It’s official. Jake says “No.”

We witnessed the milestone at 7:28 yesterday morning. I unlocked a cabinet to get my cereal, and Jake did his Trueblood vampire move where he flashes from one end of the room to the other. Rather than examine the hazard-free cereal boxes, Jake went for things made out of glass. Amy barked at him, “Jake! No!”

We say “No” a lot despite what the experts preach. According to them, “No” loses its meaning if you use it too often. What else are we supposed to say when there’s glass involved? “Jake, think about your actions and the consequences they will have on yourself and others.”?

Usually, he just ignores us and knocks over bottles of olive oil, vinegar and liquor. But this time, he sat on his knees smiling, looked up and said, “Nyoh,” hanging on the long O sound. Then, “Nuh, nuh, nuh.” Amy bit down her grin and looked at me with oh shit eyes. I cracked up, and said “No” back to get him going. Amy didn’t like that because she knows not to encourage bad behavior. I don’t, so I did, and I decided to take a stand against the babycenter.coms of the world and their common theme of ignore, ignore, ignore.

When your toddler screams in her highchair, it’s best not to respond. Negative reinforcement only makes the situation worse.

Your 16-month old is a sponge, and mimicking is suddenly his favorite activity. If he curses, pretend not to hear it.

Tantrums are now en vogue as daddy’s little girl approaches 2. Soothing sounds, like humming may calm her down.

Right. As if parenting doesn’t require enough sacrifice. Now I need to give up my natural reactions? No. No, no, no.

On the way to daycare Jake and I spoke to each other in No.

“Jake, can you say no?”

“Nyoh.”

“No! No! No!

“Nuh! Nuh! Nuh!”

So I think I’m going to enjoy “No” for a while. Until I can take no more.

I enjoy Lockup, MSNBC’s prison documentary series, because watching white people with facial swastika tattoos making liquor out of prison cafeteria plums makes me feel better about myself. Actually, I feel best when I watch Intervention on A&E. Those people are really fucked up.

Here’s what Ive learned from watching Lockup:

1) I’d rather go to prison than have a second child.
2) Jake is very much like the prisoners.

There are many objects in prison that could make an inmate a danger to himself or others. For example, prisoners can’t have guns. Also–and I’m not joking here–some prisoners aren’t allowed to have magazines because they can turn them into shanks. Magazines!

So what does this have to do with Jake? Everything. There are objects everywhere that could make Jake a danger to himself or others, which makes restaurants treacherous and basically Jake’s penitentiary. Yesterday, Amy and I took Jake to jail at Eggsperience, our go-to brunch eatery, and our own homemade Lockup played out before us.

We started by confiscating all of Jake’s personal belongings in the car: pacifier; monkey doll; and hardened string cheese from Tuesday. Then Mom shackled him to his highchair and sterilized his hands and face, while I cleared the table of potential contraband and weapons:

• The obvious: knife, fork, water glass and coffee mug
• The not-so-obvious: the petite jam containers. They’re cute until Jake rolls one into a shank and stabs Mom in the boob

Just as we got comfortable, our waiter brought coffee, leaving the carafe on a menu within Jake’s reach. His eyes lit up, and I could see his criminal mind at work. Had I blinked, Jake would’ve swiped the menu, spilling the pitcher before I could say, Oh balls! The coffee!

The meal itself was actually the safest, and this is where Jake returned to being a baby, shoveling more than he could handle and regurgitating his turkey sausage like Seth Brundle in The Fly. We hosed him down in the tub when we got home, which I suppose is similar to prison.

Except there’s no danger in dropping the soap.

Jake is learning new words, and he’s really understanding human interaction. For example, if I ask, “Jake do you want dinner?” He says “Ya.” When Mom leaves first in the morning, he says, “Buh bahyee.” When he reaches for the Crocodile Dundee bread slicer on the island, I grab his hand and yell “No! Dangerous!” He looks at me, and I see the message register in his eyes, and he hangs his head.

I’d reached the point of no return. I remembered the Final Word. You know, the little black box from 1990 that cursed at you?

Being a dad is great, and it sucks. My son is the cutest baby I’ve ever seen. He’s the picture of good health, and his personality is adorable. He’s a great sleeper, too. He started sleeping through the night at six weeks (you read that correctly) and he’ll sleep anywhere.

So why does it suck?

Because he can melt you heart with a smile and a second later, scream his bloody, grating scream because I’m not getting his milk fast enough. Because he cuddles with me then splits when Mom comes downstairs. Because he wakes up at 6:30 in the morning. Because now he turns the oven knobs on. Because I can’t drop kick him without Gloria Allred getting on my ass. Because it’s so damn hard to parent!

But he didn’t ask to be born. I can’t press the reset button like I do when I get car jacked in Grand Theft Auto. Not that I’d ever dream of starting over without him. I can’t pause him like a DVR (I’ve dreamt of that). So I better make the most of it. I have to, and I like that I have to. I sometimes even want to. Like tonight when I got home from work and looked at Jake in his high-chair. “Who am I?” I asked. He pointed at me with a blueberry finger. “Dadgee!”

There’s nothing better.