Genes

Everybody…EVERYBODY…claims to see a little of themselves in my daughter, Marcel. My mother, for instance, claims that she spit her out. Seriously, she claims every inch of Marcel.

I will admit that I definitely think Marcel looks like the rest of my family and not at all like my wife’s family. My wife, on the other hand, of course thinks that that is nonsense. She claims all types of things. My favorite is when she says Marcel has hair just like her. Now THAT is a good laugh.

My dad, however, is more modest. He’ll only claim the eyes. You see my mother, my wife, her parents and I all have lighter eye colors while only my dad, like Marcel, has brown eyes. That may change, though. Apparently, my wife was born with brown eyes that eventually changed to green-blue when she was three and Marcel is now nearing that stage.

However, there is one thing that my father will always be able to claim. That’s “Hrmpf!“

Growing up, “hrmpf” was Dad’s go to signal for disapprobation. Something crazy come on the news? Dad would go “hrmpf!” Make a suggestion that he didn’t like? Dad would give you a “hrmpf!” Somehow fall short of his ideal, and he’d cushion your fall with a sharp “hrmpf!”

I didn’t really notice it, though, until my youngest brother picked up the habit. Like the rest of us, he had only ever been a victim of the “hrmpf.” Then, one day, he decided to do a little victimization himself. It’s one thing to get criticized by your dad. You figure he’s just doing his job. It’s a whole other thing to get it from the spoiled brat of the family! That’s when I realized how powerful the “hrmpf” really was.

Unlike in my youngest brother, however, dad can’t find anything to disapprove of in Marcel. So, unlike my little brother, Marcel can never have actually heard the powerful “hrmpf.” That is, she never heard it until she uttered it, herself.

Now, if I suggest Marcel say “hi” to someone when she’s not interested in saying “hi”, then I get a “hrmpf.” If I offer Marcel a piece of food that she’s not interested in eating, then I get a “hrmpf.” If I suggest that she spit her pacifier into my hand, then I get a exaggerated body turn, squenching up of her nose, full-throated, “HRMPF!!!”

And, I’m sure, somewhere my dad is offering a very warm, “attaboy!”

 

Midnight Train

My parents frown on pride. They say that we should learn to be grateful, instead. Well, at 4 am the other night, I was proud.

At 4 am the other night, Marcel woke up and wouldn’t go back to sleep. This doesn’t happen as often as it did her first month, obviously, but it still happens from time to time.

Usually, we can get her right back to sleep by finding and returning her pacifier or laying the covers back over her. Sometimes, those things aren’t enough and we have to bring her back to bed with us. Often, that’s our first choice. But there are those times when even that won’t get her back to sleep and she constantly asks for things–water, Little Bear, tickling–to avoid any of us going back to sleep. This is what I thought I was in for the other night when she woke up at 4 am, then asked to go to potty.

Now, I’m not a loving father. I’m a spoiling father, which, according to my story, is a whole other, higher level of loving. But at 4 o’clock in the morning, it’s hard to be patient. Still, Marcel didn’t just ask for a drink of water. She asked to go potty, and that’s a big deal.

We didn’t have a potty problem with Marcel as a baby because she never, ever cried about her diaper, which pretty much meant we could change it when it was convenient for us. That great situation, however, is now turning into a not great situation because Marcel still has no motivation to ditch the diapers and go to potty.

I had hoped things would change at Fancy Day Care. Fancy Day Care helps support potty training. They instructed us to bypass pants with buttons and stick with elastic waistbands to help the effort. When I heard Fancy Day Care announce at the new parent orientation that they were potty training the kids, I even let out a whoop. But they aren’t having any more luck then we are and, so, we’re still stuck changing diapers.

Then, at 4 am, Marcel asked to go to potty. Now, like I said, I was skeptical. But this potty thing is important to me, so off we trudged to potty.

Then, after getting on her throne, she asked for a book. Now, I was getting even more impatient and more skeptical, but, like I said, this potty training thing is important to me, so we handed her the book. And while Marcel “read” the book and related to me what was happening, I hunkered down on the side of the tub and tried to bide my time. Then a miracle happened…pffft…Marcel farted.

The first time she ignored it. The second time she turned red and stole a couple of glances my way because she was embarassed. She had no reason to be embarassed, though. She should’ve been proud. Particularly, when she, as my mother says, eliminated. I was proud. My daughter, for the first time, actually felt an “elimination” coming and got us to the bathroom in time to do something about it. I was so proud, in fact, that I woke up my wife and told her to go see the miracle for herself.

Then I was grateful. Because I got to go back to sleep while she took over the potty training.

 

Tragedy

They come upon us suddenly.

One moment, our family is a big jumble of “happy,” laying on top of one another, watching television or playing outside. Then the next moment is…tragedy.

Eyes tighten. The wail starts slow and low but soon builds to room filling proportions. The head falls back in time with the crescendo. Then…bum, bum, bum, buuuuuuuum…the collapse.

And “the terrible twos” have arrived.

Anything can act like an invitation. Deny a cookie to save space for soon arriving dinner and we get…tragedy. If a commercial is on when we turn the television to “Little Bear”, then we will soon be watching…tragedy. Bring a yellow cup when she really wanted her juice in the green one, then you have brought…tragedy.

I didn’t want to be the parent who couldn’t control their child. I didn’t want my baby to be the baby that runs through the store breaking things because she didn’t get her way. I do want to spoil the girl, but I don’t want her to actually spoil. Ah, there’s the rub.

My parents are all about spoiling Marcel. They rarely visited me before she was born, which, now that I look back on it, was a drag, and they only stayed at my house once. Now, however, I see them every other month, including last weekend. And if they get a hotel when they are in town, including last weekend, then they take Marcel with them. But neither one of them is willing to be the bad guy. They never want to be the bad guy. So they only spoil her. And between my spoiling her and their spoiling her, we get…tragedy.

Tragedy actually came a few months before Marcel’s second birthday. And it took about three months before we learned to combat it, effectively.

We couldn’t bring ourselves to spank. She’s too little and too cute. “Time out” would just bring on more screaming, thus defeating the purpose. “No” was plain ineffective. Soon, we started to worry. Then we discovered “eye contact”.

“Eye contact” is simple. You just insist she look you in the eye when you discuss her problem with whatever denial she was suffering at that moment. You don’t have to raise your voice or even speak sternly. This is fortunate because I’d rather not scare my child. Direct eye contact is enough to force her to back down and hear what you’re saying. I think it makes her feel guilty.

That is, it makes her feel guilty when my parents aren’t around. When my parents are around, she feels too entitled to feel much of anything else. The rest of us get…tragedy.