Eyes gunked shut

Anybody want pinkeye? Go ahead and rub your eye against the computer screen and see what happens. We took Lyla to urgent care and were prescribed eye drops that must be made out of battery acid or something given how quickly they stopped the production of gunk.

Julie's staying home tomorrow. Lyla's mood hasn't suffered too much, so they should have a fun day braiding each other's hair and gossiping about boys. That is, if we don't all wake up tomorrow with eyes gunked shut.

From calm to cranky

We took Lyla to the Children's Museum again today for something to do and also to justify our membership. One more time and it will have paid for itself; then subsequent visits will be free.

That might be the most boring sentence I've ever written.

Well anyway, Lyla was a hot mess today and lasted about an hour before breaking down utterly. Our last moments at the museum involved her pushing a miniature shopping cart through a miniature supermarket and toppling over for no apparent reason. It was like the gravitational pull of the Earth suddenly shifted 45 degrees. She fell not hard at all, but the clattering of the cart coupled with being a hot mess resulted in her most public display of howling to date.

Immediately a savvy motivated employee ran up and inquired idiotically if Lyla needed a bandaid. "The shopping cart might need one," I said, and other parents stared. Lyla screamed in my arms and lunged for her mother. I don't think anyone watching imagined I was the father--more like the step-uncle, laughably incompetent and kind of a dick.

So we left. The membership takes away the pressure of needing to stay long and get your money's worth and all that. It's nice with a baby, for you never know when things will suddenly go from calm to cranky.

Pee shirt

I woke up Lyla this morning like I do every morning. I was running late like I always am. She was groggy and cute like she always is.

When I pulled her out of the crib, however, the peaceful ordinariness of the morning ended with a sploosh. It was her crotch hitting my stomach: pee, lots of pee, enough pee to treat hundreds and hundreds of jellyfish bites.

(According to several reputable-looking websites that I found by Googling "peeing on a jellyfish," pee has no positive effect on jellyfish bites and can actually make the pain worse. The rumor that you should recruit someone to pee on your jellyfish bite was started by a jellyfish.)

So anyway, I removed Lyla's soaked onesie and complete failure of a diaper, got her cleaned up and into her clothes, and then freaked out because now I was really running late and had pee on my shirt.

I didn't want to change, so Julie suggested that I remove the shirt, get the pee spot nice and wet with water, and then use the hair dryer to evaporate everything. It seemed to work, but if I had a chemistry set and any knowledge at all about chemistry, I bet I could devise an experiment to prove that whereas all the water evaporated, there were still trace elements of pee, and not parts per billion or million, but parts per thousand, maybe hundred.

And that's gross. I am gross. I wore a pee shirt today.

Time to talk

I'm sitting in the school library at my table for parent-teacher conferences. It's 4:11 and we go until 8:00. Maybe Lyla will be especially troublesome at bedtime tonight; maybe I'll get home and she'll be beside herself, shouting "DADA!" and sobbing, fixated on her absent superman father to the point of hysterical sleeplessness.

But probably she'll be fast asleep. I'll creak open the nursery door and poke my head in despite Julie's fiercely whispered objections. The hallway light will barely glide over Lyla's form and I'll stand for a moment and stare at her silhouette, butt in the air, body scrunched up, surrounded by binkies and a frog on one side, a duck on the other.

Ah well. I've instructed Julie to take pictures, so I'll post one when I get home. And now if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to other parents about their kids.

*Update*

I'm home.

Polysyllablic please

Lyla likes cookies.


A lot.

The baby sign for please involves lightly raking your fingers in that spot on your torso just below your shoulder. It should look like you're scratching a mosquito bite.

Lyla's sign for please has evolved or, depending on your perspective, devolved. Now she places both hands above her stomach and frantically shakes her entire body back and forth. The shaking breaks up the word please into several distinct syllables so it sounds like "Pee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeze!" Watching her, you can't help but think of a young Santa Claus.


And like Santa, much of the time she wants cookies.

El flusho

Julie's sister Jen bought a book for Lyla in Costa Rica called Elmo va al baño, which is Spanish for "Elmo goes to the shitter." In addition to the cover art of Elmo standing proudly next to a toilet, the book has sound effect buttons on the side. All of this makes me very happy.

When you push the biggest button, Elmo says "¡Elmo puede usar el baño!" which means "Elmo shits in the toilet!" There's also a button that sounds like a toilet flushing. Es muy bien. That's Spanish for "the flushing sound is accurate and therefore funny."

Lyla is an overachiever, so I see no reason why we shouldn't potty-train her and teach her Spanish at the same time.

How to do it

Not to toot my own horn (actually, that's precisely my intent), but the following photos demonstrate exactly how every dad should interact with his daughter.

Wearing her out

Julie and I took Lyla to the Children's Museum today. One exhibit there involves these tree things, big plastic bugs, bird noisemakers, and a slide. Lyla spent about 20 minutes dropping bugs into tin cans, immensely pleased by the plunk they made. Then this four-year-old boy would take the bugs out. I dare say they were cooperating. And perhaps flirting.

The water exhibit would've held Lyla's attention for six hours, I'm convinced.


When you drop a ping-pong ball into that pipe, the flowing water shoots it out another hole. You can imagine how entertaining this would be to a 14-month-old. We finally pulled her away when we discovered how freezing her hands were.

Our whole goal today, like any Sunday, was to wear Lyla out to the point of ridiculousness.


It worked.

The lionesses

I came home at 4:00 with Lyla to a house still filled with 25 women. I think there's something primal that happens when a bunch of women get together for a baby shower. I walked in and their eyes moved in unison from me to Lyla and then back to me. It's like they were a pack of lionesses and I was a zebra holding a lion cub. It's a wonder I'm still alive.

After awkwardly greeting everyone, I headed upstairs to the nursery to change Lyla.

I opened the nursery door and there were breasts, bare breasts, holy shit those are breasts, why are there breasts, whose breasts are those, stop looking at the breasts, staring at me from the chair. One of the lionesses was pumping milk.

I got out of there quick, returned downstairs with the full-diapered Lyla and past the 50 unison eyes into the spare bedroom. I changed Lyla and then offered her to the pack in exchange for my freedom. One of them made a sudden movement, so I was off, sprinting up the stairs and into the bedroom, where I put in a movie and tried to relax.

An hour later they had all left, undoubtedly forgiving my breast infraction because I had previously added a much-needed apostrophe to their signage.

Staying clear of the shower

Lyla's cousin currently resides in Julie's sister's uterus. Tomorrow Julie is throwing her a baby shower, and about 20 baby-crazy women are coming to our house. It's going to be a zoo, and given my rugged virility, I think it's best if I stay clear.

So I'm taking Lyla--to the zoo.

All boozed up

Lyla has about 37 teeth coming in. She has teeth on top of teeth, like a shark. It's majorly pissing her off.

We still have the asterisk milk in the freezer. If you recall, Julie got all boozed up one night almost a year ago, and rather than dump her breast milk, she bagged it and drew an asterisk on it. We never gave it to Lyla, obviously. I can't remember where I heard this, probably nowhere reputable, but some moms save their booziest milk for when the child is teething. I think that's an awesome idea, and by awesome I mean terrible.

We gave Lyla ibuprofen instead. The asterisk milk remains in the freezer. Maybe we'll let her drink it on her 21st birthday.

Rhymes with vegetables

On Lyla's daily daycare stat sheet, they list what she ate. Invariably the list includes things like cauliflower, broccoli, and other hideous wretchtables.

So today I asked whether the word cauliflower on her sheet really meant that she devoured all sorts of cauliflower.

"Well, it means she was presented with cauliflower."

The foods listed next to cauliflower were chicken nuggets and O's.

"So you're telling me that when nuggets, O's, and cauliflower sat on a tray together, Lyla didn't immediately lunge for the cauliflower?"

"Some went in, but it came right out."

Okay, so we're going to have to start sneaking wretchtables into Lyla's favorite foods. She's certainly not getting them at daycare like we thought. This is going to be tough, but I'll know we're doing a good job if I feel compelled to eat them too.

By the way, this is what happens when you ask Lyla what a lion says:

Doing it at daycare

At daycare when a kid requests a sippy cup, they make him or her sit because running about the room sprinkling milk everywhere isn't civilized. Whenever I discover some rule they have at daycare, I always pretend I'm not surprised by it, as though we too are civilized and would never let our daughter tramp around the living room with an upside-down sippy cup and spaghetti fingers.

In actuality, the sitting rule has been in effect at our house for about two days.


The photo I'm waiting to get is one with Lyla and both dogs sitting in a row in anticipation of a treat. It's happened, but the camera wasn't nearby. It'll happen again; she'll do the sign for milk, we'll say "Okay Lyla, you need to sit," and the dogs' ears will prick up and they'll run over and sit too.

Since Lyla knows what it means to sit down, the only thing the dogs have on her is the ability to defecate outside. And really, for all I know they've been doing that at daycare for weeks.

Partial credit

No lie, that's a picture of Lyla looking at Oscar the Grouch and saying Dada. She's so passive-aggressive.

Her Sesame Street vocabulary is increasing. She does know Oscar (Ah-sta), and of course there's Bert (Buht) and Elmo (Elmo). Most of the time she knows Ernie (Uh-nee). And she has always pronounced Snuffleupagus impeccably.

If we ask Lyla what something is and she doesn't know, she'll babble something random in hopes of getting partial credit. It's like when you took the ACTs and marked C for half the math section.

"What's that?" Julie will say while pointing to a horse.

"Nuh-ba."

See, Lyla expects us to get all excited. But we're wise to her little game.

"No, Lyla. That's a horse. Horse."

Big smile. "Neigh."

Deforestation

We finally took down our Christmas tree. I wanted to redecorate it for Valentine's Day, maybe spray-paint the whole thing pink or something. But Julie said no. She's such a traditionalist.




In other news, Lyla is climbing.

Open Apple

Lyla was very studious this morning...


...for about 12 seconds.

Lyla's word for open is abu. For the longest time I didn't know what she was saying since her word for apple is ah-boo, which to the naked ear sounds identical despite being worth twice as many points in Scrabble (10 to 5 in case you're curious, and yes I'm aware that hyphens aren't allowed).

So Lyla would stand outside a closed door and say "Abu," and I'd say something idiotic like "Lyla, there aren't any apples in the bathroom." Then she'd cry and say "ABU" louder and pound on the door, and I'd walk to the kitchen to see if we had any apples. And that actually worked pretty well since she's so distractable.

If Lyla becomes a computer genius (I mean when, not if), will she buy an old-school Mac and refer to the Open Apple key as the Abu Ah-boo?

Redder than Elmo

This is Lyla in the doctor's office. She has an acute case of potbelly. And a double ear infection.

The doctor said of one ear, "Ooh, that one's redder than Elmo."

To which Lyla replied, "Elmo."

But it's fine. Julie made sure the doctor prescribed the same nasty goop that worked so well last time. I forget what it's called, but it's one of those baby prescriptions that parents have to mix into yogurt or applesauce or pudding just to have a chance. Target even puts free flavor in there if you ask for it.

Which we don't. Lyla loves the stuff. Halfway through syringing the first dose into her mouth this evening, Lyla started eagerly doing the sign for please. Maybe she knows the medicine will make her feel better. Or maybe she likes things that taste like ass.

The cry chair

At daycare, when an older baby cries about something inconsequential, the teachers place him or her among a pile of pillows on the side of the room. There the child cries it out for a minute or two before realizing that fun is being had elsewhere and that their grievance is no longer pressing.

This was eye-opening to me since a parent might instinctively carry the baby around or give it whatever it wants in order to stop the crying. But maybe that's a good way to create a Paris Hilton or an Augustus Gloop.

In the above photo, Lyla was upset about bananas. She had recently discovered that saying "Nana!" does not always result in the immediate acquisition of one. I put her in the chair and explained that when she was ready, I would be waiting to play with her. Then I walked away.

It took 30 seconds.

Basket case

Today there was a new girl in Lyla's daycare, a nine-month-old. When I came to pick up Lyla, this child was sobbing while the two teachers took turns trying to console her. The first day can be rough on a kid.

I don't think Lyla was like that, but she's always had a social temperament. Plus, she was seven-and-a-half months old when she started there part time. Maybe for some kids there's a daycare window, where they're still clueless enough to not analyze the fact that Mom and Dad are gone. I have a feeling that if today was Lyla's very first day, she would be a basket case too.

I wonder how candid the teachers are with a parent on the first day. "She was a little upset here and there," I can imagine them saying to this new girl's parents. No need for them to freak out, I suppose. I'll tell Lyla to take the kid under her wing, introduce her to the good toys, share the Cheerios, and so forth.

Binky in the bed

Lyla uses a binky only in bed, which seems to me the addiction equivalent of chewing tobacco only at night, which has always been Julie's policy.

Just kidding.

Several weeks back, in a fit of baby psychology genius, Julie told Lyla to put her binky to bed. To this day, it works with no fussing. You hold her over the crib, tell her what to do, and seconds later the binky cheerfully lands among the half-dozen other binkies that live in the crib.

I wonder if we can eventually apply the concept to potty training. "Lyla, put your poop in the pool," and then ploppity plop plop ploppity. Well, that might have unsavory ramifications when we take her to the actual pool.

Happy Chair Day

This is now the nicest piece of furniture we own. Julie's parents sent it to Lyla for what I imagine must be an early Martin Luther King Day gift. Or it's for Chair Day, which occurs only on binary palindrome days like today (011110).

It came in a gigantic box, which was also fun.


Lyla got tired of the box before I did, which in retrospect is a little embarrassing, but she loves the chair and is very proud of herself when she sits in it.

You wish

You wish you were this cool.

Hellbent on destruction

As I predicted yesterday, Lyla's hair was awesome this morning. There are wannabes all over Hollywood whose stylists work for hours to give them hairstyles like this.





Julie had a ton of work to do this weekend, so she left early for Panera this morning, and Lyla and I hung out. I tried to stack as many of her letter blocks as possible on the living room table before she swiped them down with her terrible hand. Lyla has not reached the stage where she wants to build things, to produce and create, to add to the world that which doesn't yet exist. Rather, she is hellbent on destruction.

But then I put her down for a nap, and she woke up to this:


Lyla was about to destroy it in a cacophony of rage, but then Julie came home and, hellbent on destruction herself, attacked Lyla's hair.

Unleashing the pony

That's Zoe, or as Lyla likes to say, Elmo.

Those top-of-the-head ponytails are cute on babies, but no one ever talks about what happens at the end of the day. You might want to squint your eyes a little so the full effect of the next photo doesn't permanently sear into your eyeballs.


We put her to bed like that. Tomorrow morning is going to be kick-ass.

How to eat an ah-boo

Lyla's a bit of a hot mess. When we give her apples (ah-boo!), she stuffs them in her mouth like it's a chubby bunny contest.


You can tell by looking at her that this is the only logical way to eat apples. Why would you chew and swallow one piece at a time when you can cram them in like people on a Japanese subway?