Of Course It Goes Without Saying That Caring For One's Child Is One Of The Most Rewarding Things You Can Do

So absent a week's worth of anomalies whereby Mr. Baby just happens not to be able to fall asleep for his "first nap," I believe that at just under 16 months, we have seen him transition to one nap a day.

I should back up, at least for the Childfree among us. So there's this pattern that children fall into where they take two naps a day. The pattern we settled into, which worked well for us, was the 2-3-4 routine, which, if you read about it, mostly makes sense, at least until you get to the "4." In short, two hours after a child wakes up, it's time for his or her first nap. Then three hours after he or she wakes up from a nap is the second nap. Four hours later he or she goes to bed.

I should add that Jen found this bit of information. I didn't really look up stuff at the beginning, so she took the lead there. Which is to say, I heard about this method second-hand, so I may be misunderstanding it, but four hours before bed time makes a sleep schedule a little like a M.C. Escher timewarp. For example: Baby goes to bed at 9 p.m.; he wakes up at 9 a.m. (because he's a fucking stoner and goes to bed late and sleeps late); he "goes down" for a nap at 11 a.m.; he wakes at 12 noon; he "goes down" again three hours later at 3 p.m.; he wakes at 4 p.m.; four hours later is 8 p.m.; then he wakes at . . . 8 a.m.? Hey, wait a second . . .

So I think what they mean is that baby is meant to wake up at least four hours before bedtime, but who knows.

Anyway, however you do two naps, two naps happens until it doesn't, and then a child transitions to one nap (and eventually no naps, unless you work for a tech company, in which case you apparently need to nap again). The thing is, it's hard to figure out when exactly they don't nap.

All this week, Mr. Baby has been gleefully chattering away for the entirety of a morning nap, never quite sleeping. Today I began to wonder if he's down to one nap.

And that sucks.

It doesn't suck because it's uncool for a child to develop and grow. It sucks because now I just lost an hour in the morning to answer emails and do chores and fold laundry and do all the stuff one is unable to do when there's a child up in your grill.

I know what you're thinking. And I'm not going to dignify it with a response, except which to say, look, you try to do part-time work, cook, "clean" (such as it is), and pay attention to a child — while at the same time paying attention to the lead topics on "Around The Horn." It's not easy. That extra morning hour helps.

If I didn't have martyrdom then I'd have nothing at all.

Just kidding.

Seriously though, when I walked out of the house to take Mr. Baby on a walk after he cried through his first "nap," I had this heavy feeling that our two-nap lifestyle had come to an end. I'm sure I've mentioned that life is a series of compromises and adjustments. Actually, I've never mentioned that, because that's not something you're ever supposed to say. What I meant was, if you're the type of person who thrives in rhythms and routines, it's a challenge to keep up with a toddler.

We went to the park. He fumbled around on his knees, because he's still not walking but you're not supposed to say shit about your kid, so he's just doing stuff at his own pace. Most of all, he did not appear to be tired or cranky in the slightest. We returned home and ate lunch. He slept after lunch. While he slept I Googled "babies two naps one" or "children transitioning to one nap" or probably more likely "seriously, when is it that this kid will go down to one nap and my time will really no longer be my own."

The weird thing is that, for some reason, there is no good answer. You might think, "Of course! You can't just Google your way through parenting . . ." But actually, you can. People talk about every think in the world online. But for some reason you can get 694,000 results about "toilet slaves" but you can't learn a goddamn thing about when your kid sleeps. At a loss, I thought to Ask Dr. Sears. He said to breastfeed, or something like that. It's nuts.

What I did find was a bunch of moms — and let's face it, it's always moms — writing about their child's daytime schedule. Look, most of this stuff is boring — not even arcane, which bestows an elite quality, but just downright lame. At some point I looked up and realized I spent twenty minutes — twenty precious minutes — trying to figure out some other random kid's sleep schedule.

The funny thing is that everyone I've talked to is torn up about shifting to one nap. Sure, it makes it easier to "do stuff" — you have a bigger block of time to go to the zoo, have your child study a foreign language, make him or her practice piano — but your time is squeezed out even more, until all you can do is contribute immensely hilarious but ultimately worthless Tweets. Stuff like "Can't wait to get home to curl up with a glass of Merlot in one hand and BuzzFeed's '47 Worst Toronto Raptors Low-Lights' in the other". Or, "Best worst final lines of novels that weren't: 'And for the rest of his life, the Turk breathed'". Or, "Respectfully I say to thee, you smell like a hobo, but no one makes me feel like you do". Or, "When toddlers discover phones, the poor sap at 222-222-2222 ext. 222222222 gets barraged with calls". Or perhaps, "45 min into Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close; Al Qaeda's new goal should be to create 100000 Jonathan Safran Foers to bring US to its knees".

You get the idea: There's only so much uninterrupted time you have during the day; this is why Twitter was created; you have no choice as you watch your life slowly squeezed into 140 characters or fewer.

It's heartening and funny and real that the few people I've talked to about this feel the same way: They all want that nap back. Does that make us all bad parents? Of course. We're all terrible parents for wanting more time to do our work, complete our chores, weed the lawn, drink a beer or surf the internet without acceding to demands to look at ducks on Google Image Search.

I was fully intending on coming up with a snappy concluding paragraph but a) I forgot what I wanted to say and b) I'm too tired anyway.

The Cat In The Motherfucker In The Hat

In the last week or two our baby turned one, which, you know, is kind of a big deal. One, it means we did it — we actually kept a child alive for a year. Two, it means we won't have to do this delicate ballet every four weeks or so where we try to take a picture of Mr. Baby without him looking too blurry or before he destroys the placard noting how many months he is. Three, it means I'll finally fully internalize how old a child is when they are 14 months (one-and-one-sixth years old) or 18 months (one-and-a-half years old) or 21 months (one-and-three-quarters-years) or whatever.

And I guess the other thing that will happen is that eventually Mr. Baby's development will be less mysterious and mystical and more, I don't know, is "banal" too terrible sounding a word? I'm kidding. But seriously, first word versus mastering times tables? It's no contest.

It's funny how fast some of these milestones are coming. Time was, we spent a lot of time wondering whether the kid could smile. Now things just cascade, one after another, and it's all we can do to remember what came when.

Like the first time he toasted with his sippy cup, for example. No kidding, he did this the other day. Fortunately our Child Protective Services caseworker was nowhere near the bar we were hanging out at, but I have to say, it was hilarious. Then I realized we did this three times in one day this past weekend and sort of figured, well of course he learns this before he can walk. And, well, what do you do? But look, he also seemed to blow his nose a few days ago — pretty cool, right? No, not nearly as awesome as toasting with a sippy. Duh.

But if you're not going to start walking — and really son, it's not something your mother or I are really looking forward to — then you have to look at talking as being the real big deal.

Is The Simpsons still on? OK, disingenuous, because I actually know the answer (yes) and I know this because I had football on this past weekend and Mr. Baby was suddenly transfixed by a spot for whatever latest Simpsons episode was showing later that day. It's not The Simpsons that he likes but rather the fact that it's a cartoon, period, which is probably because of the colors or something like that but which I always think is a really bizarre and probably really obvious fact about babies: They're, like, hardwired to watch cartoons.

The part about babies being seemingly hardwired to respond in a sort of narcotic stupor at the sight of goofy hand-drawn figures isn't really what I am interested in, though I am. Actually, it's the character of Maggie in The Simpsons that I started thinking about, the joke with Maggie (and I felt like I needed to look it up because I haven't seen an episode in a long time) being that she never does learn to talk (except, apparently, for small parts in little-watched late-model episodes).

Anyway, I think of Maggie Simpson's muteness sometimes when I watch Mr. Baby. For some time I assumed that at some point Mr. Baby's transition from flour sack to toddler would strike quickly, like an epiphany, and he would suddenly speak using a word in its proper context. And then there would be this mystical moment — like when construction crews tunneling on either side of the English Channel somehow met in the middle — when we would start communicating with him.

But the truth is that — like so much of child development — acquiring language is gradual. If we were to be honest, his first word was "ba-ba," the definition of which is not important except which to say that Dr. Sears would be pleased.

But ultimately, "ba-ba" is some meaningless bullshit babble that may or may not have meant what we thought it meant. So then the next candidate for first word was, if memory serves, "Up." As in, Mr. Baby would crawl over to your feet and demand to be lifted: "Up!" Of course, Mr. Baby seemed to use "up" in situations where "up" would not apply, most notably when he wanted to go "down," so . . . word? I don't know. 75 percent of the time, yes.

Then there's a word that he uses that we think we understand the provenance of: "Hot." "Hot" refers to food, and we figure he probably heard us say "It's hot" when we handed him some food. Thus, "hot." Does that count as a word? Probably not.

So that leaves what could be definitively Mr. Baby's first word: "Hat." As in, I'll put on a hat and he calls it a hat. I could quibble and say that Mr. Baby's use of "hat" occurred around the same time as something that sounds like a cross between "hat" and "cat," used when housecats appear, and that "cat" is his first word, but the "h" sound sounds more, uh, intentional.

Perhaps you notice a few words missing here. I guess a lot of parents hope that first word is either "mama" or "dada." And I'm sure when that happens those folks probably feel rather chuffed. But, really, that's kind of fucked up and narcissistic, isn't it? Of course, when I say "fucked up and narcissistic" I really mean, "You bet I'd be excited if his first word was 'dada.'"

And don't get me wrong — there were many times we heard him say "mama" or "dada" — sometimes even while looking at one of us. But then he'd go and call a lot of other things "mama" or "dada": the remote control, a cocktail shaker, the model advertising leggings on a poster in the window at Mandee. So I don't know, between "mama" and "up" or "dada" and "hat," I guess I have to be honest.

I guess it's just as well, given some of the language we use/continue to use around the child. I'll take "hat" any day over, say, "motherfucker." Then again, if it had been "the motherfucker with the hat," I'd probably call up the local news, but I guess that's just how things go.

Goodnight Mantle Decor, Or What Margaret Wise Brown Conveniently Overlooked

There's a children's book called Goodnight Moon, which if you don't have a child or don't remember your own childhood, because let's face it, that could have been quite a while ago, you at least might recognize from a certain Audi commercial.

Goodnight Moon was published — or maybe we should say "put together," since "writing" isn't a word I associate with a 130-word piece — in 1947 and it reads weirdly in that weird way that stuff from back then reads. Not that it's necessarily weird, just that children from the 1940s seem like they were probably weird (sorry, Mom and Dad!). Maybe it's just that for me stuff from the 1940s seems like the line between olden times (like the Civil War) and modern times (like, I don't know, Mad Men?). (Actually, wasn't this a plot line on Mad Men, that Don Draper was the demarcation line between old-school war hero U.S. culture and new school 1960s culture? See I knew this tangent wasn't totally off base. Thank you, Matthew Weiner! Even though you were born in 1965, so like what the fuck?)

Anyway, all of which is to say that Goodnight Moon feels like it's old. Like in the way Dashiell Hammett feels old — and maybe in a way Mad Men does not; one of my pet peeves with that show is that I've wondered whether there was too much anachronism in the motivations of the characters: Like this is a modern drama trapped in a 1960s set piece (and the attention to detail is distracting and diversionary). But let's not get sidetracked on Mad Men, because that would be stupid.

No, what I really am most interested in right now is what is left out of the text in Goodnight Moon, because as you're probably aware, Moon features a young bunny rabbit (don't ask) saying goodnight to all the random shit in his (his?) room. I don't know why this makes it a smart book — it's certainly not "smarter" than Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb, for example — but people really like this book.

I think what they like about it is the reason all well-done children's books are done well, which is that the language has some rhythm and cadence (think Dr. Seuss, because you probably haven't forgotten those). Because babies are dumb, I've noticed this is what they seem to glom on to. As an aside, it's funny how many children's books don't get this — a lot do, don't get me wrong, but so many are just pieces of shit. Without shit-talking too many children's books authors, some just really piss me off. There's one about a fucking pigeon, for example, that just plods along and is boring as all get out; and then the pictures suck, or rather the art work looks pretty to hipster parents but leaves babies cold, which makes the whole endeavor just about the most asinine, self-centered thing to do — write a children's book that a child won't read. Those people need to seriously fuck the fuck off. Please.

Anyway, back to Goodnight Moon, which I suppose succeeds in part because it's inscrutable to adults and seemingly scrutable to children, which is to say, when you read it you're like "What the fuck just happened?" Because as near as you can tell when you read it, all that happens is that a bunny rabbit says goodnight to a bunch of shit in his (his?) room not once but several times.

But see, here's the thing that bothers me about the book — there are so many things that the bunny rabbit — and let's be clear, is it even a bunny rabbit? Does an anthropomorphized bunny count as a bunny rabbit? — so many things that he (he?) omits, and omits in favor of stuff like "air" and "nobody," that you're kind of like, there's something odd here. And not "odd," but "odd" like this book is sneaking-messages-past-Nazi-code-crackers odd. Here's a list of those therein:

1) A sort of animal skin rug on the floor beside the bed. I don't know what kind of animal this would be; it sort of looks like a cross between a zebra and a tiger, or what happens when a zebra, tiger and bear have a sexual romp. Perhaps it's obvious why this item doesn't get said goodnight to: I don't know how it would sound, maybe something along the lines of, "Goodnight Zebra-Bear-Hybrid Rug." Or maybe Clement Hurd just correctly anticipated IKEA design.

2) Slippers next to the bed that look like Chuka-Uggs, as in "Goodnight Slippers That Look Like Three-Quarter Uggs."

3) A pile of logs by the fireplace, as in "Goodnight Logs, Goodnight Log Rack" . . .

4) Related, "Goodnight Fireplace Tools And Stand, But With Missing Fire Poker" . . .

5) And of course, the fireplace itself — including an active fire — which seems a little bit like an elephant in the room.

6) Except that there's an actual elephant in the room, or at least an elephant doll.

7) And then that brings us to "Goodnight Strange Naked Male Doll On The Bookshelf" . . .

8) And "Goodnight Giraffe Doll" . . .

9) Also, "Goodnight Strange Partially Clothed Female Doll On The Bookshelf" . . .

10) And speaking of which, there's a pretty large bookshelf there that escapes scrutiny, but whatever.

11) Except forget "whatever" because there's also this self-reflexive copy of Goodnight Moon sitting on the nightstand next to the telephone, which I've been meaning to bring up, actually, because what is a telephone doing in a child's room? The 1948 FCC Annual Report (page 89 in this .pdf) shows there to be 20,499,920 residential telephones in the United States in 1947 out of a population of roughly 144 million, meaning about one phone for every seven people. And you want to tell me that a fucking bunny rabbit has one of these things in his (his?) room? I call bullshit. Or is this not a "child's" room after all? Are his parents dead? Did the Nazis take them? The best thing about children's books is that it's perfectly acceptable to raise more questions than get answered. In a "normal" book, an editor would say something like "You can't distract a reader with a telephone without explaining what it's doing there" but this is a different kind of writing, I suppose.

12) Right, speaking of which: Nightstand.

13) Did I mention the billowy drapes? Or does "Goodnight Billowy Drapes" not have a ring to it?

14) "Goodnight Woven Area Rug."

15) I could talk about the picture of the bunny fishing for another bunny next to a felled tree, but the whole idea sort of creeps me the fuck out.

16) And finally, the mantle holds two items next to one of the clocks that I honestly don't understand what they are. Perhaps urns for the ashes of the bunny's dead rabbit parents? I'd call them candlesticks but they really don't look like candlesticks. Maybe just "Goodnight Mantle Decor"?

Next up, an evaluation of the political subtexts of Caps For Sale, followed by a critical appreciation of Sandra Boynton.