Who is this guy? And why is he half asleep?

Just a few days before Christmas, we decided that we would initiate Justine to a venerable, and frankly bizarre holiday ritual, whereby we would take our innocent child to an indoor arena of shops and fountains where an old stranger dressed in a ridiculous red suit and sporting a lengthy white beard would hold her momentarily while someone dressed as an elf (but clearly too tall) would snap a picture. This was all done to us as children, and I believe the intent is to teach us to never trust strangers, and that you can’t always get what you want, no matter who you tell. For us, at least, it was mainly about our only quest in life – a chance for a cute (albeit expensive) photo opp.

We were a bit stressed about leaving for home the next morning, but we somehow found the time to pile into the car, and head over to the mall. The line was deceptively short, but we stood there for probably a half an hour as the little children in front of us spilled their guts to a clearly disinterested Kris Kringle. We bided our time trying to decide how badly we wanted to be extorted by the giant elves parked in front of Santa with a digital camera not unlike my own and a photo printer. Finally, our time arrived.

The lead elf (elfette?) who was clearly a pro, recognized a potential time-bomb, and suggested to her helper that she “take it quick.” My wife approached Santa, who had a dazed look in his eyes. Turns out that this particular mall had only one Santa on duty for the entire season, who ran 8 hour shifts with 45 minutes for breakfast and lunch. If the phrase is “wearing your emotions,” this Santa would be Figure 1. Kim thrust Justine into his arms, he stared off into space, perhaps dreaming of his bed, or the fifth of scotch he had stowed in his locker, and the giant elf snapped a photo. Then we spent two minutes trying to get a bewildered Justine to smile at this predicament that we put her in.

She’s a reasonably intelligent baby, and looked back and forth at us, trying to understand what we were telling her to do. Then she slowly turned her head at the mass of white hair and vacant eyes that was behind her, and realized, rather quickly, that neither Mommy nor Daddy was holding her. She then inevitably dissolved into tears. Kim rescued her, and we continued out the gate, pausing to fork over 6 months of pay for a 5×7 and 4 wallets. Was it worth it?

Of course. And I have the pictures to prove it.

Beware the Finger of Destiny

Standing at the altar, gazing into the eyes of the person you’ve decided you can tolerate longer than all the others,  I didn’t think much about those hidden secrets my wife had locked away.  Secrets squirreled away in a Pandora’s box in her brain, waiting for some trigger to come along and release them.  Something like the birth of our child.  It took some time for me to fully recognize the signs, but it has become overwhelmingly clear that my wife had been harboring a devastating passion, one that Justine’s arrival has released from the depths of Kim’s soul.  For you see, my wife cannot stop picking my child’s nose.

It all started innocently enough.  Months ago, Justine was suffering through a little cold, minor sniffles and snorts, all very cute.  Under the guise of “relief,” my wife starting reaching for a small tool that the hospital had sent home with us: a teal colored bulb syringe.  It looks kind of like a cross between a Christmas ornament and an anteater.  Tool in hand, she’d coerce me to hold Justine’s head while she proceeded to ram the instrument into our innocent baby’s sinuses and attempt to suck out her brain.

Now, I’m not sure the last time you had a rubber tube shoved up your nostril and the air forcibly sucked from your lungs, and frankly I’m not sure I want to know, but if Justine’s reaction is any indication, it is a highly undesirable situation.  But while she dissolves into tears, my wife gleefully went back for more, vowing to “clear the blockage” and “bring peace back to Nostril village.”

This was all horrifying enough, but as she has grown older, the size of her nostrils have, unfortunately, grown as well allowing Kim to bypass the bulb syringe for an old standby – her finger.  Many a day have I cringed and looked away as she went “digging for nose gold,” in my poor, snorting child,  still enlisting me on occasion to provide my services as both child restraint and comedic relief,  trying to hold Justine steady while simultaneously looking away in horror.

I can deal with the dirty diapers, the Elmer’s glue-like spit up, the rancid smell of pureed green beans, even the teething induced sleepless nights.  But for me, the line is with the snot.  It’s gross.  And the fact that Kim spends her days and nights thinking of new ways to pluck it from my child’s nose makes it that much worse.  So let this stand as a warning to one and all:

Don’t let my wife near your nostrils.

Baptisnening? Christenizing?

Our trek south for Thanksgiving served a dual purpose beyond the Pilgrim feast/football bonanza, and that was to have Justine baptized at my family’s church.  My grandmother Hy was performing the ceremony, and family from far and wide was coming into town to witness it, including Kim’s father from upstate New York, brother from Virginia, Gordan Shumway from Melmac,  and even sister all the way from New Mexico.

I’m always amused when someone refers to this process as “christening,” which I guess is what the majority of folks would label the event.  Growing up Lutheran, the term I’ve always known is “baptism,” a reference to solemn dunking of Jesus by John the Baptist in the Bible.   My feeling is that you “christen” a boat, and “baptize” a child, especially since christening vessels is generally done by cracking a cheap bottle of a champagne across their stern, which, although potentially humorous, if done to children would probably be something of a bad idea.  I suppose if the tradition were to be maintained, we’d need to switch to Capri Sun bags, which would take away the dangerous glass breaking, plus add a good deal of Vitamin C to the proceeding.

That morning, we arrived at the church in the nick of time, as usual, once again turning a short car ride into Jack Bauer-esque mad dash in which I pretended to be racing to reach a suitcase nuke poised to go off at the top of the hour while Kim attempted to apply make up to her face while simultaneously telling me to “go fast, but ride steady.”  At the church we quickly took our assigned seats right up front, which saved us from a long walk up the altar for the baptism, but denied me from checking my email during the sermon.

At the appointed moment, we were asked up on to the altar with Justine (of course) and her god parents, my brother and Kim’s sister.  Most of the affair involves reading aloud a bunch of affirmations, in which the four of us took turns in agreeing to one thing or another.  The payoff moment quickly arrived, and Kim held Justine down towards the water sitting in the baptismal font, and my grandmother splashed some on her head.

It’s usually at this point that the big question of baptisms is answered – what will happen when the holy water meets baby’s forehead?  Having grown up attending the church, I’ve seen most of the alternatives.  Sometimes, the baby predictably freaks out, often times because they happen to be asleep at the moment they decide to splash him/her with water.  Other babies smile and laugh, perhaps believing it to be bathtime, or adjusting their worldview to include “indoor rain.”  Occasionally the splashing of the holy water will burn the child, who will then morph into a demon and dissolve on the altar, thrashing about while talking like a Doors album playing in reverse.  I’ve only seen that happen twice.

Justine, being the consummate water lover that she is, took it all in stride, and made not a whimper.  The water is followed by the anointing of oil, and finally the lighting of a candle.  It’s all very special, and although I’m not sure that Justine grasped the concept of it, she did seem to enjoy the process.

After the service we all lined up for the requisite pictures, with the “PhotoCombiTron” determining every possible combination of family members to take photos of.  Fourteen long, flash filled hours later we all retreated to the Drafting Room, a wonderful local restaurant, to share in family togetherness and partake of a grand buffet, featuring made to order omelettes, blintzes, and one of those fishes that you pick the pieces directly off of.  Gross.

Afterwards, we said our goodbyes, and went back to Kim’s parent’s house to relax and recover.  And then the next day we headed back up north for a few weeks, to prepare for the madness that lay ahead.   The shopping, decorating, office parties, and partaking in the joyousness of the season.

Yes friends, my birthday was only a month and a half away.

Mikey (er Justine) Likes It!

Photo Gallery

We were spoiled, frankly.  You see, our little angel was not like those “other” babies, who kept their parents up all night with their incessant crying, pooping and Finnish yodeling.  No, Justine was a sleeper.  All the way through the night, cat-like.  It was miraculously, it was unexpected, it was entirely awesome.  And then it stopped.

Why it stopped is some manner of discussion in the household.  When these things change, folks end up rationalizing, and we were no exception.  Some of the episodes happened right after her vaccinations, so we thought that might be the issue.  Our house is drafty, perhaps causing her to wake periodically.  She drools like a root canal patient, so maybe the pain jars her awake.  The cats perch on her crib rail, staring down at her at night, giving her nightmares.

What we finally settled on, at least as a best guess, was that she simply was hungry.  Hungrier for more than the dairy victuals streaming from my wife.  Yes, we decided it was time to start Justine on food.

Now, I must admit that I am a bit in the dark when in comes to infant development.  I understood, of course, that my little child had no teeth with which to chew her food, and so solids were out of the question.  But I jumped ahead a bit,  pureeing a Double Whopper and cramming it into a bottle.  My wife pointed out that this was foolish because a) this is not at all nutritious for a five month old and b) there was no way that slurry was going to get out of the nipple as it was too thick.  Her suggestion:  rice cereal.  And yes, I did think of Rice Krispies, and no apparently that is not right either.

In the pantheon of baby first, first “food” is definitely has a high chance for hilarious reaction shots, right up there with first “pie in the face” and first “realization that she’s a he in the Crying Game.”  With this in mind, we set up a small webcast and invited our parents to tune it for the fun.  We placed a curious Justine in her new height chair, strapped a bib on her, and prepared her food.  With some trepidation and amidst constant flashes of my camera, Kim gingerly brought the first spoonful up to her mouth, leaning her head away should the reaction be projectile in nature.

And Justine slurped it down.  So well in fact that we couldn’t keep up with how fast she wanted the cereal.  (Later analysis by a panel of parenting experts would prove that we did not, as some alleged, feed her too quickly.)  By the end, Justine was holding the spoon herself, licking the contents off like it was frosting left on a spatula.  It was a mess to be sure, but there was no doubt that she was ready for cereal.

And the hilarious reaction shots?  It would be a few weeks, and a dastardly substance known as “green beans” to finally get them.

With all the trimmings, times two

Why Haven’t You Been Posting, Daddy?

Welcome to a slightly revamped, relaunch of Heir Apparent!  It is hard to believe that my last post was over two months ago, and when we last left my darling daughter she was but a wee lass of 4 months or so.  She’s now over 6 months old, can sit up and is even eating solid foods.  Quite the transformation!  In any case, as part of my New Year’s resolution (and as part of a plea bargain with the Onondaga County court system for some holiday related “capers”) I will once again be regularly posting.  I hope the holidays were good to everyone, and I hope you will bear with me as I once again play “catch up” with the blog.  Now, please set your calendars back approximately a month and a half and…

- – - – - – - – - -

With November rapidly drawing to a close, the snow already falling in Central New York, and the Syracuse Football schedule drawing mercifully to a close, that distinctly American holiday makes its grand appearance, awash in large inflatable parades, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, and the wholesale slaughter of millions of innocent turkeys. Yes friends, the advent of Justine’s first Thanksgiving was at hand.

Since our families have so far resisted the ever-so-strong pull of the greater Syracuse area and it’s famed Salt Museum and have refused to relocate, we once again found ourselves flying down Interstate 81 the night before Turkey Day, listening to a well-worn CD of children’s tunes (that all seem to be set to the same tune) and furtively glancing in the rearview mirror, hoping beyond hope that our little baby might finally conk out so that we could switch the radio over to something a little less “thumbkiny.” Thankfully, this particular trip bothered her not at all, and she slept much of the way down, as did I between mile markers 231 and 253, as the police report suggests at least. Just kidding on that last part – I outran the troopers.

The logistics of Thanksgiving have always been a headache for us. My family, on the one hand, is incredibly consistent in the operation of the holiday. There will always be a gathering, dinner will always be around six, and it will always include my immediate family, plus grandparents. Occasionally a random guest or two will attend – a few years ago, for example, Warren Harding inexplicably showed up, and regaled us with tales of the Teapot Dome scandal after dinner before heading out, getting into a mysterious phone booth crammed with a bunch of other historical figures, and vanishing. But on the whole, it is a remarkably steady affair.

My wife’s family though, is always a toss-up, mostly because of my brother-in-law and his family. They are “whim travelers,” often deciding last minute to make the lengthy journey from Virginia up north to partake in “family togetherness.” Thus, occasionally Thanksgiving with Kim’s family is a crowded event, while other years it is a quiet and reflective dinner for just a few. The only constant is that dinner is in the early afternoon, following the tradition of traditional German families, and gypsies.

Thus we have many times performed “the double,” eating a single round at my wife’s family, and then driving amidst a THC induced drowsy haze over to my parent’s house to partake in round two, before finally succumbing during dessert and collapsing into post-Thanksgiving comas. Just before we fall asleep of course, my wife suggests getting up for Black Friday. I usually then cross my eyes and pretend to pass out – before actually doing so.

We mercifully avoided the insanity for the past two years, traveling to the West Coast as part of my wife’s job over the past two Thanksgivings, enjoying one turkey dinner in Palm Springs, and the other watching men joust on horseback in the basement of the Excalibur Casino in Vegas. No such luck this year. The brother-in-law and family was enroute, and my father had somehow arranged two tables in such a way that my entire family could sit together, a real feat considering the number of folks far exceeded what any good fire marshal would allow. The die was cast.

And so we found ourselves once again waltzing “the double,” this time with a baby in tow. She watched us stuff returning to house one for sleep. By all accounts it was a good time, nice to see the family, partake in the normal rituals, induce the same comas. Justine, for her part, took it all in stride, until after the second dinner when she decided she had had enough. So we took her home, and climbed into bed ourselves.

“Black Friday tomorrow,” my wife whispered through the drowsy fog.

“Mgrgrrrrrmmmmrrrmmmm,” I replied, unsetting her alarm.