Oh Where Have you Gone Wile E. Coyote? Chica's selling for $250 a pop!

If you talk sprout to anyone my age, you are talking beans. But I have discovered a whole new Sprout as a parent.

As near as I can tell (and this whole column will be about my observations and thoughts as opposed to me actually looking things up…what fun would that be?) this new Sprout is like the old PBS we had when we were kids. It is a learning channel for kids. It is the station that plays Sesame Street.

Why Sprout? I have no idea. I imagine there is a lot of incredible market research behind it. Or, maybe it just sounds great to kids. These are people who are fascinated by furry puppets who eat a lot of cookies, so it doesn’t take much to make them smile.

I am not sure how we found Sprout, but now that we know where it is, it seems to run on an endless 24-hour cycle in our home. Most of you know I am an ID Channel addict. Not anymore. Now I am a Sproutlet. Yes, that is really what they call their followers.

Don’t get me wrong. My daughter doesn’t sit for hours and watch cartoons. It is more background noise than anything – something we turn it on to keep her entertained in between activities and naps and meals. And most of the time, if we are watching, we are explaining things to her, so it becomes a learning experience.

Kids take their Sprout seriously. I have even seen a Sprout Live insignia at the bottom of the screen while I was watching. Why in the world would children’s television need to be live? This is not CNN with breaking news. The Cookie Monster ate another cookie? Got it. No need to break into regular programming.

Over the past week, I decided to take some notes on what I was watching. I realized that I started to actually know some of the songs they sing on this channel and that led me to believe I was developing “mush head.” This is a disease I attach to parents who spend too much time around kids. Stay-at-home moms or dads are especially susceptible to this. They only talk about their kids, they frequently revert to baby language and tones and they tend to break out in kids songs on a regular basis. Try to discuss the nation’s debt crisis with them and you get a blank stare before they say, “Numbers? Oh, let me tell you about the Counting Song…1, 2, 3, 4 … one less than five, one more than three…” Yeah, I really don’t know the words, but you get the picture.

So, while taking notes to ensure my child was watching quality television, I came to the following conclusions:

·         Cartoons are much more educational than when I was a kid. They try to teach your kids life lessons, along with reading, writing and arithmetic. I watched something that had a bear family in it and they lived in a house that was apparently in the country. They were “rural” bears and the house next door went up for sale and a “city” bear family moved in. There was friction between the daddy rural bear and the daddy city bear because they did things differently. In the end, they became friends and the moral of the story was, just because someone is different, doesn’t mean they are bad. Good life lesson. We didn’t exactly get that kind of information from watching Wile E. Coyote try to blow up the Roadrunner.

·         There is some kid named Caillou who has his own cartoon show. Caillou? Seriously? Were Fred, Joe and Ricky already taken? What are we teaching our kids by giving main characters names like this? Caillou looks a lot like Charlie Brown, so why not call him Charlie? 

·         There is a show, called the Wiggles, about guys who dress up in funny outfits. I have no idea what this show is about, but Sydney seems to like it. They do a lot of singing. She likes anything with singing. But why are they called the Wiggles? Can anyone answer that for me? They need to keep this stuff simple for old guys like me. There is another show called the Pajanimals that features – yes, you guessed it – animals in pajamas. Now THAT is simple.

·         The old Thomas the Engine book is now a show. But he has seven or eight other engine buddies to help him out with his adventures. Cool.

·         There is this little bird called Chica who is apparently the rage with kids. Chica talks with a high-pitched squeak. Sydney loves her. You are supposed to “sing along with Chica and do the tweet, tweet, tweet!” I know Chica’s fandom has hit Justin Bieber-like levels because my wife got the idea to get on Amazon and see if she could find a stuffed Chica for Sydney. Average price? Are you ready for this? You are not, I promise you. Sit down for a sec. Ok, average price….$250. ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FREAKING MIND? Sydney will get version 6.0 of Chica, when the price comes way down.

·         They do some birthday songs on there and they recognize kids for their birthday. “Hap-pee Hap-pee Birthday to you, to you, to you!” I can’t get the damn song out of my head. I guess the idea is, if you are watching from home and see your name or picture on TV, it is a big deal. It is like Willard Scott for toddlers. But here is my problem with it: parents put their 2-year-old kids up there. They are 2! They barely know their name. They aren’t going to take time out from drooling to even enjoy it and they certainly will never remember it. These are the same kind of parents who take their kid to Disney at age 3 or have huge birthday parties for them when they are still in diapers. If you are going to do this stuff, make sure it is a time in life when they get maximum value out of it.

·         At night – which in kiddie land is about 6 p.m. – they have a Good Night show, or something like that. It features a chick who looks like Lindsay Lohan before the booze. She talks to what looks like a big couch pillow shaped like a blob. But his name is Star, so I think he is supposed to be a star. Makes sense with the good-night theme.

·         Even the commercials are geared toward kids. Sydney is fascinated by a commercial for lights that display images on your ceiling at night time. It looks like an old projection machine and you can project an image of hippopotamus or something like that into your room. When that commercial comes on, she stares intently throughout. I would buy it for her, but it would keep her up at night and if you follow this blog, the one thing Sydney does not need it less sleep. Let me correct that: the one thing Brooke and I do not need is less sleep.

The bottom line on cartoons is our parents had it a lot tougher than us for two reasons:

1) Cartoons were not as educational back in the day. We can justify all of today’s TV watching as learning. TV watching = learning = good parenting. Yeah, that’s it.  

2) We have smart phones and can play Words with Friends or surf the Internet to keep ourselves entertained while the Wiggles are wiggling away on the screen. This, my friends, helps ward off mush head.

To Bar or Not To Bar? That is the Question

Brooke and I have recently faced that question that torments every new parent: should I take my baby to a bar or not?

Ok, maybe not every parent. But certainly some. The fun ones.

I wanted to watch March Madness a week ago. Brooke had a friend in town. I proposed a sports bar for dinner and basketball before they did their thing. They agreed.

But what to do with Sydney? I’m no prude by any means. But even I had to stop at the thought of taking a 7-month-old to a bar on a Saturday night. What would people think? What stares might we get? What drunken sloppiness might Sydney encounter?

I think the key here was the kind of bar and the time of night. This was a BW-3s, which is known as much for its food as its beer. It also has become very kid-friendly over the years. Visit on a Friday night and you’ll find more 8 year olds there than at the corner day care.

It was also early. We left by 9 p.m. Granted, there have been many, many Saturdays when I and my buddies have been completely plastered and obnoxious by 9 p.m., but the chances of us encountering Courtney Love on a bender are less likely before midnight.

I grew up in bars. My dad, who was not a drinker, liked to play cards or just talk with his buddies at the local tavern. He came from a family of heavy drinkers who spent many a day and night on a barstool. One of his brothers prescribes to the work-8-hours, sleep-8-hours, drink-8-hours lifestyle. Another brother works as a bartender and has owned bars. He was manning the bar the night I saw my first ever knock out. I was about 12 and playing pinball when two guys got into an argument. With one punch, one of the guys dropped to the floor and was out cold. My uncle called an ambulance and yelled at the other guy to get the hell out of there before the cops came. I stared, wide-eyed and mouth agape, innocence lost.

Yes, bar life runs deep on that side of my family. My dad’s sister loves to party and doesn’t pass up the chance to hit a tavern on a Friday or Saturday. His dad died of cirrhosis of the liver. I believe they still have a stool with grandpa’s name engraved on it at his favorite hometown establishment.

And his mom, my grandma, loved her beer. As she got older and retired, my main memories of her revolve around her waking up about 7 a.m., camping at the kitchen table to watch television, a pack of smokes at one side and a can of beer at the other.

She lived in California with my aunt for awhile. I and a buddy drove cross country to the West Coast to see if we could land jobs and live on the beach. We would stay at my aunt’s until we got on our feet. I remember my first night in Burbank. We get into town about 3 p.m. after our long trip and decide to go to dinner and have drinks to celebrate our arrival. This turns in to an adventure that lasts until 2 a.m. in the morning. (Ahh, to be a college student again.)

We are sleeping on the living room floor – it was a small apartment and that was our only option – when my grandma wakes  at 7 a.m. and you hear the unmistakable popping of a beer tab. She no sooner takes her first gulp before she starts in on us. “You boys better get up and go find yourself jobs. You aren’t going to be freeloading here. You need to find jobs and get to work.” This goes on for a couple of hours.

We didn’t last a week with grandma. We were living in our car and washing ourselves in a rest stop bathroom within three days. Try fitting your head under a rest stop sink so you can wash your hair. But anything was better than the wrath of grandma.

So anyway, my dad used to take me to bars when I was a wee lad. He’d throw me some quarters and let me shoot pool or play pinball while he hung with his buddies. I got to be very proficient at pool. When I was 12, he bought me my own custom five-piece pool cue, complete with case and all. I was a FREAKING STUD. I used that cue to win the Boy’s Club pool championship.

Dad loved to challenge his friends to a game against me. He’d bet $20 that they couldn’t beat his 13-year-old son. They always took the bet. Sometimes I won, sometimes I didn’t. If I lost, he made me walk home. No, just kidding.

My mom’s side has some drinkers, too, but not as many colorful stories.

I don’t drink that often anymore. I don’t have beer at the house and can go a couple months without touching one. But I can also get together with my buddies and down a couple of cases in a weekend. Depends on the time and situation.

My point is, I do not necessarily feel it is evil for a child to be in a bar. It did not turn me into an alcoholic or set me on a path to prison. But I am very cognizant of what I want my child to learn and see and how that will affect her. At seven months, there is more of a concern of what people will think of ME than there is of the affect on her, but I’m thinking more about the foundation I am laying.

Ultimately, I guess there is a time and place for everything. I will probably stick to the same thinking I had during March Madness: if the bar is also a restaurant and it is not late, we are good to go. We will not hit up Lenny’s Liquor Palace at midnight.

Isn’t it more about what you teach your kids, anyway? If you teach them right from wrong and how to act, they will get it, right? I sure hope so.

While I was at BW-3, I saw a 13-year-old boy and girl sitting in a booth across from a woman who appeared to be the mother of one of them. Not sure if it was the boy’s mom or the girl’s mom. But the two teens were glued together and sloppily making out while the woman watched the game. It was a pretty disgusting display of teenage lust.

Nevertheless, I was glad to see it. This meant that everyone’s eyes were on this booth and not the one with the 7-month-old rocking in her car seat. I was no longer the worst parent in the bar.

Half Zombie, Half Tazmanian Devil

The other day I came to work with my undershirt on backwards.

I regularly come to work with stains on my dress shirts and dried baby formula stuck to my hands.

I am daddy. I am dirty. I am disgusting.

Mornings are tougher with a baby. Hell, life is tougher with a baby. But mornings are particularly bad because you are going on less sleep than normal and trying to get a whole other person ready for their day. I’m half zombie, half Tazmanian Devil, if that is even possible.

I am waking up earlier than ever and still getting to work late.

Sydney is now falling asleep about 9 p.m. We have struggled mightily to get her into a sleeping routine. This earlier bed time is nice because we have time to ourselves before bed, but it means that her night-time wake ups start earlier. You can usually count on one at about 2 a.m. and another in between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m. So, when 6:40 comes and it is time for daddy’s shower, he is prying his eyelids open with a tire iron.

Then the sprint begins.

Shower. Shave. Brush the teeth. Dress. Wake Sydney. Change Sydney’s diaper. Dress Sydney. Start the car to warm up. Put Sydney’s bag together. Wash Sydney’s bottles and pack her formula for her day in child care. Pack my lunch. Feed Sydney her morning bottle. Gather my lunch bag, work bag, Sydney’s bag and Sydney into the car and drive to child care for drop off.  Drive to work.

If all goes well, I am there at 8:15. Only 15 minutes late.

Oh how I long for those care-free days when I could watch the first 20 minutes of the Today Show, hop in the shower after the first break and still be to work by.…8:15.

How do you veteran parents do it? I can’t imagine adding another kid in the mix or trying to prepare some sort of hot breakfast.

I guess I should feel lucky. My wife helps me. And, I haven’t yet had her throw up on me so that I have to change clothes. Nor is she cranky pants and fighting me in the morning. She’s generally pretty happy.

Things could definitely be worse. Remind me of that the next time you see me walking around with my shirt on backwards.    

My Poor Baby

I worship at the altar of the booger sucker.

Are those things great or what? Just a couple sucks with the bulb syringe and the baby’s nose is clear! Yes, the boogers are gross, but the results are worth it.

Of course, she absolutely hates it. Who the hell wouldn’t? She’s got a tiny nostril and that’s a lot of suction. You know that cylinder-shaped thingy-ma-jig on the end of your vacuum cleaner? Give that a shot and let me know how it feels.

But, in the end, we are doing her some good, right? Right?

This baby sickness thing brings a whole new meaning to the phrase, “This will hurt me more than it hurts you.” I cringe with every cough and throw my hands over my ears when I hear the congestion rumbling through her shallow breaths.

I know how miserable I am when I am sick. I can only imagine what it is like for a tiny human being who is experiencing these types of things for the first time and has no idea what they are or how she will get through them.  I would trade places with her in a hot second.

So the key is keeping her healthy. But how?

My wife is a teacher. She brings home every disease but the bubonic plague. (Actually, she had a rat in her classroom last year, so she may bring the plague home soon, too.). I work in an office building with 750 people. I imagine sicknesses jumping onto my skin every time I walk by someone.

Sydney’s at an age where everything goes in her mouth. Seriously. If you hand her a basketball, she will try to put it in her mouth. She actually gets mad and starts crying because some of the things she gets her hands on are too big to fit in her mouth.

I recently saw a story about a 3-year-old girl who ate 23 magnets. These things were tearing up her intestines and they had to operate to pull them out. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her and they did an x-ray and saw the magnets linked together in a circle like a necklace.

This makes me a bit fearful. I am not the most attentive dad. If you read this blog, you know about the time I became engrossed in paying bills and somehow my daughter rolled off the bed. What happens if I get caught up in an episode of Criminal Minds while Sydney is stuffing magnets in her mouth? By the way, who the hell has 23 magnets lying around their house?

Anyway, keeping her healthy is a chore when you consider all the factors. Besides my wife and I both working in germ factories, she attends child care with other kids. In close quarters like that, if one kid gets it, they are likely all going to get it.

She also has two dogs in the house who like to lick her face. Especially at feeding time, when she is likely to be covered in the baby versions of bananas, sweet potatoes or squash. That is nirvana for the puppies.

So, if we can’t keep her healthy, we have to try to make her comfortable. You are not allowed to give a baby anything for their sickness. I asked about a little Sudafed and my wife looked at me like I was crazy. “Let’s face it, if she takes that, we ALL are getting a good night’s sleep,” I said. Glare.

Someday, I am going to write a book about all the things you SHOULDN’T do with a baby. There is a best seller there for parents like me who are afraid of killing their child. MAKE SURE YOU WASH YOUR BOTTLES WELL BECAUSE BAD OR OLD FORMULA IS DANGEROUS or SIT YOUR BABY BACKWARDS IN THE CAR SEAT TO PROTECT THEM or DON’T FEED YOUR BABY A FOOT-LONG CHILI DOG FOR DINNER.

One of the things we do when Sydney is sick is squirt saline up her nose. Saline is salt water. Ever heard the saying, “Don’t rub salt in my wound”? That is because salt BURNS an open wound. We use this stuff to eat away sidewalk ice, for god’s sakes. Yet, the doctors suggest squirting salt up your baby’s nose?

Between that and the booger sucker, Sydney’s nose gets a hell of a workout.

One day, I am going to be old and unable to take care of myself. Should this unfortunate burden fall on my daughter, I am sure she will take some pleasure in grabbing the blue bulb syringe and heading toward my schnozz. How about a little saline too, dad?

Random Observations About Sydney

As I have said before, all of my posts are about my personal life, but I try to make them topical so they appeal to all through the experiences we share as we travel through life. A man’s take on breastfeeding. Picking a name. Life in the delivery room. These are personal experiences, but we all experience them, so you can read what I am going through and identify with my situation.

Rarely do I do a totally personal post. So, indulge me today. Someday, my baby will read this and I want her to know what she was like when she was young.

Observations about my little girl:

·         Even at 5 months, she can throw a mean fit. She likes to throw herself backwards when she is angry. So, if she is sitting in your arms, she lays herself flat. With violence. This means you REALLY have to hold her or she will throw herself out of your arms and on to the floor. This better not translate into a child who throws herself on the floor when she is a toddler and throwing a fit. Daddy won’t tolerate that. Whip city, baby!

In fact, I wonder if she has anger issues. Have you ever heard of those children who have incredible outbursts of anger and their parents can’t seem to control them? I always thought that was the result of bad parenting, but now I am wondering. Here are some of the things she does:

o   Sometimes she gets so excited when she doesn’t get her way she grabs my face and tries to scratch my eyeballs out. My wife – the eternal optimist -- says she is so happy, she wants to “eat my face.” I am not so sure. 1) she doesn’t sound happy and 2) she is literally digging at my eyes. I’ve ticked a lot of people off in my life. I guess I am just starting early with her.

o   She likes to kick me in the face when she is sitting on my chest. I’m ok with this now, but, as she gets older and starts wearing shoes, it might hurt a bit. She definitely has a future in the Rockettes. Or, as an NFL placekicker.

o   She also kicks to move herself. She’s learned that if she is on her back and she puts both of her legs together and kicks down as hard as she can, it actually moves her butt an inch or so. If she does this many times in a row, she can actually move herself in a clockwise direction. This is how we find her sleeping sideways in her bed every morning. She loves to greet the morning with a dozen or so “kicks” to get herself moving.  

o   When she gets frustrated, she emits this throaty growl at the top of her lungs. I swear she is going to damage her vocal cords. But, yes, it serves its purpose and gets mom and dad’s attention.

·         She emits a different noise when she is excited, a high-pitched squeal that will hurt your ears if you hear it enough. And thirty times in a one-hour period is enough, believe me. She could have a future as a tornado siren.

·         Her nails grow like crazy. My wife seems to clip them once every couple of days. I am not privy to biological information about baby nails, but apparently they grow faster than adult nails. This is a very important thing to note when your daughter regularly tries to scratch your eyes out.

·         She curls her fists up and puts them up by her ears and rubs her hair a bit while she falls asleep. I think she might have had her fists curled up while in the womb, because she is constantly poised to fight someone, with her dukes up. She could have a future as a boxer.

·         If she cries, she is likely either hungry or tired. It doesn’t take a lot to figure a baby out. They are a pretty easy read. She will not have a future as a poker player.

·         If she cries, I can always calm her by slowing saying the ABCs or counting to 20. I started this when she was really little as a way of slowly teaching her. (My wife’s the teacher of the family? I think not.) But I quickly realized she was fascinated by this and stops whatever she is doing to pay attention. Thus, the crying stops when the ABCs start.

·         She smiles every morning when I go into her room to pull her from the crib. I mean, her face LIGHTS up. This is a highlight of the day and has my wife and I knocking each other over to be the one who greets her in the morning.

·         She also sneezes when she wakes up. It seems almost like the light hitting her face makes her sneeze. Can’t explain that one.

·         She has not yet learned the art of kissing. As you lean it to kiss her, she greets you with an open mouth. This is cute now; it will not be when she is 16 and on her first date. There will be no french kissing on my watch.

·         She loves to smoke cigarettes. Not really. I just wanted to see how many people really read to the end. If you did, please acknowledge the joke.

Happy Valentine's Day to a New Mom

It is Valentine’s Day and this blog post is dedicated to my wife. She and my daughter are the greatest things to ever happen to me.

Look, I’m not a mushy kind of guy. I don’t do a lot of hand holding, kissing, snuggling, etc. I won’t read you poems or set up outside your bedroom window holding a boom box, ala Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything.  

My wife probably goes through life wondering why the hell she ever married me, let alone brought my child into this world.

But I am the most loyal SOB you’ll ever meet. Forget Lassie finding help for Timmy in the well. I would have NEVER LET TIMMY FALL IN THE WELL. I once volunteered to get laid off from work so a boss I liked could keep his job. He had a family; I didn't.

Once you are in with me, you are in for life.

So, I show my love through loyalty. Hard work. Sacrifice. I brush the snow off her car in the morning. I let her pick the restaurant. I try to give her a break when she is stressed.

Not exactly Hallmark stuff. I know what my wife is thinking. “Can’t a girl get a box of chocolates?”

When I was young, I believed in the two-kids-and-a-dog, white-picket-fence sort of life. Not that I ever had it, but it was the ideal.

I had four serious girlfriends before my wife. My high school girlfriend dumped me when I went off to college to make a better life for us. She got the two kids and white picket fence, just with my former best friend. BITTER.

My college girlfriend had a career start in Cleveland. Mine was near Chicago. She apparently didn’t think long distance would work. BITTER. My first girlfriend out of college didn’t survive my next career move, to Cincinnati. This time, I didn’t feel long distance would work. GUILTY.

I had a girlfriend in my late 20s. We even lived together. The flame burned hot, but short, incinterating after three years.

These experiences added to my cynicism of marriage. There weren’t a lot of happy marriages in my extended family. I didn’t need my own failures to tell me commitments rarely last. But they sure solidified that thinking.   

So I get to my 30s and then into my 40s, and I’ve pretty much given up on the white picket fence.  I was a confirmed bachelor, living the life. And by “life” I mean, pizza, potato skins and beer. Late nights, sleepy days. A lot of couch and television, very little exercise. The “life” was probably going to end by age 50. I was Whitney Houston without the prescription drugs.

Then, along comes Brooke. Her fun approach to life, her optimistic attitude, her love of dogs, her care for disabled children….it all won me over. She has a tremendous heart and is simply a really good person.

An example: she dipped my daughter’s feet in some sort of  red ink, put them together in the shape of a heart and hand-made valentines to give to our parents and our child care provider. She essentially turned our little daughter into a valentine. How do you not love someone who thinks up something like that?  

It did take awhile. Our love was a slow burn. I don’t trust a lot of people. But once she was in, she was in.

I could sit here and tell you a million reasons why she means the world to me. But I will sum it up with one: Sydney Grace Gregg. This is, after all, a blog about fatherhood.

Not only did my wife get me to believe in the white picket fence, she convinced me to father this precious child. I am a better man for it.

I’m a glass-half-empty kind of guy. I only saw the burdens that children bring. Brooke only saw the joys. Now, because of her, I get to experience those joys. I’m a new man at 45 and, not only do I hope to live past 50, I pray to make it to 80.

Children really do bring out the best in you. I’d step in front of a speeding train to protect my daughter. I’d do the same for my wife. She’s earned that loyalty.

She reads my blog, but this will be a bit of a surprise for her. I hope it makes her Valentine’s Day a good one. Especially since I didn’t buy her anything.

I’m not really an easy guy to live with. I’m argumentative. I’m a contrarian. I rarely dust or sweep. If I don’t have anything going on, I might go a whole weekend without showering.

Yeah, I’m a hell of a catch. Stand back ladies….I’m already taken.

Somehow, she puts up with me. Somehow, she loves me.   

Thank you, Brooke. Thank you for opening my eyes. Thank you for helping me believe in the white picket fence. Thank you for giving me the greatest Valentine a man can receive.

I love you.  

Losing the Battle, but Winning the War?

                                                             Comfortable Sydney


Well, it’s official. My daughter prefers my wife over me.

Sometimes it is subtle. She’ll sit and play with daddy, but she’s always stealing sideways glances at mommy to make sure she is still there. Other times, it is more obvious. The second mommy places her in daddy’s arms, the lower lip protrudes and the crocodile tears start flowing.

Ouch.

I guess I am just not the nurturing type. Who would have thought it?

As heartbreaking as it is to me to lose this contest with my wife, I am not the kind of guy to hold a grudge or seek revenge. I won’t punish my wife or my daughter for my failures. I am the kind of guy who rolls with the baby punches.

So, I penned the following email to my wife this week. I will let you know how it goes.

Honey,

It has become clear to me our daughter prefers your company over mine. This is heartbreaking to me, but I must accept the truth. You are number one in the race for her heart. I am chopped liver; you are scrumptious baby formula.

For the sake of our daughter’s future, we have to make her as comfortable as possible as often as possible. It will impede her development to force her to spend time at her most uncomfortable moments with anyone other than the person who absolutely soothes her best.

We must always make her feel as safe and secure as possible. As you know, I often worry about screwing up and raising a serial killer or a strung-out drug addict. I refuse to let this happen because of my selfishness. I will not force her to be with me at her most vulnerable times, the times when she really needs the person whom she prefers to comfort her.

Therefore, I propose we split the baby-rearing duties along the lines of “Duties Where Sydney is Uncomfortable” – those would be yours – and “Duties Where Sydney is Comfortable” – I will humbly accept these less-important tasks.

Clearly, Sydney is most uncomfortable when she has gone to the bathroom and needs her diaper changed. How embarrassing and shameful for her when daddy must answer this call. She is completely vulnerable at this time and absolutely must have the person with whom she feels most comfortable come to her aid. As much as it hurts, I cede this duty to you.

She’s also very uncomfortable during those 2 a.m. wake ups where she needs a bottle and a hug. Think about how scary it must be to wake up in the middle of the night to total darkness, the only sound being her mama snoring in the nearby room. I picture her little mind thinking, “Where is my mama? Where is the one person in the world I am most comfortable with?” I know I have come to adore these early-morning moments with her, but, for her sake, I will allow you to be in charge at these times. I promise to not get in the way and will force myself to sleep through them.

Her recent bout of double ear infection made me realize how uncomfortable sickness can be for a baby. She cried long and loud. My eardrums hurt more than her’s. I clearly did a horrible job soothing her. It is times like this when a young lass needs her mama. Again, as much as it pains me, I will stay out of your way. Maybe I will spend these nights in the spare bedroom with earplugs so as not to intrude on your mother-daughter time.

I only ask that you are as accommodating when it comes to my time with her.  She clearly has a great deal of comfort when she is playing, whether it be in her Jumperoo or with one of her many toys. Because this is a “safe” time for her, I will take on these duties. This is a time when she will be more likely to accept someone she is less comfortable with.

She also seems pretty comfortable when she is watching TV. She loves those colorful cartoons. I’ll take this duty. This requires someone who can sit with her for long periods of time and remain quiet, so as not to bother her. It won’t be easy, but I think I am the man for the job.

Nap time is also a very secure time for her. She even smiles sometimes when she sleeps. Clearly, she is happy and clearly this is a time when she would accept being watched over by #2 instead of #1. You can count on me.

I can see this method of operation working long into the future. You can take on the duties where she’ll most need you, such as potty training, menstruation and learning to drive. I will take on the less important tasks of reading bedtime stories, teaching how to hit the softball and chastity during the dating years.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, let’s see how we adjust to the here and now. As I thought about how we might split these duties up, I realized that not all of the parenting duties can be listed. There are many moments not easily captured in a paragraph.

So I think we need a fallback. It is obvious to me that anytime Sydney is crying, she is uncomfortable and needs the loving arms of her mother. I propose that in those instances, I step aside. You feel free to do the same anytime she is giggling and smiling, as this is obviously a very comfortable time for her.

I hate losing, but I am not the kind of guy who doesn’t shake hands after a defeat. You seem to have won her heart. Let’s roll with it and make sure she develops in the most positive way possible. I think this is the blueprint for success when it comes to raising a healthy, happy daughter.

Love you!