Baby Einstein

It has been a nightly ritual that, after I give Dylan her bath and towel her dry, I let her run naked around the house until Regina, disapproving, diapers and pajamas her. This has gone swimmingly until, about a week ago, Dylan added "pee on the rug" as part of her path from tub to Mommy.

At first I was bothered, mostly because I got the "I told you so" look from Regina and also because I had to clean it up. But then I realized that peeing like an old tom cat around our home is a fine example of the genius of our daughter.

Really? you ask. Yes, I shout. Why are you shouting? you ask. I don't remember, I say. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, how a urine soaked carpet equates to intellectual prowess. Here's the theory: Dylan is choosing to NOT soil her bathing/drinking water (we'll address drinking bath water later). Most kids pee in the tub. I did. You certainly did. But super-genius children pee on the rug, outside the tub.

Okay, I see you're still skeptical. Let me give you another example. Dylan can count. Well, we say, "One!" and she says, "Two," and then we say, "Three!" then Dylan says, "TWO!" Maybe I shouldn't brag about her counting, but she knows that two follows one. I'm not sure Stephen Hawking knew that at her age.

Here's my favorite example of her genius. Dylan pretends a metal banana is a phone. "Hello, Ju-ju," she says, cradling the phone, I mean banana, between her shoulder and ear. I'm not going to explain why we have a metal banana, but Dylan's sense of humor (the banana-phone is far more comically advanced than the "pull-finger-fart" trick) is clearly a sign of advanced critical thinking skills.

We tried to convince our neighbor, Jim, that we were living with a Super-Genius. We even showed him the counting thing. He wasn't convinced. And then he told us we didn't want a Super-Genius child. Because three's a crowd? I offered. No. How about social awkwardness, depression, obsession with Dungeons and Dragons, crushes on Carl Sagan, and wedgies? And that's just junior high.

Tonight, Dylan took her bath, drank the bath water, and held out her arms when she was ready to get out. Just before I pulled her from the tub, she peed. Not on the floor, but in the water, once her bath was done. Brilliant! No clean up for me, no slipping in a puddle of pee for her. She might be proving Jim wrong. "Good skills," I told Dylan. "Two!" she replied.

Poops and Boobs

Lately, we've let Dylan run around in her nudie. She digs the sunshine and it beats changing diapers. But, without a diaper on, sometimes we get little stinky surprises. I came home from work last week and Regina told me, "Dylan pooped on the 4-wheeler," which, I thought, meant that Dylan pooped in her diaper while going for a Polaris ride. It actually meant that Dylan pooped on the 4-wheeler. We hosed it off before Greg needed it for irrigating.

The last "incident" involved our cat, Jesse. He walked a little to close to our baby-fountain and got a nice pee-bath on his head. The cat hated it, but the rest of us thought it was pretty funny.

Today we made sure Dylan's diaper was snug and went for a drive on a Siskiyou County backroad. We crossed over the Trinities and into Shasta Valley and ended up at Stewart Springs. It's a little enclave for hippies who want to swim in warm sulfur water, sleep in a tee-pee, and meditate, naked, next to a creek. Why it's so special, I have no idea.

We stopped there to let Dylan out of her carseat and give the dogs a pee break. Even though my wife and daughter were with me, I was excited at the prospect of seeing nude women. I had "Sirens" pictured in my mind (the movie where Elle Macpherson is naked in every scene). My heart raced as I caught a glimpse of naked flesh as we pulled in, but to be honest, I couldn't tell the men from the women. I pointed at one attractive specimen who sat in the lotus position on a large rock and asked Regina, "Is that a chick or a dude?" "Shhh," she said.

There were nudies meditating around the creek like sunbathing seals. Dylan ran and screamed and laughed and when I sneaked a peak back toward the creek (maybe this time I could distinguish between the vegan-men and the macro-biotic women) they'd scattered like a Great White shark had spawned upstream. I guess Dylan's whoops and hollers spooked them. I just shrugged as Boo and Scout marked the tires on every Prius around us.

As we drove away, I took one last hopeful look back. Bad move. All I saw was a very male nude body. I focused back on the road in front of me, Regina laughed, and I think Dylan wondered if the dude in his nudie was going to poop on the rocks.

Back to the Bay

At nearly sixteen months old, we decided that Dylan was finally emotionally ready for a visit to her homeland. No, we didn't go to Ireland or Brasil, rather, we took her to Oakland to see the Raider Nation. And even though we didn't get her on the "Got a little Raider in you?" billboards, nor did Al Davis come through on his lunch meeting with her, I bravely scouted out McAfee Coliseum (okay, I went to an A's game with Maddock), for safe places to hide during a Raiders brawl, I mean game.


This was just a quick Bay trip, and we tried our best to see as many friends as we could in a few days. One of the highlights for Dylan was dinner out at our friends', Perry and Lisa, home. We turned their quiet neighborhood into a block party when I sent out an "all invited" email to everyone in my address book. Fortunately, the Monroes are too kind to turn away starving guests and the welcomed (and fed) a whole passel of our friends.

Every couple that came to dinner had a kid, none older than 2 1/2, with Dylan being the youngest. I got to really demonstrate my kick-ass father skills when I let my attention drift (oooh, pretty colors) and let Dylan roll down a flight of stairs. They were a short, carpeted flight of stairs, and my friend Matt assured me that, "babies are extremely limber and enjoy rolling down stairs," although I don't think Regina bought it.

When I wasn't diligently watching my daughter, I sat back and watched my friends, guys who used to have trouble remembering to wear underwear inside their pants, change poopy diapers with one hand and eat a cheeseburger with the other. I was impressed.

Our little monkeys played together extremely well. Maybe it was the spirit of the Olympics that overcame them, or maybe the Benadryl that we put in their ice cream, but no one got socked, shoved, or sent to the hospital. It's probably because we're all amazing people and we've instilled noble values into our children. Or luck.

We ended our trip with some friends who have two small boys. Dylan, of course, thought she was back in Scott Valley with her daycare homies and had a blast. Instead of going out for drinks and a nice meal (probably in that order), we had take out and hot chocolate and watched the Olympics.


The trip was over before we knew it. Dylan waved "bye-bye" to Malcom, Lauren, Jonah, Spencer, and Danny. We promised our friends that we'd come down more often and Dylan promised her new little buddies that she'd host the next North State Raider Nation BBQ and Stair Rolling Competition.

Fair Time, Fun Time

My father served on the local fair board for thirteen decades, and, naturally, I grew up as a fair kid. As a director's son, I received all the perks. My VIP wristband let me into a world seen by few children. I knew the carnies by name (and prison number), I could select the finest corndog stand by smell alone, I'd pick the Grand Champion pen of rabbits then go backstage with Waylon Jennings and tell fair stories. All this before I turned twelve. I walked on air (or cotton candy clouds) during fair-time.

But, once those five days in August were through, I was back to being just another ranch kid and the VIP bracelet I still clung to was worn and faded and had usually given me a rash.

This year, Dylan got to experience the joy of being a director's daughter. We strapped on her VIP bracelet and ran to the first ride we could find. We laughed and waved from our circling carousel horses and were living the dream. Until the unimaginable happened -- the ride stopped. She held up her little arm and showed the carnie her red VIP band, but it was no use. We had to dismount our plastic steeds and go. That didn't go over well.

Once her tears dried, we gave the FFA barns a shot. "Cows?" Dylan asked, looking at me like I was stupid. "Please, I see cows every day. Ooh, Mooo. Give me a break."

The petting zoo was fun, but mostly because there was sawdust on the floor (and little round goat poops) and we could roll around like hamsters. The animals (goats and deer) were old hat. Same goes for the Budweiser Clydesdales. Regina and I were in awe of the massive horses; Dylan was just mad that her wristband didn't give her access to the inside of their stalls.

The only two things that held Dylan's attention were the sandbox in Kids' Town and the slightly freaky juggling, unicycling guy. She was really into his corny jokes and beanbag tossing skills, but I felt weird and awkward watching him, so we ran back to Kids' Town.

After two days of fair time, Dylan told us that while baby goats are very cute and corndogs are delicious, it was time to move on. She handed in her VIP bracelet and threw her dusty and snowcone stained clothes into the hamper. On the other hand, I can't let go. My bracelet is still on, but my wrist is really starting to itch.

Baywatch Baby

The Eastside Gang just returned from their longest road trip, with baby, yet. After our last journey out of Scott Valley (six hours, constant screaming), we were, frankly, a little spooked about leaving. So, like Bill Murray in "What About Bob?", we travelled south in baby steps. Three days later, we arrived at Pismo Beach, intact and unscathed.

Speaking, or rather, writing, for Dylan, the highlight of the trip was, hands-down, the ocean. We spent one morning checking out downtown Pismo (the pier, Moondoggies) and when it really started to warm up, we took off Dylan's shoes and turned her loose on the beach. Pismo Beach is loaded with people BBQ-ing, kids playing, and dogs catching frisbees; Dylan thought she was at the best playground in the world. She beelined for the water, shedding her clothes faster than Pamela Anderson on "Baywatch."

Did I tell you that the Pacific Ocean, even in Southern California, is cold? It is. Very. Dylan hit the water, paused, weighed the fun vs. cold scales in her mind (fun is a rock, cold is a feather) and kept on going. I think she planned on pushing a few of the icebergs out of the way to tell the surfers in their 20mm wetsuits that, hey guys, careful, the water's cold. And awesome.

By the time I put her in a pretty dress and took her to the wedding, sitting in the sun and watching people stand in front of a preacher seemed like a big letdown, even if Mommy was one of those up there. So, like all weddings I go to now, I stood far enough away to let Dylan play on the grass, run wild, and splash in puddles. I chased her around until I sweated through my only nice shirt and had to take her up to the room for a deodorant re-application. The only thing that held her attention was a blue Tootsie Pop -- I know, bad idea. It turned her tongue, face, and dress bright blue, but got her to sit still long enough for my Mother-in-Law to scoop her up and take her to bed. I didn't even want to imagine the mayhem in our room once the sugar high kicked in.

We all survived and felt so good on Sunday that we tackled the drive home with vigor. Dylan, still blue, came off her sugar buzz and slept for nearly an hour (a record) in her car seat. And when we pulled into our home on Sunday evening, the ocean was just a memory as Dylan neighed and mooed at the horses and cows on the Hanna ranch, the best playground in the world.

Dreadford

This weekend, Regina went to Las Vegas for a "bachelorette party." I put that in quotes because I think she used the girls weekend as a guise to play in the World Series of Poker, under the pseudonym "Brasilian Ice." Regardless, she didn't have to hitchhike home or get a weird Sammy Davis Jr. tribute tattoo, so I think her weekend was a good one.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Dylan and Daddy were partying hard. Okay, I was working, but Aunty Ju-Ju got two new kitties, and Dylan went bonkers over them. She learned that the pain threshold of cats is pretty high and they don't seem to mind being carried by their necks. She also learned that, in contrast, her pain threshold is much lower and that cats sometimes do mind being carried by their necks.

On Sunday, Dylan and I loaded the truck and went to Medford to pick up Mommy from the airport. I figured Dylan would take her afternoon nap on the drive up and be cute and refreshed when Regina flew in. Stupid Daddy. Of course she didn't nap.

Our first stop was Big R -- ranching supply headquarters. Dylan sat in the cart and waved at all the employees, who all waved back. She earned "good baby" points, so when I released her from the shopping cart -- just to stretch her legs -- no one got too upset when she ran around the women's clothing section (camo, John Deere), ripping off every tag she could get her hands on.

I learned my lesson and kept her in the cart at Costco. I did forget to bring in the ever-so important snack bag, and panicked until I remembered, duh, this is Costco: food sample capitol of the world. We dutifully lined in behind the old and crazy who think Costco is a Home Town Buffet and I filled Dylan up on little bites of taquitos, push-ups, salmon patties, and dried apples. A pretty balanced meal. She topped it off by eating the grocery list. I know this because a nervous looking woman approached me and said, "She has paper in her mouth." I smiled. She eats a lot of paper.

We had a little time to kill, so into Barnes and Noble we ventured. There are no shopping carts in bookstores, and that should have been enough to send us packing. Instead, I let Dylan run free. She bolted like a feral cat and I could only keep track of her by the trail of books and stuffed "Harry Potter" dolls she left in her wake. I put everything back in its rightful place (it's the OCD in me) while Dylan laughed and bothered the creepy readers in the magazine section. I finally caught up to her in the "quiet" section and scooped her up. She wailed and screamed and fought and you'd of thought I'd just ripped a huge fart at a funeral from the looks I got. Look, dorks, you're reading on a smelly couch in a chain bookstore, not a library. Go read at home.

We left before we were asked to leave and spent the last half hour parked at a bank, making sure the bookstore police didn't follow us. I was out of ideas, and Dylan was out of patience, so we both sat in silence, praying for a tailwind to push Regina's flight ahead of schedule.

When Dylan saw Mommy step out of Medford International, she was ecstatic. Sure, her Daddy time was cool, but, man, sometimes he's clueless.

Baby Hercules

I started this entry yesterday, and was a page into it when I realized that it was all about weenies and boobies (those are technical terms). I got nervous that my blog might get "flagged," although I don't really know what "flagging" means; it very well could be a good thing. "Hey, dude, what'd you do last weekend?" "Man, I got flagged." "Sweet. That's flagging awesome."

So, for those of you who are dying to know what a weenie and booby blog would be about, I'll give you the Cliff Notes version: Dylan saw a ding-dong (mine) and thought it was a light switch chain. Dylan saw boobs (not mine) and her dad felt awkward. The end. No flagging necessary.

Now, on to the clean and mundane.

Lately, Dylan has been exhibiting super-strength. It started with breaking sticks in the yard. She'd pick up a fallen stick from our oaks (her favorite toy, by the way. It makes gift giving really easy.), then break it in half. If the stick was too big, her little arms would tremble and her eyes would bug out a little. I'd hold my breath in anticipation until the stick would snap.

Since the number of our backyard sticks has doubled (remember, she broke them all in half. It's math.), and are too small to break, she's moved on to toy-lifting. Dylan chooses the largest and most cumbersome, like the entire Old McDonald's Farm set, picks it up and carries it from room to room. She looks like an athlete on The World's Strongest Man competition who is trying to toss his ninth VW Bug over a wall. She staggers under the weight and Regina and I cheer her on like there is some imaginary finish line in our kitchen. It's fun to watch and has made the "toy corner" of our home obsolete. Now, we have toys in every room, like a FAO Schwarz.

I've got to say, with all this stick training and heavy lifting, Dylan is looking pretty ripped. And if anyone tries to flag this, I'll send over our little body-builder to settle the score.