Tough Egg to Crack

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be." -The Beatles

Peanut is indeed her father's daughter. Sometimes, like in the case of her cartoonishly large feet, it's to her detriment. Often times, however, it is to mine. Ya see, you can't hide a personality flaw in a pair of snazzy shoes. One of the biggest challenges I have faced and continue to face as a parent is raising a child who is just like me in so many ways. For even I have no idea why I do some most of the things I do. How am I expected to know how to react when my daughter does the same thing?

While Peanut has inherited many of my positive attributes: humor, intelligence, good looks (ok her mom has a lot to do with those), she's unfortunately also picked up my most negative one. No, not narcissism. But thanks for your concern. Peanut and I both have the ability to affect the mood of a room - of a house - all by ourselves. If one of us is in a bad mood, everyone knows and feels it. The worst part: there is no getting us out of it and very little if anything we can do about it. How charming.

Ouch.

Her most recent mood swing took place when we were dying Easter eggs at my mom's house on Saturday night. Peanut was having a great time with her cousins and her Mema, creating works of art on this rare medium. My nephew was playing some festive music. Syracuse had just clinched a spot in the Final Four. All was right with the world. Then the mood dramatically came crashing down with one act of clumsiness. Peanut was meticulously placing stickers on a purple-speckled egg she had patiently waited to dry after coloring. Instead of completing this oblong and delicious masterpiece, she dropped it. The sounds of holiday merriment were unceremoniously interrupted by the crackling thud of hard-boiled shell on ceramic tile.

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For Goodness Sake

Let peace begin with me. 

Let this be the moment now. 

With every breath I take 

Let this be my solemn vow.

I didn't give up anything for Lent this year. Growing up Catholic, I've participated in this annual rite with equal parts enthusiasm and dread since I can remember. Recently, I gave up Facebook for two straight years. (I'm on it a lot.) Two years ago I gave up chocolate. Last year it was swearing. (Success was relative.) I would approach this as an annual test of my resilience and willpower. Like most people I know, I never had a problem sharing what I was sacrificing with anyone who didn't ask. And that's why I hesitated this year.

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Touching My Foolish Heart

One of my crazy before-I-was-a-parent goals was to introduce Peanut to real music, early and often. I couldn't fathom her being one of these kids who doesn't know The Beatles or Motown, Springsteen or Sinatra. This is one of those goals I actually followed through on, and this story is proof that my musical education method worked.

Frank Sinatra is especially significant since he was my dad's favorite. He remains one of my favorites. And now, through serendipity and osmosis, one of his songs is one of Peanut's favorites. I began to love Sinatra in high school, believe it or not. Some of my friends did as well. It was one of those things none of us admitted to each other until we all realized we had this one thing in common one day. Soon thereafter, My Way would play late-night as parties were winding down. We'd put Luck Be a Lady on as we drove down to sneak into the casinos in Atlantic City. Here's to the Losers was a song we'd play just because we thought it was funny.

Then there's The Way You Look Tonight. What made this song cool for a teenager in the early 90's was its use in a Michelob commercial around that time. This song, though, doesn't need any advertising. It's cool no matter what because it is the perfect love song.

Some day when I'm awfully low.
When the world is cold.
I will feel a glow just thinking of you.
And the way you look tonight.

Baby Peanut certainly touched
my foolish heart.

The love song became a lullaby once Peanut arrived. Those words would be the last words I would sing to her after late-night feedings. My Director would wake up to feed her while I slept. I would sing her back to sleep as My Director went back to bed. These were my nights, my moments. Our nights. Our moments. I will never forget the way she looked those nights. Magical and memorable.

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The Song That Officially Means It's Christmas

There is a song that I have to hear to officially mark the beginning of Christmas season. Our tree may be up, our halls may be decked, our presents may be purchased and wrapped, but if I haven't heard this song yet, it just doesn't feel like Christmas. And in this digital age when you can play whatever song you want with the click of a mouse or a spin of a wheel, I don't cheat. It needs to happen naturally, like when I was growing up. It has to come on the radio. (Or Pandora.)

A few years ago, I didn't hear it until the morning of Christmas Eve while I was riding around town running last-minute errands. I called My Director, put her on speakerphone, and made her listen along with me. With tears in my eyes I sat in the driveway and listened to rest of the song, singing along hysterically.

Why did we not own this growing up? No idea.

It's Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town by Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band.

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Celebrate Real Well

I plan on making the most of this Thanksgiving. It's the one holiday where there really isn't all that much stress. No costumes. No gifts. No cards, church obligations, or pictures with Santa or the Easter Bunny. There's the cooking... but Thanksgiving is usually not my holiday to cook. My Director and I are in charge of Christmas Eve. Even though we are hosting Thanksgiving this year as well, there's not much to preparing a turkey, some stuffing, and popping it in the oven for a few hours. Our guests will fill in the blanks.

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Soundtrack: The Ultimate #Halloween Classic Rock Playlist

This weekend I showed Peanut the "Thriller" video for the first time. She was terrified. Furrowing her brow, turning away at some points, even squealing in horror at others. She did this through the entire 13-minute film. Then, as the credits rolled, she asked, "Can we watch it again?"

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A Disturbance in the Force

"You see, there are two sides to every Schwartz." -from Spaceballs

The tide has turned. Peanut, forever and stubbornly a momma's girl, has switched allegiances. Could it be? Yes, my daughter has turned to the dark side. She's all about daddy now. (Wait a minute. Who says my side is the dark side anyway?)

Making funny faces
is one of our things

Through an unforseen series of fortunate events for me, I have knocked My Director off the top of the parenting pedestal. Somehow, Peanut now likes me better than she likes mommy. And I will be the first to admit that I have not earned my place through merit. No, I haven't earned it at all. But I have to tell you, it feels good. Strange, but good.

Here's how I did it: dirty politics. A smear campaign, of course. I've masterfully, not-so-subliminally turned Peanut against My Director. She gets a kick out of calling her mom "bossy," for example. Whenever she tells one of us to do something, Peanut and I will look at each other, flash a mischievous grin, roll our eyes and sing, "Mommy's being bossy again." Peanut might even add a, "Mommy, you're Miss Bossypants," for an extra laugh. She'll then look at me for approval, and I'll give it to her with a grin and a nod of the head.

The whole race to number one that I've been running since Peanut popped out has been a no-contest despite my best efforts. But true to her form, My Director could care less about the favoritism. She is not remotely amused by my tactics, however. On the other hand, I am loving it. And what do I do when she calls me out on my negative message? Call her more names, of course. "Mommy, stop being so crazy."

"Yeah, mommy," Peanut will echo. "You're being crazy."

This may make me a horrible parent and husband but I'd be lying if I said it's not awesome to be number one. It took more than five years, but Peanut finally realized how much fun I am. How cool I am. She finally sees the value of a good sense of humor. That's all it boils down to really. I make Peanut laugh. I make her laugh hard and I make her laugh often. I sometimes do it at the expense of others. Most notably her mom, who gladly serves as a constant straight man to my lunatic vaudeville act. I'm a funny guy and Peanut is a very good audience. Eats it up, in fact.

When she was a toddler,  I would tease Peanut like I do now. She, in turn, would freak out. It often led to a meltdown. Or if she was upset and I'd try to make her laugh, it would make her more upset. I was at a loss. These were not my shining moments as a dad. (As a result, there weren't many blog posts during that period.) I didn't understand my daughter and she didn't understand me. "She doesn't want to laugh," My Director would say when my efforts to cheer her up would fail. "She just wants love." My Director was good at that. And with her guidance, I became good at that too. Now Peanut knows when I'm teasing her. "Are you joking daddy?" She'll ask. "Or are you for real life?" (Yes. She says, "for real life.")

Peanut is no longer a baby and is an actual person who recognizes humor, sarcasm, and the skill of of delivering those things with perfect timing. And therefore, I am number one. She knows comedy and daddy is the king of comedy. You name it I use it and she gobbles it up like pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. Physical humor, props, jokes, song parodies. When she spontaneously busts out with one of my versions of a song, I beam with pride. In turn, I repay her with a dance party to her favorite song:


My daughter and I finally get each other and it's the best thing I've ever gotten from her.

There was a day when I wondered when my time as the number one parent would come. I never thought it would, as I wrote about here. 

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Soundtrack: New York State of Mind

"I know what I'm needin' and I don't want to waste more time. I'm in a New York State of Mind." -Billy Joel

I have always considered myself a New Yorker. Maybe part of that is envy, from growing up in New Jersey. As I've grown older, I've learned to wear my New Jersey roots as a badge of honor. I'm proud of it. Still, to use a line from that famous tourism ad campaign, "I love New York." I love New York even though my hometown is actually closer to Philadelphia than it is to New York.

"Some folks like to get away. Take a holiday from the neighborhood. "

I've just always identified more with New York than any other place. A lot of that is growing up a fan of Billy Joel, more so than Bruce Springsteen. A lot of that is my family being from Jersey City, right across the Hudson River. My parents grew up in the shadow of Manhattan. And let's be honest: New York is a hell of a lot cooler.

There is a framed picture of the New York city skyline as we once knew it hanging in our bedroom. I gave it to My Director for Christmas 2001, three months after the attack on our city:

I broke down in tears when she opened it. Because our city was healing, but still badly scarred. The wounds were still sore. The horror still fresh in our minds.

"I don't have any reason. I don't want to waste more time. I'm in a New York state of mind."

That song by Billy Joel was the last song we put on our wedding CD, the thank-you gift we gave to our guests. A compilation of songs about us, about our love and our life. Is there anything better than his slow, cool piano solo in the beginning of this song? The saxophone at the end? We were married in Pennsylvania, where My Director is from. I am born and raised in New Jersey. We lived in Hoboken, the town right next to Jersey City, at the time. But we were always in a New York state of mind. We always will be in our hearts.

"It was so easy living day by day out of touch with the rhythm and blues."

I treat New York like one of my siblings. Respect. Love. Loyalty. With full knowledge of some of its more annoying quirks and habits. Drivers that insist on speeding up to red lights. Cabs who think having the right of way means they are legally permitted to run you over. The throngs of tourists in Times Square who pose as a daily obstacle course as I make my way to the bus ride home. And whatever that appetite suppressant of a stench is on summer mornings that is so gag-worthy it makes eating anything on the go impossible.

"I'm walkin' here." (I've done this many times myself.)

Like my siblings, I accept New York's faults on most days. That's just who she is. Then there are the days it's so aggravating I lash out with an audible F-bomb of my own. But like I do with my sisters and brother, I defend New York to outsiders, even if they're right. While New York can be a jerk sometimes, she's my jerk and it's none of your business.

Most of my time in New York is spent at work. And I must admit there are times I'm walking from place to place and hear a car backfire or a crash-boom at a construction site and it'll startle me. For a split second I'll fear the worst again. But if 9/11 taught me anything at all, it taught me that our city will always be here. They can knock down buildings but they can't knock us down.

I love New York. For its strength, its majesty, its diversity. But most of all, I love it for its resiliency.

Enjoy this great live version of Billy Joel's tribute to the greatest city in the world:
 Last year I shared the story of one of my greatest professional accomplishments, and how it serves as a daily reminder of 9/11. You can read it here.

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Making Sweet Music

"How sweet it is to be loved by you." -James Taylor

One night this summer, My Director and I went to a James Taylor concert. I had bought her the tickets for Valentine's Day. Attached to the tickets, I wrote a note with the lyric I quoted above. Aren't I just a peach? Ah, but that love does indeed need to be sweet, in so many ways... and especially in times of stress.

As we drove to the concert and exited into the venue, the gas light dinged on the dashboard. Unlike My Director, I am never concerned when this happens. However, unless you arrive super early, the traffic getting into the parking lots at these events is always maddening. We inched along for twenty minutes, burning fuel like it was nothing. I opened the windows and turned off the air to save gas.

"It's rare that neither of us looked at the gas gauge all day," I offered. I knew that one would come back to haunt me eventually. After all, My Director had not driven at all that day. (For the record, after reading up to this point My Director stopped and insisted she DID suggest we pull off for gas before the light went on. We agreed to disagree. You can believe whom you choose.)

NOW I'm worried

The needle crept dangerously close to the last line before E. Now I'm worried.

So I devised a plan. An exit strategy. We would leave the show early. An hour and a half after he starts playing. That way we won't sit in traffic on the way out and run out of gas.

We sat on our beach chairs on the lawn and enjoyed James Taylor like we always do. During the intermission we used an app to find the nearest gas station. It was three miles away, off the first possible exit. We bolted three songs into the second set. We jumped into the car, which was smartly parked right by the exit, and with the air conditioning still turned off I made sure not to gun it. Even on the Garden State Parkway, I didn't go above 40 mph. I was a turtle-paced menace hugging the right lane with my hazards flashing.

As soon as I coasted off the exit, My Director stumbled with the directions that she was reading off her iPhone. (She disputes this too.) As a result, I missed the first turn. Now I'm mad. And totally spaztastic. And the best she could offer was a panicked, "Now we're driving aimlessly on this random road." I knew it wasn't a random road. It was a somewhat major highway in New Jersey, the state in which I've lived my entire life except for my four years in college. A gas station was inevitable. (Turns out, there was one on every corner.)

"Don't tell me anything anymore," I barked. "I'm taking over." Then I actually used a work/blog analogy to bolster my new-found position of authority. "Sometimes the producer needs to just produce and the director just has to follow along, trust him, and keep up." As a point of reference, My Director doesn't take any lip from anybody, especially me.

Now here's where my comment from four hours earlier finally comes back to haunt me:

"YOU started it when you said neither of us checked to see if we were running low." And there it is. I KNEW she would bring it up. It was just a matter of when.

I had little defense. So I offered, "You're always checking the gas gauge from the passenger seat."

"I can't even see it from over here."

"You lean over constantly to check the gas." (And see how fast I'm going.) "That's your job as My Director." (Now I'm back to letting her direct.)

We eventually found a station, filled up, laughed at our lunacy and fell in love all over again by listening to some classic James Taylor on our way home. No matter what life throws our way, especially minor spats over running out of gas, the one constant is always us. How sweet it is to be loved by you:

I needed the shelter of someone's arms.  

There you were. 

I needed someone to understand my ups and downs. 

There you were.

Please take some time to catch up on some DKL you might have missed. I've been doing this on summer Mondays, telling a new story and then following it with links to a list of posts about that subject. Previous topics included My Director, Christmas, our Disney trip, and our swagger wagon. This week, I'm featuring songs, AKA "The Soundtrack of our Life." Enjoy:

Earlier this month I wrote how Thunder Road became Peanut's lullaby of choice.

There is a song from a movie that helped me through the toughest time in my professional career. It's called "Little Wonders."

A few months ago, Peanut and I were obsessed with a song by Rihanna of all people. It was perpetually The Song in My Head. (There's crazy Peanut-dancing video in this one.)

Whenever we're in the car, it seems a song by one particular band will always come on the classic rock station I listen to. It's important to me that Peanut Hears The Who.

Here's another Springsteen song that got me thinking about the role we play in the dreams of our children. He tells a story during a live performance that made me realize we are their Dream Keepers.

The story of how I came to call my wife "My Director" starts with our struggle to pick a wedding song. It's all in "Allow Me To Re-Introduce..."

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Thunder Road

"So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore. Show a little faith there's magic in the night." -from Thunder Road

Sometimes you hear a song and it just gives you that feeling. A feeling that it's right. That it's good. I felt that the first time I ever heard Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. I love this song so much that I would sing it to baby Peanut as a lullaby. There's a live version that's more subdued. Something takes hold of me when those first few chords on the piano play, followed by the soft rip of the harmonica. Goose bumps bordering on tears. I feel like I'm experiencing a piece of music history every time it plays on my iPod.

I would channel that version as I held her in my arms in the wee hours of the night after one of those 2am feedings. I'm from New Jersey, where Springsteen is religion. So I wanted it to be part of Peanut's religion too. Instead of the traditional lullabies, I sang her rock-n-roll.

April 2007. Her first bottle. Daddy=sleepy.

I continued to sing it to her as she grew older. One night when she was around three years old, Peanut interrupted me when I sang this line:

Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk.

"Daddy, guitars can't talk," said Little Miss Literal.

"Some people CAN make them talk," I said. "Like Bruce Springsteen."

How cool is this picture? (I got it here.)

But I have a confession to make. As many times as I've listened to this song; as many times as I sang it as a lullaby or karaoke; as many times as I've answered with it as my favorite Bruce song, I didn't really know what it means. That is, I didn't know what Bruce was thinking when he penned it. I knew what I thought it meant. Sometimes that's all that matters, I know. But the two meanings could be totally different. (For example, when I heard Bob Dylan's It Ain't Me Babe shortly after my dad died, it reminded me of him. The song is definitely not about a father and son. Still to this day, for whatever reason it reminds me of him.) 

To me, Thunder Road has always been a song about making the most out of life, making the most out of opportunities; about last chances; about making it real. (Those are some of the lyrics, anyway.)

We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels

Recently I jumped into a Twitter debate about Springsteen's best song. (I also love Waitin' on a Sunny Day.) When Thunder Road came up I mentioned that I once sang it as a nightly lullaby. One of my Twitter friends responded, "That's an interesting lullaby to sing to your daughter." So I got self-conscious. And worried. Was I singing an inapproriate song? I always assumed there WAS "stuff" going on in Thunder Road, with the ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away and your graduation gown lying in rags at their feet. I thought, "What have I been singing to my child?" I mean, I sang it to her so much that at one point when she was a toddler she actually requested it at bedtime and would accept nothing else.

So I did what any rational dad would do. I googled that shiz. And here's what Bruce himself had to say about Thunder Road in a 1991 documentary, according to good old Wikipedia:

"So this was my... my invitation to a long and earthly, very earthly journey. Hopefully in the company of uh, someone you love, people you love, and in search of a home you can feel a part of."

A long earthly journey. Hopefully in the company of people you love. In search of a home. Thanks, Bruce. For proving me right. Perfect.

July 2012. Along our long earthly journey

It's a town full of losers. Then I'm pulling out of here to win.

One day Peanut's journey will take her beyond this place we chose for her to grow up. She'll leave to do better than we did.

Here's the live version I sing to Peanut:


A story Bruce tells in another live version of one of his classics got me thinking about our roles in the dreams of our children. You can read about that here.

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