Pants/No Pants

We dropped Lyla off at my parents' house for a couple hours today, and Uncle Scott took this photo of her flinging bubbles on the deck. Instead of blowing them, she dipped the wand and flailed her arms. I don't know if this technique ever resulted in bubbles, but I do know that when we picked her up again at 3:00, she wasn't wearing pants.

We strapped her into the car seat, and within four minutes she was fast asleep. Quick transfer to the crib when we got home, and she woke up again two hours later. You never know when you'll encounter the Sunday afternoon nap. It's so strange and unpredictable, like a unicorn in your front yard. When Lyla woke up, we put pants on her and went out to eat, where she devoured approximately 37 grapes, 17 green beans, and as much ketchup as you can fit on 49 green beans (most of the 17 she ate were double or triple dipped).

On the way out of the restaurant, Lyla got that look in her eyes, that intense, concentrated look. When her forehead began to vibrate, we knew she was dropping an epic load. We de-pantsed her in the back of the car and changed her diaper. It was gag-worthy.

Then home for a bath (no pants) and bed (pants).

Skirt dunk

Julie made the skirt. I spent several minutes praising her with my uncanny Tim Gunn impersonation.

In other news, Auntie Jen and Almost-Uncle Jason provided Lyla another outlet to demonstrate her considerable athleticism.



Technically she moved her pivot foot, but I didn't say anything because refs in the NBA never call guys for traveling.

The real world

Most babies are content with a wide range of activities. Sure, there are things they love to do and hate to do, but the middle ground is enormous.

"You want to balance me on your hip while you make a piece of toast? Whatever."

"You want me to lounge in the bouncy seat for awhile? Hey, could you just make sure that plastic parrot dangles right in front of my face? Cool, man."

"Holy crap, I burped breast milk all down my onesie. Yo! A little help over here. Wow, I just discovered my hands. Dude..."

Lyla recently threw this zen mindset into the road and skidded over it on a Harley. She has discovered that it is possible to have passionate views about every activity in her life. There is no middle ground and no ambivalence; something is either wonderfully fun and deserving of her undivided attention, or something is totally unacceptable and worthy of her rage.

For instance, take waffles.


Lyla has always had a friendly attitude about the organic mini-waffles in our freezer. "Wa-fa!" Translation: "I don't not like them, so okay!" We put a little cream cheese on them, put some fruit and/or vegetables on the side, and it's an easy dinner. Or as Lyla used to say, "It is what it is, Father, and I am thankful."

Tonight all she wanted to do was suck the cream cheese off the waffle and double-dip. "Please eat your waffle, Lyla." Big mistake. You don't say that to a little girl who has just decided to devote the rest of her life to the acquisition of cream cheese.


With apologies to MTV, this is what happens when babies stop being polite and start getting real.

At heart

I think our house is getting shorter.

Now at a whopping three days, this is the second longest stretch Lyla has ever gone without getting bitten by another child. The longest stretch was the first 532 days of her life, not counting the many times she inadvertently or purposely gummed herself.

Lyla does not yet have any long-term goals besides going to her senior prom with Elmo. She has hundreds of short-term goals, however, and has recently decided that the best way to achieve those goals is to be bossy and demanding. She is becoming her mother.

For instance, Lyla's current view on the subject of clothes is that she's far too busy to sit still while I dress her. Whereas even a week ago we had lovely and civil discourses about shoes and feet and hands and sleeves, now it's like I'm wrestling a giant angry noodle.

This morning at 4:30, Lyla suddenly thought of 632 things she would rather do than sleep. She berated us so severely all morning that Julie asked the nurse at daycare to check her ears for infection. No infection, and when I picked her up this afternoon the teachers reported that she had been especially happy all day long. But then in the car she threatened me severe bodily harm when I couldn't produce a third cracker.

I think at heart she's a teenager.

The big-girl cup

This is the second consecutive day that Lyla has not suffered a bite at daycare. Would you like to slow-clap with me?

Clap.




Clap.

In other news, Julie and I are always on the lookout for arbitrary ways to piss off our daughter under the guise of character building. Enter the big-girl cup.

In truth, all the other kids in her class use them, and we don't know what the trend will be at her new daycare mid-June. It's like, you might as well learn to drive a stick shift even if you suspect an automatic will always be available.

We're making a coordinated effort with her teachers. Even the dumb one is on board despite the fact that she probably drinks from a sippy cup herself. (That was mean.) So after Lyla clumsily drank from a big-girl cup all day at school, she sat in the backseat of my car and ate a dry, crumbly ca-ca, and the whole way home daydreamed about the sippy cup full of cold, wonderful milk that she would be allowed to chug immediately upon arriving home.

Once in the front door, she bolted to the kitchen and slid into the fridge like it was home-plate. "Mih!"

When I tried to hand her that big-girl cup of milk, she threw a fit unlike any in her life. There was foot stomping, screaming, and sobbing. She threw herself into my arms, then pushed me away, and then threw herself at me again. At one point she lay face-first on the floor. It was one of the most hilarious things I've ever seen.

I kept a straight face and validated her emotions. "Lyla is mad. Mad mad mad! Dada wants Lyla to use the big-girl cup, and that makes Lyla very, very MAD." See, I don't want her to become a biter, and some kids become biters when they feel like they can't express their frustrations.

The turning point came when I began to drink that nasty whole milk out of the big-girl cup. I sat on the kitchen floor and sipped, and after each sip smiled broadly and said "Ahh" like it was a Gatorade commercial. And it worked. She motioned for the cup, brought it to her mouth, tipped it back, and, for reasons that are only clear to her and perhaps God, began to chew the cup's rim as milk dribbled all over her.

"Sweet victory!" I shouted as I wiped her off.

Fast-forward to dinner.


I decided Lyla would benefit from her father modeling more big-girl cup best practices.





She'll get there. Meantime, every night is bath night.

Twice bitten

The cannibal child at daycare bit Lyla again yesterday. This time it was on the shoulder, inches above the previous bite on her upper arm.

The dumb teacher told me the name of the biter, which is against their policy. I don't blame the kid, but I don't know what I'll do if this happens again. I talked to the director, who said that biting has been a chronic issue with this kid. There isn't any kind of policy in place and, in short, nothing will be done if it happens again.

I said, "This is twice in three days. Nothing happens the third time? What if there's a fourth? A fifth? How many times will my child be bitten in her classroom before something is done about it?"

She didn't have an answer, just that she was apologetic and that the problem was unusual.

"So there's no policy at all? My child could theoretically be bitten every single day, and nothing would happen?"

No answer.

"Look, I get it. Things happen. But this cannot happen a third time. This kid absolutely must not bite my daughter again. It is a different conversation if this happens a third time."

What a bastard I was! Judge me if you want; I so don't care. Like I said yesterday, every chip is in play with Lyla. She's defenseless, and I'm all-in. Who will make sure she's dealt fair cards if not me?

I'm either a good dad or a volcano ready to erupt. I hope it's possible to be both.

The happy news for everyone, by the way, is that today the young lady came home unscathed.

No outs

Years ago in an education class, the professor said that self-esteem is like a stack of poker chips. If you have a lot of chips, then you can risk a lot, and so forth.

It's a fine analogy, but let's extend it and say your stack represents your emotional well-being and happiness independent of self-esteem. You wager a portion of your stack on each relationship in your life, so when everything is prosperous with your people, the chip count goes up and you're happy; when things fall apart, chips disappear and you're less happy.

With Julie and other family members, a lot of my chips are in play. With friends and colleagues, not as many.

But with Lyla, I can't help it: I'm all-in. Every single chip is in play all the time.

That's why parenting scares the hell out of me.