The Year 3

On April 18, Jake began the third year of his life. Yes, I know he’s two, but that means he’s completed two years of his life, so now begins the third. I think so. Right? Anyway, I wanted to take a moment and reflect on what he’s accomplished in two years.

It’s gone by very fast, but we have documented the stages in Jake’s baby book, on video and in Chocolate Diapers. I can sum up everything Jake has achieved in one word:

Nothing.

It’s been three years, and Jake has nothing to show for it. He doesn’t have a job, he’s never won a contest, and he hasn’t cured heart disease. He’s grown and gotten older, and that’s about it. Sorry, but I don’t count existingas a societal contribution. Can he recite his ABCs? Yes. Did that save any shrimp dying in the BP oil spill? No. Does he now play in the basement by himself? Yes. Did that stop Bret Michaels’ brain bleed? No.

Nonetheless, I’d like to share some of our favorite moments in the last year.

Koh Koh Kahn Kahn

At some point in February, Jake developed an African dialect. Wednesday is Amy’s pseudo day off from work, and she usually calls me from the car while running an errand with Jake. Normally, Jake would say “Hi Daddy” and tell me he loves me. One day, the conversation changed.

“Hi buddy,” I said.

“Hi Daddy.”

“Jakey, what did you eat for lunch?”

“Koh Koh Kahn Kahn.”

“What?”

“Koh Koh Kahn Kahn.”

“What the hell is that?”

“He’s been saying it all day,” Amy said. “I have no idea what it means.”

“Koh Koh Kahn Kahn!” Jake yelled in the background.

It continued the next day when I picked up Jake from daycare.

“Who did you play with today?”

“Koh Koh Kahn Kahn.”

“No shit?”

By now, Jake practices brevity.

“Jake, who’s on your shirt?”

“Koh Koh.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Kahn Kahn.”

I suppose ”Koh Koh” and “Kahn Kahn” are contractions for Koh Koh Kahn Kahn. Maybe Koh Koh is to Koh Koh Kahn Kahn as Gitmo is to Guantanamo Bay.

I asked Jake and he said,

“Yes.”

But Jake won’t tell us the meaning of Koh Koh Kahn Kahn. Instead he stonewalls.

“What does Koh Koh Kahn Kahn mean?”

“Koh Koh Kahn Kahn.”

“Okay. What about just Koh Koh? What does Koh Koh mean?”

“Koh Koh.”

“What does Kahn Kahn mean?”

“Kahn Kahn.”

It’s the frustration one feels when looking up “prognosticate” only to learn the definition is “The act of prognostication.” Thanks Noah Webster. Asshole.

So we just go with it. I’ve even created a song to the tune of a bell tolling in the new hour:

Koh Koh Kahn Kahn

Kahn Kahn Koh Koh

Jake sings with me.

Me: Koh Koh

Jake: Kahn Kahn

Me: Kahn Kahn

Jake: Koh Koh.

Wiping Me

I am guilty of sharing too many bathroom stories on Chocolate Diapers, and here’s another. Jake just loves following us to the bathroom to soak up the sights, sounds and smells. Perhaps we brought this on ourselves by reading the book Everyone Poops to him every night. It’s second nature by now to observe Jake staring at me at my basest condition, crumbled on the toilet making excretion. But Jake is developing. The wheels are spinning, and he desires to make every moment purposeful. I definitely know my son, and he demonstrated that he knows me a few weeks ago. He somehow sensed I was finished going to the bathroom. He tore off a piece of toilet paper, neatly and just the right size, folded it and tried finding a seam to, uh, wipe me.  First I stopped him, and then I laughed.

“Oh my God,” I said. “How do you know to do that?”

Bad Haircut; Still Handsome

Jake’s last haircut didn’t go as planned. We take him to the same place in our neighborhood because they normally do a good job. A new person cut his hair this time, and she fooled us into thinking that she wouldn’t cut his hair too short. Jake entered with a raggy but cute mop-top and he left as Brandon Tina, Hillary Swank’s transgendered character in Boys Don’t Cry. Even worse, his hair grew in fucked up, still short on top but strandy on the sides. All I saw when I looked at my son was the Amish kid from Witness. We didn’t keep our feelings secret. We told Jake he had a bad hair cut, and he would repeat it.

“Bad haowcut.”

Amy thought fast to preserve his self-image.

“You have a bad haircut,” she said. “But you’re still so handsome.”

“Bad haowcut. Still han some.”

And it stuck. When I brought Jake to daycare that Monday, the daycare lady remarked,

“Look how short your hair is!”

I turned to Jake. “Bad haircut, but…”

“Still han some,” he said affirmatively.

Missing the Mark

Amy’s been acquainting Jake with the toilet to prep him for potty training. The problem, though, is that he’ll lie about needing to make pee pee or poo poo. He’ll say he has to go, and Amy will rush to put him on the toilet, and he’ll do nothing. I was in our room, and after not peeing, Jake stopped by, naked, to say hello. Jake always enters a room running, and he runs with his legs only, while his upper body flails. When he’s naked, it’s really cute. He’s not sure how he feels about his penis yet. He stared at it, and walked slowly, guided by it. He got to our bathroom and peed an unimpressive weak stream—like a dog and an old man—on the base of our toilet and the towel we step on following our showers. He still asked for a treat, which he’ll get when he actually goes in the toilet.

Speaking of Potty Training

Now I’ll turn to the road ahead. In the year 3, all I can see is all that I dread: potty training. I mean this sincerely. I don’t want to ever potty train Jake. The idea of taking him into a public restroom sickens me. I’m retching as I write this. Delivering the mail in a public restroom isn’t beneath me. But I have a way. I will patiently wait till I find the magic stall, and there’s always a magic stall. When I was out one Thursday night in college at Coconut Grove, midnight-arrhea smacked me far away from a decent toilet. I didn’t even consider the horrible bathroom at Murphy’s, where I was drinking. I ran many blocks to the bathrooms by the Coco Walk movie theater, and the toilets were splattered, and I didn’t settle. I was close to panic, but I remembered the Mayfair, the swanky hotel across the street. I strolled calmly into the lobby, though desperate inside, and found a pristine men’s room.

If Jake is potty trained, and he has to go, he won’t wait for the Mayfair. He’ll have to go now, and the single toilet restroom at Potbelly won’t be pretty. He can just shit in his self-containing diaper, where I can change it in a familiar, clean environment.  And he can do it at 7, 8, 9, 10. I’ll work with Pampers to start a new line of diapers for lazy fathers.

And for not being potty trained, he’ll get a treat.