I'm walking through a field. One of those sweeping, idyllic, pastoral settings with the sun at it's golden hour and majestic trees hanging off of hillsides. It always feels like late summer, those evenings past the harsh days of July or August. Every time, it's like something out of a stock photo or pharmaceutical commercial. But it's real. It feels real. And peaceful. And the contentment I experience makes me realize how ill at ease I must be normally, because the peacefulness feels alien and awkward.

I'm usually looking at something...a piece of paper, a map, a napkin with notes scrawled on it. That's when I hear the first explosion. The 'me' in the dream (who looks thankfully more like George Clooney than Kevin James. Good job subconscience!) begins frantically following the notations in hand, as if they are guiding the movements forward. More explosions. More terror and panic. More dirt raining down on shoulders and dust smudging up the bucolic scenery. And then I wake up in a start. It's usually 4-something in the morning and I'm lucky if I get back to sleep.

I really need to change what I read before bed each night.

In my off-time as an armchair psychoanalyst, I have concluded that these dreams/nightmares must be related to the stress I feel about screwing up as a parent. I've been reading a good deal of childhood education books lately, books that deal with raising kids to be self-sufficient and all that stuff. While it's not like I treat the texts as gospel, apparently the thesis of these books have stirred up the same basic fear that I'm sure most parents have: failing their kids.

It's true. I really am afraid of my own ineptitude. I'm not scared that Liam is going to grow up to be a Cheeto-snorting meth dealer or anything. I'm frightened of the subtle things, the issues that impact whether he grows up to be a well-formed adult and perhaps a father himself some day: his communication skills, his adaptiveness, where his locus of control lies.

My answers to his questions, the wording of my interactions with him, how I handle frustration and anger as a parent...all of them (apparently, according to a multitude of people with M.Ed's) have profound impacts on who he will become. That's a tall order. Maybe I naively thought that this whole 'parenthood' thing was about changing diapers and driving him to the mall in a few years. I'm not sure. It just all seems so much more purposeful.

The only thing I can liken it to is the systematic notion of cancer: All it takes is for one small mutation of one cell to start the chain reaction that could lead to colostomy bags and coffins. Similarly, I guess I'm just terrified that if I don't get every step of this whole Dad Thing right, he's not going to end up as amazing as I already think he is. And I would be responsible for that.

Sure, every parent worries about this. I know I'm not charting any new emotional territory here. But the pain, the fear and the worry is real. And apparently keeping me up at night.

And he's not even a rebellious teenager yet...

My idea of a good ol' vacay is anything that is relaxing and away from work, computers and phones. However my vacation plans have never, at any point, included items such as "gaggles of fanny-packed tourists," "humidity so thick you lose the will to live," or "explaining to my two year old the concept of 'financial responsibility' and why he cannot have that $59.99 bottle of Mickey Bubbles from the gift shop." Surely I can't be the only person out there who is less than thrilled at the idea of vacationing in animatronic hell there?

Yes, I have a kid. Yes, I'm fine with the idea of taking a vacation "for their happiness and not mine." My problem is that my kid is 20 months old. Sneaking oven mitts out of a drawer when we're not looking is his idea of mind-blowing excitement. Surely I don't have to take out a second mortgage to one-up that.

And don't get me wrong, it's not all about the cost. I mean, paying $48 for cold scrambled eggs served by a cartoon character sounds like an absolute bargain if it's "to see the joy in my son's eyes." But it's Florida in the summer, which I'm pretty sure was the setting for the movie Backdraft. And then there's the fact that we're traveling in a party of 12. Has anyone ever tried to walk as a cohesive unit at a mall or otherwise with a party larger than two? Exactly. It's a statistic improbability. No one can get their sh*t together. On any given day the 12 of us couldn't even come to a consensus on what time it was without someone storming off in a huff. But let's go to The Most Crowded Place on Earth and give this whole "cohesive happiness" thing a shot, eh?

In the end, isn't this essentially a vacation of waiting in lines? What coworker would be envious of that? "Hey, d'you just get back from vacation? What'd you do?" "Oh, you know, stood in line for 10 hours every day in the blistering sun while carrying my 30lb child 15 miles on my back without realizing he's wiped off all the sunscreen on my body. JEALOUS?" And don't get me started on the airport or the flight there. Jesus.

I'll let the hard facts speak for themselves. I submit to you scientific evidence why this is a bad idea:



and also:

Normally the retorts I get from the Mousewashed flock are, "what's wrong with you? Didn't you like Disney world as a child? Who doesn't like Disney World?!" It's like I've told them that I don't like breathing or ponies or ice cream covered in rainbows. And for the record, I'm the one person who never saw Titanic either. Deal with it.

The thing is, I'm not going to win. The tickets are booked. Ultimately I'm just a dude with an empty wallet and a dream of taking a relaxing break from work for a week or so. If being protective of anything that threatens that is wrong, well you can catch me scaling the Princess' Castle this summer. I'll be the World's Number One Misanthropic Asscanoe trying to elude the cops after having completed six consecutive 'Round the World Beer Tours in Epcot.

It's no secret that I love the TED talks. I've linked to them on more than one occasion on here because I often find them to be substantive and inspiring. Most recently, I watched Jamie Oliver's talk on teaching children about food. Kids and food. What a recipe for disaster.

Ask any parent what the top five things they dread every day are and I would wager that "dinnertime" is consistently on the list. In our home, the "what are we fixing Liam for dinner?" question is always said with a sigh and heavy with resignation. Why? Because we know it's going to be a fight.

It didn't used to be. When he switched from formula and rice cereal to baby food, things were peachy. Being stubborn, I refused to let him eat store-bought food because I wanted him to have fresh ingredients. Every Sunday I would spend between four and seven hours cooking large batches of food to freeze in ice cube trays. Am I to be applauded? Hell no. Yet when people hear that I made my baby fresh food, people look at me like I refuse to shower or something. Somehow cooking food for my kid is bizarre, when pre-made stuff is readily available.

Something happened last summer, though, that changed every evening since: the week that Liam switched daycares to a school that provided breakfast and lunch, his palette went out with the dirty diapers. Gone was my baby boy who would eat leeks & sweet potatoes, or eggplant bolognese or salmon and capers in a béchamel sauce. Here to stay was my toddler who only eats chicken nuggets, pancakes, breaded fish sticks and grilled cheese. Getting him to eat a plain slice of cheese and swallowing it without making the Arsenic Face will forever be listed as one of my greatest achievements. Katie, you can put that on my tombstone.

At first I figured that his taste buds just changed, part of growing older. But then we discovered weird inconsistencies in his likes and dislikes. He devours ravioli at school. But at home won't touch it. The problem? Homemade marinara sauce on non-Chef-Boyardee pasta. That's not what they serve at school.. Green beans at daycare? Sure! At home? Did you really expect me to eat this?

Thank God for fruit, that's all I'm going to say, because that kid is at least 83% bananas and pineapple (the remaining 17%, if you must know, is pure Irish dùr).

While discouraging, disheartening and down right maddening, it's rather understandable. Liam knows he has choices now. Why would he eat green beans (even if slow cooked with ham hocks and onions) if he could have chicken nuggets? He has choices because someone else is making the nutritional decisions for him on 48% of his weekly food intake. When he knew no different, he was open to trying things. Now he only tries something if they offer it at school first. School/daycare dictates his diet.

Don't get me wrong, I know kids traditionally hate vegetables, have weird palettes, go through bizarro phases, etc. I get it. I know that I have no choice in it really because he is in daycare and out of my control. But listening to Jamie Oliver's speech made me realize that even if I don't win, and he refuses to touch my grilled cheese (made with homemade bread), maybe one day it'll sink in that food is supposed to be made at home and that making your own food is not only important nutritionally, but crucial to his health. It's how I grew up, and I really appreciate the fact that my mother didn't cave to the Processed Food/Drive-Thru Revolution during my childhood.

Goodness knows it would have made her life a lot easier.

Since Christmas, life around the Faust household has been a bit more...noisy. All of a sudden, as if discovering how useful language can be, Liam has decided that it's time to talk. And 90% of it involves the word 'no.'

Liam always appeared to have great language skills, it's just that he never seemed to want to use what was in his enormous head. He comprehends a great deal of words and would learn how to say them, but then he would just file them away once mastered. This was frustrating for us because communicating with a toddler is by default a bit like defusing a bomb...one wrong guess at their needs and you have an evening's worth of hell to pay.

We've been fortunate up until this point, however, to not have a toddler who used the vocal weapon of 'no'. Sure, he had the head shake down, but that just comes across as rather cute, and not--how should we say--obstinate? But apparently 'no' is The New Whatever because he uses it all the time.

I have to give him credit though, he's talking a lot more about everything. Lots of animal noises and gestures, from turkeys to penguins to badgers (still working on the wolverine noise, though). But his go-to really is NO. And he has multiple versions. There's the Cute No, the Unsure No, the No but Yes No, and the ARE YOU KIDDING ME No. For example:

"Can you give your dad a hug?" Noooo. [sheepish smile and a hug]

"Do you want to take your coat off an put it in the closet?" No? [proceed to run to coat closet]

"Would you like dad to get your toy bin out?" No! [tries to pull basket onto his head]

[turning to the dog begging at his high chair] NO!

And then sometimes he just looks at Jonas and says "bye bye." This kid definitely has my sense of humor. Needless to say the noise level in the house has increased a few decibels as he now babbles to his toys or reads the books by himself making animal noises as he points them out. It's heartwarming to see him finally embrace the power of language.

So last night, The Wife™ is in his nursery, gently rocking him for a minute before bed, singing him a song. As he's getting sleepy she lays him in his crib and she slowly begins to tip-toe out of the room so as not to wake him and she whispers goodnight...to which Liam bolts awake and declares proudly, "BYE BYE."

Apparently he's got the concept of sarcasm down. He's going to fit in well in this family.

I'm not going to lie, 2009 kinda sucked. Between the week-long ice storm and the flood that displaced me for four months and between the 10 rounds of pink eye, five ear infections and countless bouts of other assorted maladies...yea, sure, some other stuff happened. I didn't paint a room in 2009! That was totally worth breaking my "no exclamation point" rule just to be able to write that. First time in five years.

But looking back on it all, I truly don't remember much. I had to go back and read what I wrote about those experiences to remember. Because in my head, 2009 was when Liam learned to sit up, to crawl, to stand and walk and run. It was the year he learned how to call me Dada and ask for things he needed (and things he didn't). I will remember 2009 as the year that my son became a little man and not just a baby.

So even though I contemplated writing a "things I did this year/things I'll do next year" list, as I have in the past...I decided not to. Instead I can simply say that in 2009, I tried really hard to be a better father and husband, despite failing many times.

And in 2010 I'm going to try to never forget what it feels like when my son gently takes my hand and leads me to the couch to read him a stack of books. Because that's all the reason I need to try to be a better person.

EDIT - Sh*t. I forgot I painted the garage this summer. 2009 really did blow.