Sleepwalk with Me...or Rather, Don't.

Okay, so Milo just walked by my office door and off into the night?!

I mean, okay, so about 15 minutes ago I was watching TV and I hear these soft footsteps and then they sped up and got much louder, and, since I'm sure that every house I live in is super haunted, my first thought was that the devil was slowly deciding to come for me but then he really made up his mind and started running for me.  Because Milo is small and because I was looking for the face of a eight foot demon, I didn't see Milo until he was standing right in front of me.  That's a funny thing about being a parent, sometimes your kids scare you.  Once I woke up and Daisy was standing at the end of the bed...just standing there...creepy...go to bed.

I should preface this evening with the fact that Milo, during dinner, had pointed to something in the kitchen and said, 'Shark'.  And then on our after dinner (freezing) walk he stopped and waved at nothing and said, 'Hi.'.  So...well, I mean, there you go.

So after I realized that it was my 20 month old son and NOT the devil, I was able to put him back in his crib...which he has recently figured out how to get out of with the silent stealth of a ninja. So I get him to bed and back to the couch, and a half hour later, I see Milo, footy pajamas and all, walk steadily past the living room door way, he doesn't even glance over at me.  He walks into the dinning room when I yell, 'Milo, go to bed!' and he bursts into tears.  I run over, cause I was only being stern in sort of a funny way, but my wife tells me sometimes it just comes across as being real stern. Anyway, I pick him up and I realize that me might have been sleeping and when I yelled it woke him up.

I do not want a sleep walking 2 year old.  I mean Paranormal Activity aside, he can't be walking around the house at 2:30 in the morning putting things in blenders and seeing how long his face can be in the toilet!  Now I can't sleep.  I'm the Dad and I protect if I'm asleep how can I keep him from figuring out what happens when you stick your tongue socket. So, I thought I would blog...I hadn't and I needed to, so it's good...but it's also, ya know, 10:30...midnight is coming soon and I don't know what I'm going to do...hang on, he just woke up...

So Milo really just wants his Mommy.  Isn't that sweet?!  He just loves her guts, she's been in bed for an hour cause she teaches an early class tomorrow, but his high pitched but loving scream somehow woke her right up!  They are in there now and everything seems real nice and quiet...quite quiet and quite nice...quiet...quiet and nice....well, it's very late (10:38) so I'm gonna head of to bed.  

Announcing My New Baby, Hillary

 There are certain red flags that immediately identify hippie-freaks. 

“Oh, we don’t own a TV.”
“Waitress, are these ice cubes in my Diet Coke organic and locally sourced?” 
And finally...
“We’ve just loved homebirthing our eight children.” 

I had to ask myself some hard questions this weekend. 

If you are unfamiliar with the culture of the Craig family, let me explain. No. There is too much. Let me sum up. 

We use a midwife. 
We home birth. 

Apparently we are hippie-freaks. (Though we admittedly enjoy TV and the only thing we care about our ice is that it's pebble-ice.)

Not everyone wants to or should use a midwife. You may have health risks that prevent this opportunity - or bottom-line, it may not be what you’re comfortable with. And that’s fine. It is not everyone’s choice; but we are grateful that it can be ours. We have loved the experiences. 

This experience was different - in a few ways. 

1. I got The Call. Until this birth, I had never gotten that awesome call at work. “I’m in labor! Come home!” Wherein I then hastily throw out any papers on my desk, slam the computer, and flee the office while yelling to the front desk, “Hold my calls! My wife is in labor!” I finally got to do that! Though, just like all other media-versions of birth, that’s not exactly how it happened. But I’ll take it!

2. We had a new midwife. We’ve used the same midwife, in Las Vegas, for our last six children. It was not fun to realize she would not be here for this one. We found a new midwife here in Utah. Katie loved her because she is old, experienced, and holds the wisdom of an old, experienced midwife. I wasn’t so sure, but then, during Katie’s labor, when I was sitting behind Katie, holding her, and the two of us naturally had our hands on Katie’s tummy...and the midwife said, “Somebody please take a photo of those hands, I want it on the cover of my website. That is the photo of the century.” Well, when she said that, I thought, “You know, this midwife has something.  A certain eye for beauty and awesomeness. She really IS so very, very wise.” 

3. This baby was way overdue. We may never know how accurately overdue. You know they base the 40 week pregnancy cycle on the date of your last period. But since Katie has either been pregnant or nursing since 1997, she’s had, like, two periods. (My apologies to any men who... no. You know what? I don’t apologize. If you can’t talk about women’s periods, then you are no man. There I said, it. Now good day, sir.)

4. Ok, actually, I wasn’t done with my last point. I got going on my soapbox and forgot where I was. That’s right, Katie’s monthly menstrual periods. Anyway, so we really had no idea when her last period was, so we guessed. Well, we knew it was on the day we had used a gift-card to this bbq place in Orem, but there was no credit card record to confirm the date. And I think we guessed wrong. Because this baby was late, though not record-breaking late. 

5. We called the midwife early. We have traditionally called the midwife to come for the delivery at either the perfect time (baby born 15 min to an hour after the midwife arrives) or too late (Roxanna and Rebecca, who arrived before the midwife). This time...too early! I couldn’t believe it. That’s a rookie mistake, and this was our 8th baby. But Katie was tired and wanted to know how far along she was.  Midwife came at midnight on Friday, left at 2 a.m. and came back at 6:30 a.m. (Saturday morning), when we and the baby had stopped messing around. 

Katie’s contractions never got super-close together, but they got harder.  They got even worse whenever she got up to do something. So I had the brilliant/marriage-ending idea that Katie should just be up, moving around. I said it out loud. The midwife agreed (she is so, so wise, you guys). And Katie told us we were both fired.  

But that kicked things into high gear. Soon she was sitting on this awesome birth-chair that the midwife brought, and making these deep, bass-sounding noises that meant she was getting ready to push. More than the timing of contractions, more than any instruments, I know Katie’s status by the labor noises she makes. It’s more visceral, but it’s the best gauge I know. 

This is Katie, about 45 second before pushing out a head. I sat at her feet watching her. With all apologies to the women I know, plus my daughters and future daughter-in-laws, plus Pink (who I imagine to be pretty tough) - I told my children that their mom was the strongest woman they would ever know. 

I couldn’t believe we were finally at this point. I had had impressions this baby girl was coming a year ago, before Katie was ever pregnant. I’d had feelings she was a girl from the very beginning. I had been anxious to meet her. When I finally caught her, I felt gratitude beyond measure. She was here. She was healthy. Katie was healthy. The world stopped and for moments...it was perfect. What us hippies call “zen-tastic.” 

It is a unique challenge to write about miracles. Often, you can chronicle the framework of the occurrence. You can describe the specific circumstances. You might be able to articulate how it changes you. But there is some portion that eludes you. You can’t put words to it. It is sacred and otherworldly. And those divine moments generally involve people you love, with a power that cannot be manipulated. And you are simply grateful you got to be there. 

Hillary Craig
November 23, 2013
9 lbs 20.5” long

Thoughts About Birthmothers.

I've been thinking, about things I know that you don't...which is quite a bit, though I'm sure you know quite a bit about things I know nothing about, none the less, I wanted to tell you something that my life has taught me, that every life isn't taught.

My wife and I can't have kids.  She has known for most her life that her body didn't make children. And strangely, I had known for some of my life that we would adopt.  And in this way we were lucky. People who know they can't have kids from the get go are luckier than people who have to slowly find that out.  Though it doesn't really matter, God sends kids to Earth and He does it when He does it and no one really has a choice in that matter. But, I am still grateful that we have always known.

None of this is news, nor is it all that interesting.  But, what I do want you to know is something about birthmothers.  Whatever you may think, or even, how much you may empathize, unless you place your own child in someone else's arms forever, you will never know. Not that I do.  I will never know either. 

But what I do know, and I know it because I have sat two feet away and watched it happen, is a Birthmother is strong. In a deep and powerful way, a birthmother is strong.  I sat at a dinner with friends and the topic of a family up the street who had adopted several children from one birthmother came up. They went on to explain all that the Birthmother was getting out of the whole situation...and these were women who had had children of their own and they seemed to think that this woman could whip out babies with no emotional connection.  Let me just say, anytime you find yourself thinking that your ability to love or find faith or think something through and then soundly come to a conclusion is better than someone else's... it is not.  Every single person on earth has those abilities, so be weary of your thoughts when they lead you to think you've figured it all out for everyone.  Figuring out the same path for everyone was not the plan.

Once, a friend told me, "I could never give up my child." And I suppose that is true for her...but it was also true for the two birthmothers in my life.  But, trying to imagine giving up one of your children is not the way to go about such a thing.  What you need to imagine is, "What would my life have to be like for me to give up my child?" My friend who told me she "could never"was living a pretty sweet and safe life, her family was around and her husband had a good job and she loved her children.  Think of all that must happen in your own life that would lead you to the conclusion, "This child needs something I can't give."  That is a real place.   

A Birthmom is selfless, and not because of what she did for the adopting family...she could care less about me or my wife...well, I mean, she cares, but all she really cares about is that I am nice and safe and steady and committed, but in that moment...or rather, those long never ending months, she is only thinking about one person, her child. It is a rare woman who thinks about a childless couple and what she could give them...though, even they, I suppose, exist.  But most Birthmoms, and certainly the two who are part of our family, thought first, of this unborn child, next of their born children, (both of our Birthmothers parented children before they placed a child with us) and far last, themselves. 

There are several, easier and faster options for a woman who find themselves in the family way.  Not the least of which is to do away with it. Abortion is legal, surprisingly easy, and common.  When I worked in NYC, one of my coworkers requested the day off for a "Procedure". Another coworker told me why and I was shocked.  Here I was, looking to adopt and everyone knew it and yet come to find out multiple associates had done the same thing in the 4 years I had worked there...ah, see how easy it is to feel like I know the solutions to other peoples problems.  Those women made their own choices and also, they were not having my baby.  Years later, two other women did. And it was the harder choice and it was selfless, in the deepest sense of the word.

I know there are a thousand stories out there and I can't speak to every experience, but I want to add my story to all the others.  There is no greater love then that of a parent to a child. I know that because I am a father and have never loved greater then the way I love my children.  I also know it because I was handed those children by women who wanted more then anything to hold onto those babies forever, to watch them grow up and see who they turned out to be, to be there day after day in every part of their lives, and yet, wanting all that but knowing all they knew about that life ahead and knowing what they felt that child needed, they let that knowing outweighed their the wanting. 

And though it had little to do with me...I am forever grateful. 

Being Brave. Being Dad.

The worst part about being a dad is that you realize that when someone breaks into your house to murder your family...you are the solution.  I mean, I still feel like I'm 17 years old...when does that end, btw?  When do I start to feel like the guy who can club another man in the face with a 9 iron? Incidentally, a golf club should be every mans weapon of choice as it is more fatal to have a focused point of impact then a blunt smash of, say a baseball bat.

Anyway,  we watched Paranormal Activity on TBS last night for a bit and I realized that if some demon is going to attach itself to my wife and then walk through powder and watch us sleep and then kill me, well, what am I gonna do?  But then, cause it was TBS, immediately following Paranormal Activity was Paranormal Activity 2! This time it's a family with a baby and a Nanny Cam. I didn't even watch it but I could tell that there was going to be trouble and everyone was going to be looking at the Dad to save them and you know what?  That guy was probably ten years younger then me, which means he felt the way I did ten years ago which means he felt like he was 8. And no 8 year old dads should be fighting off no demons!

Though, I have gotten better at pretending I can take care of a family.  I lock all the doors at night and check in on my kids...what I would do if they were floating above their beds I have no idea but I check to make sure they still obey the laws of gravity. Also, and this is new, if there is a creepy sound in the middle of the night, then I am the one who goes and investigates.  I creep down the hallway with a golf club ( I only own the one) and turn on lights and stomp. Which I think makes me brave, but again, what would happen if I came face to face with...well, absolutely anything, I assure you, it would not be pretty.

I do fight sometime.  Like, fisticuffs! Well, it really was only the once, but I did learn something about myself and that was if my wife is punched in the face by a drunk, then something inside of me toots very loudly, like a steam whistle and I will throw my body into any amount of certain harm. And maybe that's all I need. To be willing to get beat up or killed or levitated in order to save my family, and be willing to do so in a super crazy man/ferret sort of way.  Cause really that's all I got...well that and a golf club.

In the end, I suppose I do feel like a Dad.  The only thing is, I didn't know this was how Dads really feel.

Remember when you were a kid and just thought your dad had invented everything, so why would you worry about anything, Dad could handle it.  And now you're old and you've crossed the line where you find out, my Dad was a kid once, too. A kid who rolled his car racing it around Liberty Park, cause he was dumb and reckless and you did the same thing when you were 16, except you didn't roll it, you just hit a full garbage can and shattered a head light because you were hiding from older kids who had yelled at you at a four way stop...though, I suppose, it was still his car.  Yeah?  Well, I am starting to see that look in my own kids eyes, where they think I am the Dad so they are fine, but instead it just means I see everything that could possibly happen and it too scary and too terrifying to deal with so I just play dinosaurs (which, incidentally, were ALL KILLED by a meteor that just hit Earth one day, and now a great big huge and tough species is whipped off the face of the planet...see what I mean?! I can see everything that could happen.  But because I had a Dad who knew everything that could happen and he still let me Trick-or-Treat and sleep outside and try Cherry Bombs on the monkey bars, then I turned out be a Dad who knows every terrible thing that could happen...but also, knows every amazing thing that could happen!

My extraordinary inheritance

The first time I remember feeling like a father was ... let me explain.

When I showed up for my first date with Amelia, I knocked on the door and, when she opened it, I thought three things: "She is beautiful," "She's out of my league. Enjoy this one date." and "Her kids seem really great." She was a single mom of a boy (Aidan, 6) and a girl (Isabella, 18 months).

I was 34. I had never been married but had dated women with kids before. Some I got very close to and some I never really got to meet. If I was allowed to be around my various girlfriends' kids, it was always heartbreaking when things didn't work out. I mention this because it's important to understand that I definitely knew what was at stake, having been through it before.

By the time I met Amelia, I was more confident about who I was, what I wanted, and where I wanted to go in life than I had ever been before. I was on the right track—finally—and in just the right headspace. I had come to grips with the fact that I could be single forever or, at least, for a really long time. It was all right. That didn't mean that I would avoid marriage; it just meant that I wouldn't let the pressure of finding someone to spend life with make me choose someone just because they were nice or pretty or cool. I wanted to be a dad almost as much as I wanted to be married, but, again, I wasn't willing to stress, settle, sacrifice, or impregnate just so I could be.

When I started dating Amelia, I fell fast for her. Because I loved her so much, it was inevitable that I would love her kids. I'd arrive to pick her up and, while she perfected her make-up, I'd play Ring Around the Rosie or London Bridge with her daughter and have pillow fights or play Find the Hotwheels with her son. These kids were amazing individuals. In six months, Amelia and I were married. Insta-family.

On that day I became a guardian to two wonderful kids. Aside from hiccups here and there, I really took to the role of father figure. But, you see, as I recall the events of the last seven years, it's difficult for me to single out one defining moment where I finally felt like a father because every moment with them kept defining it.

But, I think I can narrow it down to a handful of them.

With Aidan, I'm his step-dad. We've always gotten along but it's been a challenge to know how to fit in to his life like a dad without it feeling like I'm trying to be his dad. We do a pretty good impression of a father and son though. For us it's been soccer in the backyard, me letting him win. Laughing at jokes that only he and I get. Playing video games and screaming at the action. Nerding out about some show or game or film. Showing him something I loved, like Back to the Future, for the first time and him loving it too.

There are the moments Patrick wrote about where you've been driving and they're all asleep and you have to unbuckle them and, without any words, you pick them up and their hair is wet with sweat and their fists are clenched and they nuzzle into your neck and you carry them to bed and kiss them on the forehead and they make that noise that can only be interpreted, in that moment, as thank you.

One time, when Amelia and I were engaged, Bella needed to spit out her gum and I, without a thought, held out my hand and she, without a thought, spit it into my hand and I threw it away.

The day of our sealing (pictured above).

The times Izzy got hurt or scared and I was the first person she ran to.

There's the baptisms, blessings, confirmations, and ordinations. The recitals, performances, and concerts. The bedtime prayers and tuck-ins. Christmas shopping and Christmas morning. The middle-of-the-night stories or jokes to soothe them.

Adoption day.

There is Bella's adoption day when she legally became my daughter and I got to testify, before a judge, that I wanted to be her dad and how I would always do my best to love and protect her.

Then, there was the day I married Amelia. Right before the ceremony, Bella was crying because she couldn't see her mom. The sweet two-year old couldn't be consoled. I watched as moms, dads, sisters, brothers, and others tried to help out. Finally, I walked out from under the arbor, gently picked her up, put her blanket over my shoulder and just held her. She nestled her head on my shoulder and stopped crying. Instantly.

So, it might be that moment. Still, maybe you should ask Bella if she remembers when she first felt it. Because, as much as these moments feel like "dad" to me, until I became Dad to her, I never truly was one.

When you're a dad, no one cares

My first born was a colicky baby. For the first three months of life, he cried from about 8 P.M. until about 2 A.M. every night. There were very few things that would calm him down. Sometimes I would put him in his car seat, lean forward, and swing the 20 pound contraption back and forth between my legs. And that would usually get him to stop crying, but you can only swing a car seat between your legs for so long before you: A) Tip over B) Hit yourself too many times in the leg or C) break your back. Needless to say, those early months were tough. And we were exhausted. I remember showing up at my in laws one night at about 3 A.M. The baby was crying and my wife and I were both crying. I don't think we said a word. We just handed him over and headed down to their basement to sleep and let them deal with him.

Sometime during those early months I got a cold. That terrible kind of cold where your head hurts and your body hurts and your face feels like it it stuffed with ferrets. And one night, as I was swinging the car seat between my knees to the dulcet tones of a screaming newborn, I remember thinking to myself that all I wanted in the world was to curl up in my own bed and go to sleep. And then, very clearly, a thought popped into my head. "It doesn't matter," said the thought, "You're the dad now. What you want is totally irrelevant. This baby could cry for the next 36 hours straight and you would still just have to stand here and swing this baby seat." And that was the moment that I knew that I was a Dad.

Isn't that what Parenthood is all about? All of your hopes and dreams and desires and wants all get swallowed up in the needs and wants of your children? And you do it (mostly) willingly, because you want them to be happy and safe and successful. That's why for the last two nights in a row when I have gotten home from work I set my bag down and played a rousing game of Monopoly: Disney Chanel edition. Not because I want to. I'm tired. And crabby. And hungry. And I have lots of important FB checking and Buzzfeed reading to do. But my daughter says "Please?!" in a really cute voice and suddenly I find myself laying on the floor, my dinner uneaten, paying her $4 because I landed on "The Suite Life of Zack and Cody" and she owns it. (For the record, I have lost both games. But at least I get to be Zach Efron, and imagine that I have his hair.) It's why my days off are usually spent going to the park, or somebody's baseball game, or to McDonald's for lunch so the kids can play on the play land.

Someday my kids will be grown and I'll be awesome again. And I'll sleep in when I am sick and take naps on Sunday. I'll go to movies on weeknights and won't have to pay someone to sit in my house while my kids sleep. I'll cook amazing meals with weird ingredients, and I won't spend any grocery money on any food shaped like an animal. And my bed won't be full of Frosted Flake crumbs (which, by the way, essentially feel like laying on broken glass.)

But it will probably be kind of sad, too. Because I do, indeed, like McDonald's french fries and it's kind of nice to just get to keep refilling my Diet Coke and reading my kindle while my kids play. And it's pretty cute that my daughter wants to hang out with me and play Monopoly, even if am tired. Even if I do lose.

Being Dad.

So there are moments, every day or rather, they can come on any day, where your mind snaps a picture and you remember that moment and it shapes you.

Our best friends lived right across the street from us in Jersey City, New Jersey.  They had a daughter and we did not have any kids.  We had always thought we would have kids, but we knew we needed to adopt and we really didn't know all that meant so we just kept on not having kids.

One night, I was sitting in our bedroom that looked out onto the street which our friends lived on and I noticed them parking their car.  It was summer but it was late and getting dark and I have this clear picture of my friend, a dad, climbing out of the driver's side and opening the back door and unhooking his sleeping daughter from her car seat, her flopping into his arms and then tucking in.  He wrapped her blanket around her and my mind took a picture.  That was what I wanted.  All of it.  This quite moment where no other labels stick to you, only 'Dad'.

Later, we got our daughter, and she was perfect (is), and here's the thing, people who wonder if you can really love a child who came from somewhere else, or rather someone else, as much as biological child, well, they forget the father. You see, no father has ever carried a baby inside his belly. In fact, when he contributed to that baby, his mind was most likely elsewhere. His bonding begins when they meet face to face.  No child, who was raised by two parents thought, 'You know, my mom just sorta loves me more...I guess it was those nine pre-birth months that really tipped the scale.'  No one questions the fathers ability to bond and love and protect a baby he didn't carry. And so it was with my daughter.  But another secret they don't tell you, is that it doesn't happen that first second. You think maybe it should but in that moment you are still meeting a stranger and nothing is stranger than a new born. This is also complicated when adopting as there is one string in the back of your heart that you hold back, you have to. You protect it because the truth is it could all fall apart at any moment.  And if you gave yourself  over, completely and totally gave over every string, you would never recover.

The first time I saw her she was in an incubator getting warmed up.  The delivery had happend very fast and we had just missed it. So we pressed our faces to the nursery glass looking for our baby. While we thought she would be easy to spot, she was not.  We came looking for our black daughter but there were only white ones.  So she came out pink, we didn't know?! But we saw her name and she turned her head and we, all three of us, felt it. (okay, I'm projecting what the 15 min old baby felt, but it's our story and I'm telling it, so you get what you get.) ...she turned her head and we, all three of us, felt it.  But the 'IT' was the surprise, I did not feel that she was my daughter, what a felt was a deep longing, 'Oh...I hope that is her.  I want it to be her. Please, please, let her be mine.'  She was (is).

Raising a new born is like someone giving you a hot water bottle that cries and poops. You don't sleep a lot but you also get to snuggle a lot and rock it a lot and she never wipes off your kisses (three year olds do). And while I felt like a dad at the time, I must not have been.

Once, when she was older, we were driving across the country moving from New Jersey to Utah.  We picked the scenic route as we would never do this drive again, and meandered down the east coast through the Great Smokey Mountains, then through Atlanta on our way to Savannah and through Jacksonville. Drove for days through Texas, where the sky touches the distant ground on every side of you then whipped up to the foothills of Colorado before coming to our new home.  And every night, and my wife would let me cause she knew the story, we would pull into a new hotel, turn off the headlights and I would get out of the drivers side and open the back door and there she slept. Only when I unsnapped her buckle and she tucked her nose into my neck and breathed out into a deeper sleep did every label drip off me, and I was only 'Dad'
.

A Father Is Born

I became a father on August 8, 1997, 8:42 a.m.

Katie and I had been married [just shy of] two years, and I felt comfortable and confident in my role as an adoring husband. I was less sure of myself in the role of a dad.

I don't remember this photo being taken, but I precisely remember sitting in that chair, holding Abbie. I remember feeling still. Present in the moment, and by the same measure, caught up in this sense of eternity. It was an instant when I felt like I should have the most profound observations and declarations to make; but for the life of me, I could not find a single, coherent word. I don't think I'm an exceptional writer or orator, but I had thought I was at least good enough to express what it's like to hold your newborn child. The words never came.  I felt them. I just couldn't say them. They seemed somehow deficient.

I remember the distinct impression that Abbie's spirit was older than mine. I don't know how doctrinally accurate that is, but it was a clear thought, in a sea of sleep-deprived thoughts.

I felt inadequate, underqualified, and flawed. But I also felt completely motivated by love. And I think that calmed me. I think love magnifies efforts, covers mistakes, and corrects foolishness. I hadn't left that hospital room yet when I felt like a dad for the first time, because I felt propelled by an undeniable love for this beautiful, heavenly-scented infant that was mine.

Disneyland makes me cry

If you are my friend on facebook or follow me on Instagram you probably already know I am at Disneyland this week. Today's our last day and, as all vacations with kids are, it has been the best of times and the worst of times.

I have a long history with the Land. When I was younger, my family would make an annual trip to Oceanside, California and stay in a beach house. One day of that vacation would be spent in Disneyland and I loved it. As a parent now, I don't know how my parents managed to drive 8 kids 800 miles and pay for a beach house and a day at Disneyland. But we loved it.

As a teenager, I fell in with a crowd of Disney fanatics. My friend Charlotte's family were Disney Obsessees. Her dad would work on a telethon that was filmed at Disneyland and they graciously invited me to to with them each year. We would go for a week at a time, or longer, and these were the days before California Adventure so we would spend 7 full days in the one park. We rode every ride, ate at every restaurant and cart and explored every shop, side street and back alley and soaked in all the great and amazing details. The details is what Disney does best.

I know some people (my Dad) don't really love the Land. The lines are too long. The prices are too high. The rides aren't thrilling enough. But for me, it's like a giant work of art. Every moment and detail there is choreographed to elicit the most joy and fun. The music matches the area you are in. The paint colors on the walls and the colors that would have been used when they area of America was built. Even the ground and plants are different throughout the park to enhance the theme. I love it all and my oldest is starting to point things out to me. "Look Dad! Those benches look like they are made of Popsicle sticks! Dad, it smells like cookies on main street!" A future Disney nerd is born.

So whenever I am here with my kids, I get emotional. A lot. I'm that Dad. It makes me so happy to see a things that brought me so much joy and happiness as a kid do the same thing for my kids. I cried three times the first day. (Once on Star Tours, because my boys were JUST SO HAPPY.) All week long I have seen my daughter wave to and say hello to every character we pass like they are her best friends. And yesterday I watched my middle son, who has Asperger's and anxiety issues, wave his hands to be chosen to do Jedi training. He stood patiently to get his light saber and listened to his Jedi master and followed the instructions, neither of which comes easily to him. I got to see him fight Darth Maul while his little sister (who thinks most rides are "too scawy.") dueled Darth Vader. And they both won.

Charlotte's mom, Adrienne, who was the mother of all our Disney trips as teenagers told me a story once. We were off being awesome teenagers and riding rides and she was by herself and was sitting at the Plaza Inn watching the parade. That year, it was a Lion King parade and there was a segment where the performers would hand out drums and rattles to the kids in the crowd to help them make the music. Adrienne told us how touched she was as she watched all these young moms and dads reach down and help their little ones play the drums. And in the background the characters were singing "The Circle of Life." Because of course they were (it's all in the details!!)

I think of that story a lot now that I am the dad, trying to help my kids have fun and discover all the things I loved about this place when I was their age. And yes, I balk a little bit when I have to pay $7 for a corn dog (I've got a little bit of my dad in me too.) But its worth it when I hear my boys laughing at the end of Space Mountain, or see my daughter hugging Snow White, who's always been her favorite. Or see my sons holding hands as they walk down the street. And yes, all of those things have made me tear up this week. It's just what Disney does to me.

I blogged about my favorite things to eat at Disneyland last year. Check it out!

Your Life is An Occasion

We occasionally have Movie Night around our house. I kind of like to consider this one of my parenting contributions. Katie has her things; what, with the encouraging morals and values and preparing our children to be valiant, contributing members of society. But when it comes to introducing superheroes, Hobbits, Indiana Jones (with the face melting edited out), or the comical genius of Steve Martin and Martin Short singing “My Little Buttercup"...it's best to just leave that in my hands. 

Recently Abbie, my fifteen year old, asked if we could watch Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. I remember when it came out in theaters; which is saying something, because I don’t think it was there for very long. She had already seen it at somebody else’s house while babysitting. She’d even asked if we could watch it on a previous Movie Night, but I dismissed it because we needed to watch Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs for a third time, instead.

Our lovely Abbie (on the right) and our cute Becca.

Having no real defense for not watching it, and recognizing that she had been patient when I turned my nose up at it the first time, I agreed. I was also interested to see why it was that Abbie loved it so. I was hoping maybe it would tell me something about her.

Now, please recognize that I am not recommending this movie to you. I don’t know your tastes; and this is a quirky movie that is certainly not everyone’s cup of Postum. But I will admit that this movie affected me, though in a way that I won’t suggest would or should affect everybody. But the stars kind of aligned for me, I guess, and it was a perfect storm.

In a nutshell, here is the story. Natalie Portman plays a 23 year-old musical prodigy, and works for Dustin Hoffman, the Mr. Magorium of said Wonder Emporium, which is essentially a magical wonderland. Now, when Natalie was younger, everyone told her she was a musical genius, a brilliant pianist. That she was special. And she believed them. But now she has grown up, and isn’t so sure.

There is no mention of Natalie’s parents, but Mr. Magorium is somewhat of a father figure to her. And she clearly cares for him, as if she were a daughter. So she is shocked the day that Mr. Magorium tells her that he is “leaving this life.” He is not depressed, and this is not about suicide. He has magically lived for more than a hundred years, and it’s simply “time to go.” He is not upset by this. But whoa-nelly, Natalie sure is! And she is not flattered that he wants to leave the store to her. On the contrary, she believes nobody can or should run the store but him; least of all, her. But before he goes, he gives her this wonderful, inspiring speech you can see below in this clip from the movie. He also tells her that she has this something in her. This sparkle. This uniqueness that makes her divine.

But Natalie still doesn’t feel it. 

After Mr. M is gone, there’s a scene where Natalie and Jason Bateman (who plays the no-nonsense accountant that Mr. Magorium hires to figure out what the store is worth) are in the store, after-hours, alone. It’s quiet, and she stands before Jason and asks him, “When you look at me, what do you see?”

“Really pretty eyes?” he guesses.

And she timidly asks back, “Do you see a sparkle?”

He’s confused.

She tries again. “Something reflective of something bigger, trying to get out.”

And that’s when I felt the lump in my throat.

I’m not exactly sure what that was about, but I believe it had something to do with my daughter. Maybe it’s because I could see similarities between Abbie and Natalie’s physical features, so I projected Abbie into that situation. Maybe it was because I thought of how Abbie was probably seeing herself in Natalie. Maybe it’s because I felt I was watching the story of a father, lovingly wanting to instill this confidence in his daughter, of how incredible and lovely and talented and capable and sparkly and delightful she is…and then to no longer be the prominent male figure in her life, because he is not there and she has grown up…and now she stands before this other man, and in complete vulnerability, asks him if he sees greatness in her. If he recognizes a sparkle. Asking him to validate the feelings and truths that were planted there years before.

And then my favorite part, at the end of the movie (spoiler alert), when Natalie has experienced the needed opportunities to prove to herself that she is all that Mr. Magorium promised her she was, and then – then, Jason Bateman sees the sparkle. Once she believed in herself, the sparkle was evident.

This is what the movie left me quietly reflecting on: I hope that despite my flaws and massive imperfections, my children believe me when I tell them there is greatness in them; that they sparkle. I hope they will remember their childhood and youth as a time they marinated in love. I hope that I am providing the opportunities they need to face experiences that require them to look up, rise up, and walk up; and that when they rise to the occasion, they recognize it. And that whomever they decide to spend their life and eternity with will see the sparkle and enhance it.

Oliver the World.

When I was 11 years old, I was sitting in music class at Orem Elementary, and Mrs. Hudson told us that they were doing auditions for the musical "Oliver" at the high school.  They were looking for boys and short haired girls and I thought, "I'm a boy or short haired girl!" She told us that if we auditioned we would get 10 extra credit points and if we made it to be a "Work House Boy" we would get 50 extra credit points and if we made it to be a "Thieves Den Boy" then we would get 100 extra credit points!  There was an audible gasp from the class.  I raised my hand and asked, "What if we make it to be Oliver?" And she sort of smiled and laughed and said, "I will give you an A."

Without the knowledge of my parents, but with the help of my piano teacher, I prepared to sing that thrilling, turbulent, showstopping number "Doe a Deer a Female Deer." It was a huge success, so much so that I was called back and needed to learn the song "Where Is Love?" Up to this point, I had believed I was auditioning for the Disney show "Oliver in Company"; it turns out there is a stage musical based on the Animated Movie that has nothing to do with Cats or Bette Midler as a poodle. So I got the song and it turns out it is Oliver's big solo, so I went over to my primary pianist's house and she taught me the song.  I then headed back for my call backs.  It was narrowed down to one three Oliver-y looking boys. I read some lines, stood next to some Nancys and Fagins and then was thanked and sent on my way.

That night I told my parents what I had done.  They were surprised, skeptical, and supportive. After all, there was a distinct possibility that I was talking about a production of "Oliver" that Amanda Wixom and I were doing on Sister Pittard's porch...even those had auditions.

The next day while sitting in class, I got a call over the intercom to come to the office. My mind raced with probable felonies, but couldn't pinpoint my exact offense. I walked into the office and the secretary handed me the phone and told me my Mother was on the line.  My mind raced with misdemeanors, but still nothing.

"Spencer called me from the high school," she said.

"Oh? Is he okay?"

"Yes.  He said that they posted the cast list for Oliver outside the Drama Room."  I didn't know what a "Drama Room" was, but it sounded wonderful.

"Oh, they did."  Mind you there is no emotion in either voice. My mom gets this soft throaty quality to her voice when she's playing down excitement; I was too young to recognize it then.

"Yes, they did.  And your name is on the list."

"It IS?!"

Things we quickly clicking into place and it didn't seem like I was getting in trouble.

"Yes, it is. You were cast as Oliver."

"I WAS?!"

Out of the blue the secretary spins in her swivel chair and is shouting at me. "ISN'T THAT GREAT?! YOU DID IT!! I'VE ALREADY TOLD YOUR CLASS!"

What is she saying? Who is she talking to? Why is she spinning and screaming in that chair?

So I got to be Oliver. I was 11 had both top and bottom braces and hair that stopped just short of my lower eye lid.  It was life changing and, for a long time, it was the finest accomplishment of my life...like, really, only supplying grandchildren has eeked past this event.  My dad would leave work just a bit early and come over the high school and sit in the very back row and watch my rehearsals; he never once gave me acting advice or told me to listen to the director, he just watched and then would sneak out when the rehearsal was over.  I never asked him to come and he never asked if he could, but I could see him sitting back there. Most of the time I didn't notice him, I was standing center stage and I couldn't see past the lights. I was never embarrassed, I was never anything, his presence did not evoke any emotion because it was so natural that he would come; he was my dad and I was his world. Of course he would be there.

Only now, as I start to see the world though my two-year-old daughter's eyes, and her life is a stage and every light cranes it's neck to engulf her, I realize I was not my father's world. He had a job and a wife that was once just his girlfriend that was once someone he'd never met. And before even that he was still a guy who loved his car and lived in Salt Lake and went on a mission and ate one pot of spaghetti for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a month. And also, he was once so young that he thought his father was only there for one thing and that was to wait outside the front door until it had been almost too long then stumble in making up stories of people at work who never existed because they had nothing to do with him. These Doug's and Fran's who his father prattled on about were all part of his supporting role as "Dad" -- In tonight's performance the role of 'Dad' will be played by: Van Livingston.  Not until we have children to we see the world for what it really is...theirs. And our friends? Our Book Clubs? Our 40th Birthday Parties? All just backdrops for our children to run screaming through, to stay up an extra hour, or have friends who don't live on their street come over. Anyway, it's all for them and we don't even evoke emotions because of it because they expect nothing less.

Though my kids are young, I love being their set piece. They have no idea what goes into that day at the zoo or how hard it is to leave them to go to work...and sometimes, how easy. It's true: It's Daisy's world and we all live in it.  I learned that from my Father.         

Missed Her Mom

So I have been off work for 8 weeks for the birth of my son. (That's not my son above, that's my daughter...I'll get to her in a minute.) I am so lucky to work for a company that lets me take that time to bond with a newborn.  This is the second time I have taken paternity leave and the first time was a dream. Sure, you are sleep deprived; sure, you have both poop and vomit on you every day for 8 weeks, but in the end you get to hang out with someone who likes to eat and sleep.  Granted, they like to eat every three hours and sometimes you wish they'd, you know, stop screaming, but mostly you hold someone whose warm and only wants to snuggle into your armpit.

However, the second time you take paternity leave it turns out that that first kid is still there...only more mobile...more crafty...and much faster.

Here are some things I've learned as a stay-at-home dad that I wanted to share with all you dads who go to work everyday:

#1~ If you think your wife is cool with you heading off to work for 9 hours a day while she stays home with the kids...yeah, she's not. She hates the moment you drive off and abandon her to these wolves you had the idea of having. 

#2~ If you have ever pulled the, "I've been at work all day and I need you to handle the kids for a while," well...you shouldn't have! It's like going to work and then saying to one of your co-workers, "Hey, I know you've been working all day but so have I, so could you just work some more while I decompress? This job is real hard...but you should keep doing it so I can have a rest."  This is the number one lesson I've learned (even though it's number two in the list): having kids is not a 9-5 job, it's all day and all night, so if you've been at work from 9-5, you have been doing it for the kids and you are needed and a hero, but while you've been talking to grown-ups, the person home raising your kids (if you have more then one kid) does not get a lunch break, she does not have a water cooler and her witty insights about the nuances of Downton Abby are lost on your two year old.  So, when you finally get home from horrible traffic and dumb customers, it's your turn.

#3~ Staying at home with a two year old is exactly like working in an office.  The only difference is your boss is a three-foot psycho who loves what you're doing one minute then despises your very soul the next. You work every second to please this boss, but nothing you do is sustaining.  You never get a pass because of all the past hard work you put in. Here's a perfect example:  I made Daisy her favorite breakfast this morning (cubed eggs, tomatoes, and milk...for reals) I put a lot of time and thought into what she would like and how she would like it (a CUBED egg for crying out loud, do you even know what that is?!) and all that love and effort didn't stop her from hucking the remote at my head at 6:00 pm this evening. It's like she didn't even care about my thoughtful breakfast...I oughtta cube her face!

#4~ We have set the bar so low! (Society, that is.) One day, in order to not kill myself, I decided to get out of the house, and I took the two kids to the zoo.  Daisy loves it and Milo can be strapped to me in this sort of backpack that is made for kids. Well, no fewer than three different women at three different times came up to me and told me I was "Super Dad."  And what's more, I felt like super dad! I mean I took my own two children out into the world without my wife to take care of the three of us! Also the women complementing me usually had their own brood of kids whirling around them without incident.  It should be said that I lost Daisy for 20 minutes and Zoo security had to be contacted and check points were set up at the entrances. Don't worry, they found her in the Giraffe House.  Super Dad, Super.

I love my kids and I super love my two year old; nothing in my life has ever had such a polarizing power to both give me the greatest joy and stab me with such fury as that one little lady.  But we are best friends, we forgive quickly and need each other instantly if one of us gets hurt.  We live to make each other laugh and we both laugh easily if the other puts forth the effort.  We talk and we remember what the other one likes and what we don't like.  I have loved this time that I've had to be home all day every day; no one knows her like I do and no one knows me like she does.

Just keep my little family in mind when you come home from work; some guys come home to not a lot and you get to come home to these little people who are part you and part your wife and part their own selves.  And the world that they are growing up in is magic and it's made magic by the person who recreates their world every day.  Take advantage of every moment 'cause tomorrow...you gotta go back to work.

By the way, the title of this post is so clever it can't go without saying...but only in tiny print.  Missed Her Mom = Mr. Mom...go ahead say it out loud.  I hope this is what you've come to expect here at Part Time Authors.  See you tomorrow!

Dads, Are You an Expert or a Pro?

I always thought the words "expert" and "professional" meant essentially the same thing. This week, I was corrected. We were having a family discussion and my daughter Bella had some questions when the subject of performing arts came up. We discuss this topic from time to time since my wife Amelia works in film, I often work as an actor, and both the kids have shown some interest in it.

The discussion went something like this:

Bella what it meant to be a professional. Amelia said that being a professional means doing something you get paid to do. I confirmed. Aidan said that it means you do something for your job. Bella said something like "Oh, so you're a professional stylist?" to Amelia which she confirmed and then Bella said," So, Dad's a professional actor?" and we said that basically yes I am a professional actor because I frequently get paid to act in commercials, films, and plays. Aidan then replied, "Being an expert is not the same as being a professional." I could see his point because there are many actors, for example, who don't get paid to act but who are very good at what they do. So, I said,"Yes, I have been acting and studying acting a long time and even though acting isn't my day job, I am considered an expert at it." Aidan looked at me. Then he sort of laughed. Then he said,"I mean, you're pretty good, no offense."

According to my 12 year-old, I'm a pro actor but not an expert. He was right about one thing. (Maybe everything?) There is a difference between being a professional and an expert:

Professional - A person engaged or qualified in a profession.

Expert - A person who has a comprehensive and authoritative knowledge of or skill in a particular area.

I don't see a huge difference but it's there. The interesting thing to me is that, while Aidan seems to think so, I don't see a very wide gap between the two. I don't really see one as being "better" than the other, just different.

So, as I was thinking about Father's Day, I asked myself if I was a pro or an expert dad. I can see a pro dad showing up for their family, learning how to be better, providing for them, and engaging on every level he needs to. Pretty great right? I think you can decide to be a pro dad the day you get married or have a child. 

The expert dad would maybe be someone who has had the time to discover the nuances of being a father. Like what it takes to get the kids to go cheerfully to bed, or when a child needs him or their mother. Maybe the expert is someone who knows every difference between their kids and knows how to make each one feel like a special individual. He knows how to run the family in equal partnership with his spouse. He is humble about all the time he has spent as a dad and rather than proving he knows a lot, he just shows it by how much love he gives to his family. Often we don't notice that the expert dad was even an expert until we become fathers or mothers ourselves. "I mean, I'm pretty good but ..."

Oh Boy.

This week we are tipping our hats to the Dads, to the King Fishers; after all, this is an all-Dad Blog, so why not all get behind our own holiday?  I am the newest new Father of Part Time Authors (you remember my wildly touching and poignant post about adopting Milo... If not, here's a link to one of Chris' posts where he links to it) and so this really is my big Fathers Day!  And yet...I am at a loss.  What more could I ask for?  I am so excited about being a Father to this little boy.  And here's the thing, I didn't think I was ever going to be a dad to a boy.  As a matter of fact, when the adoption agency told us they had a baby for us, the man across the desk told us we were going to have a girl.  And Lindsay and I looked at each other and tears jumped to our eyes and we smiled...another girl, of course. Then the man across the desk said, "No, wait.  It's a boy."  Then the three of us sat silent, waiting to see if he would change his mind again. 

It's not that I didn't want to have a boy; after all, I have the four brothers and we were a band of boys...though they would never let me form a band (it would have been called 'Liv 5ever' )--no, it was never that I didn't want a boy, it was more that boy wouldn't want me as a dad. When I was of age, my parents enrolled me in what was then called "Little. League." Who knows what they call it these days.  So, it ended up that it was baseball. And one of the rules was every boy on the team, at one point or another, had to play.  Both hitting and sitting in the field.  When it was my turn to hit, my "Coach" told me to just stand there and hold the bat.  It really became the pitcher's game at that point.  If he could throw three balls that pleased the man dressed in Tim Burton stripes behind the kid who, for some reason got the fluffiest glove, then I was out.  But if the pitcher tried to hit me or for some other reason displeased the Foot Locker employee, then I got to "Walk." That was my favorite part.  I'm still very good at it.  When it was my turn to stand in the field, then I always stood in "Right Field"...well, I shouldn't say that; I was always in right field but I didn't always stand.  My Mother, who was very supportive (I might add that she should have been, sticking me out in some field all summer long in some Poly Lycra blend uniform deaf to my every protest), set up shop behind the Home Run fence in right field so she could offer her own coaching, "Stand up sweety!"  "Leave the butterfly alone and face the field!"  "Alright, honey, that's your team leaving the field, and it looks like...YOU WON! Nice job, don't forget your brother's mitt."  Sometimes when my mom wasn't there, me and the other team's "Right Field" would just both sit out there on our mitts and swap quips about the jocks.  A jock was driving to the airport and saw a sign that read 'Airport Left', so he turned around and went home.  The last game of the season they told me about something called "All Stars," and  for a moment they almost had me, some group walking around called "All Stars" seemed right up my ally, but then I found out it was MORE baseball...I guess if you were really bad they made you play into the fall for more practice.  I was sure I was on the list but I never checked the list.  After my mom told me the game was done I picked up my brother's mitt and hopped the home run fence and walked my mom home.

I actually have several stories like this one (I once ducked in church basketball because Craig Phillip, for some reason unknown to every single person in the auditorium, passed me the ball.  He threw it so hard that the man in the front row of the bleachers, whom it hit, was rather stunned), but the point is I have now been the Father of a boy for one month, and I love it.  First off, boy diapers are WAY easier to change then girl diapers--did you know there is a direction you must wipe when changing a girl? ...don't ask me what happens if you go the wrong direction, but it's a rule every girl knows about.  But a boy you can go any which way you want to get that poop, no complications, no explosions, just be gentle with that ambassador and you'll be fine. But honestly, I can not wait to raise a son.  I have lots of stuff I can teach him, like the subtle differences between Shipwreck Chic and Homeless Pirate, or to be nice, or that funny and clever is better then good looking and athletic... at least it gets you a hotter wife.  And maybe he will want to play a sport one day (Please, Tennis!) and that'll be just fine...he has six uncles (Lindsay's got a few brothers of her own) that will be more than happy to suit him up in kneehigh socks, white knickers, and shoes with spikes in the bottom and send him out into the hundred degree weather to either have someone throw a ball as hard as they can at him or have someone hit a ball as hard as they can at him.  And you better believe I will be there, and, sorry Mom, but I'll be sitting in the bleachers. That's my son out there, and I've spent enough time of my life in right field...though I won't be sitting on the front row. You never know when some kid is gonna duck.

A Very Part Time Authors' Father's Day

I’m sure I don’t need to point out to you that this coming Sunday is our nation’s most treasured holiday, coming in just after Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Mother’s Day, Halloween, Fourth of July, New Year’s, Groundhog Day (mostly because of the movie), and Free Scoop Day at Ben & Jerry’s…that’s right, Father’s Day!

If you’ve been reading Part Time Authors for a while now, then first of all – thank you! – but more to my point, you’ve probably come to a few conclusions about each of us. Like that Josh loves to cook, Chris stars in commercials, Patrick can beat the crap out of drunk people, Brett is adept at Internet Surfing, and I am lucky to call these gentleman some of my most treasured friends.

But what better way to really get to know somebody then to find out what kind of gifts they prefer to receive?! I ask you, WHAT? Okay, you who suggested a rousing game of Truth or Dare; that’s probably accurate, but this is neither the place nor the appropriate decade.

So this week, each of us at PTA will be sharing with you, our cherished readers, what we want for Father’s Day. And I am going to try with all the strength of my soul to not go with the same answers I have gone with since childhood – 1) A personal machine that prints an unending supply of money and 2) the ability to fly.

Let’s see, I have seven children, so that’s seven gifts, right?

1. I would like to take a Father’s Day nap right here.

2.  I think it would be great to receive, gift-wrapped for Father’s Day, a wildly successful reality TV show starring my family! It could be called Ken & Kate, Plus 8. Though that would require we produce another child. Maybe we could go with Katie & Ken, Plus 7. Think of it! Wouldn't you watch that show?! An LDS family that home births, home schools, and lives in the Caribbean! (We are willing to move.) Think of the controversy! The fish-out-of-water, slice-of-life episodes! The paychecks!

3. A lifetime supply of this deliciousness.

4. A dinner party with my PTA friends, plus the cast of Parks & Rec.

5. To be paid writer; successful in the book publishing industry, as well as Hollywood screenplays, sketch comedy, and Hallmark cards.

6. An all-expense paid, month-long vacation with my family, traveling the world!

7. The ability to fly! (I can't help myself.)

(This is the only quasi-superhero outfit I've recently tried on. It looks an awful lot like a wet-suit.)

So tune in each day and find out what we at PTA are truly searching for this Father's Day. And for the love of heaven, join the party and leave a comment letting us know what you would like as well. Maybe we'll get it for you! (Probably not, though. I have a feeling that the other guys have already blown our annual budget by flying in the cast of Parks & Rec for Sunday dinner! Can't wait!)

Those Things There

Warning: The following contains explicit naming that other people use but I myself am above.

So, you may have noticed that all of us here at Part Time Authors are guys; we thought it would be nice to finally give the world a perspective on life as a white, married man.  I'm glad you like it, and we thought you would.  But there are holes in our vast blanket of wisdom and so there are times when we expect we can come to you, ask you questions, and receive a myriad of options from you so that we can chose the one that best suits our needs. This is one of those times.

Here's the thing: my wife and I are in the first months of raising a two-year-old.  She was great as an infant--a little slow in walking, but all in all just a joy to be around.  My wife and I talked extensively about how to raise our daughter so she would grow to become an incredibly talented, well-read, thoughtful, kind, and resourceful contributor to the world that she would inevitably preside over one day. However, in all the discussions of parenting styles and disciplinary options and reward systems we neglected to cover one basic question:

What are we gonna call those? 

By "those," I, of course, mean our "privates."

Perhaps we thought the day would never come that we would have to speak of them out loud in English, however, last week while sitting in the tub our daughter was playing with a large blue plastic spoon that she got for her birthday with a baking kit and she asked my wife if she could, and I absolutely quote, "Put it in her poops?"  It was a horrifying question as it stood, but a little further prodding from Mom revealed that "Poops" was the word she had named one...or both...of her lady bits.  Gracious! Can you imagine if we let this pass?!  She would be thirty-something walking around New York City in her Manolo Blahniks with her three stylish friends and she'd pipe up, "Sorry about lunch, ladies, I got to head to the Gyno and get a Pap for my Poops." I mean honestly!  How she made such a childish and, frankly, disgusting mistake is beyond me.   

This did, eventually, lead us to the discussion we should have had years before a child ever came into the picture and it turns out, we have no idea what to call them?!!

 There are a few schools of thought on the subject:

The Clinical:  Just call them what a doctor would.  This seems grown-up and reasonable, except that I really don't like my darling baby saying "Bird Poop" when that is exactly what she is looking at.  It's way too grown-up and she is always telling me things she sees and the last thing I want is her to point out that dog's penis in a parking lot, or comment on that cat's vagina as we are on a walk.  I just don't like it.  There are lots of times in life when you have to call things what they are, and I would like to push those times as far back as possible.  Also, Lisa Clark, don't you chime in about how your kids always called them by the clinical name, because I happen to know your girls called it a "Bagina" is not clinical...it's cute.

The Cute:  There are lots of options for "cute" names for the pink parts.  'The Pee Pee', 'The Wee Wee',  "The Tah Tah's" "Peeny" "Weeny" "Winky" "Wi-Wi" "Tu-Tu" so on and so on and so on...the problem I see is the easability of rhyming on the school yard.  It's true, not a lot rhymes with Penis.  Also, even if you are doing research on nicknames for a penis, don't google, "Nicknames for a Penis."

The Vulgar:  My cousin was changing her 3-year-old son's diaper and he looked up at all of us and said, "Mom, don't take my diaper off, they will all see my pecker."  I have found a lot of people are using slang to describe these bits of the body. I guess we are all worried the subject will come up in line at Costco and a boy calling it his "Chode" is just as embarrassing as the word penis.  Serious, some families are calling it a "Chode."

The Dr. Seuss:  Perhaps we could call it a "Bampooziler" or a "Snitter" or your "Heffalumps."  After all, there is that song, "My lumps, my lumps, my lumps, my lovey Heffalumps."     

The Off-the-Wall:  I told my wife that we should just pick some words that have no association with anything and call them that.  "What's that Honey?  Your Ambassador hurts?"  or "Okay sweety, the doctor just needs to check out your Fandango and your kumquat and then you get a sucker." The trouble there is when she's sixteen and her sixteen year old date wants to order movie tickets!

When I was little we called it a "Wetter." It was the device for wetting the bed or your pants so we just called it a "Wetter."  My youngest brother was once standing at the toilet, he was small and so he rested his "Wetter" on the edge of the toilet, and some how the lid slammed shut.  I still can hear his 4 year old cries, "Mom! The toilet hurt my WEDDER!"

We must have just called a bum a bum. We called poop "Yucks," and I know we didn't call it a "Yucker," but were frequently asked if we had to go "Wets or Yucks?"

So, there you have it.  What are we to do?  It turns out, after a little highly filtered search, that this is actually sort of a big deal and people really do have a lot to say about it.  I hope you do. Otherwise my daughter will forever get her poops mixed up with her vagina...and I don't relish her reminding me every time we go on a walk to get the plastic bags to pick up the dog's vaginas.  

"Go Away" Part 2

In the week since I posted about my daughter's new-found fondness for telling me, my wife, and strangers to "Go Away," I have come to learn a lot. First, the phrase is everywhere. No doubt you saw that I have been spoon feeding her the phrase, biweekly, with Sword in the Stone, but Lindsay just reread it to her in The Paper Bag Princess, a healthy women's lib book if ever there was one. Remember when I cited Babe as my "never would say" example? Well, some Scottish rooster says it to some crowing duck. I've overheard other kids say it and grown-ups say it, which brought me to this terrifying conclusion: My daughter is a genius. It really is the only way to explain how she can pick up things so quickly, then retain them, then wield them for her own purposes.

When I was Daisy's age, which is not quite two, I was sitting in my stroller, living my life, having mashed up food placed in my mouth only to move through my digestive system, out of my body, to be cleaned and taken away by the person who mashed the food in the first place. A woman approached my stroller and reached in and scruffed her hands through my hair and said, "What a beautiful boy!" My parents beamed and the three of them regarded me. I squinted my eyes and looked to the woman and said, "Don't touch my hair." I was not quite two, but being who I am at 33, I'm sure that I meant it. What gave her the right? I'm sure it took no less than twenty minutes to get it looking just so, and Heaven knows where her hands had been--after all, she had just shoved them into a stranger's hair. I'm sure if she had seen a passing orangutan, she would had taken a moment to compliment the back of its tongue, but only after getting both of her filthy meaty fists down the back of the poor monkeys throat.

Don't touch my hair.

Of course, I was not quite two, and my very plain English was lost on her, but my parents heard me clearly. And when the woman asked what I had said, they shrugged and smiled and gave each other a look--which Lindsay and I have recently come to perfect--of "Our child is a genius."

Daisy can say about a thousand words. A quick google search tells me she should have 25-50 words in her cannon. She's WAY past that, not that you could understand them, but we can. Her word for "Popcorn" is very close to "Taco" and if she wants you to lay down next to her she says, "Leit?" and pats the spot at her side. She can say all her colors--even that Red and Yellow make "Orr-inge" and Blue and Yellow make "Geeen" and that Red and Blue make "Paw Pole." Not that she would ever tell you if you asked, mind you, but when you read the story of the white mice dancing in paint it's clear as day. Don't bother me with animal sounds; they are for, like, 18-month-olds and are beneath her. If you ask her what a cow says, she tries to avoid the embarrassing question by tasking elsewhere. She may give in, if you persist, but she'll tell you as if to educate you--you, a grown person and don't what a cow says? Humiliating.

The point is, she is not a genius...well, probably not. Does every parent think their children are adroit? We know Chris thinks Miles is too smart for "The Arts" and Ken and Josh both could fill this blog with their kids and their genius antics...and soon will. But for now it's me, with my magic daughter who can ask you "A Snake in the tree?" or can tell me where the dog has gone to the bathroom by pointing and saying, " 'Touts a-poo-poo, daddy a-mess."

Just so you can see what I'm talking about, here's a video. Enjoy.