Matching Wits

"Better a witty fool than a foolish wit." - William Shakespeare

Peanut should have a new name. If I were still blogging regularly and chronicling our daily interactions and experiences, I would have renamed her “Tweenut” by now.

You see, our dear Peanut Tweenut recently turned 12. TWELVE! And she is every bit the aloof, dismissive, self-centered know-it-all that we you were at that age.

Don’t get me wrong... I still love her to pieces.

And every now and then, we get to experience the Peanut we know is in there. The Peanut that will one day grow into a mighty oak. (Do peanuts grow into oak trees? I digress.)

Sweet, funny, intelligent Peanut.

This is the story of one of those times.

Tweenut said something so witty, so clever, that it prompted me to wipe away the cobwebs from DKL once again and fire off this blog post. We were in the car, just me and her. I was so proud and impressed that I had to call My Director from the car to tell her what she had said, after I was done laughing.

Luna and Matey now watch over us from
on top of the cabinet in the living room.

It all starts, as many of our stories so often do, with our dogs. Now, I haven’t shared this - or anything, for that matter - with you yet, so we’re gonna do it right now, fast and painful like ripping off a Band-Aid. Here goes: our two beloved dogs, Luna and Matey, have gone to the rainbow bridge. Luna in November. Matey in January. It was a very difficult couple of months. We still love them and miss them so very much and sometimes can’t believe they are gone. They were sewn into the fabric of our family. Still are. Despite their being gone in body, they remain with us in spirit. Always. And here’s an example.

So Tweenut and I were in the car, going from soccer to lunch to lacrosse on a typical busy suburban Saturday. Even though I was following the GPS, I was unfamiliar with exactly where we were and shouted, in Matey’s voice, “Where are we?!” (You don’t give your dogs voices? Shame on you.)

Matey’s voice is best described as laid back and matter-of-fact, like Thomas Haden Church’s character on Wings. But with a lisp. (Because when he lost his eye in a knife fight before we adopted him, it affected his speech. What, your rescue dogs don’t have a dark, made-up back story? Shame on you.)

“Where are we?!” I shouted in Matey’s lispy voice to make Tweenut laugh. Then I proceeded to remind her of a joke My Director and I made the previous weekend about Matey posthumously. (They still amuse us from beyond.)

Since Luna died first, and since she was the one true love of my life (apologies to My Director. She's aware), we asked our priest to come to the house to bless her ashes. It was a sweet little ceremony, if you could even call it that. I cried like a toddler who’s upset at the color of his fork.

Recently, Tweenut asked why we hadn’t come around to getting Matey's ashes blessed. (Typical second child syndrome is why.). This was refreshing thoughtfulness from Tweenut so I reached out to our priest again. But this time I told her she didn’t have to come to the house. She said just bring his ashes to church on Sunday and she’d do it after the service.

The first weekend after that we were away. The second was Tweenut’s Sunday birthday party with our families. The third we were just being lazy and didn’t want to go to church. And that is where our Matey shenanigans begin.

My Director had recorded all of the Jurassic Park movies for us to watch. So instead of going to church, we decided to lay on the couch and binge a little. (“Binge a little” being an oxymoron, of course.)

At one point during our sloth in this season of Lenten sacrifice, my Matey madness kicked in. So in full throated Matey voice I proclaimed, “Guys....” (Matey always starts his proclamations with “Guys...” I hope the PC police don’t take offense that he’s being hetero-normative or whatever. If they do, shame on them. He is a dead one-eyed dog, after all. Give him a break.)

“Guys,” Me-Matey said. “My ashes are sitting here in this cabinet, a shelf below Luna’s, mind you. Unblessed. That’s ridickerous.” (Matey couldn’t pronounce “ridiculous.” Another consequence of the pre-adoption knife fight.)

Matey's right. His ashes are on the bottom shelf.
Luna is perched on the shelf above him.

“And instead of getting me blessed today, you’re watching Jurassic Park?!,” Matey continued. (Jurassic, of course is pronounced “Jurathic” in Matey’s voice. Just so ya know.)

But he wasn’t done. “A movie that’s 25 years old! Daddy was a senior in high school when it was in theaters! Again...ridickerous.”

He was upset. And he had good reason to be. He sits there unblessed and physically and spiritually below Luna in the pecking order even in death. My Director and I had a good laugh at that one. I love that our dogs still bring us such joy even though they’re no longer with us. (And I admit, we’re a little crazy.)

Fast forward to the aforementioned Saturday suburban car ride. After my impromptu, “Where are we?!” in Matey's voice I reminded Tweenut of the Jurassic Park gag with My Director and me and Matey's ashes. Like a true Tweenut, she had gone out with her friends by that point in our Lazy Sunday.

I started doing the gag and she chimed in immediately, adding in Matey’s voice without skipping a beat: “Monstey would be so offended.”

Monstey, you see, was Matey’s favorite toy. It was a dinosaur. He slept with it, played with it, he adored it. He even made sweet love to it one Christmas morning: (You can also hear My Matey voice in this video.) And therein, my friends, lies the genius in Tweenut’s comment. She advanced the story. She used wit and improvisation to do it. She was smart and clever and didn’t miss a beat.

I told her this. I then explained wit to her. “It’s humor with intelligence,” I said.

“Anyone can make a fool of themselves and be a clown,” I told her. “It takes brains to be witty. To be truly funny."

This may be a small thing. You may be reading this and asking me, “This is what you re-emerged from blog hibernation for?”

Yes. Because it’s up to me as a dad to recognize the little things that are actually big things. Because Tweenut is trying out her sense of humor. She’s pushing the envelope sometimes and crossing the line others. We tell her when she crosses the line. When she's decidedly not funny.

And I need to tell her when she gets it right. I need to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Especially when she’s the one being extraordinary.

I’m not saying I'm going to hand out participation trophies. But as she navigates these awkward and sometimes unforgiving years, I'm the one who needs to realize that she’s still a child, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Even if she doesn’t act like it because she’s not my baby anymore.

Especially with “Tweenut” in full force.

You see, a dad and his Tweenut don’t have a lot in common. At least, not this one. One thing we do have in common, if I may be so bold, is wit.

I am so proud of my witty daughter.

“Monstey would be so offended,” is proof that Tweenut is not going to be the clown. It's easy to be the clown. To get the cheap laugh. But she’s smart. She gets it. Wait for your comedic moment and pounce without compromising your self-worth.

I should stop and celebrate more when the future comes out of my child’s mouth and it’s a bright one. If I don’t, then shame on me.

PS: Our newest member of the family arrived for Christmas. Meet Mocha:

She has brought laughter and joy these past few months and even has her own voice already. 

We just came upon the anniversary of Matey joining our family, which reminded me of THIS POST.

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Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

"For it's hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind, if you're young at heart."-Frank Sinatra

To call this post my triumphant return to blogging would be assuming two things: 1) That I will once again write and post here consistently. 2) That this post is good enough to qualify as triumphant. I can't make any promises regarding #1. The mood just struck me, so I wrote this. As for #2, you dear reader will be the judge of that. So without further ado...

It's the end of an era. The turning of a page. A rite of passage. And whatever other cliche you wish to ascribe to what happened last week. We loaded Peanut's play kitchen into the swagger wagon and drove it to my brother-in-law's house in Vermont. What once stood at the center of Peanut's make-believe universe and a key part of our home for nearly a decade will now provide years of joy, laughter, and memories to our nephew and niece in a far-away place, only to be seen by us once or twice a year.

While I am all for de-cluttering and organizing - a place for everything and everything in its place, I like to say. (Actually, I never say that. That's a Ben Franklin quote if I'm not mistaken. And despite my above-average intelligence and moderate professional success, I am no Ben Franklin.) But I digress...

Christmas morning 2008: Peanut discovers Santa's surprise

Despite the utmost desire for order and harmony in our home, this was a melancholy moment for both me and My Director. We stood there in the driveway, staring longingly at the kitchen unceremoniously lying on its back after we placed it in the swagger wagon...in repose, if you will. We looked at each other and simultaneously gave the pouty face...lower lip outstretched...eyes wrinkled...a faux frown that wasn't so faux. This was the kitchen's final resting place in its original home. But our period of mourning didn't last too long. We held firm and stood strong. For our sake, and for the good of the empire. And to show Peanut we mean business.

You see, purging relics from the past does not come easy for her. In fact, she resists at every turn. It's always a fight. Let's face it: she's a hoarder. To describe her room as a disgrace would be an insult to actual disgraces like our country's current political climate, the final episode of The Sopranos, and the New York Jets. This child's bedroom is a monument to chaos. It needs an exorcism. Her room is so dysfunctional that I now require her to meet me in the hallway to kiss me goodnight, for entering puts me at risk of an immediate case of agita. And so help me if I step on another piece of Calico critter furniture, the entire God-forsaken neighborhood is going to end up on the curb.

A small glimpse of the agita-inducing chaos
from an otherwise lovely sunny morning 

I know what you're probably thinking: I am the parent, she is the child. It's my house and she's living in it. (I actually say these very things to Peanut all of the time.) Therefore, she should clean her room. Right? But you need to understand something: the force is strong in this one. And My Director, just as organized and OCD as I am if not more, is a willing enabler. She, the stronger one of the two of us, has succumbed to the madness. So I am outnumbered. I choose my battles, and I have opted out of this one. I avoid the madness.

Relinquishing her kitchen did not come easy. We planted the seed at least a year ago. We were planning a home renovation that would turn what was Peanut's playroom - the longtime home of her play kitchen - into a seating area just off of what is now our new actual kitchen. Before this process, we moved Peanut's toys to the basement and set her up down there. And she embraced this change. She's 10 now. And while she is still clinging to remnants of her childhood innocence like a real-life Andy from Toy Story, she had definitely long outgrown the kitchen.

We will wage the bedroom battle one day in the near future, the three of us converging in an inevitable war to decide who sits upon our proverbial Iron Throne. (I think I'm gonna win that one. Does that make me Khaleesi? Or Jon Snow? Does is make Peanut Cersei? Perish the thought.) For now, while we rummage through what remains of Peanut's playful preschool past, and decide what stays and what goes, sentimentality overtakes my need for household efficiency. That's because Peanut herself, in a moment of honesty bereft of any toy-hoarding, purge-preventing agenda, said something that caused me to tap the brakes on the de-cluttering.

She was talking to My Director about one of her good friends. This particular friend is, according to Peanut, "in a hurry to grow up." An astute observation from a 10-year old, if I do say so myself. I think at this age you get a lot of that: the fine line between kids who want to be preteens and those who want to cling to childhood for as long as they can.

"She hardly ever wants to play with toys," Peanut lamented.

My little girl is growing up. But she doesn't want to grow up so fast. Her kitchen is gone, but her childhood is still here. There's plenty of time for social media, makeup, and God knows whatever else lies ahead. For now, she's going to be the little girl she wants to be, until she's ready to move on.

And I'm fine with that.

She still has to clean her room.

One day.

Stay tuned...

Back in the day, my first post to go viral - as the kids say - was about holding onto Peanut's innocence for as long as possible. The trolls of the internet let me have it, if I remember correctly. You can read it HERE if you're so inclined. And judge for yourself.

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Jim Dandy to the Rescue

"My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate." -Thornton Wilder

There are few greater joys in childhood than when your parents announce the family will be going out for ice cream that night. Immediately, visions of combinations of flavors and toppings flood your head like sugarplums on a sleepy Christmas Eve. Oh, the wondrous, endless possibilities. You dream of multiple scoops with multiple sauces, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. You even venture to imagine what it would be like to order and consume the Stanley Cup of ice cream sundaes: The Jim Dandy.

Five scoops of ice cream, marshmallow, strawberry, and chocolate topping, walnuts, bananas, sprinkles and whipped cream served in a massive goblet. A confectionery paradise that my siblings and I would clamor for any time my dad would agree to take us to Friendly's. We'd pile in the back of the car - four of us crammed in, dreaming of Jim Dandy's frozen goodness, vocalizing our wishes.

 Until...

"YOU"RE NOT GETTIN' A F*CKING JIM DANDY."

My dad had the ability to go from zero to maniac in less than six seconds. More like three. That's how little time it took him to crush our chilled dreams and dash our ice cream spirits.

"IT'S TOO MUCH. YOU'LL NEVER FINISH IT."

Ok... but do you have to yell like a madman? Ice cream was YOUR idea, crazy person. Excuse us for getting excited. Of course, we'd never say these things out loud, out of fear of a solid smack from Mr. Not-so-Softee. We'd end up getting a scoop or two. Maybe one topping. Two max. While DAD got a Jim Dandy. The hypocrite.

This little passion play took place so frequently that it has become part of my dad's legend. So for the first time, My Director and I decided to perpetuate that legend, and took Peanut for a Jim Dandy on Saturday.

She approves of this obnoxious concoction.

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Watching the Waves

"Who's my good best friend I got?" -A question my Grandpa Sal routinely asked his 15 grandchildren, creating a very fierce competition.

My Grandpa Sal is one of my favorite people ever. Gregarious, loving, and loyal, he lit up a room even when he wasn't getting involved in everything going on in it. (We call my mom - his daughter - "Parsley" because she gets into everything. He was the original Parsley.) He and my Grandma Sylvia lived in the house behind us growing up. Our backyards connected. As a boy, I thought it was amazing to have my grandparents so close. We could eat meals at each other's houses any day we wanted. As a married man with in-laws, I realize my dad was a saint for buying his first home so close to his in-laws. And as a result he is certainly in heaven right now, having earned his place and then some.

Gramps with my niece, whose name he
couldn't pronounce. July 1985.

One of the most memorable things Grandpa Sal did was crash our swimming pool. We'd be in the pool in our backyard, and he'd stop whatever project he was working on in his, ambling through the gate between the two properties. Without saying a word, as we worked ourselves up into a frenzy anticipating the coming tidal wave, he soaked up our cheers and climbed onto the diving board. He'd proceed to perform a massive belly flop that was always meant to be a dive, swim to the shallow end while spitting water out of his mouth with every stroke, exit through the stairs at the opposite end of the pool, climb the slide and shimmy down it head first. Euphoric, my cousins, friends, and I would splash him and dunk him. He still wouldn't speak a word. The maestro of mayhem would then exit the pool, walk back to his yard, take off his swim trunks (yes, right there for all to see), hang them to dry, change back into his overalls and continue his work.

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With Friends Like These

"No man is poor who has friends," - from It's a Wonderful Life

This weekend My Director and I attended my 20th high school reunion. Amazing that two decades have passed since high school. We were driving to the reunion and she noticed I was quiet. "Are you nervous?" She asked. "No. I'm just...I find this...surreal. I can't believe we're driving to my 20th reunion. Isn't that crazy?" She agreed. Aging is a wonderful, mysterious, inevitable, frightening thing. I also felt excited. To see all the guys again. There are maybe two times a year where we're all together. I don't care what were doing as long as we're all there. It's always a good time. Always brings back happy memories, and always creates new ones.

On our way home, My Director said how great it was that all of my friends had made it. And that we took this great picture together:

We're very handsome. And very plaid.

I am who I am today thanks to a lot of people - my parents, My Director, Peanut - but these guys have been just as instrumental in making me me. (So they have themselves to blame.) And to quote my mother-in-law, of all people, "You can tell a lot about a person by who their friends are." Well, then I must be one hell of an amazing guy. Not because I have friends, but because of who they are. I'm so proud of my friends. For their successes in life and love. But more, for their success in friendship. 

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The Joys of Homeownership: Cleaning the Garage

I spent one recent Sunday doing something I'm really good at. I cleaned and organized the garage:

This is my new "fun and games" section.

I don't know what a lot of those tools are for,
but I sure can hang 'em, can't I?

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To Infinity and Beyond

"We're going in the attic now, folks. Keep your accessories with you at all times. Spare parts, batteries, anything you need for an orderly transition." -Buzz Lightyear, Toy Story 3

Like an old friend you haven't seen in ages, and then you hang out with them for a night and it's like you're back in high school/college/prison together with the old stories, laughter and hugs, Toy Story 3 recently reappeared into our lives. Albeit briefly. There was a time, before the princesses wielded their awesome power over Peanut, that she loved Jessie and Woody and the rest of the crew more than any other. So much so that Toy Story 3 played on a constant loop in our home. I not only knew it by heart, I quoted it habitually and applied the lessons to my real-life situations, even going so far as to wear a bracelet reading, "WWWD: What Would Woody Do?"

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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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Kindergarten: You're Not in Daycare Anymore

"The universe is one great Kindergarten. Everything that exists has brought with it its own peculiar lesson." -Orison Swett Marden

Kindergarten, where have you been all my life? You mean to tell me all we had to do to avoid the nightly bedtime tug-of-war with Peanut was send her to school? This just seems too good to be true. Most nights she's in bed - and willingly - by 7:30. Read it again: 7:30. Some nights she ASKS to go upstairs. Amazing. But when you listen to Peanut, it's easy to understand why she's so tired.

On a recent cranky morning ride to school she informed My Director that she wants to go back to daycare. Those were the days, I guess. "The work is too hard," she complains. Turns out, learning is taxing on the mind and body. It's a good thing they give her two opportunities to feed her mind and body, right? Wrong. If you ask Peanut, she's not fed enough. "In daycare we had two snacks and we only get one in Kindergarten," she protests. My poor baby.

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The Game Changer

"Simplified spelling is all right, but, like chastity, you can carry it too far." -Mark Twain

This is it. I am done for. I have lost my ability to effectively communicate with My Director... in front of Peanut. We have been speaking the same language pretty much since Peanut was born. And now, the kid's in on it. Peanut just started Kindergarten, but she can already spell.

This is the game changer.

Tastes a lot better that it spells

One night last weekend I asked My Director if we should "go out for I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M." And Peanut immediately jumped in with, "We're getting ice cream?!" Yes, apparently we are.

Now, granted, when you spell ice cream it SOUNDS a lot like "ice cream." So Peanut is no prodigy aiming to be the youngest ever to compete in the National Bee in Washington, D.C. next year. There are plenty of words she can't spell. And there's that little detail about not being able to read yet. (Although: she did just read a book to me last night, almost all herself.) Still, the game has changed.

It's only a matter of time. What am I going to do? Once she's able to spell, how am I going to name people, then disparage them, in front of her? How am I going to swear? How am I going to have any thoughtful or even mildly controversial conversation with My Director with our burgeoning little blonde-haired dictionary monitoring my every letter?

That's not even the worst of it.

While we already have a code for - ahem - "the bedroom," there's nothing in our secret lexicon for, "Your mom is crazy." There's "Why does she have to be so C-R-A-Z-Y?" There's no code for "Should we just order Chinese food?" (Because Chinese food is Peanut crack.) There's "Should we just get C-H-I-N-E-S-E?" And as if on cue, as I write this My Director just said, "He's a D-O-U-C-H-E," while watching a story about about Michael Phelps. Soon that's all going to change.

Thanks to spelling, words like "stupid," "idiot," and "a$$hole" now roll of my tongue one letter at a time like a familiar Starbucks order. I've even grown accustomed to spelling E-F-F-U instead of "f*ck you" because, you know, it's classier.

Peanut's got brains and she knows how to use them. It's only a matter of time before our spelling language goes the way of Sanskrit. But I do have a solution. It's not going to be easy, but we have no choice. We're going to have to brush up on our Pig Latin. For the sake of our S-A-N-I-T-Y. We need to ixnay on the ellingspay.

This post originally appeared last month on You Know It Happens at Your House Too. For another one of my snarky takes on one of Peanut's milestones, check out this post from her Pre-K stepping up ceremony.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: One Last Summer As My Baby

I came down with a stubborn case of nostalgia this summer. Not helping matters, one night I was looking through baby pictures. (I needed one for a blog post. This post, as a matter of fact.) As I right-clicked my way through Peanut's baby years in a matter of minutes, it hit me. Where did the time go? Where did my baby go? I remember these times so vividly. I remember her so vividly. Baby Peanut. Toddler Peanut. Demon Tantrum Refuses-to-Potty-Train Peanut. Fond memories. Mostly. I tried not to break down. Like on the first day of school, I felt myself getting choked up. But I choked that shizz right back down again.

When Peanut graduated daycare, she looked so grown up standing on that stage receiving her fake diploma. As a result of that image, I decided to call the past few months "one last summer as my baby." I knew it's where I would witness some small steps, but giant leaps for Peanut-kind. And I wanted to make sure to remember them. But most important, enjoy them. I'm glad for these memories. For capturing these moments in time. And for having one last summer as my baby:

She went night swimming with her cousin and
thought it was the coolest thing ever.

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#PayItForward: Laugh Out Loud With @GinaValley

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...

One thing I find especially challenging as a blogger is making you laugh every day. It's difficult. (And I fancy myself a pretty fun guy.) Now while I do post shmaltz here on the blog on a somewhat regular basis, I also try to make you laugh on one of the DKL platforms somehow some way every day. Sometimes, believe it or not, I feel like I fail.

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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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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Adult Swim

"Peanut, why are all of these princesses naked?" 

"Because they're having a swimming party, daddy:"

Now THAT's a party.

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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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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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A Day Without Sunshine

"Sometimes it's so easy to let a day slip on by without even seeing each other at all." -Billy Joel

Things just aren't right. It's too quiet. I have too much time on my hands.

Not a creature was stirring

As I got ready for work one morning, the door to Peanut's room was wide open. I had no reason to go in there but I did anyway. There was her bed, empty. Perfectly made. Most of her stuffed animals that keep her company each night are gone too. They were all still down at the beach with my in-laws. Peanut and all of her friends.

You think you're going to enjoy this time alone, just the two of you. (Three, with Luna.) But the void could not be ignored. It hit us on our way to a friend's party that we stopped at on our way home the night we left Peanut at the beach with my in-laws. Everyone commenting on how nice it will be for us to have alone time; everyone joking that we'll have a second child nine months from now. (We won't. Trust me.)

Don't get me wrong, having a couple of days off is nice. There was no need to rush home for pickup or to make dinner. We ordered out and were able to do the daily chores: walk the dog, water the lawn, clean up the kitchen, guilt-free and hassle-free.

Still, we miss our crazy little Peanut. Not having her here is so foreign. But this is just the beginning, isn't it? Kindergarten in the fall. That's a whole new ballgame. Homework. Sleepovers I'm sure are not far behind. Maybe day camp next summer? At least a week or two with her grandparents. Maybe even my sister in Virginia. There she goes already. My little Peanut. Old enough to have an entire day or two without me, without us.

Not that she didn't miss us. When we talked to her on the phone that night, she informed us that she had told my in-laws that she missed us no less than five times that day. Not bad. If my math is correct, that's about once every two hours up to that point. So she's not going too far just yet.

I've reached the point in my life where I have lived away from my parents more than I have lived with them. When I visit their house, my old house, it seems foreign. When we visit I often feel like a stranger in my old neighborhood. Everything looks so different now. Or older. That tree is gone. That house is a different color. That storefront is empty.

Peanut has a while before she reaches that point. But it goes by so fast, doesn't it? My goodness I feel like it was just yesterday we were picking a town based on the schools. And now she's going to one of them in September.

One night at the beach, we went out for ice cream. We got caught in a torrential downpour. One of the fiercest thunderstorms I had ever seen. And the radar showed that it had apparently just hit the island we were on. So we waited in the swagger wagon for the storm to pass. Sheets of rain, strong wind, hail, flooding. You name it, this storm had it. All in a matter of a few minutes.

Peanut got scared. She started to cry. "I want to go home," she said through her tears. We thought she meant back to the beach house. "We can't, honey," I said. "The street is all flooded. Besides, the car is the safest place to be right now."

"No. I want to go back to OUR house." Back home. Where it's safe. Where she's loved. Where she's home.

Back where she belongs.

There's no place else she'd rather be. There's no place else we'd rather have her. That empty nest can wait.

Being away from Peanut reinforces our decision to go "hands-free" when we ARE with her. I wrote about that here.  (Full Disclosure: We've admittedly been slacking a bit lately.)

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Stepping Up is Hard to Do

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.” -Dr. Seuss, Oh the Places You'll Go!

Now that Peanut is kicking the comfort of daycare off her shoes and heading into Kindergarten in the fall; now that she's participated in the emotional, adorable "stepping up" ceremony that had my face soaked with snot and tears, causing me to lose all of my street cred as a stoic, stone-faced sarcastic dad; now that all of that is behind us and we are looking forward to the rest of her academic career, I have some words of wisdom to impart on Peanut and her pint-sized classmates.

First: Learn to read. You're not going to get anywhere in life having other people read things to you. It's embarrassing, really. Grab a book, sound out the words, and string a sentence together. Educate yourself. Stop relying on other people - mainly, your parents - to read to you. It's lazy. (Actually, you're so close it's scary.)

While we're on the subject of parental dependency, that brings me to my second point: your mommy and daddy aren't always going to be there to help you. Cut your own meat. Blow your own nose. Wipe your own butt. Have some dignity. When you get older, and you ask someone for a favor that you're perfectly capable of doing yourself, and they respond with, "You want me to wipe your butt for you too?" You'll know what I'm talking about. Cut the cord.

That leads perfectly to number three on my list: entitlement. You are not entitled to a snack, a nap, or dessert. You don't get a toy every time we go shopping somewhere. These things are rewards and they are earned. You work hard, you play hard, you follow the rules, you be kind to others, you reap the benefits. Do those things, and you get a bowl of ice cream. Do those things and I'll get you that Rapunzel pez dispenser you've had your eye on. 

Number four: if you don't do those things, you don't get a reward. And you definitely don't cry to get your way. Do you think that's how people act in the real world? In Kindergarten? This is the big leagues. Shape up. Crying because you want to read a different book than we picked? Or because you wanted to be the one who opened the door when we got home? Or because we didn't let you play a ninth round of hide-and-seek before bed? That's immature and unacceptable. Suck it up. Choke back those tears. As The Rolling Stones say, you can't always get what you want. And as Frank Sinatra says, that's life. Sometimes it's not fair. You cooperate and coexist. Deal with it and move on.

Finally: grow up. Everything is not a game. Or a joke. On second thought...who am I kidding? I still make a game or a joke out of almost everything. It's why you're so funny. (That and your mom serves a great 'straight man.') But if you do everything else on my list, you can get away with the occasional - or not-so-occasional - nonsense. People will take you seriously when it matters if you lead by example. Show that you're smart, capable, independent, hard-working, fair, dependable, and realistic. You'll have yourself allies. More important, you'll have yourself friends. Friends you can joke with. Friends you can be silly with. Friends for life.

You stood up there on stage at your Pre-K Stepping Up ceremony. You walked up to the microphone with a big smile. You grabbed it, leaned in, and said confidently and excitedly that your favorite thing about Pre-K was "being with your friends." You can tell a lot about a person by the quality of their friends. Keep surrounding yourself with good people. They will help you. They will love you. They won't judge you. They'll make you laugh in the good times. They'll make you laugh until you cry in the bad times. No person is poor who has friends.

That makes you one of the richest kids I know. Keep doing what you're doing, Peanut. I'll always be here to guide you along.

Kindergarten here we come. But first, one last summer as my baby.

Here is the video of Peanut saying what her favorite thing about Pre-K is. (If you listen closely you can hear a proud dad's reaction):


Two days before her Stepping Up ceremony, I wrote this for my "little girl."

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I Saw a Little Girl

"Parenting is a stage of life's journey where the milestones come about every fifty feet."  ~Robert Brault

Baby Peanut, almost 1 year

I saw a little girl in church today. A baby girl. Her hair was just starting to grow. She couldn't have been more than six or eight months old. I can't tell the age of babies as well as I used to. I used to be really good at it. Then again, I don't have a baby anymore. I have you, my wonderful 5 year-old who's graduating pre-K this week.

I saw a little girl in church today. She was standing in front of the congregation among a group of parishioners who were all high school and college graduates. The pastor was giving them a special blessing. She's going to Princeton in the fall. She was one of your Sunday school teachers. We see her every time we go to the bookstore, because she works there. An impressive young woman. A role model.

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The Newlywed Game

"I love you more today than yesterday; but not as much as tomorrow." -From the song by Spiral Staircase, which I quoted in my wedding vows. 

When does the so-called "honeymoon period" really end? Some say as quickly as three months. I've always gone with two years. That is, after all, when you're no longer a newlywed according to the genius creators of the classic game show The Newlywed Game. If you remember, couples were only eligible to appear on the show to answer questions about where they "make whoopee" if they had been married for two years or less.

Bob Eubanks was a master

Well, I'm here to debunk the myth and rewrite the record books. You're still a newlywed for much longer than two years. (Assuming you're still married, of course.) You can return from your honeymoon, buy a home, change jobs, get a dog, and have a baby. You can gain all the weight back that you lost to look good in your wedding pictures. You're still a newlywed. So what milestone marks the beginning of your life as an oldywed?

When you have to start replacing the gifts you received for your wedding.

That's right. Over the past few months, My Director and I have had to let go of and replace some of the items we were so excited to scan with that little radar gun in the aisles of Macy's and Crate & Barrel ten years ago. Ten years. We will celebrate a decade of marriage in December. I still feel young and in love. I love My Director just as much if not more than I did that chilly December day we said our vows in Pennsylvania.

Sadly, however, we are no longer newlyweds. All because we have bright new fluffy bath towels. All because we've replaced our pots and pans, the ones with the poisonous peeling Teflon, with new stainless steel ones. Somehow our original silverware started disappearing. Forks and spoons mysteriously escaping like wayward socks. The last straw? Our toaster oven stopped toasting. How depressing:

Goodbye, old friend

I'll remember the toaster oven fondly. The bagels, the waffles, the tuna melts. Good times. The honeymoon may be over. But the love is still hot as ever.

I get a bit more nostalgic when it comes to getting rid of Peanut's things. Like I did with the stroller here.

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