Alberty's Blah Blah Blog

While in Chicago — Arlington Heights, really — my wife and I went out for tapas. And I just cannot get enough of it.

The choice of that phrase is actually kind of funny. The first time I went for tapas was with my best friends from our theatre. We had won first the state and then regional AACT contests and were up in Kalamazoo for the nationals. We decided to go to a tapas joint —I think it was called Fandango.

Our friend — we’ll call her “Sally” — was super excited to go because of the sangria. “Sally” is one of the most continually positive people I know. And not in an obnoxious way, either, which is difficult to pull off. She is deeply nice. She’s one of my best friends. So when she gets upset, it’s unusual, so it’s kind of funny. Sorry, “Sal.”

Anyway, we had big group, and the tapas started rolling in. But “Sally” had sat herself at sort of this apex of the seating horseshoe. So all the tapas started way down on her right, or way down on her left. I think by then of the end of the evening she had three sangrias and a single stuffed mushroom. She may have also had a Serrano-wrapped shrimp.

And though she be little, she is fierce, especially when she’s hungry. The rest of us were having so much fun trying everything that we didn’t even imagine she wasn’t getting anything to eat. And she is simply too nice to mention it. But she ended up fuming a bit. It was funny, not necessarily at the time, but it’s become a bit of a running joke/button for the group.

I was one of those gorillas gorging at the top of the table. And I fell in love with tapas.

There is something so ancient, so viscerally pleasing about eating tapas that it just pulls me to it. It forces communication and conviviality. At regular restaurants when you eat “your” meal, your focus can fall into your own plate. Sometimes, your partners may not even be there.

But tapas forces you to pass food, to discuss the samplings and compare, to look each other in the eye during the course of the meal. I love that.

And the sangria doesn’t hurt.

We ate at a great tapas place in Arlington Heights: La Tasca. It was packed, which usually turns me off. I’m not a crowd guy. But they gave us time to drink lovely sangria and plan our attack. I pulled out the menu and the little memo book and began writing down our order.

Tortilla Española: Spanish omelets with good stuff
Champions relents: mushrooms stuffed with pork pine nuts and brandy
Mejillones a la mallorquina: mussels in garlic and garlic with garlic

And two things off their specials menu, which I can’t remember.
A Spanish flatbread pizza with goat cheese
Some other egg concoction

And an all-all-you-can-eat bowl of the best olives I have ever had.

It was a wonderful meal. And we will be going back. But not just for the food. I think we may try to take “Sally” and cleanse her of the mala experiencia de los tapas. Because I believe good tapas with good friends can heal just about anything.

¡Viva tapas!

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Bangkok Café
Arlington Heights, IL

I hate going to a restaurant with great anticipation and getting ravaged by mediocrity.

Now, I am no arbiter of taste, but I know what I like. And I don’t think I’m too picky. But since the owners of our favorite Thai restaurant packed up and moved to California, Xena and I have been looking for a replacement.

There are only two Thai places in our hometown; both of them are okay, but not great. Actually, the one we loved is actually not really okay anymore. We don’t go there, now.

So, whenever I get out of town I look for Thai food. And my main source is Urbanspoon. Well, you have let me down twice now on the Thai front.

I went to the Bangkok Café in Arlington Heights with great anticipation. The reviews were fantastic. I walked in at 12:30 on a Saturday. There was only a four top in the whole place. I probably should have turned around at that. But I had my tongue set on Thai food.

I don’t like writing poor reviews. I know there are people who joy in the negative turn of phrase. But I realize that writing a poor review means that I have paid for and consumed a poor meal. I take no joy.

But here it goes.

I should have known when the tea arrived. While it’s not always a tip off, a hot tea pitcher with a bagged tea does not usually bode well. I want the loose leaf in an Asian restaurant. The tea also tasted more of the water than the tea. I really don’t want to taste water at all, much less over the taste of the tea.

I ordered the Spring Rolls because I love those things. Paper thin, diaphanous rice paper embracing crisp veggies, cellophane noodles, cilantro, maybe some tofu or shrimp. I love them. And, I have to tell you. I was stoked when these rolls showed up, because they were gorgeous. They were cut and displayed like maki sushi with bright orange julienned carrots and a huge sprig of cilantro. They were sitting on a wash of orange plum sauce. Beautiful.

Then I tasted them. They were actually dry. Dry as in difficult to eat dry. The “paper-thin” wrapper was not paper thin, and it was triple wrapped around the roll. It felt and tasted like they didn’t soak the wrapper enough. The vegetables within were medium diced, not julienned.  The large diced tofu was dry. The plum sauce was more sweet than flavorful. And —sacrilege! — instead of scallions they used large slices of raw red onion. It is possible the first time I have ever not finished a plate of spring rolls. It was something I might imagine producing the first time I tried spring rolls at home.

The soup, which came with the meal, was kind of unbelievable. Mostly because I can tell you exactly what was in it. Chicken broth, large chunks of red pepper, sliced carrot, barley. No herbs, no spices. It was the kind of thing I might quickly whip up when I’m sick. Except, I would at least add some cilantro. One of the things I love about Thai food is that I can rarely name everything that I taste in it. This was a very sad moment for me.

The entrée, however, boded well. It looked fun and smelled fantastic. I ordered Rama Noodles, which is a peanut sauce based chicken with spinach and carrots over very broad noodles. It smelled fantastic. And the noodles that I could see around the sauce had been lightly fried —almost always a good thing.

But, alas, again I was hammered with disappointment. The peanut sauce, which was lacking any solid peanuts or even peanut matter, looked, tasted — and more importantly felt — like it came from a Trader Joe’s bottle. I know this because I have recently used such a bottle to make dinner.

And the noodles…oh the noodles…which looked so promising…. I don’t know how they managed it, but half of them were crispy, the other half was gummy. Gummy! So sad.

I once had a date with a gorgeous woman. I asked her out because she was gorgeous. I guess she accepted because she thought I was funny. It was one of the worst, most painful dinners I have ever had. It turned that not only was she unrelentingly uninteresting, but she expected me to do all the work that night. She actually said to me, “Say something funny.”

She told me she liked shoes and bags. “No just purses, either.” She didn’t read, because nothing she read was ever interesting.

Honestly, I can’t even remember her name. Mandy, Mindy, Monica? I can’t remember. I did not call her back. She did not call me back.

This lunch reminded me of her.

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This is the second post in the two-year history of this blog that I have written about Mitsuwa*, my favorite Japanese grocery. And that’s not a de facto heading either. Well, it sort of is, but that doesn’t mean that the place isn’t a little piece of Fuji love right here in the States.

For the past few years Xena, my wife, has had a Japanese Board conference in Arlington Heights, just outside of Chicago. It’s located across the street from a Mitsuwa, conveniently for the conference-goers.

The last time, I wrote about the sublime anpan rolls with red bean paste. They are so good.

This morning, however, I grabbed the passing Shinkansen by the window and got a little crazy: Curry bun. Yup, for breakfast I grabbed the curry bun. It’s a bun…with curry.

Okay, you may understand why I have shied clear of this bit of baked confused confection. It sounds a little tough for a morning pastry. But, shoozelboodleloo! Slap my mouth and call me Baka-san. The things we don’t fall in love with because we simply don’t give them a chance.

This little bit of tongue-love was utterly shocking. It ranks as one of the top few food moments of my life — this little Japanese filled-pastry.

Let me first say that the pastry itself is utterly delicious. It’s clearly fried, so there’s that. But it’s essentially a pillowy soft hollow fritter. Granted, it was still warm, so that didn’t hurt. But I think they roll the dough in panko breading before frying it. The exterior was so crisp that it kind of pop-rocks in your mouth when you bite it. I guess what I’m saying is that you could fill this thing with cod liver and it would still be good.

But, the star should probably be the curry. And it’s not the curry you think, if you haven’t had Japanese curry. I love Indian food. Embarrassingly love Indian food. So the first time I had Japanese curry it was startling and, honestly, a bit unsettling.

It marries the savory tang of curry with a sweetness that is surprising. It also makes Xena’s knees week with nostalgia for when she lived in Japan. From the many Japanese teachers we have hosted, I have discovered it is the one thing that each of them ends up craving in their time here. That was also surprising. Because when I think of Japanese food, I do not think of curry.

None-the-less, when you bite through the enigmatically soft and crunchy pastry, the warm curry bursts, surprising with flavor and moisture and texture. There are little chucks of tender potato in the curry that really add interest to the mouth feel of the thing.

It really is shocking how an unassuming hand-sized bit of food can contain everything you want in a food experience. It covers every texture I find desirous: crunchy, soft, smooth, saucy, a little bit of mushy, moist interior, dry exterior. It has everything in taste: sweet from the pastry and the sauce, salty, sour, and that ever-elusive savory tang of umami.

It really was a perfect moment in eating.

*NOTE: So my new MS Word 2011 does not find the word “Mitsuwa” in its dictionary. So it desires, yearns, pines to change it to the more popular and understood word “Mistaya.” Seriously? You have “Mistaya” as an option for spell-check change? I had to look it up online.

Mistaya: [333,000 Google hits] — 1) A computer program for the visualization and analysis of wind resource data; 2) back country wilderness lodge offering hiking, climbing, and skiing accommodation; 3) a short river in western Alberta, Canada; etc.

Mitsuwa has 684,000 Google hits, over twice as many. And yet …

Just for giggles I typed “santorum” into MS Word, which wants to change it to “Santorum,” [with 7,530,000 Google hits] which is probably best because…well you can check it out if you want.

“Jason Alberty” only gets 3,920 Google hits, which makes me a little sad. But at least my name hasn’t shown up in Urban Dictionary…yet. Although one of the hits is titled, “Jason Alberty: Token Asian of the group.” He is my Facebook friend Jason Alberty, of Korean descent, who teaches English in South Korea. There is another Jason Alberty in Lacrosse. Go figure.

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This might be a short one because I’m totally swamped. Which makes this rumination particularly precious to me.

I have always loved going to bed. There is just a womb-like comfortable warmth to it that is sort of rejuvenating. But, of late, it has also become a little magical.

Our three month-old, Chang (for the sake of the post), needs a little help falling asleep. Since I take care of the boys during the day, my wife is with them at night while I’m writing or directing. But she still has night stuff to do, like showering —thank god. So at the end of her evening with them, after Bart, our oldest, is asleep, I get to take Chang.

After the wife gets him fed, he and I plop down in bed. He settles in, like a little rabbit, nuzzling into my side. He works his binky and coos and looks up at me as I read my daily Flipbook articles on the iPod. And it doesn’t take too long before we’re just looking at each other. And it’s like my own little mug of warm milk.

There is something pleasingly anesthetic about this nightly ritual. I usually have a tough time getting to sleep. I go to bed about an hour before my wife does and often I’m not asleep until well after she’s snoring away. I just can’t turn the mind off —too bad it doesn’t translate to writing ideas.

And getting to sleep is particularly difficult when I’m under stress. But Chang and I hang out, snuggle, I hear him working the binky and cooing with my hand on his belly, gently rocking him. Then we’re looking at each other and his eyelids start to fall heavily, then they quiver. And binky falls out, but his mouth is still working away. My day just seems to slowly detach and fall away into soft fog.

Just another thing I hope to remember forever.

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For most in my generation, this phrase has an unfortunate instant and visceral connotation. Of course, Michael Jackson. Yes, yes: “I’m starting with the man in the mirror. I’m asking him to change his ways.” Not written by Mr. Jackson (if you’re nasty), you know. It was actually written by Glen Ballard — who co-wrote Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill album— and Siedah Garret — who once sang backing vocals for Madonna.

Well, I’m not asking anyone to change their ways. I am actually speaking of the man in the mirror: my image. But I can’t even really say that. I can’t call him my doppelganger either.

Here is my issue. The image that glimpses, stares, or sneers back at me isn’t me. It never has been. I don’t know if this a normal bit of psychology or if they will come to take me away. But it has, of late become more unsettling than usual.

I have friends who say, “Wow your kid looks like you.” I don’t even know what that means. I don’t see anything of his face in the one that looks back at me in the bathroom.

And here is the thing that bothers me the most. I don’t have a clear vision of what I think I look like. I’ve worked at it, too. I have fantasized about it; I have cogitated and meditated on it. I seriously have no self-visual concept of myself. All I know is that the guy in the mirror…he ain’t it.

And he never has been. I can look at old photos of me and it’s like I’m looking at someone else. In fact, the photos of me before five years old —which do look like my son — look nothing like the photos of me after five. I would not be surprised if it turned out they were two different people. A “switched at five years old” kind of thing.

Maybe it’s a weight issue, but I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been fat since I was seven, so you think I would have gotten used to it by now, right?

Now this is where we get truly weird.

I once had a crazy lady grab me by the hand and say, “This is your first time here. But you are old. Very old. You have seen much, but nothing in this life before. Everything here seems new, yet your wisdom is from eons across space, across time.”

Yup. It freaked me out a little. But because I’m not one those who is positive that we were created by Glaxon the benevolent sky-grandpa, or Nupset the indifferent slug god of Vanuatu, or any number of chosen systems of belief, it made me think. Maybe.

It would kind of answer some things for me.

I feel like my wife, Xena, and are just kind of supposed to be hooked, you know. We had a really stormy beginning — years worth of storm. And there was a time when we totally gave up on each other. I was even happy for a bit of that, although I felt truncated. Like a bit of me was missing. It really was like we were just supposed to be together.

There was a time I felt like I had been searching for her. Her specifically. Not searching, I guess. It wasn’t the object of thought, more than it was preparedness for discovery. If that makes any sense.

And crazily, I’ve actually fallen in with a group of people who I feel intergalactically —interspacially/intertemporally — connected to. Like we have hung out before, somewhere else, sometime else.

This could probably sound pretty tutti-fruity, but I’ve never really cared what people think about that side of me. I’m just working to get a blog post done and this is what was on my mind, so…

But, maybe someday if I looked into the mirror and saw some sentient blue mist hovering in the reflection I might just say, “Oh, there I am. Wow, I look good.”

Popularity: 5% [?]

Nothing has forced upon me the concept of innate gender identification like the growth of my first son — we’ll call him Bart (see Friday’s post). My wife, Xena, and I have made a concerted effort to let Bart become who he is going to become. And he is all boy.

Neither Xena nor I were prepared for what we wrought … or allowed to … work? Wright?

First of all, and this is just crazy to us, he loves trucks. I mean he has sick-love for trucks. Neither Xena nor I really care about cars. I would be hard pressed to tell you what kind of car we have, other than it’s a Toyota.

The kid is only two, and he all about “bulldozer,” “digger,” “crane,” “mail truck,” and “fire truck.” And today, for the first time, he called out a “roller.” I don’t think I’ve ever noted that machine to him. He just knows his trucks. I have no idea how this happened.

The second thing is that he is absolutely fearless. Or I guess we should say intrepid. He was afraid of giving McGruff the Crime Dog a high five today, so I guess I can’t say that he’s fearless.

But he will jump off, crawl through, or climb off anything. Our living room sofas have become de facto crash pads. He climbs up his changing table. Then he climbs down it. He scared me. Or rather I should say he worries me.

Finally, and this is truly the most troubling for us, he just loves hitting things. I really don’t know where this comes from. Any stick-like thing from spoon to empty paper towel roll becomes a bludgeoning weapon.

And he doesn’t just hold it, he actually wields it. Like Conan. The Barbarian, not O’Brien. He has both a single-hand grip and two-hand grip. It’s a little terrifying.

Our poor dogs. Our poor windows and walls. Anything cylindrical becomes a bat. We had a stuffed baby seal that we had to take away from it. It was just too disturbing.

And we don’t just let him whack away. We take these improvised weapons away from him. Our refrigerator top looks like a salvage yard for lost cylindrical objects.

Our problem is finding that fine line where we can allow him to remain curious, intrepid and adventurous, without allowing him to accidentally kill himself or someone else.

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The Continuing Misadventures of Banana Grandma.

I think my grandmother is a lesbian…or at least an opportunarian…in as much as a 97-year-old woman can have an active sex life. Perhaps it is an active fantasy life.

None-the-less, a couple of moments have led me to this conclusion, the last two involving my wife. Maybe the last three.

She has always talked about how beautiful my wife is. Now, while nothing is wrong with that, she kind of harps on it.

Last Christmas she asked for me to take a special photo of her and my wife —

I am not making this up —

She wanted my wife to remove her prosthetic leg (my wife’s prosthetic leg), and hold it up while they kissed each other.

That is one hell of a bizarre kink.

What’s stranger is that my wife obliged. Yes, yes she did.

And then my grandmother said, “Thanks. Now I don’t want my grandkids to think I’m one of them Lisbethian.” That is how she pronounced it: Lisbethian.

She also told my nieces to, “Get your titties together,” for a photograph.

The last time my wife and

TANGENT: You know, I’m getting tired of using the phrase “my wife.” I have used the phrase “my wife” out of deference to “my wife” because “my wife” is a teacher and I don’t think it’s necessarily a good thing for teachers to be the focus of any blogospheric discussion. Especially some of the stuff I write. But I am tired of the calisthenics of using that phrase. So from now on I will refer to my wife as Xena.

The last time Xena and my boys went to see my grandmother there was a flurry of “titties.” “Ten titties an hour,” said my wife.

Xena had the unfortunate luck to have to breastfeed my youngest son

TANGENT: You know, I’m getting tired of using the phrase “my youngest son.” I have used the phrase “my youngest son” out of deference to “my youngest son” because “my youngest son” is an infant and I don’t think it’s necessarily a good thing for infants to be the focus of any blogospheric discussion. Especially some of the stuff I write. But I am tired of the calisthenics of using that phrase. So from now on I will refer to my youngest son as Chang.

So… Xena had the unfortunate luck to have to breastfeed Chang at Banana Grandma’s house. (That is perhaps the first time that phrase has ever been written.) It kind of creeps her out because the following kind of thing always happens. Banana Grandma said, “That boy sure loves the titty.” Several times.

Then her hairless teacup Chihuahua, Chico, came into the room (he has a bell on his collar) and jangled around. Then he jumped into Banana Grandma’s lap and rolled on his back for a belly scratch.

“Look at them titties!” she squealed in a baby voice. “Look at them little titties.” Then she began to twist them ever so slightly. “I love these little titties!”

I think it was a bit of a horror show for Xena. Her family is pretty well straight-laced and sane…for the most part. I’m pretty sure she never had deal with a grandmother’s titty obsession.

Popularity: 9% [?]

I’m not proud of this, but there are some people that I just don’t like. And here is the kicker: I usually start out liking them. That little number I totally don’t understand.

And here is another thing — and this is the thing that really kills me — I allow my dislike for them and my ill-ease at being around them affect me. Sometimes to a near debilitating state.

It’s a pretty tough thing for me to admit.

Now, this may come as a surprise to those who know me, but I had kind of an anger thing when I was younger. I know that even my close friends from those days didn’t really even know about it. That’s because it was my job, as I saw it, to suppress it. Well, apparently that was kind of a bad thing to do.

I spent several years in therapy working that one out. I remember my absolute dumbfounded shock when my therapist finally said, “Anger’s not a bad thing. But that’s not what you’re feeling. You’re getting anger mixed up with rage. Anger is important to a healthy psyche. It’s fine to feel angry. Rage, on the other hand…not so good.”

I was totally stunned. She was right, too. All rage, no anger. I got it, but the work was really in translating the rage into anger and releasing it in a healthy manner. And, for the most part I’ve got that down. In fact, I don’t really get angry much any more…at least at anything else but me. So I figure that’s pretty good.

But every once in a while I run into someone that just overloads my brain chemistry for the negative. It’s usually fired off by someone I discover to be manipulative or contrary for contrary’s sake, or someone who has discovered one of my buttons and likes to push it just for fun. I don’t mind friends pushing buttons. God knows, I‘m good at doing it to them. But friends don’t push buttons maliciously.

And for some reason, even with all positive behavior modification work I’ve done, it just absolutely trips me up. And that is infuriating. It feels like I lose total control and become some downy ball in the wind of their caprice and design. Then I get angry at my inability to shake it off and everything just builds on itself.

I begin to obsess about it. Yesterday was my day to obsess. And it really sucked. I was able to kick it to the curb for a while and just “be,” you know, with the sons, hanging out during the day. But it was out there. A little fog down the road that I could see. It was just a matter of time before I drove into it.

That is the one major emotional defect that really brings me to my knees.

It’s a tough thing to admit this sort of weakness. It’s even tougher to get over it. And I’m going to have to find a way through this one, because I am not happy in what I’m doing. And it is simply because of this chemical mix.

I’ve just got to find the right base or the right little acid to balance out this frothing mix of chugraguragragh.

Too bad I nearly failed chemistry.

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I love bonsai trees. But it’s a little like heroin, or should I say pizza. Yeah, pizza is more like. Because it’s something that I really want, but I think it could perhaps consume me.

I have actually purchased, much to my wife’s dismay, a bonsai pruning kit. I have a couple of bonsai pots, some wire, some soil. I even have some bonsai books and two dead bonsai starts sitting on my bonsai shelf in the back yard.

The only thing I don’t have is time. Oh, and knowledge. Right, and skill.

About this time every year a couple of bonsai trucks show up in our city. These guys come in, set up a bunch of bonsai trees on 2x8s and cement blocks, and then wait for me. Like warm pie on a windowsill. I have so far been able to pass on by this season. Having two kids in he car has really helped with that.

I usually stop and look. And by look, I mean look horrified by the prices they are asking. But also look longingly.

I never buy.

But I desperately want to.

I have however, lived for forty-two years. And one of the things I have learned is to make note of weaknesses. I have a rather long and comprehensive list.

One of the things that I generally need to become proficient at something new is mentoring.

Here is my bonsai dream. I need a little bonsai Miyagi: some dude who comes to my house once a week for a year and wax-on-wax-offs my knowledge and skill for creating breathtaking bonsai. For free. My situation, that is.

But alas…I’m pretty sure there is no miraculous crane kick in bonsai future.

I suppose becoming a bonsai master shall remain a little dream.

Popularity: 6% [?]

Nobody, and I mean nobody, can destroy even a remotely fragile ego like a two year-old. I think a two year-old might even be able to destroy a healthy ego. In fact, I bet if I could scramble up an army of two-year-olds that I could perhaps terrorize and take over the world. Or at least the city I live in.

If you haven’t guessed, this has been a tough week on me. My oldest son, the two year-old, went back to his morning preschool this year. He has two beloved teachers: Miss Annie and Miss Val.

Now, the school always talks about preparing you for your kid’s separation anxiety. Well, my son has never exhibited separation anxiety. In fact, his first day at in this new preschool class he marched right in and began playing at the sand table like he owned the place. After all, he is two years old. He probably does think he owns the place.

No, no. Separation anxiety did not occur for my son at the beginning of the day. He waited for that little number to crop up until it was time to go home.

First he said, “No Daddy, no Daddy take home!” This is always fun to hear in front of your child’s teachers. He might as well have said, “No Daddy, don’t beat me with a big stick like you did last night!”

Anyway, after some cajoling, I finally wrangled his enormous backpack on him and got him down the hall into the elevator. But when he realized he was going home, he collapsed into an unmanageable heap on the floor of the elevator. In front of other parents and children.

I must tell you at this point that I had my two month-old son strapped to my front like a bizarro world tandem sky dive unit. So any sudden movements sent my youngest son into a grunting, lurching  state of impending spit-up.

I ended up having to pick up this now limp 40 pound flour sack of a two year-old and carry him upstairs (that’s right the elevator doesn’t even stop on the floor I need — it goes to the basement then I have to walk up stairs) and out into the parking lot to the car. I say 40 pounds, because his backpack easily weighs 15 pounds.

So, I get him into his car seat and the screaming begins … from both of them. Honestly, I’m surprised some Amber-alerted good cop didn’t tackle me after shooting me in the butt with his taser.

My two year-old was screaming, “No, no, no go home!”

He had grabbed both straps to his car-seat and was not allowing me to buckle him in. All the while, I was desperately trying not to crush my terrified two month-old who was, if you remember, strapped to my chest like some hairless koala.

Side Note: I dictated this into my Dragon Diction program on the iPad. It translated the spoken word “koala” into the apparently more cogent and universally understood phrase, “call Wawa.” I am particularly confounded by it’s choice to capitalize the “W” in “Wawa.” What does this machine know that I do not? Troubling.

I finally got the screaming two year-old strapped in and the wailing two month-old in his seat, then we started this rolling 19th-century insane asylum on wheels in the direction of home. When we pulled into the driveway my two year-old stopped screaming his monosyllabic banshee wail so he could change his tune to, “No go home! No go home! See Annie! See Annie! No daddy!”

I got the screaming two month-old into the house. Then went to get my bellowing two year-old who was now desperately trying to hold his car seat’s chest strap together so that I could not get him out of the car.

We struggled for sometime.

I was pretty sure this was it for me.

But, I got him into the house, got his shoes off, and finally calmed down by saying, “Can you just listen to Daddy for a second?”

Inexplicably he stopped screaming and looked at me, his lip quivering, tears running down his face. I said, “Would you like to play for five minutes or go directly to take a nap?”

I may as well have said, “Here’s a new fluffy kitten. Let me to kill it for you.”

He absolutely lost his ever-loving mind. “No nap! No daddy! No daddy touch me! I want Annie! I want Annie! No Daddy touch me!

So I said, “I guess you just want to go directly to Nap.”

Now, I didn’t think it could get worse. But now he started this thing where it sounds like he’s just moments away from vomiting everything that could ever be vomited in the world at once. So, I swiftly moved him into his crib saying, “Do you want apple juice? Do you want milk? Do you want water?”

He screamed, “No, no, no!”

I put him down and he began shaking the edge of his crib like he was trying to start a prison riot. I said, “Daddy doesn’t like it when you’re this angry. It makes Daddy sad.” Then I went to smooth his hair.

He lurched back into the far corner of the crib and yelled, “No Daddy touch. No Daddy touch.”

Now, this naturally crushed me. It boot-heeled what was left of the cigarette butt-end of my ego. And, quite frankly, I didn’t know what to do. So I left him in his crib to go attend to my other screaming child.

But after five minutes the two year-old’s screaming did not abate. So, I got him some apple juice and I walked back into his room. He stopped screaming and he looked at me with the apple juice. I went to get a tissue and folded it turning back to him, as he scurried back to the corner of his crib screaming, “No Daddy touch! No Daddy touch!”

I said, “Can I wipe your nose, buddy?”

He said, “Yes.”

So I wiped his nose. I said, “Do you want some apple juice?”

He said, “Yes.”

I gave him the apple juice and he plopped down on his belly without even drinking it. I closed the door and I can only assume by the silence that within moments he was fully asleep.

I wasn’t even really relieved. I was still stunned at the veracity of his anger. At the sudden fragile crumbling of my parental ego.

And his is only two.

What awaits me when he becomes 14 and means it?

You know how some parents have a little change jar for their kid’s college. I may just start one for my empty nesting rehab.

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