Some dads want their boys to play football, or basketball, or whatever sport they find interesting. But I have a ton of wishes for you, Little Dude, and here’s the first one:
Categories: Secret Wishes
A few days after we brought you home, you got the best present a boy could ever get: New Neighbors! And they’re the best new neighbors a boy could want.
Let’s see — there’s a little tiny boy, his slightly older sister, and their parents. Oh and then there’s another couple living in the house tha seem to be in their mid twenties-to-early-forties (it’s tough to tell when all they wear is pajama pants and Black Velvet t-shirts and constantly suck on Pall Mall 100s and a bottle of Budweiser, no matter the time of day); there’s another older couple that seems to be in their late forties, but they rarely come out of the house, and then to cap it all off is a set of granparents and one other old guy who comes out every few days to mow the lawn.
It’s fun to watch the whole group climb into one car to take Papa Methington (the one person in the house with a job) to work. It’s fun to smell the cigarette smoke waft in through our windows twenty-four hours a day.
Little D., there’s some foul language coming up here, so you can’t really read some of this stuff until you’re older. Maybe when I read it to you, I’ll just replace a few of the words.
I call them the Methingtons, because, honestly, I’m not too keen on going over there to ask them to turn down their music, or to stop holding screaming matches on their front lawn between midnight and five in the morning, because I honestly don’t feel like stepping into the middle of the never-ending, colossal argument: “Why you makin’ fun of me?”
“I ain’t!”
“Yes you were!”
“Fuck d’I say, then? Huh? Fuck d’I say?”
“You said somethin’.”
“Fuck d’I say? Fuck d’I say? Huh? Fuck d’I say?”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
It’s quaint, y’know. And so appropriate for their two kids who are often out there at midnight or later, watching them have this argument. Know what else is probably great for their kids? When they have their nightly parties and stand out on the front lawn playing round robin to see who gets to step into the camper that’s currently parked on the sideof their house. I don’t know what goes on in the Methington house, but every time someone steps into the camper, it lights up a dull gold for a few fleeting seconds before the person inside comes stumbling out and the next person in line steps in.
Anyway Little Dude, I hope you like it here. Things could be way different I suppose, had you gottena different lot in life. You could be living with about eight other adults in a house built for three. You could be awake all the time and constantly out at night in just your undies.
Of course, I could be reading everything incorrectly. I know that a home doesn’t need to be perfect in order to be a loving and adequate home. I know looks can be decieving. I hope.
Categories: The Methingtons · crazy people · cussing · disappointment · neighbors · worries
Your mama likes to tells stories as much as I do, Little Dude, and when she does she has but one goal in mind: to make me look like an idiot. Since you’ve come along, though, we’ve pretty much been confined to the house, and so I figured she’d have less material for these stories. Boy was I wrong — turns out this small house is a hotbed of hilarity, and she’s taking notes on the fact that I don’t function well with the negligible sleep I’m getting.
I find it odd that I need so much sleep lately — I mean, your mom is getting slightly more than I do because she takes little naps throughout the day, and I used to go days without sleeping when I was growing up. First off, staying up late is part of being a teenager, and I was your average kid who stayed up ’til 2:00 or 4:00 every night watching tv. Still made it to schoolthe next day and repeated the process the next night. Did it for years! When I was in college I had a graveyard shift between two full days of classes, and so spent even moretime without sleep. Did it again when I was in grad school, until a couple years back when I got my first real adult-type hob. Then I got old.
Gettin’ old is pretty cool — you go to bed early, get up early, and you get to grumble about the “dern neighbors makin’ noise at all hours of the night tryin’ to get my peace and quiet little rest ‘fore I get up and do work good work unlike some people with all the racket next door with their music racket I don’t even know if I can call it music when all’s it is is noise!” (Speaking of which, I just can’t wait to tell you about the new next-door neighbors — the Methingtons.) So for the past two years, I’ve been going to sleep at about 9:30.
Then you showed up.
Now we’re up until ten o’clock, eleven, sometimes close to one in the morning. We’re up all the time — especially your mama, who’s up feeding you every two or three hours — even if we try to slep when you sleep it’s aprocess in getting you to sleep in the first place. First we have to listen to you slowly wake up (that can take an hour), then we have to spend some quality time with you while you’re awake (read: wiping poo, dodging pee), and then there’s the feeding. If these feedings take place during the day, I’m more than willing to help, and Ialways try to be there even if the feedings take place at night.
It’s the nighttime feedings the bring out the idiot in me, and I’ll just give you the story the way your mom tells it. She says:
…Last night you were pissing me off. The Dude was crying and I told you to go take care of him, and you know what you did? You patted me on the back, and rubbed my arm and said: “shhhhhh…..shhhhhhh….it’s ok…….shhhhhhh….” and then you fell asleep. I had to go take care ofthe Dude myself.
…Last night, I don’t know what the hell you were doing, but when the baby started crying, you got up and started bundling the blankets together. Then you tried to put my arm in one of them and swaddle it. I had to look at you and say: ‘I’m not the baby.’ and you said: “I know. I was just checking something.”
…Last night when the baby started crying I asked you to go take care of him. After a few minutes, the Little Dude wouldn’t calm down, so I stepped out of the room to go see what was the matter. I went into his room and you weren’t in there; I had to pick him up and comfort him. Know where you were? In the kitchen. Staring at the sink. I said: ‘What the hell are you doing?’ and you said: “Do you want to give him a bath or not?” I told you I didn’t and you said: “Fine, whatever.”
…Last night wheni was feeding Little Dude, I called for you to come help me with his mattress. He’d wet himself and it’d seeped onto his bed. You showed up with a pillow cradled in your arm as if it was the baby. And you must have caught yourself doing this because when you came into the room, you would only peek your head around the door. But I could see the pillow, and I heard you talking to the pillow when you were carrying it around anyway.
Oh, your mama’s a funny lady. She sees the comedy in even the darkest situations. And I just know she’s telliing everyone these stories, but I have no way to defend myself. I’m obviously doing these things (and she really cught me on the pillow thing — I was cradling a pillow, thinking it was you), but I think I’ve got an excellent reason for my behavior: It’s the baby moniitor’s fault.
The baby monitor in your room links up to a speaker in our room. Every time you grunt or fuss, every time you roll over in your sleep, every little breath you take (as Sting might say) comes through to our room. I hear everything you do, and so when you start crying, my instinct is to shush, to pat, to cradle, because as far as I can tell — you’re right there with us. I’m actually trying to help.
The only way it could truly get worse is if I try to change your mama’s diaper with the bedding, or if I throw her over my shoulder and pat her on the back cooing: “Gimme a B, Gimme a U, Gimme a U-U-U-R-P. What’s that spell? BUUUURP!”
Categories: baby monitor · burping · sleep schedules · sleepwalking
Let’s just go ahead and assume that every parent has a set or series of “moves” they use when it comes to changing a diaper. Some might enter the room covered in plastic wrap and some might come in with an unraveled wad of paper towels. Some likely pull out a handful of baby wipes and ready themselves with a clean diaper so that the diaper changing ritual can take place in one swift movement: open diaper, wipe downward while folding the diaper, clean with baby wipe, tuck dirty wipe into dirty diaper, slide out and replace with clean diaper, button onesie, lift baby, stop stopwatch.
And silly me, I assumed that the one move was all that was necessary. Little Dude, I assumed wrong. You’ve got your own set of urinary and crapular tactics, a veritable quandary of whiz wonders and poo plots, that require any diaper changer — be it your mother or myself, or even the passing grandma — to keep on his/her toes.
First in any male infant’s arsenal of tricks — this maneuver is simple, but requires a bit of timing work for both parties. For the baby, all you have to do is hold off your pee until the parent unclasps the diaper. A rookie will make an odd face and let go of the stream as soon as the diaper is pulled slightly away form the body, but the parents nearly always catch this one. The master waits until the parent has either opened the diaper enough to check for anything other than urine, or has removed the diaper entirely at which point the stream is preceded only by an empty stare from the child, as if he were asking: “Did you know there’s only one ‘r’ in sherbet?”
Again, though, the Richard Nixon is the most common move a male child makes in the diaper changing process. It only requires one practice before you figure out how to do it correctly: too soon and the parents will catch it; hold off for a second or two and you’ll really surprise them
I’d like to think you’ve moved into Master Ninja status on this one, though, based on three targets you’ve nailed in the past three weeks. Targets one and two: the grandmas. You nailed them and you nailed them good. You also nailed the wall, the changing table, and your own face in the process, but you got your target(s) and that’s all that mattered. What’s more, you hit two people who should know better than to leave you open for such things, and that’s why you deserve a commendation. The third target you hit was a ninja herself — the pediatrician. Here’s a lady who deals with tis type of stuff all day, every day, for years on end. She’s logged miles (or is it gallons?) in the pee-stopping department, and yet you got her good. You surprised her so much that she did a little limbs akimbo marionette dance trying to stop the waving arc of your waterworks; this surprise move proved fruitful in that she only aided you in spreading around the mess. Way to go! (But it makes a parent concerned about how much excrement is hiding in the fibers of that patient’s room carpet).
Sadly, little children should not play in this fountain, because this fountain doesn’t emit water. No one should throw coins into this fountain, either. Here’s how The Public Fountain works: The baby (that’s you, Little Dude) waits for the diaper transaction to take place; the baby waits for the parent (that’s me: baby daddy) to remove the soiled diaper and to wipe the entire ara with a cleaning solution. As the soiled diaper and cloth are removed from beneath the child and the parent is focused more on the act of retrieving the new, clean diaper, the baby (you again, Dude) closes his eyes and gives a good ol’ push.
I’ve seen this one in action and it’s a doozy — each time you’ve done it you’ve made a perfect yellow-brown arc that reaches across the changing table and usually splatters all over the box of baby wipes, as though the box of wipes were on fire and you were just doing your duty (Ha!).
Both times you’ve done this one, though, my initial instinct was to cover the stream with the wipe I already had in my hand, and thta just made a larger mess, mostly all over you. Next time you pull this maneuver I’ll have to simlply to let you make your move and concede defeat. Maybe I’ll change you on a blank canvas and we’ll make some Jackson Pollock-esque art.
This one’s only for the true potty pros out there, as it involves a tricky combination of the two above exercises. The first step involves patience — you’ve gotta wait for the diaper to be removed, and this also requires the whole diaper area to have been cleaned by an unassuming party. Once the area is clean, you roll around and coo, trying to divert the adult’s attention to your face. “Was that a smile I saw?” they’ll ask you, smiling themselves. “I think it was! Wasn’t that a smile I saw? Who gave me the smile? You did! That’s right! You did!”
And that’s when you drop the whole cute artifice and get serious. The person changing you forgot about the Richard Nixon but might notice the vacant look on your face and scramble for a clean diaper. Once you see that look of recognition in their eyes, Little Dude, you just let loose with the waterworks. You should be able to hit any target because the adult left this option wide open. They’ll surely grab that clean diaper, though, and get it over your “nozzle” (for lack of a better word), and that’s when you can reorient your focus to the second step of this move.
There’s a reason this move is called “The Drinking Fountain.” Next time we’re at a park, I’ll show you. Any time you use a public drinking fountain, you have to press a button to get the water started. Once it’s going, you can get a drink. But most drinking fountains have more than one outlet for the water. You’ll notice that if you press your thumb over the spigot, the water is redirected out a hidden hole just below the normal outlet; it sprays directly into the fountain drain. I’m not really sure what purpose this serves, but it’s the first thing I thoght of when I made the mistake required for this maneuver to take place. I was changing your diaper, you smiled at me, I got all giddy and forgot what I was doing. Then you got serious and that’s when the mess went down. You sprang a leak and I covered the normal outlet with a diaper, that’s when everything got redirected and came out the other exit.
I’ve seen you do this last one at least twice, and I’d like to show it off at some point, maybe on the Letterman show or something.
Given the fact that you’re only three weeks old, Little Dude, I’m beginning to wonder where you got your training. What master micturator taught you these tricks? Where did you get your B.A. in BMs? You sir, deserve every title in toiletry bestowed upon you. I salute you. But let me wash my hands first.
Categories: diapers · fountains · pee · poo · richard nixon · sherbet
Thought I’d make sure to document for you your first hour or so in this world, as I’m positive your mind was courteous enough to block it all out for you. That’s something our brains do when traumatic events happen — the mind just decides to close the blinds for a bit and whistles, hoping the rest of you forgets to pay attention to what’s really going on behind those curtains.
Hope this doesn’t bring the memories back in any lasting manner, but there’s a reason you spent that first hour crying your head off.
First, you were all snug in your old bedroom. Actually, maybe you weren’t because the blankets were gone and something, some unseen, outside force (probably a velociraptor or something) was trying to pull you out the door headfirst. But you ran into a little problem there — the door was too small for your head, and so that velociraptor decided to come at you like a predator does: claws first. He ripped a hole in the side of your bedroom, grabbed you by the butt and yanked you out.
This part you can’t read until you’re a little older: Y’know, in those birthing classes my wife and I attended, they made the c-section seem so simple and painless. Even in the videos they showed of the procedure, everything was done smoothly and without any trauma to the mother.
In the video we saw, the mom walked into the room, jumped on the table and said: “Let’s do this thing!” And then she started doing chest-bumps with the doctors. Pretty soon everyone in the room was whooping and hollering; she was eating chips and peanuts, and had to drop her diet coke on the floor when the doctor tossed the baby at her. She caught it, and gave the camera a thumbs up before the title came up on the screen: C-SECTION: HELL YEAH!!
But that’s not what it’s like in real life. I had to wait outside the room for about twenty minutes before I got the chance to go in and see your mom — to make sure she was all right. And the truth was, she was scared beyond belief. Surrounded by eight doctors and nurses and countless machines, your mother was shaking so violently that the entire gurney was shaking. She was scared, Little Dude.
I was only let in the room to be with her when they started the procedure, and let me tell you this: I’m glad (and I’m sure your mom is as well) they put up that little curtain that shields the patient’s face from the rest of the room, and here’s why: Those doctors were working with such force and ferocity, such violence, that I would have assumed they were goin to start pulling a never-ending string of handkerchiefs, or a rabbit, or maybe even a Buick from your mother’s stomach. They were up to their elbows and bumping into each other and grunting, and then the table was shaking for an entirely different reason.
Oh, and another thing: those doctors didn’t have the best customer-service skills. they weren’t talking to us or aking how we were doing or even giving us a play-by-play. Nope, all that wrestling and yanking was accompanied with the following conversation:
“So, where’re you guys going this weekend?”
“Oh, we’re going to the cabin. need to get out of the city for a while.”
“Fishin’?”
“‘Course!”
They were working to get you out quickly and safely, little Dude, but man…
Make sure you give your mom a hug every mother’s day and on every one of your birthdays, ’cause you owe her. Big time.
Anyway, after the velociraptor pulled you out, it tied up part of you and cut it off from your bedroom, then it wiggled you in the air and handed you off to another pair of velociraptors who stuck vacuums in your mouth and nose, stuck a thing on your head, pried open all the parts of your body that can be pried open, and then stuck you in a cold, metal tray before grunting: “7lbs 9oz. Cute kid. Wanna take a picture?”
Then they handed you to me and your mom and I had about 30 seconds with your before one of the raptors grabbed me and ushered me out of the room. We were headed to another part of the hospital for more poking and prodding.
This part you can’t read until you’re a little older: You’ll never believe what happened on the way to the nursery. We passed up your grandparents who came running down the hall to see you, to get that first grandparent glimpse; to take a look and start deciding who you look like and whether they’ll keep you or not. I asked Nurse Raptor (who was leading me to the nursery) if I could stop to show you off, and he grunted:
“Look, we don’t have time to dilly-dally. I have another one of these in a few minutes.”
And we were off again, your grandparents left in the dust.
Up in the nursery you were stuck under a heat lamp, had your temperature taken, and some strange goop slopped in your eyes, were measured, had your feet stuck in ink, had some tape wrapped around your head, were weighed again and fitted with three different tracking devices around your wrists and ankles before being returned to me and your mom.
Pretty surprising, the battery of tests you’re put through once you step into this world. You’d think they’d give you a few days to chill and get used to things, especially the new temperature, but they don’t. The people in charge want you to get up and get moving, get going and make your way through. It’s a hard-knock life, and those doctors want you to understand that from the get-go.
You got to spend a handful of hours with us and were taken away for the rest of the night for god-knows-what-tests-they-did-that-we-couldn’t-be-present-for, and I hope you’re no worse for wear because of them.
And I hope your brain did its job of holding those curtains tight — I’d hate for the dreams you have during your REM sleep these days have nothing to do with those first few hours. They don’t seem to be so far; whenever I see you dreaming, you’ve got a big ol’ smile across your face. I’ll assume you’re thinking about eating at those moments. To tell you the truth, I smile when I dream about those things, too.
This part you can’t read until you’re a little older: Two days later we lopped off part of your wang. Sorry.
Categories: c-section · circumcision · tests · the real world · velociraptors
and if that’s a truism, Little Dude, let me be the first to say: gross. And let me further qualify that by saying: thank god you’re a little dude, Little Dude. That’s altogether too Oedipal a thought to consider right now.
What I wanted to say was that your mom made a statment a few weeks back that she’d married her father. See, I was planning to head out of town to attend a bachelor party, and your mom joked that I’d “be out of town” on “some stupid trip,” being “all drunk” and “stuff,” and that that would be when you chose to make your entrance. This would make me just like her father because he was out of town for the births of each of his own children — ‘course he was working, but that hasn’t kept her mother from bringing it up whenever possible. And it hasn’t kept your own mother from iterating the thought that I, by choosing to go out of town in the 38th week of pregnancy, am “an idiot.” Or irresponsible. Or a something that rhymes with “whoosh bag.”
Before we go any further, little D., here’s my excuse: I had to go; the person to be honored was a guy who threw me a bachelor party seven years ago, and also served as one of my groomsmen. He’s an old friend, in town for a few days, and I hadn’t seen him in years.
So, I went, and took all the proper precautions: I did all the weekend chores before I left (so that no extra labor would send your mom into labor); I made sure the shopping was done (so that your mom could get some food for herself and for you); I made sure that her parents were coming to town, just in case anythig happened. They wanted to visit anyway — we’d just completed your room, and they hadn’t yet seen it. All this as I made my way across the state to visit with an old friend. Everything was hunky dory.
Until 1:30 in the morning when the phone rang — water had broken, bags were packed — and I began a harried four-hour trip in the direction of our favorite hospital.
Your mom was waiting for me in the lobby of the hospital, walking around in one of those silly gowns, and we stood a while rubbing the lump that was you, waiting for you to make the rest of your entry into this world.
Now that I have a few moments to look back on that day, it all seems to have gone by so quickly — the 250-mile drive, the anxious pacing around the hospital, the frequent checks from the doctors, the worries about dilation, the introduction of pitocin to speed up the process (and subsequently make things more painful for your mother), the fact that your mom had to stay in bed all day because every contraction she had while standing or sitting caused your heart rate to drop dramatically, the introduction of pain-relief methods that only caused nausea, the injection of fluids back into the uterus, the slowly expanding cervix that never quite made it past nine centimeters in 5 hours, and which led to the final straw — a cesarian section — and your entrance into the world at 7:54 on a Sunday evening, weighing 7lbs, 9 oz, and measuring 22 inches in length.
It’s been a few weeks since then, and every time I look at you I’m amazed you’re here. You’re such a wonder to me. And I hope for you the same things I asked for in my first letter to you:
Wait a minute — in the original story of Oedipus the King, Mr. Oedipus kills his father (*GASP!*) and marries his mother (*DOUBLE GASP!*), and turns out to be his own grandpa, or something. Guess I’d better amend that list there.
Categories: Oedipus · bachelor party · child birth · delivery room · hospitpals · labor · labor pains · road trip · the future
