You Can Fit A Lot of Stuff in Here!

Laser Eyes McGee

Be thankful, little Legos, that you are not melting and burning away under the passionately wilting stare of a fully-engaged, gift-opening, Max-bot. Bonus Grandma Gerry, got the boy some fun lego-y things this year and Max was, uh, pretty into them right off. Now that he's almost two, the crazed-toddler ADD is starting to kick in. We hadn't seen him focus on something this hard since, well, let's just say: Max has been dumping out boxes of puzzle pieces and then loping off to pull tupperware out of a cupboard for so long, that I had forgotten the way he can lock in on something.

Of course, a few days later, and these same fascinating Legos become just another big box of noisy things to be dumped. To his credit, right before he spills them all out, he yells, "'Egos!!"

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

Max is being a little more proactive this Christmas.

Genes, Genes, Genes! I Love Genes!

Weapon

We used to write a lot more about bodily functions 'round these parts. You become pretty desensitized to it all after awhile and you lose your fascination with being peed on and spit up on and so forth. Also, Max is basically past all that: unless we disco too hard too soon after meals, most everything stays down. Also, Max was never a puker. Spit up? Suuurre: he's a baby!

This new one (and, ok, in his favor, this has happened once) weeelll.

He's just been fed. Katie hands me the kid and gets up. It's me and the baby on the couch. Bonding time.

"Hello, new son, how are you?"

No response

"Did Momma give you a good breakfast?"

Funny gurgling noise. In horror movies, this would be the cue for the busty teen to lean even closer to that odd meteorite she finds in near her boyfriend's pool. "Go back to making out! That's an alien!", we yell at the screen. Well, really TV screen, HBO.

"Oh, are you going to burp up a little bit?"

At this point, you need to look at the picture. Now imagine the ice cream treat, the Push-Up. Now imagine, instead of a Push-Up made of sherbet, let's say it's made of breast milk. Imagine you've left this breast milk Push-Up on your counter top until it's good and melted. You forget how long it's been on your counter, you pick it up and push. But you push pretty hard 'cause you're pumped about this Push-Up.

"Woah. Woah. Woah! WOAH!!! Uh, Katie, we need some paper towels in here."

Miles gets very content look on his face. And he didn't even have to lay on the cool, cool bathroom floor.

So, um, Which one of these Buttons Makes the Fake I.D.?

The two big questions are: What did you finally name the kid? (Ask the Grandpas.) And, how is Max doing with the new baby?

Admittedly, I was concerned about this second issue. Max, as you may have gathered from this blog, is the center of a cute-fueled, white-hot universe composed of nearly incoherent blathering parent-love. Ever expanding, I might add. Consider also, Max's documented sensitivity to fictional, yet colorful, spiders; and I'll admit: Daddy was worried.

Of course, I was not giving my magical boy the benefit of the doubt. Max, in some weird toddler way, has sort of matured in the past few days. It could be he just seems more mature next to his burbling younger brother but, I don't know, there's more than that. It's kind of like he has a little purpose, some sense of responsibility. Roll your eyes if you will, but the kid comes over and helps us get fresh diapers ready for the baby; he'll jam Miles's crutchie (pacifier) back in if Katie and I are both in the kitchen, fighting over the last bit of wine in the bottle; and while we change Miles's diaper, Max hangs close by and reminds us what's what on the baby's face: "Eyes!", points at Mile's eye. "Nose!", points at nose. We're so sleep deprived right now, it doesn't hurt to have reminders.

What's in a Name

I hope everyone is sitting down: the boy has a name. I kind of can't believe it either. It is nice, though, 'cause now, when I can't find my vice grips or my circular saw, I have an actual named person to whom I can refer specifically as the one who moved my stuff. And that person would be "Miles". Frankly, I'm not so concerned about what he's up with the vice grips or the saw; I'm just glad he had a name!

Interestingly, I think the two Grandpas were beaten up and emotionally scarred by someone named Miles. Their reactions are documented here:

1. The morning the boy has been dubbed "Miles", the phone rings. It's Katie's Dad. "Hello."

"Hi", I answer. "How's Grandpa?"

"Good, thanks. How's Momma?"

"She's good. She's on the couch with Miles, having some breakfast."

There's about a 8 second pause. "Who?"

2. My Dad calls the house and Katie answers (he did call my cell phone but, due to his gifted timing, I was in the midst of doing a return at Target - a classic Minnesota pass-time).

"Hello! How's the Momma?"

"Good. I'm just here with Miles."

"Miles, huh, that's what we're going with?"

"Yep, I just decided he seemed like a "Miles". You know: kind of strong yet sweet?"

"Miles. Interesting, interresting."

See, now, I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. If you all check your North Dakotan translation guide, it would tell you that when a North Dakotan describes something as "interesting" it means they'd rather be sticking forks in their eyes or standing next to a beet plant running at high gear.

I wouldn't be surprised if they come up to me at Christmas, put their arm around me, and say, "Look, it's just that he lost us, really lost us, at Bitches Brew."

These Grandpas, who are the best Grandpas any kid could hope to have, know that I tease because I love.

You will be Healed-ah!!

Max attempts to cleanse the baby of his sloth and his namelessness. I think the older brother had too much blueberry cereal bar smeared on his digits for his powers to really work. Who knows, maybe this name thing is really more of a New Testament issue. I will have to break into a cheap motel and steal a Gideon's to confirm my suspicions. Perhaps here. Smokey and I would stay at the Thunderbird on weekend shopping trips to the big city. I'd stay up late, late, late watching horror movies on local cable and then play Frogger until they turned the machines off.

Oh! Those were the days! What'll it be for these boys? Transporter trips to Grandma's island in Nicaragua to pick up some stuff before it goes underwater? Welding more spikes onto the front of the 740 for ammo runs? Well, it's either that or dog shows with Grandma Kay.

So Far, So Good

Still no name for the little bugger. Hmmmm. . . "Bugger". Seriously, that's how bad it's gotten around here name-wise. I'm about ready to build a sweat lodge in the backyard and force Katie to go on a vision quest: "It'll be fine, Honey. I'll watch the kids. Here, take this peyote."

And you can see how not having a name is traumatizing our new friend. Sometimes, he'll just be laying there, mouth on boob, he's drifting off to sleep, then he snaps awake to suckle a bit more. You can totally tell he would've just fallen asleep blissfully otherwise: "Mmmmm. Tummy full of milk; so warm in blanket; feeling slee. . . . Agh! No name!!!" Please send money now to help this poor child.

We're only on, what, day three or four here? It's too early to discern any patterns or potential issues. He does seem to be a bit of a lackadaisical breast-feeder. He'll get on there just fine but after a minute, he gets this look on his face that says: "Huh, I know I'm supposed to being doing something here but I can't quite remember what. And these people are looking at me like I should be doing something. Well, I guess I'll just hang out with this thing in my mouth and try to look cool: "Hi, how are ya?" When he's not looking around nervously with a nipple in his mouth - and, really, who hasn't been there?! Rimshot! - he's drifting off to sleep.

The few times he's been persnickety, the patented "daddy becomes a car seat swinging machine" system seems to do the trick. Lemme tellya, there's nothing like standing in the dark, holding yourself up with one hand on a door frame and the other swinging a car seat with a screaming baby in it. Joys of parenting!

You are going to hate this blog for a little Bit

It's going to be all puppies and babies around here for a little while: this new kid has reminded me that I love all of you, each and every one. Except, of course, for the psychopaths that drive like maniacs in the snowstorm, in the middle of which, I had drive with the family, now numbering four. You crazies are bastards! Everyone else, I love.

It shouldn't be long before we're back to the pithy, though. Katie and I seem to have forgotten all the stuff we knew about babies. I think you kinda have to do a continuous data dump in order to keep up with the new needs of a toddler. This is problematic if, say, you have a new baby. We can't remember how warm or not warm we kept things for Max. Did we wrap him in blankets to sleep? I say no; Katie says yes. I can change the hell out of a diaper on a screaming, almost two-year old, while they flop around and tell me I'm a jerk. I can do that. But, ask me, now, to change a diaper on a little 3-day old and you'll end up with baby poop on about 60 percent of everything you own.

Here's me getting a little verklempt over my boys. Boys! Boys, plural! Man, every time I think about these two kids, these two boys, my heart becomes like that moment in every episode of the Dukes of Hazzard. The moment Bo and Luke jump their car over some obstacle. There's dust trailing off the back (redneck contrail), the boys are whoopin' and they hit the ol' horn that plays Dixie. Young, stupid and glorious, that's how I feel.

Mom and _____

And now you know why these kids are turning out so freakin' cute.

UPDATE: We have since learned that it is, in fact, a crime to look this good so soon after giving birth. Before leaving the hospital, we were cited and will have to pay a small fine. Thankfully they let us off with a warning regarding city statute 143.4: "Kids are too damn cute".

Someone call BALCO

The aforementioned mega-
developed deltoid. A born snow-shoveler!

Break the Bad News Early

Like I did with his Brother, right away, I tried to explain who was currently the President of the United States. Hey, at least we didn't have the kid circumcised. Can you imagine the double trauma of this revelation and having your whacker knicked on the same day?

The Devil Finds Work

One last Max-Centric post:

Max and I are hanging out at home (cleaning, honey, cleaning!) before it's time to go pick up Katie and fill-in-the-blank. We're watching snow fall and listening to the radio. Max must know there's some competition coming, 'cause he's been amping up The Cute. He's also been freaking out when people change his diaper. You forget about that, though, when he pulls stuff like the following:

Max was fixing the little wooden stove that Auntie B got him. He was back behind there working on something with his pliers, chatting away happily with himself, making sense on his planet. I was sitting on the couch, surfing, when I look up and the boy is standing there, looking at me.

"Pocket."

By the way, you have to read everything Max says with climbing intonations. He's sort of asking questions with every word.

"Poc-kat", he says again. "Keys."

"You want keys for your pocket?"

"Uhhhh-hhnnn-nnn." This is Max-speak for all that cannot be enunciated. We've gotten so we can have entire conversations with Max where he says no actual words and everybody, at the end, comes out feeling like they've effectively communicated. It's like the reverse of the teachers and the kids in Peanuts. Or, more accurately, like the time my Dad visited me in Mexico and, at a party, had a (very) drunken (both participants) conversation with the host. My Dad, to this day, swears they told each other their live's stories and solved many a world problem. That's "Uhhh-nnnn-nnnn".

So I get keys for Max's pocket. He's still standing there.

"Money", he says.

"What?"

"Money", and the most devilish of grins spreads across his face.

"You want money. Money for your pocket."

"Uh-nnnnn-nnn-nn."

I get him 37 cents to jangle in his other pocket and he does so as he walks around the house, making sure he maximizes the sonic qualities of his cargo with each emphatic step.

I'm posting this ridiculous picture of him in my boots as revenge for not getting my 37 cents back.

He is the Eggman

Here's what I got: Beautiful baby boy born to totally healthy mother at 4:57am on December Third. He's got no name. He does have a big ol' head of dark, wavy hair. He weighs 8 pounds, 3 ounces; he's 22 inches long. He loves his mother, and his father too. Eyes-wise, we can't quite tell: could be brown, could be blue. Time will tell. He's got mad delt development from break-dancing while inside his mother - an innocent by-stander in his one man break-dancing gang war. Seriously, this kid has got shoulders that make me feel inadequate. . . not that it takes much.

There's already been a meeting of the minds between Max and his little brother. The boys took to each other a bit too well, I think. Shortly after introductions, they huddled in a corner of the delivery room. Max gestured wildly, baby brother nodded in agreement, Max drew some diagrams; they got up, walked over and unrolled blueprints for a go-kart, smiling proudly.

Anyhoos, what I don't have is photos. They're all on a memory card at the hospital. Bare with me until tomorrow. Kid's mad cute. . . just my unbiased opinion.

Perhaps we should name him Godot

We are waiting, waiting for this yet nameless little feller. Thankfully, we do know that this particular Godot is going to show up eventually. However, due to inclement weather, we got bumped out of the hospital's schedule last night. Lots of mothers who were ready to give birth got tipped over the edge by the little snow storm we had here yesterday. I'm not sure what kind of cataclysmic climatological event would push Katie over the edge but, at the rate we're going, it would have to be some kind of hurri-nado-izzard. Something where we could just grab onto a bed sheet and para-glide from our backyard over to the hospital while wearing our snowsuits.

Katie doesn't actually mind being pregnant, even at this late stage, and it's pretty funny to listen to her end of the phone conversations with the mid-wives. They just can't seem to comprehend the idea of pregnant woman who isn't in a hurry to unload their baby. It's like all these boys are calling when she could really care less about going to the prom.

Heh, I was just glad when the kid passed out of Scorpio territory but, now, geez, what are shooting for? Taurus?

It sounds like we may be going tonight. We'll let you know.

Yes, but are the Trains Running on Time?

Ok, here's the plan: We're going in tomorrow afternoon and they'll start primin' ye olde pump on Sunday morning. If all goes according to plan, we'll have Max Dos unleashed upon an unsuspecting universe later on that day.

Max still has a fever and he's very happy about that. Mother has been, thanks to the atom-splitting power of hormones, much like a cyclone. Except this cyclone is stuck at home with a clingy, feverish toddler. This type of behavior does not facilitate cleaning and re-arranging the refrigerator while crying, BUT WE DO IT ANYWAY AND WE DO NOT ASK WHY! DO. NOT. ASK. WHY. DON'T YOU KNOW THIS BABY IS GOING TO TURN MAX INTO A WEREWOLF? OH, GOD! WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS? IS THIS LETTUCE?!

Well, Max has a fever and there's a new baby coming, we'll be fiiiinnne. This is nothinggg. At least we still have both cars running. . . oh, huh? You say both cars are on the fritz? Ah, well: put your head down and power through. At least there's not going to be 8 inches of snow on the ground.. . . . what's that you say? Metro area under winter storm warning? Eight inches of snow followed by sleet coming tomorrow? Welllll, at least the Democrats got elected this fall and are really standing up to the Republicans, right? If I were in the Brian Jones Town Massacre, this is where I would stop the show, smash my guitar and challenge the whole audience to a fist fight.

See, Katie, thinks all this is an omen (cue scary music). Me? Eh: I just wish you could get a car to start by staring at the engine for a few minutes. Perhaps I could take Max's train.