Poohjitsu!!!

Sleep has never really been much of an issue between Poohbutt and me when Mommy's been away. We'd eat dinner, play for a few hours. I'd look at the clock, and ask, "Do you wanna go to bed, Pooh?" She'd nod. We'd change her clothes. I'd put her in her crib, and she was off to Slumberland.

I don't know why--maybe some child development specialist can explain--but that's all changed with Mommy's going to Haiti. Now the kid refused to sleep in her crib. Refuses! This kid just won't cry a river when she's being obstinate. Noah starts building arks when Pooh gets going. Seconds, minutes, hours can screech by during one of her Attica! Attica! crying attacks. Entire empires are born and crumble to dust.

Right now, I'm a little too harried to resist. So yes, things have indeed changed. As I write this, Pooh's sleeping on the futon next to me as I write and watch this Russell Simmons piece on Bio.

This refusal of the crib also means that my daughter is now sleeping in the big bed with Daddy. And I must confess ... Daddy is getting his ass kicked, people! For, much to my chagrin, I have discovered that my sweet, little two-year-old daughter is a deadly Shaolin master of the sleeping martial art commonly known as Poohjitsu.

It's a devious, lethal art mastering several stealth techniques meant to injure, maim, and even kill an unwary opponent.

First, the Poohjitsu disciple must master the Whirling Dervish. The little tyke knows that, at any time, the adult can roll over and crush them. They must keep the adult's subconscious mind conscious of this tragic fact. Therefore, they ceaselessly flail around in the bed. The skillful Whirling Dervish tactician can be found on her opponent's side of the bed, sleeping across the pillows by the opponent's head, and even squirming around at the foot of the bed. This wears down the adult, leaving them in a fitful state of paranoid semi-wakefulness, constantly wondering where the child might be. This forces the adult to the edge of the bed, facing in at the Poohjitsu warrior.

The Poohjitsu will then execute the Christ, spreading out in the Cruxifix pose to secure the adult at the edge of the bed, precariously balanced so as to neither fall off the edge of the bed or fall in and crush the toddler.

Once successful, the Poohjitsu goes to work.

Yours truly has received numerous Drooling Dropkicks to the Jock, the Snoring Smack in the Face, and countless Thumbsucker Socks in the Eye. I am proud, knowing that Pooh can defend herself against any sleeping foe, but I sure as hell am beaten.

It's going to be a long three weeks, people.

Help ... me ... Help ... me ...

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"No Friends Here"

Children like routine, repetition, consistency. Children do not like change.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard that. How many times I've told it to myself.

It's that mantra that has provided the only negative part to this whole new move. What will this massive change--the new house, the new routines, the new daycare--mean to Poohbutt? It's funny. I mean, the girl's two. It's not like she's going to remember any of this. I realize that, always have, and yet, it hasn't stopped the guilt from creeping in.

Well this morning, it washed over me like a great flood. I was dropping her off at her new daycare. Yall know I didn't handle the first daycare situation all that well. Well, Pooh had her issues as well. In fact, she pretty much kept to herself for the first five months she was there. The teachers would constantly tell me how well-behaved and how quiet Pooh was there. Eventually, they confessed that she hardly ever spoke to any of the other children or the teachers and really just spent the days playing by herself.

Something magical happened when she turned two. She became an extrovert and became quite popular with the other kids. Every time she entered the school, everybody would be like, "Good morning, Poohbutt." And when she left, it was "Good night, Poohbutt."

She'd enthusiastically wave and say goodbye, and then proceed to babble for the next half hour as I drove us home.

You can see why I was apprehensive in changing daycares. But I did. We didn't have much of a choice.

It's been a little over a week now. As you may have predicted, the teachers are telling me how well-behaved and quiet my girl is. So, I know what that means. They're also saying how well-adjusted she's been.

Well, maybe at school. But, at home, she's going through some changes: mean-mugging and throwing all kinds of fits. But that's to be expected. Her world has changed quite a bit these last 8 days. But these drastic differences between her reported conduct at school and her definite outbursts at home make you wonder what's going on in that little mind of hers and what's going on with her at the new day care.

I pulled up to the daycare, threw the gearshift into neutral and applied the parking brake. I turned, and chirped, "Here we are, Pooh, at your new school."

She had this vacant look on her face and whined ...

"No friends here, Daddy."

God. I thought I was gonna cry right then and there.

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Peepee in the Potty!!!

"I peepee in the potty, Daddy."

--Poohbutt, 10/26/09



Since we're about to move and subsequently switch daycares, Mommy and Daddy have decided to delay toilet training our little Pooh. However, our daughter did get a potty for her birthday. So, for the past nine days, Pooh has come home, shouted, "Peepee in the potty," ripped off her pants and diaper, and proceeded to sit on the potty for hours at a time--or so it felt. She's been conducting almost all her evening business on that damned potty--eating, drinking, watching Krtek--everything except the business that the potty was designed for--leaving it as dry as the day we bought it.

That has all changed tonight!

Mommy and Pooh called Daddy at work to tell him the good news.

How proud can one Papa be?

Before you know it, we'll be having to give her a new nickname!
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Krtek--Ještě jednou

Funny. When I briefly lived in the Czech Republic back in '93, I knew absolutely nothing of my little buddy Krtek here. Not funny ha! ha! or even funny as in I'm a connoisseur of of international children's cartoons and should've known about this Communist answer to Mickey Mouse. It's just funny because my girlfriend at the time was actually a working animator.

As far as I know, her studio didn't work on the cute little mole's misadventures. I only saw one cartoon she worked on--which was a traveling stick figure who sailed on a newspaper boat that had my name "Bill Campbell" on its sails (which was really creepy since it'd been produced two years before we'd met). The only other stuff I saw was her stills for a German cartoon, Old Shatterhands (a German wet dream about the Old American West, which could've only been offensive).

Still, in retrospect, one would think that an animator would've at least mentioned an old, childhood favorite. Hell, maybe she did. For all I know, she talked about it all the time. My understanding of the language was quite limited. Like most English I hear, it probably just went in one ear and out the other.

However, now, no matter how much I try, I can no longer turn a deaf ear to Krtek. That's right. The Nejlepšís have struck again!

For years, Šárka and Petr-Pavel have been plotting their revenge, devising and revising, trying to get me back for formerly bad-mouthing their former countrymen (they're Slovak). And now they have truly gotten their revenge--through our poor, innocent daughter, Poohbutt.

She now has a Krtek doll and several Krtek books--which have given me migraines trying to read. But last month they delivered their master stroke, the fatal blow, the coup de grâce. Yep. You guessed it. Krtek DVDs!

Now, you've got to understand. Mrs. Unknown and I are pseudo-hippies. The Missus read somewhere that TV scrambles baby brains faster than Glenn Beck mutilates logic and, if you want to avoid a future of short yellow buses and future Glenn Beck fans, you need to turn off the boob tube. It wasn't that big a deal. We don't watch much TV ourselves. So, there wasn't much of a sacrifice. Therefore, aside from the Steelers and The Wire, Pooh hasn't been exposed to too much cathode ray poison. As a consequence, our girl isn't a fan of all the shows and cartoons most kids her age are. I couldn't even name what any of those are. But I'm pretty sure none of them include our main mole, Krtek.

But, boy, is he our little girl's favorite.

"Kirtek (the poor dear can't roll her Rs yet) and Mouse are friends!!!"

She trumpets at least seven times a day.

And she asks to watch the cartoon as soon as she gets up in the morning, as soon as I pick her up from daycare, as soon as we get out of the car to enter the abode, as soon as we enter the abode, before we eat dinner, while we're eating dinner, and after we've actually eaten.

The European DVDs, of course, refused to play on our red-blooded, pro-American Chinese DVD player. So, Pooh would climb up onto Daddy's computer chair and smash the keyboard until Daddy started playing her Czech cartoons.

"Kirtek and Mouse are friends!!!"

Krtek and Mouse were 'bout to get they asses kicked! Daddy needs his computer. How was he supposed to blog, how was he gonna play his Challenge Sudoku with little Pooh bogarting his laptop? He doesn't have an iPhone!

However, for our trip to Toronto two weeks ago, Mrs. Unknown caved and bought a portable DVD player for Krtek, Mouse, Pooh, and, frankly, our sanity. So, instead of 12 hours of fussin' and fightin', Pooh sat rapt in her car seat, watching Krtek and his kamaradi frolic through the woods, fighting sturgeon and genocidal farmers with perfect aplomb and not a small amount of wit.

"Krtek and the Campbell Clan are friends!!!"

Tak, máte štěstí, Nejlepšís. Sure, Pooh's gonna wind up some kinda weird post-Communist mole-ologist (or whatever those people are called) and the FBI probably already has a file on her a mile long, but yall did us a good turn on that Toronto trip.

Miluji vas!

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Poohbutt Wilberforce on the Eating of Morning Cereal

This morning yours truly was oh-so-pleasantly reminded of the challenges of raising a precocious toddler who has not yet even reached two years of age. As you will soon be able to tell, we have grown way past the temper tantrum and screamings of "I don't want!"




"Pooh, would you like some cereal for breakfast."

"When I consider the magnitude of the subject which I am to bring before this House—a subject, in which the interests, not of this household, nor of Maryland alone, but of the whole world, and of posterity, are involved: and when I think, at the same time, on the weakness of the advocate who has undertaken this great cause—when these reflections press upon my mind, it is impossible for me not to feel both terrified and concerned at my own inadequacy to such a task."

"Baby, we're just talking about cereal here."

"Well, Father, when I reflect on the encouragement which I have had, through the whole course of a long and laborious examination of this question, and how much candor I have experienced, and how conviction has increased within my own mind, in proportion as I have advanced in my labors—-"

"Cheerios, baby. You like Cheerios."

"--when I reflect, especially, that however averse any gentleman may now be, yet we shall all be of one opinion in the end;—when I turn myself to these thoughts, I take courage—-"

"Well, uh, that's good to know."

"I determine to forget all my other fears, and I march forward with a firmer step in the full assurance that my cause will bear me out, and that I shall be able to justify upon the clearest principles, every resolution in my hand, the avowed end of which is, the total abolition of high fructose corn syrup."

"I don't know how you're gonna do that, Pooh. It's in everything."

"I wish exceedingly, in the outset, to guard both myself and this house from entering into the subject with any sort of passion. It is not your passions I shall appeal to—-"

"Well, I don't like the stuff, either. But it is in everything."

"I ask only for your cool and impartial reason; and I wish not to take you by surprise--"

"You have."

"--but to deliberate, point by point, upon every part of this question. I mean not to accuse any one, but to take the shame upon myself, in common, indeed, with the whole United States of America, for having suffered this horrid trade on chemically-produced sugar substitutes to be carried on under their authority.

"We are all guilty—we ought all to plead guilty, and not to exculpate ourselves by throwing the blame on others; and I therefore deprecate every kind of reflection against the various descriptions of people who are more immediately involved in this wretched business."

"Well, I have heard it contains mercury. I guess that can't be good, right?"

"Having now disposed of the first part of this subject, I must speak of the transit of the slaves in the West Indies and the ruination of black youth via the destructive commercialization of agricultural products and foodstuffs."

"Slavery and 'foodstuffs,' Pooh? I don't get it."

"This I confess, in my own opinion, is the most wretched part of the whole subject."

"Well, yeah. I guess it would be."

"So much misery condensed in so little room, is more than the human imagination had ever before conceived. I will not accuse Big Agra: I will allow them, nay, I will believe them to be men of humanity; and I will therefore believe, if it were not for the enormous magnitude and extent of the evil which distracts their attention from individual cases, and makes them think generally, and therefore less feelingly on the subject, they would never have persisted in the trade."

"I'm sure they'll be relieved to hear that. Would you like bacon and eggs instead?"

"I verily believe therefore, if the wretchedness of any one of the many hundred Negroes stowed in each housing project could be brought before their view, and remain within the sight of the Agricultural Merchant, that there is no one among them whose heart would bear it.

"Let any one imagine to himself 6 or 7,000 of these wretches chained to one's baby mama, surrounded with every object that is nauseous and disgusting, diseased, and struggling under every kind of wretchedness--forced to eat Cap'n Crunch! Boo Berry! while drinking grape Kool-Aid! Growing fatter by the day!

"How can we bear to think of such a scene as this? One would think it had been determined to heap upon them all the varieties of bodily pain, for the purpose of blunting the feelings of the mind; and yet, in this very point (to show the power of human prejudice) the situation of the slaves has been described by Mr. Blythe, one of the lobbyists for the Agricultural Council of California, in a manner which, I am sure will convince this house--"

"You can still call me 'Daddy,' you know?"

"--how interest can draw a film across the eyes, so thick, that total blindness could do no more; and how it is our duty therefore to trust not to the reasonings of interested men, or to their way of colouring a transaction."

"I guess that's why they're milking this whole swine flu thing, hunh? How about crackers, Pooh? You love crackers!"

"Mr. Blythe says, 'Their apartments are fitted up as much for their advantage as circumstances will admit. The right ankle of one, indeed is connected with the flat-screen television as they devour nutritious Doritos and play their Nintendo Wiis. They have several meals a day; some of their own country provisions, with the best artificial flavorings money can buy; and by way of variety, another meal of microwave popcorn, &c. according to American taste.

'After breakfast they have water to wash themselves, while their apartments are perfumed with frankincense and lime-juice. Before dinner, they are amused after the manner of their country, the Cartoon Network. The song and dance are promoted by T.I. and Beyonce,' and, as if the whole was really a scene of pleasure and dissipation it is added, that games of chance are furnished.

'The men play tonk and rap, while the women and girls make fanciful ornaments with beads, which they are plentifully supplied with.'

"Such is the sort of strain in which the Big Agra lobbyists, and particularly Mr. Blythe, gave evidence before the House of Representatives. What will the House think when, by the concurring testimony of other witnesses, the true history is laid open.

"The modern-day slaves who are sometimes described as rejoicing at their captivity, are so wrung with misery at having to watch Tyler Perry, that it is the constant practice to supply them with heroine, lest they should be sensible of their lack of gainful employment. The microwave popcorn which Mr. Blythe talks of is not even Orville Reddenbacher--but generic!"

"Come on--I don't see--I mean, it's just cereal, baby."

"Mr. Blythe talks of frankincense and lime juice--"

"OK, look, don't tell Mommy. We'll have pizza instead."

"PIZZA!!!!"




-- "Excerpted" from William Wilberforce's 1789 Abolition Speech before the House of Commons. What can I say? The girl knows her history.


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A New Normal

Yesterday evening, I left work and picked Poohbutt up from daycare as I do every weekday. We chatted through traffic while she snacked on pretzels. We settled in at home rather quickly, and my 19-month-old daughter began "reading" Newsweek to me. When she moved onto Say Goodnight and Baby's Day, I realized that a new Normal has finally settled in on our household.

As many of you know, the old Normal was my watching Pooh all day and going to work at night. It was supposed to only last nine months--until she turned one--but went on until she was 18 months. I was reluctant to let that Normal go, but it couldn't last forever. Finally, I took her to her first day of daycare just a few days after my birthday.

It was one of those bitterly ironic, bright and sunny spring mornings. Pooh bounded enthusiastically out of the house, racing her Ma and Da to the car. You wanted to laugh (ain't nothin' cuter than a running toddler), but I was choking back the tears. I fought the crying jag the entire way--from the Metro station to drop off Ma, through the rush hour traffic, all the way into the daycare center. I didn't want my baby girl to think anything was wrong. That is my duty.

It worked. She was confused and apprehensive being dropped off that first day. But she didn't cry. Not in my presence, anyway. And I didn't in hers. Afterwards, though, I was a mess. A zombie, mostly, trying to figure out why the hell I was at work in the daylight. Once, bumming a cigarette from a co-worker, trying to talk about daycare, I finally succumbed. I had to scurry off to my car and let the tears flow.

Caring for a child, day in and day out, for those really long hours, is pretty intense. It's so joyful and exhilarating, so exhausting and enervating, it can simply overwhelm your identity if you let it. Somewhere in the muddle of the soup I call myself, I know that I am a husband and a son and a friend, an employee, a co-worker, and a colleague, and a writer. There are other things, as well. But they all seemed to be buried somewhere as I became a father.

There was never a moment my daughter wasn't on my mind during the day. I never lost sight of her. My head was filled with Pooh. What was I going to feed her? When was I going to put her down for her nap? What can I teach her today? What will I learn from her? Where will we go today? Will she please eat something other than these damned French fries?!

I had never been so wrapped up in another human being's well-being. Never so concerned with the mercurial, little tyke's moment-to-moment happiness. Never so personally invested in anybody else. And I'd never been closer to anyone than I was with my little Poohbutt for those 15 months. And she'll never know. She'll never know how hard that was to give up.

Or how excruciating it was those first, few days giving her up to the folks at daycare. It didn't take her long to figure out what was up. And that she didn't like it. On that second day, she screamed and wailed and had to be pried off of me. I could hear her screams as I climbed the stairs and left the building.

A lot of you know the cloud that hangs over your head when you leave your baby and she screams like you just put her on the last train to Auschwitz. Rationally, I knew it was for the best. She just reached a stage in her development where she needed more engagement than I felt I could offer. Besides, I had to earn money. As I heard one mother say, "Do you rather want to be around for your baby's seventh tooth coming in or be able to provide for her future?"

I also knew that I wasn't anyone special. Ma had to go through this when Pooh was only three months old, and our girl was receiving her very sustenance from her mother's body. That has got to be the deepest bond one must surrender. I know, my poor wife really did suffer when she had to go back to work. But even her suffering isn't unique. There is hardly a parent in this country who hasn't gone through what I went through this past month. I knew that. Rationally. But when your kid starts crying--even within the hands of paid professionals--who, in many ways, can care for her better than you can--you best believe you want to get all Action Jackson, kick down some doors, and save your baby from all that pain.

But Pooh didn't want to be saved--not by me. I was the man who betrayed her on a daily basis. She was relieved to be rescued from daycare at the end of the day, but she was absolutely ecstatic to see Ma. Not me. She could no longer count on her Da to protect her.

Ma was the one she ran to when she was hungry, when she was happy, when she fell down. She had no need for me, anymore. One night, when she woke up screaming in her crib, instead of crying, "Da! Da! Da!" as she usually did, she screeched, "Ma! Ma! Ma!" When I went into her room to pick her up as I usually did, she ran away from me, tripped, and fell in her crib, and refused to be picked up.

"Well, she wants her Ma now," my wife ventured, "because Mommies are the nurturing ones."



Now, I don't ever want to dog mothers--my best friend is a mother--or rather, the mother of my child. And yall know about black men and they mommas. However, one thing that bugs me about this recent Cult of Motherhood is the either/or false dichotomy our culture foists on us when it comes to parenthood. It seems we can have either good fathers or good mothers. But we can never have both.

That "Father Knows Best" myth that countless generations before us grew up with was complete and utter bullshit--as though the mother was just some cooking, cleaning, perfumed uterus that deferred to the "real" parent when he got home. But why replace that myth of a father with the bubbling, bumbling oaf we have today who impedes real parent at every turn or who, at his best, can only be considered "helpful"?

I was there at the conception of our daughter. I was there for the doctor visits. I was there breathing along, walking the corridors, massaging, holding hands, and coaching and coaxing. I was there ready to slug the doctors when they gave my wife the epidural and she was in complete agony. I was there to stop the overly eager resident from giving her a C-section. After 22 hours of labor, my wife became my hero that day. And I was there with tears in my eyes as little Pooh came into the world and I cut the umbilical cord.

I was there because that is what fathers do. And those of us who give a shit would do a lot more if it were physically possible.

When I took my wife and daughter home, I actually knew what to do (having much younger siblings and cousins came in handy for once--ha!). So yes, I changed diapers and burped and swaddled. I even tried skin time until my daughter started ripping the hairs from my chest. I was up late at night and early in the morning. I heated up the donated meals, entertained visitors, ran errands, dealt with grandparents while my ladies slept. And I went to work.

That is what we fathers do.

And, for the last 15 months, I woke up with Pooh, changed her diapers, fumbled around with that damned Butt Paste, clothed her, fed her, and bathed her, and played with her, and put her to sleep.

When she was hungry, she tugged on my sleeve. When she was tired, she lay her head on my chest. And when she was scared or hurt, she ran into my arms, and I lifted her up and rocked her gently and hushed and hummed and sang and I showered her pain with Daddy kisses.

It's what I thought a father should do. While I'll admit I really fell down on the housekeeping, I was not the bubbling, bumbling idiot I always here about. I was an equal partner in raising our child. And I know I'm not anything special here. I know there are tons of fathers out there just like me. I just wonder why I never see him in the popular discourse. I wonder where he is.

A little over a week ago, I was at the daycare dealing with a brand new pang. I was just coming to grips with Poohbutt's histrionics with my leaving every day when she totally surprised me. Instead of clinging to me, begging me not to leave, she was actually wriggling out of my grasp, wanting to get down to play with her friends. I suddenly didn't know which was worse. Of course, I hated her screaming bloody murder every time I left, but this ...? Her first little step towards independence. "Da, you cool and all, but look at my girl Shanice over there with all those crayons."

It wasn't too overly dramatic, no gnashing of teeth, but I did feel it. I now knew that the old Normal was being replaced. But this is what being a parent is, right? The slow, incremental process of letting go. It hurts a little, but you can't help but feel a little proud. There my baby girl was, laughing and playing with other kids.

But I can't lie. There was something quite glorious in that old Normal. Having your daughter running at you, laughing, "Da! Da!" and waking you up in the morning with a kiss. Playing dolls with Campbell Camel and Baby Rose. Going to the Chinese buffet and downing sushi together. Playing in the sand. And that overriding feeling of pride I got doing my damnedest to be a good father.

I guess a lot of my melancholy was because I also got caught up in the Either/Or. Either I could be this loving, caring nurturer or I could be that rock-solid, good provider I've been hearing so much about. But life isn't really either/or, is it? It's these infinite possibilities of And, if we let it. I can be loving and caring and a good provider and a father and a husband and son and friend and, who knows, maybe even a writer.

Later in the evening, after we all sat down and had dinner together, the three of us played catch on the dining room floor. Pooh sat on Da's lap and we caught the ball and threw it back to Ma together. God, it was fun.

I'll probably always miss the old Normal, and there are some kinks still to be worked out (how does a lazy, no-good bum of a writer finally become a good provider, and, oh yeah, what about that housework?); but I've got to say, I'm really loving this new Normal, too. And I'm really looking forward to all the new Normals yet to come.




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Burning Up!

I'm trying to remain calm. I'm trying not to say or do anything stupid--which can oftentimes be a real challenge for yours truly. But I picked little Pooh up from daycare at the normal designated time last night only to get home with a baby on fire!

103.7!

That's what the thermometer read.

What? Nobody in daycare noticed? Nobody felt the need to call the girl's parents?!

We're all burning up today.

Pooh with fever. Her parents in fury.
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Samuella L. Chompers

Yesterday before the Penguins' game, yours truly decided to treat his little Poohbutt. So, he left work a little early, rushed through rush hour traffic, picked his darling, little child up from day care, rushed back through rush hour traffic all to take her to her favorite, little toddler park. It was a fine, no, perfect spring day, the kind that you don't get too many of here in our nation's capital. Mid-seventies, sun shining brightly, a nice cool breeze. Our hero and our hero's daughter were having a fine time of it.

However, time was running out. There was a hockey game to watch. Mother had to be met. Car and child dropped off. A train to catch.

Pooh had yet to go on her favorite slide (yes, that slide), the one she always makes it a point to go on. Her father had the bright idea that she would want to go on it before we left. He was just trying to avoid a scene.

So, he lifted her out of the little plastic car with the busted wheels that doesn't move. She wiggled a moment, whined a little.

"What's the matter, Pooh?" her father cooed. "We're just going on the sli---SONOFAMOTHERFATHERBURRRCOCKANOODLE!!!"

Yes, for all his troubles--leaving work a little early, rushing through rush hour traffic, picking his darling, little child up from day care, rushing back through rush hour traffic all to take her to her favorite, little toddler park--our hapless hero was introduced to his 18-month-old daughter's baby teeth. Right on the chest and clamped down with all her might. Mr. Writer discovered why those bad boys are called "incisors."

Yep, Pooh broke skin.


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A Total Crap Day

After 16 months of chasing my little Pooh all around creation for 11-12 hours a day and working at night, for the first time this morning, I left my baby, her outstretched arms, and her whimpering protests behind in day care.
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Parenting Advice Required

All right, I'm new to the whole toddler park scene. Poohbutt didn't start tottling until well into the winter, and I was totally unaware of one of our local mall's play area. However, last month, when the Unions were in from St. Paul (oops, sorry, Minneapolis) and Pooh actually played with (as opposed to around) little Norma Rae, I knew she was ready. Besides, my girl's going into day care soon and I wanted to acclimate her to other kids (as well as gear myself up for cutting one of the many of Daddy's apron strings). So, we've been hitting the toddler play areas ever since.

Just yesterday I was marveling at how the older kids just really don't seem to notice the li'lunz playing around them. They can be going at break-neck speeds and magically veer around them. The toddlers must be on their radar, but the big kids just act like they don't exist. However, today was different.

I took Pooh to said mall's play area. It was a crap day out, but I still wanted the girl to get her play on. She was tooling around just fine with the play cars and plastic, hollowed-out log with the other tykes until Jeffrey, the Towheaded Terror, came along.

This little Osama bin Lad, roughly aged five, came in with his mother, grandmother, and two siblings and immediately reeked havoc and mayhem on what was originally a pleasant afternoon diversion.

First, he clamped down on Pooh's little shoulders. She tried to wriggle free, but he wouldn't let go. I wanted to jump in, but I figured she's going to have to get used to this kind of thing in daycare. So, I let it go. Then he shoved her down to the ground. I retracted my Poppa Bear claws and let it go ... seething a little.

My daughter stoically got back up and smartly moved away towards me. She veered away and decided to play by herself. That was when Jeffrey chased after her, clasped her shoulders again and shoved her down. Then the little [deleted] sat down on my daughter. I thought I was going to kill Jeffrey. Instead, I calmly snapped, "Hey, kid!"

His grandmother waddled over, screaming, "Jeffrey!"

She snatched the boy up and immediately apologized to me.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "He doesn't mean anything by it."

I gave her a slow nod, thinking (in my very un-PC fashion), "Somebody needs to punch Jeffrey in his fucking mouth."

I looked over at the only other father in the play area, who gave me a questioning look, wondering if Jeffrey and/or I were going to be a problem.

The next 10 minutes made it painfully clear who it was going to be ... Jeffrey.

"Jeffrey!" "Jeffrey!" "Jeffrey!" the grandmother continuously screamed as Jeffrey pushed down other kids, tugged at them, tried to pull his older sister's shirt off, tried to pull another kid's pants down. All the other parents looked at the Hun rampaging through our plastic village, wondering when the hell his mother or grandmother was going to A) take him out of the play area and/or B) light his little ass up.

I was hoping Jamal, who was also five, was going to save the day and punch Jeffrey's lights out (I know, I know, I'm bad ... I need help). However, Jamal's mother had the right idea and left with her boy. Other parents were starting to get the hint.

Finally, Jeffrey frantically ran past Pooh and planted a shoulder into her, knocking her down.

"Jeffrey!!!"

I'd had it. I inhaled deeply, staring hot fire at the grandmother ...

"Really, I'm so sorry."

and scooped up Poohbutt and left.

We went upstairs to exit the mall. I looked down at the play area, and all the other parents were gone. Only Jeffrey and his family remained, playing gleefully alone, I guess, until more kids came along to terrorize.

Now, I've been wondering ... Should I have said something? I mean, I know parents can get all crazy if you even suggest that their children are acting badly, that they may actually be bad parents, and may actually rear up and punch you in your fucking mouth. But damn, Jeffrey ran 12 kids and their parents out of the play area. I didn't want to get all ethnic on the fam, but, booooyyyyy, I really could have.

So, is there some kind of etiquette or protocol for situations like this? Or do you just do what I did and cower your kids away from the terror?

Just curious.

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Poohbutt Crushes Crush

It was only a year into my relationship with my wife, 1996, when I developed my first crush. It wasn't as though I just woke up one day, said, "Hey, I think I'll have a crush today," went to a bar, and latched on to the first female I saw. No, I didn't plan it. I never wanted it to happen. But I couldn't resist.

I was sitting with my boy, Dabalou, sneak-peeking the Jack Nicholson/Stephen Dorff/Michael Caine mediocrity, Blood and Wine, when it happened. There it was--in dewy, morning light and a kinky maid's uniform--"Dat Azz!" Instantly, I gasped, my voice going higher than a heliumized castrato, "Who's dat?!"



Yep. Jennifer Lopez caught my heart. At the time, it was fun to go all Tiger Beat in my mid-twenties. I hadn't had a genuine, bona fide crush since Lisa Lisa. Oh, sure, there have been starlets I'd found attractive over the years--Angela Bassett, Nia Long, anyone in the Prince entourage minus Rosie Gaines--but to have an out-and-out, full-blown pre-pubescent crush again. Now, that was fun. I suffered through Money Train and Anaconda and actually enjoyed Selena. I may have even looked for her in old episodes of In Living Color. It was Tootie all over again. I think my skin even broke out.

But, ultimately, I was no longer 13. I was going on 30. And, as J. hit new lows with Poof Daddy, I had to give up my crush on the woman. However, I did retain the concept of the crush. It was just that these silly, virtual-adolescent crushes matured just as my real ones had: physical perfection diminished in importance and was taken over by intellectual excellence (or in the case of Mrs. Unknown Writer, both). That's right: I started developing The Nerd Crush.


My First Official Nerd Crush: Soledad O'Brien

Look, as a nerd, I know I'm wired wrong. No, it's not like you can hear my lustily slavering, "Look at the CV on that one." I can objectify women with the best of them (after all, there is Serena). It's just that I love me a smart woman. I find nothing more attractive than a woman expounding, pontificating, teaching me something. So, a beautiful woman with a Tweety Bird brain loses her sex appeal while a cute woman with a huge frontal lobe becomes a goddess. A 130+ IQ to me is like some D-cups to a 12-year-old.

So I celebrate the Nerd Crush because it reaffirms my circus geek status. Besides, what harm is there in it? It's not like I'll ever meet any of these people. I mean, playing she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not over a co-worker can only lead to disaster. The closest I've ever come to meeting a "crush" was running into Paul Wolfowitz, whom I'd still like to crush between two Mack trucks. But that all changed yesterday, when Nerd Crush 2004, Liz Marlantes, suddenly entered my life.



For those who don't know (and last night my wife was like, "Who?"), Liz Marlantes was for a time with ABC News. I first saw her on The McLaughlin Group, talking about the presidential campaign. My Nerdiness fell for this bronzed cutie with the boxer's nose instantly as I watched her struggle, trying to marry the worlds of journalism and the shout-box, infotainment, claptrap that McLaughlin. The old man had to actually shush Buchanan a few times just so the woman could speak. Afterwards, I found out that the Christian Science Monitor reporter had majored in American history and literature at Harvard and got a Masters in English Lit. from Oxford (the perfect combination of a young Dolly Parton's breasts and J Lo's ass to a geek like me!).

Oh yeah, I fell hard. But, you know, crushes are ephemeral beasts. I hadn't seen her in a few years, and out of sight, out of mind, and all that.

That is until Ms. Marlantes appeared at my local toddler park with her own little boy in tow. Of course, being a toddler park, Pooh was with me. And she was having none of it. While Daddy was standing at the head of the slide, going through the slow process of recognition (Hey, look, a hot mom ... no, wait ... isn't that? ... Holy shit, that's Liz Marlantes! No way! ... Boy, I used to have a crush on her...), my fiercely determined daughter was steadily toddling towards the top of the slide, with "Who's that heifer?" burning in her little eyes.

I wonder where she's been. I haven't seen her in years.

I didn't even notice the bile rising in my little Poohbutt's gut.

I should say something ... like ... Hey, didn't you used to be Liz Marlantes? ... Yeah, that's almost clever...

My girl reached the top of the slide, dead set against her father introducing himself to this strange woman. None of the other women--none of the nannies, none of the well-kept housewives, none of the power career women--ever even deign to turn up their noses at her miscreant father. What if this cow did?

No. Nothing was going to stand in Poohbutt's way.

I can see she hits the gym, Oblivious Dad thought to himself.

"Goo gaehh issimbakhhh!" Pooh said, sitting at the top of the slide.

(Author's Note: I later discovered that this is BabySpeak for "Enough.")

Then ... relying on the only effective weapon an 18-month-old toddler has in her arsenal, Poohbutt opened her pretty, little mouth and vomited all over herself and the slide.

Daddy here, obviously no Boy Scout, came totally unprepared and had to clean the mess up with his own T-shirt--stealthily never taking it off so folks wouldn't notice.

I then scooped my girl up and scurried out of the park, never once introducing myself to Nerd Crush 2004.

Poohbutt happily sucked her thumb in her car seat all the way home until she fell asleep, a beatific smile resting on that little face all the way home.


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"Oh, Shit"

Two words have not been uttered that have had a more profound effect on my life since the Missus and I uttered, "I do." That's right, little Poohbutt, on Saturday, April 11, 2009, at 1:27pm, uttered "Oh, shit," in her grandmother's bedroom just seven days shy of her 18-month birthday. My wife had dropped something, and said, "Oh, no." Poohbutt responded, "Oh, shit."

Now, if you haven't guessed, I'm a pretty profane motherfather. Ever since I was seven, when the older Deebee boys moved into our building, cursing up a storm, I've been exhaling profanity like it was CO2. The prudes would always say, "Profanity is the sign of a limited vocabulary." Your young rebel would reply, "Oh yeah, what's antidisestablishmentarianism?" When answered with the customary blank stare, I'd then smugly add, "That's what I thought. Now, go fuck yourself."

However, I don't want Pooh growing up with a potty mouth. So, I've been working on cleaning up my own palette for about two years now. I've made fairly decent progress, but "Oh, shit" shows me that I need to seriously step up my game.

Now, I know a lot of parents out there don't care to curb their tongues around their children. Hell, some folks take delight in cursing out their little ones. But that ain't me. My parents didn't curse around me. I don't want to curse around my own children.

See, it's all wrapped up in my Bill Campbell's Bullshit Theories on Parenting, or "B-ToPs," as it's known in the industry. Like jokes, I've got tons of 'em. I should write a book. But this post specifically addresses my B-ToP on Boundaries.

I'm not a total naif. I know children are going to push boundaries. It's an integral part of a child's development. They push them to test their parents' love and as a mode of self-definition. So, yes, Poohbutt, as adorable as she can be, will be pushing my boundaries and my buttons. Hell, she's already started. So, in the future, I know that my baby girl will curse, try smoking and drinking, may experiment with drugs, and--Oh God, say it ain't so--have sex.

My B-ToP on Boundaries dictates that my job, as a parent, is to accept this inevitability, but I ain't supposed to make it easy for the girl. Because the more I readily accept her misconduct, the more outrageous her future actions will be in order to get a reaction out of me (LoR=LoL, or Lack of Reaction=Lack of Love, see).

So, Pops here has a two-pronged approach to the Boundaries issue. As I said, I can't make it easy for the kid. Boundaries must be respected. Attacks must be repulsed. So, punishment is key.

I got the switch once, and I know that ain't gonna happen to Pooh. I mean, it's an effective weapon, but the switch is a weapon. I understand why my grandmother used it on my behind. She came up in a time and place where a black child's insubordination could realistically result in death. I don't think Pooh needs to really worry about that. So, the switch is definitely part of the Campbell Clan's past.

While I'm not necessarily against corporal punishment, I'm not necessarily for it, either. I can't really see myself whippin' a kid's ass, but you never know. The last time I got the belt was when I was 12. I ran off and fell asleep in a neighboring town's arcade (I had Pacman Fever bad). I woke up to find po-po shaking their heads ruefully at me. They drove me home, where I was greeted with the entire neighborhood's searching the night for poor, little, old me. Seriously, every street and wooded area was strobing with flashlights, as frantic parents hoped to and dreaded to find me. Oh yeah, my ass got lit up that night. Some of you may think a child never deserves to get whipped, but I definitely think I did that night. Hell, I'm sure there were a lot of parents who would've lined up to do the honors.

However, I think I'm more into severe grounding. For example, when I was 14, at the beginning of summer vacation, I was supposed to spend the night over a friend's house. While we were out playing tennis, some of my "cool"er friends strolled by with some girlies, asking me to join them. I deferred, but, later that night, I feigned illness, and told my friend I was just going to walk home. You all know where I went. Hell, girlies were involved.

After the folks found out, I wasn't allowed out of the house the entire month of June! One helluva summer vacation, eh? But, you know what? I don't think I've sold a friend out since.

So, Part I of B-ToP on Boundaries does include a little shock and awe. It accepts insubordination but it don't put up with that mess. It believes that children must learn the consequences of their actions. This may be a race thing, I admit. While my grandmother's day is long gone, black children are still treated more harshly than whites by the authorities. Therefore, our children must learn to respect our authority. When they get a bit older, we can then pump them full of "Fuck the Man." But let's get them out of puberty first.

Part II of B-ToP on Boundaries does admittedly have a class bias to it. In acknowledging boundary pushing, we must limit our children's exposure to as many of the wide varieties available to them. In the Mayberry suburbs of Pittsburgh where I grew up, ther ejust wasn't that much trouble to get into. I could've, maybe, gotten drunk and TP'd a neighbor's yard. Meanwhile, I have friends who grew up in places where their teenage trouble-making could've gotten them into drugs, gangs, jails, and coffins. Part II simply says, "Don't live in those fucking neighborhoods!"

Face it, a lot of the aforementioned criminal activity mostly happens in certain neighborhoods. While drugs are universal, gangs, lethal violence, and teenage pregnancy rarely happen out of certain locales. I'm not saying that you cannot raise decent human beings out of those neighborhoods. If I believed that, a lot of the work that I've done in my adult life would be hypocritical. It's just that raising children in those environments are incredibly challenging. Why do it if you can afford not to? Right now, I am fortunate enough to be able to afford not raising my daughter in such a neighborhood. So, I choose not to. Why have your kids ducking bullets if they don't have to?

A friend of mine once told me that, when she was a child, her mother took one look at her friends, didn't like what she saw, and moved her out of there as soon as was humanly possible. My friend told me that none of those childhood friends of hers survived high school without at least one pregnancy. That's what Part II is all about. Limit those boundaries 'cause sure as "Oh, shit," your kids will find them.

Now, I don't want you sitting there thinking that B-ToPs are meant to be totally draconian--though they may sometimes be. After all, being an abusive parent is just as bad as being a nonexistent one. An abused child can often be out of control, and the legendary "preacher's daughter" can turn out to be a little freak. B-ToP recommends a constant negotiation when it comes to said boundaries. Initially, set them fools real high and gradually lower them as your child grows and matures. This lowering will promote personally responsibility while reinforcing the correlation between consequences and actions. See what I'm saying--Bullshit.

So yeah, Poohbutt's about to turn 18 months, and her "Oh, shit," was her own declaration that she is, indeed, ready for Daddy's B-ToPs. As said father, I must now diminish, as much as possible, the uberquixotic Bill Campbell Bullshit Theory on Parenting: Parental Hypocrisy ("I got it from you, Dad!"). I must now work even harder to elevate my own language from the gutter to the choir. I must create a hip-hop-less Poohbutt Playlist on my iPod and shuttle my forbidden love of rap into the closet. And I must pray and pray and pray.

Oh, shit.

Wish me luck.

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Sweets for My Sweet

I don't have to tell you, little kids are adorable. They're lovable, hugable, kissable. Sometimes, you just want to pinch the hell out of their cheeks. They fill us so full of gushy, mushy corniness that we want to take them, hold them, and care for them for decades at a time no matter how much grief, gray hair, and money they cost us.

I also don't have to tell you, Poohbutt's no different. That girl has me wrapped so tightly around her finger, I fear I may be a bit unhinged. I can have her bouncing on my knee while looking at pictures of her with a big, ole Proud Papa smile on my face. It's sad, but true. Cheesy and maybe a little egotistic. But I'm still utterly gaga over my little "Goo-Goo" Machine.

But I also think that Pooh's at an incredibly intriguing age. Sixteen months. It seems just like yesterday, I had this crying, crapping lump on my hands that I had to carry, change, and feed every two minutes. Now, all of the sudden, I have a little person running around and being all ... persony.

She walks! She talks! She runs! And can still slice this tomato!

It's just a whole new, fascinating experience for me to watch the world through a child's eyes once again. To observe the discovery. And to see, once again, what a challenge the world was to comprehend and navigate.

It's just that, at 16 months, our children are yet to acquire guile. Whatever's going on in their little minds plays out in their little faces. And, without experience to modulate their emotions, they suffer such extremes it's utterly fascinating. When they're happy, they're ecstatic. When they're frustrated with whether the blue cup goes inside the red or vice versa, they can and will go apeshit. When they're hurt, they scream as though you'd shoved bamboo under their fingernails. And when Poohbutt wakes up in the morning, runs with all the energy in her little legs, and squeals, "Hi, Da!" with the biggest smile on her face, you'd think it was the best thing that will happen in her life--and makes it the greatest thing that happens in mine.

And you know, at 16 months, these little tykes are starting to develop their own little personalities. She loves to dance to all kinds of craziness: Henry Mancini, The Slits, Seal. She loves singing Aesop Rock's "Boom, Boom, Boom." And, while I don't understand most of them, Poohbutt loves to crack jokes. She'll do anything for a laugh. She'll do her little "moonwalk," her Chubby Checker imitations. And the faces this girl makes.

And you can't help but wonder if we actually develop personalities this early. When she's being all full of tantrum, being all willful as though her name were "Stonewall" Campbell, and throwing everything on the floor, I sure as hell hope not. When she's cleaning up all her toys at the end of the night and starts taking to Mama's training her to do the baseboards, I'm definitely hopeful. And, when she's being all adorable and a cut-up, I can't help but wondering, is this a permanent thing? I mean, was yours truly this witty and acerbic when he, too, was shitting his own pants? One has to wonder.

Especially when it comes to the latest development in the Poohbutt Saga ...

My daughter has become a flirt.

Those of you who've read "Protecting Your Poohbutt" know I am forever vigilant over my daughter's honor. So, you know I keep my eye on this shit. And I have indeed observed some very inter-arresting new developments in my daughter's development.

I noted before that children at Pooh's age are without guile. They couldn't deceive if they tried--and I wouldn't put it past the little buggers to be trying even at this early stage. But those little darlings can be coy.

Now, while Poohbutt is the most precious, dearest thing that's ever happened to me and I love her to death, I'm not going to claim she has any special gifts of adorableness, or anything like that (like parents who are always trumpeting how their kid is "really smart for her age"--as often as you hear that, you'd think we lived in a nation of geniuses--yet we elected Bush twice). Kids are adorable. People love them. And, to be frank, people are often captivated by seeing a black man care for his own child. It's something they've never seen before. They can't help but stare.

Daaaaaaaamn.

So yeah, Pooh and I can sometimes get a bit of attention. I'm generally not one who likes the attention (I mean, the other day, two women were utterly spellbound watching Pooh eating broccoli), but what can you do? Folks like babies.

They smile and wave and sometimes act a fool. Seriously, it's amazing what toddlers can get perfectly normal, grown adults do. Sometimes, when we're in a restaurant, I'll look up from my own plate and see a grown woman making the silliest faces or a grown man doing a silly little jig hoping to elicit a chuckle from the girl.

What I've also noticed is how she actually encourages these fools. We'll be sitting there, eating a fine Jamaican, Italian, Chinese, Greek, Indian meal, and then I'll see that my little, dear, innocent Pooh staring holes into someone. She's picked her target. She'll stare and stare while they're mindlessly eating. Then, I guess feeling the heat, they'll suddenly look up. They'll see Pooh and start contorting themselves in the weirdest ways all to make my daughter laugh.

Then my little, dear, innocent Pooh will give a little half-turn away from the person, cock a shoulder, tilt her head down, and give a little titter. Sometimes, she even bats her eyelashes. I shit you not.

These fools fall for it every time. They start laughing in earnest, and coo to me, "Oooh, she's so shy."

"Uh-huh."

She plays this little "shy" act of hers at pretty much every restaurant we go. And her victims run the gamut: sex, sexuality, age, race, religion, ethnicity, none of the stuff that divides us when it comes to Poohbutt. Black women have done somersaults to entertain her; white women bust into the Electric Slide; Iranian men have danced the mazurka. What can I say? Poohbutt's a uniter, not a divider. I'm thinking of sending her to Israel and have her bat her lashes for peace.

This week, she's also become a dessert magnet. Pooh has a little fan club at our local Chinese buffet. Whenever we walk in, the waitress's faces light up. They smile and wave. They come by the table and try to entertain her. They constantly fall for her "shy" routine. So, it was no surprise when one of them snuck Pooh a seaweed-flavored Konjac brown rice roll. I think it's supposed to be a sweet. It's not.

What is sweet, though, is the caramel-anise cookies we got at a local Peruvian rotisserie the other day. Pooh was on fire that day. She had the customers and the employees dancing around. Even the cooks waved their tongs at her. The waitress, who spent a solid 20 minutes playing peek-a-boo rewarded Pooh's good behavior and eyelash batting with these cookies that rocked Daddy's world.

Now, I'll admit I'm a bit ambivalent about this newfound flirting and her being rewarded with sweets. We do live in a world where I will ultimately have to teach her that it is dangerous to take candy from strangers. And I don't want to teach her to use her supposed cuteness to get what she wants in life. I want her to grow up using her brains!

But for now she's only 16 months. Besides, I'm broke and I love free food. I'm trying to train the girl to get us a free meal or two down the road!

"Give it a little more ooomph! kid! Sell it! Sell it!"

Hell, you've seen this economy. Wish me luck!


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Devis with Babies

Today, I guest-blogged on Devis with Babies, a great blog dedicated mostly to South Asian (mostly the Diaspora) motherhood. I didn't have much to say about that, but I was asked to talk about fatherhood. So, you guessed it, another Poohbutt adventure. Protecting Your Poohbutt highlights the strategy one can employ to keep the boys away from your precious, little daughter--even if she's only 15-months-old. It's a must-read for all those with little cutie pies in their lives--or for those who simply want to laugh.

And while you're there, check out their Brown Girls comic. It's a hoot and a half.
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W Made Me Vote--RNC Made Me a Democrat

According to family lore, I was practically born political. Little William, all of four years of age, as my father likes to brag, stood up before his dad's business school students and proudly proclaimed, "They're gonna 'peach Nixon away!"

For the next 18 years, I was a staunch Democrat. I vaguely remember loving the election results in 1976. I wanted Kennedy to beat Carter and then wanted him to step down because he was making it too easy for Reagan. I was disgusted all throughout the Reagan/Bush years. I was even depressed that the 1988 Pennsylvania primary happened five days before I reached my majority, and I would never be able to vote for Jesse.

As a lifelong Dem, I should've been ecstatic over Clinton, but I wasn't. I was disgusted. Just the year before I was canvassing for the party, going door-to-door, to drum up support for what ultimately became the Family and Medical Leave Bill. I'd gone out of my way to make sure Harris Wofford beat Dick Thornburg for the PA Senate seat. But by '92, Rodney King and the riots had happened. I just couldn't believe in the American Experiment any longer, and nothing Clinton could say would make me think differently. I did vote for Carol Mosely Braun for Senate, though, and Lenora Fulani for Prez. that year. But that was it. I didn't want to vote again.

I'd become a Leftist, an anarchist to be more exact (don't laugh). I didn't want to vote anymore. I didn't want to give my stamp of approval to a system I no longer believed in. And, while I believed there were some philosophical differences between Democrats and Republicans, I didn't think those differences were fundamental. They still believed in the System. It was chicken or beef with them--no vegetarian option in sight. And I had a big beef with a country that allowed Rodney Kings, Desert Storms, death penalties, etc., to exist. Things had to change, and our system was not built for the fundamental changes I wanted. In fact, I thought the system was built so that one, elected official couldn't make that much of a difference in how this country was run.


W. changed all that. Leftist Bill, of course, greeted his "election" with self-satisfied smugness. While the true believers screeched that the election "proved" that "every vote counts," 2000 actually proved quite the opposite. When all was said and done, Justices Scalia, Thomas, Rehnquist, O'Connor, and Kennedy had the only votes that truly mattered in a country of over 250 million people. Quite the opposite of the Democracy we've been taught to value.

2000 seems like a lifetime ago. I was smug in my own ignorance, I soon came to realize. I thought Bush was just a harmless, little savant who'd be gone in four years. Then 9/11 happened, and everything changed. I knee-jerked and was against the invasion of Afghanistan until I came to realize that every elected official in the history of the world would've invaded. It was the PATRIOT Act, the mass deportations, GITMO, FISA, all of it, that made me realize how dangerous the Bush Babee truly was.


The Iraq invasion put me over the top. Not only did I not believe the spiel nor did I disagree and protest the war, but that was one place where I could point to where it actually did matter who we had elected to the Presidency. Al Gore never would've ousted Saddam. No other elected official would've dared to get us into this elective war. None of them would've casually thrown out 30 years of military policy and committed our armed forces to a long, drawn-out war of occupation. No, this was personal for Bush, and if he'd have lost the Supreme Court vote, we never would've been bogged down in Mesopotamia.

The man had to be stopped. W. had to go. So, I registered to vote and, for the first time in 12 years, I did vote. For Kerry. And nothing depressed me more than W.'s re-election.


When 2008 rolled around, I figured I'd vote for the Dem who eventually won the nomination. I just knew that I didn't want the GOP in the White House again. When the primaries started, I only cared as a political junkie. I'm into the race horse, too, but I didn't feel personally invested.

I figured, despite common wisdom, Hillary would not win because of her baggage and lack of a (scrotal) sack. I thought Richardson was the most qualified, but America wasn't ready for a Latino POTUS. I liked Obama enough, but I thought he was a flash in the pan, someone white folks liked because he made them feel better about themselves ("See, I'm not racist--I like Barack Obama"). I just couldn't take the brother seriously. I figured, when the rubber hit the road and all those white people had to pull the lever, they'd ultimately go with the white guy, and the cutest white guy around was John Edwards.


But then Iowa happened, and I had to change my thinking. I mean, if all those lillies of the cornfields voted for the black man, I had to take Obama seriously.

Unfortunately, the Clintons came to the same conclusion. The attack was on, and it was dirty. There was Hillary belittling MLK and lauding LBJ for the Civil Rights movement (while I always marvel at LBJ's courage in pushing the legislation through, knowing his party would forever lose the "Solid South," let's be honest: LBJ died of old age; MLK, from a bullet), and then Bill totally discounted the black vote (after we vigorously supported him through thick and thin) saying "of course" we'd vote for Obama because he was black--never caring to admit that we black automatons didn't vote for Al Sharpton nor Carol Mosely Braun during their Presidential runs nor that we'd never support Alan Keyes. Our former Civil Rights heroes exposed themselves for chitlin'-eatin' table-scrappers perfectly willing to attack one of their own for the good of the almighty white folk. Andrew Young came out saying that Obama wasn't black, that Bill Clinton was blacker than him, and, in fact, Bill has "slept with more black women than Barack" (yeah, so did Strom Thurmond and Thomas Jefferson, what exactly was your point, Andy?). Then John Lewis was on The News Hour claiming that Obama was actually running a racist campaign. And I don't even want to talk about all the anti-Muslim shit the Clinton campaign pulled.


I watched and listened to all this in horror with RNC (Poohbutt's initials) in my arms. I can't speak for every black parent, but I was raised to believe that you fight the good fight, the right fight, in the hopes that those who come after you won't have to fight it. That you cannot end racism, maybe racism will never end, but you've got to do what you can do to chip away at its armor. That's what the generations before you--through the Middle Passages, through slavery and Jim Crow, through all of it--have done for you, and that's what you must do for your own children. I don't know how much I've actually done, but I had a child now. And there I was--with her and bottle in hand--watching Obama going through some of the same things I went through growing up writ large: attacks from blacks and whites for being too black, not black enough, a black radical, a sell-out, being all about race, not enough about race, of constantly using the Race Card. And I kept thinking, "This shit has got to stop."

So, for RNC and her future, I did what I thought I'd never do: I registered to vote as a Democrat (Maryland has closed primaries), and, because of my baby girl, I voted for Barack Obama. For her, I voted, I blogged, and while we were out campaigning for her grandfather, I (foolishly?) hoped that those white Virginian voters would look down at my little brown girl, while talking politics, and perhaps think that Obama might not be so bad, after all. Of course, none of this was enough nor decisive nor influential, but I did what I could.


And now, here we are, Inauguration Day. Barack Obama is now the 44th President of the United States (five minutes late--in true, black fashion). I don't know what all that means. None of us will for years to come. Perhaps we'll never know. I do know that a lot of my views of my country have definitely been changed forever. I know watching all the pomp and circumstance on the television while Poohbutt plays innocently with her blocks, I keep finding myself choking up. I know for the first time watching one of these things, I really and truly feel proud to be an American.

Having seen Lester Holt and Michael Eric Dyson choke up after speaking on NBC, I know I am not alone in this. I keep smiling, I keep choking up, I keep crying and holding my daughter and kissing the hell out of her chubby, little cheeks. I can't help thinking that this is the greatest event I've ever witnessed, and I feel blessed to be sharing it with her. I'm so glad my parents are around to see this. I wish my grandparents were, my great-grandparents. I wish that every African who survived and died during the Middle Passages could see this, every black person who suffered and died these past 400 years of oppression and humiliation could sit down and take this all in.


If somehow they can, I wonder what they're thinking. I wonder if they feel the pride I do at this very moment. I wonder if their eyes are also filled with tears of joy and honor.

Poohbutt has no clue why I'm crying right now. And nothing makes me happier than knowing that she will never exactly understand why her father was crying on Tuesday, January 20, 2009. She'll never know why I'll so fervently keep preaching to her, "You can be whatever you want to be in this world." She'll never understand that, on this beautiful day, I could say those words and actually believe them--unlike all the black parents before me. And she'll never, ever, ever quite get her old man and his hearty laugh when she screws up her face and rolls her eyes, and huffs, "Yeah, yeah, Dad. First black President. Whatever."

God, how I love this day!



[Author's Note: This, ironically, is my 100th post on Tome. Thank you, everyone for supporting and sticking with me. I hope we can continue to share. Keep on keeping on!]

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Krtek a černoch

For her birthday, Poohbutt got two Krtek books from the Nejlepšís. I don't know much of anything about this Communist Czech response to Mickey Mouse, but Poohbutt has taken to the little mole. Now, tatínek here, who briefly lived in a small Moravian city back in the day, has been forced to remember how to pronounce words he hasn't spoken in 13 years, many of which he never knew the meaning of in the first place. For awhile, I was getting migraines for the effort. But, as I said, Poohbutt has taken a liken to them. So, I've been boning up, eating raw eggs, playing "Gonna Fly Now" while running, and beating miscellaneous meat in a butcher's freezer. The things we do for our kids! As a result, my pronunciation and my head have gotten better. Now to move on to comprehension.




If the Nejlepšís weren't so damned multilingual, I'd be plotting my revenge by returning the favor.

Hovno!

;)
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Punjabi Poohbutt

At Bill's Bi-Weekly Buffet (oddly enough always coinciding with payday), yours truly struggled mightily feeding my daughter's new appetites. You've guessed it: she's finally eating all solids (though you can sneak yogurt in every once in awhile). And you've also guessed it: she's become finicky as all get-out. Apparently, somebody has never heard of Dr. Atkins. This girl can eat her some carbs now. My biggest challenge is to slip something in besides. So far, sliced turkey, mashed peas, and an occasional broccoli spear will pass her lips. Otherwise, it's bread and milk all day (I guess that's how she keeps her girlish figure).

So, in order to not fall back on the usual French fries and noodles at my favorite ghetto Chinese buffet, I went to Delhi Dee-Lite instead. The change of location didn't help any. I failed with carrots, tomatoes, and lettuce. She didn't even want to touch the Tandoori chicken. I was trying to explain to her how rare it was to get tender Tandoori chicken at a buffet, but she was having none of it.

For little Poohbutt, it was all about the batter-fried veggies, the naan, and the Aishwarya Rai retrospective on the flat screen TV across the room. The once-most-beautiful woman in the world was lip-synching and dancing through 20 years of Bollywood hits--in clubs, in the mountains, on desert roads. There was even this steamy, weird-ass dry-humping video sans kissing, of course. Poohbutt was all into it, enraptured by the colorful saris, precision hand movements, and dazzling lights. With naan in hand, she boogied on down in her high chair, entertaining the multi-culti crowd that could appreciate tender tandoori and a fox-trotting toddler.

I don't know. If there's a Baby Bollywood somewhere, I might have to audition the kid. I don't know. Whattaya think?

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Kickin' My Butt down the Home Stretch

I need a vacation. Not Aruba, not Jamaica, nor Fiji. Nothing fancy like that. I'm so desperate I'd be cool with some militia man's basement in North Dakota for a week. Just give me an internet connection, a remote, cable, and maybe Netflix Instant Watch, and I'd be happy. Any little vacation will do.


As many of you know, I've been watching Poohbutt solo 24/7 for the past three weeks now. My wife's been off globetrotting for work. Well, not exactly. She's been in Belgium, and now she's in Ethiopia. I think it's been pretty tough on her, being away from our daughter for so long. I get it. I've been bummed the few, short instances of my being away from Poohbutt. But the depths of it, being a man, I'll never again. Aside from rage and despair, I've never really had anything growing inside me. I've never had a little organism growing within me, depending on me for its very existence. I've never spent yet another year giving a baby life through my own body. There's a connection between mother and child that we men sadly miss out on. Then again, that labor was something like 22 hours. There are just some experiences I'm cool with missing.

But, I'll tell you what, I don't see how single parents do it. I'm exhausted and wondering why I didn't want her in day care too soon. Keeping a toddler entertained all day is pretty rough stuff. Really, I'll drink PBR and talk about the UN black helicopters priming to take away our Second Amendment rights, I'll brave the North Dakota cold, I'll even watch Nascar--just give me a break.

The Adventures of Poohbutt and Pop (which only has two more days to go) started out fun enough, going down to East Bumble and electioneering, then capping it all off with the Barack-O-Rama in Baltimore. We only had one mishap: The French Fry Incident. We were just on our way, rolling through rural Virginia when someone had decided that she didn't want to be in a car. Desperately, a starving father stopped off at a Burger King to buy us both some solace. Cheerios is baby crack, but french fries are baby heroin. I decided to drug the little bugger. Unfortunately, in a hurry to silence a crying baby, I accidentally gave the little tyke some piping hot fries. She screamed, something like: "Jesus Christ, you idiot! These things fucking burn!!!" She spasmed and screamed and refused to let the taters go. I had to karate chop them out of her hand.

Still, everything was copacetic until we both got sick. I blame Obama. All that pent-up frustration and anxiety, all that anticipation, and then the victory, the elation. We all relaxed, let our defenses down, and whatever's going around hit us. There's not a single Dem I know that hasn't been sick these past few weeks. I bet you it's a Republican conspiracy, a different version of the Palin Plague we all feared.

She emerged (much quicker than me, of course) a brand new toddler. She's all over the place. When she's not puttering around on her little walker jeep, she's getting into the kitchen cabinets (are kids automatically drawn to Pine-Sol?) or trying to pry the guards off the electrical sockets or trying to dismantle the DVD player or changing the channel when Daddy's watching his Steelers or trying to play in the toilet water or trying to smash Daddy's CD collection or flinging his books off the book shelf or pulling out my facial hair or trying to procure WMD from a former Soviet republic. In other words, my baby girl's curiosity has far outgrown the limits of our humble abode. I now need to record "Poohbutt! No!" and put it on continuous loop.

I've gotten a few breaks. The Baers took her for a Saturday night. Their little Boogie Boy is six weeks older than Pooh and is walking. Pooh came back taking her first steps. It's very cute. She was taking three left steps and was scooting around in a semi-circle before she dropped to her butt and went tearing into my copy of The Young Lenin. The grandparents came by for a few days. And Pooh was entertained by the Puppeteers for a day. They kept her so entertained she cried when they left. And now Mrs. Baer is spent last night and tonight taking care of Pooh.

Unfortunately for yours truly, these breaks translate into my going to work. And having been sick for much of it, I've only been more miserable, dreaming of Bismarck snowstorms.

Don't get me wrong, it's been fun, too. I love Poohbutt. She's most definitely the best thing that's ever happened to me. I think I'm doing a pretty good job. OK, I can't seem to get rid of her diaper rash, and I can't get her to get anything green aside from broccoli (the green bean experiment's touch-and-go, but I thought she was going to slit my throat when I introduced cucumber); but I've taught her how to clap during the "Here we go Steelers" chant, been drowning her in whole milk, convinced her to drink water out of her sippy cup, persuaded her to sometimes shake her head "Yes" instead of breaking her neck saying "No!" all the time, and got her to finally grasp the Pythagorean theory (you'd think it was hard, or something). We've had tons of laughs and great conversations (you know, "Blablablablabah," "Really, babe, I didn't know that"). We've had Johnny Hartman and Immortal Technique sing-alongs. And there's no greater feeling in the world than having your kid nestling on your chest and falling asleep.

My biggest failing is endurance. Babies can just wear you out. Not having the wife (happy anniversary, babe!) coming in to spell me has just left me ragged. No, seriously. How do single parents do it?

My second biggest failing is stopping Poohbutt from headbutting everything. Seriously, my little princess has turned into a soccer hooligan. It's like she goes all Cockney on me, screws up her face, goes, "You spill me bottle?" and rears back her noggin, ready to strike.

She's headbutted my chest, chin, and belly. Most disturbingly, she's even tried to take out the walls. No matter what I do or say, I can't convince the crazy kid to stop hurting herself. Yesterday, in a fit of frustration, sleepy yet refusing to sleep (what's that all about, anyway?), Poohbutt reared back and gave the most vicious head crack to the hardwood floor. OK, that was kinda funny, but, boy, did she erupt? She flew into my arms and promptly fell asleep. "But, baby," I whispered, "if it hurts so much, why do you keep doing it?" before I quickly joined her in Slumberville. But before I did, I couldn't help wondering if this is what having a teenager's like.




(Photo courtesy of Byron Johnson, Sr.)

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