Somebody Gets It

Obviously, the blogosphere is a wide, expansive frontier. And even in that corner of the universe that is parent-centric blogs (often generalized as mommy blogs, to which I take justified umbrage), it's still relatively easy to feel like you're alone, regardless of how big the community actually is. Sometimes it feels like you're just shouting down into the void, getting lost in the frenzy of various parenting voices.

And then, sometimes you discover a kindred spirit, someone whose experiences of parenthood seem to reflect your own. Huzzah! you proclaim. There's somebody else out there who gets it.

Which brings me (the long way) around to my new favorite metaphor for being a parent, an amusing bit about repeatedly purchasing travel coffee mugs at Target, only to find yourself with ceramic mugs from your kitchen still cluttering up your car. It's from a new blog, Signs of (real) Life. Which you should check out. Go do it. Now. I'll wait.

And now I will commence with shameless plugging.

(Ed. note: In full disclosure, I have known the blog's author for a large portion of my life.)

When I read that bit about travel mugs, I thought, Somebody out there gets it. Somebody else's experience of parenthood is just like ours. "It's us!" I said to my wife, shoving the laptop in her face and making her read the post (her laughter indicating agreement and recognition).

Also, this particular author has a memoir being published in April, Signs of Life. Read that, too. Going by what she's written in her blog, it's bound to be witty and insightful. A little bit snarky and also really warm. It's almost enough to make me feel like a hack who has no business doing this.

So, to the very small number of who people out there who read this rag, you should read her too. Then go ahead and follow her on Twitter, where she is equally hilarious and insightful.

Shameless plug over, back to our regularly scheduled, Doozer-centric programming . . .

The Comedian

No. This is not a post about Edward Blake (for the two people reading who would get that reference/joke). Rather, I was inspired by a recent Baby Center e-mail I received, the subject of which was comedy. And how the life of a 2-year-old can be exactly that. That even when being deadly serious, kids at this age are often nothing short of hilarious in all that they do.

And this more than applies to the Doozer. He seems to be a natural ham at times, the designated class clown of our family, but it's often the most unintentional humor that is the funniest.

Like when we drive past a Big Boy restaurant and he points out the Big Boy statue, holding up his "hambagunga." Or when he points to his Santa Claus Pez dispenser and tells us, in all sincerity, that it's his "best buddy." Or upon arriving at the grocery store, informing his mother at the top of his lungs that "we need to buy guacamole!" And when he asked his mother why she was not eating grapes at lunch, she informed him that she had saved the last grapes in the house just for him because she knew how much he enjoyed them. To which, he replied, "That's okay, Mama. I forgive you."

Lately, he's adopted sophisticated phrases in his vocabulary, adding unnecessary, linguistic flourishes to simple statements. (It's possible he is actually mocking us and our highfalutin' manner of speaking—but I hope not.) Sample phrases include "Yes, indeed, Dada" or "I certainly did enjoy that." Why does he talk this way?

Sample conversation from just this evening:

Me: Did you pee in your diaper?

Him: Obviously I did.

Where does this stuff come from?

Now he's "reading" his storybooks to us, using the same inflections and accents and rhythm that we use. (Again, it's possible he's mocking us, but I really hope that's not the case.)

There are other times when the miniature comedian is not that funny, when he's doing something that we don't approve of and yet it's still funny. Trying to keep a straight face while also attempting to instill discipline severely damages one's credibility as a convincing authoritarian. But sometimes, you just can't help it.

Perhaps the most amusing "bit" in his current repertoire is the screaming, death-metal rendition of "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep." Sometimes he will sing it normally, in the dulcet tones of a sweet little toddler. But other times, this . . . voice comes out of him that is difficult to describe. Seriously, he sounds like Lemmy, like he's had a steady diet of Jack and unfiltered cigarettes for thirty years and his voice is a busted, ear-splitting howl. When in reality, the hardest thing he's ingested is some watered-down apple juice. We imagine it comes from letting him watch this:

But at the same time, there is almost no reasonable explanation for this transformation. It's like he's possessed. And much as we'd prefer he doesn't completely shred his vocal chords by age three, we can't help but collapse in fits of uncontrollable laughter when he does that.

"That was funny," the Doozer says, recognizing the sounds of laughter. "I was funny about that."

Yes, son. Yes, you were.

The Kids Are Not All Right

On a recent weeknight, we took the Doozer down to the local library for a very special, nighttime event they were offering: a birthday party for one Dr. Seuss (or, Dr. Susan, as the Doozer called him). There was to be a Seuss book read (naturally), then there were Seuss-ian games and activities (making a paper hat to wear, coloring pictures of the Cat in the Hat), and of course, birthday cake.

Much to the Doozer's chagrin, there was a "Happy Birthday" sing-a-long, preceding the distribution of cake.

(Side note: Kids are weird. At least, mine is. He absolutely abhors the birthday song for some reason. Whenever he is offered cake of any kind, under any circumstances, his first response is, without fail, "I don't want to sing 'Happy Birthday.'" He's gotten into his head that to be allowed to eat cake means you must sing this song beforehand. And though he loves cake, the mere thought of the birthday song is almost enough to make him turn down such a sweet treat. Almost.)

So, we ate cake and listened to the story and colored the Cat before facing a miniature power struggle over the use of child-sized scissors. But almost everything that happened that night, for me, paled when compared to the overwhelming thought it inspired in me, as I surveyed that roomful of tykes and their parents/guardians.

I am not a fan of other people's kids. Mine is fine, but the others? Get them away from me.

It started almost the moment we arrived. I felt like Peter Parker with his Spidey sense, as I became aware of every sneeze and cough throughout the room. It was deafening, the sound of pestilence wafting through the air. "Filthy rugrats," I found myself thinking, or something to that effect. I no longer saw the library annex room as a site of celebration and frivolity, but rather a seething, festering pit of little people germs. And the little buggers were everywhere.

It took every bit of strength I had to not start shouting insane, lunatic warnings at my son: Get up off the floor! Don't touch those! Get away from there! Don't go near that kid—we have no idea where she's been!

But I refrained. I kept my neuroses in check. And I realized that there's this real struggle in parenthood between the empathy of experience and the feeling that you, as a parent, are entirely unique. Now being the parent of a child who can be noisy (and sometimes disagreeable) in the grocery store, I realize that all those other kids that I hear making noise in public are not necessarily the product of bad parenting. They're just kids. I have one now, so I get it.

But that empathy is not always readily accessible. It escapes me. I revert to the halcyon days of singlehood and the time of childlessness that was no so very long ago. Other people's kids are annoying and inferior. Especially when those people are strangers and their kid is trying to touch mine with their sticky fingers. Never mind that I get it, that my kid often has sticky fingers and does things I don't want him to do. Never mind that we are the same. In some ways.

Even now I find myself thinking things like Where are the parents? and These parents are idiots when I see kids running around in public. Again, being kids. I get it. Rationally, logically, it all makes sense to me. But emotionally, philosophically perhaps, I cannot get myself to embrace that empathy and live in it all the time.

Of course, because I'm having these thoughts and feelings, there must be people who are looking at me and my kid and thinking the exact same thing about us. Sure, more often than not our kid is amusing and entertaining and a pretty damn beautiful addition to the world, but of course I see him that way. To some other parent, he might just be a filthy rugrat with sticky fingers and a runny nose and a hipster doofus dad who has no business being a parent.

And they're probably right. Sadly. I fully acknowledge that I'm probably, possibly, a very horrible person.

But seriously, get your kids away from me. Little germy punks . . .

The Street

Another day, another rite of passage.

It seems the milestones are coming fast and furious these days, as if the Doozer is in some kind of serious hurry to grow up. Memo to Doozer: please slow down.

Anyway, one of our latest major milestones involved taking the kid into the city to a fancy theater to see all his pals from the television. That's right. We took the Doozer to Sesame Street Live. This is a big event in the life of many a child. It's an institution, almost as much as the series itself. They've been bringing the show to live stages for decades, it seems, at least since I was a kid (though I don't think I was ever quite fortunate enough to go as a youngster myself). And it's definitely worth checking out with your kids, if you haven't already done so.

For weeks beforehand, we talked up the show, to get the Doozer prepared. We've found that lengthy, repetitive conversation is often the best way for him to embrace new experiences. Serious preparation. So, leading up to the show, he kept talking about how much he wanted to see Big Bird, Elmo, and Cookie Monster at the theater. The day of the show, we get to the theater and the lights come down and the show begins. The theme of the show is using your imagination and during the opening number, a plethora of characters appears onstage, expanding on this theme. There's Grover! There's Abby! There's Elmo! And Big Bird!

Cookie Monster is nowhere in sight.

"Where's Cookie Monster?" the Doozer asks.

We're hopeful he's like a second act surprise or something. We tell our son he must be coming later.

"Where's Cookie Monster?" he asks again. And again. And again.

Awesome, Sesame Street Live is a disaster. This was supposed to be like the Beatles at Shea Stadium, our kid was supposed to be rapturous with excitement about seeing his favorite characters live in a theater and —

Oh, wait, there he is. "Cookie Monster!" the Doozer exclaims as the big, furry blue one shows up at 10 or 15 minutes into the show. Disaster averted. All is right with the world. Of course, the Doozer is still not rapturous with excitement. He's more interested in the snack we brought him than the show. Doesn't he realize he's seeing the Beatles?

Well, he liked the theater seats that you can put up and down. There was that, at least.

In the end, overall, it was a fun, enjoyable experience for the Doozer. Even if he did tell us that everyone but Big Bird, Elmo, and Cookie Monster was "too loud." Although, personally, I was a little surprised not to see or hear any of the greatest hits. I mean, you see somebody live on stage, you expect the greatest hits, right? But there was no "Rubber Duckie" or "C is For Cookie," nothing. Not even the theme song about sunny days and whatnot.

It reminded me of that old SNL bit with David Spade where he admonishes bands for not playing their greatest hits in concert, encouraging Big Country to be sure and play "In a Big Country" when he goes to their show.

And don't get me started on the impostor Mr. Noodle they sprang on us during the Elmo's World segment. That was most certainly not Bill Irwin, gifted mime and stage actor, he of dishwasher loading fame in Rachel Getting Married.

But honestly, I can't really complain. It was fun. Sesame Street is awesome. I'm consistently impressed by its high quality and educational value and heart and humor and music and everything else. I find it to be a positive influence in my son's life. And if they continue to put out heartfelt messages like this one, then it's all right by me.

Let me just hit play and watch the Doozer dance around the room . . .

Devil's Haircut

Sometimes, life is just sad.

And sometimes, that sadness can come in some strange, seemingly innocuous packages.

Like a haircut.

While this is now a clearly defined ritual in the young life of the Doozer, as he's had an ever-growing number of them in the last few years, they can often be mirthless affairs.

And it has nothing at all to do with the locale. On the contrary, we just discovered this place called Snip-its. Which is a great place to take your little one, should they find themselves in need of a haircut. Bright and colorful, with cartoons and prizes, plus interactive decor, it's kind of like the Chuck E. Cheese's of hair salons. Definitely not your grandfather's barbershop, for sure.

Anyway, this most recent haircut was, simply, downright evil. Not in how it looked, mind you. It's not like the stylist fashioned his hair to look like Damien or one of those kids from Children of the Corn. Maybe a little on the short side, but other than that it looked completely fine. Except for the fact that it immediately made him look older.

In an instant, after several snips of hair, the Doozer revealed himself for what he's becoming—rapidly—a grown-up little boy. Less and less our little baby every day. And sure, in some ways, we're excited about this aging process (I imagine the conversations get better and that eventually he'll master the proper usage of a fork). But mostly, it's just sad. Yet again, this is something that no one warns you about: Becoming a parent is to be sad. A lot.

They grow up so fast is such a cliche, but really, it's true. They do. It doesn't stop. It's constant. You find yourself becoming nostalgic for things that happened yesterday, last week, because that's how quickly it all changes.

And so you find yourself feeling sad because of a haircut. A haircut.

What a strange life this is . . .

Idiot Box

"Pediatricians should urge parents to avoid television viewing for children under the age of 2 years . . . exposing such young children to television programs should be discouraged."

—American Academy of Pediatrics

OTIS: I watch TV with a critical eye. If I get truly sucked in, I know it's time to change the channel.

MAX: Is it abbreviated? Is it plural? These are the questions I have to ask myself. Your attention span is, like, one- quarter of a music video.

OTIS: There are many dull parts in the videos.

—Kicking and Screaming, Noah Baumbach (1995)

This first quote is from a study by the American Academy of Pediatrics, an organization that seems pretty official and which I have no reason to doubt. The second is from one of my favorite flicks and represents an argument between Max and Otis, in which Max chastises Otis for watching too much TV and not engaging in more brain-stimulating activities, like doing the crossword puzzle. To me, they represent different viewpoints on watching TV. And I bring them up in relation to a pretty major event in our house this week.

The Grumpy Old Troll got married.

Yes, Nick Jr. aired a very special episode of Dora the Explorer for Valentine's Day, following the misadventures of everybody's favorite yellow-haired, under-the-bridge dweller, on the day of his nuptials to Petunia (who may or may not have been a troll herself, this was never quite specified). It's kind of ridiculous and sad how momentous this occasion was in our household, how the Doozer's parents were looking forward to it almost as much as he was.

I must admit, we did allow our son to start watching TV some time before his second birthday. And his viewing has continued pretty much unabated ever since.

But I don't think it's bad thing. Necessarily. At least, not until I read things like the quote above, or hear about other parents who don't allow their kids to watch as much TV as we allow the Doozer to watch. The thing is, so far, it doesn't seem to be negatively impacting him. All that rotting your brain and stunting your development stuff, I haven't seen it.

(And hopefully won't.)

For the Doozer, watching TV is an interactive experience. Not like with us lazy, stupefied adults, who loll on the sofa, zoning out to Grey's Anatomy or the Cooking Channel. It's both interactive and active. He gets up and dances during songs. Because of Dora the Explorer, he's learned some Spanish words and even numbers. (He particularly likes to say, "Ocho.") He answers questions posed by the characters onscreen. I swear, sometimes it seems like Map and Backpack are far better at eliciting responses from him than the wife and me.

He's been exposed to letters, numbers, words, music. He's learned about feelings, emotions, colors, challenges.

And just like Otis, the Doozer watches with a critical eye. If a particular segment of Sesame Street does not hold his interest, he will play with some Duplo blocks or even pick up a book.

Yes, this happened. He once picked up a book during a TV show and asked me to read it to him. Suck it, pediatricians!

Maybe I'm creating an elaborate, selective defense of letting my son watch television (perhaps I really do care what all those pediatricians think). But I do think it often has the opposite effect of the one we grew up hearing about, or that seems to be a major concern. That it will make him dumb, live up to its nickname as the Idiot Box. But for now, he seems engaged, he interacts with shows, he doesn't just sit there slack-jawed and drooling, zombie-style, having his brain turned irrevocably to useless mush.

Obviously, it's good to have guidelines. It's good to follow rules. Nobody believes this more than me. Trust me. But the thing you learn about parenting is that, more than anything, it's fluid. Constantly evolving. The experience can't be put into any sort of box, or governed completely by a set of rules put forth by experts. Only you are an expert in your own kid. And most days, even you aren't that much of an expert.

I don't know. I don't have all the answers. I'm not sure I have even some of the answers. But I like TV. Okay, I like TV a lot. And though Dora the Explorer is no Mad Men or Modern Family, I'll take it. I'll gladly sit beside the Doozer on our couch and watch together. Because we're starting to share a common interest here. Sure, it could be viewed as my vain attempt to shape my son in my own image, to create a miniature TV acolyte, a fellow Idiot Box devotee.

Scratch that. We're bonding. That's right. Bonding. That's my story.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to dance along to the "We Did It" song with Dora and her pals.

When did this become my life exactly . . . ?

Learning Curve

In the book What to Expect The Toddler Years, the authors (the same people who brought you What to Expect When You're Expecting and What to Expect The First Year—they've really got a thing about babies) provide an extremely detailed, comprehensive analysis of every stage of your child's life as a toddler—down to the month. Yes, month. These exhaustive guidelines provide detailed analysis of a child's expected progress. And while it's meant to chart the abilities of your offspring, you can't always help but see it as a rating system for your success (or failure) as a parent.

And this is only one resource. If you've been to a bookstore lately (if your town even still has one), you've likely seen a parenting and childhood section filled floor to rafters with a multitude of volumes. My wife and I also receive a daily e-mail (daily!) from a site called Baby Center. It is informative and helpful and . . . excessive? Stacks of magazines can also be found around our house, like Parents and Parenting (yes, those are two different magazines).

What did people do before all these publications? Before babies came with step-by-step owner's manuals, as if they were a washing machine or a Blu-ray player?

Anyway, those monthly sections of What to Expect the Toddler Years feature four groupings of developmental events: "should be able to," "will probably be able to," "may possibly be able to," and "may even able to." The lists include things like number of pictures the child can name, number of colors the child can identify, or number of words your child can use. Now, this is going to sound like bragging (which maybe, partially, it kind of is), but we frequently find that the Doozer has exceeded these parameters, more than mastered even the "may even be able to" events. Which we wonder about. While we're inclined (and let's face it, want) to think of our son as a genius, we also find ourselves believing that the bar must be set really low and there are just a ton of not-too-bright, not-terribly-coordinated, relatively slow-witted children running around (that maybe Mike Judge's Idiocracy was far more prescient than it initially seemed).

And then something weird happens. (Though maybe it's just me.) But I find myself fixating on the things he can't do yet, rather than the myriad of items he actually excels at. Why can't he do that? I'll ask the wife. What's wrong with him? Or maybe it's us. Why aren't we teaching him these things? What's wrong with us?

I'm beginning to see how people become stage parents.

You really have to remind yourself that the kid is not even three years old. Sure, Mozart was composing by the time he was 5 or something, but really, what are the odds you've got a little Mozart? I don't know how to calculate "odds" exactly, but I think the chances are unlikely.

Still, you can't help (okay, maybe I can't help) but feel that your kid could be a genius, a prodigy, a master of art or science or engineering. A peak athlete or a talented singer. Why not? It's never too early to start training them, molding them, nudging them toward—

Wait. Stop. What are you doing? He's a kid. Let him be a kid.

(Again, I'm really seeing how easily a rational person can turn into a stage parent.)

It seems trite or cliche to go on and on about the wonder of raising a child, but it really is like nothing else. There's no frame of reference for this, nothing to compare it to. And just being there while your kid learns, witnessing so many small acts of discovery, it really is a pretty indescribable experience.

Seeing him learn letters and words and sentences. And numbers. (I think "eleventeen" is my favorite.) Hearing him learn how to sing the Bob Marley classic "Three Little Birds" (thank you, Elizabeth Mitchell). How to drink from a cup that doesn't have handles or a sippy top. To pull up the zipper on the front of his pajamas.

This past week, he's been learning to get undressed before his bath. I mean, I've been teaching him how to do this. And he's doing it. I'm teaching and he's learning. This is really happening. And while he still hasn't mastered pulling off a shirt, he's making short work of his socks and pants. Don't worry, it's not a trick we'll encourage him to perform for company ("Look, everybody, the kid's gonna take his pants off!").

He'll probably get there all on his own. Some things they don't need to be taught.