Year One

Olivia turned one a few weeks ago. This is shocking in a number of ways. It is a trite, cliched, and utterly true expression parents use in describing the growth of their children when they say "time flies." It is equally and paradoxically true that it is difficult to remember clearly what life was like before kids. I don't get it either, but both are true.

One year is a great age. Of course, as I understand it, they are all great ages until somewhere between eleven and thirteen when every child suddenly needs to be beaten daily and locked in an Iron Maiden until they turn twenty-five. But that's a ways off. At year one, Olivia has a lot of personality. She is very social, and rarely fussy. This has nothing to do with her age or any successful parenting strategy and everything to do with luck. (Don't worry - whenever the hypothetical number two comes along we'll get our payback.) She loves books - being read to, throwing them, pulling them off shelves, tearing the pages, and (just to drive her aunt Sara crazy) dog-earring the pages. She also loves music, and has developed the fascinating habit of keeping a beat with her feet when songs she recognizes come on . I'd say she could replace the drummer from Nickelback, but I'd like her to maintain some standards.

She has just started to become somewhat pickier about what she eats. I don't think she actually cares what she consumes so much as she likes to screw with us about when she's willing to eat it and when she's going to throw it on the floor and laugh. Or feed it to the dogs, and then get angry at them for having the nerve to eat it. The good news though is that there is nothing (or virtually nothing) she can't eat now, which makes feeding her when we are out and about much easier. Where we used to have to stop and feed her healthy organic strained squash, we can now throw a bag of Oreos at the kid and watch her go nuts.

Olivia is tentatively trying to walk. What this means in real terms is that she is walking all over the house with one hand on walls, furniture, bookshelves, etc, then taking her hand off of said "support" for about one second, realizing she is free-standing, and plopping on her butt and crawling away. We're signing her up for a Five K in a few weeks. Nothing like the deep end of the pool to teach a kid to swim.

This past year has been pretty amazing. Part of me wants to take five and enjoy this phase a little while longer, but that's not how this whole thing works. I do look forward to seeing what comes next.

Musings upon my imminent deterioration (happy birthday...to....me)

"Thirty is just a number," he said, weeping openly into his scotch glass.

No, seriously, thirty is just a number. As ages go, it's one day older than twenty-nine.

Most of the people I thought of as "old" when I was "young" still consider thirty to be quite a youthful age.

But then, they've aged a lot since then.

If it's not clear to you yet, I've just turned thirty. Despite my rather morbid title, I really haven't been terribly bothered by the "milestone" birthday. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet. Maybe the fact that my daughter's birthday present to me was to decide depriving me of her presence at 2 a.m. was unacceptable, and I was too tired to care about turning thirty. But the fact is, thirty really doesn't feel that much different from twenty-nine. Twenty-two? Yeah, a little different. Sixteen? Sure, lots more energy back then. Three months old? I only vaguely remember, but I'll take it as a given that there's a difference. But the subjective difference between twenty-nine and thirty is negligible.

And I find that rather odd.

See, in the back of my mind, I always sort of pictured thirty-somethings as... well... adult. Twenty-somethings are party-animals, drunks, spendthrifts, and dreamers with no real prospects. You know - college students. Thirty, though, was supposed to be the beginning of adulthood. I don't know why I assigned such significance to this number. Probably as an excuse to enjoy my twenties more. But, as stated previously, I don't really feel any different.

I don't think I expected to magically have all the answers by virtue of seniority, but back in the dark ages of my adolescence, I sort of thought that one day I'd stop having to wing it. That maybe I'd get the important stuff down. And yet, here I am. No different than I was a week ago, except that I need to shave.

By any objective measure I can think of, I'm about as adult as you can get. I've got a wife, a baby, a job, a mortgage, one and a half dogs, and Cat. I commute and listen to NPR because the rock station plays the crap today's kids listen to. And it is crap. I work behind a desk, and mostly enjoy what I do. I get excited about home improvement projects and ask for practical Christmas presents. I go to happy hours out of professional obligation, and leave by seven so I am home to see my baby girl before she has to go to bed.

And yet, most of the time, I still feel like a kid dressing up in his dad's suit. (I'm speaking metaphorically here, but as it happens my closet is about half hand-me-downs from my dad. Just FYI. That's how I roll.) I don't have all, or even a big fraction of the answers. I can't even manage most of the simple stuff on my own - stains are my nemesis, and my wife has to throw out my old  underwear to keep me from wearing stuff that has worn down to nothing but elastic bands. As excited as I get about home improvement projects, I am very fortunate I have not burned down our house. Not kidding. I'm really just kind of faking it through this whole "adult" phase until I start to get a handle on things.

Thirty hasn't changed much in that regard. But I suppose not having all the answers keeps life from getting dull. Like the old proverb says, "May you live in interesting times." I know I do.