Things I Never Thought I'd Say

I think I have pee in my eye.

Things I Never Thought I'd Say (A NEW Feature!)

Thank God your mother is here.

What Happens When You Feed Babies

The kid on the left is my nephew, Axell James.  He's three-months old.  He weighs twenty pounds.  That is abnormal.  He's bigger than most of the world's teenagers.  But he's not fat, just huge.  Sarah and I were going to take Axell to our neighbors and introduce him as our newborn.  She was even going to limp.  But we were too tired.   

First Couple Nights

All is well.  Except I stink.  Not just a passing whiff that could be confused for bacon, but a real pungent odor that punches you right in the puke button.  You ever walk past someone and run right into their wall of rot?  You stop whatever you're doing and shake your head like your armless and shooing flies.  That's me.  I'd do that to you. 

Sarah just told me it's Tuesday. 

Taking care of Quin has been fairly intuitive.  For Sarah.  I've already pronounced him dead three times.  Once during the first night I squeaked out a tired, "I don't think he's going to make it."  Sarah, with a new sound about her, comforted me and put me to bed.  Apparenlty all babies lose a little weight out of the gate.  Quin dropped below six pounds and I freaked.  Looking at his little chicken legs had me thinking I could try and chew some meat and then give it to him.  

 

But he's OK.  And mom is wonderful.  She glows.  Sitting in the comforting dark of the baby's room, she lights up the space around her.  Quin looks more comfortable than any human I've ever seen.  Although we've both had to make a lot of guesses.  Parenting, I've discovered, is two frightened people making random stabs into the unknown.  We do our best to deliver this display with the utmost confidence.  One of our grandmotherly neighbors came by.  When she held Quin he opened both eyes as wide as we've seen them.  It was as if he saw in her the help he needed to survive.  When he looks at me he only opens one eye.  It's a suspicious glance at best.  Something you'd get from someone who doubts you know what you're doing.

 
Last night Quin could not be pleased.  He ate.  He pooped--I ducked when it went off like a shotgun--one of the most satisfactory poops I've ever heard.  And he burped.  But he still wouldn't fall asleep.  I've realized that all those years of courting girls and flirting at parties was all just practice to get a baby to bed.  I was spinning tales and crooning in my best Barry White.  Just like asking a hottie out on a date, I found myself pulling out all my 'A' material.  I even came up with a lullaby off the top of my head.  (If you'd like it for your own use you must have a kid named Quin, Tim, Pin or maybe Jen for the rhyme to work.)  Finally, I had to settle for cuddling a stranger all night.   Eventually I relented and called in #1.  That's mom.  Number two is not me.  That's Paco.  He's been fabulous and insists on curling up with Sarah whenever she nurses.  I'm number three in command, and that shows when Quin gives his all-too-regular wakeup call.  Sarah's up before he even makes a noise.  Paco follows right behind her and several minutes later you'll find me mostly naked, usually with boxers twisted around my body, and standing in the kitchen wondering what happend to the toilet. 

But things are good.  I do have a feeling, though, that when the nurse bid us adieu and wished us 'good luck', that she was actually talking to Quin, not us.   

Paco Needs More Love than Ever Before

I had to come home to record a commercial in the "creepyroomio".  That's a studio in a creepy room.  Paco wouldn't take his eyes off of me.

I told him that everything would be OK.  I don't think he believed me. 

College Fund

Believe it or not that little guy is the dollar's most feared predator.  We must start saving the endangered dollars.

Current Score: Little Baby 187, Parents 0

A kid can make you feel really stupid.  If anything, a child highlights the dumb in things you once thought to be fairly harmless.   For example, just a few days ago I could have excitedly announced a lopsided football score and the exuberant exhale would have lived just long enough to die of neglect, perishing at my wife's fained look of interest.  Raising a manchild can take its toll. 

And since I did not experience the total man-ization that one is supposed to undergo after watching his child come into this world (I was kind of expecting something instant.  I'd hear a Disney chime and immediately yearn for Wall Street Journal), today I gleefully declared that Oklahoma had beaten North Texas 79 - 10.  This while my wife tried to get our screaming child to latch on.  It turns out that at that very moment the success of the Sooner football squad was the least necessary information in the universe. 

The raw power of a new father's uselessness is very motivating.  I sprung into action. 

I joined Sarah in one of those bungling rookie parent moments.  We needed to apply Vaseline to our son's newly circumcised doodad.  If you've ever tried to spread cold peanut butter on moist bread than you've only begun to experience the difficulty.  In all our gentle attempts to help Quin we did more damage to his psyche than we could have ever done to his delicate and brightly irritated little manhood.   Years later he'll explain to a therapist that he screams whenever he sees a red Christmas bulb. 

I know I will.

But today he was unable to articulate complaints about his screwed up childhood.   Sarah and my four adult hands tangled with little, flailing legs and diaper small enough to fit a squirrel.  Our incompetence was en fuego.  Tomorrow we're going to practice parenthood by wearing mittens and counting change.

So Quin is screaming and wondering why he's being punished when he hasn't even had a chance to taunt Karma, and we're on the verge of biting each other, when suddenly Sarah gets this real quizzical look on her face.  She's all puzzled and curious when she says, "what's that?"  She's almost smiling, like whatever is sprinkling her, while mysterious, is a pleasant break from the chaos.  A neat little mystery.  That's when I looked down to see The Mighty Q shooting a magnificent inaugural piss.  It arched over his head and at least two more baby-lengths beyond to mist my wife's foot.  As his load decreased and the stream receded, our boy left a golden trail up the bed, across his binky, his chest and it bubbled to a stop on his freshly peeled penis.

He turned up his squelch and let it be known that, for no fault of his own, his innocence had been bruised.  His clean record quite literally soiled.  Or he could have been screaming for competent help.  I'm not sure.  We're having some communication issues.  His evil parents laughed.  We might even have fell a little deeper for each other.

But Quin could give a damn about our little love story.  To him we're large and lumbering, and he never once cried until he met us.   He let us have it until Sarah and I swaddled him tight and discontinued our fervent attempts to get him to breastfeed.

Aside from planting the seeds of deep mistrust in our child, the tribulation resulted in a  very poor diaper application.  It could very well be on backwards.  We were so desperate to get him dressed for all I know we wrapped Sarah's hairbrush up in it.  But now he's quiet, some guy in a neighboring ward is out of a coma and mom and baby are ogling each other.

But turn up your TV.  Stuff your earpods.  Team Suckle is about to try again. 

And North Texas limps back onto the field...