This One! (Wah!), That One! (Wah!)

Mimi has finally started using two- and three-word phrases.  She's making little requests (More please!), telling us who owns what (Papa's phone.  Mama's car.), and constantly explaining what she's doing (Mimi run!  Mimi car vroom!  Mimi concerned about possible gerrymandering in several battleground states prior to upcoming presidential election!).  With each new phrase, Sumie and I are getting closer to finally having genuine conversations with our little one, in both English and Japanese.  The process is astounding, but there is a downside.  Life with this little girl and her growing vocabulary is not all rainbows and sunshine.

Now that Mimi can communicate her preferences rather clearly, she rarely hesitates to do so.  Unfortunately, these preferences are dictated by toddler logic, which means that most are arbitrary, immediately contradicted, dangerous, or insane.  This morning, Mimi decided to use the phrase "this one" to communicate her unreasonable and ridiculous desires regarding socks. 

The day had started out well.  Mimi woke happy and let me dress her with minimal fuss or protest.  Until it came time for socks.  Upon my uttering "sock," Mimi ran for her sock drawer chanting "Mimi sock!  Mimi sock!" and, naturally, selected the only unmatched sock in the drawer as her pick of the day.  "This one!  This one!" she demanded. 

"Honey," I calmly explained, "we don't have the other sock for that one.  How about these?"

"No.  No!  Nooooo!  This one!  This one!"  was Mimi's reply.  

Mimi ran from me, shrieking at her father's despotic insistence that she wear two socks.  I chased her down and again offered her the matching pair.  "This one?" I asked...

Mimi looked at me and, as I expected, used her phrase.  "No.  This one!"

Clearly, there was no arguing with her.  It would have to be "this one."  So I did what all responsible parents do in such situations.  I pulled a fast one.  "OK, honey," I said,  "we'll use this one!"  Mimi was overjoyed as I took the sock from her hand.  She immediately sat down and raised a leg in triumph, waiting for me to put on the hard-won sock.  I, however, had deviously switched socks on her as she was sitting down, placing the mismatched sock in my pocket (it's still there, actually).  Mimi never noticed the difference.  Evil?  Maybe.  Dishonest?  A little, I guess.  But it got the job done.

The "this one!" morning sock confrontation was gentle sparring compared to the "that one!" battle-to-the-death cage match over diapers that occurred last night.  So gruesome and horrendous was this inexplicable display of toddler willfulness that it could not be filmed or photographed.   

It was 9:00 o'clock and time to change for bed.  Normally this is not an issue.  We strip Mimi down, slip on an overnight diaper, and then zip up her pajamas.  Last night, though, Mimi decided that she didn't want to wear an overnight diaper.  No, she wanted to wear "that one!" a normal diaper that just happened to be there on the floor where we were changing her.  Sumie was changing her and started to struggle.

    "That one!"  screamed Mimi.
    "No, Mimi,"  replied Sumie serenely.  "We need to wear the overnight diaper."
    "That one!  That one!  That one!  Aaaarrrrrr-waaaaahhhh!"
    "Fine, you can wear this..." and then I butted in.
    "No way.  That girl is wearing her overnight diaper.  I'm not waking up to change her halfway through the night simply because she's being silly."

A massive struggle ensued with me, having a nearly 1000% weight advantage on Mimi, eventually getting her into the overnight diaper and pajamas.  The argument, though, did not end there.  Papa hadn't won just yet.  Fully dressed for bed, Mimi ran over to her normal diaper and started chanting "That one!  That one!" while attempting to unbutton her PJs.  The time had come for timeout.

I placed Mimi on her timeout chair, which is the easy chair in the room we were already in, and told her she had to sit there for one minute.  Mimi wailed.  Screams of "that one!" came every ten seconds between gigantic sobs and hitched breaths.  She'd nearly worked herself into hiccups, but still she kept chanting "that one!"  Sumie, always the conscientious mother, had the grace to cover her face as she laughed uncontrollably from the floor.  I felt a bit bad for Mimi but it was, above all else, ridiculously funny.

After a minute had passed, remarkably with Mimi remaining on her chair, she'd calmed down somewhat and joined us on the living room floor.  She still wanted to wear the normal diaper - her murmurs, sniffles, and wary pointing made it obvious - but she'd come to the conclusion that it just wasn't worth fighting anymore.  Exhausted, she was out cold in her crib within five minutes. 

I'm sure that soon we'll move beyond these battles of will and eventually be able to explain to Mimi why we make certain decisions.  Oh God.  She'll constantly be asking us "Why?  Why?"  Maybe that'll be worse!

Lego. Creative Destruction.

Lego.  Is there a better toy? 

I was obsessed with it as a kid: from those initial Duplo bricks - great for making towers and race cars to throw across the room - to the "Technic" sets with their gears and motors.  On any given day, from age 2 to 12, there was a good chance you'd find me lying on the bedroom or living room floor building away.

As with any exceptional toy, Lego both challenges the mind and harms the body.  For every child who has learned to follow picture directions by playing with Lego, there is another who took a trip to the ER with a "blocked" stomach.  For every budding engineer or architect who got her first taste of independent design when the directions were inevitably been lost, there is another child who was rushed to the dentist after trying to separate two stubborn pieces with his teeth.  And for every youngster who spent an afternoon with his Lego spread across the living room floor, there are 2,647 instances of pained cursing after having stepped on a misplaced block.  This last aspect is, perhaps, the only real downside to Lego.  Children who play with it often, especially in shared spaces, are exposed to an almost unimaginable degree of muttered swearing. 

Over the weekend we bought Mimi her first set of Duplo, and she loves it.  Unfortunately, so do I.  Even with these larger blocks, I can feel the builder in me coming out.  While Mimi's happy to stick the odd block onto another, pretend one is a teacup, or make "vroom, vroom" noises pushing around a shabbily built Duplo car, I get a bit more into it. 

Mimi enjoys playing with the projects I build for her, though she's a bit impatient when it comes to the build itself.  She doesn't quite have the concept of something being "done" yet.  This makes sense as her approach to play consists almost entirely of destroying whatever she is given. 
The plane below was my fourth attempt at the type.  With each one I tried to make it both more realistic and more resistant to toddler tampering.  A vain pursuit, I knew, but a fun challenge nonetheless. 

Finishing the build to the sound of impatient cries, I delivered the plane to Mimi for inspection.  She was sitting, rather imperiously, in her toy box. 

It seemed that the plane had passed muster.  Mimi was intrigued and the plane seemed to be holding together.  This idyllic play state lasted a full twelve seconds. 

By the time I had sat back down on the couch, the tail was at the bottom of the toy box, the wings strewn across the floor, and the cockpit tossed all the way into the kitchen.  So much for my attempt at toddler-proof design. 

Honestly, I don't mind this destruction.  I'm happy for it, actually.  It just means I get to build more.  Hmm, I wonder by what age kids enjoy watching their father build 1/10 scale radio controlled 4x4s?  3 years old sounds about right to me...

I Love You, But Please...Stop Helping Me!

Last night we hosted a small dinner for two of Sumie's friends from medical school.  One of the girls brought along her two 6 month old puppies, which completely made Mimi's day. 

They were a bit more energetic than her old friend Harrychan was, so she'd get a bit scared at times, but on the whole, she really enjoyed it.  I'd have to say that, behavior wise, she was on par with the dogs.  And given that they're 3.5 in dog years already, that's not too bad a showing for Mimi.  

Mimi didn't fall asleep last night until almost 10.  I was rather surprised by this.  Granted, the dogs definitely brought out some baby adrenaline, but Mimi had been going full blast all day.  Not one to sit idly by, Mimi insisted on helping me clean house and prepare dinner.  This meant that every task I attempted took 17 times longer than normal.  Below is a quick look at how Mimi "helps" us around the house.

The day's help often begins in the bathroom.  Mimi swipes the shower squeegee from me and thoughtfully cleans the outside of the glass shower doors, which are, naturally, perfectly dry and streak free.  She'll get through 2 or 3 swipes, each accompanied by an almost guttural "wheeeee!", before she moves on to wiping down the cabinets, hallway walls, and television.  The squeegee eventually ends up in the living room, most often under the piano bench, but only after Mimi has taken another bite out of one of the poor squeegee's corners. 

After that, it's time to get dressed.  Mimi runs to the dresser and immediately picks out an outfit.  Unfortunately, these outfits usually consist of a sweatshirt and 7 pairs of pants, so I always have to make a few substitutions.  Out of sight, of course. 

 Picking up after Mimi during the day isn't much of a challenge, but cleaning up the house, with Mimi still in it, is well nigh impossible.  Let's say I want to put away Mimi's toy chest.  That's code, at least to Mimi, for her to jump inside it. 

The only way to get her out is via distraction.  Thankfully, she's a sucker for Star Wars, much like her father.

Mimi loves books, which makes me very happy, but she doesn't quite understand the concept of putting them away.  She prefers them strewn across the floor.  So, whenever I start shelving books, Mimi takes this as her cue to take out as many as possible.  In fact, in the middle of that last sentence, I had to get up and remove from Mimi's violent hands my copy of "Open" by Andre Agassi.  In four seconds she had pulled the book off the shelf and ripped the dedications page.  Nice work, Mimi. 

I have always loved books, but living with a toddler has shown me that there's one thing I hate about them: dust jackets.  They make having a library with a child a living hell.  And whoever came up with the insidiously fiendish idea of putting these on children's books should, quite simply, be tortured with a very pointy fork.   

Putting away toys is another challenge.  For some reason, whenever I put a toy into Mimi's toy basket she interprets this as me wanting her to immediately take that same toy back out and throw it across the room.  I don't really enjoy this game, but Mimi certainly does.  Here we are attempting to put away her stacking rings.  Note the 1978 Remote Control R2D2 in the background.  It's one of her favorite toys.

As I was putting away a few of her books the other day, Mimi decided to lift this same R2D2 over her head and then drop him squarely on her big toe.  It's amazing just how quickly cleaning up books can shift to cleaning up blood when you have a toddler.  And yet, I'm a bit happy Mimi hurt her foot.  We now have something new in common.  I lost a nail after inadvertently smashing my big toe with a "Return of the Jedi" arcade cabinet.  Father and daughter, each with a digit damaged by the work of George Lucas. 

As I bring this entry to a close the house is, amazingly, still quite clean.  It feels good.  And, if I'm lucky, it will remain this way for another 20 or even 30 minutes.

Compromising Hairstyles

Mimi was born with a mop top.  At one week she boasted more hair than her follically-challenged father.  At least in the back.  

Sumie and I considered trimming the mop from time to time, but we couldn't bring ourselves to submit to it.  The longer it grew, the curlier, and cuter, it got.  And so, the months flew by and the hair continued its rapid advance downward.

At 17 months, though, push had come to shove.  Something had to be done.  The situation was so dire that Mimi couldn't even play the piano without her hair blocking the keyboard!

Knowing that there's not a hairstylist alive for whom Mimi would sit still, I took the job into my own hands.  What drove me to it?  Well, this morning I caught a glimpse of my own hair in the mirror.  

 Genes aren't kind and I knew that if I didn't do something, Mimi could soon be suffering from the same plight as her father.


A bang trim was in order.  I set up her highchair and tied her favorite sleeping blanket, which needed to be washed anyway, around her neck, old-timey barber style.

I then wet down her hair with No-More-Tangles.  This made for some straight, manageable, but greasy hair.  A few forward strokes from the brush and my canvas was ready.  Except for one thing.  It was moving all over the place.

The actual cutting was, by far, the most difficult part.  I really didn't want for Sumie to come home to find her daughter wearing an eye-patch, though I guess it would've made the selection of her Halloween costume a no brainer.  After several attempts at cutting her bangs like one would at a salon, and being repaid with fierce head shaking, I took up a new strategy.  Starting on Mimi's right, I gathered a few strands of hair, perhaps 20% of her bangs, and then snipped.  I repeated the process across her forehead until I reached the other side.  Amazingly, it came out fairly even!  Not sure how that happened, but I'll take it. 

Mimi was unsure of the new look at first,

but I think that she was reasonably satisfied.  After all, the price was right! 

Somehow I don't think we'll be able to wait another 17 months before we take a pair of shears to Mimi's locks.  Maybe next time we'll actually brave a salon.  I just hope we can find one that offers general anesthesia.

Mouth of Sand, Walk of Shame

Toddlers fall over.  It's what they do.  It's their past-time, passion, and preferred method of getting to the floor quickly.  When an adult, running full speed, falls flat on his face, people cringe.  When a toddler does it, they laugh. 

Mimi, like all girls her age, falls over constantly.  90% of the time she picks herself up, dusts herself off, and continues on her way.  But every once in a while, when she gets a little hurt or a little scared, she lets her displeasure known.  And when Mimi's displeased, she makes sure that everyone within a 10 block radius knows it.  She's quite adept at getting her point across, but this, unfortunately, comes with unintended consequences.  Passersby tend to feel sympathy for the screamer, but very little affection for the screamer's keeper. 

As a man walking the streets of San Francisco alone with a baby, I can't help but feel I'm constantly being evaluated.  Yes, men have been emancipated to a certain degree when it comes to child care, but our abilities are still very much, believe me, in question.  When Mimi is in cute mode, kicking back in her stroller and saying "Hi!" to every dog she sees, I'm a champion father.  When she's kicking and screaming, I get looks that seem to say, "Shouldn't you be locked away awaiting your war crimes trial?"  And when Mimi takes a small tumble at the park - me being the only man surrounded by mothers - I may as well be the bastard child of Stalin and Joan Rivers.  

Our trip to the park did not begin well.  We stopped by the coffee shop to say "Hi" to Mama, who had left the house to study in peace.  2 minutes into our visit Mimi decided that she wanted to "borrow" the reading materials from everyone in the shop.  This did not go over well, so I packed her back into the stroller and set out for the park.  As Mimi wailed, I walked out the door, my head held low.  Half-way down the block a woman stopped in her tracks and simply stared at Mimi, slowly pivoting, and then shaking, her head as we ambled past.  Mimi screamed her way to the park, exchanging shouts of anger for squeals of joy once the playground equipment came into view. 

Once there, Mimi played quite well.  She started off with the slides and, of course, a few trips through the yellow tunnel. 

Then it came time for playing in the sand.  I brought out her bucket and shovels and she set to work.  Before long she had been joined by two additional playmates, one three year old and one 15 month old.  After a while she was even beginning to share some of the sand toys.  Not the ones she brought, of course, but at least she wasn't hoarding.

The outing was going well.  I'm still a bit shy when it comes to talking to other parents (I'm a bit of an introvert and not that good at small talk), but this time I was actually having good conversations with several of the parents.  I was feeling comfortable, confident.  Maybe I could be seen as a good parent, despite my gender handicap.  And that's when Mimi decided to take a tumble.

Mimi had climbed out of the sandpit, which has a six inch ledge, and then decided that she wanted to get back in, only this time riding the scooter of one of her playmates.  I managed to stop her the first 6 times, but on her seventh attempt, she succeeded.  Baby and scooter tumbled into the sandpit.

The tumble was minor, she'd been though far worse without complaint, but it must have scared the dickens out of her.  Sand in her mouth and tears in her eyes, Mimi let forth a shriek - one cannot even classify it as a mere shout, scream, or cry - that was picked up on seismological equipment as far as Malaysia. 

The mothers there with me, rather than being judgmental, were actually very helpful and kind.  They even congratulated me for calming her down so quickly (I had to use milk).  But, as I left the park, I couldn't help but feel I'd let all the other stay-at-home dads here in San Francisco, and across the country, down.  That's why, despite the embarrassment, I had to blog about it. 

One of my biggest challenges with being a stay-at-home dad has been a constant anxiety of being judged.  Part of this, I think, comes from me wanting to prove that men can do this parenting thing just as well as women, but I think it also stems from my own insecurity when it comes to doing right by Mimi.  It's not that I want to assuage her every frustration or protect her from every danger - she'll never really learn to be independent that way - I just want to guide her the best I can so that she can continue to walk her own path.  And not scream too much along the way!

Full Moon, Empty Aquarium

Life in San Francisco is often a bit grey - grey skies, grey sidewalks, grey parking regulations, and grey loitering laws.

The clouds tend to come in shortly after, if not before, the sun goes down, obscuring the stars and moon.  So last night, with its unmuddied sky and full moon, was a rare opportunity to dabble in a little night photography.

We don't have much of a view from our backyard - just more backyards and backs of homes.  But at night, with the sky lit by the moon and resident windows still twinkling with the last lights before bed, it can be rather pretty.

I should've gone over to the park, or at least to the top of our block, to take some more shots, but didn't.  I was lazy.  I did take Mimi for a long bike ride that day - she still hates her helmet and screams for up to 9 blocks to remind me - so maybe it's OK that I just came in and went to bed.

The following morning Mimi and I woke up early and took advantage of our close proximity to the Academy of Sciences.  We have a membership, so we can go anytime, and it's free!

Regular readers of this blog may remember our visit here with my Mom about a month back.  The day we went - the third Wednesday of the month - featured free admission (this was before I got my membership), so the museum was packed.  It made Shinjuku station in Tokyo seem tranquil by comparison.  What a joy it was to sneak down to the aquarium this morning and have it virtually to ourselves.  The photos below were taken in low light and with my phone (it was too early in the morning for me to remember my camera), so I apologize if they're a bit grainy/fuzzy. 

Walking to the elevators, Mimi was a bit unsure of the plexiglass beneath her feet.  Could she trust it?  The rays below her feet were a bit intimidating.

 Once in the aquarium Mimi ran for the huge floor-to-ceiling plexiglass wall.  I'm glad the walls were thick.  She loved banging on them.  She also tended to forget that the walls were there, which resulted in some significant head banging.  Ah, my daughter the metal-head.

By 10 a few school groups had arrived, which both delighted and distracted Mimi.  She joined multiple tours without asking, and often offered her unsolicited opinion of "Aaahhhh!, Bi-doh!" on the exhibits.

After about an hour Mimi was ready to go.  As we walked out into the sunshine we passed well over 100 kids lined up for a tour.  The museum had been gradually filling all morning and it had been getting harder for Mimi to toddle with impunity.  I think we'll make it a habit of going early in the morning.  That same strategy seems to work quite well here in SF.  The city is full of late risers.  More on the advantages this provides sometime in the future.

All told, it was a good day out.  We passed the playground, inadvertently, on our way home.  While were were still over 100 yards away, with but a blurry glimpse of half a slide in sight, Mimi began to go nuts. She saw the park, knew what she wanted, and made it known.  I had to "release" her from her stroller a good 30 yards before the sandpit.

If only she could get that excited about eating lunch or going to bed!

Words are Highly Underrated

Mimi's vocabulary is developing day by day.

We speak to her in both English and Japanese, though English seems to be dominant these days.  We'll eventually balance that by enrolling her in a Japanese preschool here in SF.

At a little over 16 months, she's already developing a working vocabulary.  I guess that's a result of her being so headstrong.  She wants what she wants.  And she's beginning to realize that the only way she'll get it is by asking for it.  As such, her vocabulary has grown substantially in terms of nouns.

Here's a selection, with their phonetic equivalents where applicable, of Mimi's vocabulary:

Mama:  Mother
Papa:  Father
Mimi:  Herself
Wan-wan (Japanese): doggie
Nyan-nyan (Japanese): kitty
Bi:  Bib
Buh (book) / Huh (hon, Japanese)): Book
Ne-ne (Japanese): Sleep
Shuz: Socks and Shoes
Die-pah: Diaper
No, Arghh!, Wah!: No
Joos: Juice
Doh-zoh (Japanese): here you go
Goh!:  Let's go
Bah-bah:  Bottle
Stah-pi!:  Stop it!
Yo-ee-sho (Japanese):  Ah, there we go

There are more, I'm sure, but it's hard to recall all of them.  Imagine coming up with every word you know.  It's tough! 

Of course, her working vocabulary, what she understands when spoken to her, is far larger.  She's able to understand some basic commands, but only when she wants to.  If I ask her to get her shoes, she'll seek them out.  When I want her to pick up her blanket in the morning or after a nap, she does so without a fuss.  When it comes to eating her dinner, she just turns her head and screams. 

She's also become a veritable mocking bird.  The other day, while making burritos, she piped up with "tortillas!"  It wasn't repeated again, but she got it just right the first time.  A week or so before, while I was looking for Mimi's immunization records, I dropped a box on my foot.  Under my breath, not knowing she was right behind me, I whispered, "shit."  And a half second later, five feet below me, I heard a gentle little "shih!"  Sumie and I definitely have to be careful.

Still, we can't help but teach her a few bad things.  After all, we don't want her to be a goody-two-shoes!  Sumie and I tend to tease each other in the evening.  When it comes to teasing Sumie, it's all about her glaring lack of street-smarts and mechanical intuition.   For me, the massive gut, hick-town upbringing, and ongoing lack of a job come into play.  Regardless of the topic, the teasing usually devolves into one of us saying, "Stop it!" and teasingly smacking the other.  This has had an unexpected impact on Mimi.  Her first "phrase" was "stah-pit," combined with a little smack to the leg.

But it's not only her words that are developing.  Mimi's been picking up some of our routines as well.  When it comes to closing doors, she's all over it.  She even makes sure her fingers are out of the way.  Say it's time to climb the stairs.  Not only will Mimi remove her shoes before going up, she'll even close the child proof gate!  But our favorite is when Mimi decides it's time to throw something away.  She'll pick something up off the floor, such as a miniscule piece of onion skin, open the cupboard door below the sink, place the paper-thin refuse in the trash, and then close the door.

Once the cupboard door is closed, she'll then secure it with the child-proof latch.  Rather ingenious, I think. 

We're continuing to read her books each day, in English and Japanese, and share music, both children's songs and classical.  She's learning more and more.  Hopefully she'll soon be able to use all the words in that little brain of hers to start asking for things.  That would be wonderful.  Screaming and pointing, I have to admit, is getting a little old.

A Baby, a Bicycle, and an Out-of-Shape Papa

Thanks to the insidious and ridiculous California vehicle emissions laws, we are now a one-car family.

The California Smog Board and I go way back.  It's been a contentious relationship, to say the least.  My first Karmann Ghia, a red 1968 beauty, had been converted to dual carburetors.  As such, even though it ran cleaner than a stock engine, it failed the visual smog inspection.  Lucky for me, my father managed to total the car before we had to convert it back to stock.  My second Karmann Ghia also struggled passing environmental muster.  My Porsche 914 passed with flying colors when I first bought it but, after two years, the rubber attachment to the smog pump had worn out.  They don't make them anymore.  It took 3 months to smog that car.

And so it came as no surprise that my 1994 BMW, which passed the emissions test with flying colors in New York, failed miserably here in California.  It looks like it will cost more than the car is worth to get it to pass smog, and that's only good for two years.  And so, with my poor car in storage awaiting a sympathetic mechanic or charitable donation, we are a one car family.


For the most part it's working out rather well.  Sumie is able to take the bus to work 2 to 3 days out of the week, so I have the car about half the time.  Our neighborhood is definitely walkable - and I need the exercise - so when I'm without the car Mimi and I limit our adventures to the stroller accessible.


Walking, for the most part, has been great, but it has severely limited our range.  Without the car we can venture, at most, a mile or so out before we need to come trudging back.  Mimi's patience and my feet have kept us rather close to home and with so much to see in Golden Gate Park and the Presidio, we were really missing out.  We needed a new form of transport.  We needed a bicycle. 


And now we have one.  Well, I guess technically we've always had it, just not with us.  My red Schwinn mountain bike, purchased brand new when I was in 6th grade, has been rescued from storage and brought back into operation.  This is the same bicycle I rode in college.  The same bike that survived a 20mph collision with a three-foot pole, a misjudgement on my part that sent me flying, shoeless, a good 10 feet or more.  It's good to have it back.


I picked up a bicycle trailer for hauling Mimi.  I'm not the most coordinated of men, so I'd rather Mimi be safely behind me in a topple-proof cart than strapped to the frame of my bike when I inevitably fall over.

Our first ride was short, but a lot of fun.  We covered, at most, 40 blocks with only a few minor hills.  With pit stops we were out a scant 30 minutes, but by the time I returned, my legs were throbbing, my lungs burning, and my head pounding.  The Mimi-trailer package weighs about 50lbs - a considerable payload for a bicycle - but it's no excuse for my severe huffing and puffing.  I had thought with all my walking that I was building some strength and stamina.  I had thought wrong.  And so, now that I have my own helmet and a sturdy bike lock, we're going to do some exploring and try to get Papa back into at least "mildly morbid" shape.


I hope that Mimi enjoys these bicycle outings we'll be taking.  She liked the first one just fine save for one continual annoyance: her helmet.  She loves playing with it at home - ripping out the pads and twisting them into her hair - but when it comes to wearing it, she's not a fan.  Here she is before our ride.  Note that she's using both hands in a vain attempt to rip that helmet off.

And here she is upon our return.  She's still trying to remove that pesky helmet, but at least she's down to one hand.  Maybe that had to do with the death grip she had on her bottle. 

No idea when I'll have a car of my own again.  Maybe sometime in 2012, maybe 2013.  But I am sure of two things.  1. Mimi and I will be going on plenty of bike rides on non-rainy days; 2. My next car will be a 1975 or older.  California Smog Exempt!

So, You Think You Can Make Me Nap?

A Look Inside Mimi's Brain at Nap Times

Saturday: 1:00pm
Where are we going?  Oh, the kitchen, to get my bottle?  Foolish parent.  Don't you know it's Saturday?  Mommy is home.  You may not think I understood this, but I know she was on call last weekend and now that she's here, I'm going to make the most of it.  


Alright, we're in my room now.  You've given me warm milk and turned on the sleep sheep.  I hope you know that laying me down in my cradle with warm milk and soothing ocean sounds may have worked in the past, but not today, buddy.  That's right.  Go ahead.  Shut the door and go out to the living room to watch your precious episode of Top Gear while I down this bottle of milk.  I'm going to get your hopes up by being quiet, lull you into a false sense of security, and then blow your little mind.  

(5 minutes pass)

Oh, look who's back?  It's Papa.  That's right.  Pick me up and give me a kiss.  Cradle me and put me down in the crib on my back.  Where's my blanket?  Ah, very good, you didn't forget.  That's right, go ahead and leave.  Now I'll just sit back and (yawn) bide my time.  

(5 minutes pass)

Wah, what?  Damn!  I let that fat bastard lull me to sleep.  Well, it's time to let him know that that crap ain't gonna fly on a Saturday afternoon with Mama home.  

I'll start off soft.  Yeah, that's the ticket.  Soft and quiet with a few little whimpers of discontent.  Let him think I'm just turning over or kicking off my blanket.  From there I'll take a solid 5 minutes to work myself into a wailing frenzy.  

(5 minutes pass.  Significant teeth clenching in the living room occurs.)

That's right.  I can hear the two of you arguing.  You want to come get me, but you're still going to try to wait it out.  Idiots.  For that insolence I'm going to up the ante.  Here comes 10 minutes of contented babble.  I'm going to make you think I'm playing.  And then I'll play my trump card - 5 minutes of pure, unadulterated silence.  

(15 minutes pass)

I can still hear you, you fools!  Listen to you!  Talking about the morning's trip to the Ferry Building and the upcoming visit with Grandma and Grandpa this afternoon.  The two of you sound so content.  It's almost as if you're savoring this time you have without me.  Well, I'll soon put an end to your ignorant delusions.  Here it comes.  I'm gonna scream at the top of my lungs until you burst through the door thinking I've given myself a hernia or contracted appendicitis.  

(7.5 excruciating minutes pass)

Ha-ha!  Look who's come skulking into my room.  It's Papa.  And he's picking me up.  Excellent.  Papa - please understand that it hurts me to say this - for a man with so much supposed experience and learning you really are quite easy to manipulate.  Honestly, why don't you challenge me a bit.  After all, I'm 16 months old now!  

These parents of mine need to get craftier and I can absolutely guarantee that they're not going to do so without some serious tutoring on my part.  I can already tell that they'll try to put me down again around 3:00 or 3:30 before Grandma and Grandpa come.  Let it be known I'm not going down.  And if they try again halfway through the visit, bollocks to that!  I'll wail from the very start.  They'll be lucky if they get 5 minutes alone in the living room!  

Honestly, it's not that I "enjoy" inflicting such pain on them, but they're ignorant.  They need to learn.  It's not my fault I can't talk yet.  This is the only way I can show them the error of their ways.  They'll just have to hang tough until they get their act together.  I'm more than willing to wait.  

Oh, and at dinner, just to mix things up again, I think I'll put some udon noodles in my hair.  That will keep them perplexed for a bit.

As you may have guessed, it was a challenging weekend.  Sumie was on call the weekend before and I think that Mimi has been too excited having her home all day to get any rest.  Despite the bedtime battles, it was a wonderful weekend.  More on our Ferry Building visit and trip to the flea market in posts to come.  Also, even without a nap, Mimi had a great time with Grandma and Grandpa.  It's amazing how she can still find energy to play despite going non-stop all day.  She is, despite her age, definitely hard core.