The Burrowing Black Sheep

I have to admit, of all the things that I braced myself for just before fatherhood was officially bestowed upon, whether it be the aforementioned poopy diapers, Elmer’s glue-like spit up, or the screaming night time perils of trying to sleep through teething, the most insidious aspect was barely a blip on my pre-child radar screen.  No, I was not ready for the psychologically damaging effects of a little recognized parental threat:  background noise.

It all started innocently enough.  After we finally moved Justine from our bedroom to hers, it became important to try and soften the random noises that accompany the night-life on a sleepy street in the bowels of Central New York.  The night often comes alive with the sound of cars recklessly careening down the road, screeching deer, cougars ripping apart fallen gazelles, and of course my private helicopter returning from a jaunt down to the city after clubbing with Lindsay and J.Lo.  To help combat these potential “awakeners” we received via one of the baby showers one of those “white noise” machines.  After some experimentation, we settled on “the Ocean” as our weapon of choice.

Now, I am aware that there are folks out there that happily fall asleep with these machines, blissfully drifting off to the sounds of a rainstorm, the babble of a small stream in a dense wood, or honks and swearing of rush hour in Times Square.  But for me, listening both consciously and unconsciously to a 20 second clip of tidal waves repeated a bajillion times has a variety of assuredly unintended but very real consequences.  For example, I imagine a chart detailing my late night bathroom activities would show a sharp spike in peeing shortly after the machine entered our lives (although I suppose that could also be attributed to the extra drinking as well).  I also suffered a brief but frightening few weeks convinced that I was Frankie Avalon.  (Too old a reference?  Uh, how about Patrick Swayze in Point Break?  No?  Ummm.  World Famous Surfer Kelly Slater? Look, there’s only so many surfer references I can make…)

Eventually we stopped using the automated PeeTron and switched instead to using a Baby Einstein CD of “Wake Up and Goodnight” classical music.  Naturally, I was tasked with removing the “Wake Up” portion, and quadrupling the number of times that the 8 songs played.  Eventually we discovered that the boombox we have pointed at her room has a “repeat all” function that made it possible to maintain the sleepy music barrage at full force all night long.  This has been marginally better on my psyche than the old machine, although I do occasionally have dreams of conducting a large symphony orchestra only to wake up flailing my cat by the tail about the bed while Rachminanoff whispers through the house.

Both of these subtle methods of subduing a light sleeper are invasive enough to the brain, but mercifully the majority of my exposure to them occurs while I am asleep.  No such luck for when we travel in the car, where I am subjected to two other forms of auditory torture.  The first is another Baby Einstein CD, and in this case it’s the only one that seems to calm her down when we drive.  It’s filled with classic baby tunes, including old standbys like Baa Baa Black Sheep, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and the Alphabet song (all of which have the same tune – which is a total ripoff).  I know them all by heart now, and in the order that they are played, so much so that if we ever were to lose it, I’m sure I could remaster my own version to replace it.  (REMIX!)  Naturally, of course, every single song is the type that burrows deep into the brain, and resurfaces at inappropriate times, such as in the big board meeting, or while attempting brain surgery.

The second musical pacifier we employ in the car is a jungle themed mirror that has flashing lights around the outside and plays a jaunty little Jungle-ish tune.  The CD is bad enough, but what makes this thing so mind-numbing is that the song that it plays is only about 30 seconds long, and of course is on infinite repeat.  Imagine 4 hours of a car ride with the same 30 second clip playing (and attempting to switch it off causes LOUD fits of anger) and you can see where my mind will start to splinter.

Will this auditary nightmare abate over time?  Unlikely – instead it’ll probably progress to Barney, Baby Beluga and with my luck, Hannah Montana.  Oh god, what if Hanson makes a resurgence?

A Filthy Topic

I realize this can be a sensitive subject for some, and so, as a courtesy to those who may stumble upon this post, or for regular readership, please be aware that the following post is pretty much solely related to poop.  You have been warned.

It’s cliche, to be sure, but one of the first things that new parents must adjust to is not only the sudden and inescapable fact of being both aware of when your child poops as well as being responsible for the cleanup process (a process that we, as adults, pretty much feel is an “individual responsibility,”) but also beginning to regard lengthy conversations about the frequency, volume and pallor of these “movements” as ordinary topics to be discussed freely.  My wife and I, for example, frequently discuss the “nitty-gritty” (no pun intend) of Justine’s “doings” (sorry), more often than not at the dinner table.

It was never like this before we had children.  Bathroom discussions were, for the most part, strictly limited to the occasional discussion of how awesome it is that men can pee standing up, and how women have have been punished for Eve’s apple-eatin’ ways by being forced to stand in lines several dozen deep at sporting events.  But now, I can’t help but observe and analyze the nuances of my daughter’s early experiences in bowel mastery, and discuss them in frank, no holds barred conversations with my wife and other parents I know.

I’ve noticed over time, for example, that Justine’s habits regarding the actual “function” have changed.  In the few months after she came home from the hospital, it was difficult to discern when she was actually going to the bathroom – the only reliable indicator (beyond the smell) was what I like to call “The Distant” wherein she would be happily staring at something (me, Kim, the cat, Green Bay Packers great Bart Starr) and then suddenly her eyes would drift to gaze longingly at the abyss.  The inevitable then occurred.  Nowadays, it is quite obvious when “nature calls,” indicated by both the grunting and the not-so-subtle change in pallor of her face towards the redder end of the spectrum.  This is usually pointed out by Kim to me as an amusing observation, except of course when Justine is in the tub, in which case the clown music starts playing and we both run around in circles trying to figure out what to do.

I won’t go into details regarding the colorful palettes and densities involved either other than to say that the introduction of solid foods into what was once an all-liquid diet had the effect you might imagine, and has left our Diaper Champ struggling to fulfill it’s anti-odorous missions.

The observations are not particularly disturbing in and of themselves (at least to me) – the issue that tugs at me is that I am willing (and in this case very publicly) to disclose them with other human beings, and not within the confines of a confession booth, which I must admit I haven’t tried, but I wonder whether a priest might reconsider the collar were he forced to listen to it.  The fact that I’ll gladly discuss with my wife, my friends, and the guy who delivers my mail the mundanities of my child’s poop without a second thought brings me to an inescapable conclusion.

I’ve finally fully accepted fatherhood.

Cat Poop Disease? Random Body Parts? AWESOME!

When I started this blog, I conceived of it as the modest start of what would eventually turn into a broadcasting juggernaut that would rival the big 3, possibly Fox, or at least Animal Planet.  After over a year of blogging, over 60 posts and 17 (SEVENTEEN) comments, I can proudly announce to the world that we have achieved not one, but SEVERAL top rankings on Google!   Check this out:

Searching for any variety of “cat poop disease” brings you to my missive on toxoplasmosis. (#1 on Google)

Searching for “random body parts” brings you to to one of our ultrasound visits. (#1 on Google – Pic is #4 on Google Images)

Searching for “baby in stomach” in Google Images brings you here. (Google Images #1)

I want to thank my faithful readers (all 8 of you) for helping me to achieve this monumental goal!  As to the future, I promise many, many more posts on the apparently hot topic of cat poop and its many many related diseases.  Stay tuned!

A Confusing Affliction

Despite now having a child of my own, I still find myself afflicted with a very pernicious, albeit mostly harmless condition. I’ve been searching the web for support groups, and have stumbled across many useful ones (Pine Cone Eaters Anonymous, and Maimed by the Wii Fit for example), but have not found others willing to help cope with my issue.  For you see,  I have (what I call) “age-skill confusion syndrome” (ASCS).

What are the symptoms of this particular condition?  Well, there’s only really one.  I have the inability to properly understand at what age certain skills are acquired by children, and in many cases can’t even decipher how old a child is, despite most of the time knowing when they were born.

I know, this doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it’s very embarassing.  Consider the following exchange with my wife:

Kim: Clean up the living room, Benjamin is coming over to visit.

Me:  Why?  He’s only 3 months old, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.

Kim:  Uh, he’s 18 months old?  And he can walk?

Me:  Oh.

Or this one:

Me:  Do we have baby food in case they don’t bring any?

Kim:  For who?

Me:  Abby?

Kim:  She’s in SECOND GRADE.

ME: Oh.

I can’t pinpoint exactly how many others have this particular issue, although I hope that there is simply an unreported “silent mass” of people that can’t figure these things out either.  I would assume that the majority (if there is one) would consist mostly of folks that are a) single or first time parents and b) men.  Women seem to know these things, or at least have the capacity to remember them once they hear them once.  I, on the other hand, can recount shot for shot rounds of golf played on Tiger Woods ’09 from 3 months ago, but can’t seem to remember with any regularity whether a 3 year old kid can form complete sentences or has teeth.

If you suffer, or know someone that suffers from ASCS, please let them know that they are not alone.  And be kind when they ask whether seventh graders can read yet.

Holidaze… Part 1

Sadly, I am still mired in reporting events that have occurred a few months ago, but what better way to deal with the devastating cold, persistent snow drifts and mind-numbing gray skies of a deep winter in Syracuse then to remember, happier, equally cold and snowy days of the not too distant past.  Let the gentle notes of the season drift thoughtfully into your head (or just ram some Rudolph in your ears) and think back to the recent holiday season.

Shortly after our rendezvous with Sleepy Santa at the mall, we headed home for what proved to be Justine’s (unsurprisingly) first Christmas.  We had originally planned to leave after work on the 23rd, for we had plans to meet with my family at noon the 24th to exchange gifts and engage in ‘holiday activities’.  But because of the desire to see Santa Clause, and the small detail of not being packed that night, we decided to leave bright and early on the 24th.

Justine, of course, was not adequately briefed about the plan, and instead decided to stay up much of the night, regaling us with tales about her day playing with toys, told entirely through loud, raucous screaming.  The light of day finally upon us, we took to the road, zombie-like, and headed south.  Naturally, our delay in leaving left us driving into the teeth of a ‘winter weather warning’ which mostly consisted of a large sheet of ice that covered the roads between Syracuse and Allentown.  It was not an auspicious start to the trip.

We arrived in Philly only a half an hour late to the gathering, and mustered the energy to appear lively as my family partook of a wonderful brunch and gift giving bonanza.  Justine delighted in her new toys, relishing in the attention given to her by everyone, while Kim and I bravely mustered smiles, taking turns slipping out to the bathroom to catch 5 minutes of sleep sitting on the toilet.

After the festivities, we attended the early Christmas Eve service at our church.  The church puts on 3 services on the day before Christmas, two later services geared towards adults that represent the somber and seriousness of the birth of Jesus, and the late afternoon service “for the kids” featuring a Christmas Pageant that revels in such historical inaccuracies as “Wise Women,” shepherds sporting Adidas sandals (and socks), and a real live baby Jesus portrayed by a one month old baby girl (in this case performed ably by my niece Abby).  It was certainly a charming, if raucous, affair, but it was nice to be involved in a service where Justine could scream and we wouldn’t get the usual stares and subtle “to the back” nods.

After church we headed over to Kim’s parents house for a full-on Christmas dinner, complete with ham, yams, and even a small “Christmas Beast.”  To continue to atone for a year’s worth of misdeeds, we agreed to attend another service at a small church nearby.  This was a more traditional affair, consisting of the usual litany of Christmas Eve service staples, including singing Christmas carols, the requisite acknowledgment of the church that Santa and Jesus can co-exist peacefully, if not amicably, and the candle-lit singing of Silent Night.  Justine, for her part, did a reasonably good job of not calling attention to herself, and Kim and I both made it through awake.  We returned to the house, and quickly succumbed to a well-deserved sleep, well aware of what lay ahead.

Christmas Day would dawn early.

I Think She Has My Nose?

As soon as you have a baby, often right after he/she is still sitting in the incubator, umbilical cord still dangling, covered in blood, that a question is posed.  It is a question that gets repeated incessantly, by both family and stranger alike.  It is a question that inevitably leads to a flurry of digging through old boxes, consulting of distant relatives, and expensive expert analysis.  All to determine the answer to one thing.

“Who does your baby look like?”

We get this constantly, and frankly it’s becoming a bit annoying.  Look, I understand that this child we brought into the world is made up of a combination of both my wife and my DNA (allegedly), and thus shares traits from both of us.  Thus conceivably she could have “my nose,” or my wife’s “eyebrows,” or my “smug sense of self-satisfaction and loathing for the DMV.”  The problem is that the answer to this simple question is neither simple nor obvious.  And yet that doesn’t stop friends, family, or even random strangers at the supermarket from pondering the question.

In some cases I have seen obvious examples of parent/child similarities.  My boss’s second child, for example, is a dead ringer for him, right down to the way he laughs when I ask for a day off.  One of my brother’s sons is becoming indistinguishable from childhood pictures of my brother from the 70s.  My pet starfish’s severed tentacle is starting to grow into exactly the same shape as its mutilated parent.

But in our case it’s hard to say.  We’ve combed through our childhood pictures, looking for recognizable facial features, but they just don’t seem to be there.  I mean, obviously Justine has inherited my radiant smile, fantastic looks and sunny disposition, as well as Kim’s ability to sneeze, but none of these things has a direct correlation feature-wise to what we looked like back then.  It’s mysterious and maddening, especially to that lady in the produce aisle who continuously accosts us about the issue.

Facial features aside, I will say, though, that people have agreed that Justine has inherited my fingers.  Apparently I have distinctly long fingers, with long wide nails.  I like to think that these serve a larger purpose – perhaps some day the fate of the world may rest upon my ability to reach a few millimeters farther up my nose than the average human – but for now I don’t get a lot of extra advantage from them. But it’s good to know that at least there is something recognizable from me present physically in my child.  And who knows, as time goes on, perhaps she’ll end up looking more and more like me.

And may God have mercy on her if she does.

In all honesty, despite all the speculation, I have my own personal theory as to who she looks like:

You be the judge.