Dearest Babbleonians,

    This is the last official post of Babydaddy. It’s been a pleasure sharing Josie with you guys, and a big thanks to everybody who read the blog and made comments and didn’t threaten to sue. The best thing the internet has to offer (so far as I can tell) is a sense of community. It allows the members of a fairly lonely culture to feel less alone.
    Whatever else it might be, parenting is scary, particularly for first-timers, and we’ve been thankful for all the help we can get. This includes Liz, the world’s most awesome babysitter, Susan, our visiting mom, and both sets of parents, who we don’t see enough, but feel blessed to have around. And it includes you guys. Both Babymamma and I feel incredibly lucky to have been able to share our experiences and ask questions and hear back from parents who are either struggling with the same problems, or have found ways to solve them. You guys rule.
    The reason I’m stopping the blog has more to do with something one of the commenters brought up a few weeks ago: the idea that Josie may eventually read this blog. Both Babymamma and I always saw this space as a kind of public album, something that would allow us to keep a record of her first year or so. We never envisioned it running much longer than that.
    That’s not to say that we won’t write about her again. She’s at the center of our lives. But the blog medium has a certain kind of immediacy, and a reciprocal surrendering of privacy, that we don’t want in our lives forever – and that Josie may not want, either.
    As a writer who puts myself out there in public a good bit, I’m used to hearing back from folks who think I’m an idiot. But both Babymamma and I were disturbed to discover that there were folks using the blog as a way of expressing their animus for me, or their perception of me. It made Babymamma, in particular, uncomfortable. And as much as I urged her not to let these trolls bug her, I could see why she was upset. When you make your private life public, when you seek attention in that broad a manner, you’re inviting not just the cool and the loving, but the angry and aggrieved.
    It’s also true that Babble itself has changed. In its best incarnation, the site is a wonderful way of building community. But as with any new business, the bottom line is the bottom line. For all the wise and thoughtful writing the site offers, it also depends on peddling a certain kind of lifestyle, one that sometimes confuses emotional necessities with material luxury.
    My own take on the future, now that I have a kid (with more to come, hopefully) is that we’ve got to start changing our own lifestyles, on behalf of our kids. I don’t want to get too grandiose or didactic – and Lord knows, I’m prone to both – but I do want to urge the folks who read Babble to think about the ways in which we might change our lifestyles to deal with the realities that face all of us: the end of the cheap oil era, climate change, depletion of water.
    No, I’m not suggesting we should throw away our computers and go live off the grid. (In point of fact, I would perish if forced to live off the grid.) But I am suggesting that certain modern conveniences – the fast-paced, super-abudant ones – should come to an end. And that we’re going to need to slow down and connect more, not through screens, but in real life.
    That’s part of what Babymamma and I are trying to do these days. We’ve joined a babysitting cooperative. We’re looking into pre-schools that have volunteer programs. We’d like to limit our screen time to working hours. It’s Spring, after all, even if Boston still hasn’t picked up on the hint. The flowers will be blooming. The birds will be out in force. And Josie will want to hug all of them…

 Josie turns 1.5 years on Tuesday. No fooling. The big innovation this week: hugs. She’s in a phase. How wonderful is this? It’s wonderful beyond description. It's like what I dreamed it would be having a daughter: super affection, minus the exhaustion. We've also begun a ritual of walking around the block, our daily constitutional. This allows us to go see the birds and to visit our neighbors Bridget and Jim (Bridget gave Josie a bunny slightly larger than her, which she hugs with great ardor) and to visit any stray dogs that might be around, none of which frigthen Josie, unless they bark right in her face. She doesn't scare easy.

    At the same time, Josie is taking a serious interest in the basic girl stuff. She's super into dressing her dolls and giving her dolls bottles, the basic modeling behaviors. She also loves to go run and get the dish rag and wipe up random patches of the floor, which she considers cleaning. And she's got a vacuum fetish that is unrivaled. When Babymamma gets out the vacuum, she goes into a frenzy. And she'll yell out "vacuuuu!" several times a day, no matter where she is. We don't know what to make of this, frankly.

   With boys, it seems more obvious to me, from an evolutionary standpoint. For hundreds of thousands of years -- before the sliver of history that modern man represents -- boys who focused on large, fast-moving objects (i.e. animals) and who engaged in physical combat behaviors generally did better, survived, and passed down their genes. That's why lots of the boys we know are obsessed with cars/trucks/buses/planes/whatevers, and why they tend to get into imaginative play that involves disembowling. I can't quite figure out what evolutionary trait would select for vacuum fetishism. Yes, I know, she's just copying Babymamma. But it's like like Babymamma LOVES vacuuming. It's not like she exudes the attitude: Hey, I was BORN to vacuum. And maybe she vacuums a bit more than other folks, because of cat hair, but we do have wood floors.

    Regardless, we're both delighted with her early interest in domestic stuff, and babies in particular. We're hoping when the time comes for her to have a little brother or sister, that this will bode well. Can anybody out there give us some reassurance on this point? Or will she love the idea of a baby sibling, but hate the actual reality?

    Babymamma took this photo the other day and when I looked at it, I said: That is Josie. It captured her essential shtunkdom.

    Happy Spring!

    Josie and I got in an argument.

    It's kind of exciting and horrible, all at once. And I don't mean that we got into a disagreement. We've had plenty of those. We got into a full-fledged argument. To wit:

    I had submitted to her maniacal requests to play with the idiotic animated animal game on babymamma's computer and we had gone to the screen with all the sleeping animals in the pet shop, who you can wake up by jabbing the keys -- which is frankly weird and disturbing, if you think about it, sort of like your own animal torture screen -- and I was asking Josie to identify the colors of the various animals.

    "What color is the cat?" I said.

    "Yellow!"

    "Right! What color is the chick?"

    "Yellow!"

    "Right. What about the frog? What color is the froggie?"

    Josie paused for a second then said, "Yellow!"

    "Yellow?" I said. "Are you sure? Isn't the froggie green?"

    Josie furrowed her brow and said, "Yellow!"

    I pointed to the froggie again. "That's yellow?"

    Josie nodded. "Yellow," she said firmly.

    "Wait a second," I said, playfully. "Isn't that froggie green? Isn't that color green?" 

    Josie shook her head. "Yellow!"

    And it wasn't like she was just contradicting me. You could see that she simply disagreed and wasn't going to kowtow to my ridiculous notion about the frog being green. It was an insult to her intelligence.

    I felt kind of like how I did when I appeared on "Hannity and Colmes" -- which is to say not just incredibly sexually turned on by Sean Hannity and his big, beefy sausage bod, but also confused as to how to overcome such dogged rhetorical surety.

    Is this what awaits us at the station of the cross know as the Terrible Twos.

    Please, if you're going to answer, try to lie in a manner that will make us feel better...

    So I realized that I've failed to provide follow-up posts on a number of what seemed imminent child-rearing crises but which were mostly just us being nuerotic first-time parents. With that in mind, some updates...

    Crisis: Josie will never learn to speak because she is addicted to her bink!

    Resolution: Josie is still addicted to her bink, but now talks up a storm. Yesterday alone, she said six new words: "Shut" "your" "f*cking" "pie" "hole" and "dad." Kidding! Her six new words were actually "quit" "exploiting" "me" "for" "your" "stupid" and "blog." Oh, I guess that's seven. She's evolving!

    Crisis: Josie won't nap!

    Resolution: Josie will nap, but only when she decides she's good and ready to nap, which is generally (but not always) at around one in the afternoon.

    Crisis: Josie is impossible to take on an airplane!

    Resolution: Rather than dragging our child on long, unnatural journeys through the air, we've determined that it is best for our souls, as well as the planet, if we eliminate all modes of travel based on petroleum. This year, for instance, we're doing a house swap with a lucky couple in scenic Medford, MA!

    Crisis: The cat (Petunia) is scratching Josie's face!

    Resolution: The cat's will has been broken, utterly. She is a shell of her former, face-scratching self.

    Crisis: Josie is not afraid of anything and therefore risks getting hurt constantly!

    Resolution: Josie is not afraid of anything and therefore risks getting hurt constantly.

    Crisis: Josie is addicted to sugar!

    Resolution: Josie is addicted to cheese.

    As you  can see, there's an important lesson to be learned here. It is foolish (if somewhat inevitable) to sweat the little bumps of child-rearing. These too shall pass. Also: you probably don't want us babysitting your kid.

    Dearest Babbletrash,

     It's me, Josie. My dad has another one of his "funny, morning headaches" so he's asked me to fill in -- again. This morning's topic: things I no longer need anyone's f***ing help with, thank you very much. Let's start with drinking. (Why not? My dad does.) And let's forget all about the Sippy Cup. What a loathesome, condescending invention. No, these days, when I want to get my drink on, it's all about the cup.

    Here's what I'm talking about:

    The reason the photos blurry is because I'm getting my chug on. I've just downed fifteen ounces of buttermilk. And here's what happens next...

    I shake my cup around and burp at max volume until my mamma gets very sleepy and compliant and then I demand MORE BUTTERMILK.

    There's also the whole eating situation. News flash: I am no longer being spoon fed. That time is over. Any food transport happens at my initiation. Like so:

    First, the spoon goes down and in...

    Then it goes slowly up around for a minute or so, until I've actually got Cheerios on the spoon...

    Then in goes in my piehole ...

    Hey, who forgot to put sugar on my Cheerios!

    I swear, do I have to do everything around here?

    Yes, apparently, I do.

      The other night, Babymamma and I were laying around in bed, in that not-unpleasant state of exhaustion familiar to the parents of toddlers. And I was thinking about this episode that had taken place earlier, in which Josie had grabbed three of her pacifiers from her crib (something she's not allowed to do, and therefore does constantly) and marched into our room and insisted on being hoisted up onto the bed and then proceeded, for the next half hour, to rotate the various pacifiers from my mouth to Babymamma's mouth to her own mouth. And the crazy thing (as I thought about it) was that Babymamma and I went right along with this game, even pretending to make ostentatious sucking noises with the pacifiers, which sent her into paroxsyms of glee. Which sent us into paroxsyms of glee.

    And occurred to me: Now that Josie is walking and talking and exercising her will unto the world, she's basically like The World's Most Charming Dictator Ever. I mean, she just marches around issuing orders ("up!" "walk!" "no!" "cheese!") and we march around kind of shaking our heads and pretending that we're the sort of parents who enforce some modicum of discipline and inevitably obeying her orders.

    Recently, we've found ourselves sort of asking her permission to not immediately accede to her wishes, negotiating with her, as it were.

     "No, baby, we're not going to climb the stairs this morning. How about if we go read a book? Whatever book you want."

     "Sorry Jos, we're not going to jump on the couch. Okay, we're only jumping on the couch for a second ... okay, that's the last jump ... okay, last one ..."

     Do you guys do this, too? Are we screwing her up? Babymamma says I should just chill. But I'm starting to think that, in our effort to make Josie happy, we're risking turning her into, well, what we think of as "a charming dictator" but which might play elsewhere as a "brat."

     Am I calling my daughter a brat? Not really. The fact is, she's usually insanely charming to other people, and does well with other babies and toddlers, even. I'm just wondering how other parents deal with this question of when to gratify her (constant) demands, and when to say "no" and how to say "no."  Because, as should be clear by now, we're totally helpless in the face of Josie's thermonuclear cuteness.

    I mentioned that we went to California, right? This was our annual Get-the-hell-out-of-freezing-New-England-and-let-the-grandparents-drool-on-Josie pilgrimage and it went just fine, thank you. The airplane ride is a bit more challenging now that Josie is a toddler (i.e. I had to walk her up and down the aisles 37 times). And Jos got herself a little fever that freaked us out for a night. But overall, she had a ball and got to know her grandpa Ricci and grandma Babs much better, to the extent that one afternoon I wandered into their bedroom and saw all three of them napping together, a sight of such unutterable cuteitude that it just about made my heart explode.

    But the highlight for Jos was the chance to hang out with her cousins Daniel and Lorenzo, the aforementioned Wrecking Crew. These are the guys, you'll recall, who taught her to walk over the summer. They are two of the world's sweeter human beans and they spent a long time hanging out with Josie and getting her to make the sounds of various barnyard animals.

    Being the sicko I am, all I could think as I watched them cavort was: Man, in ten years Josie is going to be crushing so hard on these guys she won't know what to do with herself. But for now, let's just leave these three to their innocent pleasures, such as examining the lawn (and each other) for potential bug problems...

      Oh, and doing some fine dining, of course...

    And a little alphabet work, naturally...

    Like a lot of kids, Josie is obsessive on a few subjects Among these (as documented) is cookies, for instance. The color yellow, her absolute autonomy at every moment of the day, pasta, and dogs. She is totally committed to dogs -- "woof woofs" in the common vernacular -- and will often stand at the window of our little house and make a forlorn woof woof noise. The problem with dogs, though, is that they are mostly larger than Josie and capable of knocking her down (without meaning to) and some of them bite.

    We managed to solve most of these problems with Jade. Jade belongs to our friends Katie and Closey. She is a teacup maltese. What does this mean? It means that -- while technically still a dog -- she can fit inside a teacup. I'm only half kidding. This dog is really unbelievably small. So the two of them did a play date yesterday, pretty much Josie's Most Awesomest Play Date EVER. Check it out:

    Josie makes a careful approach...

    Some initial olefactory exploration ensues

    Oh yeah, it's business time!

    The unsung joys of the chew toy

    This is a look that says, basically: I'm very pleased with how all that went and, by the way, until you get me one of those dogs I'm never going to be happy like this again for the rest of my life...

     So I've no doubt mentioned that we're trying to keep Josie away from TV and we're trying to extend that to any kind of electronic screen. But recently, Josie's grandpa Bob got her this computer program called "Giggles" (or something) which has all these little cartoons with animals that you can control by hitting the keys of the computer. You know: fish, monkeys, cats and dogs, these bizarre sheep who jump around and yell in a Scottish brogue that Babymamma and I keep imitating.

    Anyway, Josie LOVES this thing and plays with it all the time when she's visiting them. But Babymamma also made the mistake of loading it on to her computer and Josie now knows this, so we're in a situation where pretty much any time she sees either of our computers she goes into full beg mode. And if we give in, she plays with these programs until we finally drag her away, at which point she throws a fit. 

     Yeah, I know. We're not good parents. But the question is what do we do now?

    1. Deny her access until she gives up (i.e. never)?

    2. Chill out and allow her to sit there in front of the program until her eyes start to bleed? 

    3. Battle her on this and give in only when we're tired and/or lazy?

    Obviously, I've been adhering to Plan 3. It's the Babydaddy way. But I've also been fretting. And fretting over my fretting. I find the computer program pretty annoying, and I don't like the way it puts her into this little trance where her eyes get all glassy. But at the same time, maybe we're being uptight media-phobes who need to give her a little screen so she doesn't show up to kindergarten and immediately establish herself as a luddite pariah.

     What do you guys think?

Well folks, it had to happen sooner or later. Despite Babydaddy's decided bias against what he calls "whore paint," Josephine has decided to follow in the footsteps of her Babymamma. (Note: no animals were killed in the making of this photo shoot.)

    Enjoy!

     Or something. What I'm getting at here is that Josie is showing early signs of sugar addiction. This will come as something less than a shock to those of you who are familiar with my eating habits, and those of my beloved Babymamma. To put it in pretty stark terms, I'll just report that my cholesterol test last year revealed a triglyceride level of 333. Your triglycerides -- which are largely based on how much sugar you consume -- are considered "high" if they're above 150. So I'm basically walking about with red liquid sucrose coursing through my veins. This is what happens when you eat at least one piece of candy every day of your life, and usually more like seven. Along with ice cream, cakes, cookies, and the assorted toaster pastry.

    But obviously, I'm an adult. And as an American. It's my right, maybe even my obligation, to clog my system with this kind of garbage. It's my own form of self-medication. The problem is that we're now influencing our bambina. Because she really does, honest to God, wake up with Kook-kooks (i.e. cookies) as her central preoccupation. And now that she can say kook-kook, it's her every other word. She'll march into the kitchen and point urgently to the spare high chair (which has become a de facto carb storage facility) and coo "kook kooks?" Then, when we explain to her that it's time for breakfast, not kook kooks, she'll scamper over to the diaper bag and start rifling through the various pockets, muttering "kook kook" to herself. If that doesn't work, she'll head for the kitchen counter, where we keep the animal crackers. Same deal. 

    Babymamma and I have certainly tried to limit our sweets consumption when she's up. All the horrible baby books, particularly the ones about "healthy eating" make it clear that the kids pick up their cues from you and that if you so much as bite into a Fig Newton with them watching they'll grow up to become junkies. We don't want Josie to grow up to become a junkie. And yes, we're trying to work the fruit thing as much as we can. But the truth is, now that she knows the kook kooks are out there, she can't be deterred. And truthfully, there are times when she gets upset and we basically give in and give her a kook kook. Are we totally screwing her up?

     Babymamma and I are not big on instilling neurotic patterns around eating. There's enough craziness in the culture at large about food, particularly for girls. But we do worry about establishing bad patterns early on, where sweets come to equal love. I mean geez: look at me. And my triglycerides.

      My point is: What do you guys do? How big a deal is this? Are we going to hell? With they have kook kooks there?

    Josie is heading toward 16 months and she has, like, 2.3 teeth. There's the two little fellers on her bottom row and the one little nub we can see coming in on top. We suspect that more are coming in, because she was teething last night. But we're starting to feel like our perfect little angel is also going to be a perfect little toothless angel. Which wouldn't make us love her any less, but could lead to serious social and dietary problems.

    It's not something we've ever worried about, really. But in the past few weeks, I keep running across babies who are Josie's age, or a little younger, and who have these great big mouths full of teeth. We went to this Tot Shabbat thing, for instance, which Josie spent running around with this very sweet little boy who was a month younger than her and who had every single tooth. It was almost freaky to see this tiny person with a mouth that looked ready for a Colgate add.

    The truth is, I find Josie's look -- the Gummed look -- cuter than the Toothed look. At the same time, it's one of those things where we pretty much know we're going to have some sleepless nights in the days to come. Because, after all, her teeth are down there somewhere (right? right?) and they're not going to stay down there forever. My mother insists we shouldn't worry, because Lorenzo, my beloved nephew, got all of his teeth seemingly overnight. She tells this story over and over.

     So it's going to seem odd to be asking this at this stage in the game, but are there any other Babbleonians whose kids had teeth that came in this late? Or are we as freakish as I feel like we might be?

    And also: is there anything we can do when her teeth do start to come in, en masse? Other than our usual procedure of giving her a rum rag and putting on earmuffs. Should we be worried about the fact that Josie is older (and therefore more powerful, and therefore more powerfully capable of expressing her displeasure)? Is there some magic incantation we can say to elicit these missing teeth? Perhaps putting a poster of Julia Roberts over her bed? Or okay, scratch that -- maybe Barack Obama?

     Any mouthing off on late teething syndrome most appreciated...

    So the G Units from the West Coast (holla) brought their show to town.

    Josie (with apologies to Warren G) had this to say:

    OG (Original Grampa) Ricci working up some bubble love. Blow it like you know it, G.

    That shiz popped on my forehead. Too many 40s, people.

    Open up and say G! You know how Babs do.

    Me and OGR jammin.

    The funny thing is that Ric n Babs had to sleep on this couch.

    The OGs know I got to keep it all thugged up. When you're running the streets of the Lower East Side of Arlington, that's how it rolls. But I got nothing but love for both of y'all. You feel me?

    Back in the olden days, before babymamma and I had kids, when we were just a couple of crazy, drug-addicted layabouts waiting for the unemployment check to drop, we used to visit our friends with kids from time to time. As a devoted cheapskate, I was always struck by how much food got wasted in the process of feeding a little one. There'd be some sweet mom trying to get her baby to eat something, anything, and in the process stacking seven different kinds of cheese and cold cuts and fruit onto the little feller's high-chair tray. And, of course, when the little feller refused to eat anything but Cheerios, all those vittles went into the trash. When and if we have kids, I thought to myself, we'll never let that happen. Our child will have some plate discipline.

    Yes, you can stop laughing now.

    It's become clear to, in the short time she's been with us, that Josie's will to eat or not eat a particular foodstuff is more powerful than both of us combined, perhaps more powerful than God. And so, we are left night after night with the remains of our failed attempts to get her piehole healthily stuffed. Now the reasonable parent (read: non-cheapskate) might glance at this assemblage and, with a twinge of guilt, head for the garbage can. But as fully established by now, I don't qualify as reasonable. In our household, I am known as "the disposal." Meaning that anything in the fridge, or the cupboard, that might qualify as, uh, no longer healthy to eat goes directly into my craw. Yogurt with a bit of fuzz on top. That week-old spaghetti. Forgotten chips with the texture of naugahyde. All mine!

    And thus, as Josie has become one of those charmingly picky toddlers, forever ignoring the various comestible options set before her and holding out for that end-of-the-meal cookie, my disposal talents have had to scale new heights. For Josie, of course, doesn't just not eat her food. She tends to get a feel for her meals before rejecting them. By which I mean she plays with her food. Thus, I am left with menus like the following:

    Seedless Grape Halves and Corn Drizzled with Hummus

    Smoked Turkey on a Bed of Bran Muffin, with Baby Yogurt Ragout

    Elbow Macaroni Encrusted with Strawberry Jam and Dried Prune Juice

    Speckled Broccoli and Fig Newton Innards on Shards of Buttered Toast

     Now, I know exactly what you're thinking. And the truth is, I have given long and serious thought to the idea of opening a restaurant. There's no question that the flavor and texture combinations produced so effortlessly by our child rank among the most innovative of today's culinary giants. The only catch, of course, is that each meal takes so long to produce. Also: you need a really adventurous palate, not to mention a iron stomach. And I'd need about a million dollars cash to get things rolling, which is about a million more than I have at the moment.

     Still! If any of you fellow tray-scarfers wants to contribute to the potential menu, please leave your recipes below...

    So it's official now. Confirmed by the pediatrician, even. Josie is going to be a SUPERMODEL. And what does that mean? Jet lag, excessive drug use, involvement with an abusive rock star, and, of course, royalty payments for Babydaddy. Shweet.

     I base this on our just completed 15-month checkup, at which Josie ranked in the 29th percentile for weight and the 94th percentile for height. Now I know what all you sensitive parents out there are thinking: Hey, those stats are constantly shifting and therefore meaningless and stupid to focus on anyway, as they foster an idiotic sense of competition and achievement-angst in parents. 

    And really, I'd agree IF MY BABY WASN'T SO OBVIOUSLY DESTINED TO BE A SUPERMODEL. And I'd be more inclined to listen to your rap, frankly, if you weren't so obviously jealous and bitter over the fact that my BABY IS DESTINED TO BE A SUPERMODEL.

    Also, there are several strong supportig indicators. Such as:

    *Camera-friendly

    *Very picky about food

    *Already arrested twice in airports

    *Small vocabulary

    *Can be moody 

    Actually, the important thing -- as we all know -- is that Josie is happy and healthy as she reaches yet another landmark. Because without her health, frankly, she'll never become a SUPERMODEL.

    Here are a few exclusive photos, provided simply to give you a sense of how Jos operates in a spontaneous shoot. You should probably know that I took these photos and did so while yelling things at Jos in a lispy German accent.

 Show me that long und leanish torso, Yossie!

    Ja! Ja! Ist your hertz, mine leibchen!

    Just go crazy, kleinkind! Tear up zee paper if that's what you're feelink

Question 1:

Define Kookook:

a) The noise emitted by a stuffed Tiki bird

b) Josie's favorite punk band

c) A sweet comestible

d) Nickname for crazy uncle John

Question 2:

To which of the following does the Josielogism "ap-poh" not apply:

a)  Golf ball

b) Tomato

c) Mitt Romney's head

d) A roughly spherical poop

e) Ooops. C & D appear interchangeable

Question 3:

Please select Josie's favorite bath-time accessory:

a) Tah-will

b) Otopu

c) ba

d) duhh

Question 4:

Define "Opedah"

a) Josie's favorite daytime talk-show host

b) The Greek God of Kookooks

c) A command to open whatever drawer/box/device Josie is looking at

d) A psycological crisis born of forbidden feelings toward the Babydaddy

Question 5:

True or false:

When Josie says yehyehyeh she actually means nu.

Question 6:

Ah-gah is to Ah-dah as...

a) Hammer is to sickle

b) Ball is to chain

c) The Writer's Strike is to Hollywood

d) Feelings of human compassion are to Dick Cheney

Question 7:

Josie says _______ to the poopoo? (Fill in the blank)

a) Here's looking at you, kid

b) Have I told you lately that I love you?

c) Byebye!

d) Shit happens

Please mark your answers below, using a #2 pencil

    As many of you know by now, Jane and I over at Baby Squared made us a little mischief. We came up with a plan to pretend we’d had a terrible playdate and trash each other. Jane’s latest post about this is an eloquent confession/apology. Her sentiments reflect mine exactly. What she didn’t mention is that I was the instigator, so any one who feels angry or disappointed, I’m the person who owes you an apology.  

    A blog only works because people trust you, basically. They feel you’re being straight with them. They count on you to be a little dose of honesty (and maybe levity and sanity) in a world that is otherwise overrun by bullshit. So to all those folks who took us at face value and felt betrayed, I’m sorry. We weren’t trying to make anyone feel duped, least of all those who come to our blogs in good faith. We were trying to have some fun, and maybe get folks to think – for a few minutes, anyway – about why people are so malicious on-line. (Hint: cowardice and grievance.)

    Moving on to more pressing subjects, Baby Mamma would like to address what she calls the manicure issue.

    Baby mamma here. Now that doing my nails is one of those lost (read: pre-baby) luxuries, when I get around to it – about once every three months – I like to make it count. This time is was with Orly’s Moonlit Madness. I am not a paid spokesperson for Orly. Yet. Thanks for noticing (Babydaddy didn’t).

    Okay, this is gonna be a little rough. As some of you may know, Jane over at Baby Squared wrote a post about our recent play date. Apparently, she didn’t have a very good time and decided the best way to go about venting would be on her blog. A class act.
    I don’t want to do a long rehash of everything she wrote, but I guess she found Josie a little hard to handle, and she wasn’t too crazy about me, either. It’s true that Josie is an energetic kid, and she did sort of dominate Jane’s twins, Clia and Elso. It’s also true that I’m obnoxiously fawning as a dad. I guess some of my “humor” didn’t quite go over with Jane.
    But if I can offer a word in Josie’s defense: I think she was just bored, and I can’t exactly blame her. I mean, I’m sure that Jane’s relatives are fascinated by her Power Point presentation on Trends in Early Socialization of Twins. And I’m sure they love her It’s a Twin Thang t-shirt and her Make Mine a Double tea cozy. Just like they probably can’t get enough of her twin scrapbooks, her twin memory boxes, her twin placential burial plot, and the thirteen home videos – yeah, I counted, it was the only way to stay awake – I was shown of her twins, most of which consisted of the girls staring blankly into the camera, while Jane screamed helpful stage directions such as “Clita! Wake up, Clita! Give mama a big twinsy smiley-wily! Hey, Oslo! Look over here. Over here!”
    See, the thing is, Jane’s daughters are going to be famous. As she informed me on four separate occasions, they’ve already been “recruited” by a major infant modeling firm. In fact, Jane has a giant stack of 8x10 headshots of the girls in various “theatrical” getups (the girls as Tarzan and Jane, the girls as Britney and Lindsay, the girls as Dog the Bounty Hunter), several of which she pressed on me, with explicit directions to “pass them along to any casting agents you might know.”
    Jane herself – and I know this may come as a shock – was a child actress. She starred in some play as a high school freshman, that was later released on video, though apparently only in the Beta format. I myself was forced to watch a portion of this production (“The Princess and Her Cheese”) in her scarily large home theater setup, which includes an ancient VCR that plays Beta videos.
    As for her children’s prospects, they do have one major thing going for them: they know how to sit still. Really really well. Occasionally, Oswalda would flop over on her side and start to cry. But Clisa was basically catatonic for the duration of our visit. The thing that’s so especially sad is that Jane truly believes her girls are destined for Broadway. She referred to her blog as her “golden ticket,” and explained how she was going to parley it into a development deal “the way the Geico cavemen did.” It was all so Gloria Swanson.
    So, yeah, I can see why Jane had a tough time with Josie. When you’re that pathetically invested in your “little starlets” (her words, not mine) it must be unbearable to encounter a kid with actual charisma.

    P.S. – A quick word on the note-taking thing. Jane has apparently forgotten why I asked her for a pen – to write down the name of a dermatologist friend of mine, who I thought might be able to help her with a painful rash, the location and texture of which you really don't want to know.

    In this madcap modern world, many toddlers may find themselves wondering if good, old-fashioned manners have simply up and died. Certainly, it feels natural enough to descend to the vulgarity of the culture around us. But if there's one thing I've learned in my fifteen months on earth, it's that we must strive to behave with a certain feminine dignity.

    This is why, for the first time ever, I'll be offering my exclusive course, How to Become a Model Toddler. Among the facets we'll cover in this hands-on workshop are:

    PHYSICAL GRACE & APPROPRIATE POSTURE

    Nobody loves a toddler who slouches. But how to practice your poise with limited resources? Why not try this innovative regimen. I call it, Six Weeks to Sippy Cup Perfection. Magnifique! 

    NO MEANS NO: PORTION CONTROL 

    It's easy enough, especially in the holiday season, to let one or two Cheerios become a whole box. That's why the disciplined toddler needs to learn how to restrain from gluttony -- even if that means making a dramatic gesture.

    ROAD RAGE NEVER PAYS 

    Perhaps you've faced a similar dilemma. There you are on your morning constitutional and all of us a sudden there's an obstacle blocking your path. In the past, I've been known to throw a giant fit, involving, if necessary, the use of poop as a projectile. But no longer. Now I just fix the world with a smile and wait for the road to clear.

    TODDLERS MAKE BETTER DOORS THAN WINDOWS

    While it's certainly tempting to park yourself right in front of the TV, the polite toddler knows that this will only result in a rude relocation. Why invite trouble from the drooling addicts who call themselves adults?  

    MAKE THOSE AROUND YOU LOOK GOOD 

    While taking a nice photo is a big part of the finished toddler, knowing how to make your support staff look good is also essential. My hair looks like crap above, and that pink bink is a huge clash with my skin tone. But the most important thing is that Mom looks hot. Sometimes, the best move is to take one for the team.

    This is just a small sampling of what you'll learn when you enroll in Ms. Josephine's Finishing Class for Toddlers. For more information, simply leave your name and number (along with an approved credit card number) in the comments space below.

    I sincerely hope to hear from all of you, as we prepare for the new year.

    Yours in blissful decorum,

    Ms. Josephine 

    Some recent sample dialogue from our child...

    Sample 1

    Babydaddy: Hey Jos, how about some delicious blueberry waffle.

    Jos: Nu-nu-nu-nu.

    BD: What about yogurt. Mmmmm. You love yogurt.

    Jos [shaking head vehemently]: Nu! 

    Sample 2

    Babymamma: It's time to pick up the toys! It's time to pick up the toys so we can take a bath with papa! Yay!

    Jos: Nu-nu-nu-nu.

    BM: Come on, Jos. We do this every night! It's fun!

    Jos: Nu.

    Sample 3

    Babydaddy: Hey Josie! Mommy thinks daddy is too judgmental and that he's a cheapskate. Do you?

    Jos: Nu-nu-nu!

    Babymamma: That's so interesting! Because daddy says mommy is a first-world princess, even though she's the one who does all the work around here, while he sits on his throne upstairs eating Tootsie Rolls. Do you agree with papa?

    Jos: Nu. 

    So I think you can see the point here. We're an incredibly psychologically healthy family, who should probably author a book on child rearing immediately.

    Also, we've reached what the experts call the "oppositional" phase of toddlerdom.

    It happened so quickly. One minute, Josie was our little angel, sounding out words like "apple" and "yellow" and innocently chewing on pens that turned her entire tongue blue, and the next she was this ... whirlwind of negativity, casting her playa-hater energy around the house like so much stray tinsel.

     But we can't say this is entirely shocking. After all, Josie has never approved of the basic power dynamic of babydom. She's always felt that she was in charge at all times, and merely lacked the means to express her will. No (or, if you prefer, as Josie does, the exotically Yiddish sounding Nu) has transformed her world. She can now clearly define and vocalize anything undesirable, such as her father attempting to kiss her at a time she does not wish to be kissed, or her sudden and unapproved removal from proximity to the cat. Nu!

     It's a great rhetorical strategy, very to-the-point, and one that Babymamma and I really haven't figured out how to deal with. Josie doesn't want to be reasoned with. She doesn't want to argue. And anyway, we don't want to turn her into one of those little litigator babies, with a million extenuating clauses at the ready. So she's basically kicking our ass with a single word, at this point. And, of course, it doesn't help that she looks like this: