Speaking in Strange Tongues

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the May 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

I’ve always wanted to speak a second language. I took three years of Spanish in high school and another in college. Yet, even with four years of schooling, I’m still limited to just a few phrases:

“Me llamo Val” (My name is Val)
“Donde esta la biblioteca?” (Where is the library?)
“Feliz Navidad!” (Merry Christmas!)

Unfortunately, these phrases aren’t very useful unless it’s Christmas day and I’m looking for a library in Mexico…or Miami.

Recently, I’ve been learning a brand new language: baby-talk. Over the past few months my daughter has been gradually increasing her vocabulary, and, as a result, she is getting better at communicating her needs to us. When I say “vocabulary,” however, I’m not necessarily talking about actual English words as you and I know them. Hers is a hybrid language of sorts—one part English and one part jibberish.

Sometimes it’s easy to understand her. Words, like “eat” and “play,” come out clear and phonetically correct. Other words, however, are not as understandable, and it took some time for us to be able to first identify and then translate them.

For example, “waah,” as we have come to learn, means “rag” and refers to the cloth diaper my daughter sleeps with. When she says “why,” she’s not asking a question; rather, she’s asking for “water.” And the confusion doesn’t end here.

One of my daughter’s unique linguistic traits is that she likes to add the “uh” sound before a lot of her words, while putting the emphasis on the latter half. For example: “uh-EAT,” “uh-PLAY,” “uh POOPOO,” etc. Sometimes she even puts an “uh” sound at the end of the word, which makes her sound somewhat Italian, i.e., “uh-WOK-uh,” meaning “Put me down; I want to walk.”

Here’s a little sampling of some of her other phrases and their meanings:

uh-MALK-uh = I want my milk.
uh-DUCK-uh = It is dark.
uh-MAN-uh = I want a banana.
uh-SEAT-uh = Sit down.
shoosh = shoes
moe = more
uh oh = I’ve spilled something (most likely on purpose)
aw doe = All done = Get me out of this highchair or I’ll start
throwing food all over the place!

Each night, right before bedtime, she’ll quickly run through several of these phrases in a last-ditch effort to avoid going to sleep. (“Uh-EAT! Uh-MALK-uh! Uh-PLAY! Uh-EAT!!)

I used to listen to other babies babble incoherently and wonder at the ability of their parents to translate what they were saying. Now I have this same superpower, which is pretty cool. Unfortunately, I also now find myself speaking back to my daughter in a bizarre, third-person dialect that makes me sound a little like a cave man:

“Daddy love you!”
“Bad girl! You listen to Daddy. Daddy mad!”
“Shhh! Mommy tired. Mommy sleepy.”
“No, no…no touch…Daddy’s wine…NO TOUCH!”

It’s not so bad talking like this at home, but out in public it can be a little embarrassing. I just wonder how long I’ll continue to talk like this. (“Daddy no like your boyfriend. Boyfriend have mustache. Where Daddy’s wine?”)

So maybe the four years I spent studying Spanish were all for naught. That’s okay. It’s not like I’ve put all those years of studying advanced mathematics to use, either. Besides, I can now count baby-talk as my official second language.

Although I don’t think it will do much for me on my resume.

What A Difference 10 Years Makes

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the April 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

Over the past few weeks I’ve come to the conclusion that the “me” of just ten years ago would hate the “me” of today. In fact, I think that 24-year-old me would absolutely loathe 34-year-old me and what I’ve become.

This enlightenment came to me a couple weeks back when two of my best friends invited me to accompany them on a little snowboarding getaway to a local mountain resort. The plan was to head up there early on Saturday and snowboard most of the day, while stopping for several breaks at the ski lodge bar. It was a fantastic plan, filled with all kinds of winter fun with two of my closest compadres, and it was one that 24-year-old me would have jumped on.

Thirty-four-year-old me, however, decided to forgo this day of winter revelry and, instead, spend the day at the children’s museum with my wife and daughter. Whilst my friends were out shushing down some icy slope in the Laurel Highlands, stopping for the occasional drink and spying the occasional snow bunny, I was one of what seemed like a thousand parents crammed into the Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood room, chasing my little one around with a video camera. It was a wonderful afternoon that concluded with my exhausted but happy daughter passing out, slumped over in her car seat on the ride home.

Twenty-four-year-old me is just sick hearing me say this.

The funny thing is, although I knew my friends were out having a great time, I was really glad I decided not to go. I gave up a day of adrenaline-pumping outdoor excitement with two of my best buds in order to watch my daughter paint an unrecognizable blob and then try to eat the paintbrush – and I was okay with it (the passing-up-snowboarding-to-go-to-the-museum-part; not my daughter eating a paint brush).

Right now, 24-year-old me is shaking his head at me from the past.

What can I say? My priorities have changed. Twenty-four-year-old me’s priorities were 1) looking for girls, 2) continuing to look for girls, and 3) making enough money bussing tables in order to buy beer for the week.

Thirty-four-year-old me’s priorities, on the other hand, are 1) spending time with my wife and daughter, 2) making enough money to pay the bills and save a little for the future, and 3) making enough money through my writing to buy wine for the week.

Twenty-four-year-old me really hates that I like wine.

Here’s what a typical conversation between 24-year-old me and 34-year-old me would sound like:

Me at 24: Hey, Val, you wanna go to happy hour after work on Friday and look for some girls?

Me at 34: Hey, Val, that sounds fun, but I think I’m just going to stay home, play with my daughter until she goes to sleep, and then maybe have a glass of wine before turning in early.

Me at 24: What?!? Wine?!? Turn in early?!? Didn’t you hear me? I’m talking about girls and beer…and girls!

Me at 34: I heard you. I’d just rather spend a nice quiet evening at home with my wife and daughter. Did you know my daughter can already say her A-B-Cs? She’s really into Elmo now, too.

Me at 24: (blank stare) Uh…okay. You have fun sitting at home then. I’ll be out having a great time and meeting a bunch of girls.

Me at 34: No you won’t. We never had the guts to talk to any girls. Besides, we always felt like crap the next day from drinking too much cheap beer.

Me at 24: I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Turn-in-early-wine-drinker.

Me at 34: Yeah, Whatever.

Me at 24: Whatever, yourself!!

Me at 34: Wait…aren’t we the same person?

Me at 24: Huh?

Me at 34: Oh…never mind.

Yes, I’m perfectly happy with 34-year-old me. Sure, 24-year-old me had a lot of spunk and was always up for a good time; then again, 24-year-old me didn’t know what its like to have your baby girl sit on your lap and smile while you read her favorite bedtime story. Too bad. I think 24-year-old me might have really liked it.

Twenty-four-year-old me seriously doubts that.

Valentine J. Brkich is happy to be 34 years old. Visit his website today at www.brkichwriting.com.

A Black & Gold Obsession

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the March 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

Parents spend a lot of time teaching their children about shapes – circles, squares, triangles, etc. I’ve been teaching my daughter to recognize the most important shape of all: the astroid hypocycloid. Not ringing a bell? Check out the yellow, red, and blue star-like objects on the Pittsburgh Steelers logo.

It’s been over a month now since the Pittsburgh Steelers won Super Bowl XLIII, but I’m still in celebration mode. It’s not every year that your team can call itself the best in the world, so I’m milking this baby as long as I can.

I still remember the gut-wrenching moment, late in the fourth quarter, when Larry Fitzgerald caught that pass up the middle and blew past the Steelers defense like they were standing still. I didn’t stick around long enough to see him reach the end zone, though. I immediately left my family and friends to go sulk in private. After all, there was no way we were going to come back and score with just over two minutes left in the game. No way.

But of course, we all know what happened.

As I watched the Steelers accept their sixth Vince Lombardi trophy, I couldn’t help but wonder why I cared so much. And care is an understatement. When I thought we were going to lose, I was devastated. How would I come to terms with such a painful loss? I may be mentally ill.

Then, when the Steelers won, I was euphoric. It was as if I, not Santonio Holmes, had just caught that miraculous game-winning touchdown. Again, the psychosis.

Why do we care? It’s not like the players are actually from the Pittsburgh region. Heck, Hines Ward lives in Georgia. The only thing that ties them to Pittsburgh is the contract they sign and the jersey they wear on Sundays. So what does it matter to us if they win or lose?

I’ve thought about this a lot since that wonderful Sunday evening (I need help), and I’ve come to the conclusion that we love the Steelers because they represent something that binds us together. We all have separate lives, separate jobs, separate neighborhoods, and so on, but the Steelers are something we all have in common. They give us an excuse to gather with friends on a Sunday afternoon and forget our problems for a few hours. In a region that’s seen its share of hardship in recent times, this team represents something we can all root for and be proud of. And I think, deep down, that’s something we all need.

After we screamed and cried and yelled and embraced and kissed and jumped up and down like a bunch of lunatics, I glanced over at the baby monitor. Surely there was no way my daughter, upstairs in her crib, had slept through such a raucous celebration. But, to my astonishment, the monitor was silent. I guess that’s what they mean by “sleep like a baby.”

Thinking of my daughter lying there, sound asleep, as we lived and died…and lived again with the Steelers, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. Just as I had missed out on all the fun of the Super Bowls from the 1970s, she was missing out on all the joy and excitement we were experiencing now. What a shame. But at least she didn’t have to deal with those final fifteen minutes of nail-biting anxiety. Can’t the Steelers just win a game outright for once, for cryin’ out loud?

I’m looking forward to the day when my daughter and I can cheer on the “Black and Gold” together – when we can revel together in their victories and comfort each other in their defeats (hopefully we won’t have to do much comforting).

Sure, maybe it’s a little childish to get all wrapped up in the fortunes of a professional football team. Then again, maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.

Close Encounters of the Baby Kind

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the January 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

I’m not sure how it happened, but my daughter is not the same tiny person she used to be.

We’ve had her for a little over a year now. During this time, she’s been a quiet, calm, mostly immobile little girl who will eat anything you put in front of her, including sticks, paper products and the occasional finger.

But one night she went to sleep, and the next morning everything had changed.

I’ve heard horror stories from other parents about how their child won’t eat anything. They literally have to pry the kid’s mouth open and shove the food inside, which inevitably comes flying back out, all mushy and wet, landing right smack on the parent’s face.

We’ve never had that problem. Until now. The same little girl, who we once bragged about for ingesting anything within range of her mouth, suddenly decided one day that she didn’t want to eat anymore. Instead, she now prefers to toss her food on the floor while giving us a stare that says “I dare you to try and stop me!”

I don’t get it. What happened to our good little eater? It’s like she woke up one day and thought, “Wait a second…what is this? Broccoli? What am I doing in this high chair when I could be running all over the house touching things?”

And that brings up another point. How can someone barely be able to crawl one day and run around like Carl Lewis the next?

For the first several months of her life, all my daughter did was lie around. It was wonderful. Then, gradually, she started to roll around from place to place. Still manageable. But then she began to crawl, and – POOF! – like magic, she suddenly became bipedal and refused to be held anymore. Call me crazy, but walking seems like something that would take some practice to learn. And unless she was training in the middle of the night in her crib, I can’t see how she suddenly just figured it out.

So here’s what I think. Either my daughter has been toying with us all this time in some devious plot to lull us into a parental slumber, or she was kidnapped by alien invaders and replaced by an evil clone as part of a larger plot to take over our household by frustrating and exhausting us into submission. I’m leaning towards the latter.

So what can we do? Well, based on her reactions, nothing whatsoever. It’s just not worth it. Personally, I’d like it if someone wanted to hold me and carry me around all the time. And I’d really enjoy being fed three times a day without having to cook or clean up anything (oh, wait, that already happens).

If my alien daughter clone wants to kick and scream when I try to pick her up, if she wants to toss her food on the floor and spit masticated mashed potatoes in my face, so be it. After all, my feeble human powers are useless against her.

Valentine J. Brkich is a writer and author who’s raising a beautiful little alien clone. If you have any advice for him, please drop him a line...before it’s too late! val@brkichwriting.com

Problem Child

(Copyright 2008 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the Dec. 2008 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

I have a confession to make, and I'm a little embarrassed about it. Actually, it's not even about me, it's about my daughter, but it's still difficult to talk about. You see, my daughter has a problem. She has a few problems actually, and I think that although she'll probably be upset with me, the best way to deal with these problems is to talk about them openly and reveal them to a bunch of total strangers like you.

First of all – and there's really no easy way to say this – my daughter pees her pants. All the time. She does "number 2" in her pants all the time, too. It's a daily occurrence, several times a day, actually. It's so bad that she has to wear a diaper all the time, even when she sleeps. We've tried to tell her that she needs to use the toilet, but she just looks up at us and babbles something completely incoherent. It's like she doesn't even know what a toilet is.

And that's another problem we have with her: communication. When my wife and I want something, we just ask for it. But my daughter is stubborn, and she never tells us exactly what it is she wants. Instead, she just cries or screams or throws things until we can guess what it is that she wants. When she does this at home, it's aggravating. But when she does this in public, it's mortifying. People just stare at us like we're crazy or something.

I'm also sorry to say that my daughter has a drinking problem. You should see her. She can never take a drink without spilling it all over herself, and sometimes she even misses her mouth completely. They say the first step to recovery is having the person admit that she has a problem in the first place. But we can't even get her to say "mama"; how in the world are we supposed to get her to say "I have a drinking problem?"

Another thing is the way she eats. It's disgusting. She refuses to use utensils and eats everything with her bare hands. Half the time she misses her mouth completely, and the food ends up all over her face, on her outfit and on the floor. And when she's had her fill, instead of just saying she's finished, she starts playing with her food and throwing it all over the place. Going out to eat isn't even an option anymore.

One last thing (and this may be the most embarrassing of all), my daughter has a bad habit of chewing on everything. No matter what it is – a rock, a stick, a bowie knife – you name it, she'll stick it in her mouth and chew on it. The frame of her crib has so many teeth marks on it that you'd think we're raising a beaver instead of a daughter.

Now, I know what you're thinking: she's just 15 months old; she doesn't know any better. Sure, that's easy for you to say. But I'd like to see how you'd react if your daughter passed gas during the sermon at your church loud enough for the entire congregation to hear. I think you'd be whistling a different tune.

For now, all we can do is hope that she'll grow out of all these bad habits and become a normal, respectable member of society. In the meantime, we'll just have to deal with her infantile behavior the best we can.

Now, if you'll excuse me…I think I hear my daughter eating the remote control.

Daddy Delusions

(Copyright 2008 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the Nov. 2008 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

Attention all guys: Want to know what it's like to be famous? Do you want to know what it feels like to turn heads when you walk into a room? Would you like to have the same admiration of such big-name celebs as Brad Pitt, Matthew McConaughey, and Leonardo DiCaprio? Then strap a baby to your chest. Preferably, a cute one.

Just recently, my wife and I were out at one of Western PA's many fine autumn festivals. Our baby girl isn't much for strollers, so we bought one of those Swedish, yuppie front-side baby carrier thingies. She loves it. She kicks her feet and waves her hands as she bounces up and down with my every step. We sort of look like Siamese twins, except that we don't look very much alike, and I'm a few decades older.

During the festival, nearly every person we passed was oohing and awing at our little diaper diva, commenting on her cuteness, pointing her out to friends and relatives and—I'll admit it—making Daddy feel very much like a celebrity.

Now, I know what you're thinking. They're not fawning over you, you idiot, but rather the cute little baby that's strapped to your chest. Obviously, I know this. I may be somewhat dopey and unable to do simple math in a hurry, say, in the line at the drive through, but I am able to grasp the fact that these people are taken by my daughter and not by me.

But what's so wrong about pretending? It's not as if I'm some overbearing "stage dad," parading my daughter in a baby beauty pageant or forcing her to practice golf so that she'll be the next Tiger (or Tigress) Woods. I'm just strapping her to my chest and frequenting public festivals so that I can pretend that the adoration she's getting for being innately cute is actually adoration for me for being freakishly handsome, smart, and talented. It's way more fun than the type of "make believe" that Mr. Roger's promoted.

Trust me, fellas, nothing draws attention, specifically female attention, better than an adorable little baby. A lot of people will try to tell you that a puppy works just as well. But I disagree. Just try putting a dog in a front-side carrier and watch the looks that people give you. Besides, every time you walk past a tree the dog pees all over you. Been there, done that.

If only I had known all this back when I was single. Back then, girls avoided looking at me as if I were a solar eclipse, Medusa, or the Elephant Man. Little did I know that all I had to do was strap a baby to my chest and I'd be the toast of the town. Ah, but hindsight is 20/20.

As we were leaving the festival, my wife and I passed a young couple going the other way. The guy was one of those big, burly football-player types. As they passed us, I heard the girl lean in and ask him if he could ever see himself wearing a baby on his chest, making it sound like a bad thing. I turned back and caught him looking back at me. I smiled; he gave me a look that said "dork." That's okay, Big Burly Football-Player Guy. You may laugh at me now, but remember: I was once just like you (only much skinnier and awkward, and sans girlfriend). Don't be surprised if, one day, you find yourself wearing a baby on your chest and soaking up the attention from every female in sight. There are worse ways to spend the afternoon.

Toddler T-Rex

(Copyright 2008 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the Oct. 2008 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

I've always been infatuated with dinosaurs; most boys are, at one time or another. In fact, the first story I ever wrote was a 10-sentence, nine-chapter thriller called Dinosaur Island, in which I become stranded on a tropical, dinosaur-infested isle. Written in 1982, when I was just 7 years old, the story is eerily similar in parts to Steven Spielberg's Jurassic Park (1993). I've considered filing suit against Mr. Spielberg for theft of intellectual property; but, then again, I've never been the vindictive type.

Today, luckily, I have my very own pet dinosaur – a baby T-Rex, to be exact. Oh sure, to look at her, you'd think she's just a cute little one-year-old human baby. But don't be mistaken; she's more T-Rex than toddler.

You see, my baby girl can eat. She can devour more food than most kids double her size. When she's hungry…look out! The moment her bottom hits her high-chair, her arms pull inward like those of the mighty Tyrannosaurus, and she lets out a roar that can only be described as prehistoric. When my wife and I hear this guttural growl, we scamper to the refrigerator in search of something – anything – to appease our ravenous little carnivore.

Of course, much like the mighty T-Rex, my baby tears into whatever food we give her with terrific ferocity. On several occasions, I've nearly had my fingers bitten clean off by her four, razor-sharp teeth, as I tried to replenish her supply of Cheerios. She sucks meatloaf down like it's a milkshake, and she can eat chicken faster than a wing-eating champion on an empty stomach. She's a veritable baby-sized garbage disposal, that one.

From what I've seen, most babies are discriminating eaters. Not my little girl. She'll devour anything within reach, including cell phones, fallen leaves and the aforementioned human finger. The other day, my wife fed the baby a mixture of broccoli and peaches, and the little bugger didn't bat an eye. She swallowed every last bit of the vile concoction and then let out a roar of displeasure when it was all gone.

And not only does she eat like a T-Rex, but she also plays like one, smashing through her toys much like a mini Godzilla awakened from the deep. One thing I enjoy is having roaring contests with her, which my wife continually states that she could do without.

What confuses us is how our baby girl consumes all this food while remaining so petite (She's a mere 15 lbs.). How can something eat like a T-Rex and remain as slim as Mary-Kate Olsen? It's not like she has a stair-master in her crib or anything. Although, I did walk in on her late one evening and I could've sworn I saw her doing little jumping jacks. It was dark in the nursery, however, so I can't be certain.
I kind of like having a baby who acts like a little Tyrannosaurus. In a way, it fulfills my own childhood dream of walking the earth with those legendary "thunder-lizards." Let's just hope that, with her insatiable appetite, my daughter doesn't ever approach the actual size of a T-Rex. Something like that could make it hard for her to find a prom date.

Valentine J. Brkich is a writer and father who sometimes wishes dinosaurs still existed. (And don't give him any of that bull about how they actually do, i.e., alligators and crocodiles. T-Rex wouldn't give those puny things the time of day.) E-mail him today at val@brkichwriting.com.