Local Children Frightened by Constipated Baby

Rock n' Roll Lifestyle

Constipated Infants. It's a cool band name. In our household it's also a popular Internet search term. I saw Sarah had already clicked some of the same headlines that caught my eye. Purple were the links for "Constipation in Baby" and "Infant Constipation: Symptoms, Causes, Treatment." None of them had much for little guys like Otto, who for the last 24 hours has been groaning instead of sleeping. His strained baby grunts come from a belly tightened with gridlock. I don't how this could happen. He DRINKS his food. So I imagine a marble or wad of dog hair about to shoot out like a little cannonball.

I've been manipulating Otto's tiny legs in a rowing motion. This, according to an Internet video, will help get the gas out. A woman demonstrated it using a stuffed animal. I was worried it hadn't been tried on humans, but then Otto started gassing with every pull of his leg. He was like little, fecal billows and I could see why this shouldn't be done on real people if it can be avoided.

It's been a rough weekend. We stayed up late Friday night watching season 4 of Weeds (nice move with the sonogram, Nancy, but you're still a dumbass for ratting Guillermo) counting on the kids' naps to catch up on sleep. Well no one napped. With a bazillion dollar wedding to emcee Saturday night, I needed rest badly, but Q has started teething again and he didn't take the 2-hour nap that we hope to count on until he's 18. Q has been manic. It's like living with Axl Rose. There's some pretty good performances, but at any moment there could be a meltdown and the show's over.

Well, I got back from the party at 1 this morning. Quin was up at 5:30, and Sarah was already busy with the Constipated Infant (the whole house is a rock n' roll analogy, except without the sex and booze, just the erratic behavior and Motrin,) so it's been a wakey wakey time ever since. This afternoon I found myself in the sleeping aid section at Target looking for Mylicon. It's a gas relief medication, not an insomnia cure, but I had this image of one big baby blast and then calm throughout the house. I'm not sure the Mylicon helped, but Otto eventually did rattle the neighborhood.  He let one rip for all of us...he farted for all of mankind.  Sarah and I sat up and congratulated Otto and then each other. It was like we'd just landed something on the moon.

As for Q, he's out. Motrin is his Pharma Phriend. We're no longer afraid of drugs. Back in the early Q days Sarah and I would be disheveled and weary in the dim light of Quin's nursery. He'd be screaming and we'd be going cross eyed trying to measure exactly .4 of a milliliter. Nowadays I'd administer it with a foot pump.

Sarah just asked the time. It's nearly midnight...again. A couple of years ago I would have panicked that we may never ever get any sleep as long as we live. Now I know I was wrong. We WILL never ever get any sleep. It's just accepting it that matters.

Otto is now asleep.  Quin is awake. Welcome to the Jungle.

Otto at three weeks

Otto is good. Big Brother is good. And first, before anything else, I should say I'm very proud of Quin. He's such a good kid. He was born, we did lots of new parent bungling, and at 22 months he brings his dinner plate to the sink. I didn't teach him that. I wouldn't know how. To be honest, I don't think he's our kid. If Quin were truly our child he'd stress out about not exercising but never do anything about it. He'd watch TV and wonder aloud if the world is really that dumb. He probably wouldn't take his dishes to the sink.

Quin eats broccoli. He loves peppers, olives and apples. He sleeps all night. He says thank you, often when he doesn't need to, and he hugs and kisses everything and everybody. The other morning I was leaning across the couch to close the blinds and I could feel something on my leg. I looked down to see my oldest son hugging and kissing my knee. Perhaps too much time at the dog park, but it's better than punching and kicking.

And Q is the cutest creature on the planet. Bar none. Bring it. Bring your precious cherubs and we'll line them up. We'll measure them by the cute things they do and they'll be crushed. And then they'll all be thanked, hugged and kissed.

Finally, he's been a great big brother. He loves to moisten the baby's head with affection. And that's a good idea because--and this is where I talk about Otto--he's big. Quin was in 0-3 months clothes until he was six months old. Otto has already grown out of them. There must be some kind of hard-wired genetic thing in the second born that says you need to grow ASAP or someone will sit on your head and fart. As a little brother I grew, but unfortunately not fast enough.

Otto's already got a one-up on the three-week-old Q in that he's been sleeping most of the night. He has stayed up late making strange gurgling noises, which had Sarah wonder if we had a Guinea pig, and me reprising my role of household idiot by waking the peaceful infant as I try to feel his tiny breaths with my trembling finger.

Otto has gotten louder. At three weeks he's working on focusing his eyes. And his furrowed brow has him looking caught between wonderment and consternation. It says "Ooooh, I get to pass gas! But how?" He gets mad and really wails, but it's hard to take him seriously with his eyes crossed.

But this morning at 3am, right before I swaddled him in the loving snuggle of a psychiatric ward, I got a chance to talk to the new guy. He looked up and with big blinks tried to figure out what in the hell I was. So there might have been some communication problems, but at least it was nice telling him everything's going to be all right.

7

I've been trying to write about Sarah, but to date I haven't been able to get it right. I've had a couple brushes with near satisfaction; the only one I recall is trying to capture her uniqueness with a short ditty focusing on her being practical and self-assured enough to use a giant butt-mounted tote bag. She read it and could sense my trying too hard. She also said it was "too complimentary."

So I try harder, and Sarah knows that's the real issue, my trying too hard. As a matter of fact, my trying too hard has been a major source of most of my failures. "One punchline is enough, Jared," she'd say after I'd repeat verbatim a radio break with three. I'd really do that. I'd remember everything I'd said on the air and, in an effort to get some her feedback which is like refreshing, cold chocolate milk to my ears, talk through the radio break in it's entirety. I didn't want her to miss any part of what the audience had heard (endured) so she'd get the entire context. After a while she'd say, "Ok, just tell me the punch line," with her hands spinning like tape reels that might speed me up. But that would make me start over because by interrupting she wasn't getting the full experience. Invariably, she'd ask if what I was repeating was what I'd really said, as if to make sure I hadn't sweetened it to improve the chance of better reviews. Usually it was as-is, but sometimes I would add emphasis to the punchlines just so she'd know which line was most integral to my ego. She'd roll her eyes and go about the hand spinning. Often there would be so many punchlines it was like discerning umbrellas in one of those old photos of a rainy day in Manhattan.

But getting to the point...

I'm about to offer you advice on writing. As far as my credentials go, that's like a homeless man giving landscaping tips, but this advice isn't mine, it's stolen from a writing teacher--Professor Red Bird of Fort Lewis College to be exact. He had this suggestion: simplify. Let’s say you’re sitting outside of your old high school and you want to write about the good ‘ol days. As often is the case, you'll be overwhelmed by the opportunity. There's too much to write about and you'll freeze. This is when you narrow your focus. Instead of looking at the entire school, move in, and keep moving, across the lawn, the sidewalk and past the memorial park for that one kid who died way too young, and stop just short of the brick wall. It is here where you start--with one brick. The same way you'd build the school, one brick at a time, is the same way you'd write your story.

I'm happy to announce I've found my brick. I won't be writing about my school, though, and my construction begins not with rocks and mortar, but with the most mundane detail in our most adventurous relationship.

And by adventurous I mean exciting, like we do some cool stuff. Have you and your husband crash-landed in a hot air balloon? Has your husband dissed the rapper Ice T not knowing he was really talking to the rapper Ice T? Did I tell you about the time we sneaked into the fancy Tahitian resort?

Well I'm not going to. I have a brick.

It's this little slice of an evening, one where we're all grown up and out for dinner thanks to a baby sitter. Sarah is pregnant and Quin is at home with a lady we know through daycare. That's how we know people now, through daycare. It's like we had a kid to meet people who could take care of him.

On the surface we might seem--or at least that's the hope--that we know what we're doing. That's how grown up we are, we rarely go out alone anymore and on this night all the safeguards are in place. The house as been cleaned, the emergency contacts highlighted and the hired help knows exactly where to find our child's pacifier.

But at the dinner table in a little Italian restaurant, the conversation goes like this:

"So, dude, are we really having another kid?"

"I know, it's flippen crazy."

And I'd denote which one of us said what if it really mattered.

After the longest meal we've had since 2007, we set out to walk across the street. This journey isn't exciting or gratuitous in any way. Sarah didn't collapse and give birth on the crosswalk, it was just us, a couple of thirty-somethings getting to the other side of Broadway. We were leaving the restaurant Pasquinis and heading to the southwest side of the intersection, the home of a Winchells, which Sarah noted is open 24 hours.

There are many nuances to a couple walking together, and I know our audience of commuters lined up on either side of the light, or at least half of them, noticed the important details. I say half because while the men counted down the eternity it would take to get us across the street, the women noticed something they recognized: The reins.

When we walk hand in hand Sarah uses my hand as a driving device. It's like she's taking me out for a stroll, but on a short leash. I don't mean to say that in a mean or disrespectful way, it's just that my arms aren't very long. And with Sarah holding my hand she can finally get me to slow down. Often, while storming towards a hamburger joint, I speed ahead of Sarah. I'm not intentionally ditching her. I'm either not entirely there or my stomach has taken the wheel. I know we'll be together again when we get inside.

On this night, after our lengthy, kid-free dinner, we stepped from the sidewalk's edge.

I saw at least one woman glance and smile at Sarah. She was in a Jeep Cherokee and part of the crosswalk audience. I became self-conscious and sped up, dragging my wife, nine months pregnant, into the intersection.

What's wrong with guys that we take off for the horizon? I mean have we not learned that leaping ahead only has us wondering why we didn't take more advantage of "back then"? Where I am now is always the place to be. It really is the only place you can be. And that's where I found myself Saturday, May 17th, 2009. In the street, feet on the pavement, hand in hand, teaming up to take control of the clock.

Sarah said "Carpe diem," with a tug on my arm. She might also have said, "Slow the f#$k down I'm flippin brimming with baby!" We weren't even across the first two lanes when I asked Sarah if she needed to go back. I hope I never know for sure, but it seems a good way to slow time and really capture a moment is have someone stand on your bladder.

To describe our relationship I often make this comparison where I’m the kite and Sarah’s the flier keeping me from whisking away. It works, my lifting her whenever she needs it, and her hanging on tight to keep me grounded. I get a whimsical image of Sarah running through the grass, her hair in the warm, summer breeze, but in the real world examples of this marital metaphor aren't so romantic.

The one time I know my kite served us well is when Sarah let it fly from our apartment in Colorado Springs to the chapel on the University of Denver campus. It was May of 2002 and we were planning our wedding. We'd only been engaged since February, but thanks to another, less popular kite moment we were getting married that June. It was hot in our stuffy, one bedroom nest at Parkmoor Village, and in the heat Sarah melted. She flopped against the wall and slid to the floor. The wedding planning, the moving (we were also quitting our jobs and buying a house) and the overall chaos had gotten to her. Red in the face and welling with tears, she told me she could not go on. We were giving up and going to the courthouse (I'm assuming she was speaking of marriage.) On an inspired wind I blew up to Denver. I threw down plastic and bullied pastors. I contacted Realtors and admonished wedding planners. I returned home to a much cooler place where our madness seemed nearly possible.

On a much more frequent basis Sarah must be the tether. Because I'm busy dreaming I don't have time for planning. Every birthday, every anniversary, every Valentine’s Day, I want to do something amazing. I dream of huge surprises, something like those special Oprah shows where she gives away cars. I have this recurring fantasy where I’m at her parent’s place and all the in-laws and outlaws are gathered around and I surprise everybody by knowing how to play the piano. I'll sit down and shock the room by belting out Elton John’s “Your Song”. I know this will not happen, but I get so caught up in these impossible scenarios the holiday nears without me so much as learning chopsticks.

It is on the eve of these events when Sarah reels me in and says that tomorrow is, say, Christmas, and we need to put up our tree. After twenty-four hours of madness we usually pull off the perfect holiday. There are no special surprises except that we still like each other.

Today I am at work and without Sarah and it is the day of our anniversary. I had thought of a big event for a renewal of our vows. We'd do it in her parents' back yard in Baltimore, and the kids music sensation Billy B, one of Sarah's childhood idols, would re-marry us with a happy song.  I'd fly out some family and friends and on a summer day--where at least in my head it wouldn't be stifling and sweaty in Maryland--we'd have the time of our lives.

Last night, exhausted from work, more work and babies, I realized that this would not happen. After Otto's nutty sleepless night the best gift I could give my wife is a nap. But today, in my cube, I've got my brick. It's where we’ve got our leftover pasta from Pasquinis, and all we need to do is get across the street. Sarah’s normal gait has taken leave for a waddle, and she's got this husband who wants to help but just needs help in exactly how. I forget about the cars looking on and am only thinking about holding Sarah. If it takes us a lifetime to get to the other side that's fine with me.

Mom and Her Boys

New guy, or Otto as he's named, gets major points for G-ma hugs.  And dressing the same.

Little Boxer Down for the Count

What's Better than a Cute Baby?

A tired cute baby.

We're thinking he'll one day grow into that schnoz.