I never understood the tradition of watching grownups lug colossal inflatables down the street as a way to celebrate Thanksgiving. Of course this typically occurs while someone barely famous talks with random guests about sitcoms I’m not interested in watching, or Broadway musicals that I don’t care about. Turkey and football have always provided enough backdrop for me to give thanks. That is until my 20-month old son points to each inflatable with great enthusiasm trying to figure out what they are. No matter his accuracy, his adorable enthusiasm is contagious. “Baby?” “No, buddy. That’s a clown,” I said pointing with him at Ronald McDonald. “Mickey?” “No, buddy. That’s a police officer.” It is fascinating watching Jamie begin to piece together his surroundings, and he did begin to get a few of the parade floats right. He recognized Elsa on the Frozen float, while bouncing up and down and pointing with great enthusiasm. Of course, he is also prone to walk up to a television that is turned off and emphatically plead “Elsa, Elsa, Elsa!” as a way to ask you to watch Frozen for the hundredth time. I’m not sure what it means that he is infatuated with the isolated, more dangerous of the sisters, but there is plenty of time to analyze that. He is beginning to count and repeat some of the ABCs on his own. He knows his body parts better than ever before. And he sure loves his books. We settled into a routine of reading Good Night Moon before bed, that he now anticipates almost every night, except he refers to it as “Bye bye moon.” He can finish certain lines in the book, and has become strangely infatuated with the mouse on the floor in the room. The main character says good night to some extremely arbitrary stuff in that book, but the fact that the mouse is his favorite has his mother slightly disturbed. It is fascinating to watch him piece more and more things together. He is beginning to move past words, into phrases and starting to put together some concepts. Watching his mind at work is enough to tolerate (and possibly enjoy) the change to the Thanksgiving Day routine. Nothing he can say will convince me to like musicals,...

Even though we have a 19-month-old boy, there is still one way I am outnumbered in my own home. The ratio for the love of musicals does not fall in my favor. We recently showed our son Aladdin, and he loved it. He watched attentively the majority of the movie, bouncing up and down with some of the songs. Maybe I’m not open to my hopeless romantic side. Maybe the realist in me has never seen two people supposedly in love sing to each other that much about every single thing. Either way, my hope is that Jamie’s interest in the movie had more to do with the animation than singing and dancing to advance the plot line, but it is too soon to tell. My wife loves musicals. I have fundamental issues with the genre that prohibit me from sharing her passion. Any movie that uses song to show us gangsters about to fight is begging for ridicule (West Side Story). Any movie that uses song to tell us about the character who served a 19-year prison sentence for stealing bread is begging to be considered absurd (Les Miserables). There is something in cinema called the suspension of disbelief. The viewer needs to be able to accept what they see. It’s the fancy term for a B.S detector. If you are willing to buy what a musical is selling you, it might be time to bring your suspension of disbelief in for a tune-up. I couldn’t expect my son to be born with this innate sensibility. However, it is something that can certainly be taught. My wife likes to remind me that a lot of cartoons have music in them. With cartoons for young kids, that music is used as a mnemonic device, and not to advance the plot. It is also a cartoon, and not very lifelike. So viewers are willing to show a little more leeway with the plot. What makes Aladdin different is that it is classified as a musical. I’ll let Jamie enjoy this one for now, but some of the other musical classics would open up too many cans of worms. “Jamie, that is not how gangsters behave,” is not something I imagined needing to explain to him before the ripe age of 2. I may need to prohibit him from watching West Side Story even when he is older, and have him read Hunter Thompson’s Hell’s Angels instead. This isn’t about language or violence. This is about creating a realistic interpretation of what outlaw life is about. Finding a Les Miserables substitution is perhaps a little easier. The book would give him a more accurate interpretation of life in a French prison from...

A few days ago, I had a conversation with two younger coworkers that ended with me feeling much older than my age. To them, Kurt Cobain had always been dead, and one of them did not remember Harry Carey. The phrase “It could be, it might be, it’s caught by the shortstop,” should be in everyone’s lexicon I’m sitting here writing this post from my table in a coffee shop that is scheduled to close down in a few short weeks. It is a major chain. Meg worked for this chain in a location that’s already been closed for quite a few months. Change in the name of progress is severely limiting my coffee variety. The world spins whether you want it to or not. All of this has me thinking about how I will have to explain the world to my son as he gets older: • The names Derrick Rose, Patrick Kane and Paul Konerko could all be distant memories. • Walter Payton, Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen and Andre Dawson may as well be Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, Bob Love and Dick Butkus. • The Chicago Bears used to be called the Monsters of the Midway. That nickname came when playing defense meant something. • The Chicago Blackhawks are still the only Chicago sports team to have won a championship in your lifetime. • There used to be many different places you can buy a cup of coffee. Today, there is Starbucks. • The day that Kennedy was shot, and September 11 are equally foreign concepts. • This is the new Rolling Stones album. Yes, they used to make music in the 1960s, when grandma and grandpa were young. No, Keith Richards isn’t dead yet. • I don’t know what the World Series is. I’m a Cubs fan.    ...

A few months ago I popped a morning news show on the television while I finished getting my son ready to go to my parents’ house for the day. The Talking Heads version of Take Me To The River played for exit music before a commercial. My son began bopping his head and doing his little toddler dance, loving what he heard. When the show went to commercial Jamie looked disappointed, showing me his lip. But as dad, I had this one. I whipped out my phone, and sure enough I had Take Me To The River. He smiled and danced on. Jamie’s always had a thing for music, and it’s really been awesome to watch. He used to kick to a couple Straight No Chaser songs when he was in the womb. I even joked with my wife that one of daddy’s favorites, Wilco, was his first show, since he “witnessed” it from the womb. I have no anecdotal evidence on what he thought of that show, however. It makes me so happy that he is into music, and I want to do everything I can to cultivate his interest.  The other day I had Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon on in the car, and he tried to harmonize with the background vocalists on Great Gig in the Sky. This was truly priceless to hear.  Personally, I love music, but couldn’t carry a tune to save my life. I’m sitting listening to some old time jazz records in the basement while I write this. Right now, these records have been dad’s way to unwind at the end of a day. Once Jamie overcomes his need to feel, touch and destroy everything that he comes in contact with, maybe I’ll start playing some of these records for him at night. I am sure he would enjoy them. Music has a way to make your whole body move, and toddlers don’t hide it. At least mine doesn’t. Who knows, maybe Jamie will be able to take this love for music and turn it into playing an instrument, and maybe not. But that love and appreciation for it is something I hope sticks with him for the rest of his...

The empty bottom compartment of the China cabinet. The entertainment center. The kitchen drawer with dish towels that he loves to empty. No matter where we place our son, this 16-month old has a radar for exactly what we were hoping he doesn’t find. We are constantly picking him up, and returning him to the center of the room. We are constantly bringing him back to the toy that we hoped would hold a shred of his attention. This is usually only a temporary fix. He’s got a remarkable memory for missing exactly what you last took away from him. As a general disclaimer, I should state that we do have our home 99 percent baby-proofed and we do keep a close eye on our son. But here is a bit of insight. A newsflash. Toddlers are work. Watching him from morning to evening is mentally and physically exhausting. No matter the level of baby proofing, he’ll find his way into something. I’m not the most physically fit guy in the world, but the little running I’ve done (however slowly) has given me some endurance in the matter. It helps to be able to go a couple miles without dying. It is clear that the energy level on this kid won’t take an overall dip until sometime during his teenage years. He doesn’t even come to a complete stop during diaper changes anymore. It’s difficult to put a diaper on anything that’s running away. And God help you if you took him away from something enticing for that diaper change. We are going to be putting a fence up in our backyard soon. Since he’s been walking, his range is quickly growing. You cannot stop. You can only hope to contain....

Fifteen. That’s the number of free throws I can make in a row. Of course it helps when the hoop is only about three feet off the ground. And the free throws are from one side of an area rug to another. A few weeks ago we bought a basketball hoop to encourage Jamie to spend more time on his feet. He’s 16 months old, and when he wants to get somewhere fast, he still prefers to crawl. The walking/crawling ratio is slowly changing and we’re trying to nudge it in the right direction. The “problem” is that dad spends more time playing with the basketball hoop than Jamie. We did invent a game. One of our balls gets stuck in the hoop. When I shoot and it stays lodged, I say “help.” Jamie walks over, nudges the ball free, and I say “thank you.” He then parrots what I say. We’re raising one polite rebounder. Past that, it is dad that takes interest in the hoop. When Meg and I are talking, I’m often shooting baskets. I’m trying to break my streak for consecutive free throws. If this hoop were downstairs in my office I may never write again. Some days I feel like Tom Hanks in Big. Now what we need is a piano spread for the floor so that Jamie and I can play chopsticks when he’s a little older. Jamie has always had an interest in music. Last Christmas Meg bought him a xylophone. He’d rather bang the wood spoon on the pot than the mallet on the instrument. Dad on the other hand took the opportunity to learn how to play “Jingle Bells” and “Ode to Joy” (not well). One hidden advantage to having a kid is that it gives you license to have toys in the house again, and by default play with them. By extension, it totally makes you feel like a kid again. With Jamie, a totally acceptable habit. Sans Jamie, placing a Little Tikes basketball hoop in the front room would just be weird. After I write this, if anybody needs me I’ll be trying to break my streak of 15 free throws in a row. At some point my goal is 20. I’m developing a good touch. Too bad it probably won’t transfer...