Splish, Splash, I Was Taking A Bath...

Roxy loves to run around in the mornings, so a lot of times I'll just put her down, let her crawl about and explore. I keep her in the corner of my eye while I try to tidy, make myself breakfast, get myself organized for the day.

This morning, she was sitting quietly in the hallway slapping the floor (having learned this from me), so I turned the corner into the kitchen to quickly get myself some coffee.

All of a sudden, I hear: Splish...splish...sploosh...splat...splash splash sploosh.

And I'm thinking, Where the hell is there open water in our apartment?

Now, just imagine a baby head leaning over the bottom of the picture. This was pretty much both of our perspectives, except one of us was up to her elbows in the toilet.

Oh, and that's some guy's cellphone in the picture. I guess he was having the same kind of day I was.

Dear Subject #258 1237,

While researching the name of the muscle contraction that pulls the scrotum up into a man's body (found here), I came upon your photo. And while the Wikipedia editors obviously have their hands full, I would like to make a suggestion. Or two, rather.

1. Wax. Or shave. I don't have a preference, frankly, or an invested interest. I just feel an angle like that demands a bit of upkeep, don't you think?
2. An illustration, perhaps. Or a diagram, instead of the extreme close up. If you're a boy or a man, you've already seen one (although not from that vantage, I admit...or maybe you have, Christ). Same goes for most women. So basically the picture is for girls under 15, who, quite honestly, can wait a bit longer to see the real thing. My opinion.

Good luck, and keep stretching.

Rodney Sterbenz

5 Minute Cool Down

This weekend I ordered 3 fairly well-reviewed books on how to get babies to sleep. Remarkably, they all showed up this afternoon, so I had a little bit of time to check them out and see if they could offer any help.

Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth, M.D.

Approach: I would suggest reading his book to the infant, but apparently prevention, naps, and scheduling are his take on things.
My Thoughts: Dear Marc, I hate your book. Sure you've done a lot of research, bolstering your arguments with as many percentages as possible (I found 100% of them useless, btw). And while your particular lexicon might dazzle distressed parents or Pediatric hopefuls during a Powerpoint Presentation, terms such as "consolidated sleep," "total sleep pattern," and "action plan" are, remarkably, just like your data: meaningless. Exhausted parents need straightforward, practical information. If this, then this. Example: If I don't like your book, then I should return it to Amazon.com.
Low Point: He "discovered" sleep is linked to temperament. This is about as incredible as Magellan discovering the Strait of Magellan, seeing as how someone (the Chinese) had already drawn it on his map.

The Sleep Lady's Good Night, Sleep Tight by Kim West, LCSW-C

Approach: The Sleep Lady Shuffle, which means each night move farther and farther away out the door and don't ever look back or you'll be sucked into the vortex of a sexless marriage and resentment. Serious.
My Thoughts: She hasn't met my daughter. And god bless her little heart, because my kid can go the distance. And we're not just talking about a cornfield, here. She'll tear down the rest of Iowa to build another stadium in case Jesus wants to trade Shoeless Joe to another celestial team. Am I losing you here? Your "shuffle" will not work with a baby that will accept, and only accept, a bottle. If there was a chapter on the "Irish Shuffle" with subchapters "Bailey's Irish Cream" and "Jameson's," I would have tolerated your book longer. But not much.
Low Point: She registered the name "The Sleep Lady," leaving The Nap Matron and The Snooze Whore out of the race.

Solve Your Child's Sleep Problems by Richard Ferber, M.D.

Approach: Check out my history here. Gradually increase the amount of time you leave your child to soothe itself.
My Thoughts: Again, I don't need 200 pages of philosophy. I'm not interested in discovering my child's "sleep phase." Is there a Sleep Phase 0? But then this is the only technique I've employed to show any ounce of promise for future rest (on all of our parts). And while Roxy still continues to scream, the volume and quality of her cries will and do diminish using the Ferber Method. That is, they did before she had her stomach flu. This is the only book I'm keeping.
Low Point: Those first few nights, between June 12th, 2009 and January 27th, 2010. Ha ha.

Make Your Baby Work For It by Rodney T. Sterbenz III

Approach: Exhaust her.
My Thoughts: What I did during tonight's sleep routine was something a little different. I still believe in Ferber, but I'm trying to invest in making the AM hours a little less torturous, so after being fed, bathed, and changed, I put Roxy down with a bottle. She fussed and started to scream. So I gently laid her back down. She rolled over, angry, screaming, and climbed back up. And once again, I gently laid her back down. And we repeated this 44 times in a row. That's a 4 and a 4. I'm not kidding. We did this until she was so tired, she couldn't possibly stand back up again, and fell right off to sleep.
Low Point: I'll let you know at 3 AM, but right now? I'm going with the Sterbenz Method.

Kind of A Win-Lose Part II

So Roxy went the whole night without a feeding. Me? I slept from 11 PM until midnight, listened to a baby scream for 3 plus hours, punched a wall, moved Max into our bed, talked to Dennis Hopper in a bamboo cage for a while, put Roxy and I in Max's room with the door closed, and cried naked in the corner begging for the pain to stop.

But here I am, on the other side, half-proud she actually did it, and half-dead trying to get off my couch. Good and Bad, equal parts...So, what was it like?

It was like:

...a Steve Carell movie

...winning your $5 back from a Scratch-N-Win

... a twosome with Giselle Bundchen until Gary Busey decides he doesn't want to sit in the corner and watch anymore (true story)

...a delicious bowl of Miso Soup with a long black hair in it

...listening to Mario Van Peebles tell a story about dancing with a hot Brazilian "girl" who turned out to be happy to see him

...watching an episode of LOST

...applying for a job at Blockbuster and getting it

Just kidding, they gave the position to someone else. Sorry you had to find out this way, Leni.

Kind of A Win-Lose

Every night, for the past 8 months, Roxy has woken up repeatedly and begun to scream. And she does this, in upwards of 6 to 7 times a night, until we put a bottle in her mouth. That is the only thing that will soothe her back to sleep. Me? It's a toss-up between Chocolate Chip Häagen-Dazs and Oral Sex (sorry, Mom, T.M.I., I know). But for Roxy, it's formula.

Now, you can do the math, but here's the shortcut: We haven't slept since June. At all. Now, our hope is to get her to sleep through the night, or even one night, with only one feeding. My hope is to finally get some rest and stop hallucinating.

So last night, Roxy wasn't due to feed until 3:30 AM. And no matter what happened, no matter what I had to do, I could not put a bottle in her mouth before 3:29 AM. If angry Badgers came into my house and threatened to bite Leni until I gave Roxy 6 ounces of formula, I was supposed to politely decline (and mention to Leni as an aside she probably asked for it Karmically somewhere along the way, you know, just so I didn't feel so guilty) and hope they didn't give my wife Rabies.

From 12:07 AM, when she awoke, until 3:45 AM, when she finally, finally stopped screaming and fell asleep exhausted, I did not give her a bottle. In fact, she only woke up this morning because my alarm went off (and she practically shotgunned her formula).

For the first time, in 8 months, my baby slept (more or less) through an entire night (minus 3 hours) without a feeding.

And I feel like s**t.

Wanted: More Sleep, Sense of Humor

Getting Early Intervention is essentially like being at a party with a bunch of relatives you haven't seen in a while. Every time someone comes up to you, you wind up telling the same story over and over again, each time losing a little bit more enthusiasm, until you're describing being rescued from a collapsing building by a small contingent of Army Rangers with about the same excitement you would explain the old man paying $5.42 in pennies in front of you at Target. Or about how you felt at the end of that joke.

I'm exhausted.

First, we had a Social Worker show up (who must be doing well, with her Prada jacket and all). Then a Developmental Specialist. Then, yesterday, the Physical Therapist. And at some point in the next day or two, the Occupational Therapist will arrive, and, from what I can judge by her title, not only assess how Roxy experiences the world, but possibly suggest a future career path as well. If we can only find 1 person who needs to wake up at 11 PM, 1 AM, 3:15 AM, 4:50 AM, and then 6 AM, she will make a killing as an Alarm Clock.

Anyone?

A Little Something For The Ladies...

When I was a busboy, the catering hall I worked at occasionally had special events. Sometimes they were Bar Mitzvahs or Bridal Showers, sometimes "Lesbian" or "50 and Over" Singles Night. No matter what the experience being offered, though, it was always Denigrate the Help, as well.

And while it had nothing to do with our job descriptions, nor the wage we were given, Gilberto and I were sent into the 2 main lavatories to clean them afterwards. Not on our hands and knees with toothbrushes and Comet kind of cleaning, but enough to make us resentful and uncomfortable.

The Men's Room typically had a few empty wine glasses, papertowels that had missed the bin, and maybe a wayward toilet-seat cover that had falled off. And every once in a while, there would be vomit.

But the Women's Room? The Women's Room was like the Wonka Factory, only if the Wonka Factory had exploded as a result of Industrial Sabotage, sending bits of Oompa Loompas and Chocolate everywhere. Except by "Oompa Loompas" I meant "Toilet Paper." And by "Chocolate" I meant "Sanitary Napkins." Though I should mention, for this metaphor, that the chocolate had been opened and used and kind of half-eaten, and then thrown on the floor.

They would take the toilet paper rolls and unspool them, spinning them loom-like until they had created a three-foot high nest that I could only explain by convincing myself that of the many mysteries surrounding women, one of them was that they liked to jump into piles of toilet paper together, in groups, in the bathroom. And I would never know why. It was, from the lipstick covered ceiling to the soaking wet floor, an utter disaster. Every. Single. Weekend.

This has, over the years, led me to question women about my experiences, until I eventually discovered that this was not isolated behavior. This was, and is, in general terms, how they behave in Public Bathrooms.

Take this whole "Spraying" thing. Friday night, Leni and I went to this nice Brazillian restaurant in Astoria, and lo and behold, someone decided to reenact their best water-the-lawn. And don't tell me it wasn't a woman, because, sure, every once in a while, I'm sure some guy or some kid comes in and pees all over the seat. But women admit it. That as an approach, they do NOT sit on the toilet seat. They lean forward,hovering over the toilet, engaging in some kind of weird imaginary spinning class, head down, ass in the air directly behind them, the Lance Armstrong of Bladder Relief. And then they just...spray. Everywhere. And I want to know why.

Who told you never to sit on a toilet seat? Who told you that a Marching Band of STD's and Lhasa Fever would speed like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse towards your vagina? It's not the Third Rail, you know. You can touch it. But even more puzzling is the fact that if you are going to spray all over, why not lift the seat so the rational-thinking human beings (who know they have a better chance catching something using the doorknob than resting comfortably while they poop) can sit down? You could use your foot, I don't care.

And it's not like I found this in the Grand Central Terminal. For one, I wouldn't be in the Women's Bathroom at Grand Central Terminal (to your knowledge). But we were in a pretty nice restaurant, with only one unisex bathroom. So what gives?

Ladies?

And Now A Special News Bulletin...

Movie Trivia!

Because we had been soft-shoeing it around Roxy for the past 2 weeks (until the stomach flu left her system), last night I went at her like Queequeg with a harpoon full of Go-To-F**king-Sleep-Already. But, as human beings can only learn lessons AFTER the fact, what I was able to glean from the experience was this: Wear Condoms.

Apart from that, I've decided to distill the entire evening down to 2 mystery photos, each taken from a popular movie. One depicts my ordeal, the other Roxy's. See if you can guess which is which!

Question 1:

Question 2:

Diarrhea: The Lost Chapter by Dr. Richard Ferber

"If your baby has the runs, my technique doesn't work. I'm sorry if there was some confusion. Just to be clear: Dyslexia, yes. Diarrhea, no."
- Dr. Richard Ferber (but not the real Richard Ferber)

Last Tuesday, Roxy went in for the latest installation of inoculations she was due. Evidently, she was also due for a Bowel Accelerant, because for the last 10 days she has had diarrhea that would put an overfed Shih-tzu to shame.

At first we thought it was a reaction to the Roto Virus vaccine, except that would have been over in just a day or two. And it couldn't have been the tongue depressor. Look how much she's enjoying it!No, if I had to take a guess, I'd say it was the Fisher Price village on the floor of the Pediatrician's office Leni let Roxy put her mouth all over. I hate to cast blame (after all, the scratch on her back she got from the base moulding was on my watch), but we were at a doctor's office. Where people take their sick kids. What did we think was going to happen? It's like asking me what the movie "Mega-shark vs. Giant Octopus" is about. Seriously?

What I did discover, though, is that you can't Sleep Train a kid who has 9 dirty diapers every night. Or who has stomach cramps and can't get comfortable. And you certainly can't Sleep Train a kid who is strong enough to stand up in her crib but not coordinated enough to sit back down.

It doesn't work. So tomorrow we start at square one.

Step One: Push baby into hallway.
Step Two: Close door.

One, Two, Three, Shoot!

Rock beats Scissors.

Scissors beats Paper.

Paper beats Rock.

Sounds easy enough. Now, let's try something more complicated.

Diarrhea beats Sleep.

Sleep beats Cranky Baby.

Cranky Baby with Diarrhea beats Dad mercilessly for over a week.

Dad beats head against Wall.

Monday Morning Peptalk

Do you have dreams? I do. And not dreams, like, "oh, I had this dream I was working on a Victoria's Secret photoshoot, only it was in my old highschool, but it wasn't really a school it was kind of like a big steamroller that had these crazy lockers on the sides of the wheels that were really hard to get into because they kept spinning, but it did make the combination locks much easier, come to think of it, but the weird thing? The weird thing was that George Lopez was the Principal. George Lopez. I don't even like George Lopez. Every time his show comes on I'm like, nooooooo" and I think you get the point.

No, I'm talking about GOALS. The Future. Did you want to go back to school to learn Industrial Design? Live in Spain for a year? Skydive? Even if you wanted to own your own country, I'm telling you YOUR GOALS ARE ATTAINABLE. And don't give me that "Nobody wants a Charlie-In-The-Box" bulls**t. That kind of thinking is so 2009. Because here, in 2010, things like this are possible:

Celebriducks. They take, ahem, Celebrities and put a duckbill on them. According to their website, "CelebriDucks is the original creator of the first ever collectible celebrity rubber ducks of the greatest icons of film, music, athletics, and history." Of course they're the "first ever." I could make the Ice Dispenser on my refrigerator look like Horse Nostrils BUT WHY THE F**K WOULD I WANT TO???!!!

Rubber ducks. Sculpted to look like Celebrities. Meaning the owner, Craig Wolfe, was trying to unwind one night after a hard day's work at Best Buy, and as he sat in his bathtub alone, he thought "Wait a minute...if my rubber duck...looked like Michael Jackson from Thriller, I wouldn't have to close my eyes when I pressed it against my penis...Hot Diggity! I have to write that down."

And thus a legend was born.

So go sign up for Piano Lessons already. Take a cruise. Whatever it is, your destiny is at your [soapy] fingertips. Now reach out and grab it.

Man Vs. Baby: Avatar Review

[We enter the conversation already in progress]
Me: It's just different.
Roxy: Different how? You said it seemed like the same.
Me: Well, that could just be James Cameron depicting Love as something we could relate to. That even though they were aliens, they were enacting behaviors we, as humans, would identify as "Love." As making "Love." Showing intimacy. I'm sure there was more to the Na'Vi mating process, only it was excluded, I imagine, to secure the PG-13 Rating.
Roxy: So you don't have a tail that squiggily things shoot out of?
Me: [pause] Um...A tail? No, no tail. But the point I was making was that the very brief Love Scene implied a greater usage of the Bonding Tendrils the Na'Vi employed. This is the same extremity used to connect with the varied beasts of Pandora. The horse. The banshee. The male lead, Jake Sully. And ultimately, the Tree of Souls.
Roxy: You're saying she had sex with the horse?
Me: Not exactly.
Roxy: So he had sex with the horse?
Me: I'm just trying to spark a conversation about the fact that the long braid extending from the head of every Na'Vi houses a cluster of tendrils that emerge and entwine with that which they are attempting a "bond" with, and what inferences we can make about that...
Roxy: But that's not what you and mommy do...
Me: [laughs] Only when we drink Tequila. Ha ha.
Roxy: What does that mean?
Me: Nothing. Forget it. Which part did you like best?
Roxy: [thinks] Probably...probably the part where they stab the wild dog in the heart with the knife.
Me: Yeah, it really wasn't for kids.
Roxy: Or maybe the part where they stab the deer in the heart with the knife.
Me: Definitely not for babies, either.
Roxy: Or maybe the part where the soldier gets stabbed in the heart by a spear.
Me: Me? I really liked it.
Roxy: Or when those Na'Vi kids get crushed by a smoldering branch.
Me: But how often do you see Na'Vi kids get crushed in 3D?
Roxy: Or when that mercenary gets his head stomped in by a rhino.
Me: A 20 foot rhino! The Imax screen was amazing.
Roxy: It was amazing. I can't wait to see the Squeakquel...
Me: [pause] We're not seeing the Squeakquel...
Roxy: You said we could alternate movies. It's my turn. And I pick Alvin and the Chipmunks 2.
Me: What? Ohhhhh, no. I'm sorry. I feel terrible. I didn't mean us alternate...that you could pick. I just meant we wouldn't keep seeing the same movie over and over again because what fun wou...
Roxy: [grunting] Hrrrrrrrrrmmmmmphhh.
Me: What are you doing?
Roxy: Squishing diarrhea out the sides of my onesie.
Me: I don't have to change you, you know?
Roxy: [pulls out a phone, dials]
Me: Who do you have on Speed Dial?
Roxy: Hi, Protective Services?

Because I'm A Terrible Father, That's Why...

How else could I explain it?

My Mother-In-Law was sitting with Max last night when Max let it slip that she wasn't going to be in School on Thursday (playing Hooky) because she has a Doctor's Appointment (seeing Avatar). And because Leni would certainly never keep Max out of school for something so frivolous (not true), she opened her Encyclopedia of Stupid Male Impulses and started "hmmmmm"ing and "ahhhhhhh"ing as she studied me.

Mother-In-Law: You're taking her out of school for this?
Me: Yeah.
Mother-In-Law: Why would you do that?
Me: Because it's awesome?
Mother-In-Law: But you're taking her out of school. Why can't you take her on the weekend?
Me: We never have time on the weekends. And we'll have Roxy.
Mother-In-Law: You could bring Roxy...
Me: To a 3 hour movie?
Mother-In-Law: Sure.
Me: What fun is that? And it's not special if it's on the weekend. This way everyone is at school...
Mother-In-Law: ...learning...
Me: ...learning, yes, but learning things they'll never use...
Mother-In-Law: ...like Math...
Me: ...exactly, why do you think so many people have iPhones...
Mother-In-Law: ...I just don't think it's a good idea. And for her to lie about it.

Kids, let me tell you something: Someday, you are not going to remember The Franco-Prussian War, Hyperbolic Cosines, or anything about your Confirmation. You will remember your drunk Uncle George jumping in the pool with his suit on (Awesome!); giving your dog Maxine a mohawk like the one on the Mr. T cartoon (Grrrrr!); and you will remember your parents doing sneaky things like keeping you home from school to see a really awesome movie in 3D when everyone else is falling asleep because they had too much Sloppy Joe at lunch. So suck it!

Nice One, Leni

A few days before Christmas, Max and I were having a talk about her being disrespectful and not doing chores. "Now is not the time to start acting crazy. Santa will be here in two days..."

She smiled wryly and said "Give me a break. I haven't believed in Santa for, like, 3 years." Now, that may not be entirely true (because as far as I knew she sure as hell believed in him last year). But after a month of cryptic answers and Max stalwartly refusing to ever let slip which direction she was leaning towards, Leni and I were both fairly certain Santa's legacy was dead. Plus, Max was 10. Absolutely her little s**thead friends should have clued her in already, right? Mine did (aaaannnndddd Thank you, Marc Goldman).

So we tried one last gambit. We had gotten everything on her list, but the crown jewel out of everything she wanted was a laptop. So we bought her one, and wrapped it in wrapping paper we used only on the computer. And then, just to ensure she wouldn't flip open her Forensic Analysis Crash Kit (which she has) and compare handwriting (which she did), we had my father write the note.

It read: "Max, it is too early for you not to believe. I hope this helps." And then he drew a picture of Santa.

It worked perfectly. We denied buying it, chalking it up to her being irresponsible. "You can't even keep track of your Ipod...why would I buy you a laptop?" She was astounded. Could it be true? Who else but Santa would know what Password she wanted (Hamburger); what Bookmarked websites she would want on her browser (iCarly! And it's pink!); put both Itunes and Netflix shortcuts on the desktop? I played the part of the skeptic. "Christmas or no, I find it disconcerting someone would break into our house and leave a laptop under our tree..."

"Santa doesn't break into someone's house, Daddy. He flies through the chimney." I stood corrected.

Jump to tonight. Max was struggling to find information in her textbook on what countries export, so Leni suggested she get her computer. "That is why we bought it for you, yes?"

Imagine a long, pregnant pause where time doesn't neccessarily stand still but it feels like it does. So much so, I squinched up my face, as if about to be punched, praying she didn't catch it. But of course she did.

She launched herself into the air, celebrating, as a score of American Girl dolls held her aloft over their heads. "I knew it. I knew it. I-knew-it-I-knew-it-I-knew-it!" And finally, after a decade, solving the greatest mystery she had ever faced other than why Mommy makes noises during her "special backrub" (Go back to sleep, Sweetheart), Max was victorious.

What's Another Term For Mustache?

I was talking about my friend's mustache the other day and ANOTHER friend said, in an amazingly casual manner, "Yeah, I really like his d**k broom..."

I said, "D**k Broom?"

And he repeated, "Yeah, D**k Broom. You've never heard that before?"

And I stressed, "No, I've never heard someone refer to it as a D**k Broom before but I think that might be the greatest term I have ever heard used for anything ever."

"Yeah, D**k Broom."

Like this guy.

Paging Dr. Ferber...

7: 26 PM
We just put Roxy down so I'm spending the next few minutes blogging. I figured I'd chronicle each step of the way. This is the first 3 minute segment. She's standing up and screaming like I just cut the head off of her squeaky giraffe.

Let's see how this goes...Okay, she took a little break at 7:28, sort of crying, sort of not, but as of now, she is back in it full swing, having a tantrum.

7: 29 PM
I lay her back down, place her on her side with her blanket, and she immediately calms down. I hold her torso for about 10 seconds, gently let her go, and the sound waves from her mouth literally blow me out of the room, like that little girl did to the priest in The Exorcist.

A couple of minutes pass. She sounds a lot less unhappy. It's now 7:32, so far so good, no projectile vomiting, no crucifixes.

7:35 PM
Stopped crying for a good 2 minutes so I'm not sure if I should go in there or not. She's standing quietly at the...no, wait, back to the s**tfit. In I go.

7:36 PM
I lay her back down again, restore the blanket,then gently place my hand on her for a few seconds before taking it off. She goes crazy, pulling a knife and charging me. I take the full brunt of the hit as the both of us go down, tumbling down the stairs, to land crashing into some oil barrels at the bottom of the landing. As we grapple, I manage to reach a long chain hanging from above. I quickly wrap it around her neck, knocking her off the loading bay and send her swinging down fast into a wall. Rolling her back on her side, I replace the blanket and my hand on her torso. She grows quiet so I sneak out.

And the only noise I hear right now is my stomach growling. I think she's asleep...

I have to send this guy Ferber a gift basket of soap or something. I don't know why I said "soap." Maybe cheese, instead. Or bacon. A big basket of bacon.

As I wrap this up, at 7:40, the house is completely si...goddamn it...wait...that may have just been like an aftershock. She whimpered twice and then fell back asleep. Okay, Ferber, it looks like you're getting your bacon afterall.

I'ma Git Awl Ferber On Yo' Ass

If you aren't familiar with the Ferber Method of sleep-training for babies, hop on over here, then come back and join the tour. Dr. Richard Ferber basically invented a method of helping babies soothe themselves to sleep (leaving them alone for increasingly longer periods of time) so that they eventually stay asleep.

And while his critics' typically levy charges of insensitivity or emotionally damaging infants (hence the controversy), last night I came to the conclusion that I can't consider the (I know, it's misinterpreted) "cry it out" method on those terms. Not when my sanity is at stake. Instead of "Cry It Out," I like to think of it as the "I'm Not Going To Drown My Baby In The Toilet Tonight" Method. Or the "Choose Not To Argue With My Wife About The Fact That I Don't Care That Only Three Minutes Has Passed This Is F**king Torture" Method.

Roxy is stubborn. Genetically predisposed to be either an Opera Singer or one of the X-men who destroys stuff with her voice, she has one hell of a set of lungs. And I don't know what kind of responsibilites a 7 month-old has but she clearly considers Sleeping a waste of time. So she fights it, screaming her head off until I give in (which I always do).

Like last night, an hour and a half past her nighttime routine, she's visibly exhausted, rubbing her eyes, stumbling around like a rhino hit with 4000 cc's of tranquilizer. But as soon as her head hits the mattress...WAHHHHHHHHH (in your head you can keep adding "H"s until 45 minutes has passed).

But I had had enough. I was tired of singing, bouncing, carrying, bottle?, no bottle?, please don't poke me in the eye, no you can't play with Max's laptop or whatever else it was going to be for the next 3 hours to keep her from having a tantrum.

So I put on my sized 12 Sleepy Time Brand I-Am-Stronger-Than-A-Baby Cowboy Boots and followed Dr. Richard Ferber's advice. And by this I mean I sat white-knuckled on the couch and had Leni talk me out of going in the bedroom every 60 seconds.

Wish us luck.

Open Your Mouth And Close Your Eyes And You Will Get A Big Surprise!

I have a friend whose daughter hides food. Not like a squirrel does for inclement weather or when I tuck my chocolate (I'm sorry. "Tuck my chocolate?" Who speaks like that? I know I wrote it but it sounds so dirty...like if some guy asked you to tuck his chocolate what would you do? Excusing the homoerotic undertones, of course. Anyway, let's get back on track) all the way in the back of the freezer because Leni and Max hate cold food and would never think to look there thus ensuring I will have chocolate when I get home.

No, basically his daughter will take plates of semi-eaten food or Snapple Bottles and hide them under her bed or in dresser drawers. And she's not like a child. She's almost 20. I mean, it could be dead animals or swastikas carved in her arms so count your blessings. But even she doesn't know why she feels compelled to do this. She just does it.

So where am I headed with this?

Max stayed home from school yesterday because she was sick. She had been up most of the night throwing up. Leni spent most of the time comforting her (I stayed with Roxy) so I didn't know much about the specifics of the evening. Until my shower this morning.

I got out of the tub and noticed the bathmat folded up and squeezed behind the door. "That's odd," I said to myself. "Someone should put that back so nobody slips..."

So I unfold it, totally unprepared to find the pizza-pie-sized pile of dried vomit hidden inside. As if some subway worker had snuck into my house, and rather than work with tile, created this elaborate mosaic of carrots, onions and meatloaf for me and me alone.

And I mention it was folded because that shows intent. That shows someone did this conciously to conceal their sick. And if I was 10 I would probably do the same thing (although I hope I would remember to tell someone about it).

And I mention the hiding-the-food-girl because I'm staring at another towel, obviously dirty and partially wet, folded and half-shoved under Max's bed, wondering if I should open it, or take a pair of Fire Tongs and carry the thing outside to dispose of the mystery unrevealed.

Thoughts?

Low Blow, Max...Low Blow

After Max and I saw A Christmas Carol in 3D, we had both agreed that if the opportunity arose, we would see Avatar in 3D together. This was, apparently, a promise. To me, it was like telling an old acquaintance "we should totally get together." If it happens, great. That would be awesome. If I happen to come up with an even remotely plausible reason to bail (stomach virus, pineapple isn't in season), what's the big deal? You'll get over it.

Unless you're 10 years-old. And unless you are Max.

Because Promises are funny things. To an adult, Promises are fuzzy creatures. It depends on the person and the situation. You may PROMISE the teamster that you'll never tell a soul about the fact that he found Gina Gershon's underwear in that other actor's trailer (go to IMDB and I'm sure you can solve this mystery on your own), but sure as s**t the moment you get back to set every god-damn person within earshot will know the story, I guarantee. Because Promises are about as useful as Megan Fox (read: ultimately useless).

[Alternate Joke: Because Promises are about as useful as Mark A. Baker! (That's a Damages joke, btw)]

To a child, a Promise is an unbreakable bond. Something sacred. And that was a surprise to me when she refused to speak to me this morning at breakfast. See, it's been about a month since I've had a few hours to do something entirely selfish and for myself, so my friend Tom and I decided to see Avatar in IMAX 3D today. But try explaining why it isn't such a big deal to a stubborn little girl.

Me: Why are you so angry at me?
Max: What do you care?
Me: Because I want to know what I did between now and when I woke up.
Max: [long pause] You said you would see Avatar with me and now you're going with Tom and don't care about the promise you made.
Me: Max, I said if we got a chance, we would see it. This is the first chance we've had and you have school.
Max: But you promised. You could go tonight or take me over the weekend.
Me: But Tom's already seen it. This is his second time. If you want, you and I can go another time and I'll see it again.
Max: [now crying] But the point was for it to be special and for both of us to see it for the first time together. Otherwise why would we go?
Me: Max, give me a break. This is the first time I've had a moment to myself since November.
Max: [crying more] Me and MY DAD had a deal that you never promised anything you didn't plan on actually doing.

That's right. The 10 year-old pulled the trump card: Her Dad. Max and "her Dad" don't make promises "they" can't keep. What the f**k? THAT'S the card you're going to pull to win an argument? Now it seems that not only am I out of my depths debating with my wife (the Greek who wins every argument), I have to contend with Max placing 1st as well.

Me: [to no one in particular] Really?

Wait, Wait, Watch...Watch Me...Wait, You Guys, Check This Out! Watch, I Want To Try Something!

What baby crawls at 6 1/2 months? What is this, some sick joke? Have I not suffered enough?

Roxy likes to crawl really fast, hoist herself up on furniture so that she's standing, and then (as she is falling) aim for a table leg with her face. If there isn't one close enough, she'll roll after sticking the landing to bonk her head on whatever is within reach.

She has the determination but not the dexterity. She has the strength but not the balance. I don't know how soon she is going to start walking but I am as afraid for her safety as I am for my sanity.

First you couldn't put this kid down because she would scream. Now you can't put her down because she's like a drunken Mountain Climber trying to win a bet. I thought maybe watching some videos on the Internet would help me understand what was going on developmentally.

Instead, I learned what every new parent learns: Fear your furniture.

Every corner, leg, angle, surface, foot, edge, knob, shelf, support and the possessions on top of it...you name it. Everything is a target. Everything is a potential danger.

Like, she enjoys gnawing on cellphones. Not the old one I charged up for her to chew on, mind you, even though it lights up. No. She only likes mine; the one that radiates her brain.

And she likes power cords and cables, but only, and that's ONLY, if they're plugged in.

I don't think I can take much more of this.

Hello, 2010!

For those of you just joining us, here's where we're all starting 2010:

RODNEY
Unemployed
Streamlining My Possessions (Goodbye J. Taylor Finley Yearbooks!)
Gluten Free and Loving It

Leni
Heading Back To Work At Damages (sans husband Rodney)
Picking Out New Furniture (mid-century Danish Modern)
Can Fill 3 Separate Glasses of Water From Her Appendix Scars

Max
Calls Me "Rodney" Now Instead of "Daddy" (Which I Hate)
Starts New School in Astoria On Monday
Meets Sarcasm With Sarcasm (Which Is Unacceptable)

Roxy
Is Crawling (At 6 1/2 Months)
Likes To Pull Herself Up On Furniture, Let Go, And Whack Her Face (Repeatedly)
Needs A Helmet

Dear Dude at Party,

Have you ever held a sledgehammer? It's sort of like that, except the tool is actually a person's hand. You put your hand out, clasp the other man's hand, and both of you shake. We've been doing it for centuries. And I think it's time you learned. It's simple.

Extend. Grasp. Shake.

Not too loose. Not too tight. Just firmly clasp your social obligation and let it go.

And while you are certainly under no commitment to rip my Ulna off at the elbow, I'd say next time go on and give it a try. I would prefer this type of eager greeting to the 5-fingered-flaccid-udder you tried to smoosh into my hand. Were your long white gloves dirty? Did you feel it would be too pretentious to hold your delicate fingers aloft and whisper "enchanté?" Because at least I could have prepared myself for the humiliation of holding that flesh colored octopus at the end of your arm.

Sincerely,
Rodney Sterbenz