My introduction to Mike Adamick came courtesy of my sister, Wondersis. She'd been reading Mike's stuff in the San Francisco Chronicle for quite some time, and she thought I'd like his style. She was right. The fraternity of (forgive the use of this awful term) "daddybloggers" is quite small compared to our sisters on the other side of the gender pool, but as Mike makes clear with his prose, we're just as talented. I think you'll become an instant fan of his.

Daddy's Little Peanut
by Mike Adamick

I like those crime shows where a detective will track a crazed killer or extortionist or petty animal molester (Hi Danny -- thinking of you!) for an hour before assembling a cohesive profile of the bad guy from a scattered list of clues. I love seeing how it all comes together in the end, how a seemingly random array of factoids will later create a patchwork clear enough to nab the weirdo just in time. Or at least before David Letterman comes on.

"The hair clips," the detective will intone in the end, clicking on the handcuffs, "It was the hair clips on the poodle that gave you away."

Of course! I'll shout at the TV, I knew it!

But as much as I like to watch how all the stray fragments of life spin together to form a perfect picture of a person, I can't stand to be on the other side, to be secretly probed by strangers -- which is why I hate grocery shopping.

I clearly remember the first trip to the grocery store after moving in with my wife, who was then, 10 years ago, my girlfriend. It was the first apartment for both of us, and it was my job to stock up on goods while Dana stayed home to line the kitchen shelves and prepare our first dinner together. It was going to be a magical night in our new apartment, and I remember buying all manner of goods to celebrate.

At the checkout stand, the college-aged clerk with pocky acne and too many Frostees around the mid-section started announcing each product as she scanned it.

"Cheerios," she said, studying the box as if they were a new product.

"Mangoes," she said, glancing at me for unknown reasons.

"Milk."

"Eggs."

"Beer."

"Lube."

Did she really have to shout the last one?

When she scanned the extra large box of Trojan condoms, she looked up and smiled.

"Condoms," she giggled.

I wondered if I was supposed to say something. Show her ID? Maybe reach across the checkout stand and give her a high five? I was young and had never lived with a woman before and was more than a little uncomfortable when the clerk announced the next purchase -- "price check on Tampax!" -- over the loudspeaker. I started to turn red and cringe. My feet danced nervously on the floor, and I didn't know exactly what to do with my hands. If you've ever seen a young boy pulling at his shirt or his pants because he has to pee, that's what I assumed I looked like. Just what type of picture, I wondered, was this acne-riddled checkout clerk beginning to form of me? And why did I care so much?

Over the years, I've discovered this was not an isolated incident. People love to pry. I love to myself, which is why I get a kick out of reading that checkout line gossip magazine, the one that shows Hollywood stars in regular clothes doing regular things under the headline of "Just like us!"

Of course, it's more than curiosity. I've held all manner of mind-numbing jobs that require epic feats of imagination to endure each new, unending 8-hour shift, which is why I think it's probably so fun for grocery clerks to sift through and study the purchases of complete strangers. I know if I were in their position, I would try to deduce the personalities and living habits of the toothless old guy who likes Eskimo Pies or the nervous teenage boy who buys pregnancy tests in bulk. But it's unsettling when the tables are turned -- when your own purchases, your own life, are laid out and magnified for the world to consider.

What does a purchased Swiffer say about me as a person? Should I have bought generic? How about the Oreos? The orange juice? I'm not an overly sensitive person, but I can't help but feel a tiny bit judged each time I go to the checkout stand, and it drives me crazy. It's so unfair. I know I'm so much more than the tangerines and the razor blades, but what evidence do I have before me to prove it? To the checkout clerk, there's just a black rubber conveyor belt of produce and packaged goods to tell my story, to briefly piece together an image of my life. It makes me uncomfortable, and from time to time I admit I have mumbled things like "I also like books" and "I grew up with a dog named Pepper." But the clerks didn't seem to care. They apparently gleaned enough information from the broccoli to conclude I was the customer who was a little, oh I don't know, bat shit crazy. Now that I stay home with my daughter and manage the household chores, grocery shopping has become the chief annoyance of my life.

My wife and I recently bought our first house in San Francisco, and in our new neighborhood grocery store, there is a cantankerous old lady who loves to ask about each product as she scans it. I try to shrug or change the topic, but she insists on knowing whether a new brand of popsicles are "cold" or what, exactly, I do with so many ovulation sticks.

"Are these yours?" she once asked, hoisting the ovulation sticks from the counter. I looked around -- the store was empty; they couldn't have belonged to anyone else.

"Well good luck," she said, winking.

Later, in bed, any hope of "performing" was shattered when the thought crossed my mind that the only people who knew we were trying to have another kid were me, my wife and a nosy old bag lady with a sidelong wink.

***

A playgroup friend told me about a great program that promises to potty train children in just one weekend. She swore by the method, saying it did wonders for a "child she knew" although her own daughter seemed to have had other plans that weekend. It seemed clear that my friend was the kind of person who spent her entire middle school years telling classmates that of course she'd made it to third base before ... with her boyfriend ... "from Canada." But still, I was desperate. Potty training was giving me an inferiority complex.

"Only one weekend!" my friend insisted, "We're going to try it again."

Having tried various methods unsuccessfully with my own 2-year-old daughter, Emmeline, I was curious.

"How much is the shipping?" I wondered.

"What?"

"Shipping," I said, "Where do you have to send them for the weekend?"

"Oh that's silly -- you're being silly," she continued, "You do it yourself!"

"Oh."

The thing is, I was not being silly. I was deadly serious. I was willing to outsource this one.

The first time I tried to teach Emmeline to use the toilet by herself, she insisted on using mine -- not the fancy blue bucket with a shiny white seat but the big standard adult kind that could have swallowed her whole with its gaping porcelain maw. But I figured if she was eventually going to graduate to a real toilet anyway, she might as well start as soon as she can. And this way seemed to involve less cleaning. With my back turned as I arranged her pile of clothes on the floor, I heard her mumble something about "pee like daddy," and I assumed she just excited about using my big toilet. I turned around to see her standing up proudly, hands on her hips, spraying the base with a wild fountain of urine.

She shouted gleefully, "Emme's peeing like daddy!"

"Well, kinda," my wife shrugged later, "But her aim is better."

Still, while it was nice to see Emme could control herself at will, she gave up on the concept after I made her wear those big yellow dishwashing gloves to help me clean up the bathroom. Potty training didn't seem so magical then.

Since our first experiment, I've just let her use the toilet when the mood strikes her, applying no pressure and trying to simply provide a good example. My wife and I did buy her a couple pairs of monkey-bedecked "big girl underwear" that we told her she could wear once she mastered potty training, but she doesn't seem to like primates as much as we thought. While I would have delighted at the prospect of jungle creatures hugging my junk, she seemed to pay them no mind.

At least, that's what I had thought.

Before Emme came along, I was horrified to hear from a relative that he let his daughter watch him on the pot all the time.

"They're curious and if it helps, why not?" he shrugged.

I remember nodding my head, agreeing, wondering if I was really related to this country bumpkin with no sense of decorum or privacy and whether he also bathed in a large bucket in the front yard. After all, I broke into nervous sweats if complete strangers commented on my food purchases, so the idea of letting someone else into the bathroom made me nauseous.

But now of course, years later, Emme insists on watching me all the time. In her view, "bathroom" and "break" do not go together. On a recent trip to the zoo, I shuttled her into a dingy stall so I could release the Lorelei Gilmore-sized vats of coffee I had consumed on the way and she decided it was a good time for an impromptu lesson in anatomy.

"Daddy has a little peanut," she said, pointing.

"Penis."

"Daddy has a penith and Emme has a bagina."

It seemed like a good enough start. Once she mastered the terms, I thought, the rest was downhill. So I encouraged her exploration of potty training vocabulary and she spent the rest of our zoo trip explaining which monkeys had penithes and which monkeys had baginas. The bird exhibit seemed to trip her up for a moment, but the surprisingly well-endowed giraffes put her back on a steady biological course.

Later that day, at the grocery store, we were watching as the checkout belt ushered our groceries from from the cart to the scanner, while the same cantankerous old woman rang up our goods.

"Mmm, mangoes," the lady said, while I feigned a smile and cringed.

"Oh, Cheerios," she continued. "Milk, eggs, tampons."

I scratched my neck and danced nervously, wondering if I was supposed to contribute to the conversation in some way -- "Do you like Cheerios, too?" -- or just let her kill time by naming our food products.

At some point, the lady must have grown tired of poking through what we ate, and so she settled on us instead. She noticed a zoo sticker on Emme's wrist and asked what animals we had seen.

"Daddy has a little peanut," my daughter answered.

I laughed it off, telling the woman that yes, indeed, we had been to the zoo and despite knowing full well what my daughter was talking about, I mimed the action of throwing peanuts to monkeys. The old lady smiled, probably pleased to talk about something other than food for once. I could see that she was really sizing us up now, assembling bits of information from the food we purchased to the zoos we visited and she was forming a picture in her head about a neurotic father and his copper-headed, adorable daughter. I could see that the lady was beginning to like us, that the extra large package of toilet paper and the six-pack of ginger ale clearly said, "We are good people." My aversion to snooping through other people's goods was beginning to change. I was actually starting to like this woman.

Emme, apparently, wasn't.

"Daddy has a little peanut," she continued, "In his underwear."

"I'm sorry?" the lady gasped.

"Daddy has a peanut in his big girl underwear."

The lady simply blinked, unmoving.

"The big girl underwear with monkeys," my daughter continued, "Emme gets to wear them Emme goes in the potty. Like daddy."

I wasn't sure how to mime that one and even if I did, I doubt it would have been appropriate for a family grocery store. So I let it go, studying the old woman and wondering what picture she was now developing in her head about the customers in front her: Likes Cheerios, milk and has a small, legume-shaped penis that he conceals in "big girl" monkey pants.

Although I turned red on the way to the car and wondered briefly whether I might have to explain this conversation to any authorities in the coming days, I felt bad for my wife, who would probably be taking over the potty training lessons from now on. But even though I had failed in the training department, a small part of me felt a surge of vindication and I couldn't help smiling as I loaded the groceries into the car. The lady had, after all, stopped talking and had zipped us through the checkout stand in seconds. I drove home happily -- content with the knowledge that after all these years, I had finally found the perfect checker, one who had clearly assembled enough information to pinpoint the weirdo, but one who will also never, ever pry again.

Comments

OH MY GOD! I can't stop laughing! Sorry, Danny! He has you beat!
We're just starting potty training now with my toddler and I've always been very private about the bathroom and such, but now I have to let her see me to get the clues. I hope it goes a little smoother and we're not worrying about "penithes" until down the road.
Thank you for wrapping up my afternoon with the biggest smile I've had in days.

Ha! Very funny! I was at the grocery store yesterday and the check out lady stopped short and stared FOREVER at my peaches. "These are big peaches," she said. I felt uncomfortable. "These are REALLY big peaches?" Why did I feel like I needed to explain my peaches? "They're for smoothies - my boys like to make smoothies." Why was I explaining? They were NORMAL peaches for Godsake! It is amazing how the clerks can make a person so uncomfortable!

Wickedly funny. Thank GOD my kid can't form sentences yet!

I've often wondered what cashiers must see in the course of a day. Ever since the whole Partiot Act, The Feds Know What You Just Bought thing I have been sorely tempted to buy a sting of things that would freak them out.

Plug-in vibrator
Generator
Clown Noses
Potatoes
Asprin...

...Bing-Bong...

"Children's Protective Services to Checkout #5"

...Bing-Bong...

Mike's sequituring non-sequiturs kill me every time.

Our conveyor belt usually looks like this: beer, jellybeans, cream, wine, scotch, ice-cream, black licorice. I'm pretty close to just not caring anymore.

Here's a real conversation you hope never to hear:
"daddy, you have a BIG penis!"
"mommy, can I see your BIG vagina?"
doesn't exactly have the same ring to it...

thanks for playing!

LOL

Ha ha ha ha ha Mike. That reminds me of when Thomas was potty training and he told me he had a penis and Mommy has a Vaginasaurus. Rawr!

I love Emme!!

At the same time, it kind of scares me. Who knows what will come out of my son's mouth since mommy and daddy can't seem to control theirs.

Just to be clear in terms of size. Is that shelled or un-shelled?

Thank god for the self checkout! I no longer buy fruit because it forces me to go through "THE LINE".

Recently, in the cramped public restroom at a huge sporting event, my 5 yr old son said "Dad, your pee pee is bigger than mine. See... look".. uh huh (as I stared at the tile wall and wished I didn't have that last beer). Then he finished it off with "Mommy doesnt have a pee pee right, have you seen what she has?".

Guys were pointing us out for the rest of the game.

Dude... I was going to give you crap about putting a "Gilmore Girls" reference in this post. But after the peanut-conversation bit, I figured I'd give you a break.

Oy! I'm laughing so hard I can barely type. If I were in your shoes I'd definitely be wearing disguises to the supermarket, or shopping online and having it delivered.

HA! I loved the Gilmore Girls reference. It's nice to hear a man mentioning the show other than my husband constantly taunting me for watching it and asking me to sing the theme song. You're too funny!

Your grocery story just proves my point that online food shopping is the way to go! Unless of course, a certain item is out of stock. If this happens, with lets say..lube.. you'll have the delivery person loudly pointing out and apologizing that said item was not in stock, and then your neighbors will hear and look at you funny.

Priceless!! Out of the mouths of babes...and don't they have the "darndest" timing!!! Love it!!

"Lorelei Gilmore-sized vats of coffee"...
I think I just fell in love a little. ;)
Seriously though, love your writing- nothing like laughing so hard you disturb your never-to-be-disturbed-while-playing-baby daughters!

And, Danny- thanks for introducing all kinds of fab writers this week. It's been fun.

Just curious...was the "extra large" referring to the quantity in the condom box, or the size of the condoms? Because if it's the size, then that "little peanut" thing is quite a contradiction.

Hilarious!
My kid shouted out - in front of the grocery store clerk- that mommy's feathers are dirty on her ya-ya...when I bought Nair for Sensitive Skin.

can you guess what she was talking about?

Haha, laugh out loud funny stuff. Thanks so much for that one!! I was over the moon to discover the Gilmore reference in there. I'm not a caffeine person myself but those girls just live the life I want.

Potty training in a weekend? Totally possible. I trained my son (before he was 3) in one day....one loooong day. But it's definitely possible.

Thanks for sharing, I think you might have Danny beat in the funny department temporarily. But don't tell HIM that.

Two things:

1) At the age of 6, (currently)16-year-old-Boy said, "I have a name for my penis."
Typical male, but we asked anyway, "What is it?"
"PeeWee," he proudly replied.
Bet that's changed, though I am afraid to ask.

2) DGM needs to figure out that guest bloggers should be less amusing, as in "Oh, Danny, this guy's great, but when are you coming back? We miss you so!"

Okay, I will be the first to say it... I bet you look sexy in your big girl underwear! ;)

Hysterical!!
I have to go subscribe to Mike's site. Put it right beside DGM- you guys are a riot!

Dadthedude: Near lost my tea on that comment!

I shudder to think what your daughter might have attempted had she been at the zoo with us when we saw a baby giraffe quench his (her?) thirst by drinking as the mommy giraffe took a whiz.

Ah, Mike. This is a tour-de-force, my friend. The potty training will happen, I promise, though you may need to stock up on sponges in the meantime. And I am sure that DGM will appreciate the Google searches he'll get, simply from the phrase "big girl underwear." Oy.

Glad to hear you too are on the potty training train as well. I was wondering if you were missing out on all the fun. I believe to true key to potty training is knowing your kid's kryptonite (so to speak). Once you know that you can just hold it over their head and THEN it's a weekend thing. LittleSpeak is wise to us and not playing yet. (You'll have to read my latest post to hear her newest trick on this front though.)

I'm pretty sure I mentioned before that BigSpeak could be standing to pee if she wanted; that girl has aim and arc like nothing I've ever seen. Not that I've necessarily watched a lot of guys peeing, I'm just saying.... it'll come in handy in college; I'm sure. ;-)

These comments have been a thrill to read -- thanks for being so supportive of my shortcomings! (And thanks again Danny! I've always wanted to publicly state: shelled.)

And Momo Fali: The box. I was definitely talking about the box.

Mike at Cry it out

Thanks! I needed a laugh this morning!

I guess it's kind of like when my daughter whispered her secret tidbit of information to my husband. "Daddy, Mommy's got boobies." At least she didn't make any reference to size.

What's weird is, try as I might, I cannot find on the internets the loungewear I have that so delights my 7-month-old daughter. I call them my Cheerios monkey pants, because that's what they are; and yet, when googling to find them to reference in these comments, I recursively found myself back here at this post, since it's the second listed hit for the search. Ah, involuted universe, how marvelous!

And speaking of involuted, maybe, Mike, you should have your peanut checked by a professional.

You must read Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day: Proven Secrets of the Potty Pro by Teri Crane

Everyone is talking about throwing a "potty party" to potty train a child. I was so desperate, I was willing to do anything. Her book outlines 10 themed parties. What kid doesn't love to play and pretend? All my mommy friends have successfully potty trained their kids with her book too.

Honestly, when I first learned of this book, I thought NO WAY! Maybe this would work on a little girl, but NOT a BOSSY, 2-1/2 year old BOY. NO WAY! Guess what? It REALLY WORKED!!! Teri Crane SAVED MY SANITY!!! Her book was easy to read, funny and extremely helpful. I can't thank Teri enough. I would HIGHLY recommend this book to EVERY parent. It will save you much grief and frustration. Potty training shouldn't be difficult, we as parents make it difficult because we don't know what to do. Teri teaches you. Buy the book, it's the best money you will ever spend

Most amazingly, I had some questions, so I called the author, and she CALLED ME BACK!!

Naw the real secret is Smarties.

With Hair One we had all these high fallutin' principles so we didn't resort to Smarties until we were all desperate and strangers were remarking "so he's not potty trained yet? Really?? At his age???"

With Hair Two we went directly do not pass go to Smarties. Resulting in strangers remarking "really he's potty trained already" in suspicious tones implying that we had done something nefarious to achieve this state of grace.

Which of course we had.......... it was bribery pure and simple.