A Lesson in Capitalism

"The secret of success is to do the common things uncommonly well." -John D. Rockefeller
As part of our Summer Bucket List, aka the "attempt to relieve ourselves of our guilt for abandoning Peanut while we go to Europe for two weeks" list, we wanted to make a lemonade stand with her. She started asking last summer, but we ran out of time. So I promised myself we'd do it this summer. This past weekend was the time.

I had laid out a business plan:

• Signage must be big, bright, and welcoming. (Peanut and I spent a good hour laying on the floor with magic markers, creating our masterpiece.)
• Location is key. (My Director and I actually disagreed over this. She, as you might expect, turned out to be right. Dammit.)
• Give 'em something no one else has. (We made FRESH lemonade with real lemons and mint from our garden.)
• Set a strategic price point. (At $0.75 a cup, 2 for $1, why not get two? Besides, we're the only game for miles, no? If you're stopping, you're buying.)
• Create a welcoming storefront. (We went for summer bistro.)

Here is the result:

Don't you love the handheld arrow she made?

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: A Running Start

"Find the level of intolerance you can tolerate and stay there." -David Horton, Ultra-marathon runner

When Peanut did this all on her own one day as a baby, my heart melted:

Couldn't you just eat her?
Look at that face.

That, my friends, is photo proof of why you don't sweat putting stuff away as soon as you get home. If I didn't forget about my sneakers after just kicking them off and leaving them by the stairs after my run that day, this spontaneous toddler deliciousness never would have happened. (Speaking of deliciousness, she'd even stopped scarfing down that box of Annie's chocolate bunnies to try on my size 13s.) In that moment, I secretly dreamed of a day where Peanut and I would wake up early on the weekends and go running together. I dreamed of her eventually beating me. Of her forcing herself to slow down so I could keep up, but not say anything to spare my feelings. It would be one of our things. Just us.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: The Dog Ate My Homework

Peanut turns six this week. Can ya believe that nonsense? But before she hits that number, she hit another, less-significant but still mind-boggling one: 100 Days of School.

Apparently this is a big deal now. Such a big deal that a project is required. For Kindergarten. And being the forgetful procrastinators we are, we had to scramble together said project at the last minute on Sunday night:

That's 100 Cheerios made
into the number 100. Fancy.

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The Road Less Traveled

"It's not a place you can get to by a boat or a train. It's far, far away. Behind the moon, beyond the rain..." -Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz

You never know how you're going respond to a moment. How you're going to react. I always envision myself breaking down and crying like a baby the moment the Jets finally win a Super Bowl in my lifetime. Tears of joy and relief, stunned disbelief. Then I snap back into reality and tell myself that's never going to happen. But a guy can dream.

I respond to the possible in the same way. So as Peanut's first day of school approached, I anticipated being an emotional mess. My Director did too. But we both said that we needed to keep ourselves composed for her sake. We turned our anxiety into excitement, building up her first day like we were waiting for the ball to drop on New Year's Eve. I am proud to say that we did hold it together.

Sorry. I tried for a cute picture but this is the best we could do. 

Brimming with Confidence

I should say My Director held it together. I did too, except for a brief moment after I said goodbye to Peanut. I kissed the top of her head and walked out of her classroom. I looked back and saw her sitting there coloring. My little Peanut, so big now. So strong. So independent:

Where did this person
come from?

I admit I got a little choked up. I felt the tears and the lump in the throat. But I fought it off to save face.

 
Once again, she thought nothing of this next step on our journey, this major milestone. She handled it with poise and grace. Just like her mom. Not only was Peanut not scared, she was fine. So we decided to be fine too. Because we know she is going to be fine.

We know because she's a lot more brave than we were at that age. She's more sociable and outgoing too. And she's amazingly curious. More curious than I remember being. When we recently watched The Wizard of Oz with her for the first time, for example, she provided us with an insight about the movie that we had never thought of before.

The Munchkins began to sing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." My Director and I instinctively began to sing along. Peanut, in full concentration mode while wearing her first-time-seeing-a-movie game face, interrupted our duet with a question that really forced both of us to think hard:

"What happens if they follow the red one?"

Why, yes. There IS a red one.

Red one? What red one? Yes. There it is. Right there, entwined in the spiral start of the yellow brick road. A red brick road. I was speechless. In all of my years of watching this movie hundreds of times, I never paid any mind to the red brick road, let alone wondered where it led. But not Peanut. That's the first thing she thought of. If the yellow brick road leads to the Emerald City, then where does the red brick road go?  (Incidentally, in one of the Oz books there is a second, much more treacherous yellow brick road. But no red one.)

So to make up for my lack of a suitable answer at the time of her question, I am responding to Peanut's most observant and clever query:

My sweet, the red brick road leads wherever you want it to. The only rules of the red brick road are these: follow your dreams and desires and make the most of your opportunities and talents. It will be what you make of it. No one will give you anything for free. It's never easy. But it can lead to wonderful riches, of the heart, mind, and even the wallet.

Curiosity is crucial along the red brick road. Don't ever stop asking questions like the ones you already ask me that routinely leave me stumped. Wonder and it will lead you to wonderful things. Mystery, adventure, love, heartache, laughter, tears, and friendship await you on the red brick road. Embrace these things. They will make you who you will become. Experience them. Remember them.

Taking that step

Now go on. Take that first step on the red brick road, if you choose. The first of many. It's truly amazing and inspiring. The places you'll go. The people you'll meet. The things you'll see. The things you'll eat. You don't need to rush along the red brick road. Walk. Enjoy. Savor. Soak it all in. Everything is there for the taking. You just have to go and get it. But earn it.

And as always, your mom and I are here for you when you get lost, when you need to find your way, when you're not sure of the direction. We will help you get there.

So go right ahead, Peanut. Follow the red brick road. I'm right behind you.

We actually had our doubts about showing Peanut The Wizard of Oz, but she once again proved she is more resilient than we sometimes give her credit for. You can read about it here. 

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Somewhere Over the Rainbow

"Where troubles melt like lemon drops high above the chimney tops. That's where you'll find me." -from Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Every day, I picked up Peanut from daycare. Every day, I rushed in and out of that place like a whirling dervish, loath to participate in any small talk or long discussions. Every day for years I had only minimal contact with the people who run this place. Minimal at best. Certainly not as much as they deserve. This is not because they are not worthy of my time. Quite the opposite. They are wonderful, patient, understanding, loving, caring, involved people. It’s because I am perpetually in a rush. I have dinner to prepare and a dog to walk and it’s 5:45 and we have to get home. I can’t help myself. That's just me.

So to make up for all of those times I picked her up and just said hello and goodbye with little eye contact as I was climbing, then shortly thereafter descending, the steps two at a time, I am here to say what I should have stopped to say all of these years:

Thank you.

My daughter is happy. She is well-behaved. She is bright, observant, and clever. She is funny and friendly. A lot of that is nature. A lot of that is parenting. (Thank you very much.) But so much of that is you.

We moved here when she was one and a half years old. Took her from the only home and only daycare she had ever known, and she didn’t miss a beat. And that IS you.

You treated her not as a student, but as a child. Your child. You made her feel at home. You eased every fear or concern we’ve ever had from day one.

Sometimes you knew Peanut better than we did. Once she had been giving My Director a difficult time during the morning routine for a few days in a row. (I’m already at work when this is going on at 7am.) She was saying things like, “I don’t want to go to school.” When My Director asked her why she’d answer, “Because the boys aren’t being nice.”

First, I was surprised. (She’s always been friends with those boys.) Then, I was protective. (I’ll beat those boys to a pulp.) Finally, I was constructive. (I’ll ask her teacher what’s up.)

So on one of the rare occasions where I took the time to have an actual conversation with someone during pickup, I asked the teacher on the playground if Peanut ever seems unhappy, if she ever complains, or if she notices her ever getting a hard time from the boys.

“Are you kidding me?” She answered. “(Peanut) puts them in their place. If they mess with her she says, ‘Oh, no you don’t.’” (That's what I thought.) “She’s fine," she continued. "You’ll never have to worry about her getting pushed around.” THAT’s my girl.

"So what you're saying is, she's playing us?" I countered. 

"You got that right."

Of course she is.

As a newish dad, what it took me a while to realize about daycare is that it’s not just a place you pay to watch your child. It’s much more than that. It’s people you trust to help your child grow. To help her succeed. People who potty trained her. (Because she just would NOT go for us.) People who cared for her when she was sick. (Because it takes a while to get home from the city after you’ve received THAT phone call.) People who showed her love, not anger, when she did something wrong. (Because they knew she was sorry.)

People who became her family, a part of our family. People who we talk about around the dinner table. People she looks up to. People she loves.

This week, Peanut walked out of her daycare for the last time. It was a milestone. A sad one. It's hard to believe that this place that has been so much a part of our every day lives will suddenly fade into the sunset of our memories.

Walking through the door
one last time

All of the good times, the sick days, the friends we all made, all because of this place. Now as we count down to Kindergarten, I realize she is ready and confident to take that step because of them. So there is one thing that I want to say to the people who have meant so much over the past four years. It doesn’t seem like nearly enough, but it is sincere from someone who wishes he had said it a lot more:

Thank you.

This post first appeared on Barista Kids in June, shortly after Peanut's pre-K graduation. I had a little fun with that rite of passage in a previous post. If you want a good laugh, you can read it here.

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#PayItForward: Thanks a Hundred Thousand, @DaddysinCharge

Most Fridays, I will share with you a post from another blog that I find particularly moving, interesting, or funny. They will be posts that fit the DKL mold... ones I think people who read this blog would enjoy. Another blogger I follow started something similar. I also wanted to do this because someone paid it forward to me, giving me tons of new followers. So this is the least I can do...

My birthday is August 8th. I tell you this not only because it gives you a little less than three weeks to get me something fabulous, but also because that's the date I had targeted to reach 100,000 page views. Once I saw that milestone was in my sights, I thought it would be a cool "gift" to aim for. Turns out, it happened way ahead of schedule. Like this past Tuesday:

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Another One Bites the Dust

"Grow we must, if we outgrow all that loves us." -Oliver Wendell Holmes

We've marked another rite of passage. Retired another old ballplayer. I was winterizing the backyard last month, putting our patio furniture in the garage for storage. I try my best to keep the garage neat over the winter even though I jam a bunch of stuff in there. I may not be good at fixing things, but I do organization well. Even if I'm organizing tools that I do not know how to use.

Summer neatly stacked away.

I'm big on consolidation, and creative yet safe stacking. There is an alcove in our garage where we store the Peanut's many vehicles. It's like a mini-parking garage at a kiddie shopping mall. Her wagon, her tricycle, her scooter.... her stroller.

The Peanut uses these things rarely, if ever, when it's cold outside. I was running out of room. And I called My Director to come in from the kitchen. (What she was doing in there, I have no idea since as you know she is NOT the cook in the house. She was probably stacking the dishwasher incorrectly. Bless her heart.)

I couldn't believe what I was about to say. But I said it nonetheless, "I think it's time to put the stroller in the attic."

Silence. Then a sigh and, "I guess you're right." (Let the record state that My Director said I was right.)

In that moment, we admitted to ourselves and each other that we don't have a baby anymore. She can walk. When she's tired, or clingy, she's carried. But the stroller, once a cornerstone of our existence, has become obsolete. A device once so crucial to our lives as parents, especially considering we lived in a city for the first 15 months of the Peanut's life, was now useless. Taking up space and collecting dust.

This reminded me of the moment a few months earlier when my wife finally took down the Peanut's potty training sticker chart. I called that chart a relic from our not-so-distant past. But the stroller is no relic. It's a monument.

I remember my solo Mondays with the baby Peanut. Back then, my days off were Sunday and Monday. After breakfast we'd load up the diaper bag, put the leash on Luna, and go out on the town. Bagel store, park, food shopping, dry cleaning. We were errand buddies. The three of us. Whenever we'd go inside, Luna would stow away quiety underneath:

Chunky Baby Peanut, with Luna underneath

The stroller was also the source of one of my wife's many hormone-induced meltdowns during pregnancy. Because she wanted to make sure we got the one she wanted - and in orange (it's a very significant color to us.) I actually had to call both of my sisters, who were on record as saying they were giving us the stroller as a gift (key word: gift), to tell them to make sure to get the Peg Perego 3500 or whatever it is... in orange. You know how awkward that is? To call your siblings and stipulate which $350 mechanical child transportation device they'd be purchasing for us? And that we'd accept no substitutes?

Flowers in the attic.

As I lugged that bulky albatross through the kitchen, up the stairs, into our bedroom, and up the attic stairs, I had an epiphany. We may never have a use for this thing again. Due to recent events, we're 50/50 at best to have another child. Maybe even less. And we've accepted and are happy with the reality that we may be a one-child family for good.

Still, it's amazing how for a time in your life certain things are so important, and so needed. And then in a blink, they're in the attic. With the crib, the car seat, and the baby swing.

I just hope the Peanut doesn't retire me to the attic anytime soon.

Click here to read about the sticker chart I mentioned above.

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Puttin' on the Hits

"I just didn't want to hit a slow roller to third base and have it be replayed forever." -Derek Jeter, on hitting a home run for his 3,000th hit.

It's not often you get to witness history. I was fortunate enough to be there two years ago when the Yankees won their 27th World Series. I happened to be in the right place at the right time when someone had a free ticket to offer. (Click here to read about it.)

If you can't be there (and with the cost of taking your family to a ballgame these days who can?), then watching it on television is the next best thing.

This is the situation I found myself in as Derek Jeter sat two hits shy of 3,000 for his career.

He stood on the precipice of baseball immortality (only 27 other players in history have ever reached 3,000 hits). And I realized one thing: The peanut was monopolizing the only television in the house while watching a movie. "Meet the Robinsons," in fact.

My wife and I were lounging by the pool at my parents' house. I had checked my blackberry and saw that Jeter had singled in his first at bat. So I told my wife, "We're going to have to interrupt her when Jeter comes up again. He's one hit away."

"Then you'd better start laying the groundwork now," she wisely answered.

I opened the sliding glass door and entered the family room with a pit of dread bubbling in my stomach. The same feeling I might get when I was a boy and I knew I had misbehaved and my father was sitting right there in his recliner.

Only this time, I was dreading a confrontation with my 4 year-old daughter.

"Sweetie, in a few minutes I'm going to pause the movie so we can watch the Yankees for a little bit."

"But I don't want toooo," she whined, almost on the verge of tears. A morning in the pool had taken a lot out of her.
"Not right now. In a few minutes. And it'll be real quick. Then you can watch your movie again."

"Noooooo," she offered feebly.

I went back outside, hit refresh on my blackberry, and saw the Yankees were due up again. And Jeter was hitting second that inning.

I gave it a minute, went inside, and ripped off the proverbial Band-Aid.

"I'm going to put the Yankees game on now, sweetie. I want you to watch too because something big might happen here."

She protested, but there was no stopping me. And as Brett Gardner was called out just barely as he dove head first to beat out a ground ball to second, I entered Yankee fan mode. Hands cupped over my mouth and nose. Then clasping them on top of my head. Rocking back and forth as I stood in place.

No longer were the peanut's pleas relevant. We were watching this no matter what. I opened the sliding glass door and yelled to my wife, "Hon, Jeter's up." and she knew.

She came in. And we watched. As a family. The peanut on the couch. My wife sitting on the floor next to her. I standing behind them in hopeful anticipation.

He fouled off a few pitches. One he hit straight back, meaning he barely missed it. The count went full. "He's facing one of the best pitchers in the league here," I offered to my otherwise ambivalent audience of two. I was referring to Tampa's David Price.

#3,000 (image courtesy of yankeesdaily.com)

Then: the pitch. A curveball that didn't quite curve enough. Jeter, not a home run hitter, blasted it into the left centerfield seats for number 3,000. Awesome. Captain Clutch does it again. Only the second player ever to hit a home run on his 3,000th hit.
I yelled, "He hit a home run!" (Very original). "Woooooo! He did it!"

I was fighting back tears as I looked over at the peanut, only to see her holding her blanket in front of her face saying, "I'm NOT going to watch."


About five minutes later, after we watched the celebration and the excitement had worn off, I knelt down to my daughter.

I told her, "I'm glad we got to watch that together. Thank you for letting us watch. You don't know it now, but that was a big deal and you'll tell your children about it some day."

To which she answered, "Daddy, may you please put Meet the Robinsons back on now?"

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Miles To Go

"A lot of people run a race to see who is fastest. I run a race to see who has the most guts." -Steve Prefontaine

Preparing for a half-marathon is a lot like packing for a road trip. You gas up the car, you make sure it's stocked with the music and snacks you'll need, and you get as much rest as you can.
But no amount of planning could prepare you for an unexpected tire blowout just a quarter mile in.

That's right. A quarter of a mile.

I had tweaked my left hamstring during what was supposed to be a non-stressful short training run earlier in the week. Five days of rest, ice, heat, and stretching made it as ready as it could be. I wasn't worried about it, but it was definitely in the back of my mind.

I felt good. Confident. And a quarter of a mile in... less than three minutes... my hamstring grabbed. And I thought to myself, "There is no way I'm not running this race."

I pulled to the side and stretched it as much as I could. For about two minutes. Then I started running again. And there it was again. Like someone punched me in the back of the leg. Would it get worse if I kept going? Probably. Will I reach my goal of finishing in less than two hours with this injury? Probably not.

Hobbling, I swore under my breath. Hobbling some more, but faster, I swore out loud.

And then, a man with a prosthetic leg - his left leg - passed me. And that put it all into perspective. "I have nothing to complain about. No excuses to make," I thought to myself. And I ran the last 12.85 miles slightly hobbled. Sometimes grimacing.

As I sit here icing my hamstrings (the right one is really sore because I was over-compensating), I'm thinking about all of the wonderful people I saw along the way. The two funny guys running the race dressed as bananas. All of the kids lining the course offering their hands for therapeutic and inspirational high fives. The most wonderful of all, of course, being my wife and my daughter.

I dragged the two most important women in my life out of bed before the sun rose, drove them an hour away, then left them in a parking lot to fend for themselves so I could get to the starting line on time. Neither of them complained. Not once.

The peanut even made a joke in the car ride there, as we sat in a bit of traffic heading to the parking lot. Hearing the voice of the GPS, she chimed in with, "What are you talking about, lady?" Shortly thereafter, sensing my mounting frustration at the traffic, she informed me that "Everyone is at the race right now daddy but not you." She sure knows how to break the tension. Or pile it on. Depends on your mood.

Mile 9

During the race, they smiled and cheered and clapped every time I saw them. I caught a glimpse of my daughter around mile nine (1:23:20), my hamstrings screaming, her little face smiling, her little hands clapping. I wanted so badly to stop and walk a couple of dozen paces just to give my legs a quick rest. But I didn't. Not until I saw them. I wanted to look strong for them. I wanted to look happy. And healthy. They didn't know a thing. Later, my wife told me how great I looked. How fast I was running.

Little did they know they carried me.

My iPod was filled with songs about them. Songs they play in the peanut's dance class. A Bruno Mars song for crying out loud because it makes me think of my wife. I had Guns 'N Roses and Bruce Springsteen too, of course. My wife and my daughter were with me every step of the way.

Half-marathons are exhausting

I guess that's why the peanut was so dog tired that she passed out the minute we got back to the car, sleeping with her mouth open like some drunk on St. Patrick's Day (coincidentally, her mother sleeps like that too).

Few things in life are more rewarding than crossing a finish line. Even though it took me more time than I had anticipated (2:04:22). But to have your child witness it every step of the way, from that first frigid training run in February to your grimace-inducing half-sprint down the homestretch of the race... is a parent's dream.

Mission Accomplished. For now.

I hope I showed her that no matter what life throws at you, now matter how hard you've prepared, there are going to be obstacles. And overcoming those obstacles takes guts. Takes character.

And I'm not done yet. There's a half-marathon in Seaside Park in October and I'm seriously considering it. Without injury, I can get under two hours. I know it.

There's always a next time. But for a few days at least, I'm going to enjoy this time.

Click here to read about my first half-marathon. Peanut was a few months old at the time.

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Sideline Chatter

"It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn't." -Barbara Kingsolver

I had to see it for myself. And when I did, I was in stunned silence, disbelief, and amazement.

There she was, doing it all by herself. Without one of us by her side. Independent. On her own.

The peanut is now old enough to take the kids-only class at The Little Gym. Just teachers and kids. No parents. No hand-holding, carrying, or dragging. No kidding.

We are now relegated to sitting outside the classroom, looking through the big glass windows, watching our daughter like she's a little fish in large tank.

My wife had taken her to the first class of this new semester the week before, and told me how great she did. I needed to witness it for myself.

Adding to my pride and my heartbreak at the same time, the peanut proved she doesn't need us to do this with her anymore. Tumbling, climbing, crawling, jumping, balancing, running. All by herself. 

Just another part of her life where she's outgrown us already. Just weeks before her third birthday, I find myself taking stock of the things where she no longer requires our assistance.   

Big things like wearing underwear and doing pee-pee on the potty. Little things such as eating a whole hot dog, bun and all, without the need to cut it up. Big things like drawing a circle, recognizing letters and numbers, identifying colors. Little things like going up the stairs by herself, holding the railing and climbing them one foot at a time.

I find myself asking my wife, "When did that happen? When did she learn the color brown? The color white? To count to 30?"

There we were, sitting in the lobby of The Little Gym with the other parents. We watched in wonderment as our children performed the same tasks that we sometimes had to convince them, urge them, beg them to perform. Imploring them to pay attention, to listen, to follow instructions.

They were doing all of this now without us. And all we could talk about was how great our kids were doing, how big they're getting, how much and how fast they've grown.

Were we just getting in their way before?

It makes me wonder: what's the

The crib she's outgrowing but has no interest in leaving? The tricycle in the garage whose pedals she had trouble reaching this past spring and summer? The little brother or sister we're thinking about adding that she says she has no interest in having? 

We'll continue to sit on the
sideline, and watch as she passes each milestone, and make sure we make a big deal out of everything every time she does.next big thing that will no longer be a big thing?

But to her, it's not a big deal. it's just part of growing up.

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The First Cut is the Deepest

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." -Elizabeth Stone

After more than 2 1/2 years, it had to be done. My daughter's curly blond locks were getting unruly. Out of control. Entangled in a web of chaos and concern. Brushing her hair was becoming a painful task. It had to be done.

So my wife made an appointment for a haircut.A $20 haircut, mind you. For a toddler.

Her greatest fear: cutting off those signature curls that we - you - love so much. How short do we go? Will they grow back? How much is too much?

Also, we didn't know what to expect from the peanut. She can be hesitant, unsure, and downright stubborn when new experiences are involved. Will she even go through with it? Will she sit in the chair? Will she cry? Throw a fit? Run away?

She did none of that. All she did was insist my wife sit with her. And I stood there and watched.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and smiled. Because she enjoys looking at herself in the mirror. And why shouldn't she? She's beautiful like her mom, and self-absorbed like her dad.

She titled her head back and forth, all the while grinning, as the hairdresser wet her head. I stood as a casual observer.

Then came that first cut. It seemed to happen in slow motion. The blades of the scissors methodically closing together with a chunck of my daughter's hair in between them.

In an instant, it was done. The hairdresser caught the discarded locks and transferred them to my hand.

And I nearly lost it. Tears welled up in my eyes. I started doing that silent, shaking, cheek-rattling, heavy breathing, hide-you-are-crying-at-all-costs thing.


This is a part of my daughter that is now gone forever. The only tiny evidence of it rests in my large hand. A part of her personality, her image, her aura... as miniscule as it may be... snipped off with much anticipation but little fanfare.

This is part of my little girl that's been with her for her entire life. And the enormity of that thought overwhelmed me. The finality of the simple act of cutting off a piece of her hair, didn't seem fair. Neither did her inability to acknowledge it.

She didn't mind at all. She continued grinning, head-tilting. But I felt my little girl grew up a little bit more at that moment. She had moved on. Taken another small step toward wherever she is going. I see her walking up the stairs one foot per step now, instead of two.

She's growing up.

Putting the past behind her. Sooner than I can imagine, she'll kick the dust of this sleepy old town off her heels, and will see the world.

In her wake, you'll find her dad... a blubbering, sobbing, nostalgic mess.

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Every Step You Take

"The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest." -Thomas Moore

How many times do you hear it? "Wow, they grow up so fast."

"Enjoy this part of their life," parents of older children say. "They only grow up once."

Luckily for us, my wife and I are doing that as best we can. We're watching. Listening. Enjoying.

And just when you think you're going through the motions of another mundane evening, trying to corral your wild, headstrong, running child into her bed, she'll do something you've never seen her do before. Something that makes you realize how far she has come. Something that while insignificant to the casual observer, is in fact very significant to you because you are with her every step of the way.

They make progress without even noticing. So we as parents have to notice. We have to remark, document, and congratulate... without making too much of it.

Wrong shoes... wrong feet

They grow up so fast, and want to grow up so fast. Want to put on their own shoes and argue with you about which one goes on which foot. Want to pick out their own clothes even if they don't match. Want to walk up and down the stairs without holding your hand even though they are too short to reach the handrail.



Stairs aren't a problem anymore

 Well now she can reach the handrail. Now she does know which foot is which. Now she's understanding that blue stripes don't go with green polka dots.

Sometimes she just doesn't care and mismatches anyway.

And now, what once seemed like a tall task, an impossible mission, an unconquerable obstacle, is in the rearview mirror.

I can't count how many times my daughter has asked for help when she's wanted to get up and jump on our bed. Every time. All the time. Too many times to count. How many times did she ask for help when she wanted to get off the bed? Every time. All the time. Too many times to count.

"Help" and "Up" were soon replaced by "Go up there," then "On the bed, please." Every time, all the time, too many times to count I would say, "you can do it... go ahead." And every time, all the time, too many times to count I would give her a little push on her butt to get her over the top. Why are our beds so high off the ground, anway?



Climbing on furniture is second nature now

 But just last night, she did it herself. Without even asking. She wanted to jump on the bed and play up there with her little inflatable beach ball. Without even thinking, she threw the ball up there, used the wooden frame of the bed to propel herself upward, grabbed fistfuls of comforter tightly in both hands, and hoisted herself onto the bed.

I was so happy, so sad, so excited... I nearly freaked out.

Moving upward and onward

And every time the ball rolled off, and she said "daddy get it," I told her she can get it herself, and she did without hesitation. Sliding off the bed, retrieving the ball, and crawling back.

What will she not need my help with next?

It didn't occur to her what a giant step she had taken. It did occur to me that there is now one less thing for which she will need my help. That's what you get when you say you want to raise an "independent" child.

They grow up so fast.

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There's No Place Like Home

We've never been a couple to lament what our daughter is doing when we're away from her. With the exception of those first few weeks when we were settling into her being in daycare, we've actually embraced our time alone together, childless, whenever the rare opportunity has presented itself. Weddings. Weekends. Whatever. Our marriage - every marriage - needs 'us' time.

In fact, I get more upset leaving Luna behind. I just know the Peanut is going to be alright. She's resilient, she's easygoing, she's human. Luna is the one I worry about. Will she eat without us? Will she poop without us? Will she be happy without us? I can't explain it, but my first pet gets more babying than my first baby.

So it surprised me on the day before our move, when we shipped Peanut off with my mother-in-law, same as we do whenever we need or have a weekend away, that I got emotional.

It was puzzling, yet simple to explain. In that moment, as we strapped her into her car seat and she looked at us and waved bye-bye, I realized something so profound in its finality that I became overwhelmed, a sobbing mess: She will never step foot in this building again. That's it. The only home she's ever known her entire little life, left behind in the rear view mirror. We were staying to pack those annoying final dozen or so boxes and then ultimately move to our house. She was gone. Her last moments, her last memories, her last meal in our condo were already in the past.

And that's why I became so emotional. It was her first 'last.' For all of the times over the past few months that we said we were 'so ready' to leave Hoboken for more space, a backyard, a driveway, an easier daily routine, I was finally sad. Not because we were leaving, but because she was leaving. It wasn't doubt, just sadness. For the end of an era. Not in our lives, but in hers. Peanut: Born in the city, raised in the suburbs.

Soon our condo, the first 15 months of her life, will be a distant blur. The place where we became a family. Where we brought Luna home and house-trained her and spoiled her so rotten she now sleeps in the bed with us and only poops when one of us - not someone else - walks her to certain spots. The place where we hosted our first family Christmas Eve - a big deal to the Italians. Where we purposely painted the second bedroom a bright yellow knowing in the backs of our minds that someday far far away we will have a child, even though we were in utter denial and insisted it made this windowless room feel 'brighter.' No color could have made that room as bright as the the little girl who inevitably inhabited it. Despite its measly 920 square feet, that condo became our home.

Great gates

But Peanut has quickly long forgotten its claustrophobic charm. Now she has room to roam, even tough we now employ wonderfully clever contraptions known as baby gates, to keep her away from stairs and contained to one part of the house. She has several play areas now. And runs around the backyard barefoot, a little Jack Johnson chasing the dog and laughing. Her room has not one, but two windows. And even though I'm not crazy about the periwinkle blue it's painted, she loves her new big bedroom.

One song played over and over in my head as we moved that June Saturday. Peanut's ability to adapt to her new home without a blink makes the refrain from that song even more appropriate than I first thought when I was singing it as a joke to mask my emotions about leaving the only place my wife and I have lived for the past nine years:

"It's the end of the world as we know it... and I feel fine."

She feels fine... and has settled in nicely

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