really my cup of tea but what can you do?  Kids are natural scientists in certain ways.

You should see how unbelievably happy she becomes whenever she sees a piece of crap in there.  It's like Christmas and her birthday wrapped up in one.  Her face lights up and she actually squeals with sheer delight.  Sometimes if nothing comes out, I almost feel like I'm letting her down.  How crazy is that? 

But hey---if it makes my lovely daughter happy, I'll push a little harder in the hope that I can at least squeeze out a little turd.  We'll do anything for our kids, right? 

Anyway I recently decided that, in the grand scheme of toilet training, I'm going to defer all future lessons to the BossLady and start closing the door when I go to the bathroom.  I think, in this instance, Daddy's involvement is only confusing the issue. 

Why do I say this? 

Because yesterday I asked the Peanut if she had to go to the potty.  She enthusiastically said, "Yes, Daddy.  I go pee-pee!"  Bridling with excitement, we both ran to the bathroom, where the Peanut immediately pulled down her pants and tried to pee...standing up!

You know...just when I think I have this parenting thing down pat, something comes up and bites me in the ass.  But really, isn't that half the fun of it all? 

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Apparently, someone decided that it’s National Delurking Week. In other words, if you read any blogs regularly but don’t comment on them, now's the time to come out of the woods and say hello.  So to all you lurkers, feel free to make your presence known and let me know you're out there. 

Normally I'm not a big fan of this group-think blog mentality but I figure as long as nobody uses the word "blogosphere," we're cool.

The Holiday Wrap-Up

(1) Aside from the fact that I will never get used to seeing Christmas lights on Palm trees, being in Palm Beach for the holidays was like celebrating the minute differences between the median and the mean. 

(2) Half the time, we got great weather.  Half the time, it was overcast and crappy.  On the flight down, Peanut was a nightmare.  On the way home, she was an angel.  Sometimes she'd let me sleep late.  Other times, she'd wake me up by smacking my head with a book at 7:00 am.  Half the time, she was charming the pants off everyone in the Sun Belt.  The other half, she was terrorizing the world around her.  Aahh...to be two years old and control everything in your entire universe.  THAT'S power, my friends.      

(3) The Peanut now refers to my parents as Babba and Nana.  Since their entire existence currently revolves around golf and their granddaughter, this was possibly the greatest thing to happen to them since Calloway (or as they say in Korean, "Carroray") invented the Big Bertha driver.

(4) Although the Peanut is in that awesome phase where she can generally repeat anything you say to her, for some reason she cannot pronounce the word "Uncle."  So, one night at dinner, BossLady leaned over to the Peanut and said, "Can you call him Tio?"  Of course the name stuck.  So my pale-faced Korean-American brother is now referred to as Tio.  The irony of this is fantastic since my brother has always greeted out-of-town visitors by saying, "Bienvenido a Nuevo York!  Habla Espanol?" 

(5) Holiday Thumbs Up:  "Dreamgirls," David Foster Wallace's "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again," Matthew Kneale's "Small Crimes in an Age of Abundance,"  Claire Messud's "The Emperor's Children," NAS' "Hip Hop Is Dead," and the complete DVD set of Aaron Sorkin's "Sports Night." 

(6) Holiday Thumbs Down: Ali Smith's "The Accidental."  Not sure whether this was an exercise in mastubatory self-indulgence or an experiment in post-modern literature.  However, the book has no plot, no ending, and I just wanted to smack every character in the head with a mallet.  NY Giants head coach Tom Coughlin could also use some mallet smacking. 

(7)  BossLady and I have always been very romantic with our Christmas gifts to one another.  Since we both grew up in immigrant homes where personal gifts were never exchanged, we tend to overcompensate.  In past years, we'd spend months searching for those special gifts that would truly capture and express our love for one another.  However, this year, we decided that nothing really says "I love you" like a bad-ass motherfucking giant HD plasma television and a home theater system that can shake the shit out of your neighbor!  Boo ya! 

(Since our current television is 20 years old, weighs 800 lbs, and is partly made out of wood, I'm like a kid in a candy store.  I may never read another book again!)

(8) The Peanut received a fantastic toy kitchen that I think might actually be bigger than our real kitchen.  Her obsession with kitchens has been growing exponentially and we are utterly perplexed by it.  Our own kitchen is used so infrequently that I actually store my ski boots and goggles in the oven.  However, I will say that having your daughter sit you down so that she can cook you an imaginary pizza while asking you if you would like some milk is quite possibly the funnest thing to do in the world.  The best part?  Last night, after our fake meal, she spent 20 minutes pretending to wash the dishes. 

(9) Since we have the world's greatest babysitter, she offered to spend New Year's Eve overnight at our place with the Peanut so that BossLady and I could go out for the evening.  Since we had no idea whether this opportunity would ever happen again, BossLady and I booked a hotel room and decided we were going to party all night like those crazy college kids.  We ended up grabbing some pizza for dinner and joining some friends at a truly great 80's-themed New Year's Eve party being held at a private club.  The theme was "Enchantment Under The Sea" (anyone remember the reference?) and I'm not sure which was better:  seeing all the incredible costumes (big props to our waiter Billy Idol and the two gay guys dressed up in the original Wham! costumes) or playing Name That Tune after every song and singing every single word to every single song by New Order, The Cure, Tom Tom Club, Run DMC, and Depeche Mode !

(10)  I'm 38 years old and it's clear that I don't bounce back like I used to.  After dragging myself out of the hotel at 2:00 pm and going straight to McDonalds, I spent the rest of New Year's Day in my bathrobe making canine figurines out of Play-Do and watching  "Bear in the Big Blue House" with the Peanut.  I was so hungover that I could barely understand what Treelo and Tutter were talking about.  And the whole thing with their friend Shadow scared the crap out of me.  She's so existentially frightening, it's like she's a Kafka character. 

I ended up putting the Peanut to bed early and then tried to watch the movie "Layer Cake" but I couldn't understand the Cockney accents so I dragged my sorry ass to bed and swore that I'd never drink again. 

Of course, it's now three days later and I'm feeling MUCH better.  In fact, I'm feeling so much better that I'm off to a local bar where Greg, Tony, LOD and I are going to get drunk and rub Liz's pregnant belly while feeding her french fries and ice cream!

What's up with all of you?

Quotalicious!

As many of you know, sleep and I have a somewhat tenuous relationship.  Whereas the Peanut tends to fall asleep by 7:30, BossLady usually starts getting yawny around 10:00 pm.  Hence, I usually have about 4 hours to myself every night, a time that I use to voraciously consume as much news, sports and pop culture before I vomit like a bulimic Chuck Klosterman.  Whether I've gorged on TV, the 50 magazines I subscribe to, or any of the 3 books that I tend to read simultaneously, I often come across some interesting quotes, both funny and serious, that I thought I'd share with all of you (along, of course, with my normal two-cent commentary.) 

''Mothers don't lie to their sons. Now go wash your hands or Santa's not gonna bring you anything for Christmas.''---Lynette on "Desperate Housewives."

When the Peanut was born, BossLady and I swore that we would never lie to her.  We wanted to have an open relationship with our daughter that would never be influenced by dishonesty or deception.  Unfortunately, the Terrible Twos are testing the limits of that commitment.  Right now, getting the Peanut into her stroller is like wrestling a penguin into a dress.  It's virtually fucking impossible.  Last week, in a moment of weakness, I turned to the Peanut and said, "C'mon, kid, just jump in the stroller. Elmo's downstairs waiting for us."  However, the lovely BossLady informed me that false promises of furry red monsters technically constitute a lie so I'd better start coming up with some new tricks. 

So what did I come up with?  Now, I walk around with cheese in my pocket so I can bribe her at a moment's notice (I should mark it "unwrap in case of emergency.)  Seriously. Even right now at the office, I have some in my pocket.  Because shit, if I can't use deception, all I've got left is bribery.

Please tell me I'm not the only one doing this! 

And honestly, if anyone had told me 10 years ago (when I was so full of myself and my hip urban lifestyle) that I would one day be carrying cheese in my pocket, I probably would have smacked them in the head with something. 

Most likely my beret. 

'Feminist author Linda Hirshman is here. I'll explain to her that a woman needs a man like a fish needs to be cooked and served to me for dinner by a woman on a bicycle.''---Stephen Colbert

It's interesting how a single article in an elite policy magazine can set off a battle between working mothers and those who choose to stay at home (i.e. "the Mommy Wars.")  For those of you late to the party, Hirshman has argued that women who are "letting their careers slide to tend the home fires" are making a DRASTIC mistake. Now, I'm personally of the belief that if you can afford to stay home, more kudos to you.  Either way, there's certainly no need to attack a woman's personal choice, Ms. Hirshman.  Shame on you. I do have to say that, in light of everything going on in the world, this VERY IMPORTANT ISSUE bores the crap out of me and is indicative of what my friend James like to call "high-class problems." 

Hell, BossLady is one of the smartest women I know.  She's an Ivy League grad and has the loan payments to prove it.  Would she love to stay at home?  Of course!  However, her decision to work shouldn't be equated with feminism but rather with what is right for our individual family.  After all, without her income, I'd be forced to drink cheap scotch, cut my own hair, and forgo foie gras.  So mind your own business, Linda Hirshman, and stay the hell out of my uterus!

''In her divorce petition, Denise Richards alleges Charlie Sheen is addicted to gambling, pornography, and prostitutes, all of which make him an unfit father...but a great uncle.''---David Spade

MetroBro is a great uncle.  Being a writer/filmmaker/artist, he has been entrusted with our daughter's aesthetic upbringing (like Uncle Buck! But with culture!)  Growing up, neither one of us had any uncles (at least none that we saw more than once every 20 years) so it's interesting watching him morph into unfamiliar territory. When Peanut was first born, I would frequently get phone calls from my childless friends who would say that they ran into my brother at a lounge at 3:00 in the morning and he immediately started whipping out baby photos like the proud uncle that he is.  Why am I mentioning all this?  Because I need a babysitter next Friday night, I can't get a hold of him, and I know he'll read this.  C'mon, dude.  Help a brother out! I'll even throw in a free dinner, some weed, and you don't have to walk the dog!

“How badly our enemies underestimated the power and endurance of freedom. In less than three years, we have more than just plans on paper—we place here today the cornerstone, the foundation of a new tower."---George Pataki in 2004 (as read in last week's New Yorker)

We live a short 4 blocks away from Ground Zero.  Were I a little younger, I could go on our building's roof, throw a baseball and hit the tarnished site.  I mention this because 2 years after Pataki's statement and more than 5 years after 9/11, they have only now begun to start construction on Freedom Tower. As has been abundantly documented, the bungling of this project has turned into an egregious example of bureaucracy and politics in action.   By the end of the day on September 11, 2001, it was clear that the terrorists’ act had enormous symbolic power in the eyes of the world, and it was also clear that whatever arose at Ground Zero should make an equally important symbolic statement of its own.  Sadly, we may find that instead of inspiring us and representing our values, the Tower will now represent the giant clusterfuck known as Politics In America.

''Your virtue is a gift. It is a gift you can give to only one man. Once you give it, it's gone. You can't regift it. If you give it to the wrong man, when the right one comes along, you'll have no gift to give. You'll have to give him a sweater.''---Rev. Boatwright on "Gilmore Girls"

For most of my life, there are certain groups whom I've always poked fun at...crazy old women with cats, white wanna-be gangsters, the French.  Also included in this group were knitters.  I was always scared by their pathological tendencies.  One day, they're knitting scarves.  The next day, they're making life-size replicas of a Ferrari. 

Well, as it turns out, the BossLady has become a knitter.

And like everything the BossLady does when she decides to do something, she does it full force.  For the past two weeks, she's dragged me to various yarn stores, shown me every Pantone color known to mankind, and researched every pattern under the stars.  She knits during her lunch hour, on the subway, and last night, I caught her knitting on the toilet. Just kidding.  Sort of.  Anyway, she just started a sweater for me and, in only two days, she's about 10% done.  It's like she's knitting on crystal meth. I think it's wonderful that she's making me this sweater but I think I'd rather have her spend more time giving up her virtue. 

''I forget: which Jane Austen novel was Taxicab Confessions adapted from?''---Amanda Peet on "Studio 60" when a writer informs her that HBO is the only place for "literate" television.

I've always been a fan of Aaron Sorkin's work on television.  Yes, I know his writing is often pedantic and egocentric but whenever I watch his shows, it restores my faith in television as a medium.  Network television doesn't always have to be dumb people shouting at briefcases ("Deal or No Deal") or watching Emmitt Smith tarnish his legacy by doing the polka ("Dancing with the Stars.")  No, sometimes great television can transcend all that crap.  So, needless to say, I love Studio 60.  I love the spitfire dialogue, the quick wit, and the bantering repartee.  The acting is also impressive (especially Sarah Paulson as Harriet Hayes.)  And while I will agree with Amy/Tracey that Aaron Sorkin can be absurdly pompous and derisive, it's nice to see some quality television for a change that won't insult my intelligence.   

Interestingly, I think television is undergoing a great renaissance right now.  It seems that there's more quality television being aired now than there has been for a very long time.  I personally know that our Tivo/DVR is working overtime to record not only Studio 60 but also The Wire, Friday Night Lights, House, The Office, Smith, Shark, and CSI.  I haven't been interested in that many shows in years. They all share the main commonality of being intelligent and very well-written, characteristics that are becoming virtually extinct on network television.  And while these aforementioned shows have achieved considerable critical successes, it's sadly disappointing to see that they are suffering poorly in the ratings and may not be around for much longer.  Perhaps intelligent television, as we know it, is destined for the scrap heap as we (as a society) continue to succumb to the lowest common denominator.  What's next?  The death of literature? 

Anyway, bitches, I've got to run.  "Laguna Beach" is about to start! 

(Can't wait to see what neurotic Kyndra wears next.  That bitch be crazee with her leopard tops and tight-ass skirts.  And, OMG, did anyone catch that gnarly convo between Alex and Rocky last week?  How bitchin' was that?)

Lists I made during today's daily commute

It's only Monday but I feel like it's already been a long week.  Damn!  Since I didn't want to dump or unleash my problems and stresses onto you guys, I decided to just post random thoughts that occured to me during today's commute on NYC's finest subways.  Here's 15 minutes of nothing....

FIVE THINGS I DEEPLY REGRET HAVING TAUGHT MY DAUGHTER

1. Picking your nose and wiping the boogers on your shoe.
2. Feeding leftovers to the dog.
3. Taking the batteries out of the remote control.
4. Splashing in the bathtub.
5. Wet willies.

FIVE THINGS I TAUGHT HER THAT ARE STUPID BUT HIGHLY AWESOME

1. Giving people a high-five while saying, "Up top, yo!"
2. Bras make great hats.
3. Panties on your head are even funnier.   
4. Running around, pointing to your ass and yelling, "Poop!  Poop!" (even when you haven't.)
5. Waking her mother up by sticking your finger in her belly button. 

FIVE THOUGHTS ABOUT "BLUE'S CLUES"

1. I find myself mesmerized by Joe's eyebrows.  Is it me or are they freakishly bushy?   
2. Whenever BossLady refuses to do something, I pretend to write in a notebook. 
3. I always thought Blue was a guy but then I saw him/her in a bikini. Blew my fucking mind. 
4. I know a job is a job, "Joe," but why take one that all but guarantees a life of celibacy? 
5. I think watching "Sesame Street" on mushrooms would be fun but "Blue's Clues" would scare the shit out of me.

FIVE QUESTIONS ABOUT "SESAME STREET"

1. Are Bert & Ernie (a) roommates, (b) brothers, or (c) totally gay? 
2. What the fuck happened to Snuffleupagus?  Did someone put a hit on him? 
3. Who owns Hoopers?  Some rich dude driving a Cadillac who lives in the suburbs?
4. Are the Birdketeers and the Grouchketeers like the Crips and the Bloods of Sesame Street?
5. Was there any lingering bitterness when Kermit left to front his own show and become a big Hollywood movie star? 

FIVE PEOPLE ON THE SUBWAY WHO PISSED ME OFF TODAY

1. The leg-spreader.
2. Smelly guy eating an Egg McMuffin next to me.
3. Hairy armpit-in-my-face woman.
4. Sneezy guy who didn't cover his nose.
5. Crazy Chinese woman knitting a sweater with her needles just inches from my face. 

FIVE PEOPLE ON THE SUBWAY WHO MADE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH NYC ALL OVER AGAIN

1. Cool, arty older woman who let me work on the Sunday NYT crossword with her.
2. Funny Orthodox Jewish homeboy freestyling raps about sheckels and kippas. 
3. Scary black dude whom I busted listening to Whitney's "I'm Every Woman" on his ipod. 
4. Conservative blonde WASP banker-type woman who gave the homeless guy her sandwich. 
5. Incredibly fragile 85-year old gentleman kindly offering his seat to a young pregnant woman. 

FIVE IDEAS FOR MY HALLOWEEN COSTUME (AND WHY THEY'RE ALL BAD)

1. Jin from "Lost" (Being barechested all night sounds like a good way to freeze your nipples off.)
2. V from "V for Vendetta" (When I tried on the mask, I scared the shit out of the Peanut.)
3. Elmo ("Mommy, why is Elmo smoking cigarettes on Hudson Street?")
4. Michelle Wie (I'm damn fugly in drag.)
5. A Gay Redneck Asian Nascar Driver (not sure if anyone would find this as funny as I do.)

Feel free to comment on any/all of the above. 

Meanwhile, anyone got some good stuff to keep me entertained and cheer me up?  Funny youtube videos?  Newly discovered blogs?  Photos of Christy Turlington in a Wonder Woman outfit? 

 

George W. Bush, Meet Little Richard

During a week in which I've mourned the loss of a close friend, gotten my ass kicked at work, and have been afflicted with every airborne virus at the Peanut's daycare center...THIS is just about the only thing that has brought a smile to my face. 

Fucking hilarious. 

Text Messaging For Dummies

As I've mentioned before, I hate text messaging because every time I'm forced to use it, I feel like a Japanese schoolgirl.  All I need is a Picachu or a Hello Kitty knapsack and the transformation will be complete. 

Screw that!  I'm 37 years old.  You want to send me a message?  Pick up the phone and call me. 

However, I've got an eclectic (ok...weird) set of friends.  And most of them continue to text me because they know it annoys the crap out of me.  As  I was deleting the messages from my phone today, I uncovered some gems from the past year.  Here are some of my favorites...

.

"Hamptons in a blackout.  Send booze."

"THC seems to have had an effect (e or a?)...empirical evidence confirmed by my wife (your behavior, not mine)  She says you're 'cute'."

"You still up, old man?  I'm around the corner."

"Why does my bathroom smell like Shea Stadium?"

"Can you bring me a Starbucks skim vanilla latte?  No, I'm not gay."

"Dirka Dirka...call u later...mad busy sucking the fat out of people."

"Happy New Year from HK!  Do you have any resolutions yet?  Eat more foie gras has potential."

"Why do I spend every night of my life at Soho House?  Don't answer."

"Still in 1st stage of childbirth.  Wife is cursing like a fucking motherfucker! Normal?"

"The Eagle has landed.  Born 8:07 pm.  7 lb. 13 oz.  Scorpio. Year of the cock. Player at Large!"

"U want the shortribs. U need the shortribs."

"Do me a favor.  Find out the name of the actor who plays Bunk on The Wire.  He's in the bathroom stall next to me!"

"The butler didn't do it."

"Pendaison de cremaillere, bitch!"

"I like poo.  Do you?"

"There are no Jewish girls in Wisconsin."

"Ninjas killed my family.  Need money for karate lessons."

What's the most random text message that YOU ever received?  An inquiring mind wants to know.

*By the way, the idea of posting my text messages came from the indomitable Sarah Brown, who if you're not reading already, you really should be.  Have a nice weekend, everyone!  Seacrest out!

The MetroDad Theory of Relativity

Two of our best friends recently had their second child.

And since the birth of their first child preceded the Peanut's by almost a year, they have always somewhat served as our parenting guinea pigs.  In many ways, they are like our Lewis & Clark, bravely traversing ahead of us on that great continental divide known as Parenthood and selflessly warning us of all the potential pitfalls that we may encounter along the way. 

Actually, that might be overstating their importance.  Sorry.  THIS HEAT IS MAKING ME INSANE AND RUINING ALL MY METAPHORS!

On second thought, they're more like the best friends you call on a Saturday night to ask why your newborn child is filling up her Huggies with what looks like the remains of a Shamrock Shake.

Anyway...like us, our friends were very anxious parents on the first go-around.  They read all the parenting books and took all the right classes.  No baby-related purchases were made unless they had been researched on Consumer Reports and cross-referenced with the databases of the FDA, the CDC and CPSC.  Heck, they even had professional safety experts come to their apartment and ensure that everything was 100% child-proof.  It was their first child!  Who could blame them?

But for kid #2?  Ehh...not so much. 

Seriously, we went over there last week and I swear that I saw their newborn baby sucking paper clips out of an electrical socket. 

Now, I'm not saying that my friends don't care about their second child.  It's just that I think we all eventually learn that much of the anxiety and stress we experienced with the birth of our first child may have been a tad bit out of proportion.  That's ok.  In reality, that's how it SHOULD be.  Having a child for the first time is a major life-altering event and should be undertaken with only the utmost seriousness. 

I hear stories all the time about parents obsessively sterilizing for hours and hours anything that came in contact with their first child!  By the time the third one comes along, these same parents are licking the germs off the pacifier with their tongues and wiping them off with their shirt.  Somehow, it's just not as big a deal anymore. 

I've also noticed this phenomenon when it comes to naming one's children.  Before the Peanut was born, I'm not kidding when I say that BossLady and I had a huge Excel file listing all of our preferred names by both gender and alphabetical order.  We would spend HOURS lying in bed and trying to come up with those "special" names. 

But as I look around at couples with multiple kids, I realize that even things like names become less and less important.  With the first child, it's always, "Oh, Sweetie!  You were named after my favorite relative, Grandma Eden, who lovingly raised me when I was a young child.  I'll always have a special place in my heart for her and, when I look at you, I see her beautiful soul shining brightly inside of you."   

By the 4th kid, it's like, "Your name?  You were named after a fucking sandwich.  Now, go get your brothers and sisters, Reuben!"

As for me?  Heck, I've only been a parent for 21 months but I can already see that my over-protectiveness of my daughter is starting to wane a little bit and that my lax attitude is slowly manifesting itself in subtle ways.  How?

Well, here's what I've noticed so far...

• I used to bathe the Peanut every single day.  Now, I only do it when there's maple syrup stuck in her hair or when she starts smelling worse than the dog.  I've been busted more than once wiping her down from head to toe with a wet paper towel. 

• I used to prepare every single one of her meals from scratch using only the freshest organic ingredients.  I still do this quite frequently but let's just say that now, my daughter squeals like a little chipmunk whenever we pass by a McDonalds. 

• I used to sit for hours on the floor with the Peanut reading her 20 children's books in a row.  Now, I make her sit on my lap as I read her passages from Phillip Roth's new novel or the Sports Section.   She's not learning quite as much but I was pretty proud when she turned to me the other day and said, "Yankees suck!"

I think because the Peanut is turning into this walking, talking human being with her own strong sense of individuality and personality, I feel less inclined to be so neurotic or overprotective.  After all, what good does it do to sterilize all her sippy cups when, two minutes later, she's outside shoveling mounds of dirt into her mouth like a geophagic member of a Zambian war tribe?  Seems like a waste of time, doesn't it? 

Heck, by next week, I'll probably just change her diapers when the poop starts leaking out the sides.  Of course, I'll have to wait until she's done playing in traffic and juggling the steak knives...but that's cool, right? 

A Fairy Home Companion!

Last week, BossLady had a date with one of her gay male friends. They met up after work, went shopping at Barneys, shared a salad for dinner, and then went to see a late showing of "The Devil Wears Prada."

At the same exact time, I was eating a sandwich over the kitchen sink in my underwear, drinking a glass of scotch, watching the Mets game, and training the dog to catch peanuts with his mouth. 

This really couldn't have worked out better and there's a good chance that, for the rest of my life, I will never again have to walk into a shoe store or go to the ballet.  I've told the BossLady that anytime she and John want to do this again, I'll pay for everything. 

Why didn't I think of this sooner?

"Mommy, why did Paris say I have Her Peas?"

Thankfully, the Peanut has only crapped in the tub once.  Unfortunately, I was giving her a bubble bath at the time and didn't notice anything until my hand reached under the suds and came up with a giant turd.  I was kind of grossed out but the Peanut thought it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen. 

In other news, who the hell dresses up like a St. Tropez hooker when they're bathing a child?  Seriously, I haven't seen a suit like that since Shelly Hack wore one on The Pacific Princess.  Or maybe it was Priscilla Barnes.  Whatev. 

A Hug's Life

I am positively head-over-heels in love with my daughter. 

At the age of 21 months, the Peanut has me completely wrapped around her little finger.  Whenever we're together, we spend most of our time being absolutely silly and laughing our heads off.  We're just two goofy kids having the time of our lives.  In fact, if you ever saw us together, you might actually overdose on all the cuteness.  Seriously, it's fucking nauseating. 

But despite our closeness, there's one thing that's always perturbed me about my relationship with the Peanut.  It's something that's been evident since she was born and, thus far, shows no signs of abating.  It's not a huge deal but, in a way, it sometimes makes me feel as if there's a large part of parenting that I'm completely missing out on.  I'm reluctant to make a big deal about it but the fact of the matter is...

The Peanut is NOT a hugger.

Don't get me wrong.  Whenever she sees other kids, she always runs to hug and kiss them.  Whenever she comes home at the end of the day, she immediately throws her little arms open to warmly embrace our dog.  And when it's time to go to bed, she always gives me and the BossLady a quick good night hug.  But it's more like one of those quick man-hugs that you give when you run into one of your boys at a club.  For the most part, she never really wants to hug us.  She's either too busy or she's just too independent. 

The ONLY times that she ever gives us one of those huge neck-grabbing bear hugs is when she's absolutey scared out of her Huggies.  Unfortunately, the kid is pretty much fearless and doesn't scare easily.  In fact, thus far, there are only two things that scare her enough for her to hug us...the ocean and the sound of the vacuum cleaner.  For some reason, those things scare the crap out of her.

In the grand scheme of things, I know that we have a great relationship with the Peanut.  I don't ever doubt her love for us and I know that her lack of hugging is due mostly to her fierce sense of independence.  But we're her parents.  We love her.  We adore her. We'd die for her.  Once in awhile, it would be nice if she would just run up to us and give us a big hug.  You know.  Just to let us know that she cares. 

Anyway, what I really want to know is whether you guys think it's bad that, every once in awhile, we not only turn the Dyson vacuum cleaner on full-blast for no apparent reason but also we try to take the Peanut to the beach as frequently as possible?

We're going to Hell, aren't we?  Shit, I knew it!