Mabel the Slider

There are two types of toddlers in America today – the swingers and the sliders (and the rockers – but they’re weirdos and we won’t talk about them). When you go to the playground, there are climbing apparatuses of varying sizes and comfort levels, which invariably culminate in a slide or two of some sort – and then there are swings, with just swings. These items, by nature of their function, must be separated by space, making you choose a side: are you a swinger or a slider?

Sure, you can visit both, or walk around the wooden perimeter like a balance beam, or even jolt yourself back and forth on one of those clumsy metal rocking frogs, but there is usually one function that dominates your thoughts, much like being a democrat or republican.

Mabel is a slider. Which is great for me. Sliders require much less interaction. They usually climb up the stairs or the rock wall themselves, dance around the little poles, turn the steering wheel attached to nothing, threaten to jump out of the one uncovered hole that the big kids jump out of, and then eventually find their way to a slide and slide down to the bottom, just to run over and do it all again.

Swingers run over to the boring swing set – which only has swings on it – and turn to you and say “up?” because you have to pick them up, fold their legs into the little bucket holes, and stand there and push them until they get bored and say “out,” when you need to unfold their legs, pick them up, and put them back down, so they can run over to the next bucket and do it all again. They need everything done for them. Like little democrats.

Mabel the Swinger

Recently, Mabel has stopped sliding. For the last two months, she has become a swinger. The fact that she likes the big girl swings is a small consolation, but I still can’t send the occasional text message or even sit the freak down for a minute. This has been going on for about two months and there is no single event to point to and say “Oh! She probably doesn’t like sliding because of the time she got her hair caught and dangled 7 feet off the ground for 10 minutes.” Nothing like that. Our friend thought it might be because the slide at the local playground tends to shock its victims at the end. She has a point. After all, it is the same philosophy we use to keep dogs in imaginary fences. If I was administered a shock every time I ate a banana, I doubt I would eat too many bananas anymore. But this shock is so minor, I doubt it would keep even the wussiest of Chihuahuas in the yard. So I still have no idea what caused the sudden change.

When I was in high school, I used to have a Tastykake Coffee Cake every night. Literally, EVERY NIGHT. 23 seconds in the microwave with a half glass of milk. I loved those things. The ones with the rabbit turd-looking pellets of sugary awesomeness on top. They kept me centered. Then one day, completely out of the blue, I just couldn’t eat them anymore. I had reached my quota. The thought of a coffee cake sickened me. It’s 20 years later and I haven’t had one since. I fear this is what Mabel is going through. Maybe she just slid her quota for her lifetime. Which is sad. She’s still got a lot of sliding time left. Thankfully she’s still a climber, but I find myself over by the swings a lot more nowadays. Oh well. At least she’s not a rocker.

I’m not necessarily ready to call in any specialists, but have any of you parents out there experienced this? Is this a phase or might it be deeper than that? Or should I just suck it up and push her on the swings?

Mabel and her techno infatuatia.

My daughter is the most photogenic person on the planet, nay – the solar system. Also, she has some of the cutest behaviors in the solar system, nay – the galaxy. However, she has a condition I call techno infatuatia. Basically, whenever there is a camera present, she will stop whatever cute thing she is doing and try to grab the camera to see how she can mess with the white balance or some nonsense I’ll never figure out how to reverse. Even if it is on top of the refrigerator. She gets as close as she can and reaches out her little 15-inch arms (Ed note: He has no idea how long her arms are) as far as they will go and grunt and whine. This is not one of her cute behaviors.

Because of this, we are sadly unable to capture most of her fun antics on video. I have started putting a camera stand in the kitchen to get her acclimated to it, Jane Goodall-style, which is a reference I am starting to wear into the ground. It seems to be working, but only if I start the recording before she gets into the room, forcing me to sort through lots of boring and neglectful parenting to get to anything worthwhile. And then, I have no editing equipment, so it will just sit in the digital etherworld until probably forever, because there’s always something on TV.

All this is to say that I’ve decided to start writing down some of my favorite Mabel tricks to preserve them somewhere before I forget them all. I held a three-month-old baby the other day when a fellow parent had to run out to catch her older son and I had completely forgotten they come out that size. I don’t want to accidentally forget all about Mabel standing up on top of her stool and sticking out both of her arms, exclaiming “ta-da” to anyone or no one. So here are my at-least-for-now-and-that-I-can-remember Top Ten Mabel Behaviors, circa 5/15/14.

Mike Conover, getting a lesson in clapping from Mabel

10. The Clap: Mabel has gotten an obsession for clapping, probably a result of Ms. Nancy’s storytime at the library. So much so, that she teaches others how to clap. She will grab the hands of really anyone, as evident by her teaching my good friend Mike Conover how to clap a mere three hours after she met him, and say “cyaaaaap… cyaaaaap” as she slowly moves their hands together. And then, she’ll suddenly speed up, saying “cyap cap cap cap cap.” She’s also recently started looking at other people in the room and will chastise you for not cyapping. She was playing a came of cyap the other night with my wife and looked up at me and said “Daddy cyap?!” in such a disappointed tone, I felt as if I had done something wrong.

9. Content-Eating Shoulder Roll:  Mabel has a soundtrack running through her head at all times. She spins and jumps and gallops for no reason at all without any music playing in the outside world. All of this is completely adorable, especially in the Post Office or the aisle of Shoppers. A friend of mine who has been dulled by 20-something years of social expectations had mentioned that she didn’t want to dance because she was afraid someone would see her or something like that. Mabel has no such hang up and I’m not going to be the one to tell her she should. You could easily understand why being strapped down in a high chair might not be the most favorite position for someone compelled to dance. But Mabel won’t let that stop her. When she’s happy, usually when eating but sometimes just sitting on the couch, she will bob her head from side to side for no reason at all. Sometimes this is accompanied by a light hum, which is especially cute while she’s eating. And when she catches you looking at her, she’ll cock her head and shoot you back a casual smile as if to say “What the people need is a way to make ‘em smile. It ain’t so hard to do if you know how.”

Daddy Issues Front Cover

I have a lot to do today so I’ll be brief. But the paperback is here, the eBook is live, and the Audio Book will be live in another 10-14 days. The Book Release Party/Book Fair is tonight (Fri 5.9.14) at the UB Theater. For more information on events or to find out how to buy the book, check out the Daddy Issues page. If you want to know more about the book, I’ve already phrased it as best as I could think of on the back cover. Thanks for reading!

The day I inseminated my wife is the last day I ever had control of anything. Since then, I traded in my low-paying university job for a no-paying volunteer position as an at-home dad to a C.E.O. whose communication style consists of screaming directly in my face until I figure out what it is she wants, which often times does not exist. I have no lunch hour, no vacation days, and my bank account consists of a dilapidated envelope with a steadily disappearing $27 in it. I used to rinse out my glass between Chardonnay and Shiraz, now I eat scrambled eggs off the floor. There are days when I can’t recall the last time I showered, shaved, or changed my underwear. Moms have been so gracious to tell me how great it is that I am staying home with my daughter, but sorry, I can’t join their mom groups. How silly of me to ask. And if you see me at the playground struggling to unfold my baby from the inside of one of those surprisingly complicated slings and want to know where her mother is, she’s at work. And so am I. This is my job.