Flailing My Arms

New blog, it finally happened

2008-02-27T20:51:00.002-06:00

In case anyone still checks out this blog, I finally got my shit together and created a new site, which you can find here. If you're a subscriber, the feed is here.

See you there!

Christmas Musical Goodness

2007-11-28T10:27:00.000-06:00

That's me, probably writing something angry like: "Remember your fucking lines!" Just kidding. The cast of the Christmas musical I'm directing (and that opens this Thursday, so if you live in Austin, come see it), is really phenomenal.

It's the most fun I've had making a performance in awhile.

Photo by Wylie Maercklein.

Where the Hell is Jonathon?

2007-11-27T13:35:00.000-06:00

I'm working on a new blog. A bigger, better, more exciting blog -- that'll be finished as soon as I can figure out how to make WordPress work on my own domain (this is the point I realize I'm not nearly as smart as I thought I was, and may succeed in breaking the Internets).

I'll be posting here occasionally until then, but rest assured, more is coming. Oh so much more. Hope you all are doing well!

One Year

2007-11-15T00:10:00.000-06:00

I was so pumped when we pulled that dress out earlier this week and it still fit.

Waking Up

2007-11-06T13:16:00.000-06:00

It's incredibly early in the morning as I write this. The sips of coffee I'm taking in between sentences are like small hits of liquid crack. There is a soft-focus fuzz around everything I see, while my eyes slowly adjust to being uncomfortably half-awake. My body aches. My breath is unspeakable. I am not a morning person.

However, I don't have to be.

I loathe to admit this, ever, in any context, because, by far, the vast majority of experiences specific to being a separated parent are frightening, lonely, painful, or some combination of the three. Occasionally though, there are small positives to this arrangement (that I would gladly trade, in a heartbeat, for more time with a daughter or a more "normal" life as a parent -- but still).

Sleep is one of those things.

Because I skip at least part of every workday to pick up Edan from daycare, I usually make up for it at the witching hour -- uninterrupted by late-night requests for glasses of water, additional stories, songs, and claims that sleep is a physical impossibility imposed upon children by domineering adults. Then I stumble through mornings (like this one), sipping coffee and trying desperately to smack my brain into readiness -- also uninterrupted by early morning sing-a-longs, second bowls of cereal, or morning cartoons.

Continued at ParentDish.

Amanda is Famous in an Internet Kinda Way

2007-11-01T19:49:00.001-05:00

Before she moved to Austin, Amanda lived with the hipsters in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. This is where she met Von. Von is a recording artist who goes by the moniker VonVonVon. He made a song called House of Von, and because Amanda is a dancer, she got to be in the video. (She's the one that shows up on the right, in the t-shirt that says VON.)

Rumor has it Von never breaks character -- like, ever. So watch the video, then picture talking to a person that really acts like that. All the time. Even when you're trying to order a couple beers from a cocktail waitress without sounding like a total douche bag. Amazing. I'm equal parts thrilled and disappointed that Von (presumably) has no plans to re-ignite the late-80s German-inspired house scene in Austin. Because this city could totally use that kind of kick in the ass.

Temporarily Awesome

2007-10-30T10:10:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, I went to give Edan a kiss goodbye, and she recoiled -- like normal -- because she wants me to "wash off" my beard. But then, as I went to set her down and walk out the door, she stopped me, pushed back my baseball cap, and gave me a little kiss on the forehead.

I like this phase.

Because we've been through crappier times -- when Edan got in the habit of asking for her mom whenever she was bored, upset, or frustrated that I wouldn't let her walk through the supermarket in bare feet with seven stuffed animals in tow. Sure, it seems innocuous -- blah blah, that's what kids do. But when you worked 'till 2 a.m the past 8,000 nights in a row (because time with your darling offspring cuts the normal workday in half), and you're exhausted, cranky, and pissed at the world, your child's incessant requests to be with another parent make your life feel -- for a moment -- like some cruel and pointless comedy, where you're the butt of every joke. (Of course then Edan laughs, or says something hysterical, and I, like many fabled fathers before me, am on a heroic quest through dad-dom once again.)

Continued at ParentDish.

Dear Cat That Dumped on My Doorstep

2007-10-27T00:24:00.001-05:00

I see you and your scraggly-ass friends hanging out, stalking the house, sneaking around the backyard and sending the neighbor's dogs into a frenzied, highly-vocal state of insanity. I get it -- someone who used to live here was nice to you, and now you miss the attention. Awww, wah wah wah -- cry me a fucking river, because you know what? They're gone, they're never coming back, and no matter how many times you shit on my walkway, I will never love you.

Accept it now, cat: you cannot defeat me. By the power of Grayskull; there can be only one; that's right Ice...man, I am dangerous; etc.

Other Adults at the Playground

2007-10-24T07:50:00.000-05:00

Usually the moms just smile, when we're forced to acknowledge each other's existence. Sometimes they apologize if their kid does something shitty. Once I got caught in between two women, pushing their daughters on swings and discussing how difficult it is to find a hair stylist you can really trust.

So true. So. True.

The dads usually give me the manly nod and say nothing, 'cause we have no idea how masculine we're supposed to be whilst cheering on our three-year-olds for making fantastic imaginary birthday cakes out of sand.

However, a couple days ago an older dad was swinging with his toddler while I chased Edan around the jungle gym, and he looked at me and said: "These really are the best days." He repeated it again, for emphasis, but didn't ask for affirmation. I'll admit, at first I thought it was a little cheesy -- to just say that, out of nowhere, to a stranger. But, of course, the truth is that he's absolutely right.

May The Force Be With You

2007-10-23T12:05:00.000-05:00

It's finally getting colder in Austin. Yesterday Edan and I got out of the car and strolled through some random neighborhood, just to be outside in it. She kept complaining about the wind, but didn't want to go inside -- the gusts of chilly air still novel to to a child who probably just barely remembers the last time she felt cold outdoors. To me they're a comfort -- a reminder of being young, and being home.

Only rarely do I get to share such an iconic part of my childhood simply by zipping up her sweatshirt.

Later, back in the car, Edan suddenly announced -- with the shock and urgency that generally accompany such proclamations -- that "I have to go potty!" Usually the dramatics are just for effect, and her declaration can be translated as "Excuse me, father. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but when you have a moment, I could do with quick visit to the loo. Much obliged." However this time she started squirming in her car seat, and had the kind of worried look that suggested I might soon be scrubbing that car seat with disinfectant, so I went into alert mode.

"It'll be OK honey. I'm looking for a place to stop and potty. You'll make it."
"I can't!"
"You can do it!"
"I'm gonna pee in my panties!"
"Almost there...almost there....almost....there."

And Edan smiled, because she's heard that last quote before. It's what the Red Squadron X-Wing commander says over and over as he tries to shoot a torpedo into a 2-meter wide thermal exhaust post on the Death Star -- a hit that would start a chain reaction that could destroy the station!

Continued at ParentDish

Not Dead, Just Busy

2007-10-19T20:40:00.000-05:00

Moved in, started new bloggy-type job which has been equal parts crazy and fun, been rehearsing four nights a week. Am about to go bowling during which time my brain will be completely in the off position.

The photos is of the house before we crammed all our stuff in it.

It looks different.

It doesn't smell like smoke.

The dogs next door bark at three in the morning.

More soon.

Dear U-Haul, I Hate You

2007-10-16T08:02:00.000-05:00

I never could understand why every time I came into U-Haul to rent a truck there was some asshole bitching and moaning. Man, I thought -- no wonder all the lifeless employees shove paperwork in my hand and maintain a customer service demeanor that barely conceals the constant threat of physical violence. Their job sucks. I'd be a dick to everyone if I worked there too.

But on Saturday night I had reason to loathe the mindless, directionless oaf of the U-Haul corporate machine. This desperately moronic, bumbling buffoon that gives dumb asses all over the world hope that -- at least compared to something -- they don't look so stupid.

When our truck broke down outside of the store from which we were planning on taking home our new sofa (directly before moving the few remaining pieces of furniture that Amanda hadn't given away), and then we spent an hour on the phone with seven or eight different, confused, and infantile U-Haul "emergency hotline" call center employees, and then waited for an additional two hours for a mechanic to come tell us that the truck had a small mechanical problem that required a little tug while turning the key to make the giant piece of shit start, I thought to myself: if this company had a soul, I would be roasting marshmallows on its flaming ass while it burned in outer-most nether regions of hell.

But finally, at 3:30 in the morning (a few hours later than we'd intended), the last box of our stuff was home. Amanda and I, exhausted, frustrated, and a little pissed at the world, went to sleep amidst the clutter, only to wake up and begin sifting through it the following morning.

At least, in the time we spent waiting for our van to start, we were able to drive home and paint Edan's room. We painted the walls pink, 'cause that's what she wanted, and as an added bonus, made one of them sparkly -- like this:

Jonathon Wants Your Christmas Decorations. Seriously.

2007-10-11T00:37:00.000-05:00

Normally I don't write about my theater habit, because let's be real: even if you are one of the eight or nine other people in the universe that give a rat's ass, you probably don't live in Austin, and couldn't come see the shows we make. So really, what's the point?

However, dear friends throughout the interwebs, this might actually interest you.

The performance company I run with Amanda is making a big, stinking, cheesy-as-hell Christmas musical called The Ultimate Christmas Musical: The Musical! I'm hoping the set will be made entirely from other people's unwanted, tacky holiday decor.

People like you.

So, if you live in Austin, come check out the event we're holding this Sunday at La Luz, a lifestyle boutique on South 1st, where you can give us anything holiday-related that you'd prefer wasn't taking up space in your attic. Seriously. If your spouse won't let you hang it, or you bought from the dollar store in college, it's exactly the sort of thing we're looking for.

If you don't live in Austin, and don't mind eating the cost of a UPS ground shipment, drop me a quick email, and I'll give you an address where you can send that rickety old plastic tree from 1987. You know it's time to let that go.

Mom and Dad Are Getting Married, Just Not to Each Other

2007-10-09T09:46:00.001-05:00

When two people have a child, their lives are forever intertwined -- no matter how their relationship crumbles, or how they choose to parent in the aftermath. Oh, how that which drives us to fume and rage at one another is also that which binds us inexorably together. Ah, the irony of life. Oh, blah blah blah.

But usually that's it. You have the kid, share that, and go on your separate paths -- filling your lives with separate things, meeting new people, making new friends, watching different TV shows, rooting for rival sports teams, etc. As long as it's not competitive, these many varied influences will only help your child grown into a more well-rounded adult. Hooray for separated parenting!

Although, recently, it's felt a little different.

Don't get me wrong, Edan's mother and I (plus our respective significant others) -- as much as we're friends and all -- aren't about to form some multi-family parenting compound where we eat meals together and sew each other's clothing. It's more like both sets of parents were cruising along, doing their own thing, but then stumbled upon the Death Star, and are being sucked into the grips of The Empire by the station's tractor beam. ~~Oh my God I am such a nerd~~.

Continued at ParentDish

Shhh...

2007-10-08T09:00:00.000-05:00

Earlier this afternoon, we learned the word precarious.

For instance -- every now and again, Edan is still asleep when I pick her up from daycare. This puts dad in a precarious position. Wake her up while she's still in bed, and you're stuck for 15 minutes, waiting for groggy toddler angst to run its course. That, however, is nothing compared to the shit storm you'll see if she wakes up in her carseat -- oh, the screaming; oh, the pain.

So, standing over my slumbering child is like being Idiana Jones in that freaky, booby-trapped cave at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark. As Indy sizes up the rock, gauging its weight, I size up the kid, trying 2, 3, even 4 different grips before I find one that seems least likely to get my ass shot with poison darts. But when the deliberation is over, the action must be swift -- so he switches the rock with a bag full of sand, and I hoist Edan into my arms, whispering: "Shhhh."

For a moment, I'm still, and all is quiet.

Then move, move, MOVE! Sleeping toddler in my arms, and a big ass boulder chasing me out of the bedroom, through the living room, over the toys, past those dusty skeletons that gave me nightmares as a child and out the door! -- grabbing bags, shoes, artwork, teddy bears and my kick ass leather hat moments before the front door clicks shut. She's in the carseat, belts are buckled, and we're on our way before there's time for questions.

Later that night, I spent the better part of an hour soothing, calming, coaxing and manipulating my daughter into closing her eyes, lying still, and drifting off to sleep. She didn't care that we read books in the most boring voice I'm capable of, and didn't even yawn while I rocked her in my arms, softly singing: "Go to sleep, Little Edan, go to sleep."

But then, finally, I'd tricked her into staying motionless just long enough that her body caved in, and began to rest. I rubbed her back one more time, and whispered...

"Shhh."

My House Smells Like Stale Death

2007-10-06T07:32:00.000-05:00

I love our new house. I love the space, I love the light, I love the floors -- I even love the potential I see in the backyard (after I rip out a couple dying trees).

But I hate the smell.

Damnit, why the hell would anyone go through the trouble of re-painting every room in a house -- presumably to make it easier to sell -- and then shut all the windows and smoke pack after pack after pack after pack of cigarettes like you were trying to create some new kind of cancer that only effects dry wall.

I'm not judging you for smoking. I smoked for years, and believe me, I was enamored with my habit. It felt good, it tasted good, and I won't lie: it made me look cool. In fact, the thought of spending another day scrubbing walls and bleaching bathrooms really makes me want a fucking cigarette.

However, after mixing cleaning concoctions of ammonium, baking powder and vinegar, then rubbing it for hours on all the walls --plus bombing the bathrooms with enough bleach to burn off all my nose hair -- you'd think that the stank of stale death wouldn't great me three feet from the entrance. But that thought would be wrong.

We have some guys coming to clean the vents this weekend, we'll be scrubbing the wood after that, and I hear rumors that if you leave your windows open for days at a time the stink will eventually go away. If that doesn't work, we'll cut our losses, cover the smell with primer, re-paint all the walls, and try and take comfort in the fact that this house was as affordable as it was.

Does anyone think it'd work if I just Febreezed the shit out of everything?

PS: That's tar on the fan blade in the above photo. The white patch is where Amanda rubbed it off with the hardcore cleaning solution. Awesome.

A Greener Shade of Jonathon

2007-10-05T13:20:00.000-05:00

For everyone who's into living green (or wishes they were into it), I'm writing for a new site called Green Daily. It's a sort of "eco-friendly for dummies" -- which is good 'cause, while I'm interested, I'm obviously no activist.

Favorite post so far: Bike/Lawnmower Hybrid Makes Mowing a Ride in the Park

The New Favorite Song

2007-10-04T13:02:00.000-05:00

Before we flew to my parents' house back at Christmas, I became obsessed with having enough toddler-entertaining material to keep Edan occupied in during plane flights -- whatever I could do to avoid being stuck with a screaming 2-year-old while trapped in tightly-sealed echo chambers soaring miles above the Earth.

As part of the process, I bought a $10 walkman and spent a couple hours making mix tapes -- which, as it turned out, Edan never listened to.

But during The Great Purge that's accompanied our move, I stumbled upon the See You on the Moon CD that I bought to mine for kid-friendly musical material. The album as a whole is a little too sad-bastard/hippy-dippy for my taste, but the second track is SO GOOD. Because she's a discerning indie-rock connoisseur in the making, Edan asks me to play this truly awesome song over and over and over.

It's her new favorite.

After you've listened to it, imagine a three-year-old singing the chorus. It's the cutest fucking thing ever. Click here for a sample.

Oh, How the Mighty Have Fallen

2007-10-02T08:12:00.000-05:00

As the Internet seethes with stories of Britney Spears losing her mind, losing control, and losing custody of her kids, it reminds me of a more personal parenting defeat I've suffered recently. 'Twas the final battle in a war waged over four long years -- began by my younger, more energetic, self-righteous self, who, much like the chart-topping, schoolgirl-outfit-wearing, virginity-declaring Spears of yore, was fond of making dubious yet plausible statements of personal infallibility. I was pure of heart. I was a rock. I was the center of the universe, 'round which the planets did spin.

It was this version of myself that knew, for a fact, that Disney, and their band of weak-minded, romance-hungry princess characters were, more or less, evil. I believed, in all seriousness, that by refusing to acknowledge the existence of these spineless saps, that I could somehow hold back the tidal wave of sexism in pop culture, and keep it from my daughter.

And let's be clear. I still hate that Cinderella (who's pretty, because she's good) just sits there and takes it from her nasty step-sisters (who are ugly, because they're bad), waiting around for magic to sweep her off her feet and into the arms of some hunky dude who will solve all her problems and make her life complete. Just shut up and look pretty and you'll win -- with a man! Hooray! No more problems!

Continued at ParentDish.

Growing Pains

2007-09-30T15:43:00.000-05:00

Edan and I have been mildly at odds this past week. We've both felt crappy-ish most afternoons, and she's either growing, or trying to move up a weight class in some toddler fight club she's keeping secret from her parents -- so who knows whether she's really pissed, or just reacting to all the growth hormones running rampant in her brain.

Subsequently, I've been working a little harder than normal to make sure daddy time kicks as much ass as usual.

And after the zoo, an afternoon of Edan-induced, aimless roughhousing, innumerable games of Candyland, plus a trip to see some very enthusiastic recent drama school graduates perform Suessical: The Musical, I've learned the following:

No matter how immeasurably joyous the preceding two or three hours have been, when asked, Edan responds like she's been caught in a rouse -- as if she's somehow been duped into having a good time by her father, the momentarily entertaining ne'er do well.

I'm sure it's temporary, but still, I'm looking at photos this afternoon, reminding myself it's only a phase.

Following Our Dreams

2007-09-28T23:42:00.000-05:00

The past two weeks have been encompassed by The Purge. Slowly but surely, our things have escaped, retreating from our little duplex in the hands of new couples, college students, grandmas, old friends, and bags destined for Goodwill. We're in our 20s, we're not rich, and each of us moved to Austin with a less than a carload of clothing. Amanda's papasan chair, the only piece of furniture that made the trip, came down from Cleveland strapped to the top of her Nissan Sentra (which, especially after her muffler fell off in Arkansas, made us look and sound like we were driving a strange, mechanized giant tortoise/lawnmower hybrid down the highway).

Yet, until recently, our rooms and closets were heaving with untouched, useless shit -- whatever we'd bought so we wouldn't live like squatters in empty apartments, or held onto in case it got really cold one winter for 8,000 days in a row. It's the sort of stuff my angsty, anti-everything, adolescent self would've scoffed at while I turned up the volume, and let bands like the Dead Kennedys sarcastically tell everyone in my suburb to "Kill the Poor."

I'm glad we got rid of it, but threw a small hissy fit when I found my Close Encounters of the Third Kind DVD in the bag of stuff on its way to Goodwill. "Just 'cause you won't watch it with me doesn't mean it'll never get watched," I griped -- just like a teenager.

* * *

My parents recently moved, and, after being forced to haul my childhood stuff from Ohio to Florida, finally declared that it was time I claimed what I wanted, or accept that it'd be released into the eternal ebb and flow. It'd been years since I'd rooted through old baseball and football cards, sports trophies, stories I'd written for my middle school Power of the Pen team (a group like Matheletes, but for literary nerds), and some writing from grade school that -- even though it hadn't been assigned -- I'd turned in to my teacher anyway, because I was awkward.

There's still something comforting about the swish, swish, swish of sliding through cardboard photos of faceless ballplayers, and the tattered cover of an old, familiar novel. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that, after spending the better part of 10 years rejecting everything I grew up with, I'd eventually find it soothing to write from the couch with football on TV in the background.

* * *

After we'd strapped the shell on top of Amanda's giant Nissan Tortoise, and crammed it full of everything she thought she'd need in Texas, she took a roll of black electrical tape, and wrote "Following Our Dreams" in block letters across the back bumper.

Today, a little over two years later, we're closing on a house. Our rented duplex is growing barren, and the stuff we brought with us from past lives is mostly gone. The message taped to the back of her traveling turtle has fallen off -- but, nevertheless, here we are.

Back where we started, having the dreams we used to have. Again.

How I Lost a Bet, and a Dog

2007-09-25T11:15:00.000-05:00

Amanda and I are fond of taking steadfast, stalwart positions on either sides of arbitrary, meaningless debates -- like, whether or not Dan Aykroyd is dead, and if it was Queen or AC/DC that sang Fat Bottom Girls. Quickly these become "bets," only we don't wager anything, which sucks, because seriously, who doesn't love the irony of Freddie Mercury crooning lovingly about big women? HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW THAT? Which is to say, that I clearly have a superior understanding of these blindingly obvious pop culture talking points, and thus, win every time.

So it was with supreme confidence that I entered our latest discussion. The stakes were high. We bet a dog.

Background:

I've been begging for a pet for like a thousand years. At the outset, Amanda and I used to have cutesy couple quarrels about whether we should get a big dog (like I wanted) or a ~~rat in disguise~~ purse dog, which was her preference. But soon it became clear that my lovely fiance was simply delaying the inevitable. There was no resolution to this conflict, because the real issue was that she never wanted a dog in the first place. Not because she wouldn't love one, but because she thinks I'm not "responsible enough" to look after an animal.

Ouch. After I'd pleaded, groveled, given in to her demands and accepted that we might own some prissy little poodle (and reminded her, on more than one occasion, that I seem to do alright with the human being I'm responsible for every day), she still rejected my pet ownership application in the way that a mother puts her foot down with a petulant child. She might as well have taken a giant pair of gardening sheers and lopped off my testicles.

Continued at ParentDish.

Size Matters, Dude

2007-09-24T08:21:00.000-05:00

A trip to the suburbs is a little bit like a special adventure to the land of wonder. Not to sound like some bi-coastal, elitist prick who uses expressions like "fly-over states" -- or to insinuate that I live in some uber-urban metropolis instead of an overgrown college town. The people are the same -- it's just the stores. They're colossal, elephantine, brobdingnagian -- so big, in fact, that I needed three words from the thesaurus to fully encapsulate their impressive girth within the bounds of language.

Sure, I'd prefer to do my shopping at locally-owned businesses, where they pay everyone fairly, and do their best to capture the good-natured small town spirit from America's mythic times of yore. But the only way I could afford to do that and feed my family would be to eat nothing but dry bread and cheese past its expiration date -- and let's be honest, unless you're sewing your own clothes and eating leftover stew made from what you grew with the other villagers in your community garden, your dollars are probably funding the ethically egregious exploitation of some malnourished 12-year-old, somewhere.

So while I buy my veggies from the farmer's market (and recycle, damnit), I'm still forced to shop at Target for furniture, else I'd be dropping half my newly acquired mortgage on a coffee table, or using some wobbly ass piece of shit I tried to make myself with wood from Home Depot (which isn't exactly the most good-natured of corporate superpowers, anyway).

Fortunately, in the suburbs, you're not stuck with boring old regular Target, there's Super Target! Seriously, these are like man-made Wonders of the World. I know it sounds like I'm being a sarcastic douche bag, but this is totally earnest adoration for whoever was able to conceive of such a well-designed, well-oiled machine of consumerist convenience. The automatic doors give way to a row of checkout counters that extends off into the horizon, a vastness like that which our ancestors discovered as they forged westward across the uncharted American plains, all covered in a pristine luminescence that says "shopper, you have arrived." For a moment we were motionless, temporarily stunned like small woodland creatures, trapped by the sheen of oncoming headlights -- and then it began.

We didn't even buy anything. We knew we were heading to IKEA (which is like Wal-Mart for snobby urbanites) later that morning, and I had the sneaking suspicion I wouldn't be as enamored with those funky Swedes as I was when I briefly considered decorating my first apartment in college. At least not enamored enough to spend hundreds of dollars of furniture that's about as raucous as a John Meyer concert, or some self-indulgent, naval-gazing Zach Braff movie.

But we wanted to know -- while we zig-zagged through display after display, dodging the other thousands of moderately-priced-modern-design enthusiasts (who all wanted to steal my fucking shopping cart) -- that, in the event we weren't ready to pull the trigger on an IKEA purchase, we had something to fall back on. Plus, we don't want our house to look like Edward Norton/Brad Pitt's apartment in Fight Club. Nevertheless, our brief trip to Super Target! made us feel much better about the money we finally did end up spending on a new entertainment unit, which will look nice in our new living room, which the previous owner recently adorned with new wood flooring, which, we discovered yesterday, he purchased at IKEA.

Home ownership, here I come!

Postmodern Parenting is So...Fish

2007-09-21T07:29:00.000-05:00

Ever since my late teens, when I reinvented myself as a self-righteous maestro du fantastic, I've always been very attracted to the idea of enjoying art museums. The quiet, the contemplation, the serenity of genius -- piously arranged and thoughtfully lit, against the stark, white nothingness from whence the violent act of creation did sprung. Oh! Le vie! Mwa! Ha! Breathtaking!

So, despite the fact that, in practice, I find the majority of them to be dull and pompous, Edan and I recently spent some time at our local nod to cultural sophistication.

Smart-asseyness aside, there's actual some lovely and moving works of art to be seen at the Blanton Museum. However, we spent the majority of our afternoon discussing why some of the boys' front bottoms were covered with leaves while others were not, and staring at a series of three ultra-slow-moving videos in which the subjects' expressions gradually changed over the course of 82 minutes. By the time we'd seen that, made fun of all the paintings with men in silly wigs, and annoyed the college students who wanted to do their math homework in a space that resonated with peace and artistic life-force, it was time to hit the gift shop, grab a postcard, and be on our merry way.

But before we wrap this up, I'd like to take a moment to congratulate the volunteer guards for doing a fine job of protecting these priceless works of art from me and my thieving toddler. Obviously your finely-tuned skills of perception could read the large placard the two of us were carrying, upon which we had scrawled in large, black, block lettering: WE ARE GOING TO TAKE THIS SHIT. We figured it might throw you off our scent -- but boy, were we wrong. The two of us weren't in a room for more than 5 seconds before you appeared, poof, as if by magic, behind my shoulder, or stood staring in the corner, waiting to catch us in the act.

Or maybe you know the truth: that the three-year-old is strong and fast -- like a ninja -- capable of overpowering and outsmarting even a capable young man like myself. Before I could stop her, she'd set her devious plan of destruction in motion -- quickly fingerpainting in poop on anything that looked like it might go for more than a couple million at auction. She's crafty, and enjoys the irony of destroying postmodernism.

It's possible she gets that from her father.

Looking on the Bright Side

2007-09-18T09:37:00.000-05:00

. . .

I suck in a deep breath, but my chest is tight -- trying to shrug the weight off before knocking on the door at daycare. It's a bad day, and Edan doesn't want to leave, so she whines from her car seat about going home, or to the park, or wherever -- barely speaking to me as she rejects the snack I packed for her. So we visit friends, but it's brief -- Edan's mom is done with work early, and I drop her off hating that our time together was spent trapped in the car.

And I sit there, staring at the dashboard, wondering if I'll always feel this tired.

* * *

That was yesterday. It'd been creeping up on me for awhile.

But less than a year ago, the life I lead now would've seemed like a ridiculous, impossible fantasy. With that in mind, I made a quick list of reasons I should be looking on the bright side:

1. I see my daughter almost every day. Think of the last time you were away from your kids for a vacation, or a business trip. Now take the feeling of those few days, and imagine it every week, over and over, until it's dull, throbbing ache. Allowing that to fade has been nothing short of amazing.

Continued at ParentDish.