'Twas a Wonderful World (or Potty Training in Hell)

(Sung to the tune of What a Wonderful World)

I saw trees of green, red roses too
I saw them bloom for me and you
And I thought to myself, what a wonderful world

Now

I see stool of brown and yellow pee
The bright blessed smell, that overtakes me
And I think to myself, 'twas a wonderful world

The colors in the toilet, I shake my head and sigh
Are also in your trousers, like splattered chocolate pie
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying "I smell poo."

I hear babies cryin', insane I go
I'm sorry pampers, I didn't know
And I think to myself, you're still my little girl
Yes, I think to myself, 'twas a wonderful world.

Oh yeah


(Original un-bastardized lyrics by George Weiss and Bob Thiele. My apologies fellas)

It's good to be a dad

Though it feels that every day is a test and that she would appreciate my failure much more than a second graham cracker, it's good to be a dad.

There are times that she sits in her high chair, staring at me while I explain to her in gentle tones "Drink your god damned milk!" - tones so gentle they scrape my windpipe. And she smiles and tilts the cup and spills the cow juice all over the table. This upsets me. Though I know nothing makes her happier than to watch me mop up, it's good to be a dad.

She kicks me in the balls and laughs. This I tell you sincerely: There are moments in life - moments when you are grabbing your nuts, sobbing, rolled in the fetal position, balls retracted - that it's NOT good to be a dad. She giggles and climbs on top of you and says "Daddy fall down" while you are willing your balls to get back into position.

Left nut....I beg you...I know we've had our differences. if you'll just get out of my stomach and go back where you belong I swear I'll be better to you. Maybe we can catch a movie on Cinemax after everyone falls asleep. Just please go back where you belong...

And then it does. And then it's good to be a dad.

The girl chases the dog around the house. Tries to step on dog's head. I have to separate human from dog. Human throws tantrum. Not good to be a dad.
BUT...
Dog barks during football game. Daughter grabs squirt bottle and sprays dog. Dog shuts up. It's good to be a dad.

She forces me to read Fox in Sox until my tongue falls out.
She makes me listen to "My Wish" by Rascal Flats every time we get in the car.
She takes off her soaking wet diaper during naptime and drapes it over her face.
Not good to be a dad.

BUT

She laughs at all my jokes.
She asks about me when I'm gone.
She loves me.

And someday - hopefully many years from now - I can tell her boyfriend all these details and embarrass her with old photos. "Want to see what she looked like with a diaper draped over her face, Jimmy?"

Yes, even when I'm taking her boyfriend aside and threatening castration - promising to rip it off with my bare hands and shove it down his throat if he gets it anywhere NEAR my daughter, I'll remember:

It's good to be a dad.

Daddy Break Chair

I can't decide which is more annoying - a swift kick to the balls or constantly being reminded of your exceptional girth.

A few days ago, I was trying to murder the dog when... Oh, I should probably explain why I was trying to murder the dog. The nine pound dachshund was leaping high in the air - a well-calculated attempt to steal my daughter's breakfast. Like a domesticated predator, she sat poised on the dining room floor, a black stripe rising up her back, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. As the girl's hand moved down to her lap holding the exquisite morsel of buttered bread, the dog quickly went into action. Pure instinct took over and she leaped high, grabbed the hunk of bread in her teeth and finished with a perfect dismount. While attempting to inhale the large boon all at once, I attempted to murder her.

However, sensing that her life was in danger, she dashed off just as I leaned over to do the deed. The arm of my chair cracked and the wood splintered. The arm swung down to the floor - broken. I'm certain I yelled a profanity. Not sure which one, but it couldn't have been very original.

"Daddy broke chair." My observant daughter announced. "Daddy broke chair."

"Yes." I replied. And soon I'll break your little dog, too.

Since that fateful morning, she has informed every adult that we've come in contact with that "Daddy broke chair." She tells the librarian, she tells the cashier at Starbucks, she tells her Grandmother on the telephone. "Daddy broke chair."

But truly, as bad as the constant reminder of my dynamic waist line is, it can't hold a candle to the beatings my balls have received recently. The worst incident happened a few days ago.

I was holding her in my arms while we crossed the street on the way to the library. She was so excited. I was paying attention to the cars and the traffic light, not her feet. And WHAM. She kicked me square in the nuts. I doubled over in the middle of the crosswalk, still holding her tightly. She laughed. Ha Ha. Funny daddy. I finished the monumental task of getting her across the street, slowly. The light probably turned yellow, red and green a few times before we finally made it. My head spun, my insides were on fire - and yet I kept moving, holding the girl in my arms. I felt like King Kong trying to hold onto Fay Wray while getting riddled with bullets; like Michael Douglas carrying Nicole Kidman over the border in Shining Through while the Germans turned him into swiss cheese with their machine guns. It was heroic, yet I didn't feel like a hero. I felt like...sucky.

Then, last night at bedtime...

"Goodnight, honey." I said sweetly, holding her in my arms.

"Goodnight, daddy." WHAM.

Fine. Daddy break chair. Baby break balls.

Touche.

"Is she your only child?"

Some of the best moments in life happen when you aren't around. My wife had one of those "Insensitive Stranger" moments. I have these often. I'm a big white dude toting around an adopted Chinese baby, so I either get the confused stares with no comments or the ballsy folks that just come right up and start in with "Is she yours?" or something equally uncalled for.

My wife has had less exposure to the dredge of society because she is also asian. I'm the only white person in this family and have become a Dredge Magnet. She still gets people coming up to her in public, but because of her ethnicity they don't usually start with "Is she yours?" Occasionally, they begin like this:

"Is she your only child?"

Last week my wife went to the Allergist's office for her weekly shots. My wife is allergic to everything - pollen, cigarettes, dust, sex - and the shots help keep those allergies in check. On this particular day, she brought our two-year old daughter with her.

"We'll be right with you. Please take a seat." said the receptionist in the waiting room.

My wife sat down. Ellie, our daughter, climbed onto the chair next to her and they waited for their names to be called.

A woman in her mid-40s, who happened to be sitting next to them, asked "Is she your only child?"

Note - I asked for a better description of the woman so that I could relay that info to you, the reader. The fact that my wife only told me "she was white and in her mid-40s" probably means she was hot. But I guess that's not relevant to the story. Unless you're cooped up in your house all day and never get to see any other women besides your wife - THEN you may have gotten something out of it.

"Yes." My wife replied to her question.
"Are you planning to have another one?" The woman asked.
"Not at this point."
"Have you passed 30 yet?"
"Yes." Wife still being polite. Smile on face. Murder on mind.
"Have you passed 35 yet?"
"Yes." Wife's politeness waning. Approaching the "Get-off-the-Couch-Lazy-Husband-and-Take-out-the-Friggin'-Garbage" mark that I've spent our marriage trying to avoid.

The woman could have ended it right there. But she continued:
"Well, I had my last child when I was 38. And let me tell you, I worry about not being around for his high school graduation and his wedding. But you know what?" Uh-oh. Here comes some of that sage advice that we are continually seeking from people that don't know us: "You can always adopt next time."

Open Compartment Surgery

My daughter has a red Teletubby that stands about a foot tall. It sings and dances and lights up. I've wanted to kill it for months now. I can't tell you how often I've planned its demise. One such method involved duct tape, a linen sack and the San Francisco bay.

So last night I heard it singing like it was possessed. Very deep, slow voice. Either the batteries were low or the Devil was telling my daughter to puke in my shoes again. It stopped mid-song. My daughter began sobbing quietly. She picked it up and brought it to me. Kids think Daddies can fix anything. She'll figure out what horse crap that is by the time she's two.

This one was easy. Just a battery replacement. The compartment was located on the doll's back, and I used a screwdriver to pry the 3 AA batteries from inside. I pried too hard and sent the batteries flying all over the floor.

Three batteries out, three batteries in. But wait! Isn't this the opportunity I'd been waiting for? Why put them in? Kill it. Tell her you can't fix it. Tell her you'll buy her a new toy that sings better songs and doesn't fill your heart with bloodlust every time you see it.

But then I looked down at my daughter and saw the sadness in her face. How could I kill her favorite toy? Such sorrow in those eyes...until I realized she was sad because she was having trouble chewing one of the batteries I'd dropped on the floor. Sigh.

Bottom line, I did the right thing for once. I put in the new batteries. The Teletubby showed its gratitude by singing my least favorite song. If it had a human hand it would have flipped me off. If it was anatomically correct, it would have pissed in my face. Someday, you son of a bitch. Someday. The kid isn't going to want you forever. You'll get yours. My mind immediately went back to planning the toy's untimely death.

I gave the doll back to my anxious daughter and said, "Here you are Elena. What do you think of that?"
I didn't need her to tell me what she thought of that. I could smell it. She'd taken a giant crap in her diaper. Hmm, maybe I could get even with that little bastard after all...

The dog in my crock pot

I have a 7 pound mini-dachshund. She would fit nicely in a hot dog bun with relish, mustard and several diced onions.

When I put my daughter down for a nap each day, she feels the urge to bark. I shall boil her with potatoes and carrots.

In the evening, the dog informs me that her dinner is late by puking. The food must be served at 5pm sharp. Most days, the vomit commences at 4:55 in protest. I will bake her in a nice lemon sauce and serve her with mandarin orange slices.

During the night, she barks and wakes up my child. Perhaps I can sprinkle her with Shake n Bake.

If I leave the front door open, she runs into the street. Time to prepare a stew with moist corn bread.

Alas, not worth more than an appetizer really. I do love her, and it would be a shame to eat her all at once. In the winter she keeps me warm by sleeping on my lap. Perhaps I will remove her innards and replace them with a hot water bottle.

Eggs on the bottom, please

My weekly jaunt to the Grocery store occurs on Friday mornings. Kiss the wife goodbye as she leaves for work, drink a cup of coffee, and I'm ready to go. I grab the kid, throw her in the car seat, jam a few Cheerios in her mouth and hit the road.

When I get to the supermarket, I grab the most functional cart I can find. This is no easy task. Most off them look like they were parked in front of a house during a drive by shooting. Eventually, I find a cart, throw the kid in and head inside.

Okay. time to pull out my Grocery List. One dozen eggs. No problem. Pick up the first carton and get yolk on my hand. Set that one aside. Pick up the next carton - hmm, six broken eggs. Okay, grab the next one...date on the carton is last Tuesday. Another - 6 broken eggs. 6+6 = a Dozen, right? Okay. I Frankenstein together a carton with 12 good eggs that didn't expire last Tuesday. Perfect.

Onto the milk...first one I grab expires three days from now. So all of a sudden I'm that schmuck on the floor in the middle of the aisle - the guy pulling carton after carton of milk out trying to find one container that doesn't turn sour in 3 days. I find it all the way in the back where I can see into the Storage Room. Some douchebag is sitting on the other side of the fridge smoking a cigarette. He gives me a nod. Thanks for the help, dude.

Next, I stroll up the Baking aisle to get some flour, corn meal and sugar. Make sure I flirt with the hot mom buying seasoning. Say something cool: "That tastes great in a Burgundy sauce." Oh yeah. Still got it.

Grab some beer. Same hot mom that was giving me the "Eye" back in the baking section just shook her head and walked away. Hmm. Guess she saw me put the Hamms 24-pack in the cart next to the kid.

Finally I've filled the cart with a week's worth of groceries and it's time to check out. This is where the fun begins. I get all the individual items onto the conveyer belt. Above the cashier is a sign that reads: "If I fail to 1) Greet you, 2) Offer you today's special or 3) Offer you help getting the groceries to your car, then please inform the manager and you will receive a free loaf of Garlic Bread."

It might was well have the words "Please excuse our cashiers. They are mentally challenged." written on it.

Okay, every week I test them on these 3 simple courtesies. They are running at about a 75% success rate.

1) Greet me - "(Mumble mumble) or plastic (incoherent sound)?" In the middle of the greeting, one of the pimples on his face bursts. I guess that's a greeting. Strike One. Two more strikes and no garlic bread.

2) Offer me today's Special - (Mumbling under breath) "Today we are offering these celery flavored toothpicks for $2.99 a box." Honestly, it was such an uninspired delivery that I don't remember what the product was. Before I can open my mouth to respond, he gives me the total amount due and asks how I would like to pay. Still, he did offer me the toothpicks. The fact that he didn't actually intend to sell them is irrelevant. Strike Two.

3) Ask me if I need help getting the groceries to my car - All of the plastic bags are piled in my cart and my purchase is complete. This is the part of the experience I call the "Egg Hunt." It's similar to an Easter Egg hunt, only a lot less rewarding. Chances are, if I wasn't watching closely, the bagger put the eggs on the bottom of the cart and piled all the groceries on top of them. While I am searching, the checker mumbles "Would you like some help out to your car, sir?" Searching feverishly, I turn to ask him where the hell my eggs are only to find that he's already ringing up the next customer. Oh well. He still asked. Strike Three. No garlic bread this time.

Inevitably, something falls off the cart on the way out. I can't imagine why. Maybe it's because they stack the bags in the cart like they're stacking Jenga pieces. Thank you unnamed Grocery store chain. You're doing a great job!

Elmo

I enjoy reading books to my daughter, but man am I getting tired of the same crap over and over again.

There are many books that I take pleasure in reading to Elena, but alas, these are not her favorites. My daughter loves Elmo. You know Elmo, right? He's that red puppet with ratty red fur - Looks like some chick used him for feminine hygienic aid one too many times.

If I have to read "Elmo is SOO Big" one more time, I'm taking a trip down to Sesame Street with a shotgun looking like Michael Douglas in Falling Down - just a bigger waistline. "Do you know the way to Sesame Street you little red bastard?"

On the way, I'll stop in Tele-tubby land, take away their welfare checks and tell them all to get real jobs. Four retarded midgets and a possessed vacuum cleaner living together with no supervision and a "Magic Toaster" as the only source of food. Shameful.

Then its on to 64 Zoo Lane where I can remind all those stupid zoo animals that they are natural predators and don't have to let an 8 year old girl make them tell stories all night. She is meat, you morons. Next time she slides down the Giraffe's neck, tell the Lion to be waiting with his mouth open at the bottom.

Goodnight moon, goodnight room, goodnight old lady whispering hush - finger and paw-berry, my berry your berry - and the driver on the bus says "Get your ass on the floor and nobody gets hurt!" Brown bear, brown bear what do you see? I see deep in the 100 acre wood, that's what I see.

Yes, I've gone quite mad. I'd like to see you read "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, what do you see?" forty five times a day and still maintain your sanity. In the immortal words of Elmo in "So Big!" - a delightful classic that grows on you with each reading - "Baby Elmo drinks from a cup. Baby Elmo takes a bite. Baby Elmo stands up tall. Baby Elmo holds on tight. " Strong words. Valuable words. Heed them well and they will provide comfort and direction in your life.

But, if you can spare a moment in your day, please shed a tear or two, knowing that I have been beaten - my spirit, broken - by a talking tampon. I think it broke somewhere around the 545th reading of "So Big!". Not sure now. I grow numb.

Ode to Velcro Tabs (a poop haiku)

Oh, stinky diaper.
Velcro tabs, not safety pins.
How I love Pampers.

Ain't no cupboard locked enough

My 20 month old daughter has decided that all of my personal hygiene items are Public Domain. Think of the most personal item you use for hygiene. Now imagine that whenever you need that particular item, your daughter is running around the house with it. When your friends and family visit, she must bring out the item for all to view. She tries to open it, the dog tries to eat it and you just hope the mailman outside your window can't see you running around naked chasing a Chinese baby waving your much needed "Container" around.

So you try to find a safe location for the container - someplace out of her reach. Good luck with that one. She scoffs at any attempt to "keep it out of her reach". One day I put the item back in the bathroom medicine cabinet, away from baby's outstretched arms. Or so I thought. Later in the day, I couldn't find the kid. Uh-oh. What's she getting into now? I walked to the bathroom and - Remember that scene from Mission Impossible when Ving Raymes is lowering Tom Cruise into a heavily secured computer room by some industrial strength string? I swear I saw a bald black dude lowering my 25 pound baby on a harness toward the medicine cabinet.

Ain't no cabinet high enough. Ain't no cupboard locked enough. Good luck keeping personal items personal for a long time to come.

"Are you going to tell her?"

I'm a Stay-at-Home Dad that doesn't get out much. I have everything I need at home: computer, video games, TV, food and beer. I'm not big on social events and I'm lousy when having conversations with strangers. The world will continue to spin whether I'm involved in it or not. On the rare occasion that I do venture out of the house, I have been subject to some very awkward situations.

The first thing people see when my daughter Elena and I go outside is a giant white dude with a Chinese baby. I get stared at a lot. Especially by unsmiling, older Asian women. People sometimes come up to me and ask about her origins. These are the social situations that I respect and enjoy. It's a subject that I'm comfortable with and can talk at length about so I don't mind discussing it with strangers.

So a few women (they are always women) have asked me "Is she yours?" or "Are you the Mommy today?" (as if I couldn't possibly be the primary caregiver since I'm the wrong gender...but that's another gripe that I'll get to in a future blog.) One lady asked "What country did you adopt her from?" Perfect. Right to the point. Look, it's obvious that the kid wasn't designed with my DNA. Anyone that puts it this bluntly is going to win more brownie points than someone who dances around the subject because they are afraid of being "offensive."

It is very difficult to offend me. But a hair stylist came close...(question - If a hair stylist only charges $15 for a haircut, do I still call her a hair stylist?)

A few months ago I went by myself to get a haircut. I had never met this particular hair stylist before, although I had often been to the shop. She looked to be in her early fifties and Middle-Eastern. Nice, welcoming smile. Looked like she'd been cutting hair for a long time.

I sat down in the chair and told her how I wanted my hair done. Before the scissors even touched my scalp her mouth opened.

And so it began:

"Do you have any kids?" She asked.

I smiled politely and replied "Yes I do. We just adopted a baby from China a few months ago. She's 13 months old now."

"Really?" She stopped cutting my hair. "Why did you adopt? You can't have your own children?"

"Well..."

"You are still young. You should have kept trying."

"It's okay. We really love our baby."

"Hmm. You should have your own child next time."

"Next time?"

"Your next child. You should have it naturally"

"I don't think we're going to have anymore kids. We're happy with just this one."

"You cannot have just one baby." She said, wagging the comb in my face. "It's not right. You must have at least two. Have you tried any medicines?"

"Uh...."

"You know where you should go to get treatment?" Uh-oh...and remember, she had only just STARTED the haircut.

"Listen, I really don't need any..."

"India."

"I'm sorry?"

"India has the best Fertilization Clinic in the world. You and your wife should go there for a month or two and..."

At this point, I think I burst out laughing. She looked REALLY pissed off, but this conversation was just getting too weird.

So I tried again. "Look, we're fine with one kid. We don't want anymore."

"You should have adopted from Russia then. They have better kids there."

"We're okay."

The hair stylist went back to cutting my hair. Both of us were quiet for about 10 minutes. I could tell that she was seething and really wanted to ask me something.

And then she did.

"Are you going to tell her?" She asked, finally.

"Tell her what?"

"That she's adopted."

"Um, I don't think I can hide that from her since I'm a big white guy. My wife is Asian, but I don't think..."

"You cannot tell her."

"I don't think it's fair to keep that a secret from her."

"You said your wife is Asian, right?"

I nodded.

"Just say that your wife cheated on you with an Asian guy. Or tell her that your wife was married before."

I laughed again. "So it's better to tell her that her mother's a prostitute than to tell her the truth?"

"Yes. Your child should never know. It's not right to tell her."

This is a true story. And the haircut sucked.

NOTE: In the future if my daughter ever asks you who her "Real" daddy is, tell her "Some Asian guy." Furthermore, if YOU happen to be an Asian male and my daughter ever calls you "Daddy" just roll with it.

Being a SAHD (stay-at-home-daddy)

Before traveling to China to adopt our baby, I was making a great salary, working a dream job and on a promising career path. To quit my job and potentially throw away all I'd worked for and achieved was a hard decision. Add the fact that I'm not a college graduate and suddenly this decision becomes...uh...more hard? Catastrophicating? Please forgive my vocabulary...My Public High School education has limited my use of certain brain stems. Particularly, the stem that leads to the Roget's Thesaurasamone. With this pedicel sealed, my lexicon is exiguous. But I digest...

I may freak out occasionally (a lot) about getting back into the workforce in a few years, but I don't regret my decision. I'm enjoying every day and the kid is absolutely amazing. I can add diaper changing, child psychology and baby management to my resume. Not sure if I can add "Flirt with hot moms at Starbucks" to that list, but its still a sweet perk.

My daughter is Elena. We adopted her at 9 months. She rocks.