Houston, We Have a Penis

Vasco da Gama discovered a sea route to India. Hernando Cortés discovered the Baja Peninsula. And my son...has discovered his junk.

Time to update the history books.

Most of the time, his pint-sized member is inaccessible, barricaded inside his Pampers, but during his last several baths and changings, Oliver has seized both opportunity...and his schlong. He wasn't sure at first if what he had stumbled upon was even attached to him—he may still not be sure—but he certainly finds it entertaining. It is uncomfortable to watch him at work, tugging away on his peewee weewee with the ferocity of a frustrated gardener trying to uproot a stubborn bunch of carrots. It doesn't seem to bother him, however, and he hasn't yanked off anything that's supposed to remain in place, so no cause for alarm, I suppose.

He is particularly fascinated by his Lilliputian tallywhacker when in the bathtub. He will intently watch it bob up and down on the water, alongside his rubber duck, as if he is expecting it to suddenly perform some sort of trick. You've got a ways to go there, kid.

He has also discovered his toes, as well as the fact that he is able to fold his legs in such a manner that he is able to shove said toes into his mouth. You know—because his fingers are just too damn convenient. His flexibility is truly impressive. He looks like one of those products you see advertised at 4 am on HSN that is collapsible and slides snugly under your bed for easy storage.

In other news, he's come close to mastering "sitting up." Which is good news, because it means his stomach muscles are getting stronger, which hopefully means he'll stop upchucking 50% of everything he eats sooner rather than later. It's amusing to watch him work to preserve his balance, as he tips and leans in various directions, then catches and rights himself at the last second. It's like a ballet, if the ballet dancers were sleep-deprived, drunk, and on Quaaludes.

He's also making great strides in the bubble-blowing department. Say what you will about him, but that kid really knows how to put his lips together and form saliva into spheres.

We're gearing up for his first Christmas, which is really exciting. He's in love with the Christmas tree, and likes to slap at the needles. He thinks all of the lights and decorations are so pretty that he wants them all in his mouth, stat. He met Santa and didn't scream or puke. And he looks cute when dressed as a reindeer. So it's basically a smashing success thus far. Next year, when he can say things like, "wow" and "pretty" and "I didn't want this," it'll be more fun.

So yeah...penis, sitting, bubbles, Christmas. I think that covers everything.

Anyway, now that he's located his diminutive dong, it will be interesting to see at what point he also discovers what I like to refer to as "Oliver's stones."

A Little More Conversation

Well, well, well. Look who has a lot to say all of a sudden.

None of it makes any sense yet, of course. For now, at least, he sounds like a backwoodsman who just left the dentist's office and is still experiencing the lingering effects of novocaine. But for someone with not much to say, and no way to properly communicate, he sure has a hard time shutting up about it.

He's currently working on mastering a number of techniques:

• Jabber. This is the loud, nonsensical gobbledygook he creates by pushing sound up through his throat, and then slapping his lips about in a random manner. Generally, I get the impression he is trying to yell at a guy behind a deli counter because he just got shorted a half-pound of pastrami, but one can't be sure.
• Screams. These he had down pat from very early on. Still going strong. 
• Velociraptor. Usually employed when he is amused, this is a sharp intake of breath while his mouth is turned into a smile, resulting in a remarkably bird-like sound. We know it's not an indication of predatory aggression, but the cats are less convinced. 
• Bubbles. Spitting and drooling are all well and good, but these skills can be taken to even greater heights when you perform them with closed lips! He has learned this all too well. So now, emissions of saliva are accompanied by fart noises. 
• Keening. Sometimes he'll just stare off into space and wail quietly. Clearly not because he's in mourning, but simply because he's flexing his wailing muscles. You never know when you'll need them. 
• Belly laughter. Not technically a form of speech, but really damn cute. 
• Parroting. He can't quite repeat what we say just yet, but you can see him trying. I'll say, "did you have a good nap?" and he'll say, "ba-nah-d'gab-doo-gah?" Eh, close enough. 

One thing's for sure - it has certainly gotten about 30 decibels louder in our house, on average. How often must some type of sound be emitted from his mouth? "At all times," apparently is the answer. Whether he's conversing with a stuffed animal, or screaming at his applesauce, or trying to read over us while listening to a bedtime story, it always has to be something. I think he's afraid that if he gives it a break for more than a minute, he'll forget how. 

In other news, Oliver just celebrated his first ever Halloween...

...and is about to experience his first ever Thanksgiving, and first ever Christmas. His mom is pretty jazzed about that last one especially. Kid doesn't even know what he's in for. 

Maybe her holiday insanity will even scare him into silence for a minute or two. God willing. 

The Man in the Highchair

A couple of weeks ago, Oliver was introduced to real food. Okay - "real food" may be a stretch. We're talking minuscule portions of fruits and vegetables pureed into oblivion and then combined with breast milk. You can't exactly Grubhub that shit. But whatever, he sorta likes it. It will have to do until cheese becomes an option, and his entire world gets blown up.

I was really looking forward to this part. I had pictured him sitting there in his highchair, eagerly and happily ingesting all forms of new deliciousness, while he rewarded my generosity with calm and composure as he awaited each bite.

Try to feed someone who's never chewed before. I dare you. And try putting greens into the mouth of a person who does not like greens, doesn't comprehend their nutritional value, and can't understand why he should force himself to swallow them. And try getting anything past the mass of flailing limbs that make it seem as if he's trying to helicopter his avocado-hating ass straight out of there.

Attempting to get a spoonful of food into an infant is akin to trying to thread a needle through whirring propellor blades. You know the climactic scene of Star Wars, where Luke has to fire a torpedo into the Death Star's thermal exhaust port? Yeah. It's like that. But I don't have the Force. I just have two hands, dwindling patience, and a limited supply of mashed sweet potatoes.

You'll take his fingers when you pry them
from his cold, slimy mouth. 

To be fair, he actually likes the sweet potatoes. Bananas are also a hit. And he thinks peaches are peachy keen. But apparently, peas and avocados can go fuck themselves. Basically, if it's sweet, he likes it. And the stuff he's going to hate to eat when he gets older - he already hates it. So that's an encouraging trajectory. 

On the menu for the coming week: pear, green beans, spinach, and apple. One may reasonably predict that the pear and apple will be tolerated, while the green beans and spinach will be fiercely knocked ceilingward. 

But hey - whatever gets him to stop sucking on his fingers for a few minutes. He seriously cannot get enough of his own flesh. 

Welcome to Flavortown

It's been a big week for Oliver, with a lot of firsts. First time eating (semi-)solid food. First time sleeping in a big boy crib. First time getting to witness a sex offender being confirmed to the U.S. Supreme Court. It's all very exciting.

Some of his firsts came about by happenstance. Rolling over from his back to his stomach, for example. That just happened, like two hours ago. He looked truly shocked that he had accomplished the feat. It opens up a whole new world for him. It's thrilling to think that now my son has no limitations; he can roll wherever he wants to go and no one can stop him.

Some of his other firsts are intentional, and were thanks to his (four month!) check-up with the pediatrician. She advised us that we can now move him from the basinet to the crib, and can also begin initiating CIO (Cry It Out, for the layman). Which sounds great, in theory, because it means we no longer have to stay up for extended periods of time in the middle of the night feeding him, but in reality, involves waking up for seconds at a time at five-minute intervals for roughly forever, as we try to calm him without removing him from his crib, while reminding him that we haven't abandoned him. Seriously, the kid has issues.

But by far the most exciting development has been the introduction of non-milk, aka real food. We tried him on oatmeal baby cereal to start, but he acted like we were trying to feed him wet paper (which, to be fair, is what it looks like). He spit it out immediately and started crying. We gave it another couple of tries, but it may be a lost cause. Imagine my son being a picky eater.

When he tried banana, however...well, we have a winner. Now he sits there contentedly noshing on his mashed banana/breast milk mixture, entirely oblivious that there is a world with cheese and pulled pork and sourdough bread bowls all around him. He will learn in time. But for now, banana milk is the shiznit.

He also met his Grandpa Rob and Auntie Kim for the first time, as they came out with Nonnie (my mom) to get their fix of baby snuggles. We all took him to his first pumpkin patch, where he petted his first goat, went through his first corn maze, and posed for his first ever head-stuck-through-a-hole photograph.

As always, he didn't totally appear to know what the hell was going on, but all in all, he seemed to have a good time. 

Oh, and one other major first - his first time sleeping for a nine-hour chunk! It's still not the norm, but it was a pretty great feeling to wake up, look at the time, and wonder fleetingly if my son had been kidnapped. That came out wrong. You get it. 

Meanwhile, I'm suffering more and more each day from my growing Dad Jokes affliction. Things were bad enough before Oliver came along, but my condition - or pundition - is steadily worsening. Now, in addition to simply naming his stuffed animals, I've started anthropomorphizing inanimate objects that don't even offer the illusion of consciousness, as shown below: 

From left to right: Row 1: Mirror Sorvino, Angela Basinet, Wesley Wipes, Row 2: Formula K. Le Guin, Harvey Pacifierstein, Diaper Laurie, Row 3: Playmat LeBlanc, Aribottle, Boppy Montgomery

Please send help before it's too late.

Hand-In-Mouth Disease

My son is addicted to hand.

It's not easy to talk about. It's difficult as a father watching your child go through something like this, not knowing what to do or say to make it stop. You do your best; you offer him pacifiers, teething rings, etc., but the mouth wants what the mouth wants.

He's experimented with just about everything. Fingers. Palms. Wrists. He's even moved onto the harder stuff - knuckles. I can see him slipping into the abyss. But short of taking him to Hand-Suckers Anonymous meetings or committing him to a dedicated rehab facility, I'm not sure if he'll ever kick the habit. He's in deep. And so is his hand.

Please send thoughts, prayers, and pacis

My biggest worry? STD. Sucking Transmitted Drool. Now, in addition to the thin rivulet of saliva that seems to flow unceasingly from his miniature piehole, his drool envelops his entire hands, and that drool is subsequently transferred to toys, furniture, bottles, and his parents' faces. His slobber is like a raging, out-of-control virus that has spread to all corners of the house. I swear I even spotted some of it on the ceiling yesterday morning. 

My hope is that Oliver will somehow learn that hand-sucking is not the solution to all of life's problems. Right now, it's a cure-all. Hungry? In goes the hand. Tired? In goes the hand. Overwhelmed by the vast, impenetrable depth of the universe and the inscrutable essence of his own humanity? In goes the hand. 

I was never under any delusion that my son would be perfect - that he would never make mistakes. I think I even could have handled it if all he had done was a little thumb. I mean, who doesn't at least try thumb once or twice? Most understand that it's a purely recreational finger. But to watch him lose all control, to flail and scream, and then to rely on the only recourse he feels he has to dull the pain, as his entire hand finds its way into his damp germ repository... it is utterly heartbreaking. 

Never is the ferocity of his addiction so evident as when he is swaddled tightly and put to bed. He will summon superhuman strength, somehow working his arms upward and out of the sleep sack like a tiny, bald-headed Houdini, just so he can get at the objects of his obsession. 

I don't know. Maybe it's time we had an intervention. I just worry any effort in that regard would be thwarted by Oliver's basic lack of understanding of the English language. I suppose we will just stay the course - continue encouraging him to overcome his affliction by showering him with love and positivity, and remain by his side to support him during the difficult weeks and months ahead. And maybe apply a bit of castor oil to his fingertips. 

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For No Reason Whatsoever

It has begun.

For nearly three months, my son was a polite, reasonably well-mannered young man. He conducted himself in social situations with the utmost civility, only resorting to the occasional cry or scream or pitifully extended bottom lip when something was very much the matter. Then, once we had taken care of his need, he would resume his affable good nature forthwith.

But all that has changed. As of this past Saturday at 2:13 pm, all rules of etiquette and decorum have gone out the window. It is now a 24/7 hollering free-for-all. I don't know if he's simply excited to have figured out how to kick his vocal cords into a new gear, or if there is something genuinely wrong that he is desperately trying to communicate. All I can tell you is that we have changed every item of clothing on his body, wiped him down, medicated him heavily, sung show tunes, degraded ourselves for his amusement, and shoved pretty much everything we can think of into his mouth for him to lick, suck, or chew on, and...nada. For apparently no real reason, he is eternally in a state that can best be described as Janet-Leigh-the-moment-Anthony-Perkins-draws-aside-the-shower-curtain.

All right, so it isn't constant; it only feels that way. He still smiles very often, and we have it on good authority that his is the most adorable baby smile in the history of baby smiles.

Exhibit A:

He's also a looker when he isn't even smiling, but has been dressed in serious attire. Like last Saturday, when he attended a birthday high tea party that was being thrown for his mother: 

He'll grow into that hat. Don't you worry about it. 

Also - and this is big news - he had his first out-and-out belly laugh a few days ago. Erin and I were both on hand to witness it, and it was indeed glorious. It occurred when Erin repeatedly zerberted Oliver's belly against his will, so yes, that belly laugh could just be the sound he makes when he's being tortured, but it was charming regardless. 

He spent some time with his new nanny today. We're hoping that he listens to her, and respects her, but doesn't like her very much, because we don't need the competition. We'll probably make up some scandalous rumors to tell him, so that his adoration of her is kept in check. Nothing too damning, but just enough to make him happy when we're off work, and to whimper a little bit when we hand him over to her each morning. 

The only other piece of big news is that he's moved up a size in both diapers and bottle nipples, and OH JESUS THESE ARE THE MOST EXCITING THINGS HAPPENING IN MY LIFE RIGHT NOW WHO AM I WHEN DID I BECOME THIS WAY SOMEONE PLEASE HELP. 

Designing Babies

Last week, I watched a short documentary about designer babies and germline editing, and then had a dream that night that I was watching a sitcom about four funny and eccentric infants - and their token black friend - who were running a successful interior design firm in Atlanta. If this vision is any indication of where we're headed, the future is indeed terrifying.

Seriously, that designer baby shit is fucked up though, yo. Like, I'm not totally down on the science of genome engineering - I think it would be great if we could use it to eradicate deadly diseases, apply it to cellular therapy, or eliminate the gene that makes people leave their shopping cart in the middle of the grocery aisle - but mixing and matching parts to our exact specifications, as if our children are Mr. Potato Head dolls, is frightening and sick. Although... it would be pretty hilarious to see someone with an ear where their nose is supposed to be, so... I take it back. I fully endorse Hasbro's human modification efforts. 

Of course, I don't have to worry about any of this, because my kid came out perfect without any tinkering. I mean... look at this:

And this:

And good Lord - this: 

Okay, so he's got a widow peak that's verging on Eddie Muster-ish. And it will be way easier to tell what he's thinking once he grows eyebrows. And he's not a pretty crier. But in every way that counts, this kid has got it going on. 

Let's talk about the smile for a second. His smile is the best thing ever in my life. I've seen babies smile before, of course, and I've always thought it's moderately cute, but typically not need-to-share-on-Facebook cute. And then this stranger comes along, and with a mere grin, he can make me not give a shit about anything else. It's hypnotic, and glorious. And he's starting to giggle, too. The first time he belly laughs, my head might explode off my body and my neck erupt with joy. 

And we just met him. Erin and I were talking about it the other night, and we both agreed that we already like him more than we like each other. And we like each other quite a bit, so that's an impressive thing. Especially considering that he still doesn't do many tricks. His list of special skills at this point really just include "making interesting facial expressions" and "flailing arms and legs like the inflatable tube man outside a Toyota dealership." 

And yet... he's more entertaining than anything on Netflix. We're honestly thinking about canceling our subscription and just binge-watching our child 24/7. 

Bellies and Bicycles

I knew fatherhood was going to be work. I was under no delusion that this was going to be a walk in the park. But even still, I was unprepared for just how all-consuming this business would be. Before Oliver came along, I had these grand plans to successfully juggle parenting, my day job, escape room design,  and the publishing and self-marketing of a handful of novels. It would be tough, but dammit, I would manage somehow. In reality, however, each day is a challenge to see if I can make a shower happen.

But, of course, it is also exceptionally rewarding. He isn’t doing anything particularly impressive, but it’s amazing to see what baby steps he is making each day (which, it should be noted, do not yet include actual baby steps). He has started smiling and laughing because he finds something amusing, and not just because his facial muscles are wigging out. He’s developing arm and leg rolls, which I hope he works off before high school, but for now are a fantastic indication that he’s healthy. When I sit him on my lap, he stretches and stiffens his legs as if in an attempt to stand, and he almost succeeds. He has been voted “Most Likely to Stand Erect” by his peers. (Note: his peers are the cats)

I’m also picking up some tricks of the trade, and already feel like an old pro in some departments. I can remove his diaper, apply a pee pee teepee, wipe his tuchus, apply Desitin, and stick him into a new diaper with the speed and precision of a NASCAR pit crew. Where once I was terrified of even holding any baby, now I can adjust, lower, rotate, or spin my child into the desired position with impressive dexterity. And I’m quickly figuring out what to put him in when I need him to chillax in a hurry. We have a mamaRoo - this thing should be absolutely required for all babies. It’s expensive (thank goodness for generous friends), but more essential than diapers. Let them stew in their own shit for four months, but by God, get them a mamaRoo.

Our favorite thing at this point is figuring out what entertains him. As of now, the most hilarious thing in the world to him is to have someone rub his stomach while saying, “belly...belly...” and then grab his feet, moving them quickly in a pedaling motion, while saying “bicycle bicycle bicycle bicycle!” It started as a doctor-recommended way of regulating his bowels, but he doesn’t know that. Or he does know that, and it’s what he finds so funny.

He is also still mystifyingly fascinated by our ceiling fan. It’s not even on. But for some reason, he’s obsessed with five nondescript wooden fan blades. Makes me feel more confident that he won’t find us totally boring.

Well, I hear him beginning to stir and grunt in his mamaRoo, so I should probably stop writing and attend to him. Infants and lengthy blog posts do not go hand-in-hand.

"One thing they don't mention in the parenting books:  

Your love for them grows the closer to dead they look." - Tim Minchin

The Night of Five Times

One month down. 218 more until he's out of the house.

I keed, I keed. Certainly, these first four weeks have been trying at times, but also wonderful. We have this super-adorable kid who appears to be mine; he makes the cutest cooing sounds, he doesn't roll his eyes when I make a pun, and he thinks the ceiling fan in our living room is the coolest thing ever (it's not even on). Even if he wasn't related to me, I think we'd be good friends.

BUT.

Several days ago, I volunteered to take the entire night shift, since Erin had been putting in the bulk of the time, what with me being back at work, and she seemed as if she could use a break. I came to this conclusion after I found her outside in her pajamas one morning watering the garage.

I figured I would be tired the following morning, but I did not realize until the wee hours of the next day how truly tired a human being can be. Oliver slept maybe a total of two hours; I slept less, since I was startled awake by every grunt and gasp and oddly timed giggle emanating from the bassinet. All told, he woke up five times during the night. Here's how that went.

WAKE-UP #1: 1:15 am

I wasn't actually asleep yet at this point, so it wasn't too bad. Once he started majorly fussing, I picked him up, fed him, changed his diaper, rocked him a bit, and put him back down at around 2. Within seconds, the little angel was slumbering soundly.

WAKE-UP #2: 2:30 am

I'll be honest - I was a little peeved. Who only sleeps for half an hour, other than someone crashing in their car in the parking garage during lunch? However, I couldn't be too upset, because it quickly became clear that he had not had enough to eat during his last wake-up. Hey, as long as there was a good reason. I gave him another ounce-and-a-half of milk (almond, because this is L.A.), walked around with him for about fifteen minutes to calm him down, and put him back to bed.

WAKE-UP #3: 3:30 am

At some point, you just have to start assuming that someone is fucking with you. There was something sinister in his crying now, almost as if he were saying, "Aw, boo hoo, you have to take care of me again. Isn't your life fuckin' hard? Change me, dick." Well, change him I did, and while it was not quite the catastrophic event I described in a prior post, it certainly put me off Thai food for a while.

We also began to play the game "Am I Hungry?" in which he pretends he's hungry, takes one suck of the bottle, and closes his eyes. Then, when I try putting him down, he opens his eyes wide as hell and starts screaming bloody murder as if he's trying to alert Child Protective Services to inform them of my pattern of neglect.

By now, I was pretty damn tired. I was in a bit of a fog, and had to worry a little about being conscious enough to hold my child and not drop him. Which is a scary feeling. Especially when you have bad carpal tunnel and need to keep switching arms.

Finally, however, at around 4:45 am, he mercifully fell back to sleep.

WAKE-UP #4: 4:48 am

JESUS HOLY MOTHER OF THE LORD OF FIRE. What happens in the space of three minutes that makes a newborn brain go from "the world is a soothing, relaxing place and I am eager to nourish my budding mind with repose" to "the goddamn sky is falling and sleep is the enemy and I need you to attend to all of my needs IMMEDIATELY"?

I know you're not supposed to let them cry it out at this stage of their development, but I'll admit that I did lie there for a good two minutes, listening to him wail, hoping that A) I was asleep and dreaming, B) he would soon wear himself out, or C) there had been a recent dingo sighting in the vicinity. When it became obvious that, instead, he despised me and would not relent, I stumbled, numb and confused, to the bassinet, and extricated him from what was seemingly a bed of burning coals. I fed him, and changed him, and stuck a pacifier in his mouth, and fed him again, and rocked him, and took him to look at the moon, and wiped a gunky thing out of his eye, and fed him again, and explained in scientific terms why the human body needs sleep, and put him back to bed. His eyes remained open for some time, as he taunted me with his alertness, but eventually he succumbed to nature, and started to snooze.

WAKE-UP #5: 5:50 am

There's an enhanced interrogation technique called "sleep deprivation," and it's used by many governments around the world, and it is a form of torture. It is frowned upon with good reason.

Who was I, where was I, and why was someone trying to murder me with awakeness? His crying by now had become just another setting on the sound machine - a prolonged, monotonous frequency of bedlam. Without even remembering getting out of bed or crossing to the bassinet, I somehow had him in my arms, and was swaying back and forth, unsure whether it was an attempt to comfort him, or to maintain my balance immediately after having been roofied.

I fed him, and changed him, and pleaded, and put him in a swing-y thing, and read him a book, and wept uncontrollably, and passed into an alternate state of being, and returned, and fed him again, and googled "orphanages," and put him back to bed. Somehow, he slept.

There was no way I could wait around for wake-up #6. I regretted failing in my well-intentioned effort, but I went to the guest room where Erin was sleeping, woke her up, and informed her that I was losing my shit. I apologized, and then asked if she could take over for the next hour or two before we got up. She thanked me for trying, and said that yes, of course she would help.

Because she has been tracking Oliver's eating patterns, she asked me if I remembered how much he had eaten, and when. I said that I had given him 300 ounces every four minutes for one year. She jotted it down.

He's starting to get on more of a schedule, and we've resorted to tag-teaming it a bit more, rather than either of us trying to take the reins for an entire night. Which is a good thing, because I don't ever again want to be tempted to feed my son to a cat.

He only sleeps during photo shoots. 

Shark Wahlberg and the Funny Bunch

Today, Oliver is 0.0658 years old. I refuse to do the "weeks" thing. It's demeaning.

He's making good progress, but not so much that we have to worry about having some kind of Neil deGrasse Tyson on our hands. He received a clean bill of health from his new pediatrician—his mobility is good, his skin looks healthy, and he's gained nearly as much weight as I've put on since breakfast.

Speaking of Oliver's new pediatrician, his old pediatrician sucked goat perineum. I don't want to be catty and name names, or reveal specific information, but her name is Dr. Farideh Farrohi, her business address is 18546 Roscoe Blvd, Northridge, CA 91324, her office phone number is 818-885-8040, and she doesn't have nearly enough one-star reviews on Yelp. She seemed nice enough, but we did not appreciate her as a practitioner of medicine. In each of our two office visits, she forgot to either give us something or tell us something. Her office was dingy and unkempt and had rats (one would assume). But the deal-breaker was that we called her "urgent" line, not once but twice, two different weekends, and requested calls back, which were promised by the recorded voice to be delivered within half an hour. One return call came 24 hours later; the other nearly 48. That isn't going to work for the parents of a child, especially for the new parents of a first child, including one parent who wants to take our son to the ER each time he sneezes (again, not naming names, but it's Erin).

Anyway, we kicked her to the curb, and we couldn't be happier with our new pediatrician, who actually seemed too perfect, to the point that it made me worry I'm living in a Truman Show-esque biosphere in which it's everyone else's job just to fuck with me. But, assuming that reality is not a chimerical, self-delusive construct, she was very good.

Oliver is becoming more alert and playful every day. He seems to be taking to his many new stuffed friends, all of whom I have taken the liberty of naming.

From left to right: First row: Ryan Seahorse, Squid Vicious, Crabigail Spencer; Second row: Manta Ray Romano, Bradley Grouper; Third row: Shark "Sharky Shark" Wahlberg, Chick Sutcliffe, Pig Notaro; Fourth row: Whale Earnhardt, Jr.  and the two Golden Girls, Moo McClanahan and Bee Arthur

He also had his first picnic, and first trip to the park. He slept through the entire thing, as he has done anytime we've left the house, so he is still blissfully unaware that outside exists. But you can't deny that he looks cute in his picnic hat.

That was before we left the house, so he was still conscious. And yes, I know there's a breast pump in the background. The framing was intentional.

Here he is with Erin at the park, showing off his neck strength:

We're still not getting much sleep, and he makes binge-watching difficult, but all things considered, he's a hoot-and-a-half, and we have no regrets about kidnapping him from that wealthy family with quintuplets. 

Big Trouble in Little Diaper (or, Adventures in Babyshitting)

They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. After today, I could probably lift the front-end of a semi.

Early this afternoon, one of our cats threw up. Yes, cats throw up. But this was a lot of vomit. It was orange and chunky and everywhere. Little did I know that this would not be the most disgusting thing to happen before the hour was up.

Minutes after I finished tossing several wadded up paper towels full of cat-hurl into the trash, my son had a blowout. This was not your run-of-the-mill bowel movement. It wasn't just an especially hefty diaper-filling. It was a 15-megaton, supersonic paroxysm of feces.

Here is a simulation:

It was Erin's turn to change the diaper, but it became immediately apparent that this was to be a two-person operation. Without much warning, we were suddenly in what felt like the climactic third act of an episode of ER. Oliver was placed on the changing table, which, in retrospect, will now probably need to be replaced. As we unsnapped the snaps of his decimated onesie, the inner contents came spilling out like the intestines of a wounded soldier who has just removed his flak jacket. The breadth of spray would have been enough to seriously impress a spatter analyst. There was excrement all the way down each leg. Halfway up his back. Everywhere else you could imagine. As I said to my wife in the heat of battle, "Did you ever think you'd have occasion to be cleaning shit off a penis?"

We worked in tandem like a poorly oiled machine, shouting out panicked instructions like two individuals who had won, via lottery, the chance to be surgeons for a day.

"There—on his inner thigh...get it!"

"Hand me another wipe! Shit, I dropped it...hand me another one!"

"No, honey, no...hold his right foot. His right foot. Jesus Christ, the foot on the right side of his body!"

It was chaos. The more we cleaned, the more there seemed to be. It was like a telltale turd, taunting us with its invincibility, admonishing us for our pathetic lack of experience and competency. At one point, when we realized that our son had bucked the most basic laws of physics by firing a torrent of waste up the length of his spine, it become obvious that we would not be able to remove his clothing by traditional means, lest we smear his leavings from chin to soft spot. So, grabbing a pair of scissors and proceeding with the utmost care (but also haste), I cut the thing off of him, at last freeing him from his crap-drenched garment.

At this point, an eight-inch tall pile of soiled wet wipes had accumulated. There were no pauses in-between; our hands moved in a continuous loop, from baby to wipe dispenser and back again. The whole ordeal probably lasted ten minutes, but it felt like twenty lifetimes.

Finally, one onesie, two changing mats, and three trash bags later, we had a pristine, glistening infant once again. He cooed and squeaked as if nothing had just happened—as if his actions hadn't just resulted in a fecal blast radius of at least thirty feet. With a new, completely useless diaper on his body, and a dash of Desitin on his ass, he was as good as new.

Erin and I, on the other hand, will never be the same.

My Three Sons

Oliver is 12 days old today. He's opening his eyes more, gaining strength in his neck, arms and legs, and puttin' on some oz's. It's crazy to see him aging and making so many connections in such a short period of time. That said, he still has what appears to be a dried raisin trying to escape his abdomen, so some things never change.

He came home with us on Sunday the third, and that was not the most fun I've ever had behind the wheel of a car. I'm pretty sure I cursed to Hell every driver who cut me off, passed legally into my lane 50 feet ahead, or dared not come to a full stop at a stop sign. I felt like Frodo trying to safely deliver the ring to its resting place, while being assailed by orc-headed assholes at every turn.

Wow, this kid has a dad who makes LOTR references. He is in luck.

Fortunately, we got home without incident. Upon entering his new home, Oliver got to meet Toby and O'Ryan, our two cats. Here's a picture of the three of them snuggling:

Okay, so they're not quite there yet. But the cats also haven't hissed or batted at him, and he hasn't broken out in hives in their presence, so it's been a fair start. We've done our best to show Toby and O'Ryan plenty of attention, so that they don't feel neglected, and then start to resent this newcomer, and ultimately begin plotting his demise. We're taking every precaution.

Oliver has also had plenty of Grammie/Nonnie time over the past week+ (Grammie is Erin's mom, Nonnie is mine). Having them here was enormously helpful, as dishes were washed and diapers were changed and vegetables were watered so that Erin and I could grab a few z's. But, as of yesterday, when Nonnie and Uncle Payton left to return home, we were officially - and for the first time - on our own. It is definitely daunting. One isn't used to being violently shaken awake at 4 am with an urgent request for Desitin application. But we have survived thus far, and my wife and I make a good team, and failure is not an option. At least, that's what it says on the motivational poster I just finished hanging in the nursery. 

Cuteness update: he's still cute. See? 

He still seems generally confused by the world, but join the club, kid. His eyes are still learning how to focus, and his head is still learning how not to act like a limp head of steamed broccoli. He still hasn't said anything adorable or clever or funny, unless you think "waaaaaaah" is funny. And he still has trouble differentiating fingers from nipples. So there is room for progress. But he's a joy to be around roughly 22 hours out of every day. 

What will he be doing by the time I write my next post? Will he be walking? Will he be making macaroni necklaces? Will he be volunteering for missionary work in Belize? Your guess is as good as mine. 

Oliver!

Well, it happened. My wife and I brought life into this crazy world. Good luck, son. And good luck, world.

I promised I'd post a picture of him if he wasn't grotesque, and as it turns out, he is objectively the cutest baby in the history of humankind. So here he is:

His name is Oliver Owen Kreisman, and since you're dying to know when he was born, how much he weighed and how much space he takes up on a table, I'll tell you.

Born: 5:44 pm on June 1, 2018
Weight: 7 lb, 3 oz
Length: 21 inches
Depth: 3.5 inches

His timing was a bit of a surprise. Erin and I went in for our weekly appointment with her OBGYN, and received the news that Erin's blood pressure was a tad high. We zipped next door for some tests, and while everything looked good for the most part, it was ultimately her doctor's decision to induce right away. Which meant that we didn't even have a chance to grab our carefully packed bags, say good-bye to the cats, or pull in the trash bins from the curb. But life does not wait for garbage day.

Oliver was born almost exactly 24 hours later, and Erin and I were thrilled to see him emerge healthy, with all of his bits and pieces intact. I momentarily forgot that a newborn's head is elongated after birth, so for a second I was worried that my wife had been fooling around with a Conehead. But everything else looked perfect, and his head has since rounded out.

No real complications or dangers, other than there being a bit of amniotic fluid in Oliver's lungs that needed to be removed via a process I want to say was called "dressage," although I know that's not right. Anyway, they sucked up the bad stuff, and he's since been ingesting all of the good stuff, and now he's peeing like a busted hydrant and filling his diaper with dijon mustard. We just got home from his first trip to the pediatrician, and everything looks great. Four days in and the kid is still in mint condition. He's really been retaining his resale value.

Now begins the hard part. (I can almost see Erin giving me the stink-eye as she reads this.) We have to take this tiny lump of moldable, foldable Play-Doh and fashion it into some semblance of a human being. I'm already panicked that I haven't been working with him enough on his ABCs. He is not remotely potty trained. His "sitting up" game needs serious work. I know on some level that all of this stuff will take time, and we should just enjoy his infancy and appreciate the little things, but at the same time, I can't wait for him to hop up on the couch with me so we can marathon the Back to the Future trilogy. Now that he's here, I just want to experience the many million future iterations of him  all at once. I'm still terrified by the pressure of being responsible for a person, but can't freakin' wait to find out who that person will be.

But, of course, it would be a crime to spoil this special period of his life by not living entirely in the moment. And I don't want to downplay the really cool things he can do so far. Like plank...

...and wink slyly.

I know that he's more or less just a peeing-and-pooping machine at the moment, but as peeing-and-pooping machines go, he's remarkably adorable and fun to be around. So, while it's difficult not to spend time pondering what's in store for this kid, and what this kid has in store for us, I'm going to do my best to take things as they come, appreciate the day-to-day surprises, and use his diaper-changing sessions to work on my gag reflex. 

Doing Our Part for Overpopulation

If there's one thing I've proven time and again to myself and the rest of the world, it's that I suck at writing blogs.

I once started a blog called The-One-Blog-A-Year Blog (this is true), because I wanted to set a low bar for myself. I've written one new post in the last nine years. Granted, that blog really isn't about anything, but still. Not stellar.

So...why am I starting this one? Well, because there's about to be a very big change in my life, and I'd like to document it, so that one day I can go back, read all my posts, and see how badly I fucked up.

My wife, Erin, is nine months pregnant. With a baby, presumably. Any day now, I'm going to meet him. I'm actually kind of glad his brain functionality will be limited, because I traditionally make a terrible first impression.

This is what he looks like so far:

So yeah, a little too early yet to use any age-progression software, but fingers crossed he's a looker. I'm sure I'll love him no matter what, but I do not want to be one of those dads everyone feels they have to lie to about his son's physical appearance. I'm hoping he won't be an uggo, but if he is, let's just be real about it. I have no doubt he'll make up for his short straw in the looks department with his sparkling personality. 

As is the case for most new fathers, I'm sure, this whole thing hasn't hit me yet. Erin and I made a human. A human. Up until now, the coolest thing I've ever made was a three-dimensional poker table cake. (The chips were Smartees.) Obviously, the "making" was the fun and easy part. It's the building phase that's lately been giving me agita. 

How do I do this? 

How do I make sure it grows up to be a smart, sensitive and compassionate person, unlike the vast majority of persons? 

What if it doesn't find me funny? 

What do I do if it throws up on me? Will that stuff come out with regular detergent? 

Am I going to feel bitterness toward it because of the lack of sleep and personal freedom? Or will my love for it outmatch my nagging resentment? 

Is it going to be negatively affected by the fact that its father keeps referring to him as "it"? 

So many questions, and no way to obtain any answers other than to simply dive into this thing and see what happens. After all, I see people every day who have opted to have one or more of these baby contraptions, and they (generally) seem quite pleased by their situation. They don't even seem to mind that they no longer host game nights or go to movies or have sex or go a day without touching poo. So maybe I won't either. 

Erin has been amazing throughout this entire ordeal, and I want to be just as amazing for both her and my son. I'm talented in a number of areas, but when it comes to this parenting business, I am completely untested. I think I'll be okay, but I really don't know. I could be a total disaster at this. I mean...I'm honestly worried I won't like him as much as the cats. He's got some big paws to fill. 

But okay. I've decided to keep this blog, and to update it as often as I'm able - hopefully more than once every nine years. My memory is already going, so I'd like to be able to have a written record of all the cute, quirky, and stupid things my child does over the years. 

The next time I post, he'll be here. If he's not too unattractive, I'll upload a pic.