‘Daddy, I’m Going to Hawaii…’

For Christmas my two-year-old daughter, Belle, got a Barbie suitcase, complete with a handle, wheels and a princess outfit.

She was psyched. She toted it around the house declaring, “Daddy, I’m going to Hawaaaaiiiiiii.” Then she blew the sweetest kiss.

“Aloha, Belle,” I said. “Bring back some macadamia nuts for us.”

“OK,” she said. Then, as if the logistics of the trip finally dawned on her, Belle paused and said: “Daddy, I need a pack ‘n play for Hawaaaaiiii.”

“Daddy can’t afford Hawaii, Sweet Peanut,” I told Belle. “But I’ve got a great song about Christmas in Hawaii for you!” I put on Bing Crosby’s classic CD, White Christmas.

Bing crooned, “Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way to say Merry Christmas to youuuuu.” Belle was not impressed. Somehow, to her, 1940s music + Wisconsin weather didn’t = Hawaii.

But her travel plans never would have left the ground anyway because she got the flu three days before Christmas. We thought Belle was better on Christmas Eve and drove to Grandma’s house—but then the sun beat down on her and she threw up again in her car seat, triggering our baby John to start crying. My wife and I looked at each other and said, “Merry Christmas!” It reminded me of that Nat King Cole favorite, “Barf chunks roasting in the open sun… Johnny screaming out his lungs…”

We made some great Christmas memories—we laughed, sang carols and ate with family. Belle even gave me a great present--her first official use of her trainer potty! Woo-hoo!

And we saw some old friends, Katie and Rick. Belle was so shy during their visit that she barely said hello to Rick. But, of course, after they left, she was like, “Katie and Rick visited! I LOVE Rick! I LOVE him.” That’s girls for you. In high school, I’d try to talk to some girl—usually in Band Class because I’m a nerd—and she’d be like, “I’m not talking to you because I’m out of your league.” And then five years later at a reunion everyone’s like, “Oh yeah, she totally wanted to date you.”

Poor Belle was too sick to open Christmas presents with everyone else. She felt better by the end of Christmas Day, but by the next day Grandma and I got her stomach flu, and her Uncle Jay got it the following day—on his birthday. I bet he was thinking: “Belle, you shouldn’t have gotten me the flu—you overspent again!”

Hawaii sounds pretty good right about now. May you have a happy new year, filled with tropical sunshine and macadamia nuts.

Deck the Halls with Balled-up Burp Cloths

Last Saturday was a rough day: My baby, Johnny, barfed on me 10 times—then I accidentally put a frozen cube of breast milk in my Mountain Dew. (How was I supposed to know my wife had poured Johnny’s milk into the ice cube tray for convenient thawing later?)

But I’m adjusting. I’ve started labeling the ice cube trays, and I’m wearing a utility belt like Batman that holds a burp cloth, a pacifier, a bottle of Fantastic and a rag. This makes my two-year-old daughter, Belle, quite jealous.

“I want to wear utility belt!” she exclaims. Never mind that there’s a “Mr. Yuck” sticker on the bottle of Fantastic.

Despite my best efforts to teach her Mr. Yuck means “yucky” and “poison,” Belle thinks he means “Binaca!” and “delicious!” She’s at that stage where she wants what everyone else has—you know, the stage that typically lasts until you’re 100 years old. So I figure I might as well have fun with it.

I’m like, “Belle, would you like to sit in the blue high chair or the white high chair?”

“Blue!” she says.

“OK,” I say, “then I’ll put Johnny in the white high chair.”

“I sit in white high chair!” she exclaims, posing like George Washington crossing the Delaware.

It’s good to know Belle has my back, though. For instance, I was recently upset by a discriminatory statement made by a religious leader, so I started “thinking” out loud. I feel I do some of my best thinking out loud. However, my wife feels I do some of my best “swearing” out loud.

“Not in front of the kids,” she says. “They might repeat it.” Fair enough, but they don't repeat a word. A few minutes later, my wife drops something on the floor—then does some rather intense thinking out loud. I say sarcastically, "Honey, not in front of the kids!”

Belle walks by and says, “Yes, Mommy!” Now there's a girl who's getting an extra-big present from Daddy this year. I guess the moral is that victory is sweet, even when served over frozen breast-milk cubes.

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2006, all rights reserved.

A Two-Year-Old Walks into an Office Holiday Party…

Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like taking your two-year-old daughter and six-month old son to your holiday office party—without your spouse. My wife claims she was “working.” I’ve never successfully avoided her holiday parties. All I can say is: When it comes to planning, the woman’s got mad skills.

The kids were pretty well behaved at the office party (neither one photocopied their buttocks). But it did get interesting when coworkers held baby Johnny. The party had a cabana theme this year, and all the guests wore leis. Johnny decided they were the perfect chew toy, and slobbered all over a coworker, who looked down at one point to find a puddle of drool on her chest the size of Lake Winnebago.

Belle decided a blue Crayola marker makes perfect lipstick applique and also doubles as a delicious sucker. Brash as she appeared, Belle was shy whenever coworkers introduced themselves. “My, what a pretty dress you have on, Belle,” they’d say. “And such dainty lipstick.”

My employer hired a Balloon Lady to entertain the kids at the holiday party.

Shrewd move. She knew exactly what to say—and how to say it—to entrance the kids. Things like, “Would you like chocolate to melt in your mouth while I affix a 10-story balloon hat to your silly head?” If she wanted a second career as a pied piper, camp recruiter, tobacco marketer or kidnapper, she’d have all the requisite skills. All the parents loved Balloon Lady.

Luckily, Belle and I made it through the whole office party without putting a foot in our mouths to get me fired. Although Belle did put Johnny’s foot in her mouth several times.

The office party was just the beginning of an eventful weekend. We arrived at church during the opening hymn, which triggers the ushers into action. They always feel compelled to seat you in the Front Row—where nobody wants to sit because everyone is staring at the back of your head. (If only you could get front-row U2 tickets this way.)

I looked to the end of the Front Row and there was a sign that said “Reserved,” as if they knew we were coming. Call it corporal punishment for the religiously tardy. In the Front Row (rhymes with Death Row), you have to be on your best behavior because the people presiding over the ceremony are three yards away. Belle quickly recognized that being in the Front Row swung all the leverage and momentum her way. You see, when she pitches a fit at home, Mommy and Daddy put her in Timeout and ignore her yelps, spasms and gesticulations.

But at church—in the Front Row, Belle’s singing “I Got da Power!”

Whenever she didn’t get what she wanted (like when she tried pirouetting on the pew with her milk cup), she’d scream and go limp like a protester who’s getting gassed and carried out of the street by riot police.

Except my wife and I had no shields or gas. We didn’t even have incense!

At least they don’t have photocopy machines or blue markers in the Front Row. And you can’t really get fired from church. I guess the moral is all churches should have Balloon Ladies.

Copyright 2006 Christopher Hollenback, all rights reserved.

Christmas is Coming, My Son is Getting Fat

My two-year-old daughter, Belle, has been skinny her whole life. (It's a long time to her.) I can never get her to eat, and can never get her six-month-old brother, Johnny, to stop eating. We started feeding him solid foods this week and he ate three bowls of rice cereal and a smashed banana—in one sitting. That’s more rice cereal and smashed banana than I usually eat in one sitting.

Belle did a touchdown celebration yesterday after she managed to grab the keys to our rental car and activate the car alarm. When my wife tried to chase her, she high-stepped away, put the keys through her legs and spiked them on the carpet. My wife and I thought about assessing a 15-yard penalty, but we were too busy rewinding the tape to watch the artful celebration again.

We opened a few Christmas presents from friends early this year. Belle insisted on not just un-wrapping the gift—but also RE-wrapping the entire gift after discovering what was inside. In fact, she completely lost track of the actual present. We should have written her Santa List as: “Wrapped boxes with nothing inside but a roll of tape.” Then she’d REALLY have known that she was a good girl this year.

I thought I was a good boy this year, but apparently not, because I had to go to the Post Office to mail a cart full of gifts. Yes, I rolled them in on one of those little fold-up dollies you’d normally bring to the airport on business trips, with boxes constantly falling off. First, I waited in the obligatory Christmas Post Office Line, wondering if I had mistakenly gotten in line for the latest Xbox or the Beatles Reunion Tour. Then half the boxes weren’t taped right, according to Mail Lady. I think she thought I was trying to create the world's largest tape ball, not mailing a gift. (I don't know how in the world my brother-in-law will ever open it.) Then I forgot to write a zip code on one of the boxes. Mail Lady wasn't amused. We got to the last package, postmarked for my brother in Seattle.

Mail Lady saw the address, took a quick inhale and then let out a long “oooooh” that sounded a lot like a fog horn. “Seattle, huh?” she said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said.

“That’s going to take awhile… we’re really slow this time of year.”

“No kidding.”

“That’s right.”

“OK, but it’s December 1,” I said. “It’s not like it’s going to the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Ooooooooh,” she said. “That would REALLY be a long one. But Seattle? I’d send it PRIORITY for sure,” she said. She then stared blankly at me, blinking as if her advice were going to save the President from assassination.

“OK,” I said, swallowing.

“That will be $2,354, please,” Mail Lady said. Since when did my postal bill become bigger than my holiday gift budget? Oh yeah—since my siblings, in-laws and my wife and I started having our respective kids. I guess the moral is, kids may love John Madden NFL Football 2006 for Game Cube, but gift certificates for McDonald’s are much cheaper to ship. Especially if all they’re going to do is re-wrap the box.