Santa Claus Has Left the Building

That was quick.

Just yesterday it was Thanksgiving (hell, it was summer) and now it's almost New Year's Eve. All that build-up, all that anticipation, and in the end, Christmas came and went in the blink of an eye. Or more like a blur, of rich food, reams of wrapping paper, twinkling lights, and as the Grinch himself might say, "Noise, noise, noise!"

Most of that noise being the shrieks and squeals (of delight, for the most part) from a two-year-old boy adrift in a sea of new toys. Yes, Santa Claus was very good to the Doozer this year.

Sure, he got his toothpaste. But that did not prove nearly as wondrous or distracting as the carton of Goldfish crackers that he discovered midway through his stocking. Being something of a Goldfish addict myself, I can understand the salty succor that can consume you upon tasting them. But for it to overtake you completely, so that you want to do nothing more than snack contentedly while a mountain of gifts sits nearby under the tree, untouched and still wrapped?

The Doozer is one weird kid. I know I keep coming back to this, but I do find it amazing. Are other kids this weird?

Then, in a moment of distraction (perhaps it was the Santa Claus Pez dispenser), the Goldfish crackers were whisked away to the kitchen and the project of unwrapping all the new goodies could commence. I say project, which seems appropriate, but marathon is also a good word. We may have gone a bit overboard with the presents this year, the wife and me. So much so that the Doozer actually lost steam--lost interest--in unwrapping new toys. New toys! His wary expression suggesting an inner monologue along the lines of: This is a lot of work. What is wrong with you people? Get me some breakfast--hey, wait a minute, where did those Goldfish crackers go?

So, this year we sought out toys without bells and whistles, simpler things that we hoped would fire the Doozer's imagination. Of course, one set of grandparents did get him Alphie the robot (at our suggestion, we fully admit), a golden oldie from our own childhoods, reissued for a new generation. A robot who helps you learn, Alphie is a toy with two volume settings, which are apparently LOUD and LOUDER.

The Doozer discovered Alphie through one of the various toy catalogues that cluttered our living room in the weeks leading up to Christmas--his favorite being the ones from Target and Toys "R" Us. He made a lot of discoveries in those pages. Lego Harry Potter allowed him to learn all the names of the characters in that franchise--seriously, all of the names (proud parenting moment that). Including the dreaded Death Eaters (yes, we taught our son the term Death Eaters, what's wrong with that?). He also developed an affinity for a Bigfoot robot and something called Stinky the Garbage Truck, which, thankfully, did not translate into a serious desire on his part to see these ridiculously expensive monstrosities actually brought into our home.

Perusing those catalogues also allowed me to introduce him to one of my favorite things: Star Wars. Apparently a big item this season was a Boba Fett mask. Unless you're as big a nerd as I am, I'm not sure I can adequately describe the sheer awesomeness of hearing your kid say, "Boba Fett!" Or the fact that he recognizes on sight the galaxy's most notorious bounty hunter. Of course, he soon pointed between Boba Fett and Darth Vader on the page and asked, "What are they talking about, Dada?" How do you answer that, exactly? Hunting down rebel scum? Hardly seems appropriate.

The Doozer also discovered Marvel superheroes, learning to recognize Spider-Man and Iron Man, giving me the opportunity to get this:

Yeah, I got my two year-old a miniature version of a reckless, self-destructive, alcoholic arms dealer as a toy to play with--what's it to ya?

For the most part, though, heeding the wisdom of our old friend Charlie Brown, we tried to steer clear of commercialism, opting for things like this wooden castle from Melissa & Doug. Again, a toy without batteries or lights or sounds, something to encourage him to use his imagination. Two knights, two horses, a king, a queen, a bed, two thrones, and a treasure chest.

Let the adventures begin! And use his imagination he did--leading to some interesting scenarios. Soon after it was open, a horse took a nap in the bed (flashes of The Godfather), then one of the knights was in the bed with the queen. My wife and I looked at each other, having the exact same thought: the king is not going to like this very much . . .

Soon after, the queen was in the castle's dungeon. Coincidence . . . ?

Eventually, a whole bunch of new toys got piled on the couch and the Doozer just sat in the middle of them. Like an old movie or cartoon, where a hobo gets rich and takes a bath in money.

Again, how weird is this kid?

Note to self: scale it back next year . . .

All I Want For Christmas . . .

This is too easy.

As the Doozer's third official Christmas approaches, he is more attuned to the trappings of the season than he was even a year ago at this time. And he's beginning to grasp the concept that Santa Claus is a figure who brings presents (usually toys) to good boys and girls. So, when my wife and I asked our son what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas this year, his response was swift and rather simple.

"New toothpaste!"

Cue double-take.

We asked again. And got the same answer. For weeks we've inquired now and for weeks, the Doozer has been unwavering in his response.

The kid really wants that toothpaste.

Obviously, we've explained to him that it's customary for Santa to bring toys as presents. He seems to understand, he appears to follow this logic. Yet still, he persists in asking for toothpaste.

Weirdo.

Now, I'm not complaining, mind you. A two year-old who values oral hygiene over cheap plastic trinkets? Who wouldn't want that? I'm just starting to rethink all the wads of cash we've already dropped on toys for the little guy . . .

Certainly, in years to come, he will become focused like a laser beam on stuff he will get for Christmas (as most kids do). So for now, I should enjoy the fact that his primary preoccupation this holiday is actually lights, instead of presents. That's right. Lights. The ones on neighbors' houses and our own tree and lining the main thoroughfare of our town.

You might even say he's obsessed with seeing Christmas lights. Whenever we leave the house, he asks about seeing them. Even in the middle of the day (he hasn't quite figured out why daylight and outdoor Christmas lights don't mix).

He's even become a big fan of the light on the nose of that immortal holiday character, "Red Nose-Off the Reindeer." What? That's what he told us the reindeer's name was. Okay, maybe he invented an entirely new character there.

He also discovered Frosty the Snowman and the Grinch (by discovered, I mean indoctrinated by his parents), so he now knows the true meaning of Christmas: cartoon specials.

I'm kidding. It's toothpaste.

Happy holidays . . .

( . . . is what terrorists say. Merry Christmas!)*

*The author must tip his hat to Jack Donaghy for this, his favorite 30 Rock quote of 2010.

Doozer's Kitchen

This can't possibly last. There's just no way.

My wife and I have found ourselves with a two year-old who eats better than I do. A real foodie, open to a wide array of cuisine and types of food. It's unreal. Exhibit A: a sample menu of items we have recently served the Doozer, that he has consumed and enjoyed:

Butternut squash risotto

Pumpkin polenta

Lobster mac-n-cheese

Chicken paprikash

Roasted parsnips

Falafel with hummus

Fish tacos

Panzanella

Coq au vin

No, really. I'm not kidding. The kid ate (and loved) coq au vin.

And what really blows us away is his passionate feelings toward fruit. Passionate is really the only way to describe it. One night, shortly after Halloween, we offered him chocolate candy for dessert. And he replied that he wanted grapes. We reiterated: Just to be clear, we are offering you chocolate candy and you are opting to eat fruit. Just so we understand each other.

"Grapes!" came the swift, enthusiastic response.

Shortly after that occurrence, my wife was out to lunch with the Doozer one day and he chose a hamburger. And with it, he had options for a side dish, including french fries and a fruit plate.

Once again, the kid went for the fruit. My wife again made clear his options: salty, greasy, delicious french fries or a bowl of fresh fruit.

"Fruit!" the Doozer exclaimed in the middle of the restaurant.

Who is this kid? Seriously, who doesn't want the french fries?

At home, it's been a culinary world tour. We've fed him Italian, Mexican, Chinese, Greek food. Hungarian food. We have a kid-friendly French cookbook. We even got him to eat brie once. And his reaction was unequivocal.

"Cheese!"

We've heard stories about kids who reject everything that's put on the table, who respond only to things like chicken nuggets or pizza. Who won't drink milk, who fiend for soda at a young age. When I asked my wife recently when he's allowed to have soda (I was legitimately curious about the subject, but in absolutely no rush to actually give it to him), she thought for a moment and then responded, Never? Seemed reasonable enough to me.

The flipside, the negative to the Doozer's healthy appetite and insatiable interest in all things food-related is the fact that he wants not only everything that's on his plate, but what's on yours too. And so it really makes you start to think about what exactly you're putting on your plate. And into your body. You start looking at the pantry shelves or the different sections of the grocery store and wondering, Do I really need that? What's in those? I should skip these.

Apparently I'm a role model now. Crap, how did that happen? I'm not cut out for this. But honestly, I could really stand to eat better. But also, I really like food. Mostly, the kind that isn't good for you. All of those things. But I guess I'm saying the Doozer makes me want to be a better person. A better dad. Cool dad. Interesting dad. Healthy dad.

Good example dad.

Right after I finish this pint of Ben and Jerry's . . .

Imagine . . .

Did you know that scrambled eggs look like dancing robots? Really? Neither did I.

Oh, the things you learn when living with a two year-old . . .

As time progresses and the Doozer grows up (more and more every day), we watch in wonder as his little personality develops. The kid who once pointed at ceiling fans and said, "Ba!" is now capable of some pretty involved, complex strings of words. Actual sentences and questions. His vocabulary is extensive and varied, his curiosity unending.

Up until now, for the most part, his experience and engagement with the world has been pretty literal. Straightforward. Abstract concepts don't land when we put them out there. Visible, tangible things are his stock-in-trade. But slowly, that's beginning to change. And lately, we've been able to witness his imagination as it takes flight, as his worldview expands and he begins to think outside the box. Sometimes, way outside the box.

And it's pretty amazing.

It could be seen in his invention of a new game, "Picnic." The Doozer would make my wife spread a bandanna out on the floor and he'd arrange a bunch of toys on it (not just people or action figures, but blocks and cars and other inanimate objects) and improvise what happens when they all hang out with each other, enjoying a picnic.

He's begun to have his animals and people and other toys talk to each other. Conversations. Out of thin air.

And then, suddenly, it kicked into high gear. With the "Elephant" game. We were cleaning up after dinner and he was still in his high chair and out of nowhere, he made an elephant noise. My wife had her back to him and acted surprised. She pretended that there was an elephant in the kitchen. And began to look around for it. We'd ask the Doozer if he heard the elephant and he'd say yes. We'd ask if we should check the dishwasher or inside a cabinet or under the table. And he'd say yes. And then he'd make the noise again and we'd wonder aloud where that elephant could be hiding.

"Check the paper towels, Dada!" the Doozer exclaimed. I did. No sign of the elephant. This continued for several minutes as the Doozer would alternate between making an elephant noise and joining in the search for said elephant. Eventually he determined that the elephant was hiding out in the ceiling above us.

You're kind of weird, kid. But also a lot of fun to hang with these days.

Suck On This

It was time.

The Doozer's second birthday had come and gone. The pediatrician had advised us that we should take it away by his second birthday. We'd managed to limit its usage, restrict it to the crib, but it remained a fixture of naps and bedtimes, a miniature, rubberized security blanket. Which, my wife had noticed, was beginning to make our son's small teeth . . . protrude. And as committed, hipster parents, there was no way we could raise a buck-toothed child, a slack-jawed yokel with a crooked set of hillbilly teeth.

No, it was time. To take away the dreaded binky.

Apparently, some kids don't even take to pacifiers, never start using them in the first place. Some kids, however, completely fetishize the damn things. We often see kids in public, who appear to be significantly older than the Doozer in some cases, glassy-eyed and sucking away, as though their lips are wrapped around a tiny crack pipe. I hate to criticize other parents that I don't know personally—wait, no, I don't. Not at all. I revel in it. Your kid is too old to have a binky in public! What is wrong with you exactly?

There. I feel a little better.

Weeks (maybe months) earlier, we stopped giving it to him in the car (he never got it out in the real world, at least since he graduated from an infant car seat). We got this book about a piggy and his pacifier, illustrating the joys of a binky-less existence to encourage binky relinquishing, even changing the word from pacifier to binky as we read it. If we'd said pacifier, the Doozer would not have gotten the message.

As it is, I still don't think he did. Not entirely.

We set a date. A deadline. In advance of his two-year doctor appointment (my wife couldn't bear to face her with the news that we'd failed to heed her suggestion). There are different schools of thought on this, different approaches to take. Gradually cutting off the tip of the binky, until eventually the kid is just sucking air and then they give it up themselves, for one.

In the end, we just went for it. A completely gonzo move on our part, which we almost immediately realized was incredibly misguided. We'd talked it up for at least a week. We chose to do it Halloween weekend and made this deal with the Doozer. If he left his binky on the front porch in a plastic pumpkin, the Great Pumpkin (of Charlie Brown fame), would take it away and replace it with a very special new toy. He seemed okay with it. He went through the whole ritual, put the binky in the plastic pumpkin and went on with his evening.

But here's the thing. In hindsight, no preparation seems like it would have been enough. We made an egregious miscalculation. Learn from our mistakes. We did it on a Friday night on a holiday weekend when we had a full schedule of activities for several days. This was not the way to go. Avoid major activities. Understand that this is going to be an ordeal. You won't want to do anything else until the storm is over.

That kid will wail like a banshee. Unmerciful. It will be taxing, emotional. The sound of that cry will act as a sense memory, transporting you back to the sleepless nights during the early weeks and months of your kid's life. Right back to where you think you'll never sleep through the night again and then begin to wonder how you will possibly function in the harsh, unforgiving light of day.

Trust us. Try the gradual approach. Snip the tip. And also know that a remote-controlled train, no matter how cool you might think it is, cannot take the place of a beloved binky.

And so we become convinced that he's going to grow up and hate us. Pierce his tongue and start listening to Megadeth. But then, a week later, we're almost back to normal. Or as normal as life can be with a two year-old. We appear to have weathered the storm of a binky-less life. And come out relatively unscathed on the other side.

Then I remember. We had this game, the Doozer and me. The binky has this handle-type thing on one side, for easy gripping. I can no longer recall how this started, but I would put that handle between my teeth and the Doozer would grab it and pull. I'd struggle for a moment, a tug-of-war would ensue, and eventually I would let it out of the grip of my teeth and fall backward or collapse on the ground. It's kind of hard to explain, but the result isn't: uncontrollable fits of giggling. It was one of the Doozer's favorite games. Our own private, weird little thing. But now, I don't remember the last time we did it, because at the time, I didn't realize it was the last time.

This is the truth about parenthood. Sometimes it can be sad. You feel nostalgic over almost everything that happens with your kid. Like Max in Kicking and Screaming, "I'm nostalgic for conversations I had yesterday." Especially Doozer conversations. Time is fleeting. Memories will fade. It's possible he's already forgotten this little game of ours.

But I hope I never forget it.

Fatherhood, Starring Robert Downey, Jr.

No, the purpose of this post is not to plug the movie Due Date. Though, if you're reading, you should go see it, because 1) it's really funny and 2) it was co-written by a dear friend of mine. And it's really funny.

Actually, this post is about how fatherhood is one massive learning experience (probably the biggest of your life). At least, that's what it's been like for me so far, with the Doozer. Imagine that you got a new job and every few days you found yourself with a new boss and a new job description, plus requirements well beyond the scope of the original job definition, as well as far outside your training and experience.

Further, there is no real manual for this position, nor a complete set of instructions. Sure, there is a lot of literature on this subject and there is an element of universality to child-rearing, but individual experiences are utterly unique and no single book or blog or magazine column can cover the entire breadth of your life with your kid. It's impossible.

But that doesn't mean that common ground doesn't exist. And for me, I've found a lot of it in fictional (often humorous) representations of fatherhood. There's also that complete lack of age-appropriate dad friends in my real life that I previously alluded to, so without real-world examples or reference points, I must turn to popular culture for my parenting touchstones.

Such as Phil Dunphy (as played by Ty Burrell) on Modern Family. I find him incredibly relatable (though I don't want to spend too much time on what this says about me). Something about this portrayal just makes absolute sense to me. And feels, weirdly, like a glimpse into my own future as a dad.

The same thing goes for Louie, on FX, featuring the comedian Louis C.K. His observations on parenting are absolutely hilarious (if often uncomfortably honest) and I just admire the hell out of him.

I think what I find most relatable is the acknowledgement of being out of one's depth. (It's why another touchstone of mine is Neal Pollack's Alternadad.) About being immersed in this role and yet having no true compass for how to navigate the whole thing. Louie is upfront about his shortcomings and frustrations, while Phil masks his with absurd bravado (though I don't think that this necessarily makes him any less self-aware).

But it extends beyond fictional creations to people in reality, people that I admire for a variety of reasons. Authors, musicians, movie stars. Like Johnny Depp. He's got two kids. What is he like as a father? Is he still extremely cool when changing diapers? Is that even possible? Is anybody cool when changing diapers?

Which brings us to Robert Downey, Jr., father of a now teenaged son. What is his parenting style? Is he more or less confident than the rest of us? If I were to meet him, would he have good dad tips for me?

What was it like for Bob Dylan in the '70s? There was a domestic period there for a while, right? (The lyrics to "Wedding Song" would seem to indicate as such.) How do you be "Bob Dylan" and "Dad" at the same time? How does that work exactly?

I look at the Doozer and I realize each day I'm shaping his definition of "dad." What kind of father will he be (if he becomes a father someday)? What is my influence on that? I know on one level that my own dad gave me a pretty strong definition of what it means to be a father. And I can only hope I'm doing as good a job as he did.

And if they ever make a movie about the Doozer and me, maybe Depp or Downey will play my part.

Guy can dream, right?

"This is Halloween, This is Halloween"

Last year, he didn't really get it.

Sure, the Doozer wore a costume. Read some books about the holiday, but ultimately, the concept of Halloween was still a bit abstract for his wee mind to grasp.

But this year, things were different. As the trappings of the season accumulated, his interest in all things Halloween grew exponentially, practically blossoming into a full-blown obsession. So much so that we became convinced the actual holiday itself would be nothing more than anti-climactic and disappointing.

It was time to introduce him to some of our own childhood traditions. So we found the book version of It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! and started reading it regularly in the weeks leading up to the annual airing of the TV special. And he became obsessed with this story, demanding it be read to him every night and almost every day. In particular, all the parts where Lucy was dressed up like a witch. "What zat?" he would ask eagerly, pointing to Lucy's masked visage—even though he already knew the answer. "It's a —" "Witch!" he'd interrupt us, gleefully. Witches quickly became one of his favorite elements of the season, pointing them out to us wherever and whenever we saw them. He even got a special surprise when his mom dressed up as one to take him out trick-or-treating on October 31.

Witches, pumpkins, and ghosts, oh my! He loved them all and pointed them out everywhere we went. We even installed a ghost on our front lawn for his enjoyment. "Night, night, Ghost," the Doozer said one evening as we headed inside for dinner. When the ghost did not respond, the Doozer said, "He didn't hear us." No, I guess he didn't.

We even carved a pumpkin with him and attempted to explain the subtle difference between a pumpkin and a jack-o-lantern. After that, he'd frequently point it out say, "that pumpkin has a jack-o-lantern in it." Yes, I suppose it does.

We visited the pumpkin patch and frequented the scarecrows on display in the center of town (part of a local scarecrow decorating contest, with a cinema theme). The Doozer quickly became enamored of Woody the Cowboy, Spider-Man, Ralphie from A Christmas Story, Mr. Potato Head, Charlie Brown, Forrest Gump, the Mad Hatter, and "Edward Fingerhands." But mostly, he fell in love with Gulliver ("He has a book! There is a little man on his back!") and Frankenstein's Monster. Yes, Frankenstein's Monster, not Frankenstein (important distinction). We wanted to be sure that he knew the actual name of this character, that his enthusiasm was well-informed and literarily accurate.

These things matter.

In the end, Halloween arrived and it was not anti-climactic at all. We had coached him all month on the fine art of trick-or-treating, explaining over and over again the process of going to someone's front door, saying "Trick-or-treat," then accepting some candy and saying, "Thank you." He seemed eager to try, though the Doozer is typically wary and skeptical of strangers and we weren't sure it would take.

But sure enough, he was ready to go before the sun even went down. He stood on our porch and began shouting "Trick-or-treat" in the direction of the street.

We explained that we had to go to people's doors and say it. And so we did. And he surprised us by going right up to strangers' doors and saying "Trick-or-treat" and "Thank you" every time. Amazing.

When I mentioned this to a co-worker, she said, "They're not dumb. Candy was at stake."

Once again, seeing the world through the Doozer's eyes, I realized that holidays are one of the great experiences of parenthood. You get a fresh perspective on an old, familiar experience. You get excited about something like Halloween (you're allowed to get excited) in a way that you haven't been in a very long time.

Plus, you get to exploit your kid's adorableness for candy. Don't look at me like that. Really, he doesn't know how much he got or what kinds. Just let us have this. For now. We can't keep this practice up forever. He'll get wise at some point.

Don't judge us. You'd do the same. You know you would.