"Role Reversal"

It's bed time. I am sitting in the rocking chair in Juliet's room. Juliet is sitting in her little chair across the room.

"Daddy, I want to stay up until I feel like going to bed. That may be never. It also may be soon. I won't know until I am actually asleep. Can I stay up?"

"No."

"Will you at least get me cookies."

"No."

"Fine," Juliet says. "At the very least, give me your phone so I can play with it until I get frustrated and cry."

"No."

"Why don't you do everything I tell you to?" Juliet asks. "Mommy does everything I tell her to. That's why I love her more."

"Mama?" I ask.

"Yes," Juliet says. "And if you insist on putting me to bed right now, and I hope you'll reconsider, you have to sing to me like Mommy does. You have to sing 'You are My Sunshine' over and over until I tell you to stop. Or until I cry. That means stop."

"Sing?"

"Yes, Daddy. Sing."

"Socks," I say, pointing to Juliet's socks.

"Yes, these are my socks. By the way, this chocolate milk you made me sucks. I only have you make it because I don't want you thinking that you won on the milk issue."

"Bye bye," I say.

I run out of her room and slam the door. I wait, open the door and there is Juliet. Reading "Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late." She looks up.

"Can I have a glass of water?" she asks.

"No."

"Can we watch TV?"

"No."

"Can you at least take the swimmie diaper off your head? It is not a hat."

"No."

"Daddy, you don't get it at all."

And then, when Juliet is at her most frustrated point, I purse my lips and lean towards her. She can't help but smile. It's got nothing to do with me, but she knows I think it does. The truth is that she just pooped. She didn't have to do, but it bought her five more minutes.

What's five minutes in the grand scheme of things?

Back on Track in Black

It's been a while. That's my fault. You didn't beg for more. That's yours. I'm back. Juliet is back. And we're pretty much all growed up. We walk. We talk. We count to ten. We sing the wheels on the bus, when we feel like it. When we don't feel like it, we don't do anything. When we don't like what we're doing, we cry until it stops.

We pooped on the toilet, once. Juliet was in the tub. She felt it coming. It was past the point of no return.

"Mama!" she screamed. "Poop."

Melissa plucked her out of the tub.

"Diapee!!" Juliet screamed.

Melissa held Juliet over the toilet. Juliet dripped and cried. Juliet pooped. Plop.

"Bye bye, poop," she said.

That's what we always say. Bubby taught us to flush the terds instead of putting them in the Diaper Geenie. Juliet's room no longer smells like shit all of the time. It still smells like shit some of the time. As does Melissa's closet. Juliet denies that there is a hidden poop in there somewhere.

"Juliet, did you poopy in Mommy's closet?" we ask her.

"No," she says. Then she says "bye, bye," and runs out of the room laughing, slamming the door behind her. Her behavior is suspect. But we can't find the evidence. She's that good.

She's better than good. She's the best thing in the world. And she's still worth writing about even though it's been more than a year. So, we are back. On track. And in black, but only because that will make everyone think of the AC/DC song. Juliet hates that song. She hates all songs except for the "Hello Song."

Bye, bye, poop.

"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.