We were in what I like to call the goody aisle; the aisle with all of the cakes, cookies and other assorted fattening treats. At the time, she happened to be walking on her own two feet (as opposed to sitting in the stroller, where she spent part of the visit until the strap broke).

So she did what any other 18-month-old kid would do; she sauntered over to the donut selection, grabbed a box of Entenmann’s powdered minis and started prying.

I was surveying the whole-grain Fig Newtons and managed to intervene just as the kid was about to tear the cover off. She looked at my quizzically. The overbearing, 21st-Century parent kicked in without warning.

“No, you can’t have these, honey,” I said. “They have trans fats.”

As the words left my mouth, I wondered where the hell they came from, and who the heck I was dropping them in a public place. For the first time in a long while (maybe since I bought my wife her Prius for Christmas back in 2007), I felt like a quintessential white and upper middle class Yuppie (this feeling only was compounded by the fact that we were in Target). I hated myself for the rest of the morning.

Upon further reflection, however, maybe I overreacted. I mean, yes, it was absurd to reason with an 18-month-old about trans fats. But the intent behind my comment was spot on: I don’t want my daughter eating that crap or eventually contributing to our nation’s obesity epidemic.

Maybe if I start now, she’ll catch on early and make better choices down the road. Who knows? After years of practice, I might even be able to assail trans fats publicly without feeling lame.

Then we remembered why we banned fish from this house long ago: the things are addicting.

I can’t actually estimate how many of them I’ve eaten since we introduced them with L’s lunch on Saturday. Suffice it to say that this morning, when L witnessed me skimming goldfish from her little snack bowl, she started laughing at me, as if to say, “Daddy, you have no willpower whatsoever.”

In all seriousness, the addition of goldfish to L’s dining repertoire is both something to celebrate and something to fear. With their hard little forms, the little crackers are, far and away, the most challenging item she’s ever had to ingest.

Naturally, this means the resident neurotic (that’d be me) freaks out every time she eats one.

Usually, I mark the occasion by saying, “Chew, chew, chew,” until all traces of the fish have disappeared from her mouth. The girl must think I’m imitating a train.

So long as she doesn’t choke, I don’t care one bit (even if I do eat far more of the buggers than I probably should).

Today’s target: Another one of those parents who are such wild sloths that they simply can’t be bothered reining in their kids when the kids are invading others’ space.

Case in point: The scene this morning at our favorite local greasy spoon.

L and I were sitting at our usual table, eating our usual meals (grilled cheese for her; machaca for me) and chatting with the owner when Slothful Sally and her 4-year-old daughter walked in. Sally went straight for a booth two tables away (note the proximity; it’s an important detail), where she proceeded to tune out and scour the menu. Sally Junior made a beeline for L.

All of this attention from Sally Junior wouldn’t have bothered me if the kid had kept an appropriate distance. But the kid came close. Too close. And she had a giant wart on her hand.

(No, dear readers, while I enjoy reading fiction, I swear I don’t make this shit up.)

The first time Sally Junior reached out to touch L, I grabbed L’s hands and muttered something sweetly, like, “Oh, honey, sorry, but my daughter’s hands are sticky from the fruit she’s eating.” The second time, I got a snippier, and declared: “Honey, we’re eating. You should go sit down.”

Finally, when Sally Junior went in to touch my daughter’s cheek, I yelled: “Please leave us alone. Go sit with your mother.”

Now, dear reader, remember the parenthetical phrase in which I told you to note how close the mother was sitting? Well even after I raised my voice to her daughter, Slothful Sally didn’t move a muscle. No apologies. No dirty looks. Not even a curse muttered under her breath. The slothful beast did and said nothing. It was vexing, to say the least.

And totally not Sally Junior’s fault.

Still, all day, I’ve been wondering if I could have handled the situation differently. What would you have done? To what extent have you extended your personal space boundaries to your child? And how difficult do you find it to play the role of disciplinarian when other parents won’t?

I welcome public and private responses. If L gets a wart on her face, I’ll let you know.

This weekend, during a 40th birthday celebration for my sister-in-law, I did something similar.

My stunt didn’t involve a swaddle; considering I was out at a bar with my wife’s sisters and their respective mates that would have been awkward. Instead, the escapade revolved around a sippy cup—L’s preferred method of drinking milk these days.

Earlier in the evening, during dinner, my mother-in-law had given us a sippy cup we inadvertently left with her during a visit on Friday. Because we went straight from dinner to grab our nightcaps, neither I nor Powergirl had a chance to stash the cup with our stuff. So we brought it with us. To a tiki bar.

You can imagine what transpired from there. On top of all the wine from dinner, that first mai-tai was (relatively) uneventful. By the second one, yours truly was pouring drink into the sippy cup and slurping it like L herself.

The verdicts: Sucking from those little buggers takes some work! No wonder L usually seems so labored after a long drink. Also, it’s very calming to clutch the cup and slurp away.

Perhaps there’s a new invention in my future. Yard-long beer cups, consider yourselves warned.

In a nutshell, new-mom Bundchen sounded off with her opinions on breastfeeding, stating something stupid about an international law requiring all moms to breastfeed their newborns for at least six months.

Understandably, a whole lot of women got super pissed.

One of these women—a college classmate who now writes (amazing stuff) for the New York Post—wrote a scathing article about the whole thing. Check it out (and be sure not to be drinking any hot beverages when you do so, because the author, Mandy Stadtmiller, is almost insanely hilarious).

If you think it’s odd for me—a dad—to be weighing in on the whole breastfeeding debate, think again. While we fathers don’t have breasts, the best of us (should) have a say in most decisions during those first few months. That means we need to educate ourselves as best we can.

Considering how emotionally and biologically charged the issue of nursing is, informed opinions on the subject are a good idea. Too bad Gisele didn’t heed this advice before she opened her stupid mouth.

First, she demanded to share my bran muffin (the muffin, this nugget of goodness from our local bakery technically is dubbed “Berry Beneficial,” and has blueberries and blackberries inside). Then, after I complimented her for the way she finished all of her yogurt, she repeated my kudos perfectly, pointing to herself as she said, “Good girl,” again and again.

Talk about instilling self-confidence; following this initial mimicry, the baby must have deemed herself a good girl 40 times in all. Then, after her meal, she just crawled around the living room chanting it like a mantra.

I’m not sure I’ve laughed as hard in weeks.

Powergirl and I welcome this kind of parroting; most of our friends (and Web sites like this one) say it starts around 13 months, so we’ve been waiting for it for a while.

The only major downside? Now we really have to watch our mouths; as two California transplants from New York (I’m from Long Island; she’s from Queens), that may be more challenging than it seems.

Sure, she’s given me hickeys before. But tonight—probably because she’s teething something fierce—she bit down on my shoulder so hard, she actually drew blood.

To say the encounter took me aback would be an understatement. On one hand, I found it hysterically funny, and wanted to laugh at how crazy/freaky/weird our child is. On the other hand, I knew I couldn’t show her any sort of reaction that might encourage her to do it again, lest she take a chunk out of her mother or one of her grandparents.

So I ignored the bite completely. Until she tried to do it again. Then I said, “No” in a stern voice.

I’m not the best (read: most resolved) disciplinarian, but my response somehow managed to deter her from sucking my blood for the rest of the night. Let’s hope there are no repeat performances any time soon; I’d rather not raise an honorary Salvatore in this house.

Apparently, she had other plans.

She made her intentions clear last weekend. We were out and about with some of my friends, lunching and wine-tasting at some of my town’s finest establishments. At our final stop of the day—a cult winery just off the square—our host gave us grownups brownie bites to accompany our 1-oz taste of port.

L, the stubborn little trickster that she is, intercepted the chocolaty goody between my hand and my mouth, and chomped off a chunk of her own.

Reactions washed over me like the crashing surf. The first wave: “Ohmygod, she’s going to choke.” When she didn’t choke, the next wave hit: “Can babies eat chocolate?” Finally, the third (and perhaps most neurotic) wave came: “What’s the chance those brownies are organic?”

Needless to say, the brownies were NOT organic. After a minor freak-out over this fact, I’ve come to terms with the reality that—gasp!—I’m not going to be able to control what L eats for the rest of her life. She’ll probably drink soda at some point. She might eat McDonald’s. Hell, somebody may even introduce her to Fun-Dip.

My epiphany: All I can do is provide my daughter with a foundation in healthy eating and the knowledge to make good choices. The rest, at least most of the time, is up to her.

While we grownups downed wine at a variety of spots (if you’re visiting the area, the new cave at Deerfield Ranch is amazing), the baby imbibed what has become her favorite elixir: the 2009 vintage of Enfamil PREMIUM Lipil (for those of you with no sense of humor, this is formula).

Considering the amount of car time (lots), coupled with the amount of time spent standing around at various wineries and restaurants (even more), the baby did great—she didn’t cry once.

Of course the day was made easier by a product that has become my best friend: single-serve packets of the baby’s formula. When I’m out and about, I spend far too much time thinking about how easy these sleeves make my days. To me, at least from my current perspective as a new dad, they are one of the greatest inventions of all time.

I voiced this opinion out loud tonight at dinner—a meal that L and I shared in a nearby restaurant with Powergirl, my friend from L.A., his wife, and another couple.

The husband of the third couple laughed at my sentiment and put things into a broader context. “We don’t have kids,” he said, “but that sounds like the moment in college when you thought it was the best thing ever that you could pay for pizza with personal checks.”

The comparison was especially apt. I remember that moment in college, and it was pretty frieking awesome.

But this guy’s observation captured another sentiment: How you don’t need kids to appreciate the way perspectives change over time. Did I ever think I’d publicly extol the virtues of single-serve formula sleeves? No way in hell. Will I find something else about which to wax poetic once L has moved off formula but onto or into something else? Absolutely.

Parenthood can be daunting, but after mental exercises like this one, the whole experience of being a Dad (or Mom, I’m sure) also can be quite a hoot. I’m no expert on the subject, but after ten months, my advice is simple: Don’t fight changing perspectives, appreciate the poetry and never be afraid to have a good laugh (especially at yourself).

Thank you for all of the great suggestions you have given my wife and me in the ten months since our daughter was born. We loved your idea of changing her while she’s standing in her crib. The whole dissolve-in-their-mouths cereal thing? Genius! And, though I vowed to hate it, I admit that the Diaper Genie really was a good investment.

That said, those cookie-like teething biscuits you all recommend so highly might just be the work of Satan.

Yes, our baby loves them. And yes, it appears that they do, in fact, alleviate some of the pain she is experiencing due to new teeth. But, docs, it may not be possible for these cookies to create more of a mess.

Every time L has one, it’s like she becomes Pig-Pen from the Peanuts cartoons. A gooey, grainy gook from the biscuit gets all over everything—her onesie, her hands, her face and sometimes even her hair. This slobber also finds its way down the high chair, and eventually onto our kitchen floor.

Put simply, the stuff is gets everywhere.

And so, it is with great regret that I write to inform you that unless you want to pay for a daily cleaning service, we will no longer be using teething biscuits in this house. When the kid’s teeth hurt, we’ll give her a teething ring. When she wants a cookie, we’ll give her something else. And when she wonders what happened to her beloved biscuits, we’ll blame everything on you.

Sincerely,
MJV and Powergirl