Sunday, November 27, 2011

"I Can See Clearly Now"



When Juliet first opened her eyes, they didn’t work. She had come all that way, gone through all that fuss, and, on the other end of it, everything was a blur of lights and shadows. Understandably, she was furious. She cried. And cried…

Then, one morning, Juliet opened her eyes, and there we were. Staring at her. In awe of the moment when Juliet’s eyes connected our world to hers.

“Shit,” she said.

She would have, anyway, if she could have.

Juliet has been connecting dots ever since, seeing things, hearing things, tasting things. She takes it all in, and she poops it all out. She cries while she poops, because she doesn’t like pooping. She knows what she likes and what she doesn’t like. Only a couple of weeks ago, Juliet learned to divide her world accordingly, into “yes” and “no.”

It’s not exactly a yin yang split.

Juliet is on her changing table after her bath, crying.

“Juliet, are you hungry?” I ask.

“No.”

“Can you sit still so I can get this diaper on you?”

“No.”

“Are you pooping?”

“No.”

Juliet says something I can’t understand. She’s furious that I don’t get it. The race between the things Juliet wants and the words she knows is a tight one. Melissa and I are always coming in a distant third. Juliet is seeing and crawling and talking, running ahead of us both while we talk about how wonderful and sad it is to watch her grow up so fast.

Juliet pees before I can get her diaper on her.

“Shit,” I say.

“Shit,” she says.

She smiles, and I smile.

“Juliet, do you want a cookie?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Juliet doesn’t like a lot of things, but she likes cookies. She also likes monkeys and tu-tus, and she likes to give her ma-ma and her da-da kisses like she has an endless supply. And we like that.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

"Isn't She Amazing?"

I was describing how Juliet had put the triangle block through the triangle hole. Once. She had also taken a wrapper off a Starbucks straw. And pointed to the apple in The Hungry Caterpillar, and said, “apple.” My buddy acted impressed.

“That’s next level shit, dude,” I said.


“Yes it is,” he said. “Sit, Rosie.”

Rosie is my buddy’s dog. She sat.


It’s possible that the things I find so amazing might not be – amazing. Like when she was only a couple of weeks old, staring at the mobile in her crib.


“She loves music,” I told everyone.


It may have been that she wasn’t strong enough to move her neck. Because she wasn’t. Every parent thinks that the things their babies do are amazing. And every parent thinks that every parent thinks it, but that they are the only one who’s right.

I try to prove it to people by making her do her tricks. I know that Juliet knows that a cow says “moo.” That a sheep says “baa.” And that a pig makes a sound like hocking a loogie. Juliet knows that she can make me look like a jack-ass by not cooperating when I ask her to do her routine in front of people I am trying to impress.


She is a genius. This morning, she stuck her finger in her nose.


“This is your fault,” Melissa said. “You spent all day with her yesterday.”


“Maybe she has a booger,” I said.


“She farted and laughed about it.”


“Wa-wa?” Juliet asked.


She meant water, waffle or the Wiggles. Before I could figure it out, Juliet was pulling her purple dog, Violet, out of the toy box. She pushed Violet’s paw.

“Five minutes of sleep time music now,” Violet said.


Juliet’s lower lip curled, and quivered. The music started, and Juliet cried. I pushed Violet’s paw, and the music stopped. Juliet composed herself. She pushed the paw again, and cried, again. She wasn’t ready for bed, and she wanted me to know it. She understood.

She understands!


Juliet is making connections a minute. She pushes the button for the elevator. She’s been giving extra hugs to the Phillies Monkey since they got knocked out of the playoffs. And the other day, when I was at work, and Juliet was at home, she leaned over and kissed a boy.

Amazing?

I’m not sure…

Sunday, October 9, 2011

"Breaking the Girl"





I once had a girl. Or should I say, she once had me.


We walked Juliet to the kitchen store today at 12th and Walnut. We wanted to buy a blender small enough to make smoothies just for her. Melissa walked out of Starbucks and handed me an iced red-eye. Juliet reached out her arms, squeezing her little hands, for her coffee, or for one of us to pick her up, or both. When she got neither, she cried.


“I’m worried she thinks she can get whatever she wants whenever she wants.” I said.


“A woman in the mommy-group said they can’t really be disciplined until they’re two,” Melissa said.


“They don’t understand.”


Juliet understands that the light switch turns the lights off, and that fishes make a fishy face. She knows that the cow says moo and the sheep says baa. She’s still not sure what the three singing pigs say.


“She understands ‘no,’” I said.


“But she’s so cute,” Melissa said.


We sat on a stoop. Juliet got distracted by a stuffed bear on the dash of a parked car. She shrieked and pointed at the bear that wasn’t hers. She looked at me, wondering why I hadn’t made it hers yet. She cried.


“She to learn not to cry every time things aren’t exactly like she wants,” I said. “It’s something she should start getting used to. The sooner, the better.”


“She’s just acting the way one year olds act,” Melissa said.


“Do you want to break into that car, or should we just leave?”


It started when we first floated the no more bottle idea. Juliet knew immediately that something was up. Every morning had started with a bottle, and then, suddenly, it didn’t.


“Ba-ba?” Juliet asked.


We put milk in a sippee cup. She threw it. She refused oatmeal, and even cheese. She cried. She was on strike.


We’ve tried four kinds of sippee cups. The last ones had a nipple for a sippee. It was a bottle, only with handles. She understood what it represented, and she didn’t like it. We don’t want to starve her. We love her too much. We triple lock. She understands, and she’s using it against us.


Juliet suddenly stops crying about the bear. A woman walking a dog passes. She points at the jack russel terrier and pants. She looks at us. We roll our eyes. Time to go. Follow the doggie.


“She’s the boss,” Melissa said.


“She’s the queen,” I said.


“I was supposed to be the queen,” Melissa said.


“Ba-ba?” Juliet asked.


Of course.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

"One"

Juliet tried to put out her birthday candle with her hand. It’s funny because she knows to blow on hot food, before she doesn’t eat it and throws it on the floor. Once the fire was out, and the monkey cake was cut, Juliet didn’t want any. She wouldn’t even lick the pink icing off the one-shaped candle. Which is funny, because she licks shoes.

She didn’t get excited opening her gifts. Usually, she loves ripping paper. Or making any kind of mess. But she was quiet, distant. Not even the baby doll and stroller got her to say, “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” That’s what she says when she is excited. Usually about the prospect of drinking water through a straw.

The birthday thing didn’t register for her. It did for me. I am old.

I have a one-year-old daughter. She likes cheese and keys. She wants whatever I am holding, including the remote control. She wants to use it to put on The Wiggles. I can’t understand why.

She likes her new shoes more than any other present. Melissa got her those, to go with her dress. Juliet won’t take them off. She’s wearing them now, asleep in her crib. Melissa said I have to wait fifteen minutes before I go in and take them off.

“If she wakes up, I’m going to kill you,” Melissa said.

“We could just let her sleep in them all night,” I said.

“Are you crazy?”

“Are you?”

Yep. I know when it happened. A year ago today. At 4:44 in the morning. Melissa and I were sitting in our hospital room alone. Juliet was being tested by the doctors in another room. The sun shined through our hospital room window, and we hadn’t even made the first call to let the world know that Juliet was here.

“What do we do now?” I said.

Crazy.

Now, she’s wearing Gigglemoon birthday dresses and Missoni ponchos. It’s only a matter of time before she asks to get her ears pierced.

“How old are you, Juliet?” I ask.

She holds up her pointer finger. I give her my wallet. She pulls out my credit card, my debit card and my license. She points to it.

“Dada.”

She loves me. The feeling is mutual. Happy first birthday, Jules. I love you.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

"Into the Woods"

Melissa and I like living in the city. Juliet likes it too. She waves to everyone. She blows kisses to the crazy homeless guys who sit in front of the dog park. They love her. We know it can’t last foreover. There’s the school situation. The flash mob situation. The thirteen-year old-girl-on-public-transportation situation. So, we decided to look. For the hell of it.

Off to Narberth. To Ardmore. To Suburban Square. We drove down streets lined with trees. We got lost despite our GPS and closely avoided hitting a deer. Juliet cried.

“Don’t do it,” she said.

There are cars in the driveways, one SUV and one sedan. At least. There are basketball hoops. There are yards with grass. The only man in town who is outside is mowing his, and looking pretty pissed off about it.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“The GPS says ‘no digital data available’,” Melissa said. “What does that even mean?”

“I feel old.”

“Hi Dada,” Juliet said. Seriously.

At Suburban Square, the teenage girls were drinking coffee and texting on iPhones. The teenage boys were wearing Hollister shirts, and texting, on iPhones. The ACLU was holding a clipboard and asking me whether I supported gay rights.

“Right this second, no,” I said. “But generally, yes.”

“If those girls get into a BMW, we are never moving here.” Melissa said.

“I didn’t think they had politically agendized beggars here. I thought that was a city thing.”

“Is this better for her?” Melissa asked.

I didn’t know.

“That’s what everybody says,” I said.

“Could everybody be wrong?”

“They usually are.”

We just want Juliet to be safe. And happy. In that order. We’re willing to give up feeling young to make that happen. The only thing we haven’t done yet that will turn us into our parents is move to the suburbs. In the city, we still feel young, even if we’re not. We are not.

We were relieved to get back to the city. Juliet, Melissa and I sat on the couch, reading. She can pay attention for a whole book now. Sometimes. We all got distracted by the bagpipes. I carried Juliet to the window. She pointed down to the street, at men in kilts, marching in perfect lockstep behind a man with a baton. Juliet looked at us and smiled her big smile, all three of her teeth showing.

“Can you believe this?” she said.

Juliet watched the city’s spontaneity and we watched her. I realized that this was a moment I’d remember. It’s funny which ones stick. Melissa puts her hand on my shoulder. We want to do what’s best for Juliet, and we want even more to know what that is.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

"Good Night, Irene"

The rain had us trapped inside. Juliet cried. I caught her tears in empty soda bottles. The grocery stores were out of water. And tuna fish.

Juliet sat, surrounded by the remote, both of our cell phones and the camera. Each had bought us only a few minutes of quiet. We had even let Juliet watch the Wiggles – “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing.” Juliet crawled to the TV and bounced and clapped. She pulled herself up on the TV stand and fell, and did it again. Unable to understand the Wiggles’ secret, I wondered whether other dads thought about banging the dancer who looks like Sloan from Entourage.

While the Wiggles wiggled, Juliet was happy. When they stopped, she wasn’t.
I turned the TV off. I hate to let her watch at all. I’m afraid she’ll become addicted. Like me. Like most people. Juliet handed me the remote and pointed at the TV. Melissa and I looked at each other, both lying on the floor, dreaming of the days when Juliet took two naps. Juliet looked at us both, then cried.

“Is it too early to put her to bed,” I asked.

“It’s three o’clock,” Melissa said.

“Wahhhhhh!” Juliet said.

Everyone but Juliet was ready for Juliet to go to bed. And I knew that when she finally felt that way too, I’d want her back, in bed with Melissa and I. Watching TV and cuddling. I call this the Chinese Food Effect.

I took out my wallet. I’d sworn I’d stop giving it to her after she dropped my driver’s license in Headhouse square – I think. Juliet stopped crying and started panting as soon as she saw it.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she said.

She also says “bye-bye,” “wa-wa” (the beverage not the store) and “a-choo.”

Juliet pulled the contents of my wallet out, with her thumb and pointer finger, one thing at a time. She handed each back to me until she’d emptied it. Then, she looked at me. Her lower lip peeled forward over her chin. I knew if I refilled the wallet once, we’d be doing this all afternoon. I did, and we did.

At five, we fed Juliet dinner. Melissa made her tortellini. She ate a couple of them and then fed me the rest, one a time. When they were gone, Juliet cried.

“I can’t take it anymore,” I said.

Melissa put a sippy cup on Juliet’s tray. Juliet threw it. It hit the floor and exploded everywhere.

“I’ll make the bottle,” Melissa said. “Put on her PJs.”

I changed Juliet’s diaper and put on her Monkey pajamas. We’re convinced she loves them. I sat in the rocking chair and laid Juliet on my chest. She was suddenly too big for the spot. Her forehead knocked against my chin, and her pudgy legs dangled past my lap off the chair. Hear head seemed enormous.

Juliet fell asleep in Melissa’s arms, still sucking on the bottle. She stretched out her arms, one hand holding her pink monkey blanket. The other grabbing a fistful of her curly brown hair. It had gotten so long.

As Juliet was growing into a little girl, I was growing into her daddy. Wanting to give her everything. Worried about spoiling her. Willing to do anything so that she would never have to feel pain. And knowing that pain is part of the package.

“Would you be ugly for the rest of your life if it meant Juliet would be pretty?” I asked.

I touched Juliet’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Melissa said.

Melissa put Juliet in her crib. We stood, watching her sleep, only a few weeks away from being one year old. It was quiet. We felt like dancing.

“How ugly?” Melissa asked.

We got into bed. Melissa turned on the monitor. Juliet had rolled onto her back. Her arms and legs were everywhere. Her monkey was still in her hand.

“Look how cute,” Melissa said.

I looked. And it hit me. Chinese Food.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

"Only You"

Juliet crawls. She pulls herself up on furniture and stands. She sprouted her lower right central tooth, and won’t let us touch it. She’s unlike any other baby. Ever.

Juliet points and pants when she wants things. Teeth are her favorite. She cries when she doesn’t get what she wants, and loses interest after she does. She’s obsessed with cell phones, laptops and remote controls. She likes to push buttons, and sees the irony.

She empties wallets and pocketbooks, one thing at a time, handing them back carefully or carelessly tossing them aside. She has her reasons. She watches us through the blind end of the baby monitor, watching her. She tilts her head and smiles.

Juliet is unique.

I am a cliché. Last weekend, I went grocery shopping. Then to Home Depot, and Bed Bath and Beyond. I bought a ton of shit, and it all fit fine in my SUV.

I stopped by a friend’s house in Cherry Hill. He was in the pool with his niece. She’s only a couple of months older than Juliet. He asked me how things were going. I told him that I’m tired all the time, but hopeful that the new expensive pillows I bought would help.

My buddy explained his niece’s affinity for cell phones, laptops and remote controls. She reached for his teeth. He closed his mouth, and she cried. He opened it, and she was on to something else.

“I could have sworn Juliet was the only baby who did any of that stuff,” I said.

“There’s eight million babies doing exactly that stuff right now,” said my buddy’s dad.

“My kids did that stuff,” said his mom. “You should really have another.”

“At least I’d know what to expect,” I said.

Knowing what to expect. That would be seriously weird. And much less blogworthy.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

"Uh-oh"

Babies start perfect. Perfect posture. Perfect skin. No tan lines. Invariably, something happens. It’s only a matter of time.

Last week, something happened.

We’re not sure what. It might have been broccoli. Or a virus. Whatever it was, it caused diarrhea. For days. And days. And days.

The diarrhea caused diaper rash. The diaper rash caused panic. The panic caused us to call the pediatrician on the weekend. Again.

“You just have to wait,” the doctor said. “And didn’t I tell you last time never to call me about a rash on the weekend?”

“But this is really bad,” Melissa said.

I grabbed the phone.

“It looks like she’s wearing hamburger meat underwear,” I said.

Melissa grabbed the phone back.

“It will go away when the diarrhea goes away,” the doctor said.

“When will that be?” Melissa asked.

“There’s no way to know. Could be a few days. Could be a month.”

“I could do your job.”

Click.

After each dirty diaper, and there were a lot of them, we shmeared a thick layer of “Butt Paste” all over Juliet. She screamed while we did it, but stopped once we handed her the tube. She carried the tube around like she knew how much she needed it. There’s a pretty good chance she’s holding it right now.

On what turned out to be the last morning of Juliet’s run of the runs, I was airing her out while giving her a bottle. She lay in my lap wearing only her pajama t-shirt, the only thing in her crib that hadn’t been a casualty of the morning explosion. She looked at me and furrowed her little brow. I rubbed her back gently. She drew back from the bottle.

“This is all your fault,” she said.

“I’m so sorry, whatever I did.”

“Uh-oh,” she said.

She really did say uh-oh. She says that, bye-bye and a-choo. It’s beyond cute.
I stopped tickling Juliet’s back and took my hand out from under her shirt. My hand was completely covered in shit. As was Juliet’s back. The only non-casualty of the morning explosion hadn’t been a non-casualty after all. Uh-oh.

Juliet laughed as I held her with my one clean hand and yanked her t-shirt off with my teeth. I got Juliet into the bath only to realize that I couldn’t leave her there while I washed my hands in the sink, and I couldn’t wash my hands in her bath. It didn’t seem right. I lifted her out of the tub, dripping wet, and held her again with my clean hand while I one hand washed the other in the sink.

Juliet peed.

Perfect.

A few days later, Juliet’s diarrhea stopped. That’s about when mine started. I told Melissa.

“There’s no way you could have gotten any in your mouth, right?”

“Uh-oh.”

Saturday, June 11, 2011

"Here Comes Sunshine"

It rained and rained. Juliet’s professional pictures got postponed and postponed.

“She’s getting chubby,” I said. “What if she’s going through an awkward phase for her pictures?”

“Chubby babies are cute,” Melissa said.

“She has fat rolls on her knee.”

“You have wrinkles,” Melissa said. “Around your eyes.”

“Da ba da ba ba ba,” Juliet said.

After months of waiting, the sun and the photographer finally made it out on the same day. Juliet had developed a little cantaloupe shaped belly, but she was still mode- cute. Her eyes blue, and huge. Her hair curling above her ears. Her lips full and pouty, like Melissa’s. Juliet is perfect. And I am wrinkled.

We put Juliet in a tie dye green dress and followed our photographer around Old City. We set Juliet down on the side walk by the orange National building, in front of the little pink bakery, and on the cobble stone in Elfriths Alley. Melissa and I made monkey noises to make Juliet smile. But for the first time in a long time, nothing we did made her smile.

I jumped up and down, made funny faces and howled like a coyote. A teenaged tourist told his father I was a “homo,” took a picture of me on his iPhone and put it on the internet. Juliet was not as amused as the tourist. She was hot. She looked tired and cranky. She was not herself. I’m not sure when it happened, but, at some point, Juliet developed a self.

We found a patch of grass in the shade. The photographer suggested we take off all of Juliet’s clothes to cool her off. As I stripped Juliet down to her diaper, the tourist and his father walked by a second time. I smiled as the boy took another picture, and hoped Juliet would finally do the same.

I put Juliet on the grass. She screamed and lifted her legs. Part of being Juliet, we learned, involved hating the feel of grass. Nobody smiled. We gave up on outdoor pictures, and we went home.

Home, everything changed. Juliet cooled down and warmed up. She laughed and babbled. She held up her pointer finger, declaring that she was number one. We all agreed. The photographer said she could be a model. I said I knew. Then I told Juliet that she was growing up so fast. She said, “da ba da da ba.”

Translation: “Daddy, you too.”

Saturday, May 21, 2011

"Speeding to a Crawl"

It took forever, but Juliet knows me. She knows her nanny. And diaper changes, feedings and baths. She has always known her mommy. That was probably the first thing she knew. Lately, she’s learning about little things. It started when she found her feet.

Juliet plucks a hair from the carpet. Examines it like she’s doing a DNA analysis. It’s Mommy’s. In the mouth. Then, she blows raspberries.

Juliet touches the stubble on my face with her pointer finger. She adds the texture to the eight month old encyclopedia in her head. She’s building up a whole world in that little head. Our dry cleaning lady told me it was a big head.

Juliet and her big head are gonna crawl any second. She gets on her hands and knees and rocks, laughing. Teasing. She pushes with her hands and moves backwards. She finds a pillow, with tassles. She gets distracted. In the mouth!

More raspberries.

We cancelled professional pictures for the second time. Rain. We want to do them outside, at Elfreth’s Alley. Proof that Juliet grew up in the city, at least a little. Melissa can’t wait anymore. She wanted to do them inside, but the photographer wouldn’t do it. Said the pictures outside would be better. I’d been saying that all along. When the photographer said it, Melissa agreed. Melissa is afraid by the time we get a good picture, Juliet won’t be a baby anymore.

It’s going to happen any minute. She’ll crawl. She’ll walk. She’ll talk and she won’t be a baby anymore. And it’ll be too late.

“We’ll just have to have another one,” Melissa says.

“Three. Tops,” I say. “Right?”

“I want a million,” Melissa says.

Juliet blows raspberries. She pauses, and smiles. A million it is.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

"All That, She Wants"

Juliet squeals. I open one eye and see that it’s still dark outside. I guess that it’s two or three in the morning. It’s not. It’s 5:30. Juliet wants to get up, and Juliet likes to get what she wants.

“Wife,” I say.

Melissa rolls over and moans. She usually leaps out of bed at Juliet’s first yelp. Most days, I don’t even hear either of them. I roll over and feel the empty space in bed. That’s how I know my ladies are awake. Not today. Today, it’s Daddy’s turn.

I fill the coffee maker with water and try to figure out how many scoops of coffee to add. Somewhere between multiplication and division, Juliet becomes apoplectic. She wants to get up. I want coffee. We can’t both win.

I’m in Juliet’s room. Juliet is sucking on her bottle like a savage, eying me with a furrowed brow. She’s furious that I took so long. She’s planning to hold it against me until she’s 18. I look to the corner of her changing table, where I would have put my coffee cup, if I had it.

I carry Juliet into the living room and put her on a blanket with some toys. I head back to the coffee maker. As soon as I’m out of sight, Juliet shrieks. She doesn’t want to be alone. I’m afraid if I keep giving in, I’ll make her a brat. And I’m afraid if I don’t, she’ll hate me. If I don’t drink a cup of coffee, I’m afraid neither one of us will survive until sunrise.

I bring my mug over to the floor where Juliet is begrudgingly amusing herself, chewing on a book. She drops “Moo Baa La La La” and lunges for my coffee. She wants whatever I have, particularly if she’s not allowed. Even as I write the rough draft of this post, she’s grabbing for my pen. I don’t give it to her, and she cries. Real tears.

We wear Juliet in the Baby Bjorn even when it kills ours backs. We keep Melissa’s old Blackberry charged because Juliet wants a working cell phone. We let her chew on the camera, the remote control and our noses. Whatever she wants. We want her to like us. I’m afraid we’re creating a monster.

Juliet lunges for the pen again. She screams and I give it to her. She smiles, and drops it and cries. I sip my coffee. I don’t know what she wants. But she does. Everything. Until we give it to her.

Monday, April 18, 2011

"Tell Me, Who Are You?"

Juliet will be seven months old tomorrow. We’re going to take a picture. She’ll hold a sign saying, “I am seven months old today.” I’ll hold one too. It will say, “So am I.”

We've eased into a schedule that seems to be sticking. Juliet gets up at six and goes to bed around seven. In between, she naps twice, eats five times and poops once. Sometimes, twice. That's her routine, and she runs like clockwork.

Everything else about her changes daily.

She’s not even a baby anymore. A baby is something else. Juliet has already learned to sit up and smile and mean it. She’s not a baby. She’s a person.

She loves sleeping on her side and the Baby Bjorn. Facing out, always. She likes to touch windows and mirrors. She doesn’t get either. I explained to her that a window is a wall that you put up when you don’t want a wall. I hope that she never figures out mirrors.

Juliet likes to rip paper, and crinkle grocery bags. She likes the sleeve off my Old City Coffee cup on Sunday mornings. She gnaws on it for hours, like a puppy. A lot of things she does are like a puppy. Yelping, for example.

The other day, Melissa fed Juliet baby peas. She took one bite and gagged. Melissa tried to give her another spoonful and she made an angry face.

“She learned to make an angry face,” Melissa said.

“She learned to be angry,” I said.

Loud, sudden noises infuriate her, even more than being hungry or tired. The thing she likes the least is being alone. She cries every time, even if it’s only for a few seconds. She wants us all of the time. Or our Nanny, who Juliet told me is the opposite of loud, sudden noises.

“I thought I was the opposite of loud, sudden noises,” I said.

“I thought I was,” Melissa said.

“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet said.

On our anniversary, Juliet stayed at my Mom’s house. Melissa and I had drinks at home, before dinner. Like we used to. W e had Irish Coffees with dessert. We didn’t use to do that, but we were celebrating. Not our anniversary. Just a night out. A night dressed up. A night to stay up past ten o’clock. A night of Juliet sleeping at my Mom’s house.

“You can call if you want,” I said during the walk home.

“I said I’m not going to call, and I’m not,” said Melissa. “Do you want to?”

I smile. We open our apartment door. We change out of our nice clothes, into the sweatpants that live on the floor, next to our bed. I don’t mean to, but I wander into Juliet’s room. I pick up violet, the talking dog, and I smell her.

“Where are you?” Melissa yells.

She walks into Juliet’s room and finds me, bent over Juliet’s crib, sniffing her sheets. I don’t explain. Melissa wads a sleep sack up to her nose and inhales it.

“Ahh,” she says.

“Ahh,” I say.

“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet says.

We are seven months old tomorrow. And we’re growing up fast.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

"It Sucks Being a Mom"

The other moms were impressed when Melissa told them I said that. They thought I got it.

But I didn’t get it.

I didn’t get it when Melissa cried about going back to work three days a week. I didn’t get it when she wanted to drive around Cherry Hill looking for my Mom and Juliet when they were only 15 minutes late coming home from a walk. And I didn’t get it when I wasn’t allowed to say the real number of minutes before she started to panic.

Being a mom is different than being a dad. It’s harder.

The other night, I got a glimpse. Melissa was out. Juliet was crying, refusing to eat. When Melissa fed her, Juliet grabbed the spoon and plunged it into her mouth. Fist deep. With her other hand, she shoveled back the overflow of oatmeal lava running down her chin. She licked her lips and the bowl and Melissa’s nose. That’s how she gives kisses. For me, she cried.

I tried the bath. She laughs the best there. She likes when you use the rubber duckie to spray water in her eyes. She likes eating the bath book, or the washcloth. That night, she didn’t like anything. She didn’t like me. She only liked crying.

She stopped when the power went out.

Silence. Darkness. And the fear that it was only me and Juliet. No mommy to save us. Not even electricity to give us a fighting chance of surviving until she came home. My first thought was that disaster was imminent. My second thought was that my first one should have been to pull my daughter out of the tub.

I held her against me, my t shirt getting as wet as Juliet. We dripped quietly in the dark. Juliet giggled.

I worked my way through Juliet’s room using with my big toe like a blind-guy cane. With my free hand, I gathered her towel, pajamas, diaper and wipes. I felt around for the tube of butt cream and picked it up with my mouth.

I laid the whole mess on the living room floor carpet. I changed Juliet in the light from the moon, stars and Ben Franklin Bridge. She was quiet as I fumbled with the tiny buttons on her pajamas. She got it. She empathized.

Juliet was clean, dressed for bed. Happy. Melissa was going to be impressed with this. I hadn't even called her. Juliet sensed my confidence growing, and resumed the fit she had been having before we went unvoluntarily of the grid. I bounced her and rubbed her back. Her tears dribbled onto my cheek.

Several thoughts too late, again, I realized she was hungry. The formula was in the kitchen. The kitchen was in the dark.

I calculated each step to the kitchen, sliding more than stepping. I felt the toaster on the counter, I thought. I felt around for the formula. Juliet wailed. It was hopeless.

I reached high in a cabinet where we had stashed the Shabbat candlesticks that my Mom had bought us when we moved into the apartment. They were on the top shelf, pushed to the back, next to a box of candles and long matches. The whole shebang. I lit the candles.

It was enough light to read the directions on the formula, and to measure it out. Juliet stopped crying when she saw the bottle shaking. She panted and reached for it with both hands.

On the couch, with the lights from outside to my right and the candles to my left, I could see Juliet’s mouth open wide before the nipple was even close to it. She ate angrily. But by the time Juliet had almost finished her bottle, her brow had unfurrowed. Her eyelids had drooped, and her hand had fallen off the bottle and dangled over my elbow.

I carefully carried the candles and Juliet to her room. Juliet didn’t flinch when I laid her in her crib. The candlelights danced in the dark. I exhaled for the first time in hours.

The power returned a coupe of minutes later. I looked at the microwave clock. It had been only twenty minutes. All of them had been as petrifying as the first one. The one where I realized that my baby was in a tub in the dark, and I hadn't done anything about it yet.

Maybe I had experienced twenty minutes of being a mom. Twenty minutes of feeling like every decision was critical. Twenty minutes of wishing I could know, for a second, that everything was fine.

Twenty minutes of finally understanding why Melissa could barely wait fifteen before sounding the alarms and sending out the search party.

And still not really getting it.

Monday, February 21, 2011

"Leaving"

In the beginning, I acted like leaving for work was hard. Like I was upset about missing Juliet’s daily developments. I wasn’t. I was happy to escape the crying and the constant liquid shit explosions that necessitated load after load of wash. I wasn’t leaving. I was running away.

Things are different now. Juliet knows me. She smiles for me. Sometimes, she reaches for me. Leaving her every morning is the worst part of my day.

I can’t imagine what it will be like for Melissa. She goes back to work in a week. She’s been here every day since Juliet was born. Juliet smiles bigger for Melissa than for anyone. Melissa is going to cry. Juliet too.

We got a great nanny. We’ve had her in for a few test runs. She leaves notes that say, “Juliet loved singing ‘If You’re Happy and You Know it, Clap Your Hands.” She reads Juliet the Bunny Kisses book, and she has pictures of Juliet in her phone. Her friend told us last Saturday when they came to babysit.

Somehow, from among the not so stiff nanny competition in the greater Philadelphia area, Melissa had found two great candidates: our nanny and Marcy. When I first met Marcy, I had said that I could immediately see her as part of our family. She’d had that profound an effect on me.

Marcy had previously worked for two families. The first had a toddler and a ten year old, an incredible but rewarding challenge, Marcy had said. The second had twin baby boys. Marcy stayed with them for two years before moving to Berkley. The twin’s father passed away, and Marcy came back to help the mom. They’re still very close, she had explained, sitting at our dining room table, holding Juliet in her arms. Everyone smiling.

Our nanny’s references raved about her. They said to hire her before someone else did. But we didn’t. We risked losing our nanny so that we could check Marcy’s references.

Marcy’s references weren’t as enthusiastic as our nanny’s. The twin’s mother turned out to be Marcy’s sister. Melissa found her on Facebook. Marcy’s sister didn’t have any kids. She’s never been married. Her husband didn’t die.

Marcy’s other reference turned out to be the number to PYT, a burger place in Northern Liberties. The manager there was supposed to lie and tell us that Marcy was a great nanny. But under the pressure of Melissa’s cross examination, he admitted that he had no kids, but felt terrible about having to fire Marcy for being perpetually late. He’d said he’d do whatever he could to help her get another job. Melissa hates lateness, even more than she hates liars.

Marcy didn’t get the job. She isn’t returning messages.

We had been ready to trust her with our daughter, to do what we would do, if we were doing it. It was the biggest mistake either of us had ever almost made. But now we know, when it comes to our daughter, we have to be paranoid. Ever worried. Expecting the worst, waiting by the phone, listening for the garage door. We have to be what we’d said we never would. We have to be our parents. And the irony is that it was Marcy, not our parents, who taught us that.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

“The Nanny Diarrheas”

Thinking about nannies gives me diarrhea. You have a kid, because you’ve always wanted a kid. You have a job, because kids are expensive. To work the job to pay for the kid, you pay someone else to raise the kid. The harder you work, the more you can give your kid. Except for the thing they need most. They get less of that. They get less of you. You get diarrhea.

I kiss Juliet on the forehead every morning while I reach for my overcoat and briefcase. Twelve hours later, I peek into her dark room and listen to her breathe. I hang the overcoat up and put the briefcase down without making a sound. It makes me wonder.

Now Melissa is going back to work. We’re both lawyers, and neither of our salaries by itself will cut it. Juliet is a genius. She’ll go to a private college in New England. She’ll major in art history or creative writing. It will cost half a million dollars. We’re hoping after all that, she’ll be a teacher. Anything but a lawyer.

We’ve been googling for nannies for weeks. By “we,” I mean Melissa. There’s a million applicants. Most are shit.

One woman wrote, “I love infants and toddlers. They are cute and nice.”

Translation: It took me twenty minutes to think of and write down these two sentences. Twenty more to proofread them. That didn’t leave me any time to consider whether they made me sound stupid. Should I have spelled “nice” with an “s”?

Another woman wrote, “I have four treasures of my own and would love to bring Juliet into my home in northeast Philadelphia and watch her with my other children. Jesus saves.”

Translation: I have four kids who smear shit on my walls. Leave your child with me and they will teach her to smear shit on your walls. I’d bring them all to your house, so that we could all smear shit on your walls together, but I’m too lazy to leave my apartment. If you’re Jewish, you are going to hell.

Another woman wrote, “I am 20 weeks pregnant and am looking for a way to kill some time.”

Translation: Seriously?

Somehow, Melissa found a couple of candidates she likes. One designs jewelry and the other loves yoga. They both live in Northern Liberties and wear tall boots. They both kind of look like Melissa. It makes me wonder. We want someone who will read books to Juliet and take her on long walks. We want someone to do all the things we would do, if we were doing them.

Time out.

Juliet is crying. It’s been ten minutes. It’s time to Ferberize her.

I go into Juliet’s room and scoop her out of her crib. She stops crying. I bounce her. Her eyes get heavy. I put her down, eyes shut. Her head touches the mattress. Her eyes shoot open. She pauses. She looks at me, silently, her lips trembling. Her mouth opens wide enough to swallow our teeny tiny nanny frontrunner – still not a sound. And then Juliet erupts.

I walk out of the room. Juliet’s about-to-burst face stuck in my head. I’ve been told to let her cry, and that’s what I’m going to do.

Actually, that’s what I’m going to tell a nanny to do.

The other thing I’m going to do is say that Daddy was not home on Friday night. He was playing poker with Uncle Fox and Josh Gross. Fox and Gross were both playing for this paragraph. And Daddy lost.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

"Fer-ber is Murder"

Several months after Juliet was born, we realized that the reason she cried so much was because she was tired. Babies are supposed to nap. Ours didn’t.

There are a lot of ways to make babies nap. Only three work on Juliet. She naps on walks and in cars. That’s great, if you’re on a walk. Or in a car. If you’re home, Juliet only naps if you stand up and bounce her. If you put her down, she wakes up and cries. Then, it’s back to bouncing. At some point, you can’t bounce anymore.

So, you buy ten books about baby sleep habits. Each is written by a doctor. One of them will provide scientific support for your parenting style. Whatever it is.

On one end of the spectrum, there are hippy quacks who say it’s best to let your baby sleep wherever and however she wants. That’s natural, they say, and nature is beautiful. And that’s great, if you’re high.

On the other end of the spectrum is Ferber.

Ferber is controversial. Some people think it’s cruel to let babies cry. Ferber says it’s natural, and while not beautiful, a necessary evil. If you give a baby whatever she wants all the time, she’ll think that’s the way life works. She'll be spoiled. Or worse, a pussy.

To Ferberize your baby, you rock your baby until she is almost, but not quite, asleep. You put her in her crib and leave the room. She cries, but you do nothing, for three ugly minutes. Then, you go in and reassure your baby that you’re not trying to kill her by making her nap in a crib. You leave and wait six minutes the next time. Then ten. And so on. Melissa has been working on this all week. She sends me e-mails at work that say, “Mommy zero, Juliet two. I am going to kill myself.” She’ll call and say, “It’s been 45 minutes,” and she’ll hang up before I’ve said one word. I’ve told her she is overreacting.

I’m home by myself. Melissa is at pilates, working off the last of the McNugget. I’m under strict instructions to Ferberize. Juliet has been screaming for 45 minutes. No matter where I go in our apartment, I can hear her.

Fifteen more minutes pass. I go into Juliet’s room.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re okay. Shhh...”

Juliet stops. She looks at me and waits for me to pick her up. When she realizes what’s happening, she becomes hysterical, flapping her arms and flopping her bundle of legs up and down. Crying real tears.

I can’t take it anymore and I pick Juliet up. I bounce. She stops crying and throws up on my sweater. Her eyes begin to droop. I’m not supposed to let her fall asleep on me. Dr. Ferber says if you let your baby fall asleep on you, she’ll wake up in their crib and freak out because she’s confused. Like if you fell asleep snuggled in your bed and woke up in a field, naked. You’d be confused. Babies feel the same way. That’s what makes them freak out when they wake up in their cribs, five minutes after you put them down sound asleep.

I put Juliet back down, not asleep but close. Just before the bald spot at the back of her head touches the crib, her eyes shoot open. She screams. She cries. She snots.

It kills me.

I close my bedroom door and get in bed. I can still hear her cry, but I turn on the baby monitor. Just to see. Juliet arches her back and looks into the camera. She knows I’m on the other end, watching. Her big beautiful baby eyes are full of tears.

She hates me.

I realize why Melissa gets so upset. It’s not because listening to Juliet cry is heartbreaking. And extremely irritating. It’s because for the rest of our lives, we have to do what’s best for Juliet in the face of heart wrenching protest. One day she’ll say in English what she’s crying now. “Daddy, I fucking hate you. And where the fuck are my clothes?”

Then, Juliet’s arms stop flapping. Her leg bundle collapses. Suddenly, and for no reason, Juliet is asleep. Her arms outstretched like a little Jesus crucified by Ferberization. Napping for my sins. Melissa will be so proud. Of me and the McNugget.

I am a hero. A Ferberizer. And just as my own eyes begin to close, I hear Juliet, screaming as loud as any baby has ever screamed in the history of babies.