Doodaddy

When Dave arrived this morning, I missed him at first because I was looking for a coffee-fueled Australian sexy photographer from Colorado and minister who visits fertility clinics like they’re bars, just had a birthday, loves shoes, loves shoes, loves shoes, and is running for president. Clearly, I get my bloggers — even the ones I like the most — confused with one another.

Parent blogging is like growing up, even down to the stages of maturity:

1. Infancy. At this age, the mommy or daddyblogger is writing for a few family members, a couple of friends, and the family parakeet. (The parakeet just pretends to read it while he’s browsing for plucked chicken porn.)
2. Toddlerhood. After a few months or a year, we start “meeting” other bloggers on line through comments and e-mail. Friendships at this stage are quick and intense and frequently based on blogroll exchanges. Anonymous bloggers may even expose their names — privately.
3. First Grade. Inevitably, the day arrives when you meet someone offline that you’d only ever known online. (Going to BlogHer doesn’t count. Anyone can do that. I’m talking about seriously, intentional, let’s-meet-and-share-pretzels-and-orange-slices playdates.)

That’s as far as I’ve gotten personally, although I suspect that in the next phase the world showers me with accolades and ad revenue so we never have to work again. (Isn’t that how it works?) It may take a while to get there, but I’m pretty satisfied being in First Blogger Grade. I’ve met a lot of really cool people, and even made some “Do you want to come to my Bar Mitzvah?” friends through writing.

What’s hard, though, putting a blog with a face. Boobaby and I spent the morning with Dave and Ronen from Rattling the Kettle, up visiting San Francisco for the weekend. At some point on our way out to Fisherman’s Wharf I asked him how long he’d been a stay-at-home dad. Well, as it turns out, he’s not — I’d mushed up his story in my head with a hundred others that I’m keeping close or far tabs on: my blogroll.

“Was that you who blogged about your dachshund winning the dachshund derby and getting a special dachshund medal at the dachshund festival?” I might ask a blogging acquaintance.

“No, and in fact a dachshund ate my baby duck when I was a child and I’ve never gotten over it,” comes the reply. “And thank you for reminding me of that painful memory.”

So to Dave and all the my other friends whose stories are getting a little mixed up in my head, I apologize. (On the other hand, if you ever need to embellish your life history, just ask me what I remember about your trip to Vegas last year — you’ll be amazed at what you did!)

My mom received a diagnosis of breast cancer today. And, no, that wasn’t even the crappy reason I went to see her yesterday — although in some ways that (which, no, I’m still not talking about) was worse. Well, no, it wasn’t. But it was close.

We don’t know a ton at this point except that it’s very early, might even be what they call “Stage 0″ DCIS, so treatment options are many and prognosis is good.

It. Still. Sucks.

Sitting in the airport yesterday on my way home from the family cataclysm, I sat at the bar, sipping a whiskey.

And watching Wiggles videos on my iPod.

I got some weird looks, but really — is it stranger than watching grown men bounce little orange balls around the room?

I guess I missed Boobaby, huh?

I’m off this evening to southern California, a quick one-day trip to handle some extremely yucky family business. (Not gonna talk about it, just trust me. It won’t be fun.)

My wife pointed out that I’d at least get a good night’s sleep. Given the circumstances (did I mention that they’re no-good-horrible-very-bad circumstances, too?) I doubt that, but it’s true that I haven’t spent a night away from Boobaby in over a year. Somehow I didn’t notice where on my paycheck they print the vacation days and sick days. And I work weekends and holidays, too, although I did get off early the last time César Chavez Day rolled around.

No matter what I write under “occupation” on forms, I never quite feel like I have a real job being a stay-at-home parent, and the paradigm of “vacation time” underlines that difference yet again. On actual vacations where we all travel, my activities — preparing food, changing diapers, calming tantrums — hardly change. The extended family loves to play with Boo, of course, but then, predictably, she gets handed back to me and Working Mom when it gets challenging. If anything, that kind of travel makes me feel more like a nanny than a dad.

Adult time is good. I love my occasional evening out but I honestly can’t imagine being away from my daughter for more than those few hours. Measuring my “away time” in days makes me very, very sad.

Tomorrow is going to suck.

See you all on the other side.

“Turn on the radio, daddy!” has become one of two-year old Boobaby’s favorite phrases. She trots it out, of course, any time I try to sing. Which is dozens of times a day.

Mornings when I get Boo up, it’s “Drunken Sailor” or the “…dragged a comb across my head” part of “A Day in the Life.” My current lullaby is “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” although I like to mix that up a bit. Most embarrassing to my daughter, though, is that I sing in public, right at the playground.

Yesterday, I was spinning Boo and a handful of her playmates on the merry-go-round and so naturally I started singing “Pop Goes the Weasel.” All six of the kids just stared at me. Finally, after about three verses, I got a couple of them to listlessly chime in with the “POP” part, but the rest of the lyrics I had to sing solo. The same was true of “Twinkle Twinkle” and “Row, Row, Row the Boat” — the kids didn’t sing along until I got to the ABCs.

What’s up with that? Don’t they teach these songs in preschool any more? Kids don’t sing these days? If that’s true, it must be because their adults don’t sing either. Hell, if I’m willing to sing (and my voice is on-key the way that Britney Spears’ career is on-track) then no one should shy away from trying.

One good thing came from my goofy singing yesterday, at least. Within a half an hour of each other, two separate moms from two different co-op preschools told me we should apply! Despite the barely-hidden subtext of Come to our school because you’re entertaining and if you sing we won’t have to!, I was flattered. I tell you this, though, if I do end up co-opping at either school, I’m teaching our class to sing, big time.

And, in turn, Boobaby will have them all saying, “Turn on the radio, Doodaddy!”