baby daddy

Did I say toof? Shoot, dude, I shoulda said teef.

The day I after I noticed that thing growing out of your gums, it had popped through. The miraculous and painful hunk of porcelain had erupted (as they say) into your mouth, and that sucker is sharp! It’s like a little knife! I’m surprised you haven’t sliced off my finger when I went rooting around in there to see what it must feel like for you. Guess what else I found while was digging around in your mouth – another damn toof! You’ve got two!

And the day after I noticed the second one, the brother to the first, it too had jumped through your gums. And looking there now, you’ve got three! What’s your deal? You in a hurry to get through this whole baby thing? What you don’t have time to enjoy crapping your pants and drinking everything from a bottle? You need a girlfriend? You want a bike? You want a job, I’ll give you a job. How about a mortgage, we sure could use some help there. You name it, I’ll give it to you, but that just means you’re going to have to pull your own weight.

I need to take another look at the ingredients in your baby formula, ‘cause before we know it you’re going to have a moustache and a Camaro.

“He didn’t eat much today,” the babysitter told us. “It’s not like him.”

And it wasn’t. It’s not like you to not eat, little dude. It’s your favorite thing. It’s what you do best, and like all people who enjoy one thing or another, you always let us know your enjoyment by puking it up all over our clothes. And the couch. And the floor. And the carseat. And in the tub. (A little side note, here: When your mama carries you around she keeps an eye out for your tell-tale “I’m-gonna-puke” signs — hiccups, burps, that odd noise that rises in pitch coming from your throat — and moves quickly to the kitchen floor, where you normally make a wide splatter.)

You came home and kept up the strange behavior: you weren’t responding to us, and you kept sucking on your thumb. You ate just fine, but all the noises we made (and trust me, we made some noises. Your grandpa is hard of hearing and I’ve constantly worried that somehow, some way it would transfer to you, but you’ve passed all your hearing tests thus far, and you’ve always responded to the sounds around you, except this time) caused no alarm in you.

I figured you’d gone deaf.

Your mother’s been worrying about ear infections for weeks now and all your behavior has mirrored the descriptions in the books: decreased appetite, seeming loss of hearing, fussiness.

We weren’t sure if the doctor’s office was the correct route, especially since you’d been very responsive the morning we took you to daycare. We decided to let it go one more day.

The next day, upon picking you up, the daycare lady said: “He’s still not eating much. And he looks skinnier. It’s weird.”

So I took you home, finding ways to prepare your mama for a trip to the doctor’s office, well after visiting hours. I talked with you, played with you, changed your clothes and diapers, and fed you.

And somewhere in all that, I think I’ve found the culprit — the monster behind your behavior: The Little White Nubbin beginning its rise from your gums. A TOOTH!

It’s no wonder you’ve been behaving so strangely. You’ve got a rock in your mouth! You’ve got a calcium deposit erupting from your softest tissue! It’s slowly pushing its way into your mouth and you’ve no clue as to what the hell’s going on. I told you it was a toof! and you smiled, but then you stuck your hand in your moth. I said toof! and you smiled again, but there was that hand again.

You must be in a lot of pain, little guy, but you don’t really let anyone know. Guess that’s what we get after letting you poop blood for a month or two. For you, this must not be serious pain. You’re taking it very well and handling yourself with aplomb.

Nevertheless, we, as parents, need to celebrate this, and so I went out and bought you a gift in recognition of this achievement. It’s a bouncy-chair-thing, where you can pretend to stand up, and where you can bounce around. It’s full of toys and noise and I truly hope it will help take your mind off that unbearable pain in your face.

Seriously, little guy, you need to hold st

I said Hold still.

No, I don’t think you need to grab the shirts I’m putting on you.

Yes, I know it’s colorful. That’s why we bought it. It looks cool. just don’t grab the sleev

I mean it! Don’t grab the

Oh great. That’s just wonderful. Yes, just like you, I thought this shirt needed to be put in your mouth.

And the diaper, too. Yeah, that one. The one I laid out over the changing table. That was meant for your mouth, and not your butt. Glad you figured that out.

How’s it taste? You like the built-in baby-powder scent? I don’t know why they put it in the diaper. Seems kinda weird, don’t you think? I mean, sure, it smells like baby powerd, but what do you care? You put it in your mouth. Might as well smell like ham. I mean, you’re eating it, aren’t you?

Mmmm. Ham diapers.

Now put your leg down.

Yes, I know you can taste your foot, too. That’s awesome. Does it taste like ham or something? What am I missing here? Should I try to taste my own toes?

Ok, lemme give it a shot. ugh. Uugh! UUUUuugh! Yuck! Tastes like feet.

What else do you want to put in y

Oh, the diaper again. That’s nice. Good thing it’s the new diaper and not the one you were just wearing. That one had a poop stai

Oh.

Ok, now you’re pooping on the changing table. That’s great. Yeah, it’s pretty much just a big, flat diaper. Do what you need.

No, it’s cool. I’ll just stand here.

Why are you staring at me with such a serious look on your fa

Oh.

Ok.

Yeah, ok now you’re smiling. Does that mean that you’re done pooping on the

There’s that serious face again. Wh

Oh.

Hey, no problem. You’ve gotta poop, right? As long as it’s not on the

Ok, how’d you squirt that onto the carpet? You got a problem with the floor? What did the floor ever do to you? What, you got a scope on that thing or something? How hard does this have to be?

Ok. New diaper time. Let’s try this one on.

Yes, I know this is funny. Yes, it’s hilarious. Yes, I know you’re so cute. Can you put your legs down, please? It worries me.

Here’s the new diaper. Yeah it’s warm, I’ve been holding it while you made all that mess. Yes, I know, the new diaper is hilarious. You’ve never heard anything like it before.

Yes, it’s funny. Just put your legs down, and this will all be do

Oh.

You were trying to tell me something.

You were trying to say: “Hey, I stuck my foot in the mess of the last diaper!”

Why didn’t you just come out and say it? Sheesh. You make this so difficult. It’s fun, sure, and I’m laughing, too. Yes I am. Yes I am!

Ok, now that your foot is clean and you have the new diaper on, let’s get you ready to go to the babysitter. Mama and Daddy have to go to work.

Yeah, I know you want to come with us. And it’d be cool. We could probably get people to take care of you. Yes we could! But we really need to go. If daddy doesn’t leave here in a few seconds, he’ll literally be late for school.

Yes I know, your thumb is funny.

And I know you have gas.

And I know you like to kick a lot.

But I’ve got to go. Let’s just move you over to the car sea

Oh.

Thanks.

Thanks for barfing on my shirt.

And thanks for doing the “I’m-hiding-my-face-and-laughing-at-the-same-time” thing afterward. Let’s me know none of this was intentional; that you didn’t have any of this planned out beforehand.

On Thursday, you turned four months old. It was a pretty special occasion, because it was the same day your mama turned 348 months old. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, dude — “That’s really freaking old! I didn’t know people could get that old! Holy Cow! If I ever get that old, I hope someone is kind enough to just end it all for me.”

I thought the same thing when I was your age. As a matter of fact, you remind me a lot of me when I was your age — lots of unorchestrated movements, a bit of yelling, some tv watching and some staring straight off into the distance with no real goal or target in sight, and the fact that you’re a pretty big kid.

And I mean that with the best of intentions. No, I’m not saying you’re fat, or that you’re “big and tall,” but that you’re big. If it makes you feel any better, your mama and I wouldn’t have thought anything about your size until the doctor had to measure and remeasure and remeasure your height (then double-check it on the average growth chart), and then do the same thing with your weight.

Maybe the reason is because most kids who eat the formula you have to ingest don’t like it so much — and I don’t either; the best way I can describe it would be to say: “Take your shoes off and stick them in the microwave for ten minutes; scoop the goo into a cup and drink it” — and so they don’t gain an awful lot of weight.

But apparently you like the taste of liquid rubber, and that’s why you currently sport the following statistics (and those measurement’s percentile scores).

What’s a percentile?
It’s just part of one tile.

Anyway…
Weight: 17lb 9oz. (90th perctle.)
Height: 27″ (97th perctle.)

That’s a big kid. Seriously, you’re the height of the average 9 month old, and weigh as much as a 6 month old.

And we just thought the Carter’s and Osh Kosh B’Gosh folks had no idea how big a 3 month old actually was. And then we worried about their size charts for 6 months and 9 months as well, because all the clothes we bought you two weeks ago no longer fit. (It’s pretty interesting to take a guy like you into a store and buy him 12-month-old clothes and see the look on the cashiers’ faces when we correct them and say: no, he just turned 4 months old).

You’re just so goshdarn cute it makes me want to eat your huge face.

There are times parents need to be honest with their children. There are times we need to speak up and let you know the honest truth behind our actions (and trust me, the ‘behind’ part of that last comment will come into play here in a second).

And your mama and I don’t shy away from the good, honest truth. We let you in on the world around you.

For example….

There are the times I tell you that you stink
I say: You steenky! You sooooooooo steeeeenkeeeee!
And it’s true! But at least I let you know. Why keep you hidden from the simple, available facts?

Sometimes the neighbors are noisy:
We say: Why they so assholes? Why they gotta be like that? DOn’t they know we right here? Don’t they care about yoooooo?

Sometimes it’s raining:
Whyzit gotsta be so wet? You gonna get all mildewwy!

Then there’s your insurance company:
Why they gotta take away yo money? Why they gotta say you ain’t sick?

And of course the fact that the TV show ‘Rescue Me’ isn’t on any longer:
Why they take the best show on TV off the air? Why they only make, like, 5 episodes per season? Don’t they think Denis Leary is funny? Don’t the FX channel like good TV?

And then there are days like today when I have to tell you the really awful truth.
Like when I picked you up from daycare and brought you home and my body decided to do its own work.

By this, I mean, my body kicks into gear whenever it hits certain environments. In the morning my body knows it’s time to go when I take that first drink of coffee. Doesn’t matter if I make it at 2:00 in the morning or at 7:00 — as soon as I take that first sip of coffee, I need to hit the can.

Same thing when I get home from work. The moment I put the key in the door, my body knows it needs to go inside, take a left down the hallway and head directly into the bathroom.

Today, I had to pick you up from daycare, but that didn’t stop my body’s regular process. That’s why, as soon as we got in the door, I headed straight down the hallway, and thought:

Sometimes you gotta sit down, slap the toilet on the sides and say:
This is daddy’s diaper! Yeah! It’s like a hard, shiny diaper! Look! Wheeee!

And then sometimes you’ve gotta tell your children:
Ooooohhh! Daddy soo steenky! He soooooooo steeeeenky!

And we parents understand the lesson is good and has been learned because our children are smiling, much like you did today when I slapped the porcelain and shouted ridiculousness at you.

DUDE! dude! dude.

We just got a letter back from the insurance company about the letter we sent them a month ago.

What’s an insurance company? It’s a big ol’ building filled with money from people like us. We send it in with hopes that someday they’ll give a little bit of it back to us. Y’know, in case we need it.

Why’d we send them a letter in the first place? ‘Cause you have some tummy issues that would probably morph into awful pain for you if we didn’t get a little help.
That, and your prescription formula costs us $560 a month. We can barely afford that. So, we asked the insurance company to help us out with that cost.

Again, why’d you write the letter? Good question little capital D! Your formula is so expensive that we needed a little help. I mean, we’re going to have to pay for this formula for at least a year (according to your gastroenterologist), and that amount of money is more than most people pay for their kids’ food.

Why me? Little guy, I know there are people out there who have kids that suffer through worse than you, and I can only hope their insurance companies cover their medical bills. I think about all the sick people in the world and about what they have available as help, and I can’t help but hope their insurance companies (what with the big, cash-filled buildings and all) give a little back. There are even people who can’t afford to give the insurance company money in the first place, and I worry about what they do for their kids, or themselves. We don’t consider ourselves special, because we know there are others in need of this same help.

There are kids sicker than you, and there are kids who suffer through every day of their lives, and your mama and I don’t want that to become your life. We want to ensure you’re happy and healthy, and that’s we wrote that letter for you.

We found out yesterday that the insurance company took our letter to heart and will cover at least some of the cost for us.

This is out of the ordinary, and it’s completely welcome on our end — it means we can provide other things for you that we might not have been able to afford were we not given this aid.

We can’t give back much to anyone, but we can offer up the letter we wrote. We’ll try to make that letter available to anyone whose baby suffers from a milk protein allergy and which requires prescription formula, like the allergy that made you cry 75 hours a day and poop blood.

We hope it works for them.

Little Dude, you make me be a better person. You’ve made me into a better teacher. You’ve made me start to think about others and how they interact with the world.

I found myself, at the beginning of the school year, talking to students as though they were you.

They said: “So, here’s my essay. I hope you like it.”

And I said: You did you essay! Awesome! Dasso awesome! You so awesome! Dassa good job! You do a good job!

And they said: “You’re creepy.”

And I said: You think I’m creepy? I can’t beleeve you say dat. I can’t beleeve you say that to me. You so bad! You such a bad person!

And they said: “Seriously. I’ve gotta go.”

And I said: Awwww. Dass too bad. Dass too bad! Why’s you gotta feel like dis? Why izzat?

And they said: “Mr., You’re weird.”

And I said: Yeah! Dassit! Dassit! YEAH! Dass awesome! Dass sooo awesome! You so awesome!

And then they left.

And then I called after them: Oh why you poop?!? Why you POOOOP?!? You mussa need new diaper, yeah! YEAH! YEAH! OH you so awesome! YEAH!

And as silly as it sounds, I think this is how I need to interact with my students. Not with the baby talk, necessarily, but with the honest surprise. The honest disbelief. The honest wonder, and with the honest congratulations.

So many teachers we remember as curmudgeons; and I’ll try not to be one. I’ll try to push myself to be the real teacher — the guy who’s always excited and the guy who never puts you down. I’d like to be (for my students) the teacher who’s congratulatory and willing to see the bright spot in whatever they do.

And I owe it to you, little dude. You’ve helped me step outside myself and put myself in my students’ shoes. They don’t fit, but I can feel the weight of being a student.

Hey Little Guy.

Hey.

Stay asleep.

Don’t worry.

Rest up.

It’s been a great summer, hasn’t it?

Yeah.

It’s been great.

Short, but great.

Not so long ago you were born.

Remember that?

Me too.

Your mom, too.

That was a long day.

Long day.

Still get a little nervous thinking about it.

Hoping everything turns out right.

That all your parts are there.

And work correctly.

And they did.

And they still do.

Yeah.

Except the tummy stuff.

But I think we’ve got that all worked out now.

Yeah.

I can tell you’re feeling better.

I’m glad you’re feeling better.

Yeah, I remember when you first smiled.

And I remember when you first laughed and I couldn’t tell it from your crying sound.

And now you’re here, sleeping.

I’m glad I can still go in to visit you.

But I’m sad I can only do it at night.

Work started for me the other day.

And it starts for your mom in the morning.

Yeah.

And after that, after 7:00 tomorrow morning we take you to someone else’s house every day.

She’s going to take care of you during the day so that mama and daddy can work.

Well, we wouldn’t do it if we didn’t have to.

We’d just hang out with you.

But we’ll still be here.

We’re still around.

We don’t hate you.

We love you immeasurably.

We love you to the moon.

And we hope you’ll remember us tomorrow evening when we pick you up.

We hope you’ll start pumping that leg.

We hope you’ll squeal.

We hope you don’t miss us too much.

And I hope you aren’t as worried about tomorrow as we are.

I hope you stay asleep just fine.

Just snooze away the night.

Dream something warm.

Keep comfy.

And if that lady ever does anything to hurt you I’ll cut her fucking head off.

Night, guy.

Love you.

Your formula costs us about $560 a month and we thought we’d see if the insurance company would help cover the cost. Initially they didn’t (and as of this writing, they still haven’t), so we decided to write a letter to their appeals department because in other instances your formula is covered 100%.

Medicaid fully covers the cost. The Food Stamps program (which goes by another name) covers it. Our insurance does not cover one cent and it’s not like we can just change policies either — both your mom and I work for the state. We’re only offered one policy; neither of our policies covers your food. We’re just asking for a little help here.

We wrote this letter for you, Little Dude, because we know you’re a pretty intense guy. Were you to put your thoughts to pen, the recipient of your missive would have to recomb his or her hair when finished reading. When you write, you write in blood. When you write, you write in capital letters. All of your sentences end in question marks (but they function as periods). Don’t they? When I read what you write, it’s much like listening to what you have to say — it’s impassioned and it’s uncomplicated and forthright. It may be uncomfortable, and maybe that’s because there’s so much cursing.

That’s why we had to write this letter for you, so that the insurance company would actually read it and hopefully do something about it.

August 12, 2007

Appeals and Grievances
Blue Cross of State
P.O. Box 9876
Faketon, ST 12345

To Whom It May Concern:

Little Dude is a newborn who since birth has suffered from a milk protein allergy which makes it impossible for him to tolerate breast milk and every other hypoallergenic formula that has been attempted, to include Nutramigen and Alimentum hypoallergenic formulas.

Trial of these formulas produced a temporary and insufficient decrease in symptoms, and did not treat the root cause of his problem. Even with the use of these hypoallergenic formulas, his gastrointestinal symptoms continued, and stool showed 3+ occult blood indicating colitis caused by his allergies and intolerance to everything in his diet. It was therefore imperative that he was switched to Neocate Infant formula, which is a prescription formula and can only be obtained by Physician direction; Neocate Infant formula was prescribed for Little Dude as a medical necessity.

This prescription formula should be regarded as just that, a necessary medical treatment for his medical condition. The formula is not prescribed on the whim of the parents or doctors, and is not a dietary “preference”. To deny treatment for the cause of this baby’s colitis is unimaginable and certainly would be considered medically negligent. The cost to your insurance company for covering a prescription formula would be miniscule compared to the cost which would potentially be incurred should his gastrointestinal condition be allowed to progress. Non-treatment would result in continued and advanced colitis, numerous physician and specialist visits, hospitalization for dehydration, surgical costs for evaluation and treatment for colitis, and numerous other treatments for a prolonged period of time.

This letter is to request your reconsideration and payment for Dude’s medical care, as this is medically necessary for this child’s health. Even a partial reimbursement for the cost of this prescription would be appreciated. Enclosed are receipts for one month’s supply of Neocate Infant Formula for Little Dude. Thank you for your reconsideration in this matter.

Sincerely,

Baby Mama & Baby Daddy

As you can see, we wrote this letter about a month ago. We received a letter in the mail saying that their appeals department would take up to 30 days to reconsider their original ruling, so we’re still waiting. In the time since we began this new formula, you’ve turned intoa completely different kid, man. You’re an absolute angel. That’s not just some mushy dad talk; you’re a darling. You’re a smiler and a giggler, and you’re constantly happy. If I could hug the Neocate company, I would.

About a week ago we did get a check totaling $2, but I think that was for another prescription. If it was the help they sent for your formula, though…well, I think we’d just send you in to do the dirty work.

You smiled at your mother first, Little Dude, and for that I shall never forgive you.