People of Planet Earth!

Last night Leni and I stayed out way past our bedtimes to watch my little sister perform at the Bubble Lounge. The show started at 9 PM. And while 9 o'clock certainly doesn't seem that late to single people, to the two sleep deprived parents of a fussy 10 month old, 9 o'clock is about as f**king obscene as the Free Tour on Buck Angel's website. And if you don't know who Buck Angel is, just take my word for it. The joke isn't worth you looking it up and telling me how disgusting I am. I know how disgusting I am. I'm me.

When we arrived home about midnight, utterly exhausted (because that's what old people are who stay up past 8), we were immediately informed by my Mother-In-Law that Roxy went down with no problem. Of course she went down with no problem. Why waste a tantrum? It's like a tree falling in the forest. The only time it makes noise is when it's screeching towards a distracted Lumberjack's head because you want him to turn around just before you make him suffer.

Roxy likes to look us in the eye.

But she hadn't woken up yet, so we turned in and waited for her to scream us awake. And waited. I woke up at 6:45, terrified and confused. My body leapt out of bed before I was even awake. It knew something was wrong before I did. Where was Roxy? She should be in bed with us. But she wasn't in bed with us which meant I hadn't brought her into bed with us which meant she hadn't woken up and cried for me to bring her into bed with us. That's 11 hours. Why on earth didn't she...oh, god, why didn't she wake up? I ran to her room, my heart pounding, eyes desperate to focus, mind telepathically dialing 911 as my imagination is picking my cold, blue, lifeless baby girl up from the...

Snoring. Louder than my father snores. Like a big, fat drunken man flat on her back, hand on her belly, sound asleep in her crib.

This is not my baby. Had I discovered her crash-landed in a corn field I would have poked her with a stick.

Everything's Coming Up Rosie

There are 2 sides to my mother's family: The Johnson's, which belong to her twin sister, Nancy, and the Spira's, which belong to their older sister, Joan. Joan has 4 kids, 3 of which have spouses and children and relatives of their own. So if Joan leaves Buffalo, NY at 9 AM traveling at an average speed of 65 MPH...

A while back I got "Friended" by a Rosie Spira. I saw "Spira" and, without thinking, hit Confirm. It wasn't until she started sending me messages that I realized I had no idea who she was. She seemed to know me; was familial and friendly, but I had never heard anyone ever mention a "Rosie." Nor did her name match any of the names of the relatives I did know about. So I checked her profile (we were Friends, after all). The first warning sign was that I noticed a multitude of LOL's, )))))))'s, !!!!!!!!!'s and emoticons. Then, stuff about homework. And by the time I read she was born in 1992 (which made her 17), I was keeping a sharp lookout for Chris Hansen.

What did I do?

I did what any other mature individual would do: I hid. I decided never to respond to Rosie's messages, nor ask her who she was. For one, I was too embarrassed, because if we were related, what did that say about me? And two, if we weren't, it didn't seem appropriate. What would her parents think? "You want to tell me who this 36 year old man is standing with a puppet?" Because that's what I'd ask, especially if an adult had taken the time to make a picture with Gonzo his profile photo. Batman shirt. Muppet. Prone to juvenile behavior. You get the point.

Eventually, though, I had to know for sure. It was too intriguing a mystery. If she wasn't a relative, no harm done. She'd forget about me and Gonzo soon enough. But if she was related to me, one thing was certain: I was a terrible human being.

So I called my cousin Bruce, the most logical potential "father" of a 17 year old, and offered myself up to the sword. I said: "Please don't hate me but I don't ever remember hearing about a Rosie before. If she is your daughter, I am a terrible, terrible cousin and I'm really, really, sorry. If not...nevermind. Everything's copacetic, right? Everything except Rosie's history exam, I guess." And then we would laugh at some unknown teenager's angst.

What's the verdict? LOL!!!!! WE ARE TOTALLYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY RELATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
:-) She is his daughter, and hence my First Cousin, once removed. And while I probably should have known that, Rosie is a nickname (in my defense). But I'm still terrible.

So Rosie, to answer your questions in the order they were received:
Hello.
Heyyy yourself.
No, that wasn't me wrestling shirtless in a pile of garbage on St. Patrick's Day. I was napping at my daughter's drum lesson.
How are you?

Roxy: Now With More Scrubbing Power and the Grease Fighting Power of Dawn

"It's quiet...too quiet." It may be an old movie cliché, but it happens to be particularly true in my house. If Roxy isn't making any noise, it usually means she's doing something she shouldn't be. Chewing on electrical cords. Sucking on the garbage can. And it's sad that at this stage I can't say for certain which I've done more often: caught her playing in the toilet or stopped her from playing in the toilet.

So yesterday, I found it strange that Roxy didn't come running over to try and splash around a bit when I went in to use the bathroom. Why didn't she come running over? Let's go to the videotape...

The Everlasting Gobstopper

I took Max to the park after school on Friday. And by "park," I mean "play-structure." And by "play-structure," I mean "Germ Factory." NYC playgrounds are essentially multi-colored subway poles twisted into different shapes. And if you know me, you know there isn't a chance in hell you'll find me with my hand on a subway pole. If I can't pull my sleeve down for protection, I'll wrap two AM New Yorks and maybe a Chinese DVD Vendor around my fingers just so my skin doesn't make contact.

But at this point, I'm so freaking tired, all of my other personalities have locked the OCD German safely away where he won't be bothering anyone. Want to lick the slide, Roxy? Be my guest. Stick part of that melted Ice Cream Cone you found in the grass in your mouth? Go ahead, build your Immune System. Just save room for dinner. I. Don't. Care.

Maybe she'll get diarrhea. But maybe she'll just get a taste of some gravel and an old Starburst a bunch of kids have stepped on. And, let's be honest, who doesn't love the taste of Starbursts? Even ones with EKIN embossed in them (that's NIKE backwards, btw...see above joke if it still doesn't make sense).

So as she's leaning against a short rubber mushroom shaped stool, I notice she's drooling. But, excessively drooling. Like a hyena waiting on line at the Savannah County Fair for some Zebra Cobbler. As there isn't anything on the stool, I wonder if it must already be in her mouth. And as her cheeks are kind of pulled in, I stop wondering. I was looking at the worst poker face ever. "Are you hiding something in your mouth?" I ask. "Nnhrg-mnhrg," she says.

I push my fingers into her mouth, and scoop them across her tongue to retrieve the knob of a stick the size of large marble. Too big for her to swallow, thankfully, but not for lack of trying. "What is it with this kid," I thought. "I can't take my eyes off you for a second." Except by the time I stopped considering this, and the little piece of wood in my hand, she'd already enjoyed two crushed M&M's and a dead leaf.

Look, A Talking Dog

My friend Duke recently adopted two little boys from Haiti. This process, you should know, started several years ago, way before the earthquake, and way before those Baptist Missionaries tried to sneak past security with overflowing pockets of Haitian orphans. "Nothing for me today, thanks." But as a (until then) childless, 38 year-old married man, Duke seems to be adapting to Fatherhood without much incident.

So while speaking to Leni, Duke marvelled at how quickly the little boys were learning English. And one of the things he said was: "It's like teaching a dog to speak." Now, before you get angry at Duke, like my wife did, I think I should explain a few things, because he didn't mean it how it sounded. Just like I didn't mean it when I said something similar.

When you're single, caring for yourself is relatively easy. And if you're a single man, things are even simpler. As long as there are Doritos on the shelf and you masturbate regularly, life is sustainable. In fact, if I had been asked to outfit a fallout shelter before I met Leni, survivors might have been disappointed upon arrival to discover only an Xbox and my entire internet Porn collection. And maybe a Sushi menu.

The first time Max asked me to make her a sandwich, she might as well have been asking me to explain the difference between weak force bosons (look it up). I had no idea what she was talking about, how much mayonnaise to put in or what type of bread to use. It was utterly confounding. So when people asked me how it was being a Father, I'd say "It's like having a pet that talks." You feed a turtle, the turtle lives. You don't feed the turtle, the turtle dies. That's relatively straightforward. The turtle never says "these crickets taste funny, can I have cereal instead?" The turtle never refuses to eat something because it "looks weird." Nor does the turtle cry when you beat it at Crazy 8's.

You see, if you've never had any experience with kids, they're more like complicated turtles than humans, because in your mind, humans take care of themselves. They just don't do laundry as often.

The Panic Room

I've been slipping a bit on my blogging responsibilities, lately, and I guess I feel like I should divulge why. Roxy. And I know I tend to attribute most of my stress and anxiety to how she negatively affects my life (because, really, what fun is it reading about how cute she is when she smiles? You don't watch CNN to hear about Jimmy's new puppy, do you? No. You wait until Jimmy is older and goes on a rampage with a machete, then you tune in). But this isn't about what she is. The stress I'm suffering from is about what she will be.

Sensory Processing Disorder, whether you believe it exists or not, takes up residence in close proximity to a few scary neighbors: Asperger's Syndrome and Autism. One does not automatically assume the other, but for a new parent, hearing any phrase that ends with the word Syndrome is terrifying. She could just be one of those quirky girls who writes weird poetry and licks the light switch. I don't know. But then again, she might not.

Having people tell me Roxy is adorable and alert and sociable is fine, but it does nothing to quell my fears because, from what I understand about Autism, it can just show up at any time like an unwanted house guest who will never leave. So what I did on Tuesday is go to YouTube and look up videos of kids with Autism. Children of all ages, children at infancy, 9 months...it didn't matter. But I did this to see if I could identify any similarities, discover any new behavior that would either cancel or validate my fears. There is such a thing as Too Much Information, as immediately after watching these videos, I enjoyed a self-induced panic attack which lasted several days.

And this isn't to imply I don't know how blessed I've been; that I'm not aware of the fact that Parents sit vigil, at this very moment, next to their child who is dying or recovering from Chemotherapy. But that isn't my life. Mine is here, with my family and my little girl whose future terrifies me. Literally terrifies me.

Do I think my daughter is fine? Yes, to the degree in which I can determine her state now. But I still have this room in my brain where everything has gone to hell and my imagination runs wild. And it is a horribly dark and depressing place to visit.

Maybe you have one, too. And you can tell me how to stop turning the key and peeking inside.

Enjoy!

My Own Shortcomings

I spend everyday with Roxy and, as far as I can glean, the only new things she's learned is how to shorten the amount of time I take to pick her up when she starts crying.

My Mother-In-Law, on the other hand, seems to require only one afternoon to teach her this. (Note: she also taught Roxy how to make kissing noises but someone didn't feel like doing it for the camera).

So I guess if anyone out there can play the violin or speak German...maybe we can work out a deal. She's a fast learner. She doesn't need long. Plus, I'll treat you to lunch.

Great Wolf Lodge!

This weekend, we went to The Great Wolf Lodge in the Poconos for Max's birthday. Usually, we would throw her a party, but this year gave her the option of a weekend with her and her best friend at an indoor waterpark.

We said, "Well, Max, we can either have a party, here, at the house, and you can invite all of your friends. Or, if you want, we can take you and Ileen to a place you will get really over-stimulated, pout, complain that you're bored, eat crappy food, pay too much for arcade games, fight about who gets to sit on the lillypad, and watch other kids who ate too much crappy food vomit all over the stairs that lead up to the water slides."

She considered both for a minute and asked: "What was that second choice again?"

In terms of being able to scoot your kid out the door and say "Meet us back here in 2 hours," it's great. But if you are one of those people who have a strange aversion to diarrhea, Great Wolf is not for you. The in-house restaurants (and I use that term verrrry loosely) have little to offer other than the typical fast-food methods of disguising botulism (chicken fingers, dejected burgers, the mutilated corpses of potatoes).

As for your room key, well, you don't get one. You get a plastic (and hence, waterproof!) bracelet that has a special chip inside it. The chip is supposed to sync to the awkwardly placed sensor on your door. What I think it actually does is Mind Control. It convinces you to gesticulate wildly, attempting to wave, sweep, draw, and circle your wrist against the door jamb like some awful game of Charades until the Door finally gets it. "Oh, I know. Open the f**king door already!"

And while the novelty of being in an 85 degree indoor waterpark lasts for longer than it really should, I can only hope the rash I contracted on my arm doesn't. Which would probably explain why there are Purell Dispensers every 6 feet. I'm not joking. Those kids are poison.

I Know

This is how Max answers everything. And regardless of what she is doing, the answer is always the same. "I know."

Max, it's 9 o'clock. You have to brush your teeth.
I know.
Max, the last time you ate that much sugar, you got a terrible stomach ache and threw up all night.
I know (as she swallows the last of her donut).
Max, if I come home and you still haven't stacked the dishwasher, I'm going to go ballistic.
I know.

And it's always while she's doing the thing I'm telling her not to do, which is weird. Max, if you stick that toaster into the toilet while it's plugged in, bad things are going to happen.
Sploosh, I know.

So last night, I'm relating the highlights of the day to Leni, who had just gotten home from work. I talk about Roxy, my lunch with two old friends, and then the fact that Max, Marissa and the baby had gotten locked out of the house on their way back from school (luckily our landlord was around to let them back in).

Me: But I tell Max, "Max, this is exactly why I asked you not to lose your keys. Why I told you to take care of them. Because if you get locked out, we're not always going to be able to come back and let you in." And she says "I know."
Leni: Well, what are you going to do? Tell them to go to Starbucks."
Me: But it's so freaking frustrating...everytime I tell Max anything, it's the same stupid answer.
Leni: Yeah, but you say it too.
Me: I know.

Shipping Weight: Zero

Two weeks ago, I ordered some Plum Organics baby food from Amazon.com. They bumped me over to Target.com, who happily filled the order.

Except they happily fulfilled only half of the order. So the first portion I got last week, leaving a spattering of items left to be shipped when they became available. And then today I got a box. This box (11" Wide x 9" High x 15" Long):
Well, I thought, that didn't take as long as I thought it was going to. I'll just open it...although, it's awfully light:I want to know when someone from Target.com is going to go down to Brazil, walk amongst the hundreds of acres of tree stumps and do Grief Counseling for all of the little saplings whose parents were killed so morons in the Target Warehouse can have a job. Someone should be accounting for waste over there. Someone should be responsible. And that someone should be hobbled by Kathy Bates in a cabin somewhere deep in the Colorado Mountains.