Birthday Bash? What's next, a Mercedes SLK?

Sydney's first chocolate chip cookie. She has developed her father's messiness. Imagine when the cake comes!

Brooke and I have come to our first major disagreement when it comes to raising our child.

The birthday party.

If you have been reading this blog for any period of time, you know how our disagreements end. So, I will skip the suspense and tell you that Brooke wins. We are going to have a “big” party for our 1-year-old daughter. But I am participating under protest.

I expected to have disagreements with my wife on how to raise our child. We are human. We disagree on a lot of things. For example, she watches every reality television show ever invented, from “So You Think You Can Dance” to “How to Cheat on Your Husband and Not Get Caught.” (Hmm.) I can’t stand reality TV. She loves her new Ford Explorer. I think it lacks pickup and prefer my Honda Pilot. She likes to share our food when we go out to dinner. I stand ready with a knife to stab her hand as it reaches for my plate.

But raising a kid is serious business, so I hoped for as few disagreements as possible. This may be wishful thinking. I have seen how she raised her dog, after all. Murphy was allowed to sleep in her bed with her. Eat from her plate. Bark at anything that walked by. Sit on the couch (to the point where actual humans sit on the floor so as not to disturb him).

I, of course, raised my Vegas the opposite way. He was never allowed on the bed unless I invited him. He never, ever got on the couch. He hardly ever barks and when he does, it is usually for a good reason. And, when I was eating, he was taught to keep an appropriate distance.

Once Murphy moved in, all that great training went out the door. His bad habits have migrated to my dog. And Brooke has facilitated this. She is the only woman I know who feeds the dogs from her plate and then angrily wonders why they are either under her feet or in her face every time she tries to eat lunch or dinner. Hmm. Could there be a correlation?

Anyway, we have had very little disagreement when it comes to Sydney. But the Aug. 30 birthday is a big one. I am not one for big birthday parties. The thought of a dozen kids rolling around in the Hepatitis C-ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese makes me shudder.

I don’t ever remember having a big birthday party when I was a kid. My mom says I did when I was a toddler, but I can tell you that from what I can remember – maybe 5? – I do not remember having more than one friend over on a birthday. Most of my birthdays were just with my family.

As I got older –10, 11? – it meant going out to eat. There was a little Italian restaurant on the other side of town mom would take the family to for a celebration. If we had the money. Remember, we were so poor we went to Tiny Tim’s family for a handout at Christmas.

There was no freaking Chuck E. Cheese when I was a kid. We couldn’t afford a skating party. If someone showed up in our neighborhood with one of those gigantic inflatable jumping playgrounds, I can guarantee someone would stick a pin in it and ride off on the party pony while it deflated.

I don’t know what Brooke’s childhood was like, but given that she grew up in suburbia with $400,000 houses, I take it huge birthday parties were as common as BMWs in the driveway. To say we grew up in different worlds is to say Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes have a lot of secrets.  You haven’t even scratched the surface.

I know this for sure: Brooke has bought into the present propaganda concerning birthday parties. Most people would. For parents, birthday parties are all about keeping up with the Joneses.

I know someone whose child turned 1 last year and they catered a party. Yes, catered. About 50 adults attended, drinking wine and beer. In reality, it was a party for mom and dad, not for the kid.

The propaganda is never more prevalent than on the Sprout network for kids. They sing happy birthday to kids on a daily basis, running their names across the bottom of the screen. Sydney is being indoctrinated with the philosophy that birthdays are huge events that require tons of screaming kids, an inflatable castle, a pony and a dad walking around with a dazed look of confusion.  

And that’s where I come from on the subject of birthday parties. I don’t need a party for my sake. And Sydney doesn’t even know what a birthday is, let alone what day hers falls on. She’d have as much fun playing with a box as she would with any new toy she receives. She won’t remember it one hour after it ends, let alone for the rest of her life.

Maybe I am just trying to avoid the inevitable Sweet 16 Party with a Mercedes SLK in the driveway. I’ve caught a few episodes of those reality TV shows in passing while Brooke’s been watching. I’m never going to be able to afford that kind of outrageous birthday bash, so I might as well start crushing her dreams at an early age so she has low expectations as she gets older.

Am I a party pooper? Probably. That’s the great thing about being married to the uber-positive, raised-in-the-suburbs, Pollyannaish, life-is-a-bouquet-of-roses, let’s-give-our-kid-the-Beaver-Cleaver-life Brooke. She balances me out. Sydney gets the best of both worlds. My glass is half empty. Brooke’s is half full. Sydney’s is overflowing.

Maybe Sydney will be like me. I’ve always preferred to ignore my birthday, not celebrate it. I don’t like all the attention it brings. My wife likes to take me out to dinner. That is fine with me; I don’t want or need anything more. One birthday I spent walking the 5-mile loop at Lunken Airport. How is that for celebrating?

I kind of hope my daughter adopts my attitude. How about a nice dinner out at Red Lobster with mom and dad, or a trip to the Reds game with your parents and maybe one friend?

But, until she can make those decisions herself, her mom and dad will make them. Which, if you have been reading this blog for any period of time, means her mom will make them.

The invitations are being printed. The cake will soon be made. The relatives have been invited. And yes, the alcohol will be purchased.

Daddy will need it.

At Least She's Not Nicknamed Puff Baby

Sydney is 7 weeks old and has five nicknames. At this rate, she will accumulate 35 nicknames in her first year on earth.

How does this happen? Why are parents so quick to call their children anything but the names they spent dozens of hours debating and sweating over? Shouldn’t this be the time we spend working hard to get her to recognize her real name?

I already told you what we went through to pick Sydney Grace. It was quite the ordeal. So the fact that on any given day she might hear five other names come out of our mouths is a bit distressing to me.

But I can’t stop.

Sydney’s nicknames and the story behind them:

Snorty Magee: She snorts when she is angry and crying. One doctor said her nostrils just aren’t developed enough yet. I sure hope this doesn’t carry over into adulthood. We all know someone who snorts when they laugh….it is very annoying.

Tree Frog: She parks herself like a tree frog on my belly.

Crankypants: Pretty self explanatory. I did some figuring the other day. Sydney probably spends about 6 hours a day just feeding. She sleeps another 13. She is awake and pleasant for about an hour. That leaves four hours a day when she is crying about something or another. Thus, Miss Crankpants.

Porcupine: I gave her this nickname and I really don’t know why. I think “P” words just sound good for babies. Pumpkin Pie. Precious. Peanut. Pudding. Pudding pop. Poopy.

Peanut Butter: My wife gave her this name because she was singing a Raffi song called Peanut Butter Sandwich. I probably don’t need to tell you I have no idea who Raffi is, why he has such a stupid name or why he devoted a whole song to a simple sandwich.

I am confident and relieved none of these names will follow her into adulthood. As kids get older, baby names fall by the wayside. Sooner or later, she won’t be cranky, right? And no matter how big my belly is, she eventually will not be able to sit on it like a tree frog.

But we all know some kid who somehow managed to keep an embarrassing nickname into adulthood. Pee Wee. Bubbie. Buster. Bunny. Marky Mark. Puff Daddy.

Let’s not forget my brother, Little Dick.

I don’t know what nicknames I had when I was a kid. I did have a couple as I got older. I had hair like Leif Garrett in high school – hey, it was the ‘80s -- and one of my buddies decided it looked like a Tumbleweed on top of my head. He and another guy started calling me that. They even copied some signs with my picture and “Tumbleweed” written across the top and hung them around the school. Yeah, funny. Why couldn’t I be the Italian Stallion, Snoop, The Rock or even 50 Cent? Instead, I am nicknamed after some dry grass.

Another guy thought I looked like Tony Dow on Leave it to Beaver and called me Wally. It didn’t really stick, although my best friend who I hung out with all the time became known as Beaver, and that did stick. Later, I went to college and asked Beaver to keep an eye on my girlfriend. He kept his eye on HER beaver and they are married today, so now I have another nickname for him that I will not print in this family blog.

Brooke says the only nickname she can remember was one in college, where she became known as Breeko in some circles. This happened after a night when someone under the influence of an herbal product inadvertently inverted the vowels in her name.

I’ve always been partial to nicknames devised from initials. I always thought TJ was cool when I was a kid. I became known as BG after I got older. Brooke was Brooke Marie. I guess she could have been BM, as in, I just had a BM. Her brother is Blair Jason…BJ. Hmmm.

SG doesn’t really have a ring to it. And I don’t really like Syd. Too masculine. I hope Sydney ends up with a really cool nickname. How about the Fresh Princess? The Material Girl? Lady Gaga? No, I guess I’ll pass.

In fact, I am not sure there are really any cool nicknames for a girl. I think we’ll stick with Sydney Grace. Judging by Miss Crankypants’ first seven weeks, it will be hard enough teaching her that one.