"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.

"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…

"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 12^th 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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.