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.