The Return of Debbie Downer

This post is dedicated to anyone who has bothered reading this on a regular, or semi-regular, basis in the past. So, to all six or seven of you, I want to offer an apology. And explanation.

This lengthy absence was unintentional and unfortunate. And it’s not as though the Doozer hasn’t done anything remotely interesting in the past two months. He has. And though I wish I could say that we’ve been living the high life and having a summer of nonstop activity and excitement, I can’t. Sure, there was some fun stuff here and there. The Doozer’s first out-of-town vacation, our annual visit to the zoo (where our son got to see—and roar alongside—ginormous, life-sized dinosaurs), his third birthday celebration (dinosaur-themed—sensing a pattern here?).

The Doozer has been enrolled in preschool and starts next week. Which is crazy. He has mastered 48-piece puzzles. We tried and failed repeatedly to convince him to go and see his first movie in the theater (Winnie the Pooh). He peed all the way up the bathroom wall. (Yes, that happened. Seriously.) He got a sandbox. And a backpack. And a miniature house for the backyard (my biggest assembly project to date—becoming a parent has forced me to tap into my non-existent engineering skills more than I ever have in my entire life).

He also started wearing underpants. With Marvel superheroes on them. Time really flies.

The truth is, that despite all of these wonderful occurrences and developmental advancements, it has not been the greatest summer for me. For several different reasons which I won’t bore anyone with (anymore than I already have), I have spent most of the summer suffering from some pretty serious depression and anxiety. As if parenting wasn’t a difficult, arduous journey already, this experience put a serious crimp in my parenting style.

If I had any to begin with.

Being depressed and being Dad 24/7 can be a complicated balancing act. You don’t want to bum your kid out by being bummed out yourself. You don’t want to seem to your kid as though you are not interested in them or committed to whatever activity you’re engaged in. And just try explaining to an inquisitive toddler where you’ve been when you come home later in the evening than usual, because you’ve been seeing a therapist. Try to avoid telling them that you went to see a doctor, a term they are obviously more familiar with than therapist. “Why did you meet the doctor? Do you have a boo-boo? Did you get a sticker?” Uh, sure. Yeah. I got a sticker.

So, for me, this summer has been about putting on a happy face and trying to be normal (whatever that is anymore). And it hasn’t always been easy. But you learn when you become a parent that you want to keep your child safe, not only from actual danger and harm, but you want to protect them from harshness and cruelty and the generally crappy nature of the outside world. They’ll learn soon enough that life isn’t perfect, that the world is a pretty messed-up place. You should at least try to let them enjoy themselves for a little while before those realizations sink in.

At least until they’re five or so.

When I lamented to my wife that I worried about passing along all this stuff to our son (which is ridiculously cruel and unfair of us), she poignantly observed that if you’re smart and you’re paying attention to what’s going on in the world, chances are, you’re going to end up depressed. “And he’s already extremely smart,” she added with a sigh.

So, we’ve screwed him. Basically. Sorry, Son.

But, to move past the relentless gloom and doom of this post, there is some good to report. Well, first of all, I’m writing this, so that’s positive. My wife has been chastising me for weeks about posting, setting deadlines that I have been unable to meet. If nothing else, writing this will get her off my back. Kidding, kidding. But I feel comfortable and confident in writing this now (and I wanted to, I’ve missed it). I experienced something of a breakthrough recently. The dark clouds are starting to lift and I’m finding it less of a Herculean effort to simply be relaxed and happy and content around the Doozer.

In fact, this past weekend, we were playing in his grandparents’ yard with a bouncy ball. Playing “kickety kickball,” as the Doozer likes to call it. We ran in circles and he couldn’t stop giggling. Then I taught him how to drop-kick the ball. And he actually managed to replicate the action! Sure, sometimes it snapped back and smacked him in the face, but he didn’t mind. Sometimes he got it to sail straight through the air, up above both our heads.

“I knew I could do it!” he exclaimed and I swear I have never heard anything funnier in my entire life. And in that moment, watching that ball sail above us, seeing the Doozer smile, hearing his laughter ring through the air, everything else disappeared. Everything dropped away. It was pure, unfiltered joy. At least I think that's what it was. And for a few minutes I wasn’t depressed. I was just Dad.

And it was kind of awesome.

Son of Anarchy

So, this happened.

(And I apologize, I just discovered iMovie on my computer.)

I'm pretty sure this is how Sonny Barger got started.

Yet another rite of passage in the Doozer’s life. He really liked the bell, though the concept of pedaling was still a bit beyond him. At one point, he got up and pulled the tricycle by the handlebars down the sidewalk, in much the same manner that he likes to pull his wagon (rather than actually riding in it).

“It ran out of batteries,” he told us. We tried to explain to him that it didn’t have batteries, that he was the batteries, and he had to use the pedals to make it go. He kept pulling it.

Weirdo.

The wife and I did a lot of tricycle research and shopping, before finally settling on the Schwinn Roadster. We liked its sleekness and vintage feel, although, as soon as he got on it and had difficulty with the pedals, I thought of all the other models we saw and ultimately chose not to get, that featured straps, or stirrups, on the pedals, which would have made the process of learning to pedal that much easier to master.

I am always thankful that parenting is graded on a curve.

Like most other things we purchase for the Doozer, this item was well-reviewed in various places. We appreciated its retro coolness, it reminded us of what a tricycle looked like when we were kids. Our appreciation for things that look and feel old extends to our own bikes, a set of Schwinn beach cruisers that we picked up a few years ago (and which we’ll have to drag out of the basement now that the Doozer is wheeled). Of course, these bikes were far more location-appropriate when we lived within a short driving distance of an actual beach. In the suburban Midwest, beach cruiser is a bit of an anachronism.

One’s first Schwinn anything is a big deal. And the Doozer loved it right from the get-go. He is bound to be a little speed demon in no time. Also, much like his ongoing fondness for vegetables and fruits, I was amazed by his willingness to wear the helmet. In fact, for the rest of the day, he kept it on, while he did other things outside, to kick balls into a net and chase bugs and inspect the garden.

Weirdo.

But he seems like a natural on wheels. Watch out, world.

Language Arts

Our son is a genius.

No, really, it’s true.

I know many parents think and say such things about their offspring, but I have empirical proof that this is actually true in our case.

The Doozer invented a word.

Now, as it’s only a word that he uses and that I’ve never heard uttered by another human being, nor seen written down, I can only guess as to its spelling, which to me would be this: kindaly. It has recently cropped up in Doozer conversations and his use of it has been pretty consistent, leading me to derive an actual meaning and definition for this word.

It appears to be stronger than “kind of,” yet a bit shy of “probably.” Apparently, the Doozer saw some kind of gap or vagary in the English language there and took it upon himself to rectify this situation. I imagine the thought process went something like this:

“They do say kind of a lot, but it’s not exactly what I mean,” he muses silently. “And probably is way too committal for my taste, I’d rather leave my options open. I know! A mash-up of these two words is what’s needed. By jove, that’s it! The middle ground between kind of and probably. That’s exactly what I mean to say.”

Or something like that.

But then, he surpassed even this accomplishment. Not only has he begun to invent words (well, one word, anyway), he has now started inventing stories. Sadly, I was not there to witness his first, fledgling attempt at mastering the fine art of being a raconteur, but my wife reported back that the results were, predictably, amazing and hilarious. With a caveat.

“His work is a little derivative,” she admitted. “He was kind of just riffing on episodes of Dora the Explorer that we’ve seen. And his endings could use a little work.”

Obviously, I forced the Doozer to recount his opus to me later that same night. And so he told the story of a knight who went into a forest that was full of scary monsters who growled at him. “He didn’t know they were scary,” he added. And that was kind of it.

Ah, the terseness and simplicity of Hemingway, the imaginative flights of J.K. Rowling. Again, a mash-up of genres, styles, and voices that had come before. Like any great artist, he was stealing from the best and refurbishing the different parts to create something of his own.

Perhaps it is never too early to get the next generation started in the family business. As long as he stays an amateur and doesn’t start snaking gigs out from under me. I don’t want to have to go all Norman Mailer on his Gore Vidal ass and knock my own son’s lights out.

“Words fail the old man yet again,” he might say, paraphrasing (stealing) once again.

Who am I kidding? He’s already on the road to eclipsing me and he’s barely even begun. I might as well pack it all in right now and make way for this budding literary genius.

But I draw the line at giving him a blurb.

Father's Day

When I was in high school, everybody called me by my last name, rather than my first. To the point where I’m not sure most people even knew my first name or that I had one. This trend faded a bit as I got older, my college friends called me by my first name, I’ve mostly been called by my first name in my professional life (though lately usage of my last name has started creeping back into fashion among my colleagues—I just have that sort of name). Recently, I was at the wedding of one of those high school friends and was asked what most people tend to call me these days. And I realized, again, that people mostly call me by my first name. And then it hit me. There’s another name I am called almost as frequently as my first name.

Dada.

It’s almost equal. The word is on a constant rotation within the Doozer’s ever-expanding vocabulary. At any given time, it is only he, plus the wife and me, in a room together, so we always know who he’s talking to, it’s not as though there could be some real question. But he still peppers “Dada” and “Mama” into all conversations, questions, declarations, and even (perhaps especially) rants. “Umm, Dada?” he will usually start.

(Side note: It’s pretty shameful how often our son uses the word/sound “umm.” It means that we use it that regularly. We’re both highly educated, articulate individuals and yet we do this all the time. Great example we’re setting. Good parenting, guys.)

“Umm, Dada? Dada, I need to tell you something. Dada. Dada. Dada. I need to tell you something.” He says need as though there is the utmost sense of urgency around this particular utterance, as though his very life depends on sharing these words with me. I focus. “Dada. You haven’t eaten your meatballs yet.”

Oh, thank you. I would’ve forgotten if you weren’t here. This was vital.

Anyway, the proliferation of the word “Dada” in my house is a constant reminder of who I am now. Dada. This is me. This word has come to define my existence. There is this small human in my house, constantly looking up at me (to me?) as though I have the answers, as though I am in control of any given situation, as though I am the guy with the plan. As though I have it all figured out.

There’s a lot of pressure in those expectant, expressive eyes.

Of course, it’s not all love and adoration all the time. There are times when I come home to a greeting of “Don’t say hi to me.” Ladies and gentlemen, my son. 2 ½ going on 16 ½. Delightful. I figure he’s just doing his part to keep me in check, to remind me that I am human and fallible and imperfect even in his eyes. Lest I get too puffed up about this whole dad thing and start to think I really am a master of the universe—or even my own living room.

As my third Father’s Day approaches (soon followed by the Doozer’s third birthday—already?), there is still a disconnect between my reality and my perception of that reality. I wasn’t always somebody’s Dada, but now I always will be. That’s a seriously big deal. This is who I am now. And sure, I have a miniature reminder of this fact on a daily basis, running rampant in my house, screaming, giggling, crying, talking, questioning, exploring, being ridiculously sweet and adorable when not cranky and insane, constantly referring to me as “Dada” and yet, it’s still a difficult concept to entirely adjust to, to accept, to identify with.

When my wife asked me recently what I wanted to do for Father’s Day, I immediately thought of making plans with my dad (never mind the fact that he is on vacation and won’t be in town for Father’s Day this year). He loves to go out to breakfast and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. And then I realized what the question actually was: What did I want to do? Me.

Holy crap. She’s talking about me. This day is actually about me now. That’s weird. And I have no idea what I want to do. Being a dad is still a crazy notion that throws me off sometimes. Celebrating the fact that I’m a dad? This holiday that I spent years and years celebrating with someone else entirely is now suddenly being held in my honor? How did that happen?

Of course, every day is really Father’s Day when you think about it. Because, after all, this is who you are now. Dada. This word defines your existence. It’s so much more than a name, it’s an identity and a feeling and a huge responsibility and an entire character arc. It’s kind of extraordinary and special and wonderful and terrifying and amazing all at the same time.

Who knew two simple syllables could express so much?

Happy father’s day.

Clichéd

You do your best. You try to set a good example. Encourage weirdness, try to make life interesting and unique, let them fly their freak flag. And then, you realize your efforts have been in vain, as your kid starts becoming a prototypical little boy, just like all the others.

Our son is a cliché.

I made this observation to my wife recently and was promptly chastised for it. Not only for the denigration of our child, but also the misinformed inanity of the remark. After all, how could a 2 1/2 year old, his personality development in its nascent stages, possibly be a cliché?

Well, our kid is into dinosaurs. No, like, really into dinosaurs.

Yes, this particular observation was directly related to the Doozer's ever-growing fondness for all things dinosaur-related. There's the incredibly bizarre Nickelodeon show called Dino Dan that he loves to watch, a live-action/animation hybrid in which the titular Dan (an elementary-aged schoolboy) sees dinosaurs everywhere: the school playground, his neighborhood, his backyard. Nobody else sees the dinosaurs. They are figments of his imagination. Or something.

I must confess I've never fully engaged with an entire episode of this show, it might very well be a great advocate for using one's imagination, but my initial reaction is that this kid is weird and I think that there is something wrong him.

Is this where the Doozer's headed? Bizarre, hallucinatory visions of dinosaurs all around? Seriously, it's like a more kid-friendly version of the scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when Duke sees reptiles prowling around and getting blitzed in the hotel bar. Weird scene, man.

Anyway, his constant companions are three rubber dinosaur toys (which is my fault, I bought the first two of those damn things), the tyrannosaurs rex (yes, the Doozer can say this name in its entirety) and stegosaurus and what Internet research has led us to believe is something called a dilophosaurus. And sure, hearing him say these names aloud is a hugely entertaining experience. Or can be. In moderation.

He also attempts to live in a dinosaur T-shirt he got, in the style of a boxing match poster, featuring the T-rex versus the Triceratops. Almost daily he asks to wear this shirt. Conversely (and depressingly), the kid staunchly refuses to wear the totally awesome, toddler-sized Beatles T-shirt that we got for him.

Such a nerd.

One recent day at the playground, while he was running around in this favorite dinosaur T-shirt, a slightly older boy ran up to the Doozer, complimented him on his shirt and began a Joycean stream-of-consciousness monologue (directed ostensibly at our son, but essentially at no one in particular) about his own love of dinosaurs.

What nerds, I thought. Then: Oh, wait. That one's mine.

And I suppose nerdiness is one thing. He could grow up to be a brilliant innovator who changes the world (or amasses a small fortune with all his braininess). But being a cliché is something else entirely.

And so to go along with the dinosaur obsession, the Doozer has discovered the joy of playing in the dirt. I say "joy," because that appears to be how he feels about it, although I do not concur. Could there be a bigger little boy cliché than this? I don't think so.

He is also black-and-blue everywhere, the result of an unsteady, volatile mix of aggression, enthusiasm, and general clumsiness that defines his constant movement through the world.

Sure, he loves the Beatles and is a bit of a budding Francophile. Let's channel our energy there, shall we, kid? It's been so long now that my own childhood is a bit of a blur, but I find it difficult to believe there was ever a time in my life (even as a toddler) when I wasn't striving for something a bit more than dirt and dinosaurs. I imagine my five year-old self, reading the New Yorker and discussing Woody Allen and listening to Dylan.

Why can't he be more like that?

Oh well, I must stop now. I've got to strip the kid's dinosaur T-shirt off and hose the dirt off him. Again.

Oh, Doozer. You're better than this.

Hey, Energy Sucker

I'm exhausted.

No, really. Wiped out. That's what parenting is. A 7-day, 24-hour marathon (and repeat). It is an endurance test which pushes me to my limits. It has aged me. Rapidly. And before my time. (In my opinion.)

You know how you see Obama now and his hair seems to have gone really grey since he got elected? And he's only about midway through his first term. It's kind of like that. Thankfully I don't seem to actually have any grey hair yet (at least none that I've noticed), but it's a good physical representation of how I feel.

(Ed. note: "You totally have a grey hair," the wife says upon reviewing this entry. Whatever, the author replies.)

(Side note: Recently, the Doozer recognized the President on TV and referred to him by name. He can even tell you he lives in Washington, D.C. at the White House. We'd like to think this is an indication we're doing something right. So what if we haven't managed to potty train him yet or get him enrolled in the right preschool? The kid is smart.)

And it occurs to me that the job is not all that different. That managing the nation (and sometimes the affairs of other nations, near and far) is not necessarily that far removed from the job of being a parent. You're dealing with a suffering economy (kids being mad expensive, yo), disparate personalities, intransigence, disasters, ideological differences, policy battles. And it's a hard job. You can take out Bin Laden (or give an awesome piggyback ride) and still some people won't be satisfied. The next day your success will be forgotten and the people start complaining. Again.

Popular sentiment is constantly shifting.

And so I'm tired. Mustering the energy to write these words is a challenge. It's a 24/7 job and while you could say it's tiring but exhilarating, it's really just mostly tiring.

In addition to the premature aging, there's also the issue of baby weight. Most people don't know this, but it affects fathers too. I've heard that spending your time chasing a toddler around can help you stay in shape. Personally, I haven't found this to be true. In fact, chasing said kid around, being on high alert and constantly aware of your heightened level of responsibility is so tiring, that you counteract all that energy expenditure with longer periods of excessive slothfulness.

Every night, collapsing in front of the TV, on the couch, eating and drinking too much, finding yourself in no mood or state for projects of self-improvement of any kind. I can't imagine that Obama doesn't hit a White House vending machine on certain late nights, chowing down on Cheetos or something, because that's just how it is when you have to work late and there's stress and pressure everywhere you look. And even though your wife's big (and extremely important) cause is fighting childhood obesity, you just can't help it, you have to eat junk food to fuel those late nights of sitting up and worrying how it's all going to turn out in the end.

At least, he's got one thing going for him: term limits. There's an end in sight. There will be a day when he can relax in the not-so-distant future (2016 is not all that far away), kick back, and remove the weight of the world (literally) from his tired shoulders.

Not me. Doesn't work like that. Sure, he'll turn 18 someday, but there's no guarantee that things will change. I'm stuck. And so I'm just going to keep getting older and fatter. I should do something about that. Right now. But it's late and I'm tired and I'm full and I've got a bit of a buzz going and I kind of just want to go to bed.

Self-improvement and maintenance starts tomorrow. I swear.

Before I'm a really old man.

An Apology

Dear Doozer,

I'm sorry. Really sorry.

Let me explain.

It's come to our attention that children your age often get enrolled in something called preschool. In fact, a co-worker of mine recently selected a preschool for his daughter to attend in the fall (about five months in advance). Apparently, this is something we should have already been looking into and planning.

Here's the thing. In our defense, your mom and I are not so great at this whole parenting thing. Sure, we may look like we have it together. You are consistently—and properly—washed, fed, and dressed. We can be fun. We're steady, we're present. You seem to like us. Most of the time.

But the truth is, more often than not, it is a charade. We are out of our depths. Sure, we're reasonably intelligent, university-educated individuals who consumed baby-rearing materials in print and online as though we were cramming for a particularly taxing final exam. Yes, we have managed to keep our own lives moving along (mostly), in addition to being your parents. We are also, usually, washed, fed, and dressed properly.

At the same time, this is probably the most challenging experience either one of us has ever faced. We had this plan, before you came along, that since we were here first (obviously), you would have to be integrated into our existing life, as opposed to us completely rearranging ourselves for your benefit. And oh, how the tables have turned, you conniving little upstart! Got us both wrapped around your little finger from the start, lording over the joint as if you were the one who was wearing the pants and making us feel as if we'd never even heard of pants. You asserted your dominance early on and have staunchly refused to relinquish that surprisingly strong iron grip of yours ever since.

Napoleon complex, much?

Anyway, back to the preschool thing. From here, it's a slippery slope. Every moment of this life counts and your mom and I are now fearful that we have forever altered your path through this world—for the worse. We have no idea how you go about selecting a preschool. What if we pick the wrong one? What if we find the right one, only it's too late and we can't get you in?

And if we don't get this preschool thing right, it will no doubt result in a catastrophic chain reaction. You won't excel in high school, there'll be no Harvard or Yale for you. You won't be brilliant and revolutionary and successful. You'll be mediocre and, therefore, embittered, drinking heavily and chain-smoking, complaining weekly to your shrink about what lousy, pathetic parents you have, who couldn't get anything right, who failed to do something so incredibly simple as use their combined intellect and intelligence to proactively seek out and confidently select a preschool to get you started on your journey in life.

If it makes you feel any better, neither of us went to Yale or Harvard. Sure, George W. Bush did. And yes, he was president (two times). But he was also a tremendous a-hole.

And just so you know, you should cut us some slack. Seriously. You don't like to sleep. So we never get to really rest. Which is exhausting, let me tell you. Also, you love books, but you can't read, so we have to do that for you. At least 25 percent or more of each day is spent reading. And believe me, I'd love to spend that time finishing the new Jonathan Franzen novel rather than reading Daisy-Head Mayzie for the 416th time. You have a voracious appetite for . . . everything. Food, cartoons, swimming, stomping in puddles, digging in dirt, reciting names of dinosaurs, listening to music, visiting Trader Joe's, running in circles, asking questions, giving hugs, getting hugs, drinking milk, pretending to cook, laughing, sharing, stomping in more puddles, petting dogs, watering pants, sliding . . .

Phew. It's exhausting just writing about being your parent, let alone actually being your parent. You're so damn determined to squeeze every single drop of experience out of this world, of living life to the fullest, as if it was your job. It's like no one told you this is not Las Vegas, that we can slow down and (for god's sake) take a nap once in a while.

So pardon us for being a little bit tired. We'll work on the preschool thing tomorrow. Or this weekend, for sure. Definitely by the end of the month. Let us just have one nap and then we'll start worrying about your future, okay?

Please don't hate us.

Sincerely,

Your Dad