We All Need Some Tiempo Solito

Every once in a while I come home to an empty house. Usually, my first thought is that Katie has finally come to her senses and run off with Max to a more promising, Baby Daddy-free, future. Then I remember she’s just at her Mom or Dad’s or fabric shopping for her next swear-tastic, sewing machine adventure. There’s a moment when I realize the house is empty, when I’m pretty bummed. You walk up that door, thinking about Max’s face when he sees you and mulling over your options: “First, I zerbert the left hand. Then, right cheek. Mwua-ha-ha-ha!” Then, the kid’s not there. Where do you put that energy? I’ll tell you: you walk over to the stereo and turn up The K really loud. That, or “The Woods” or this, which Katie hates. You gots to have your alone time.
So, apparently, does Max. Over the past few weeks, when we are up in the morning before Max, we’ve heard him just hanging out in his crib, chatting up a storm with, hopefully, not his finger. Katie and I stand there, geeked-out with laughter, while Max unwittingly broadcasts over the baby monitor. After a bit, he amps it up a smidge, and we go in to begin his day.
Interestingly enough, today, we got him up to eat right as he woke up. He seemed a little suprised to see us, but went along with it ’cause he’s a good boy. After a while though, he seemed ready for a nap. I put him down and waited for the normal “fussy-then-sleep” cycle. However, Max laid in there for an hour, talking to himself — never fussing — before drifting off to dreamland. El Max just wanted some alone time.
Now that I think about it, this morning, his face did have that “Oh, you’re home. No, no. That’s great!” look you have on your face when you get interrupted three tracks in and you’re dancing there, in your underwear.

One-Half Stud

I know we’ve seen this shot before: Max having tummy-time. However, this is different: the big boy is rolling over on his own. Rather than do it in his crib, before he goes to sleep, much to the consternation of his parents, he’s now rolling in the all-seeing light of day.
The rolling over is pretty intense. Mostly because he hasn’t figured out the whole “stomach-to-back” roll. Once our half studded boy gets on his tummy, he hangs out — pretty happy — until he gets sick of the weight of his head. Then, unable to crawl, really, he starts to squirm and fuss until you pick him up. We haven’t quite figured out how to teach him how to roll back over, yet.
The wildest thing, though, is watching him think about rolling over. Getting to his side is old hat for the big guy, but you can sit there and watch him consider his options once he’s there: “Hmmm, on my side again. Shall I relax back to my back and whack the Whoozit or shall I head on over to my tummy? Hmmmm, what did I do last time? Let’s go for the back! That always seems to freak the big one out.”

All About Elvis' Mother

Every passing day finds Max making more and more “talking” noises. The other day, it was storytime for Grandpa TR and Max. TR found himself listening intently as Max detailed the day’s adventures. Now, I’m not going to type here, pretending that Max is some sort of talking prodigy: he’s a cute kid making a lot of cute noises. Heck, he’s almost laughing, even! Although his laughs sound, right now, more like he has a hair in his throat than an actual laugh.
Lately, when The Boy and I are having a conversation in Max’s made-up language of coos and squeals, I can’t help but think of Elvis and his Mother. The two of them spoke in their very own baby-talk language that no one else could understand. While I am as big a fan of made-up languages as the next guy, Ol’ E and his Momma took it a bit too far, with the whole creepy affair (pun-intended) culminating with Elvis speaking, in their language, to his recently deceased mother’s toes.
Aaaand, this would be a perfect example of why people who have too much useless information stored in their brains should never reproduce. However, if one can learn from the past, and Max does turn out to be a superstar, we’ll know better how to raise a emotionally balanced pop idol. Also, make a mental note to keep him away from Colonel Parker and Dr. Nick.

You Want Fries With That?

Earlier, we discussed some of the new sensations and experiences that come along with fatherhood. Things you thought you’d never dig, turn out to be not so bad. While the kid is baking, you think about the diapers, their contents and dealing with that. I remember thinking, “Ok, it’s gonna be smelly, but that’s ok. You can do this!” I never imagined that I would be singing songs and doing little dances based on the qualites of that day’s bowel movement. These are the places you go.
However, having your hand gummed is just downright weird. First, I think Max could open beer bottles with his tongue. I could feel the tendons in my hand being pushed around: weird. Then there’s the toothless mouth skronkin’ down on your defenseless digits. I think it’s because we’ve had teeth for so long, the whole no-teeth thing just doesn’t feel right, you know?
You stand there, wanting to make the kid happy and, so, you sublimate your creeped-out-ness and let him gnaw away until you’re hand is all wrinklely.

That's M'Boy!

It really was the best Father’s Day ever. Max, being the smartest baby in the world, must’ve somehow heard the many squeaks of the cork leaving the bottle in the months leading up to his birth, decided to set an excellent precedence: no ties for this kid! Notice the reticence on Max’s face: “I will give you the bottle, Father. . . this time.” It makes me proud /sniff/.
I will say this about Father’s Day: being a father sure makes you appreciate your own old man. So, I’ll take this opportunity to toss it out there one more time: Thanks Dad! Have some scotch and a nap on us.

Poop Your Pants Pt. 2: Accentuate The Positive!

Well, look at this way: he rolled over! He’s been trying to do the flip for a couple of weeks, now, and the furthest he’s gotten is to his side. Until last night, Max hadn’t quite mastered the Problem of the Right Arm, the one that kept him from going completely over. I guess he had an accidental success:
“Legs in the air, lean to the right, aaannd we get the the side. Ugh, stupid arm! Why to you impede me? Ok, ok, back on your back, Max. Good form! Let’s try again: Legs in the air, lean to the right, behave, you, right arm! Tip to the side. Stuck again! Augh! I hate you righ. . . .wait! I’m tipping! Woah! Tummy Time! Cool! Mom! Dad! Tummy Time! Me! . . . Mom?. . . . Dad?. . . . . Oh, boy.”

So, You Like to Poop Your Pants

Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, you like to poop your pants. Let’s say you like to experience fear so great, your body takes over and you wish you had on a size two Huggies. Try this one:
So, previously, we discussed how Max had snowed ol’ Dad with an impressive display of lung power. I thought we had adapted, Borg-style, to Max’s screams. Tonight, though, while Max cried a bit before he fell asleep, he did sound a bit different. I insisted that it was just some new weapon, to which, the Borg had not yet adapted. And, because I am a geek, I actually said that. Katie was sure something was up. Either way, Max fell asleep eventually.
After a few minutes, Katie went in to check on him. She called to me from his darkened bedroom. I walked in, my eyes adjusted to the dark: Max had flipped himself over.
So, my poor son, flipped himself over, held his head up as long as he could, then laid in his own drool until he cried himself to sleep.
Katie rolled him back over, he sighed but didn’t wake up.
I went into the basement, took off my soiled Huggies, Size 36 and pulled a fresh one out of its plastic wrapper. I have a funny feeling, I’ll be needing a few more pairs before this is all over.

The Salty Ham

Katie made me post the picture of Max in his Frye Booties. Don’t blame me when your head explodes.

Mom? Dad? I'm Running Off to Tour with "Stomp"! Where are my Blundstones?

Max's legs in a rare movement-free moment.
We learned a valuable lesson the other night: do not engage the boy before bedtime!
Remember that episode of “WKRP in Cincinnatti” when Jennifer moves into a house that Les thinks is haunted? It’s a dark and stormy night, there’s a lightning strike, the power goes out, there are ghosts and, Jennifer, cool as a cucumber, says, “Ignore it.” You probably have to see it (and you should) but, the point remains: Do. Not. Engage. The. Boy!
It’s hard, ’cause some nights, we don’t see the boy much before bedtime. Bath-time begins with a head-washing on the changing table. For whatever reason, Max’s legs go nuts when you wash his head and face. And when I say “nuts” I mean kicking, swinging, shooting, lifting. It’s like he’s trying to ride some wild, ten-pedaled baby-bike. So, you combine missing the boy with cute baby action like that; it’s all you can do to not start “zerberting” his tummy and talking to him and tickling him and washing his head again just to make his legs go bonkers.
The other night, we did not “not do”, we “did” and bedtime became playtime. What was the awful crop we reaped from the seeds we had sown? About 25 minutes of Max crying (and screaming) himself to sleep, that’s what. A normal night would have Max sleeping after about five or ten minutes of fussing. Last night, we controlled ourselves, there was no zerberting, just quiet smiling and soft talking. He still rode his crazy bike when I washed his head but, into the crib he was placed and right to sleep he went.
To recap: Lightning? Ghosts? Les Nesman? Cute Baby? Zerberts? No! Calmness? Soothing Sounds? Sleep? Yes!

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

Katie’s brave: once Max is asleep, before we go to bed, she’ll go into Max’s room and cover him back up or pull him out of whatever corner into which he’s scooted. Sometimes, she’ll go in there, do her Tae-Bo or practice her Riverdance moves. She’s fearless that way.
Really, what happens is, every night, she checks on the kid and begs me to come see how cute he is, there, in the crib. I generally refuse because: 1. I can’t see him in the dark and 2. I am a dufus and if there’s something to bonk or trip over, I will, and I’m afraid to wake the kid. This results in a nightly argument with Katie standing in Max’s dark room, loud-whispering “Get in here and look at him!” and me in the hallway, loud-whispering back, “No!”
I mention all this because, last night, we sat down to watch our Netflix, Evil Dead 2, and Katie didn’t want to because she remembered the first one being so very scary. I told her the second one was more comedy than horror and she was a wuss for not wanting to watch it. At which point she reminded me that, yes, I’m the one that can’t go into the kid’s room once he’s asleep.
We ended up watching the movie, but I sure as heck wasn’t going in that baby’s room!