We Could Have A Problem Here...

So, you may have gathered from this blog that I enjoy riding my bicycle.  So much so that whenever I am getting ready to leave the house Kiki guesses either "Dada Bike?" or "Dada Work?" with pretty much even odds.  


But I always figured my biking was, as far as obsessive compulsions go, not too bad.  I mean, I get some exercise, get out in the fresh air, and relieve stress, seemed like a win win, but well, recently something happened that is making me rethink how harmless it all is.  


First let me provide a little background for those of you who don't ride.  Now, you probably know that most cyclists wear padded shorts when they ride, to protect their nether regions.  But you may not have known that some of us who get really into it discover that the shorts aren't that great, and turn to bibs.  Bibs are, well, they're a lot like a wrestling singlet, but, if possible, even creepier.  Let me illustrate:


A wrestling singlet:

Which for some reason I keep mistyping as "sniglet".  Just seems better to me I guess.  Anyway, for comparison, here are cycling bibs:

They're like a skimpier sniglet.  With a padded ass.  And yes, you have to strike such awesome poses when you wear them.  Oh, and for the women (and perverts), don't think you're left out:

Something about that photo just totally creeps me out.  Anyway, back to our problem.  See, Kiki grabbed a pair of my wife's underwear out of the clean laundry and pulled them on.  Harmless enough, and maybe even a good sign that our potty training efforts are gaining traction.  

But then she proceeded to pull the waistband up over her shoulders, like suspenders, and run around saying "Kiki bike!  Kiki bike!".  Needless to say my wife was concerned.  Needless to say I've never been prouder of my little girl.  

Christmas Flipbook

Well, our Christmas was... interesting this year.  After our Christmas Eve festivities with my family (nothing says family holiday like caviar and vodka), and the Christmas morning extravaganza of Santa followed by more gifting and eating with family, we finally arrived back home in the late afternoon to celebrate our little family's Christmas.  It started off normal enough, almost Rockwellian in fact, with matching pajamas for father and daughter:

Then, well, it went weird.  Okay, to explain, my wife has always wanted a strawberry house for her dogs.  It's a dog bed.  Shaped like a giant strawberry.  Obviously.  They sell them in Japan.  Anyway, I finally relented and bought her one, and Kiki quickly became stuck inside it:

Soon thereafter she decided that she was going to get the party started by taking her top off (yeah, I'm looking forward to her high school years too): 

Then, well, things went downhill.  After being rescued about 14 times from the jaws of the strawberry house, Kiki threw a shit-fit because we didn't want her getting stuck in it again.  I know, worst parents ever:

Then, well, this happened:

But in the end, though it may not be everyone's idea of a perfect Christmas (or anyone's), we all enjoyed it (yeah, she's still totally naked):

Here's hoping your holidays were as joyous (and nudity filled) as ours.

Santai is Coming

Well, amidst the furor of the move and the extensive preparations for my post-Christmas birthday (I got a card!), we also had to make plans for Santa Claus.  Last year Kiki was not visited by Santa, because, frankly, she has terrible parents.  But this year, well, she still has terrible parents (okay, fine, just her father is terrible), but at least Santa did come.  


Well, Santai, as she calls him.  Though there is some debate, my wife thinks it's Santai, while I believe it's Santae.  Maybe because she's half-Japanese while I took latin and think Kiki's just pluralized it, or maybe it's because my wife is smart and I, well, I think the blog speaks to my mental facilities (ooooh, poop cake!).  Anyway, Santai/ae visited and brought Kiki a kitchen.  

Which, should be noted, she was annoyed with because the sink doesn't work and the microwave also does not actually heat things up.  Anyway, "Santai", after slaving away for 3 hours to build the kitchen (why send 13 pieces when you can send 3,744) just didn't have the energy to wrap it.  Thus, Kiki's first experience of the magic of Santai was an old sheet covering her big gift.  I think when she's older we'll explain that Santai does some more unusual things for her since she is an only child and he knows she's appreciate it, while most families have several kids to keep happy to Santai just sticks with the old reliable for them.  I know, I'm trying to figure out other lies we can tell her to cover up our laziness.  


But in the end, I think her first experience with Santai was a success.  I mean, just look how excited she was to thank him:

The Secret To Happiness

Well, I've discovered it.  A fail-safe, simple, cheap, and easy guide to happiness.  Yes, with $3.00 and three easy steps you too can enjoy total joy on a daily basis.  


Step 1) Come home.  Okay, for this step you need a home.  But really, if you're reading this chances are you have a computer (unless you are reading this psychically, in which case nice work), and if you have a computer then you should have a home.  Thus, by my accounting, this step costs nothing.  If, however, you are homeless than I am sorry for you, I wish you the best of luck, but think it is going to take more than three steps to fix your situation.  Probably more like six or seven steps, and that's just beyond the scope of this simple little blog.


Step 2) Have your wife and 18 month old daughter waiting outside for you.  Okay, maybe you don't have a wife, but a girlfriend, husband, boyfriend, platonic life partner, or even friendly stranger should work.  Ah, now you say you don't have an 18 month old daughter.  How about a son?  No?  Hmmm, what about a very personable dog?  Nope, not that either?  A cat?  Even a very vivacious fish?  Nothing?  Hmm, alright, steal a kid.  Look, it's totally worth it, this is going to work out for you.  But I don't mean steal in a terrible abduction/ kidnapping kind of way, just borrow them for an hour or so, you know, like a library book... that talks.


Step 3) Have them blowing bubbles.  Then, join them.  It's amazing, all your stress and worries will be born away on the eddies of air along with those little soap bubbles.  It's helpful if your stolen child can say "bubbuls" continuously, ideally with a slight lifting in tone at the end.  It's kind of awesome.  Oh, and for the record, buy your $3.00 worth of bubbles from Gymboree, they are made of some sort of NASA engineered polymer, we've found them literally two days later still intact.  

How Quickly They Turn

Growing up, my wife was constantly told she resembled Lucy Liu.  Mainly because both she and Lucy are asian.  Hey, we grew up in the midwest, it doesn't take much.  Anyway, she grew to resent this statement, partly because Lucy is Taiwanese and my wife is half-Japanese, but mainly because she felt she didn't look much like her, other than they were both of asian descent.  And women.  And had hair.  Okay, they're obviously identical. 


I know what you're saying, poor girl, right?  First of all, your sarcasm is noted and appreciated.  And for me it is hard to muster too much sympathy when I was just told I resembled that fat kid from that show.  You know... Fat Albert.  But less attractive.  And white.  And less attractive.  And not funny.  And also less attractive.  I would have loved to be told I resembled anyone who wasn't a morbidly obese cartoon.  Like, say, Wilford Brimley.  Oh, to dream!  


Anyway, I've learned to tiptoe around her sensitivity.  Mainly by pointing out every mildly asian woman on television and saying "Look honey, it's you!"  Or, if it is a man, "Look honey, it's your brother!"  Yes, I assume my husband of the year award is in the mail.  Needless to say my wife is less than entertained by my shenanigans.  However, yesterday, while waiting in the checkout line in the grocery, our darling daughter pointed to the cover of a magazine featuring, you guessed it, Lucy Liu, and said "Mama."  Awesome!  Well, now we know who's sense of humor she inherited.  Though I hope she grows up to look more like Lucy than Albert.  Although some sort of Fat Lucy Albert Liu mashup could be kind of awesome, right?

Summer Reading List

A friend is newly pregnant and we decided to lend them some of our parenting books to help them begin building a crippling fear of failure as a parent.  I mean, you can't do this on your own, right?  


Anyway, we pulled them together and had about 22 that my wife had read and, well, the one that I read.  Well, I read most of it.  Alright, half of it.  Okay, I got through pregnancy, birth, and the first four months.  I think the scope of the book went from conception through college acceptance.  I mean, I got the gist of it, I flipped through to check out any pictures.  And for the record, there were no pictures.  


I know, can you blame me for giving up on it?  Seems to me like the book was making some dangerous assumptions of my prior knowledge. The author apparently assumed that I am a man who knows what a baby looks like, who can decipher the fine art of swaddling through words alone, and who can apply a diaper without a 17 stage illustrated manual and accompanying video walkthrough.  Needless to say, I quickly realized that this was not a parenting guide aimed at me, and took the responsible route of casting it aside and just winging it.  


Now, this may not be the advised approach to parenting, and it doesn't sell many books, but so far it seems to be working okay... 

Hmmm, maybe I should have read the chapter about not eating your young.  But then again, she does seem to enjoy it.  And she is delicious.

Horrible Parents

Last night I pulled out the camera, dusted it off, and realized we had taken precisely zero pictures of our darling daughter for the last 50 days.  I know, it's borderline criminal.  However, in our defense it was a lot easier to photograph her before she could walk.  Hell, it was way easier before she could move.  It was more of a still life composition.  Now, well, it's more of an action shot of her trying desperately to jam her hands onto the camera lens.  So, we've gone from pictures like this, 8 months ago:

To, well, this:

Yeah, so maybe I understand why the camera hasn't been getting quite the same workout. 

OCD Toddler

It has been amazing to watch Kiki develop her motor and verbal skills.  It seems like every day she has a new skill and a couple new words (today's were "kayak" and "bird" and I don't know how she got along without them before).  As she learns and grows we're also slowly seeing her personality come out, and well, she seems to have mild OCD.  Nothing too alarming, just a mild penchant for cleanliness.  


For instance, she will request a bath about 4 times a day, though to be fair, oftentimes as a delaying tactic at nap and bed times.  She also loves to wash her hands and would happily do so every 20 minutes.  But most helpful/worrying is her constant efforts to throw things away.  


It all started innocently enough when my wife taught her the word "trash" and showed her how to throw away her dirty diaper.  Seemed like a useful skill, pretty much the first one she had learned in life.  But soon she was picking up anything she could find (blueberries, socks, wallets, small pets) and inquiring if it was trash, oftentimes while holding it over the trash can.  


However, sitting here with the newest season of Hoarders playing in the background, I guess I could think of a few things worse than a love of soap and order.  

Lost In Translation

So, Kiki is learning to speak, which is kind of great for us since we now have a clue what she wants rather than guesswork.  She is also learning Japanese from my wife.  Which is also kind of great.  The only problem is that I, alas, do not know Japanese.  Thus, when we were reading a book together (okay, I was reading the book and Kiki was chiming in at times) and came across a picture of a monkey, Kiki broke in with "Saru."  Naturally, being an ignorant gaijin, I corrected her with "Monkey" (also accepting baboon, primate, and capuchin), only to be informed by my wife that I was a jerk and an idiot, and Kiki was right.  So, basically, my daughter, at 17 months, is smarter than I am.  Awesome.  So now I'm afraid to correct her, since I now assume she is just speaking Japanese.  So now we'll read a book and whenever she chimes in with, well, anything really, I just tell her she's right, brilliant, and wonderful.  So, basically my wife is teaching her Japanese and I am teaching her gibberish.  And that is why it takes a village to raise a child, because the father is just fucking everything up.  

Parking

So, deciding that Kiki cannot be raised indoors for her entire life, we ventured forth today to the park. We figured between the rose gardens, the playground, and the wide open spaces she would be endlessly entertained. She did enjoy herself, but not exactly in the manner we expected. 


Once again illustrating how little I understand of my darling daughter's thought process, she spent 90% of the time pointing out dogs and babies. Well, more accurately, "dohs" and "bebes." Almost nonstop and at increasing volume and with ever more intensity, lest we miss one. We would walk through the rose garden with Kiki saying "doh doh doh Doh Doh DOH DOH DOH" and pointing at every dog, squirrel, and bird. Sometimes she would switch it up by yelling "bebe BeBe BEBE" and pointing at any baby, child, short adult or even seated giant. We finally decided the rose garden wasn't cutting it so we ventured over to the playground. Unfortunately, once there she had no interest in the swings or slides but she did enjoy picking up random sticks and flailing them about.  Just look how much fun she's having:

Okay, fine, so she doesn't look like the happiest child in the park.  We were even worried that she just isn't that into the outdoors, but we later realized she was just sad she didn't have any "doh's" to whip into shape.  

Godlike Powers

Well, Kiki is coming up on a year and a half, which means she's now fully mobile and also talking.  This has brought about a new revelation for us, namely that we have an almost godlike power of creation with her.  She is quickly learning words, but she does pickup 90% of her words from either her mother or me (the other 10% being from family, strangers, and crazy yelling men on the side of the road).  


This has given us total control over her knowledge and vocabulary.  For instance, she has learned the english for sock ("auck"), nose ("noh") and eye (er, well, "eye", actually) but japanese for ear ("mimi"), shoe ("ootz"), and bath ("oohaloohalooh" although I think my wife may be screwing with both of us on that one).  


The other day she was fascinated with bellybuttons and I (probably mistakenly) was saying "boop" when she would press on my bellybutton.  Thus, her bellybutton is now known as "boop" to Kiki.  This opens up a whole world of creativity.  Maybe cars will be "rabungas" in her world, perhaps potatoes will henceforth be known as "jibberbugs".  Black will be "white", blue will be "orange", red will be "turnip".  The world is our oyster, or as they will be known to Kiki, "squigiliums".  


I mean, this is a damn good plan, what could possibly go wrong?


Although now that I consider it, I remember something from my own childhood.  When I was about 4 years old, my mother told us that (please hold your laughter until the end) if you wave at an airplane as it passed overhead and the pilot sees you they will throw bubblegum down to you.  Yep.  And by god I believed her.  For two reasons really; 


1) She's my mom.  I didn't think she would lie to us simply for her own personal enjoyment.  I have since learned my lesson on that one.  


2) It's free bubblegum.  Why the fuck wouldn't I believe in it?  I believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too.  I would have believed in a 300 foot tall invisible giant donkey named Hubert if it would bring me free food.  


Unfortunately, my blind faith and love of candy led me to wave like a spastic reject whenever I saw a plane.  It didn't help that we lived in a major flight path.  Needless to say, I wasn't exactly the most popular kid in the neighborhood.  Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't do the same thing to Kiki... but at the same time, my experience did teach me a healthy distrust of authority which I would like my daughter to have.  Alright, maybe I will teach her most words correctly, but I think bath will always be oohaloohalooh.

My name is Tulibo, and I'm an addict

I was at the bike shop the other day.  Surprise, surprise.  I break bikes like it's my job.  Oh, I should look into if anyone's hiring for that position.  Anyway, I was chatting with one of the salesmen while waiting for my latest broken bit to be fixed.  He was telling me that he hasn't been able to ride much lately (just 40 or 50 miles a week) because he's working at the bike shop, his girlfriend had her tonsils out, and things just get busy.  As I left I realized that I have a full time job, a wife, a 16 month old child, and I still bike 100-130 miles a week.  Granted, that's down from my average mileage PK (pre-Kiki) but only by 30 or 40 miles.  That's when I realized that either I'm a heartless bastard, a terrible husband, and a neglectful father OR I have a cycling addiction.  You can guess which explanation I'm going with.  I figure step one is identifying the problem.  Step two is, what, doing something about it?  I'll get around to that eventually.  I figure I should just take this one step at a time.  Man, these steps are exhausting, I think I need to go for a bike ride.  You know, just to clear my head.  What?  I have a disease, cut me some slack.  

Sing a Song of Sixpence

Parenting experts recommend talking to your child, interacting with them, and even singing to them.  Now, we try to do right by our child, so we do engage her in conversation, despite her less than stellar contributions to the discussion (gooey-gooey-gooey doesn't often add a lot to the discourse, though we do enjoy it).  


We play and dance with her even though she hasn't taken much of a shine to the waltz, her cha-cha is pretty weak and her tango is, well, kind of a mess.  But she is pretty awesome at the stomping baby dance, wherein she stamps her right foot repeatedly, both on and off the beat.  Yeah, we're waiting for the dance shows to call.  


And even ol' tone deaf dad sings to her.  Only problem is, I only know two songs.  The spiderman theme song and "little boxes" (a.k.a. the "Weeds" theme song).  So, every song she gets is a variation thereof.  The other problem is, I don't have a very good memory, so every song is slightly to extravagantly different.  But, they do have one thing in common, they're all crap.  Just abysmally horrific.  And I realized, singing to your child is great in a general sense, but in my specific case, I should probably just stick with talking.  I mean, how helpful is hearing, to the tune of "The Amazing Spiderman"


Baby girl,
Baby girl,
Does whatever a baby girl does.
Can she swing from a tree?
No she can't, she's just a baby.
Watch out, here comes the doodle bear.


Yeah, I just need to leave the musical teaching to others.  You know, non-morons.  Oh well, that just leaves more time for the stomping baby dance.  

On The Road Again...

Well, we took on a bit of a challenge last weekend.  We decided to take Kiki on a 4.5 hour car trip.  Why, you ask?  Because we're masochists?  Because we decided we were having it too easy as parents and needed a challenge?  Because we're idiots?  Well, yes, but it was mainly because we wanted to go skiing... on the warmest February weekend on record.  64 degrees and sunny is perfect ski weather, right? Mmmm, slushy.  


Anyway, through our struggles, failures, mishaps, and failures (there were enough to merit inclusion twice) we did learn a few lessons in road tripping with a 1 year old that I am now going to attempt to pass onto you, dear reader.


Tulibo's 6 Step Guide to a Relaxing and Trouble Free Road Trip with a 1 Year Old:


Step 1)  Leave the child at home.  Seriously, they aren't going to remember the trip anyway.  You can always tell them they came, they're not going to know.  If you're really concerned just invest in Photoshop and you can drop them into a few vacation pics to prove they were there.  


Step 2) So, you've ignored step 1 and brought your child along.  Congratulations, and welcome to hell.  But hey, this isn't so bad.  You're on the road, they're napping in the back, you're making good time.  Uh oh.  They woke up.  Now, you may think you should stop, change their diaper, feed them, and continue on your merry way.  Resist this urge.  Remember, this is not a human you are dealing with, this is a toddler.  Once you free them from that carseat they will not happily return.  At least not without an hour of running and playing first.  Therefore, if you have any desire of arriving before the end of your vacation, resist the urge to stop at the first stirring.  Put some miles in while you have the chance, push on until they're making their unhappiness known from the back seat, because soon enough you'll find yourself spending more time in a fast food restaurant than is healthy.  Which brings us to...


Step 3) Don't stop at a fast food restaurant.  Yes, on previous 'pre-child'  (a.k.a fun) road trips, Burger King was your best friend.  Well, no longer.  Now you have a little person who wants to walk around, crawl a bit, and generally touch (and taste) everything within 30 inches of the floor.  Now, the next time you're in a fast food establishment, take a good look at the dining area floor.  You know what, just go ahead and lick it.  Oh, don't want to?  Then don't let your child either.  Now, I can see you out there thinking to yourself "I don't eat fast food, I am an evolved and sophisticated traveller.  My body is a temple, that's why I eat at Applebee's/O'Charlie's/Houlihans/Chuckie McFoodieStuff's/Uncle Fattie's House of Burgerdogs/etc."


Well, Mr. Smartypants (or Mrs. or Ms. or Dr. as the case may be) how do you plan on letting your child run around for the 30 to 60 minutes it is going to take for them to burn enough energy to accept once again being strapped into the car?  Do you think the waitress is going to allow you to sit and sip on your water for 40 minutes after your check is paid?  She's got to get new butts in those seats, her tattoos aren't going to pay for themselves you know.  


No, when you are traveling, be on the lookout for yuppie-ish enclaves, places where you can leisurely enjoy a meal and sit for a while afterwards undisturbed, where they have a beverage menu rather than a soda fountain, the kind of place where the floor may have been cleaned since 1973.  I'm talking about Panera/Starbucks/Hipsterville Cafe/etc.  There you will find you can enjoy a relaxed lunch while the little one toddles around, pleasant staff that are just pleased you won't be taking the table to mooch free wifi and "work on your novel" while making your $3 latte last all day, and nice touches like floors that aren't sticky, bathrooms with changing tables that haven't been ripped from the wall (assuming they were ever installed to begin with), and toilet paper that is not reminiscent of sandpaper (hey, mom and dad need pampering too).  


Step 4) Don't rely overmuch on technology.  You may have the car decked out with all the latest gizmos and widgets; a rear seat DVD infotainment unit, a white noise generator, and the latest in GPS military spec satellite radar/lidar guidance systems.  But one faulty battery, one missed signal, one overeager guidance shortcut and you can find yourself listening to the sweet sound of static radio harmonized by your screaming child as you bounce along a dark, rutted, and icy gravel "shortcut" in the middle of nowhere.  Trust me, I've been there:

Do yourself and your child a favor, bring a couple nice, simple, non-electronic toys.  Just in case it all goes to hell at least you can cuddle a doll when your car loses a wheel and you have to wait in the freezing rain for a local hillbilly to find and rape you.  


Step 5) Upon arrival, do whatever is possible to maintain your child's habits.  If they always eat dinner at five, by god, get that food in them by five.  If they take two naps a day, plan your schedule around it.  If they always sleep in a room of their own and you find yourself in a single room... well, sometimes you need to improvise...

Look, I'm not necessarily proud that we had our daughter sleep in the bathroom, but the point is she did sleep.  Better a sleeping baby by the toilet than a crying baby in a palace.  Hmm, I think that may be the name of my next childcare guide.  


Step 6) Please, just leave your child at home.  Seriously.  Just look how easy it is to use photoshop to create lasting family memories of your "together" time.  


Here's Kiki skiing with us in Utah:

Here's Kiki enjoying the sun in Costa Rica:

And here's Kiki at our wedding, 3 years before she was born.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Much like Eskimos and snow or prepubescent boys and breasts, my wife and I tend to generate lots of names for the things we love.  We've had many names for each other and our pets, but then our daughter came along and, well, we went all stupid.  Thus, our daughter, Akira Elise, has been alternately called:

Kiki

Keeks

Keekster

Doodle

Monster Mash

Pumpkin Pie
Squishy Face
Tiny Dinosaur
Baby Bear
Sy Snoodles
Peach Face
Squeakers

Pretty much anything except Akira.  Actually, everything but Akira.  I think we're mathematically more likely to call her Abraham Zebbediah Jackson than Akira.  But you've got to admit, Zebbediah is fun to say.  


Yeah, so she's never going to figure out what the heck her name is, but we figure if we give her enough nicknames than any noise she hears will sound like one of her names.  That way we can just yell anything and she'll respond, which will be helpful if I ever have a stroke.  I'm just trying to plan ahead here.  

First Birthday

Well, it's official, we made it past Kiki's first year!  At 8:02 p.m. on January 27, 2010 Kiki came into the world; screaming, gooey, and reminiscent of a chinese sumo wrestler.

And here we are, after what was at times the longest and the shortest year of our lives, with a little girl.  We got through our first year as parents and managed to keep her alive and not screw her up too terribly.  Well, at least not that we can tell.  It has been amazing, crazy, absurd, and the greatest thing ever.  Looking back, I can't believe how much she's changed, although at times she does remind me of that tiny diapered baby. 

Happy birthday Doodle.  Happy birthday.

Childproofed!

Well, it finally happened, my darling daughter is walking. Not a ton, just a few steps here and there, but now the real fun begins.  See, previously she would sometimes pull herself up and could slowly get around with a modified army crawl type of locomotion. But now, well, she stands up on everything more solid than a stiff breeze, pulls on and chews everything within 36" of the ground, and crawls at approximately mach 2 (my radar gun is only so accurate).  And as the old adage goes, what comes up must come down... often times on it's face, usually at speed, and always accompanied by crying and yelling.  Sometimes she even breaks out the dreaded "Silent Scream" wherein she freezes for about 5 seconds, her face bright red, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth wide open in a huge yell... but no sound comes out.  Well, eventually it does, and that's kind of her "okay, this time it really hurt" signal, but that first silent frozen moment is just horrible... and kind of cute too.

But she's not some one trick pony, she's got lots of skills other than falling down.  She has also learned to feed herself, and likes to practice whenever she can with anything at hand... like lint, dirt, and hair.  Delicious.  She also seems obsessed with crawling fully into the fireplace.  I mean, I guess it does look warm, being all, you know, on fire.  


Well, faced with a clumsy, pica afflicted, self-immolation obsessed toddler, we turned to that bastion of all parenting knowledge... well, er, parenting goods at least. Here's a hint, it starts with a B and ends with an abies Я Us.  On our latest visit we hit the "Safety" aisle hard.  Now, we started off with the easy stuff. You know, the gate that only requires 4 hours and a TIG welder to install, so darling Kiki doesn't throw herself down the stairs, even though we all remember how fun that is. We also bought a jumbo bag of outlet covers, so she doesn't electrocute herself (I know, our daughter isn't going to have any fun). Finally, we topped the cart off with a few devices that prevent anyone without an advanced engineering degree from opening a cabinet, though we did not elect for the PRO models, since, though cute and wonderful, Kiki is not yet a professional.

Having bought only three items from the aisles of safety devices on offer we felt like negligent, careless parents.  But really, I just couldn't bring myself to spend any more on safety items.  I don't think we need to keep Kiki out of the dryer.  Frankly, if she really wants to do the laundry I think we'll be okay with it.    We also didn't buy a toilet lock, since we'll be overwhelmingly thrilled when our daughter decides to start using the toilet, and this would just seem to discourage her.  Besides, the toilet is one thing I really, really don't want to be locked out of.  Ever.  

We also passed on the vast array of corner and edge guards, because, according to the packaging, we are monsters and hate our child.  But, in our defense we did get rid of the most obvious issues in the house (glass coffee table, bed of spikes, tiger).  Other than that, well, I think we just accept that Kiki is going to run into things, probably at speed, and in doing so she will learn that things can be hard... and sharp... and made of tigers.  And eventually everyone needs to learn that, right?

My Daughter, the Cannibal

On the day after Christmas a.k.a. Boxing Day, a.k.a. my birthday (happy birthday to me!) Kiki decided to unveil a thrilling new skill.  Well, not thrilling in the "hooray, look at what my daughter can do!" way, more of the "holy shit, what is my daughter doing!" kind of way.  


You see, Keeks has a habit of chewing on her index fingers.  Seemed harmless enough, we figured at some point it would either hurt and she'd stop or she would outgrow it.  But last Sunday she managed, with her two tiny and surprisingly sharp front teeth, to cut her finger open.  So we find her waking up from her nap with blood on her hand.  Awesome!  Our 11 month old is apparently a cutter.  In retrospect, maybe we should have seen it coming, you know, with the goth clothing, the crap poetry, the constant Cure playing in her nursery, but despite all the warning signs it was still surprising.  


We even had to take our first unscheduled trip to the pediatrician due to her bloodlust, where we were informed that she is apparently a werewolf and this is the first step in her transformation.  Wait, no, my wife is informing me that I am mistaken, she did not tell us that, she just gave us antibiotics and advised us to keep Kiki from chewing on her fingers (REALLY?).  We were also given a steroid cream to help little Kiki grow into a big and unnaturally strong ravenous flesh eating monster.  Oh, wait, no, once again I am apparently wrong, it was just to help her poor finger heal. 


But the most amazing thing was it didn't stop her chewing on her finger.  Nope, my little cannibal wouldn't be deterred.  Even putting band-aids on her finger didn't stop her.  We have had to resort to mittening her hands with socks.  But the worst part of it (besides the nightmarish visions of my daughter eating her own hands off, I know I shouldn't have watched Titus right before bed) is that the hand she cut, the hand that is now mittened (socked?) all day and night is her left hand.  Hmmm, maybe this is all just an elaborate, deceitful, and diabolical plot by my wife to convert our daughter into a righty.  Damn!  But, I have to say, she still looks pretty cute even with no hands.

Hullo daddy

My wife and I put our heads together, thought long and hard on it, tossed through many a sleepless night, and have finally come to this conclusion vis-a-vie our daughter: We are going to raise her British.


Yep, she'll grow up bundled in stripy jumpers, pushed in her pram, have to wear nappies until she learns to use the loo, we'll take the caravan on holiday, discuss the 'appenings of the day, guvn'r, whilst sipping our Earl Grey and nibbling on crumpets.  Trouble is, as you may have discerned from the previous mess of a sentence, neither of us is British.  Nor do we even know anything about "britishness" though I think failing to take her to the dentist will help.  Most troublesome for our endeavor, we won't be moving to England.  Or even Wales for that matter.  But hopefully a combination of James Bond movies and BBC America will convince our child that she IS british.  Maybe we can instill some class and sophistication in our daughter in the middle of America.  Or at least the illusion of such.


Now I just need to find a set of crayolas with the color (whoops, colour!) grey. 

How To Determine the Proper Parenting Style for You.

Well, you've mastered the diaper change, gotten feeding under control, and may, just maybe, have had a few nights of uninterrupted sleep.  Now comes the big decision, what type of parent are you going to be?  There are thousands of books, millions of websites, and billions of other parents who are just dying to tell you how to do it, and warn that any deviation from their method will result in a sociopathic child.  Well, I'm here to put all your fears to rest.  My simple, 5 question test will quickly and accurately tell you which approach to parenting will work for you and your child:


1) Your child is crying.  Do you:


A) Pick them up immediately, hold them, coddle them, and smother them in kisses and praise.  Continue until they tell you to stop or turn 18.


B) Ignore them.  They'll figure out eventually how to fix what's ailing them on their own, after all, you're never too young to learn how to reset a dislocated elbow.


C) I don't know that I can answer definitively with so little information, I mean, what are the circumstances?  Is she hurt?  Then I'm absolutely comforting her.  Is she just cranky or bored, then maybe I'll let her cry a little bit and see if she resolves it on her own.


2) It's bedtime. Do you:


A) Sleep with your child in the same bed, always there to comfort, breast feed, and smother in love.  Continue until the child tells you to stop or turns 18. 


B) Put child in crib.  Close door.  Ignore all crying, screaming, and whimpering until morning.  Alternately, get infant an apartment of their own, it's never too early to learn self-reliance.  


C) Well, I don't know again.  I mean, I guess sleeping on their own would be nice, and we will all probably sleep better, but if she isn't having it, I don't know that I'm totally against sleeping in the same room, at least for a little while.  


3) Time to go to the Pediatrician.  Do you:


A) Defer all immunizations until your child contracts the disease.  No one dies from tuberculosis anyway.


B) Demand that the pediatrician combines all the immunizations needed for the first ten years into one mega-shot.  For best results, make your child self-administer it.


C) I think I'll talk with the pediatrician and take their advice pretty seriously, since they went to, what, 15 years of medical school, and have since dedicated their lives to helping infants, and deal with these issues every single day.  


4) Your child is hungry.  Do you:


A) Breast feed.  Nothing but breast feeding.   Again, repeat until they ask you to stop or turn 18.


B) First off, if it is not a designated feeding time they will just have to wait until the next scheduled eating period.  We're not running a 24 hour diner here.  And breast feeding?  Ha, we'll give them something they can really use.  Like a steak.  Oh, and don't cook it, let them figure out how to turn on the stove.  


C) Feed them.  Something.  I mean, breast feeding is great, if it works for the mother and child, but at some point you've got to stop.  And then, I guess formula, if they still need it, or food of some sort.  


5) Your child is misbehaving.  Do you:


A) Hug them and calmly explain that their behavior is brilliant and wonderful.  Breast feed them.  If behavior is really bad (stealing, hitting, murder), maybe kindly ask them if they would enjoy possibly redirecting their energies in another direction, but only if they want to.    


B) Tell them no.  Firmly, clearly, and often.  If this fails, tell them they are a disappointment and send them to their room/apartment.  


C) Well, what are they doing?  Are they just being somewhat annoying, or are they acting in a seriously violent/destructive manner?  How could one response possibly correct for all misbehavior?  Should the courts just have one verdict for all crimes?





Please put down your #2 pencil and await results.


If you answered all A's:


Congratulations, you're what is known as an "attachment" style parent.  Your child will grow up nurtured, loved, and emotionally fulfilled.  They may die of tetanus, but then every rose does have it's thorn.


If you answered all B's:


Congratulations, you're what's known as a "babywise" style parent.  Your child will grow up independent, strong, and resilient.  They may become a psychopathic murderer, but as they say, you can't make an omelet without turning a few eggs into psychopathic murderers. 


If you had any mix of A and B or, god forbid, any C's:


You are obviously unfit to parent, attempting to apply logic and thought to a process that should be marked by blind adherence to a theory created by an author primarily motivated by profit and personal gain.  Your child is doomed.  You should just do everyone a favor and drop them off at the fire station now.