"Oh Boy"

School has been good for us.  In the begining, it wasn't.  Before the first day, I told Juliet that Melissa and I were going to take her to school and leave her there.  That her teachers would take care of her. That other kids might cry.  I told her that she should make the kids who cried feel better by giving them hugs.

Jules smiled and repeated the instructions the way she repeats everything now.  Enunciating all of the syllables and understanding between some and most of them.  You never really know, unless she wants you to know. 

When we dropped Juliet off at school, she clung to our legs as we tried to leave.  She watched us walk out the door.  When we spied on her from the outside window, she was still watching the door, from the center of the room.  Right where we had left her. 

The teacher had told us that Juliet had stayed in that spot, the first day of school.  And the second, and third.  Not a word, not a tear.  In pig tails and purple Sauconies.  The image made us want to cry even though she never did.

When I'd ask her about school, about who her friends were or whether she rode bikes or colored, she'd 'hmph' and raise her eyebrows and turn her back to me.  Other parents have told me that it's really hard to leave a crying kid at school.  It's also hard to leave a kid who isn't crying, but only because you told her not to.

Jules' birthday was the turning point.  At school, one parent sits in on every class.  Our first "parent of the day" assignment was on Juliet's second birthday.  So, we both sat in.  We made it our mission to show Juliet that it was okay to play with other kids.  That it was fun.  That school is the kind of place where Mommy and Daddy bring vanilla cupcakes with pink frosting on your birthday.

All of a sudden, Juliet started slipping us little hints about school.

"Darien cried," she said.  "I gave him hugs."

"Good girl," I said.  "Who are your friends at school?"

"Darien," she said.

"Who is this Darien, Jules?"

"Darien went poopy on the potty," she said.  "I didn't look.  It's icky."   

"Jules, do you like Darien?"

Juliet smiled, a little embarassed, a little guilty.  She wanted me to know she was feeling those things.  But she also wanted me to know that she liked Darien.  Like like like.

Like, oh boy.

I'm not worried though.  At least not in the stereotypical dad worried about daughter with boys kind of way.  Juliet is smart.  She's confident.  I'm not worried that she's going to try to act how she thinks he wants her to act, or dress the way she thinks he wants her to dress.  I'm not worried about Juliet liking boys.  I'm only worried that one might not like her back.

Because that would feel like leaving her at school the first time.  That would be something I couldn't make all better, and that sort of thing worries me.  More and more.

Life's tough Jules.  Get a helmet.  A kitty helmet.

"Two Much"

She's not showing off.  Juliet isn't like that (though I might be).  She's bitter about the NHL lockout and wanted to give her Flyers some motivation to be reasonable.  She loves her Flyers.  Especially her Flyers shirt.  But the Eagles are the only game in town right now, and a girl has got to be entertained.

Especially this girl.

When Juliet's not watching football, she likes Yo Gabba Gabba and the Mickey Mouse Club.  When she's not watching any of those things, she's asking to watch them.  And asking.  And asking.

We talked a big game about not letting Juliet watch TV.  Then, we needed to shower.  Then, we got tired of being the entertainment.  Or just tired.  I'm not even sure I know the difference between tired and not tired anymore, but I do know the difference between the TV being on and not.

Juliet likes to draw too.  That's a good activity because it doesn't require movement.  We lay on the floor and color with crayons.  A couple of weeks ago, Juliet drew a circle, which she called a monkey.  Then, she put eyes on it.  And ears.  She noticed that it was starting to look like a monkey, and that I was excited.  So, she quickly scribbled all over it, got up and ran away.

Then we were moving again.

I turned on the TV.

Ahhh.

But then it's bed time.

"Juliet, say goodnight to Yo Gabba."

"No."

"It's time for bed."

"I do not want to go to bed."

"It's late, Juliet," I say.  "And I'm tired - I think."

"I want to watch just a little bit."

"How much is a little bit?" I ask.

Juliet smiles.  She's already bought an extra minute, and probably five because I'm a sucker.  And she hasn't even asked for three books instead of two yet.  Or for a little bit of water.  And ice.  That she wants to put in "all by herself."

As we rock in the dark, Juliet leans back away from me, smiling.  She holds her hands up to my cheeks, mushes them.

"I am a member of the chubby wubby club," she says.  "Smile."

And I do.  Because she said so.  That's pretty much how it goes.

Except for sometimes. 

"Ready or Not"

We dropped Juliet off at pre-school for the first time today.  Playschool, actually.  She was so excited.  When I got home from work, I asked Juliet what had happened at school.

"Mommy and daddy ran away," she said.

We didn't run away.  Juliet's teacher had told us at the parent meeting that we could only stay for fifteen minutes.  If you stay longer than fifteen minutes, your child will never be able to separate from you.  Ever.  So, we stayed for fifteen minutes. 

We played with a racetrack, a kitchen and a barn.  We played with each other.  We did not play with anyone else.  Juliet was well prepared for what was about to happen next.  We had told her a hundred times and read her books about it.  We had even suggested that when other kids cry, she should give them hugs.  On the way to school, she calmly explained to us that we would drop her off, that daddy would go to work, that mommy would get coffee, that she would hug the other kids who cried and that mommy would pick her up and take her home.

She was fine with it.  Excited about it.  Until is was about to happen.

Juliet didn't cry.  She answered yes when we asked if we could leave. Walking out the door, I told myself not to look back and did anyway.  I noticed Juliet about to look at me, and, well, I ran away.  Then, I think, she cried.  Or maybe she didn't.  Maybe she gave out hugs and words of encouragement.  I don't know.  I left Juliet at school, and I went to work.  And we were all so grown up.  Ready or not.

 

 

 

 

"Three Minnies"

Melissa and I were driving home from the Lodge at Woodloch.  We had been away from Juliet for four days, the longest time in two years and also forever.  We couldn't stand to be away another minute.  I drove fast.  We got lost.

We drove along winding mountain roads through forgotten mountain towns that looked somehow familiar.  We couldn't make sense of our printed directions, the intermittent street signs or our inability to understand either. 

Then, we passed a landmark.  Not a place we had passed on the way to the Lodge, but a place that I had passed before, I could have sworn.  Costa's Amusement Park.  Mini golf.  Go carts.  A happy place.  I had been there.  I did not know when.  Or how.

Until I saw the sign for Lake Owego Camp, the all boys overnight camp where I had gone when I was ten.  Ten seconds later, we passed Camp Timber Tops, the girls camp that had always seemed five mission impossibles away, but was suprisingly about a hundred yards down the road.  A minute after that, ee sped by Alice's Wonderland, the convenience store where you got to go if you had the cleanest cabin ten times in a row.  Driving past these memories in utterly the wrong direction made me happy.  I asked Melissa why.

"It reminds you of simpler times."

She was half joking.

"It's wild how easy it is to make a kid happy," I said.

"I miss Juliet," Melissa said.  "I think we should turn around."

"She gets happy for one M&M."

"So happy she pees."

"When's the last time you got so happy you peed?"

A single M&M is so exciting to Juliet that she will force herself to pee, on the potty, even if she doesn't have to.  For one M&M, she'll squeeze a drop, and be the happiest munchkin you ever saw when she gets her reward.  She won't ask for another.

The one was enough.

In M&Ms.

It takes three Minnies, apparantly.

The three Minnies were with Juliet when we got home, a present from her Bubby.  We wondered whether they came in a set, and figured probably not.  Juliet invited the three Minnies into her crib, with her two Monkeys, Monkey Pillow, Brown Kitty (who is orange), White Kitty (who is white), Purple Kitty (who is arguably purple), New Monkey, Elmo, Little Elmo, and, well, you get it.  One M&M.  Two Monkeys.  Three Minnies. 

Whatever it takes. 

I want her to be happy.  It makes me happy, happier than camp.  So happy, I could pee.  And that's pretty happy.

"I'm a Woman"

It's been a while.  I know.  Three months.  A lot happened.  Melissa is pregnant again.  Which is good, because Juliet grew up.  She's a woman.

It didn't happen gradually.

Which is weird, because I feel, well, lapped?

She still has moments where she can't help but act like a child.

But those moments are becoming few and farther in between.  I have those moments about as frequently as Juliet does.

And Juliet finds them, well, hilarious.

She's laughing on the inside.  On the outside, she's mocking me.  Juliet thinks it's funny that she's grown up in less than two years, and that I am still acting like a two year old after...I can't even remember how long it's been.  I have double digit white hairs, though.

I remember when I was little, and I wanted to be big.  And being big meant being old.  Which meant being cool.  Now I want to be little.  Being big involves too much time in the office.  It's not as cool as I had thought.  Spending the day with La La, blowing bubbles and getting an M&M every time I pee on the potty (seven times, so far) sound like more fun.  But I guess the grass is always - whiter?

I try to tell Juliet not to hurry.  I tell her to eat only french fries for dinner and to color on the floor.  And she still does those things, but those things don't seem to make her seem any more like a baby.  Growing up is funny.  People decide to grow up - it doesn't just happen.  And Juliet has made her decision.

"Girls, Girls, Girls"

Before Juliet was born, I promised her that I wouldn't dress her in pink, paint her nails or call her princess.  Pink is her favorite color.  Last night, Melissa painted her nails blue.  Then pink.  I don't call her princess, but a rose by any other name...

She also loves shopping.  Particularly for shoes.  That, however, isn't what you think.  This is not a cliche female shoes obsession.  At least not completely.  Juliet's infatuation runs far deeper.  It isn't just about silver glitter covered Mary Janes, purple Sauconies or the beloved pink booties (which I was forced to hide permanently).

Juliet is also obsessed with socks.  It started with Alex's socks.  Alex, of course, is Juliet's stuffed monkey.

I don't know who bought Alex.  He appeared one day, wearing overalls, underwear, shoes and socks.  It was all removable.  It was too early.  Juliet would try to unbutton the overalls, and, when she couldn't do it, she cried.  Same with the shoes.  And the socks.

When Juliet's fingers started working, she ripped off Alex's shoes, tossed them aside and found her first true love.  Torquise and white striped sweat socks, slightly too small for her feet.  She demanded to wear them every night for a month.  Which is gross.  Melissa bought imposter "Alex's socks" from the Gap.  Juliet could tell the difference, but forgave it because of the effort.

Then, Juliet realized that it was not just Alex's socks that she loved, but all socks.  Every time Juliet has her diaper changed, she begs, "new socks?"  At bed time, we bribe Juliet to put on her pajamas by promising to let her change her socks.  Yesterday, she looked down at her Elmo socks, and asked, "Buy Cookie Monster socks?"

But it runs even deeper than that.  On the rarest of occassions, when Juliet wears no socks at all, she carefully inspects the area between each toe.

"Toe jam?" I ask.

"Toe jam," she says.

And then she hands me some.  My princess's pea is the ook between her toes.

Mine is watching Roy Halladay give up 8 earned runs.

"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.

"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.

"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.”

"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.”

"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.

"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.

"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.