Mama for comfort, dada for giggles.

Oh my goodness. It's been way, way, way too long since I last posted.

So much has changed. NOTHING is the same.

NO/NO took an early June East Coast/Midwest music tour. We went out for 14 days, played at least 10 shows, drove thousands of miles, wore out the timing belt on a 1998 Honda Odyssey mini-van, and played before packed and sparse crowds. My ears are shot, but my eyes are wide to the memories and sights seen.

Jamie and I moved into a second-story dutch oven with a skylight. The hellish window is angled at just the right degree that the glass bends the sun's rays so that they alight themselves across our carpets and our couch, turning both into smoldering cauldrons of simmering lava. We don't like the apartment.

I've started a new job. I'm now working as an analyst for a nonprofit "strategy" firm called S***** (secrets!). I spend a majority of my day learning how to navigate Excel and delving into the financial minutiae of social service organizations, looking to extract themes and trends that can help them answer big questions like: "Why do we exist as an organization?" "Have we lost our mission and vision?" "Why are we losing money on our grimy, in-ground swimming pool that is over-chlorinated?"  The job gives me a destination in the morning and some great co-workers, but I feel a bit disingenuous. Passionate, powerful, successful nonprofit leaders should not come running to me for financial advice. I'm still trying to figure out where I lost my last debit card. I honestly don't know, but I can assure you that it was at the '"classier" bar down the street with the brass bar foot rests that run under the counter.

We've had our Czech friend Bara Jakubcova come and go. She stayed with us for nearly two months, indulging in the best that America has to offer: big guns, big trucks, strong dudes, and red meat. While she was in the presence of me and Jamie, however, Bara had much "lighter" fare. We took her to museums, baked bread, drank wine (cheap), poured glasses of "imported" beer, all the while gliding our way through streets and alleys of Milwaukee on our steel-framed bicycles. Yes, we did that. Needless to say, she got to the see best and worst of our country (you be the judge).

Jamie taught, had summer break, vacationed in New York, got pregnant, and returned back to school.

Yes, that's right.

You thought I was just going to "sneak" it in there on that list and not draw any attention to the detail. But I'll draw attention here:

We're pregnant again!!

And, no, she didn't get pregnant in New York. She got pregnant in Milwaukee :).

Anyway, it was totally unexpected. Ada is going to be a big sister. We're both really excited and a bit nervous all at once. Jamie is going to try to have a VBAC (for those of you who don't know what a VBAC is, look it up). Her due date is late December. There will be updates.

On a serious and sad note, our beloved city of Milwaukee has had a tough few weeks. After the shooting death of a 23-year old, armed African-American man by police, the neighborhood in Sherman Park went up in flames and riots. The tumult became national news and before I could even comprehend what had happened, many friends and loved ones were calling and asking me about the situation. I penned an honest response to them through facebook. I leave it here:

To all of my friends from around the country and the globe who are following the news about Milwaukee and asking me about the situation in the city, I offer my thoughts: I simply do not understand what is happening. As a privileged white male, I am unable to comprehend what it is like to live in a community that suffers from an employment rate that is nearly 50%. I don't know what it's like to live in a community that has some of the highest incarceration rates in the country. I do not know what it is like to live in a community that has been marginalized through decades of economic indifference, cultural racism, and educational neglect. I do not know what it is like to have my history and my stories ignored or denied. I do not know what it is like to be judged by the color of my skin, by the sound of my name, by the look of my pants, by the style of my hair, by the pattern of my speech. I do not know what it is like to live in a community where merely surviving is a success. Until I know what it is like, I refuse to place my judgement upon those who are rioting, upon those who have committed acts of violence against buildings and a justice system that has failed them. At this time, I am trying to listen and search where I am needed, as a witness of solidarity, as a peace advocate, and as someone who wants to use my talents to unite the community. I ask that you join me in this journey of reflection. And please, please do not make this into a political story about police violence, for while it is a part, something much deeper is going on here in MKE and you all should respect that.

I remember that the last time I wrote on this blog (ahem...5 months ago....), I was enraptured with the observation that Ada was becoming more self-aware. What I meant by self-aware was that she was sprouting the seedling of personal ambition. As happens with people, this innocent “ambition” about which I began to wax poetic, has now morphed itself into nightmarish selfishness. When Ada doesn’t get to spend an extra ten minutes picking the petals off our neighbors purple cone flowers, she screams, goes limp, and lumps her head against the ground. If Ada isn’t allowed to throw her newly-purchased-plush-crab bath toy down the toilet, she screams, goes limp, and lumps her against the rug. If Ada isn’t allowed to get one last ride down the plastic slide at Gordon Park, she screams, goes limp, and lumps her head against the recycled rubber matting. You get the drift….

On June 15^th, I relinquished my role as Ada’s primary care giver to Jamie. Since then, she has attached herself to Jamie. Ada threw me aside quicker than she shoves her half-eaten spoon of mashed potatoes onto the kitchen floor. In inverse relation to the ease with which Ada has dropped “dad,” I have struggled mightily to come to grips with the reality that I am no longer the “Apple (or bottle if you will) in Ada’s eye.”  When she wants comfort, food, held, read to, cuddled, she reaches for Jamie. When she wants to play or laugh, she comes for me, lying on her back waiting for me to blow bubbles on her belly. This is what it’s come to, Ada? I am now your clown? Your court jester to be cast aside when you are not amused!?

The closest Ada and I have been in the past two months was actually this week when I stayed home to care for her while she recovered from a “mysterious” illness. It was a great day. We read, walked, played with flowers, and took naps under trees. Then evening hit and I had a very visceral answer to the question that had vexed both Jamie and I: Gastroenteritis

After 36 hours, 20 pedialite popsicles, and 100 prayers to the Lord, I can confirm that Ada had stomach flu. She felled me with one kiss too many.

First Words

There is something incredibly narcissistic about having a child. Without stating the obvious (and by obvious I mean that half the child's DNA is literally your DNA), it is clear that we parents get a bit too enraptured in working to isolate and then exaggerate the positive physical, emotional, or intellectual traits that we believe have been bestowed upon the child through the righteous power and strength of our own genes.

Sorry Jamie, but those radiant blue eyes of Ada's that glint like the turquoise water of a coral-island lagoon were from me. Sorry Jamie, but Ada's appreciation for and love of Afro beat poly-rhythms and Turkish throat singing is from me. Sorry Jamie, but the way Ada approvingly squeals at the slightest sight of a humble wren or sparrow, belying a deep appreciation for the balance and harmony of nature is...you guessed it...also from me. 

Negative characteristics are the result of DNA corruption which most likely came from your partner. 

Our babies, toddlers, and children are the lake; we parents are Narcissus. 

It's a sad, sad fact.

Yet our infatuation with our children--ahem, ourselves--isn't only relegated to obsessing over positive physical or personality traits. Nope. We do it with "first words" as well. And in a way it makes total sense: genes were given; we have no choice. But words, and the value systems and beliefs that they represent, are bestowed. In an odd way, a baby's vocabulary is both a reflection and insight into the culture of the household in which he/she lives. We parents have a serious responsibility in cultivating a loving and positive environment to encourage proper brain development and intellect. In reality, though, the major reason we do so is because we want to feel good about ourselves. And, of course, we don't want to be embarrassed in public. And we've all heard the stories:

*The young dad who is devastated to hear his child say "bullshit" in the navel of the church during a Sunday children's sermon--the child's word serving more as an indictment of the unrighteous and immoral father. 

*The boy who goes to school saying "piss" and "hell" while he terrorizes the girls. 

*The little girl that screams "F***" on the playground as her sweaty hands slip off the monkey bars and she lands on her knees in the mulch. 

It's why Jamie and I have a battle each night to see whether Ada will say "dada" or "mama" first. (For those of you wondering, "dada" won out. Another point for me!) I would much rather have Ada say "multiculturalism" before "racism." What a blessing it would be if Ada said "jazz" before she said "pizza" and "monograph" before "TV." It's kind of funny how we parents can use a child's first words to manipulate the image of ourselves that we want to broadcast to the community, because, let's face it, everyone else can see through our garbage. But with a child, "they just tell the truth." 

I see it in my own family when my mother in her failed attempt to make sense of how I drifted so far to the left from her own political spectrum frustratedly exclaims, "The first word out of your mouth was 'REAGAN!'" It wasn't my first word, but my mother's proudest word moment. 

I cringe every time she says it. 

Oh Lord how I've hoped Ada's first word will be "Bernie!"

In reality, Ada's first word was "yogurt." I'm still trying to decipher the meaning. It seems that my plan to make Ada my little ideological play-back function has failed. "Yogurt" is decidedly neutral. It means nothing. Jamie doesn't believe that yogurt was her first word; however, it was. I'm not backing down. I think Jamie is hoping that Ada's first word is going to be "art" or something. 

Ada's second word was "wow." This is better. Still a bit neutral, but at least Jamie and I can rest assured that "wow" signifies a growing curiosity of the wonderful world around her. 

And in that we can both rest assured that we're great parents. Everyone can now hear and know it. 

Mountain Trials of Fatherhood

The oppressive heat of a Phoenix February flayed the back of neck. I felt beads of sweat gather under the brim of my hat. They cascaded down my eyebrows, pooled at my temples, and dribbled into my mouth. I tasted salt.

Ten minutes into my hike up Navajo Mt. and I was already feeling exhausted. The chicken burrito purchased and immediately inhaled twenty minutes prior was not giving me the needed energy. In fact, if I'm honest with myself (and you), the burrito gave me the worst gas imaginable. Floating to the top of the mountain was not merely theoretical at that point. I could have. However, I was weighed down. I had a stowaway on the hot-air balloon that was my body: Ada.

She was strapped to my back like a sand bag. The only way I could ascend was to release her, let her drop back to earth with a thud (bad image. sorry. really. sorry), and then I would magically float up on thermals in the thin desert air, rising to the apex of the 6,000ft peak. Vistas of strip malls (literally, thousands of strip malls) and ranch houses would array themselves into a beautiful fan across the desert plain, while rays of magenta, azure sun flashed behind the south range of the Arizona mountains. It would be a beautiful vision, in a weird Phoenix-is-probably-the-ugliest-city-outside-of-Florida kind of way.

But I'm a dad.

Ada couldn't fall.

Instead, I doubled down and got real serious about the hike--for the next 10 minutes. My legs were sturdy pillars of granite, full of rippling muscle and sinews. I must have done about 1000000 squats and lunges carrying Ada up the mountain pass. It was like I was on a gigantic step machine (you know, those dumb cardio machines) and the "added resistance" was my 17-pound, 10-month old daughter.

Her body was plastered to the back of my shirt. I arched my spine in such a way as to encourage some kind of draft between our bodies so that Ada wouldn't over heat. But that was hopeless. I knew her sweat was mixing with my sweat, while we congealed into some kind of daddy-daughter amoeba. Our bond grew stronger the hotter and more miserable we got.

Thankfully, Ada slept. She was not aware of how precarious of a situation I had put her in. First off, I have asthma. Anytime I go above (roughly) 5,000 feet, my breathing becomes labored and shallow. In essence, I feel sick and hungover. Ada doesn't know what being hung-over feels like yet, so that was a win for me. It was not a win, however, for my legs. The higher I went, the heavier they got. I noticed that the tread on the bottom of my merrell hiking boots began to clip the rough edges of the rocks that were strewn all over the path. I almost lost my balance. The only thing that kept Ada alive at this point were two aluminum hiking poles that had a unfortunate history of collapsing unexpectedly.

Oh yea, and did I mention that this was a mountain? Like a real mountain? There were drop-offs-- serious dropoffs--on both sides of the trail. There were also hundreds of hikers moving up and down along the side of the mountain. At times I felt as if I was a salmon swimming up stream against the flow, carrying my precious cargo. People passed and glanced at me. From the front, I looked like any other "outdoor-loving" white guy carrying a camelpak. But from the back, the reality was much more scornful: I was a white guy, carrying a young, sleeping baby on his back, up a mountain in 88 degree weather, wearing a giant, floppy sun hat (shade, right? For the baby...). Behind me there were women. They did not approve.

Rather abruptly, I informed Jamie that I had to go back down the mountain because "Ada was tired." That was a lie. Ada was indeed already sleeping. Her exhaustion was obvious to everyone. What wasn't obvious was that I  felt like a complete dipshit. And as a man, I can't admit that, right?! My hiking partner, Paul (another man), also was feeling "tired"--although his tiredness stemmed from the fact that he had just eaten two beef tacos prior to our hike. We told "our" two women that they should go on without us. We acted as if we were making some kind of sacrifice to take care of "child." They both looked rather confused. It was obvious that neither one of them had any intention of not making it to the top. Nor were they tired. Both gave a curt "OK" and scampered up the trail like mountain goats.

Paul and I were left to assess the situation. I was terrified. Coming up was hard, going down would be worse. Horrifying images of me slipping on some talus and spilling Ada over the ravine flashed before my eyes. My only response to this image was "to go slow." As if that would control all the bad that COULD potentially happen: I'm feeling dizzy. I might fall. That's ok, "I'm going slow." Oops, I'm sliding on my butt. That's OK, "I'm sliding slow."

Slow I went. Paul held my hand at times. My legs shook as I descended back down to the parking lot. People coming up the mountain didn't realize that I was carrying a small child on my back, so on numerous occasions I was pushed  to the edge. I couldn't stop them. They were on their post-work hike/run and were REALLY serious about it. I waited. Then moved on, grasping the hiking poles with all my strength.

Ada, meanwhile, still slept. At times, if the descent became rather precarious and I had to sit or kneel to get over a rock, she would stir, but would immediately fall back asleep. I was happy for that. Because, again, if Ada awoke and saw her situation, even her 10-month-old mind would realize that her father was a dipshit.

It's OK. Others behind me made it clear that they felt the same way.

And just as I was about 20 yards from my destination and safe on solid, flat ground, I saw an interesting sight before me. Unexpectedly, another small child was seen ascending the mountain, strapped to their sweaty father.

Supposedly he made it to the top. Jamie told me he did.

I don't believe it.

If he made, then I made it too.

Routine

A year ago Jamie and I were attending Lamaze classes in preparation for the birth of Ada. We were inundated with pregnancy and parenting advice from doctors, nurse practitioners, doulas, midwives, the internet, moms, grandmas, the president, the president's wife, and random co-op food shoppers. I learned quickly that breast milk is like 1000x better than formula, that breastfeeding is beautiful and allowed in public, that sleep deprivation is inevitable, that babies recquire a lot of skin-to-skin contact, and that "co-sleeping" is about as bad as murder.

When the early spring sun began to melt winter's ice into rivulets of brown, caustic water, I had become (at least so I thought) well-acquainted with the trials of parenthood. My diaper-changing technique was refined in regards to speed and minimal spillage. Bathing procedures were written down and mentally rehearsed--I knew to start at the head, gently wash the eyes, and work my way down  to the toes, making sure to practice my child-is-wet-and-extremely-slippery grip. So, sure, I was prepared to live, eat, breath, and bath in BABY. Therefore it comes as no surprise that nearly nine months in, I'm about to lose my mind. 

For what I wasn't prepared for and what everyone failed to mention was the power of The Routine (capitalized, friends). As hard as it is for me to believe, there was once a time in my life where I loved an old-fashioned schedule. I worked early. I read during breakfast. I exercised prior to work, accomplished my job, went to class, and studied into the late evening. On those rare days where I felt like "cutting loose", I met a friend at a bar for a drink or two. For many of you, schedules can be restricting. However, for me, I came to view my routine as protection against my natural proclivity towards procrastination.  Free-thinkers and anarchists be damned. I loved my planner! 

At least so I thought...

Because as much as I gushed about and received "energy" from my stead-fast habits and patterns of life, it was a rather selfish endeavor. For if I'm honest with myself, what I liked about MY routine, MY schedule, and MY planner, was that they were all MINE. I controlled them. I maniuplated or changed my day-to-day or week-to-week goals. I was rarely reliant upon the needs of friends or others around me. Jamie had some influence, but seeing as I had "responsbilities" at work and school, it was difficult for her to influence my life rhythms. 

Then Ada came. 

And now I don't even shower. I have to scrounge time to brew a cup of tea or butter some bread. Lunch is a battle and I'm often eating luke-warm leftovers out of a microwave. Exercise!? Ha. Self-preservation!? Give me a break. From sun-up to sun-down Ada dictates my routine. Even calling it "my routine" is a stretch--it's really Ada's routine. Period. My only role is to make sure she stays on schedule with naps, feedings, play dates, and diaper changes. If she's unhappy, my day is flooded with the ear-piercing screams of a person who can't express herself. She is all raw emotion. There is no such thing as interal self-control. In thirty seconds flat, Ada goes from having the type of fits only a Priest of Exorcism can appease, to smiling and giggling at her stuffed yellow elephant. 

She is like a child queen, ruling her court upon the whims of pleasure and want. I am her jester, her servant. She laughs at my plight and how pliant I am to her EVERY SINGLE NEED. 

I'm ensconed in the irresistably cute, but emotionally maddeing world of a nine-month old. All I can do is hold on and ensure that she gets her favorite squash soup at 11:30 sharp and that she has at least 15 minutes prior to breakfast to chew on her plush turtle. The world around me moves on. Friends get promoted, sample the latest beer, and attend music concerts. I'm left behind, like a manufacturing robot: my greatest worth is ensuring that the process is maintained and that Ada keeps on moving safetly down the child-development assebmly line. For someone with grand ideas about my career and "life calling," it's extremely difficult to feel so insignificant in the global community. 

I try to ensure myself that what I'm doing is "the most important job in the world," but there are days when this simplistic platitude is as heart-felt as a forced "thank-you" at Christmas. The Routine is the same each and every day. I now understand why there are parents' social groups, because, quite frankly, The Routine does not encourage a restless mind to think or reflect. And to be honest, I feel bored many days. As I sit, waiting for her to wake from her afternoon nap, I'm mentally prepping for the flurry of activity that will ensue: changings, bottles, baths, books, etc. And today feels much like yesterday. And yesterday is like tomorrow. And tomorrow is one more day off the calendar. 

I don't really know what the point of this post is. I'm not trying to complain, really. I'm just coming to the realization that parenting should not be an individual endeavor. It is best done in the community of other parents. And I'm hoping that at the start of the new year, I can begin to find calm and peace within the schedule of Ada. For the first time in my life, I'm really understanding what it means to sacrifice in the service of others. And I quite like it. It's a struggle, but one that is deeply enriching. Ada is making me a better husband, better father, and hopefully a deeper, more holistic thinker! 

Now if only I can figure out a way to get her to crawl....

At the The Domes

Being a man and staying at home with a child is a lonely existence. Two weeks ago I decided to take Ada to Milwaukee's horticultural conservatory known as "The Domes." Immediately upon entering, I found myself surrounded by young mothers with kids in tow. There must have been about 40 women. Babies were strapped to their chests and backs, while older children were walking hand-in-hand at their side, grabbing the fabric of their skirts. Public breastfeeding was a common sight at the entrance to the tropical forest exhibition.

A few shot  quick glances in my direction as I crossed the main lobby, making a bee-line for the men's bathroom, which, of course, was almost completely devoid of people. Men on this day were about as rare as an open electrical outlet at an urban cafe. Ada was strapped to my chest. She was sleeping and her neck was contorted sideways at a near 90 degree angle. Somehow she was fine. Dare I say Ada was comfortable. Nevertheless, I was self-conscious that some of the moms would comment upon the way in which I was letting my daughter sleep.

It was as though I had stepped head-long into a sacred "rearing hut" full of female power and the generational wisdom of grandmothers and mothers who came before. I felt like the metallic pinball in a machine that was titled. Everywhere I went, it was as if I was grazing the forbidden boundaries of the course, throwing off warning signals that I didn't belong, or at least that I was over-stepping my bounds. They ignored me for the most part, which was good. Because, quite honestly, their conversations--at least from what I could hear--revolved around the pain of nipple tenderness, weight-loss after pregnancy, and church groups. It's fair to say that although I'm an opinionated person, I literally would have had NOTHING of substance to say.

Maybe I'm being a bit too harsh.  It's very reasonable that the women found me to be an interesting and welcome distraction. A few of them whispered to their friends that it was "adorable" to see a dad with his young daughter. Nevertheless, Ada and I continued on our path as lonely as before. I whispered the names of the exotic plants to Ada as she slept. When she woke, she feigned interest in knowing that black pepper is harvested from a vine, or that tequila comes from the root of blue agave. She was way more concerned with ingesting the napkin I picked up at the food court. We stayed about an hour at the domes. Ada got restless and began to fuss. I had not the patience (nor the food supply) to appease her oncoming hunger! We jumped in the car, drove back to Riverwest, and spent the remainder of the afternoon reclining on the floor, chasing plastic stars, hearts, and rings. Fun times.

I don't know what it is about the internet, but it knows everything about me. I'm serious. Whenever I'd surf the web pre-Ada, I would be bombarded by advertisements enticing me to buy the latest music release, a sports jersey, or an air ticket to Cozumel or Alaska. Recently, however, I've been hit with ads for baby formula, diapers, breast pumps, and the latest styles in post-pregnancy fashion. I'm sorry, internet, but aqua blue blouses with low neck lines for easy breast exposure would have been attractive to me when I was sixteen. As a thirty-year-old bald dad, it's just sad, sad, sad....

The advertisements serve as another constant and rather intrusive (and unpleasant) reminder that I don't belong. Men just are not expected to stay at home. There are very few print resources, on-line forums, or support groups for dads. So, as a guy, I take Ada to places that I find comforting: on hikes, around the river, to art museums, AND, much to the shock and horror of a few of the women in my life, the bar. It's not odd for a man to bring a child to a bar. Ada enjoys the lights and the sound of glasses clanking.

Hey, don't judge me. It's an excellent place for her to be socialized and come into contact with a myriad of what I call "stimuli."  :)

As I've written many times before, I am being intentional in staying at home as a man. I want to experience the challenges that come with caring for a young baby. We ask women to sacrifice their careers ALL the time, so as a male, I believe that through my struggles as a parent, I'll be able to empathize with women and mothers when I'm back in the workforce on a more regular schedule.

I now know what it feels like to work all day to care for  Ada as she screams for a nap, as she throws-up on my face, as she relieves herself on my hands. I've become accustomed to the sour stench of rotten milk, the acrid smell of dried urine, and the silky fragrance of an infant's skin. It's extremely physical and sensual raising a child this young. And I'm blessed to have this experience.

I also know the frustration of having to prepare meals, do dishes, and care for the entire household. Jamie is working hard to establish her teaching career. We are both working extremely hard to make life manageable. Neither of us make a lot of money, and all of our relatives and family are distance, residing hundreds of miles away. There are moments where we feel completely alone.

But, in those moments, we both take solace in watching Ada smile, scream, and laugh, exploding with the unabashed joy of experiencing life in all it's complex and fantastic forms.

Ada Updates!

It’s been over a month since I’ve fallen into the role of stay-at-home dad.  The transition at times has been extremely difficult. Barriers to my full metamorphosis into super dad stem from my prior work responsibilities and commitments. While I’m scrubbing Ada’s sticky feces into the toilet, I’m also planning nonprofit meetings and conferences. While milk becomes scalding hot in the bottle “warmer”, I shoot of a couple phone calls to donors. While Ada naps, I work. When Ada’s up, I work. When I’m chopping onions, boiling water, grating cheese, and flipping cardboard pages in an animal book, I work.

Finding equilibrium in a schedule that is so topsy-turvy is literally impossible. At times I find myself reflecting on the fact that I’m doing both of my jobs—being a father and a nonprofit administrator—half-heartedly, leaving much to be desired. I guess it’s the plight of all working parents in today’s America. However, it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I understand that some of my fellow Americans have horrific notions of what “socialized” Europe does to people and morals, but I want to assure you that what they do for families is LEAPS AND BOUNDS better for family stability and child-rearing.  In fact, just this past week, I read an article discussing Germany’s recent move to make both paternal and maternal leave mandatory. The ability afforded young parents to stay at home with job security and pay is a luxury too few Americans and children are able to enjoy.

The business of my day-to-day routine, while it brings stress, also fosters joy and feelings of accomplishment. Just recently I returned from a challenging trip to Moldova, and I’ve begun to relish watching Ada progress and develop. Whenever there is a small victory during the day, like when Ada, squeezing and flexing her abdominal muscles, sits up to look me square in the face, a rush of what you could call “positive vibes” envelopes my body from hair follicle (in my case, literally, hair FOLLICLE) to toe nail. Ada is beginning to see clearly and in color. She has begun imprinting my face (and eyes and nose and ears) into her memory. When she looks at me, she leans in extremely close (like so close her-nose-grazes-my-nose close) and darts her eyes back and forth, looking directly into my pupils. She also rips my glasses off. She wants THE WHOLE FACE, nothing but the face. It’s as if we’ve communicated through our hearts and souls, not through tongues. After all, Ada can’t talk. And if we really did want to communicate in “tongues,” I would be on the losing end of the deal. Her milk breath is literally AWFUL. And her tongue is coated in lactose residue. 

I’m sure none of you want to hear about me, though. Ada has been growing quite a lot. She no longer goes cross-eyed when attempting to focus on a stuffed animal. Nope. To the contrary, her blue eyes are alert and sharp. Her head is constantly darting around as she tries to focus on all the activity of life around her. Just this past week we’ve spent over two hours together in the post office. Ada relished watching the postal worker fold envelopes, stick stamps, and type on the computer. The cacophony and activity of paper ripping and sticking was enrapturing! 

On our daily one-hour walk around the Milwaukee River, Ada notices the vibrant purple flowers of late-blooming New England Astors and tries to reach them. Too bad her arms are only about 10 inches long. She never gets them. So, of course, me being the “good dad” that I am, I rip the flower heads off and gently place them in the palm of her tiny little hand. In two seconds flat, said New England Astor Flower is in her mouth. She spits it out. She hasn’t learned that not all beautiful things are edible.

Ada no longer “eats dirt” or what we would call “face plant” into the rug immediately upon being placed on her stomach. To the contrary, she rears her head up, arches her back, squeals and cries, raises her left hand skyward and orients her body to what I call the “roll-over” position. About two weeks ago, I was giddy when I saw Ada use all her muscles and might to throw herself from tummy-to-back. But now I can honestly say that it’s been the worst thing ever. She is supposed to play on her stomach to strengthen her core muscle areas and arms. Well, Ada is smart and lazy. And has figured out that if I put her on her stomach, all she needs to do is lift up her left arm, roll her head sideways, and let gravity do the rest. And in no time she is on her back, staring up at the hanging plush cloud and stuffed Tucan. She wins. I lose. Every time.

Long gone are the days when Ada couldn’t control her motor functions, let alone stick her hand in a bowl of rice and squeeze the rice into a soupy, slobbery concoction of gruel. But she does that now too. If you put something in front of Ada, it is going to get grabbed: Cat: grabbed and fur pulled; book: ripped and crinkled; bowl of cereal: pulled on top of herself; tomatoes: smashed;  pens, iphones, chips, salsa, fruit, yogurt, bags, glasses, everything is at the mercy of Ada’s trembling hands.  And while Ada has become quite the master of “grip”, she is still learning how to let go. Upon grabbing a toy, she will whip it around in the air about 100 times, realize that she doesn’t want to hold that toy anymore, get frustrated, keep swinging the toy, and the eventually release the toy at such an angle that if goes flying across the room. Every time this happens she wears an expression of surprise and revulsion across her face.

Overall, Ada is well-adjusted. She is full of smiles. And RARELY fusses in public. We’re lucky!

Stay-at-home dad

Jamie has gone back to work.  She has decided to pursue her passion for teaching and has been fortunate enough to receive a full-time teaching position at a local Montessori school, where she’ll be teaching 4^th grade Earth Science and Ancient History. What this means for Ada is something rather shocking: mom will no longer be her primary care-taker. That responsibility lies at my feet. Recently, I read an article discussing the social norms and habits of the Millennial Generation— you know the group of lazy young adults more concerned with driving ink-filled tattoo guns into their skin than actually paying down their record student-loan debt. But I digress. Anyway, true to Millennial form (with my generation’s emphasis on education, inclusiveness, acceptance, and anti-racism) heterosexual couples have relished taking a sledge hammer to the household gender roles of generations’ past--at least in principle. In a recent study done by  a university and subsequently published in the New York Times, it found that nearly 80% of young couples expressed a desire to be more equitable in the rearing of children. Meaning, that a full 80% of men my age claim that they WANT the opportunity to stay at home and sacrifice a few years of their “career” to raise a son or a daughter. Millennial women, it is assumed, are not pressured by their partners to be the sole caretakers of the household and the child. One could say that the Millennial notion of work and family responsibility is way more egalitarian than 40 or even 20 years ago. The problem arises, of course, when young adults enter the work force. It’s not that having a job makes one abandon their ideals, but rather that the work environment is still controlled by social norms implanted there from prior generations. What this looks like in concrete terms is this: lower wages for female professionals;  the industrialized world’s worst maternal leave practices; an obsession with the supposed “inappropriateness” of breastfeeding in public; an emphasis on working over-time to the detriment of one’s health, not to mention family life; rampant sexual harassment in the workplace (specifically in areas where women are not the predominate gender); and calcified definitions of masculinity and femininity that leave limited space for re-imagining the family- gender dynamic.

Out of a desire to support Jamie in her attempt to pursue her dream job and out of a desire to raise my daughter and be an “involved dad,” I have offered to stay at home. I will be juggling both work responsibilities and that of child-rearing. It’ll be difficult. But I’m sure that by taking on what is still considered a “woman’s role,” I’ll gain priceless insight into some of the stresses that affect a vast majority of women. I’m excited to invert the social norms and experience first-hand the beauty, stress, and difficulty that come with parenting. I will never be a dad proud of the fact that “I never changed a diaper.” That would be a badge of embarrassment, not pride.

I’ll continue to write about this journey as it goes….