MetroDad

Dear Andy

Dear Andy,

It's 9:00 am and I've just gotten to the office. It's a beautiful clear and sunny morning here in New York. Eerily similar to that same day seven years ago when tragedy struck.

I still remember every moment of that day vividly. James calling me in the office to tell me the news. The mass hysteria surrounding the immediate confusion. Looking out my window and seeing the giant plumes of black smoke envelop the sky. Finally realizing the epic nightmare of what was happening to our beloved city.

I remember hitting the redial button on my phone every two seconds, frantically trying to reach you at your office or on your cell phone. I remember driving around to hospitals all night in New Jersey with our friends, praying that we'd find you in one of them. I remember staying up all night together as we all anxiously waited for the good news that would never come.

All of it seems like just yesterday.

It doesn't surprise me that I can remember so much of that time. You were one of my closest friends and, as a group, it seemed like we spent every single one of our free moments together: evenings, weekends, vacations. When were we ever apart? Even when we all had girlfriends, we were an inseparable group of friends.

So it scared me this week when I was thinking about you and I realized that I was having a hard time remembering every detail about you. What was your cellphone number?  Were you a lefty? What was that screenplay you wrote about? Which of the many times down in Miami was it when we laughed our asses off because you got sunburn on your head? How many joint birthday parties did we throw together? How could I not remember these things?

Then I remind myself that those are things that don't matter. Not in the slightest. The only things that matter are that you were one of my closest friends, that I loved you and that your life was tragically cut short.

I still can't believe it's been seven years.

I think it's partly because, out of the past seven years, this one feels like the longest. We lost Sofia's dad this year after a long battle with cancer. We spent the entire summer going back and forth to make more memories with him. The proximity to his death always made me think of you.

I would have loved to have made more memories with you. All I have are the ones from our time together. Wednesday night dinners with you and Kyle every week. All those weekend trips where we crashed on Roy's floor in Miami. The countless rounds of hungover golf. Chinese food every Sunday while watching the Giants game. The birthday parties. The New Year's Eve parties. The times at the beach houses we all rented together every summer. It seemed as if we never had a middle gear.

I guess that's what life in your 20's is all about.

Meanwhile, it's mind-boggling to me that I'm about to celebrate my 40th birthday in a few months. I've got a wife, a child, a serious job, and an even more serious mortgage. I don't play pick-up basketball anymore because it takes too much out of my body. If I sleep in a funny position, my back will be sore for days. And when I look in the mirror, I see wrinkles and creases that make me feel every single one of those 40 years.

But you'll always remain that beautiful, happy-go-lucky guy in his late 20's who always had a smile on his face and a kind word for everyone. There's something oddly comforting in the fact that that's how I'll always remember you.

I hope you're looking down on all of us and still smiling, Andy. I know I still laugh when I see us. Our group of friends (whom you always lovingly referred to as "la famiglia") has certainly gotten older. Russell is exactly the same lovable clown that he always was. Shary has turned into a Persian baby-making machine. Roy has an enormous clan down in Miami still. David finally got married. Of course, Kyle is still single. He spent the past year in L.A. and we all know what a year in L.A. does to that guy. All in all, we don't see each other as much as we used to but, whenever we do, you're always there with us.

I miss you terribly, Andy. These days, thinking of you always puts a smile on my face. You were such an important part of our past that you'll always be a part of our future. I think, after seven long years, I've finally come to terms with losing you. More than anything, I'm not as angry as I used to be. Maybe I'm mellowing with age.

But every year on 9/11, I swear that I'm not going to cry, mourn or bury myself in a bottle of scotch.  Unfortunately, ever year, I end up failing miserably.  This year, I think I'm finally ready to mourn you by celebrating the amazing love you had for life.  I know that's what you would have wanted.

But more than anything, I just want you to know that I'm thinking about you. I always have and I always will.

Rest in peace, Andy.

Love always,
Your friend Pierre

Tales of Future Past

In my relatively brief history as a father, I've found that parent-to-parent conversations tend to take two different courses.

On the one hand, you have the mushy unsolicited advice-givers who tend to drop pearls of wisdom like pigeon droppings.  These are the parents who tend to speak in vague aphorisms and love saying things like, "Isn't your life finally complete and wonderful now that you're a parent?" or "I barely remember what life was like before I had children!"  I constantly find it amazing to see how many parents apparently had NO LIFE before they had kids. 

But even more annoying are the competi-parents.  These are the ones who view every conversation as an opportunity to boast about their own child's development.  Does your baby count to 10?  Really?  In how many languages?  Oh, that's cute. Billy is learning Mandarin now, plays the piano, and is a black belt in karate. 

With these parents, I just like to end the conversation by saying, "Really?  Yesterday, my kid painted the walls with her own shit, ate my chewing tobacco, and then farted on the dog.  Can YOUR child do that?" 

Now, don't get me wrong.  Although I generally dislike discussing developmental milestones, I LOVE talking to other parents about their kids.  As the ancient Chinese proverb says, "life consists of the small things."  And I often find that it's the small things that crack my ass up. 

What I really love hearing are the everyday stories that parents tell about their children.  I especially love reading about kids who are slightly older than the Peanut.  It's like getting a glimpse of what awaits me in the future.  Not the cognitive development bullshit but the fun stuff.  The small things in a child's development that crack you up.  Or the funny shit that comes out of their mouths and puts a smile on your face.

As I've mentioned before, this internet thing is weird. In a strange but comforting way, I feel invested in reading about all these children of parents that I hardly know.  I love hearing that Robert wants to start a band that only performs "Life is a Highway."  I think it's hysterical that Elijah is putting socks on his penis.  Or what about the nipple conversations that Kristen and Mimi are having with their daughters?  I can barely keep track of all the kid stories I read on the internet.   

Right now, the Peanut is a little over two-years old and every single day is non-stop comedy.  I guess there are parents of newborns who like coming here just to see what they can expect in the future.  So, in the interest of "paying it forward," here are just a few small things that those of you with younger children can expect after your child turns two.

The following takes place during the course of a single day...

(1) Your child's memory will amaze you.  Things you said months ago when she was a little infant will now come back to haunt you.  For example, this morning, you will be speaking to a matronly woman in the lobby of your building and her shoe will squeak on the rubber mat.  Your innocent little child (who has been shyly clinging to your leg in total silence for 10 minutes) will suddenly look up alertly and yell, "WHO FART, DADDY?"

(2) Your child will be in the midst of being toilet trained.  On a good day, she will go to the bathroom by herself and poop.  The clean-up part?  Eh...not so good.  Today, you will wake up by having your daughter open the door to your bedroom and crawl into your bed.  She will plant a kiss on your cheek and demand that you wake up so the two of you can have cereal together.  You will look up to realize that she is not wearing any diapers.  When you ask her where her diaper is, she will reach underneath your 600-count Frette comforter, pull out a very loaded diaper, and proclaim, "Right HERE, daddy!"

(3) That afternoon, you will be changing your daughter's diaper.  Her stool will have a very gelatinous texture to it.  In fact, if you look closely, you will find some slightly pink mucilage.  When you show your daughter the diaper and ask what the hell that is, she will smile toothily at you and cheerfully pronounce, "I eat GUM, daddy!"

(4) Around this time, your child will mimic everything that you do.  As she will constantly tell you, she's "a big girl now" and no longer wants to be treated like a baby.  This insistent behavior will manifest itself in many ways.  Today, you notice that she has a slight fever and must be kept out of daycare.  Because you have no other alternative, she will come to your office during the day.  She will see you working and, because you are busy, you will end up eating lunch at your desk.  Later that night, she will disappear from sight, only to grab the telephone from your bedroom and rearrange all the furniture in the apartment so that she too can eat at her desk...

And you will laugh...

Because once again, your daughter will prove that life's daily small moments are the ones that you cherish the most. 

Sometimes, having a job ain't so practical either, Peanut!

Been a long week, my friends, but it's finally over.  We'll return to our regularly-scheduled programming on Monday. 

Have a great weekend!

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!

Happy Anniversary, BossLady!

Five years ago today, the lovely and beautiful BossLady and I exchanged vows to one another in a Tribeca loft.  It was one of those gorgeous summer evenings and the perfect time to celebrate our union together. 

After all these years together, I still can't believe she agreed to marry me and my smelly feet.  I don't even want to contemplate my life without her.  A life without her is no life at all. 

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Happy Anniversary, honey.  Not only do you rock the Casbah, you make me make me make me make me hungry again!   

You're the coolest cat in town and I'll always love you forever.

Girl's Gone Wild: The Toddler Years

Tonight, the Peanut got pissed at me because I wouldn't give her a cookie.

Honestly?  I don't even know how she saw the fucking cookie.  It was perched on a countertop way beyond her line of vision and semi-hidden by a sippy cup. 

All I know is that, at one point, the two of us are hanging out and playing musical instruments together.  She's jamming out on the harmonica and I'm rocking some serious triangle action.  Next thing I know, she completely freezes up and I see her tiny eyes scanning the entire kitchen with the intensity of Jack Bauer looking for a terrorist in a crowded mall.  For a second there, I half-expected her to pick up an empty toilet paper roll and start using it as a telescope.  Instead, she made an immediate beeline for the cookie and tried to use her one inch vertical leap to grab it. 

Since it was close to dinner time (and because I'm the world's most sadistic father,) I refused to give her the cookie.  In my best approximation of an actual grown-up, I calmly told her that the cookie would spoil her appetite and that, if she waited a little while, we'd have dinner together. 

First, tiny tears start welling up in her eyes. Then, she begins whimpering softly.  Next thing I know, she's screaming so loudly that I'm convinced my neighbors will think I'm flushing a cat down the toilet.  I lean down to hug her but she kicks me in the nuts.  She then starts flailing around on the floor like an epileptic fish.  Her arms are going in one direction, her legs in another.  If the screams hadn't been so maddingly deafening, I think I would have sat back in a chair and laughed my ass off. 

Instead, I gave the Peanut a "time-out." 

This was actually her second time-out.  BossLady gave her one the other day because the Peanut thought it would be fun to overturn the laundry basket and start tossing Diet Coke cans out of the pantry.  While BossLady and I thought this was hilarious, we didn't want to set a bad precedent so we suppressed our smiles and scolded the Peanut.  Of course, our lovely daughter went absolutely bonkers, started screaming again, and commenced throwing soda cans like a young Satchel Paige.

So we stuck her in her crib until she cooled out (thank you, Supernanny!)

Clearly, we're at the beginning stages of the Terrible Twos.  I'm fully cognizant of the fact that the Peanut's behavior stems from an irresistible urge to make her own choices.   Recently, I've been reading a lot of parenting literature to help me prepare for this latest phase of the Peanut's development (and the ensuing onset of oppositional behavior, constant impatience and decision reversals.)

All the same, it's fascinating watching it up close and personal.   In one moment, the Peanut is cute, adorable, and charming.  Two seconds later, she's stubborn, demanding and impatient.  She's like a miniature Asian version of Sybil.

Wish us luck, my friends, and feel free to offer up any advice.  Because right now, BossLady and I are locked in a battle of the wits with a 20-month old girl who has suddenly come to realize that she knows exactly what she wants at any given time.  Nature and Nurture are colliding straight-on and the stakes are high. 

Winner gets a free cookie.

 

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?

Things Being An Uncle Has Taught Me (by MetroBro)

MetroDad was laid up in bed all of last week, semi-convinced that he had either contracted avian flu or got some rare disease from sitting on a dirty toilet seat in Hanoi.  Thankfully, it appears he just had some sort of flu that he must have picked up on the plane.  However, since he's still slowly recuperating, he asked me, MetroBro, to do a guest post.  Here's a quick one on what I've learned from being an uncle...


1. BABIES DON'T BOUNCE
...They bruise! And then certain "grown-ups" get all pissy and spiteful about it.

2. SHOW AND PROVE
When trying to show your sensitive side to girls, a photo of your niece is as good as a puppy on a leash. True, a puppy on a leash draws more attention on the street. But then again, you can't take puppies into bars and strip clubs. 

(I haven't tried the niece-on-a-leash thing yet.)

3. CARRY I.D. AT ALL TIMES
The eminent 16th-century French blogger ("frogger") Montaigne writes:

"Herodotus tells of a certain district of Libya where men lie with women indiscriminately, but where, once a child can toddle, it recognizes its own father out of the crowd, natural instincts guiding its first footsteps. There are frequent mistakes, I believe."

Oh, I believe too, frogger. Call me paranoid but I sometimes think the Peanut mistakes me for MetroDad. There are days when she sees me and I can tell she's thinking, "Hey, you're the guy who was here last weekend! We had a good time, didn't we? Gimme a hug, then we'll make the silly noises again." Other days her expression reads more like, "Wow, how did Da-da change his clothes and cut his hair so quickly?" 

(She thinks we "all look alike," maybe? Racist!)

4. CARRY PHOTO I.D. AT ALL TIMES, AND CLEARLY STATE THE DATE AND TIME OF YOUR LAST VISIT
Sometimes it's as if she doesn't recognize me at all. It's actually like a little kick in the heart when she hits me with the "Who did you say you were again?" look. Hot tears prick the corners of my eyes. I  go from pleading ("But I bought you your ExerSaucer, remember?") to threatening ("I bought you your fucking ExerSaucer!") to desperation ("I'll buy you a PlayStation this year, 'kay honey?").

Does this mean I'm not seeing her as often as I should? If it's been longer than a week, and I check in with MetroDad and ask what new words the Peanut has learned lately, he'll be sure to taunt me with something like: "The other day she said, 'Who's my uncle? I have an uncle?'"

5. TURD IS THE WORD
If you're not ready to have children of your own yet, but want to experience the thrill of feeling like a mature, responsible adult: Change a diaper.* It's such a rush. You get this buzz like you've suddenly gained five years in wisdom and bearing, but you can still sleep 'til 11 and smoke weed at noon.

*To get the full effect you have to change a brown gooshy diaper. A merely damp one doesn't count. You've got to feel like you're doing something major for the kid.

6. BEING AN UNCLE, V. 2.0
...Which leads us to the Big Question about being an uncle: "Doesn't this make you want to have kids of your own?" Well, no. Not yet. I'm good, for now. I get to come over, play with my adorable niece for a few hours, then go back to my self-centered, hedonistic, struggling-artist routine. Despite the fondest hopes of MetroGram and Gramps, being an uncle has NOT kicked my daddy-clock into overtime. But it has changed me. Listening to the Peanut form her first words, watching her take her first steps -- all this has made me wish for something I never knew I wanted before. I don't want to be a father. I want to be an uncle again!

Let's try for a boy this time!

Amuse-Bouche (Tales of a Picky Eater & 6-Course Meals)

I'm being cursed for my blasphemy and lack of humility, my friends.

A scant two months ago, I posted about how my 15-month-old daughter would eat absolutely anything.  In fact, I brazenly and proudly compared her to a junkyard dog.   My smugness was understandably well-deserved, considering that I had just spent a week in Palm Beach with the Peanut and watched first-hand as she scarfed down everything from fried clams to foie gras.  It was amazing to witness.  I can only compare it to watching Star Jones work the seafood buffet at her wedding (n.b. I personally didn't attend the wedding but my overactive imagination did.)

Anyway, I now stand here before you as a rueful father eating humble pie off the tabletop of remorse.  As I mentioned over at Rice Daddies, the 17-month-old version of the Peanut has completely metamorphosized into the WORLD'S PICKIEST EATER!  She's weaned herself off milk, refuses to eat baby food, and abhors almost everything we give her.  Even if she DOES like a certain food, she never eats more than a few bites of it. 

Now, I don't know whether I've mentioned here before that the BossLady has recently started a new job that's extremely demanding.  We're not sure how it's all going to work out and I'll save the details for a later post.  However, one of the consequences of this new job is that I am now solely responsible for feeding the Peanut dinner, bathing her, and getting her ready for bed (at Casa Metro, we're only HALF-joking these days when we say that I'm the perfect housewife---not only do I bring home the bacon, I cook it up and clean the pan!)

Sounds so simple, doesn't it?  A little cooking, some feeding, a quick bath and bedtime?  In actuality, these tasks really only take me about two hours...but let's not forget that Nixon's demise was predicated on a scant 18 minutes!

Anyway...because the Peanut is such a picky eater, I'm forced to cook her these 6-course dinners, hoping that she'll eat just enough of each course to not only nourish her growing body but also also circumvent any potential 4:00 am hunger pangs. 

Being an amateur gourmand whose retirement savings are spent at restaurants all over Manhattan, I've always been a firm believer in the theatrical aspect of dining.  Therefore, to entice the Peanut to eat, I usually take great care to conjure up her meals with a great flourish of presentation.  I know it's absurd but I actually do think it helps. 

So now, in the first-ever MetroDad photo compilation, I hereby offer you tonight's multi-course meal that I personally prepared for the Peanut...
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These are couscous french fries from Dani Restaurant, leftovers from BossLady's steak dinner on Saturday night.

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My world-reknown dish, Hot Dogs and Snow Peas.  The hot dogs, prepared by Monsieur Oscar Mayer, were a big hit.  The snow peas?  Not so much.

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Here, we've mixed it up with a little home-made kimbap that I prepared,  one of the few foods (aside from dumplings) that the Peanut can eat all day long.  However, due to the high salt content, I try to limit her intake.

I call this dish "Popcorn & Fried Tofu."  Usually, Peanut ends up eating ALL the popcorn and only 1-2 pieces of tofu.

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This is a microwaveable Spinach & Feta omelet.  It's 50/50 whether the Peanut eats it or throws it against the wall.

Not surprisingly, dessert is never an issue.  Whether it's fruit yoghurt or applesauce, the Peanut loves sugar and will wolf down sweets like the girl that she is.  Sometimes, I hide baby food under something sweet just so she'll eat it. 

But, in all seriousness, my friends, how do you deal with a picky eater?  What are the tricks of the trade?  How do you get your picky child to eat?  Do you let a stubborn child go to bed hungry?  What should we do?  It's taking me a full hour to prepare her dinners these days!

I know I've asked for your parenting advice before but, this time, I'm REALLY serious.  I need your collective wisdom and ALL your tips, tricks, and tactics on how to deal with this latest stage of childhood development.

Who's going to be my shining savior and help ensure that the Peanut eats more than a Snickers bar and some popcorn every day?  (Blogging Baby?  City Mama?  MIM?  Cookie?  LM? Issa? Queenie? Marian?  Stacy? Mo-Wo? L? Misfit? Margalit? Moxie? Alice? Mimi? Melissa? Ayelet?  ANYONE?  BUELLER?)

C'mon, sisters!  Help a fellow housewife out!