Still thumb sucking.

I'm not sure what we're going to do about Evelyn's addiction. I'm pretty sure taking this away would be equivalent to taking away caffeine from my dad. You take that man's coffee away and you may as well try to enjoy an afternoon locked in a cage with a rabid grizzly. Believe me when I say this is not an exaggeration. Evelyn, it seems, has her own vice.

Thumb sucking.

My aunt is in her forties and still sucks her thumb. My youngest sister is in her mid twenties and also does this. I've heard some people will never outgrow it. There's always someone trying to say, when they see her doing it for the first time, "That'll make your teeth grow crooked." Evelyn, still not grasping the English language in all of its glory, ignores these small slights to her favorite pastime.

I've asked around for a cure. Everything short of the Betty Ford clinic, I fear, will fall short. There's bitter nail polish. There's mittens. Taping her hands together. Some, obviously, seem a bit extreme and others downright cruel. The nail polish never worked on my sister, either. She once told me she'd always sucked her thumb until the flavor ran out on the paint.

Its not that I'm opposed to thumb sucking. There are worse things my daughter could get in to. Tattoos of pink ponies. Become a milk-a-holic. Be one of those kids who likes to wear a diaper backwards. I don't know.

The moral of the story is, I really hope she stops sucking her thumb. If not, if that's the worst thing she ever does, I'll live and so will she.

Happiness is...

The joys of fatherhood are endless. I've learned so much about life just from examining the life of my own daughter. In fact, I've often though, "If I knew being a dad was this much fun, I'd have done it sooner." This of course is a lie, but I tell myself that without even meaning to at times, simply because I am so extraordinarily happy being with my kid.

For so long I focused on the fact that there are things to be bought; car seats, high-chairs, bibs, diapers, and the like. Then, as I would sometime regress as an adult, I would also focus on the negatives about cleaning the high-chairs after a fun filled afternoon of pudding/ketchup throwing I've seen exhibited by two year-olds in my family. Oh, and let us not forget the vile wrath that is a dirty diaper.

Off topic, but good Lord! What did she eat last night? That diaper looked like it had three previous owners and two of them were adults, the third a crocodile. I bet I used twelve wet-wipes cleaning that child...

Sorry. Ahem.

The joys of fatherhood.

The thing is, everyone told us we'd never be ready to be parents, that we should just do it. Those people aren't me, and I despise when others try to tell me how simple it is to make such a large, life-altering decision. We get it, now of course. These people just wanted to see us squirm and writhe in fear at such diapers as described above.

Bring it on.

The first time I held Evie in my arms, I was Superman. Every day since, when she smiles at me, hugs me, or gets mad and cries because I won't let her play with the remote control, I feel even more confident in being a dad. I love it. Sure, its a full-time job, but I love it and the pay isn't a few dollars you can waste at Wal-Mart. Its so much more.

Messy faces, peanut butter in her hair (perhaps I'll blog about this another week), dirty diapers, vomit, bad dreams, fussy days, fussy hair, and everything else, I'd never trade it. Because one heartfelt smile from that little girl makes it all worth it.

I'll end with this:

I'm at a point, currently, where I really dread going to work. I get depressed because this isn't the job I went to college for. I wanted to be a pastor, not a probation officer (though, to be fair, I dealt with more ruthless people in the church at times than I have my current vocation). I work outside in the heat, in government owned cars that sometimes lack air conditioning, or may not even run at all - your tax dollars being stretched as far as they can. You're welcome. I feel out of place where I work because, unlike my coworkers, I really never wanted a job like this.

Then, I come home and that little girl claps her hands and starts chattering away the minute I step through the door.

And my life is complete.

Happiness is your child being happy to be with you.

Thank Jim Henson

If you have ever had the song "Elmo's World" stuck in your head for three days, when you haven't heard it in a week, you may appreciate this.

Evelyn loves Sesame Street, Veggie Tales, and a variety of other kid's shows. Barney and Friends plays in my house like a broken record that just won't stop. This is the private parts of parenting Hades I have become trapped in.

Despite my grandest efforts to get my daughter interested in the most kid-friendly episodes of Batman Beyond, the Superman animated series, the old Star Wars: Droids cartoon, and even some old Justice League episodes, the only thing that truly phases the child is a muppet. If SuperGrover is the thing that can keep her pacified, fine.

She'll stop everything she's doing when Elmo comes on the t.v. If Junior Asparagus sings a song, she wiggles to the tune. If Cookie Monster starts eating, her eyes glaze over and she wishes she could join that blue fuzzball and partake in his chocolate chip gluttony as well. If a man dressed as a bat glides drives across the screen in his souped up car, its back to getting into things she ought not touch.

I would feel ashamed, but personally I just blame the master of muppetry, Jim Henson. If he hadn't done his job so well, maybe she'd be interested in super powered justice. Instead, rather than phoning it in, he made an awesome show I am not afraid to admit that I enjoyed throughout most of my childhood as well - and still secretly enjoy watching with Evie, as well.

But that dinosaur...

I've started watching Barney with her, too. To the point I dissect the episodes. For instance, this one where Baby-Bop (yeah, that's her name) spins around a room and makes a huge mess for the janitor to clean up; potentially making him late for his big break as a concert pianist. The kids get stuck cleaning it up and singing little songs and all pretend Baby-Bop did nothing that bad.

For example: these dinosaurs are the hallucinations of these children. So who really made that mess? The janitor is happy even though his dreams are about to be shattered, and again, he can see these hallucinations, too. This all leads me to think, perhaps, there's something horrible in that school's cafeteria food and the place needs to be shut down. Immediately.

Also, how come the little red headed kid can't do anything right? He's a bad flute player and his science project beans don't grow as fast as the other kids' beans, either. Thanks, PBS. Thank you for sending the message to my daughter that we redheads are born failures.

Again, I blame Henson. Had he not opened the gate with Sesame Street, I'd not even have this blog to write. Thanks Jim. Thanks a whole lot.