Two Tween Girls in a Shopping Cart

Yesterday, I went to the supermarket. While I was there a man pushed past me his cart full of food with two girls, about 10 or 11 years old, perched precariously in the little place where you normally put a single, small child. The two girls, each holding a separate cell phone, were talking excitedly with one another and with whomever was on the other end of their respective phone conversations. They had fancy hair and clothes on and the man pushing the cart seemed placid and unperturbed.

These two girls were of the age that comes just after the cheerful chub of childhood and just before the sullen, awkward swagger of adolescence. Their hair and clothes and cell phones spoke of their adult trajectory but the way they were crammed into the cart suggested a need to feel small and childish.

After they'd gone by, I wondered about that group's dynamic. What conversation had taken place upon arriving at the store? How had these two girl convinced their father to put them in the cart and let them chatter into their phones? This guy must be a total pushover. Probably spoils these girls rotten.

From the outside, it would be easy to say that this man was spoiling his kids. They were old enough to walk by themselves. Furthermore, why would two kids that age need to carry on a conference call in a supermarket? It would be easy to look down my nose at this procession.

But I wonder what I'll be like as a father when Baby J is a tween. It's a strange age. Kids are expected to grow up quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Maybe someday I'll permit my daughter to play adult as I wheel her around in the shopping cart. Or give her a chance to try out being a grownup from the safety of her childhood haunts in some other way.

Maybe someday, in another 10 years, Baby J and I will push past you in the supermarket doing something you might think strange. But every family's different and the dynamic that emerges between family members is unique.

So screw you for judging us!

Nonsense Rant on Nationality and Babies

I woke up this morning thinking about what it means to be an American. I'm not really sure why. Maybe I was watching something last night about the Health Care Debate going on in Congress.

Anyway, Baby J is considered an American because she was born in America, right?. That's the rule as far as I can tell. And that means that she is just as much an American as I am. After all, we were both born on American soil. Or am I more American than she is because I'm informed on issues and can vote? Does that make me more American? Is anyone more American than anyone else?

Politicians love to paint themselves more American than their respective counterparts with subtle allusions. Ranking people according to their American-ness smacks of MacCarthyism. Being an American is kind of an either/or proposition. There aren't any gradients. I guess the right thing to say is that both Republicans and Democrats and all the sundry other parties are all equally American. And that they are all as American as Baby J.

I guess this would all make patriotism a sort of self-esteem linked to a person's nationality. After all, if all Americans are equally American, the only accurate way of differentiating between us is how we feel about our American qualities. If you feel good about yourself and your country, then you're a patriot. If you don't, then you're a...I don't know...a commie leftist pinko dirtbag? And if you have no clue like Baby J, then the whole point is moot.

So what have we learned today? Um...that's a hard one. Maybe it's that since nationality is generally based on birthplace and patriotism is a vague brand of civic pride, then no one is more or less American than Baby J.

In conclusion, pooping yourself and crying are equally as American as apple pie and baseball. And since all babies poop themselves and cry, they all exhibit American characteristics.

Maybe "American" is a meaningless term, denotes only birthplace and who you have to pay taxes to.

Listening To: Intuit by Ramona Falls

Baby --> Parents --> Grandparents

I took a few days off from Dawn of the Dad because my parents were visiting us. We put them up in the room where my computer and art desk are so there was very little writing or drawing happening.

While they were here, my parents did all the stuff my grandparents used to do with me when I was a kid. Coo, play, tell me how smart and/or beautiful I was. At the same time, my wife said that she saw an awful lot of my father in me. At one point she even mistook me for my dad!

As I reflect on the few days my parents stayed with us, I'm most interested in the way we seamlessly transition into each new stage of life. Though they'd hate me to say this, my folks are making a transition into what my grandparents were when I was young. I can see it clearly because they aren't around all that much.

Also, according to my wife, I am very much like my father now. I guess someday I'll be like my grandfather since that seems to be the trajectory we all take.

Someday, Baby J will probably be like her mother. And then, someday after that, she'll probably be like her grandmother too.

Listening To: New Sacred Cow by Kenna

Moo...

There's a Greek myth (I'm not sure which one) about a meek boy who wishes to grow stronger. He seeks the advice of some mentor (or sage or oracle or seer or anyone of the other myriad omniscient beings that seemed to have populated Ancient Greece) and was instructed to carry a baby calf around a barn once each day. The idea was that as the calf grows into a cow, the boy would grow into a man and gain strength through a task that intensified gradually.

This legend, though only vaguely present in my memory, sprung to the front of my mind today as I lifted Baby J out of her car seat. I tend to carry her wherever we go since it's easier than rigging up that marsupial contraption and more maneuverable than a stroller. I thought to myself that this must be a good workout and that over time, I'd grow stronger from it.

But then, as my brain mulled this half-baked comparison, I started to see a second layer, a deeper metaphor that I hadn't thought of before.

My revelation went like this: No one gets stronger by hoisting babies. Even in Greek myths. If that were the case, there'd be baby gyms all around the country where you could bench press tots until your pecs were bulging. Maybe this myth isn't really about a boy growing physically stronger by hefting cattle. Maybe it's about developing inner-strength through self-discipline, through taking responsibility for another life. After all, if the meek boy didn't take care of the calf, he'd have to carry a rotting cow carcass around. And that's just gross. He needed to feed his calf, to make sure it was warm, to make sure it was healthy, etc. How long does it take to carry a calf around a barn? Ten, twenty minutes? I bet you the meek boy spent a lot more time worrying about his cow's welfare than he did lifting it. And that, my friends, is pretty much what parenting's all about.

Baby J sleeps away 75% of each day but her presence occupies 110% of my attention. Carrying around Baby J both physically and metaphorically has helped me grow a lot stronger. It's narrowed my focus, adjusted my priorities. Sadly, my pecs are not yet bulging, but there's plenty of time for that later.

Listening To: Ruby Vroom by Soul Coughing

Creativity - A Really Long Rant

When you look at standardized test scores of children all around the world, it's pretty easy to see that the US is falling behind in some areas. Some folks panic when they realize this. They see a doomsday future where Asian countries rise up with their superior math intellect and subjugate less number savvy nations. I doubt this will happen.

First of all, standardized tests are hardly a measure of a nation's worth. Rather, they are merely a shadow of a reflection of a snapshot of a sketch of the cognitive capacity of children. So what if Asian kids know their times tables earlier than we do? The US has something much more important. You see, we have been for many years and continue to be a crucible of creativity.

Think of all the major invetions created in our nation, Henry Ford's Model T, the Wright Brothers' Kitty Hawk, that stupid segway thing that only mall cops use.

I think it's most unintentional, but our society nutures creativity. We attract great minds from all around the world because of our fascination with new ideas and new technologies. With this in mind, it's pretty easy to see why rank nations by test scores, which are perhaps the most uncreative things in existance, is not necessarily a good idea.

American schools should worry less about test scores, focus more on expanding children's creativity. This works in the favor of schools since creativity not something you need to teach. Not in the way you need to teach history anyway. Kids are by nature very creative. Just go watch a little kid play for 10 minutes and you'll hear more new ideas than you would if you could sit in on a brainstorming session between Leonardo Da Vinci and Thomas Edison.

America's schools are pretty good at getting kids to fall in line. That's pretty much what they're designed for. And, sadly, falling in line is often the death of creative thought. S it's up to us parents.

Want to keep America great? Challenge your kids to be creative. Don't drive it out of them with soul-crushing standardized tests like SAT's. There's a lot of value to finding new ways to solve problems. And, as a parent, I have to keep this in mind when Baby J has used her toy box to escape from her little play enclosure. I have to remember this when she using my computer keyboard as a teething ring.

Listening To: Farm by Dinosaur Jr.

Monkees' Head

One of my favorite movies is Head from 1968. It's a psychedelic stream of consciousness centered around the fantastical, nonsensical exploits of the Monkees.

I'm not sure why I like it so much. Probably because it's filled with song and silliness. Also, I love that there never has been and never will be another movie quite like it.

While watching it the other day, I realized that this surreal, non-sequential flow of the film is probably how babies see the world. It's all totally random, there are things to laugh at, and things that will frighten you. Everyone carries on like everything's totally normal and you're left trying to figure out what the hell is going on. I imagine that kids spend the first few years of their lives trying to do pretty much just that.

So, if you haven't seen Head, go watch it. It's madness. It's ridiculous. And it's probably a good approximation of how babies experience the world.

Listening To: Saguine by Nero

Steps

Baby J has learned to walk up steps. With considerable effort and a wary adult spotter behind her, she'll make her way up an entire flight of stairs.

Of all the nifty little things she's taught herself to do, I have to say that this is my least favorite. Earlier today, she climbed up one stair all by herself. I went to get her but arrived just a second too late. She saw me coming and thought it was all a game. With a gleeful, toothless smile, she lunged headfirst off the stair to make her getaway. Needless to say, she didn't get very far.

After five minutes of holding her, rocking her, reassuring her, and distracting her, she finally stopped crying. I put her down and guess where she went.

That's right. The stairs.

You'd think that human beings would develop complimentary skills simultaneously. Going up the stairs is only good if you know how to go down stairs. It really makes you question the evolutionary viability of the human race. But, we've made it this far. I suppose that old adage, what goes up must come down, is something children must learn the hard way.

Baby J clearly learned the hard way today. Hopefully, she'll generalize this rule and find a better way to come down after she's gone up.

Listening To: Orphans by Tom Waits

Fall Down, Go "Boom"

Baby J is active and interested in everything. But her interest is outpacing her development at this point. She wants to explore the world but is limited by her little, off-balance body.

She falls down a lot now and bumps herself. Usually, after each moment of falling down, going boom, she's right back up again. But sometimes, she smacks her face on something. Sometimes, she whacks her head of the floor. Such events send her into a frenzy of snotty tears and howls of pain. For me, they are heart clenching moments of stress.

Naturally, I don't want her to hurt herself. I want to keep her safe. But at the same time I don't want to inhibit her intrepid spirit or to jail her in her little baby coral.

Not much fun for little Harpo*.

I think this is a dilemma all parents face. How do you balance your child's need to explore and their safety? How much should you limit their experiences in order to protect them?

I suppose it's different for everyone. For me, I'm still figuring it out. But as a teacher, I have seen that kids are more resilient than adults and that they need lots and lots and lots of opportunities to screw up. They need to fall down, go boom. I guess my job as a dad is to make sure that there is nice fluffy carpets around so the boom isn't too intense.

Listening To: Premier Symptomes by Air

* obscure reference to Finding Nemo

Adoption

I just finished watching Disney's Tarzan. Everybody knows the story of Tarzan so the studio tried to go a different direction with it. They tried to look at it from a new angle and what they got was a partial study on what it means to be adopted. In this case, it was adoption of the gorilla/human variety but adoption, none the less. It got me thinking about adoption and what it means to be adopted.

From a strict biological viewpoint, I guess you could say that adoption is providing for offspring that don't carry your hereditary information. But it seems to me that it's worth taking a second look at how we view it. The whole arrangement of adoption is too large for a linear scientific definition.

I'm starting to think that we're all sort of adopted.

Why do I take care of Baby J? It's not because I want her to carry my genes on to the next generation. In fact, I don't see myself in her at all. She doesn't look like me. If I hadn't been in the delivery room, the doctors could have just handed me some other baby and said she was mine. I would have probably believed them.

I think I care for Baby J because I adopted her. Just like I adopted my wife. Just like I adopted my family. At one point in my life, all these people were strangers to me. There must be some kind of biochemical process in our brains that makes us love our children, spouses, siblings, parents, and anyone else who care about for that matter. This process takes time to develop. The process of connecting with each other is sort of like adoption.

We become open to others who need us and, at the same time, grow to need them as well. I think that's what adoption means. At least to me anyway.

Listening To: Radiolarians III by Medeski, Martin, and Wood

Baby Food Pride

I make a point to try all the food Baby J eats. I figure if I won't eat it, neither should she. By now, I've tried a wide variety of different brands and flavors. Most are bland, some are gross, and a few are absolutely delightful. Gerber makes some dynamite flavors for Stage 2 including a mango puree and a bunch of granola/fruit combos.

Is it wrong that I want to buy baby food for myself and keep it on hand as a snack? That I want to take it with me when I need to pack a lunch? That I want to come home after a long day and flop down on the couch with a container of Stage 2 banana, strawberry, pear blend?

Something about it just feels wrong. Maybe if I buy a bunch of baby food and somehow fit it into an emptied beer bottle or something, I'll feel better about the whole thing, more manly. Maybe I could use a big, fat beer stein so everyone will think I'm just a drunk instead of a weirdo that eats baby food for pleasure. I wonder which is more socially acceptable.

Or maybe I shouldn't be ashamed at all. Good food is good food, right? Maybe I should come out of the closet and openly eat baby food whenever and wherever I feel like it. Maybe others will stand up and join me. Maybe I could start a movement. A baby food pride movement.

I'll think it over this afternoon while I'm slurping down some smooshed bananas.

Listening To: If'n by fIREHOSE

Lovies

Baby J is at about that age where kids start to develop an affinity for their "lovie." You know, that favorite toy or blanket that they take where ever they go. Like Linus' blanket. Or Knuffle Bunny from the book by Mo Willems.

I think it's a little too early to start saying that Baby J has selected one particular lovie but over the past couple of days she's developed a curious relationship with a small, unopened package of Kleenex.

She clutches it tightly in her little fist as she crawls around the house, stopping periodically to mouth it or slap it around. Baby J has lots of cute bunny toys and a few dolls she could drag around but she seems to prefer the company of the Kleenex. I'm not really sure why.

There's really no way to know what kids will fall in love with. Or why. Human affections (even those in very young children) are mysterious. Who knows why we're attracted to one person and not another?

One of these days, someone is bound to pinpoint the structures in the brain responsible for our emotional attachments. In the not-so-distant future, I bet they'll be mapped through computer models like hurricanes.

Whatever we learn in the future though, it won't really change the fact that these feelings exist in all of us and they represent some of our more endearing qualities. We all have our lovies of one sort or another and we should celebrate that.

Listening To: The Soft Bulletin by The Flaming Lips

Big Questions

People like to wonder what happens to you when you die, but no one ever really considers where you are before you're born.

I guess Baby J really wasn't anywhere before she was born. Or, another way to look at it was that she was everywhere. Once I contributed my share to the venture, my wife went about the busy task of putting together a baby. The myriad pieces that make up Baby J were taken in and fitted together carefully over several months. Part of the baby could have been in a leaf of lettuce grown out in California, trucked across the country. Another part of her might have ripened in the flesh of a mango under a blazing Indian sun. So where do you come from before you're born? Probably the same place you go when you die. The thrumming cycles of the natural world.

Another question people love to argue about is when does life begin with a baby, when does not alive stop and alive start. I don't know the answer to these questions but this might be another thread that ties the beginning of life to the end of it.

My grandmother has been suffering from dementia for a few years now, the underpinnings of her mind have been slowly eroding. She's probably going to keep slipping until she can't hang on anymore. It's tragic, of course, but like all sad things in my life, my grandmother's slow departure will seem less sad if I can learn something from it, use it to think of something new and good. This is what I've got so far:

Maybe the time before you're born is like my grandmother's deterioration in reverse. Maybe there is no switch flipped, no sudden flash as you come on line. Maybe it's more like a dimmer switch sliding slowly towards the on position.

There are so many ways babies mirror our aging family member that it's hard for me not to come up with these ideas.

Listening To: All Ears, All Eyes, All the Time by Piebald

Compare and Contrast

Whenever two parents meet, there is an inevitable moment when both parties size up the other's kids and compare them to one another. Age. Weight. Number of teeth. Pretty much anything upon which you can place a numerical value.

I try to avoid doing this when I meet another baby, and, when probed by others, I tend not to divulge information easily. I'm pretty sure this is because I don't like ranking children against one another. I buck against this sort of behavior and find it kind of unpleasant. After all, when you meet another adult, you don't start gathering data for qualitative analysis. People who do that are usually economists or accountants and aren't much fun at parties.

Why are we so quick to measure our babies against one another? Are we fearful that there might be some developmental delay surfacing? Do we wish to boast? Do we wish to validate our own unique brand of parenting? Well, in my expert opinion, your child is not a yardstick with which you can measure your prowess as a parent and comparing them to one another throughout childhood is an insipid enterprise.

I'm not saying every child is a beautiful, wonderful, unique, little snowflake and, sure, there is reason enough to compare and contrast their development. But in a world where we fret like crazy over test scores, salaries, yards rushed, and the sizes of our various body parts, can't we leave our kids out of it for at least a little while? Childhood should be a haven from competition and ranking in my humble but emphatic opinion. They'll have the rest of their lives to compete, the rest of their lives dabble in the adult art of comparison.

Listening To: Lennon Legend by John Lennon

Baby Talk and Adult Conversation

Have you ever noticed how some parents talk to other adults through their baby? My wife does it when she wants me to do something. She'll say something like this:

[In baby talk] "Do you want daddy to empty the dishwasher, Baby J?"

I've noticed that lots of parent do this. They communicate with others by speaking to their baby. I've even caught myself doing it once or twice. It's kind of strange. After all, Baby J has no clue what a dishwasher is, let alone that it needs to be emptied periodically. It's actually probably pretty confusing to kids. They're just trying to figure out how to put both feet in their mouth at the same time. I doubt they'd even want input into who puts the dishes away even if they could understand.

The other day, a lady I met at a play group wanted to tell me that she liked the stroller I was using. So to her daughter she said:

[In baby talk] "Isn't that a pretty stroller? Don't you like the man's stroller?"

I suppose it was a nice compliment and should leave it at that. But why didn't she simply say to me, "I like your stroller." Her daughter clearly didn't care one way or the other. She was too busy drooling all over the plastic head of her doll.

It's nice that we all want our children to be comfortable in adult conversations but I think we should speak directly to one another instead of in some cloying, circuitous, second-tier communiqué.

[In baby talk] "Isn't that right, computer? Yes it is. We want parents to communicate directly. Yes, we do!"

Listening To: Atom Heart Mother by Pink Floyd

Epiphany While Doing Laundry

I folded Baby J's laundry this morning. Aside from a trip to the post office and the library, that's pretty much all I've done today. The fact that I've done so few things today must be magnifying their importance to me because folding the baby wash pretty much blew my mind.

I'm sure every mom or dad has a revelation at one time or another during which the sheer enormity of being a parent really hits home. I haven't had many (they tend not to happen in the first few months of life since exhaustion strips you of the brainpower required for an epiphany) but I had one while folding the baby wash.

Baby J's clothes are so freaking tiny, it's almost impossible to find a way to fold them in a practical way. I fell like some sausage-fingered oaf fumbling through a package of origami paper. It sort of brought home just how big the size difference is between babies and adults, how outsized they are in our world, and most importantly, how much help they need the help of their giant ambassadors (a.k.a. their parents).

In a world where everything is enormous (including your own unwieldy head) it sure does help to have a couple of affable ogre-like parents around. Otherwise, you're Gulliver among the Brobdignagians. Jack at the wrong end of the beanstalk.

Listening To: Wavering Radiant by Isis

War on Worry

I haven't been a parent for too long but what I learned right away is that being a parent is all about worry. I worry morning, noon, and night now.

• Is she sleeping enough?
• Is she eating the right foods?
• Am I too rough when changing her?

Couple that with the crap you hear in the news and it's enough to make you want to build a bunker somewhere.

• Will my child be abducted like that Jaycee girl in Lake Tahoe?
• Will the South Koreans launch a nuclear warhead at the nursery?
• Will the Taliban capture her and force her to wear a burqa?

Theoretically, I could spend the rest of my life worrying my way from one thing to another as I chase after Baby J trying to put another sweater on her so she isn't too cold. But I guess she would grow to resent my being overprotective and I would miss out on enjoying all the cool things kids do because I'm too busy fretting. So I wage war on worry. It pushes itself into the forefront of my brain and I push it back. I watch 60 Minutes and it gains ground. I blow raspberries on my baby's belly and the worry shrinks back a bit.

Listening To: Innervisions by Stevie Wonder