Daddy's Security Blanket

I don’t why but, since I wrote that post about the Bjorn, I’ve been unable to take the damn thing off. And I don’t mean I’m stuck in it like some bad sitcom plot line, I just don’t feel comfortable taking it off. It’s kind of like Karl Malone’s socks (which, by the way, is the name of my new band), I figure if I leave the Bjorn on, Max’ll stay asleep. Freaky thing is, it sort of works. I just hope Katie won’t mind when I wear it to bed.

Today's Hilarious Baby Quote

“Yes, I am flushed because I get hot when I have him in the Bjorn and then I couldn’t get my pants off.”
Ok, it seemed funny at the time. Perhaps it’s lack of sleep. Perhaps you need to see me wearing a Baby Bjorn (thanks, Jeffy and Karin!). Either way, that’s today’s Hilarious Baby Quote.

Things You'd Rather Not Hear

Yesterday was Max’s two-month check up. He got weighed (11 lbs, 3ozs! Whoop! Whoop!) and measured and all that good stuff. Physically, we are parenting a top notch human being. Emotionally, well, check in with the kid’s therapist in a few years. Hopefully, it won’t be anything a Porsche and moderate to heavy drinking can’t cure.
The hard part yesterday was the sound of Max’s cries as he got his first shots. Three of them. Three gnarly shots. Max hit notes that we had not heard before, but were, unmistakably and gut-wrenchingly, the sounds of a wordless person expressing absolute confusion and pain. I’m sure we’ll develop a tolerance for that sound but, man, the first time? Not fun. Remember your first betrayal: supposed friends ditching you or the time, in 1st Grade, we all told Scott D. we were on his team, lined-up behind him, and then dog-piled him. Scott, dude, sorry.
The rest of the day, when I told people Max had his first shots, all the parents just gave a knowing, “Oh. . .Yeah”. And the look on their face said: “Yes, I remember, too, the day I would have sawed off my right hand than have to listen to those cries”.
On the bright side, Max shouldn’t get Diptheria, Tetnus and any number of nasty viri. That’s a good thing and would make sawing off my right hand just so he doesn’t cry for a minute seem kinda silly.

It's Not Like Baseball

Two of Katie’s favorite things about her husband (me) that make her head shake and her eyes roll–and, if you are a wife or a girlfirend, you know you know what I’m talking about–are color commentators: “He ran right through that huge hole created by the defense!” and the use of Baseball as metaphor for, you know, the uncertainty and beauty of life.
Both of which, I admit, are more stupid than anything (especially, color commentators). However (and I’m not saying this is like waiting for the next pitch when there are men on second and third, two out, full count, ninth inning, home team down by one at all), when Katie and I are sitting there, waiting for Max to go to sleep, there are moments so full of hope which are then dashed. . .but it’s not like baseball!
How did you like that run-on sentence? Mr. Wall and Mr. Rubish would be totally dissapointed.
Anyway, we’re in a little phase of letting Max get himself to sleep. We let him cry a little bit before we go into the kid’s room and, for the most part, it’s working. There are moments between his cries, moments of silence, when you think that could. be. the. last. one! Aaaannd, then it’s not. There’s a stretch of more crying, silence: this could be it! Aaand, then it’s not.
You know, it’s not like Baseball. It’s more like Deal or No Deal. And, no, we’re not watching that show! Well, only a little, ’cause it’s on before The Apprentice.

LLLLlllllllet's Get Rrrrrreadyyy to Rrrrrrrummmblllllle!

Oh, it’s on: Bottle Battle ‘06, baby! This is probably the first time that we’ve been a little freaked out during this whole baby process. Katie is going back to work soon, really soon. Like, Tuesday, soon. Going to work is easy. And, by that, I mean that it’s been easier for me to spend the day at work, than is for Katie to stay home with the kid. It’s much easier to punch the clock and drink the kool-aid than it spending the day trying to read the tea leaves of Max’s moods. Now, things are going to get muy interesante: two jobs, one kid.
Scheduling our jobs and various grandmother and aunt-based babysitting is fairly doable, the trick is food. Trust me when I tell you that bottles are not breasts. As we established earlier, getting anything by Max is like finding an Army General to have his picture taken, smiling, with Donny Rummy: Unlikely! So began the Battle of the Bottle.
Turns out that Max likes lying down when he’s drinking (insert teenage drinking experience joke here) and he really likes it if you look at him “upside down” while he’s sucking. Plus, Mom has to be outside, playing with Frankie.
There’s no real way to express how exciting it is that he’s taking milk from the bottle. Especially if you had seen the way he freaked when we first tried. The phrase “You have ruined my day” comes to mind. Also, “I hate you, evil parents”. But now, he seems to be OK with the bottle. It’s like the absolute opposite of teaching him to smoke. Suck, little Max, suck!
Update: 1st Paragraph edited for clarity. Love you, Katie!

It's Not Quite Lawn Darts

It’s hard to keep any challenge from becoming a little bit of game: “I can make it to the top of this climb!”, “I can lose those two pounds!”, “Will I remember to wear pants to work?” Those sorts of games.
When you were a kid, you might’ve had that dart-based game that was basically a felt “dartboard” at which you threw a velcro-strapped ball. The idea being that you stick the ball as close to the bulls-eye as you can and, oh, you can’t poke your eye out with a ball. This was a great idea, except that, the ball only had, like, four straps of velcro on it, hemisphere and equator-style. This made the ball-sticking a bit of a chore. Could be, that’s all that was available where I grew up: Thanks for nothing, Pamida! Four times out of five, you’d throw the ball at the target, it would thud against the cloth, hung on the door and fall to the floor. A child, bored enough, would pick the ball up and stick it to the target himself.
Getting Max to sleep is kind of like that game: You console him into slumber however he wants that day (deep knee bends, swinging car seat, sacrifice a chicken); then set him in the crib (more on that later) and hope. More than likely, that ball is not going to stick and he’ll wake up. You repeat the ritual until he decides to stay asleep.
Mostly, he’s so cute, you don’t mind when the sleep doesn’t quite stick. Although, admittedly, I never played that stupid velcro-ball-target game at 4am on a work day

Even My Dog is Krunk

So, Pretty Much Everything has Changed?

 
Kelli and David made the pilgrimage from the recently thawed and slightly flooded lands of the North to see Max in the flesh. They were impressed that Max, in fact, looks cuter in person than on the blog. No, you can’t come over to confirm this for yourself.

Kelli is one of those great friends who rallies you do things you want to do, but just can’t muster the energy on your own. Typical Kelli exclamations are: “Let’s go Go-Karting!”, “Let’s go bowling!” and “Let’s make a play!”. Ok, that’s not true about the play.

This trip, Kelli rallied us to go to the MIA (that’s the Minneapolis Institute of Arts to you, the unwashed masses). I was nervous not because it was a new outting with Max, but because I thought the exposure to Art might knock him off the plumber/electrician/HVAC tech track I’ve planned for him. Then, first thing, we ran into the guy at the gas station who mounted a tire for me the day before. That reminded me of my super-cool, hockey-playing, poet Uncle, to whom I always looked up.

That’s going to be the trick: guiding him to become the cultured plumber. They guy who can re-wire your living room and admire your Noguchi.

Oh, and by the way, fourth floor of the MIA? Walk through all the great American Furniture and cool, full rooms they’ve got up there and you’ll find yourself in a few galleries of all the sexy Impressionist paintings the MIA has. And you’ll have them all to yourself. There were, like, four people in there.

Also, the Ruth Duckworth show is quite hot. 

How is this not Giving Me ADD?

 
Katie and I have been wondering about how all these especially-designed-for-baby’s-brains effect, um, the baby’s brains. In our day, we didn’t have any of these “whoosit’s” and mirrors all hanging in our faces. We had blocks of wood with numbers and letters on them and we liked it!

Although, realistically, you pretty much have to be ADD to survive in the world today, so I guess it can’t be all bad.

There’s an interesting question: Is life imitating baby toys or are baby toys imitating life? 

I'll Give You Ten Bucks to Rake Those Leaves

 
My Grandma, the Great-Grandmother finally came by to visit today. I so wish that she were fully with us to enjoy this amazing boy. I wish we could go back somehow and he could grow up mowing her lawn, driving her around and generally doing what needed to be done. A little because that gig paid pretty well and we need the money, but mostly it’s because there’s nothing cooler than tooling around with your Grandma, not caring if you look goofy or not; there’s nothing cooler than road-tripping with your Grandma and listening to. . . Well, let’s see. . . The first thing I remember listening to with Smokey would be that crazy CB album with the song “Convoy” on it. That was on 8-Track in her Royale 88. We’ll leap ahead to Huey Lewis’ “Sports”; then, I think it would be Billy Idol. Probably the last thing we listened to together was “Check Your Head”.

I wish so much Max could have that: back roads of Wisconsin, Grandma’s Regal and the B-Boys: “Funky Boss, Funky Boss, Funky Boss get off my back!” Not caring about a damn thing, laughing with your Grandma and hearing stories about how the train strike in the Forties screwed up the Coca-Cola business. You got a better way to spend your summers? I didn’t think so.

I’ll tell Max the stories, though. Some days, when he’s sleeping too late, maybe I’ll poke him with a crutch and in my best “Yoda” voice, wake him with the simple question: “Hung-over?! Hmmm, Hung-over?!” I’ll laugh until I cry and Max will just wish he could have a normal Dad. 

One Conversation About Two Things

“So, what’s it going to be like when we have two?”

“Katie, we’re not having two.”

“We’re not?”

“We’re not.”

Silence.

“Where would we put ‘em? What? We’re going to have crib bunk-beds? That guy takes up all the space in there right now!”

“I’ve figured it out in my head how we’re getting to cribs in there.”

“Oh, Lord.”

This is why breast-feeding, while it’s wonderful and good for the kid, can be bad: too much free time for Katie to plan.

When You Snatch the Candy from my Hand, Grasshopper, You May Leave

 
Yeah, so, I'm sure this has been said a thousand times before, probably millions, but it seems like one of those things that bear repeating: Whoever said "It's like taking candy from a baby." was, in fact, on crack. Loads and loads of crack. Now, I know it's supposed to be a metaphor more than anything, a metaphor for something that's easy to do. But, I'm not so sure it works, really.

Let's just say, for the sake of arguement, that Max knows when you're sitting, not standing; when you're just swaying and not swaying with a bounce at the apex of the sway; when you're doing 10 inch deep knee bends, when you're supposed to be doing them to 12 inches; when he knows he's not in the car, he's just on the dryer in the car seat, it seems like he's sure as hell gonna know when you've taken his candy.