Ollie from Raleigh

Well, you're never going to believe this, but I'm writing another blog post. 

Yes, it's been a year-and-a-half. No, you haven't missed much. Oliver is still basically the same - drinking formula, blinking stupidly at the mobile over his crib, waiting for some teeth to grow in. 

Okay. I missed writing about his early formative years. I fell down on the job. Sue me. The important thing is that I'm back at it! 

All right, time to catch you up. 

In late 2020, we left Grammie and Papa James' house and drove up to Raleigh. We still didn't have a place to live, per se, so we decided to instead pay some totally reasonable AirBnb fees and rent a pad in the neighboring town of Cary while we kept up our search. As you can see, at this time our son was still very much into Toy Story. (He still is. I guess some things do stay the same.)

I'm not sure what he has, but he's
probably not supposed to be touching it.

Erin started her job at North Ridge Country Club, where she is a... busboy? Club pro? Head chef? I'm not sure, I don't really pay attention. But she seems to like it there, and they even let her come home sometimes.

We finally found a house in Wake Forest (on the north side of Raleigh) that most of our LA friends refer to as a "mansion," but is really just a normal-sized house for human beings. 

Sure, everything in this picture looks gorgeous,
but that sunset is clearly 'shopped.

We were so damn happy to finally have somewhere to settle down. We'd been displaced for many months, and it sucked a bazillion eggs. Amazingly, all of our stuff had survived the long stay in storage, so we hired a company to transport it to our new digs. We then packed up the rest of our essentials (see below), and headed to Wake Forest.

Behold: Schrödinger's toddler 

Oliver referred to his new home as the "fun new house," and continued to do so for maybe 15 months after we moved in. Some of the things he finds the most fun are A) going up and down the stairs without holding the railings, even though we get on him about it constantly, B) watching TV, and C) running across the length of the hardwood floor in his socks and eating shit nearly every time. Seriously, this kid and his minor injuries. If I hurt myself half that much just in the course of my daily activities, I would give up and just pay someone to bring me everything. 

The other day he hurt himself while eating an orange. That's not even a joke. "The orange hurt me," he said. To be honest, I felt more empathy for the orange. 

Shortly after we moved into our house in late 2020, Oliver started attending Wake Forest Montessori Preschool. I avoided even looking into Montessori schools for the longest time because I felt sure they had to be religious. Turns out they're not. So we drop him off there for 7 hours, 5 days a week, partly so that Erin and I can work, but also partly because he's a lot. I've heard that there are people out there with multiple kids, some of whom don't even get them out of their hair for the bulk of each day, but I don't think they actually exist. It sounds far-fetched. Anyway, he no longer cries himself into a blubbering mess each morning at drop-off, so let's say he's enjoying it there. 

You can't fake the magnitude of joy
these kids are experiencing.

I wanted to do something special in Oliver's room, so after my hands had healed from carpal tunnel surgery, I went about painting the mural I had in mind. It's a 360-degree Coco mural, done half in blacklight paint, so that when he turns off the lights, he can feel like he's a freshman at college. He likes Coco quite a bit, but I love it, and they're technically my walls. It was honestly so rewarding though to have him come home each day I was working on it, and see him scan the walls to see what was different. He'd get very excited when he spotted something new, especially when it was a character he recognized. It will be a fun thing to show off to his friends, and he'll probably really enjoy it for the next three to four years, until he's really into something new and wants me to paint over Coco, and we have to give him up for adoption. 

Now Oliver knows how Michelangelo's kid must have felt.

We've now celebrated two Halloweens here, and getting ready to have our second Christmas. Last year for Halloween he was Mike from Monsters, Inc., and this year he was Raya. 

Scary cute

He is not bound by gender norms.

Last year's Halloween, like everything else in 2020, was stupid. We didn't go trick-or-treating... Erin had to work, and Oliver and I just sat in captain's chairs at the top of the driveway and ran a remote control dump truck full of Snickers bars down to the street. He got to taste a little of the sweet nectar of the cacao bean on his lips, however, so I think he counted the day as a win. 

This year, even though the world is still shit and people are still morons, we did do a bit of light trick-or-treating. He had a blast with it, in spite of the fact that he desperately wanted to remove his hat and wig from the get-go. He'll learn better how to just accept the pain and discomfort as he gets older. 

He is getting insanely excited about Christmas now, and about Santa's impending arrival. He went through the Amazon catalog we got in the mail, and when asked to choose what he'd like for Christmas, he pointed to literally everything. I'm not sure what he thinks he's going to do with decorative flatware and a set of mixed taper holders, but if Santa brings those for him, he's welcome to knock himself out.

We sadly lost some loved ones since my last post, including my Dad, my step-mom Lynne, my Nana, and our cat O'Ryan (not going to linger on this part, because I'm trying to keep this blog lighthearted), but we did also welcome a few new family members as well! Oliver's Aunt Casie gave birth to a beautiful baby girl named Jada this past September, and then we attempted to steal her thunder by soon afterward adopting two new children of our own! 

This is Harry and Marv. They chew feet.

Oliver is incredibly good with them, which is good for the cats, and also good for society at large, as it means he probably won't grow up to be a serial killer. When he's not running up to them fast enough to send them scattering, he adorably scratches them on their heads, or gives them a little peck, or lays his head on their sides and snuggles with them. At the same time, he wants to make sure they know their place, so he's also quick to yell at them if they're somewhere he believes they're not supposed to be, whether under the Christmas tree, or up on a table, or in their litter box. Okay, so perhaps he just likes to yell a lot. 

I'm sure there are a million more things I could fill you in on, but this is a good start. Hopefully I can get back into publishing posts here semi-regularly, so you can remain in the loop on my son's life. But if not, you can always just assume that he's sitting around somewhere, probably watching Toy Story. 

Ollie the Terrible

A few months ago, I naively thought Oliver had entered his Terrible Twos. He would be disagreeable from time to time, and occasionally he would throw a blueberry.

Oh, how I now long for those days.

Be assured that we are now in full-blown Terrible Two mode. It cannot get worse than this without fatalities.

I feel that the best way to demonstrate to you the extent of irrationality on display is to imagine what a conversation might be like with him right now if he were a fully grown, supposedly mature adult.

Me: So glad you could come over. Can I get you a glass of wine? A beer? 

Oliver: No.

Me: Oh. Not a drinker. No problem. Any other beverage? Water? 

Oliver: No.

Me: Soda?

Oliver: No.

Me: Iced tea?

Oliver: NO NO NO. 

Me: Not thirsty - roger that. Anything to snack on? Cheese and crackers, perhaps? 

Oliver: Chee. Cacka. 

Me: Coming right up. It's so great to catch up, by the way. Are you still at Becker & Greenstein? 

[Slams door]

Me: Yeah, no, you're right. Let's not talk shop. This evening is about good friends reliving good times. You seeing anyone these days? 

Oliver: No, no, NOOOOO! [Hits wall, throws truck]

Me: Oof, okay. I won't press, but I promise you I've been there, too. Dating is hard. Here are your cheese and crackers, by the way.

Oliver: No chee! No cacka! [Throws cheese onto floor, hits crackers with palm, flings cracker bits] Foo bah. Poe.

Me: I am sooo sorry. I am plum out of fruit bars and pouches. Do you want me to run out real quick? 

Oliver: No cacka! Dow! Dow!

Me: Oh, God, yes, go ahead. I was an idiot to presume you'd want to eat at the table. Please - get down. Let's chat wherever you feel comfortable. 

Oliver: [Runs to closet, sticks hand into litter box] Mow mow poo poo. 

Me: This is...unbelievably embarrassing. I should have scraped before you got here. I'm like a Neanderthal. 

Oliver: MOW MOW POO POO! 

Me: I deserve that.

Oliver: NO NO NOOOOOO!!! [Hits my leg, collapses in heap on floor, tries to eat baseboard]

Me: Oh, Jesus. You're having a seizure. My grandmother used to have those. Who should I call? Should I call someone? Do you have your medication on you? 

Oliver: NO NO NOOOOOO!!! NO MO! NO MO! BEAH HUG! NO NIGH-NIGH! MOMMY HUG! UN MO BOOK! [Grabs and pull's cat's tail]

Me: Shit, I think you're having a psychotic break. I'm going to call 911. 

Oliver: SHUS. NO SHUS! [Removes and throws shoes] NO SOSS! [Removes and throws socks] LEGGO! LEGGO!

Me: Oh - "Let It Go?" You want to do some karaoke? 

Oliver: Watz? Watz? Leggo... Esha? 

Me: Oh... I wish we could watch Elsa but my dish just went out last night...

[Screams with the breath of a thousand dying men]

Me: Shit. Shit. This night is not going well. 

Oliver: Daddy hug? 

Me: Yeah, sure, I'm right here for you, pal. Whatever you need. Is this better? 

[Squirms out of my arms, stomps to coffee table, throws decorative basket]

Me: Maybe we should reschedule. 

Helter Shelter-in-Place

Toddlers are great, but in small doses. That's why God created nannies, and day care, and naptime. He certainly didn't intend for parents for spend all day, every day, barricaded inside a 1,400-square-foot home with an offspring who likes to climb onto things four times his height, screams words and phrases that should ideally be spoken softly, and asks to watch "Buzz" (Toy Story) at least 30 bazillionty times a day. If he were one of your friends, you might ask him to lunch every other month or so, to catch up and laugh about old times. But you wouldn't want to hang out with him every living second. You know the kind. He's a lot to take.

And yet this is where we are. Just the four of us. Me, Erin, Oliver, and a cat who now constantly wears the expression "I guess this is my life now."

Some of us are dealing with the quarantine better than others

Of course, I don't mean to make light of what anyone else is going through. All things considered, we have it pretty good, and I know that. We all like each other, more or less, and we're all in relatively good health, at least for the moment. But...look. All things are relative. And I contend that I'm allowed to be annoyed by how loud it is here. There's just no reason for it. Say foo bah (fruit bar) once, kid, and then give me a few beats to fetch one. The world's not going to end if you can't cram one of your blueberry paste biscuits into your jabbering trap in the next half-second. Put things in perspective, please. People are dying. You'll get your snack.

On the upside, ever since Oliver has started staying home from day care, we've all gotten to know him much better. For example, we now know that he likes to get high. Literally. He has a toy car, but it's basically just a step-stool on wheels (which is as safe as it sounds). He's obsessed with ladders. He'll climb up on boxes, toy bins, bookshelves...anything in order to feel a few inches taller. He'd scale the kitchen wall with suction cups if he had access. He's always pointing at the ceiling and talking about the attic. Like he even knows anything about it. Whatever forbidden paradise you're imagining is up there, child, that ain't it. Hope you like blown insulation and possum babies. 

Like us, he's getting massively stir crazy. We've had to start spelling the word "walk," like he's a dog, because if we utter the word out loud, he's at the back door in seconds, leash in his mouth. Calm down. We don't have an actual leash for him. It's more of a restraining tether. Anyway, he hears the word and he goes nuts. He has this red wagon that his Goppie got for him, and it's pretty sweet. It's a double-seater with buckles, it has a cloth roof, and there are places to put both your sippy cup and your plastic bag full of Goldfish. We go for daily walks around the neighborhood, keeping the same precautionary six feet of distance from strangers that we routinely kept before the pandemic, and every thirty or so steps he'll demand a few more fish, or ask me to help him get his Sesame Street music player working again. I mean...maybe if you stop hitting "eject." There are only three buttons. It isn't hard. He likes to say hi to this one neighbor dog who, without fail, frightens me to death whenever he starts barking, even when I know it's coming. Oliver has no idea the thing would rip him to pieces if given the chance, however, so he just laughs and says "daw" jovially. It's a pretty good metaphor for life, if you think about it.

Surprisingly, he still hasn't achieved peak cuteness. We keep thinking the curve will flatten, if you will, but his damn laugh just keeps getting more and more infectious. And he has a cute little voice that makes the silly shit he says even cuter. Like "un mo" (one more). Whenever he wants more of something, which is generally the case with everything other than vegetables, he holds one finger against the side of his nose and, knowing full well that no amount will ever be enough, says "un mo pitcha" (one more picture) or "un mo cacka" (one more cracker) or "un mo mattah" (one more deep tissue neck massage). We give in until we feel we shouldn't any longer, at which point he freaks the hell out. But even when he's hitting his dresser in anger, it's still kind of cute, in an "it's adorable that you think that's going to work on us" sort of way. He's also still very small, and miniatures of anything are always cute.

He is, of course, testing boundaries, which is sending our already record-high stress levels soaring even higher. If we tell him not to do something, he's pretty much guaranteed to do it, only now he looks at us while he's doing it, asking with his eyes, "Yeah...so what are you going to do about it?" He knows that when he's been bad he has to stand in the corner and have a discussion with us about what he did - sometimes he even preemptively goes to the corner on his own - but he hardly uses the time to do any serious self-reflection, as is our hope. He mostly takes opportunity of the down time to notice and point at things on the opposite wall, or to start singing some Elmo song. When we inevitably get upset that he isn't being contemplative, he finds that hilarious, and laughs right in our faces. It sometimes feels like we're boarding with an internet troll.

So yeah, it's trying, to say the least. But we have plenty of great moments, too. Like today, when he and I were lying on our backs on my bed, repeatedly throwing his Buzz Lightyear plush doll at the ceiling. We shared a hearty guffaw at that. And the other day, when he wore me down and got me to play some Toy Story for him that I probably shouldn't be letting him watch. But he cuddled with me on the couch, and didn't make a sound or go running off anywhere for like more than five minutes, so it was basically heaven. 

Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Imagine if you will: a sick, sleep-deprived man. Mr. Todd Kreisman, forty-one, husband, father, and chronic neck pain sufferer. Mr. Kreisman is just returning home from Christmas with his family, and is therefore already in a harried, deranged state. Just nine days earlier, he boarded a flight out of Los Angeles, on an evening not dissimilar to this one, on an airliner very much like the one in which Mr. Kreisman is about to be flown home. Tonight, he's traveling all the way to his appointed destination which, contrary to Mr. Kreisman's plan, happens to be in the darkest corner of the Twilight Zone.

I may never sleep again

This year, my wife and I flew with our son fourteen times. Once again, for those in the back: FOURTEEN. That's five different trips, there and back, sometimes with layovers. Fourteen flights we needed to survive, and somehow we did. But it was close.

The first several flights weren't too bad. Oliver was pretty little (I mean, relatively speaking, he's still pretty little, but back then he was especially petite), and he may have done some occasional bawling, but for the most part he slept, and he also wasn't yet walking, or climbing, or engaging in full-on body contortion. The next handful of flights got tougher. He was beginning to get antsy. He learned how to grab the safety card out of the seat pocket in front of us, and fling it into the row behind us. His flailing faculties improved. He had nearly perfected his full-throated scream, which sounds like someone is being murdered with an apple corer. The process of air travel was growing more challenging, but we still felt we had things more or less under control. The last few flights, including the one from LA to Chicago on December 19th, felt basically like the first 27 minutes of Saving Private Ryan. We took a deep breath before boarding, prepared ourselves for battle, and marched valiantly down the jet bridge, not sure if we'd ever see our friends and family again. And yet, even those flights we survived.

Then came the flight from Chicago back to LA on December 28th.

O that we might reverse time. We could go back and rip up our boarding passes. Erin could call off of work for another four days, and we could rent a car, driving our shrieking son cross country. It still would have been a nightmare, but at least it would have been our nightmare alone. And he would have been secured in place by some sort of harness.

To give you a little background, I was exceptionally ill. I'd been at the ER just 48 hours earlier. I had blacked out, thrown up, and peed myself (while blacked out, it should be noted). And, for the two days leading up to this flight, I had been a strong financial supporter of the Imodium brand line of products. Even if we hadn't had a toddler, I would have been dreading the flight. But, as it was, I would need to stave off enemies on multiple fronts. And one of those enemies would be head-butting me in my upset stomach.

It was a late flight; more foolish parents than we might have expected him to sleep a bit on the plane. Instead, he was overtired, and apparently needed to behave like a crazed psychopath just to keep himself awake. The first exciting thing he found was that he could turn the latch on the tray table, let the table drop, and then slam it back into place, not at all bothering the person sitting there, who had unknowingly paid upwards of $500 to be physically pummeled for four hours. We told him, of course, that he couldn't do that, but he no speak English so good, so our words had no effect. We would hold him tightly, pinning his arms around his body, but being the resourceful lad he is, he would merely resort to using his feet to bother those sitting in front of us.

We tried to distract him with some toys, but on an airplane, toys transform into projectiles. They are not something to be played with, but rather something to be launched in the general direction of the drink cart. There were screens in the backs of the seats on this flight, for which we were initially grateful, but they did not meet our son's standards. For one thing, their selection, despite featuring hundreds of titles, did not sufficiently please him. You could not pull up Baby Shark, or the Tiki Room song, or the Hot Chocolate song from Polar Express, or the Mahna Mahna Muppets song. Which are literally the only four things he likes to listen to, in case you were thinking of making him a mix tape. Even when we found something else he sorta liked, like an episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, we didn't find relief for long. Because he saw us touching the screen with our fingers, he wanted to join in the fun. So he would poke and slap at the screen until he paused the show, or fast-forwarded it to the end, or backed out of it altogether and somehow wound up playing Hobbs & Shaw. Then he would scream and flail, because the TV wasn't doing what he wanted it to do (which was to play Baby Shark, most likely), and Erin and I would share a glance and then weep.

And then the plane took off.

And he took a massive dump.

It wasn't that he dropped an enormous deuce. Everybody poops—I read that in a book once. It was the ferocity of the stench. And the timing. The seat belt light was on, so we (Erin) couldn't get up to change his diaper. Then the cart came through, so there was no getting to the bathroom for another half hour. Then there was turbulence—seat belt light again. All told, over an hour passed before we had the opportunity to rid ourselves of the malodor that had been plaguing everyone within sniffing distance of seats 24A-and-B.

Finally, it was time for the Toddler Olympics. The Opening Ceremonies consisted of him trying to remove all of his clothing. A shoe would smack one of us in the forehead; a sock would land on one of our shoulders. The rest of it he had difficulty removing from his body, but he sure as hell tried. The first official event was Stickering, which consisted of Oliver screaming until we would hand him the sticker he wanted, then A) sticking it on our faces, B) folding it in half and screaming because it had lost its sticking properties, or C) putting it in his mouth and scaring us half to death until we could dig it out of his throat. The next event was Deep Seat Diving, wherein he would alternate diving feet-first and head-first into the gap between our row and the row in front of us, then sometimes cartwheeling in either direction to reverse position. While down there, he would sometimes emerge with a wet Cheerio, or a sock, or a miniature Tito's Vodka bottle. The final event was the Very Modern Pentathlon, which included Face Slapping, Rear Row Screeching, General Freak-Out, Maniacal Laughing, and Cracker Discus. He won gold in all of the disciplines.

Later, I stood in the aisle to give him some time in my seat, which I hoped might calm him down. Instead, he did some kind of advanced tumbling move, and wound up falling off the seat, landing fairly heavily to the ground. He started crying immediately, and while it would have normally been our first impulse to reach for him immediately and comfort him, there was at first a brief moment during which Erin and I turned and looked each other in the eyes, perhaps flirting with the idea of leaving him there and letting him work it out. But our parental instincts, though delayed in this instance, eventually roared to life, and we retrieved our whimpering son from the floor.

There was more—oh so much more—but I'm still suffering so much PTSD from the experience that I'd rather skip it. The only positive thing I can take away from the experience is that my stomach hung in there for the entire flight. Praise be.

Oh, and he did finally fall asleep, bless his heart.

About five minutes to landing.

Small World, Big Fun

Well...we did it. We took our son to Disneyland. We survived the "happiest place on earth," which featured more unbridled screaming than the uninitiated might expect.

We got an early start, even going so far as to wake up Oliver before his normally scheduled wake-up time, which was brave of us. We were on the road before 7, and pulled into the Mickey and Friends parking structure at around 8:30. It was going to be a long day. But Erin and I had each popped a half dozen Xanax, and we had brought our flasks of tequila, so at least we were prepared.

The adventure got off to a fantastic start when our easy-to-please offspring was immediately excited about the interior of the tram terminal. I don't exactly recall the source of his enthusiasm, but dollars to donuts it had to do with him spotting a ball somewhere.

Save your pointing for the park, kid

We got through the front gates, and of course it was time for another photo op.

We headed down Main Street after passing through the tunnel (well, after a bathroom pit stop, but I don't really need to tell you everything), then met Minnie. She was a little big and intimidating in real life, so we didn't like her much. She didn't even get a high five. So we hung a left and started making our way through Adventureland. Our first stop was the Tiki Room, which is great for children three and under, and basically torture for everyone else. Except for anyone with a child three and under. His eyes were the size of quarters for twenty minutes. He would point silently every time a bird or flower or floor tile would open its mouth and start singing. It was a hit, but he's probably going to want a parrot now.

We left the Tiki Room, stopping for a Dole Whip (obvs), and there was legit no line, which, as anyone who has ever stopped for a Dole Whip can well understand, was the greatest thing that has ever happened in my life. Our first ride was arguably the park's most iconic - Pirates of the Caribbean. Like his father, he did not appreciate getting wet, but the rest of it he loved. His favorite parts, predictably, were the meow-meow and the woof-woof.

We then got a fast pass for the Haunted Mansion, because like hell we were going to stand in line holding that whirling dervish for 35 minutes. Oliver lost one of his shoes, then we hopped on the railroad at the New Orleans Square station. We got off in Toontown, and then did the Small World ride, which was the best ride we went on all day. Yeah, yeah. I know. But keep in mind that it was 90+ degrees, and that ride is 15 minutes, and has great AC. Plus, there was nothing dark or scary, so it was 15 minutes of pure enjoyment for all of us.

Then it was time to hit some of the Fantasyland rides. First we let him do single rider on the Matterhorn (I'm kidding, mom), then we did Alice in Wonderland (he didn't love the dark parts), the carousel (a lot of point-worthy things on this one), and Pinocchio (again, too many dark parts). He tried removing the sword from the stone, but the day before had been arms and chest day, and he was still feeling sore.

Not the chosen one, as it turns out

We did lunch at the Plaza Inn, where we paid an exorbitant amount of money for the meal/parade package, which would (in theory) guarantee us great seats for the Electrical Parade later that night. (As you'll later learn, it's a scam. Don't do it.) Oliver was out for the count at this point though, so he didn't get to partake of our lunch, or our brightly colored cheesecake.

We decided to take advantage of his nap to check out the new Galaxy's Edge, which he wouldn't have been able to appreciate anyway. While I was on babysitting duty, Erin went on Smuggler's Run, and loved it, but I'm not big on pushing buttons with a roomful of randos, so I passed. We came out of Galaxy's Edge near the Haunted Mansion, just in time to make our fast pass window. This ride got roughly the same review as several others: fun and interesting at times, but too many dark parts. Also, at one point, there was a ball.

We got Oliver a little lunch, then got on the train to get us back over to Toontown, so he could break into Mickey's house and root through his personal belongings. This was one of his favorite parts of the day, mostly because he got to get out of his stroller and run around. And watch giant carrots get sucked into the ground.

We weren't in the mood to wait around to meet Mickey though, so we went back outside and explored more of Toontown. He had his first positive character interaction when we had the opportunity to meet Donald, who was just more his speed. Unlike Minnie, Donald did get a high five. It's possible my son is a sexist.

After a meltdown in the middle of Toontown, and after finally getting Oliver back in his stroller using a combination of Kevlar rope and horse tranquilizer, we exited to Fantasyland and went on the Small World ride again. It was even better the second time. Ah, that AC. Strong recommend.

Back in the heat, we got on the Monorail (don't forget that we have this damn stroller everywhere we go, btw), which took us to Downtown Disney, where we partook of some holiday sandwiches at Earl of Sandwich, and there was much throwing of bread, cheese, and sippy cup. There wasn't much time for us to do anything after dinner other than make our way back over to Main Street for the Electrical Parade, where we set up camp on a damn curb, like animals. Parade package, my butt.

The parade went over spectacularly though, especially considering how little sleep Oliver had gotten over the course of the last 14 hours, and that it was already past his normal bedtime. The barrage of colorful lights more than made up for the day's many dark parts, and he was riding an absolute pointing high. An excellent way to wrap up a largely successful first trip to the House of Mouse.

Next time we'll probably get a sitter though.

Dada, Mama, Poo-Poo, Sha Wah Wah

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It has been five months since my last blog post.

Why have I gone so long without writing one? Well, because nothing of note has happened in the last five months. Okay, that's a lie; pretty much everything has happened in the last five months. But work has been insanely busy. And I haven't been sleeping much. And raising a baby is time-consuming. And I've been taking a correspondence course, double majoring in Excuse Creation and Procrastination.

It's hard to know where to even begin. In order to better organize my thoughts, I'm going to be using bolded headers throughout this post.

The Words That Are Comin' Out of His Mouth

Oliver now has a vocabulary of roughly a half dozen words. Not enough to engage in an ontological argument, but enough to swear at someone in traffic. Okay, actually, the ones he has mastered (I use the term loosely) to this point include: Dada, Mama, Nonnie, Papa, banana, cheese, and no. So, theoretically, we could totally have the following exchange:

Me: Who are we going to see next week?
Oliver: Dada. Mama. Nonnie. Papa.
Me: Will Uncle Jamey be there?
Oliver: No.
Me: Are you sad about that?
Oliver: No.
Me: Why not?
Oliver: Cheese.
Me: I hear ya. He does lay it on pretty thick.
Oliver: Banana.
Me: Yes, he is also bananas.
Oliver: BANANA.
Me: Oh, you want a banana.

It's amazing to watch him hear a word, process it in that little brain of his, and then utter an approximation of that word (he does this with varying degrees of success). I expect his vocab to increase exponentially going forward; he is getting better and quicker at this thing every day. In no time at all, he should be enough of an expert mimic that I will be able to begin using him to assist in the making of prank phone calls.

He's also learning to communicate in other ways, like by pointing at something he wants, or throwing something he doesn't, or throwing a hissy-fit when he doesn't want to have his diaper changed or be buckled into his car seat. It feels really great to have opened up this dialogue.

Little Man Walking

Another area where Oliver is showing rapid improvement: walking. It was around his first birthday (more on that in a minute) that he first started taking a few shaky steps before crashing and burning. The bravery involved in learning to walk had never occurred to me before I was able to witness it happening first-hand. To pull yourself up and move just a couple of feet in one direction, knowing full well that you are going to finish by falling on your ass, often striking your head against a dresser or activity center or crib leg...takes an incredible amount of determination and fortitude. It probably also requires a certain degree of foolhardiness and forgetfulness, but whatever it is, he's got it in spades.

Of course, this is terrible news for the cats. They are now on 24/7 Godzilla watch. It's also bad news for our remote controls, which are now scattered like Easter eggs throughout our house, and for our books and magazines—at least the ones that are in grabbing-and-tearing range. Additionally, it's not the greatest news for any of our visitors, who now need to enter a 6-digit code and solve a series of riddles in order to gain access to our toilets.

The most recent addition to Oliver's bag of tricks? Climbing up on things. So...yay. Now he can fall from an even greater height. Am currently looking into getting quotes for memory foam flooring.

Another Year Older and Closer to Potty-Training

On June 1, guess who turned one? That's right...this blog! Also, Oliver.

We had over to our house a bunch of people, most of whom he didn't exactly know, and didn't seem eager to get to know. But many of them brought presents, which helped, and there was, of course, a smash cake, so he was able to get his first taste of pure sugar. We got him a Smash Mouth smash cake; it was just a cake with a photograph of the band on the surface, with the words, "Happy Birthday, Oliver" and "You're an All-Star." He may not have gotten the joke just yet, but I'm sure he'll have a hearty guffaw over it when I show him the pictures in like 15 years. And explain to him who Smash Mouth was.

School of Soft Knocks

Several months ago, we said sayonara to Oliver's nanny, and put him instead in a day care. It is definitely hard not having him here in the house for much of each day during the week, but everyone on staff is awesome and we feel quite confident about his safety and happiness there. He had a rough outing the first couple of weeks, however. It was right around that time that he began experiencing hardcore separation anxiety, which is flattering but awful. Each time Erin would drop him off in the morning, he would scream tearfully, with arms outstretched toward her, as if they were being separated at the Mexican border (timely, incendiary political reference alert). According to his teachers, things didn't get much better after she left. So yeah, he was putting in a good, solid six hours of crying for a while there. Heartbreaking, but sadly necessary. Stupid jobs. Stupid money.

I have the fun, easy job. I get to pick him up. He sees me, smiles broadly, says, "Dada!," my heart melts, and we go home.

Of course, ever since he started there, he has had a cold. We're actually not sure if it's been a continuous string of eight or nine colds, or one fiercely interminable one, but either way he is forever coughing, and there are always liquid boogers on tap. We sure hope people are right in saying that this will make for a heroic immune system that will keep him healthy for the rest of his life, but it sure as hell sucks now.

We're excited that he's being exposed to social situations as well, although it is a bummer that he has to come to terms with some of life's harsh realities at such a young age. Erin has spotted him twice being pushed to the floor by some asshole named Emmitt, whose name I hope I spelled wrong, although Oliver didn't seem to mind overly much. But my son isn't wholly innocent either. Apparently, some new girl started in his class, and within the first five seconds of meeting her, he introduced himself by shoving a couple of his fingers into her mouth. I knew it was a mistake to let him watch the Kavanaugh hearings.

Oliver's Travels

I swear he's got to be in the 99th percentile of kids his age in the world travels department. He's twice been to Catalina, once to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, once to Chicago, once to Holden Beach, North Carolina, is about to get on a plane to Grand Rapids, and will be making a return trip to Chicago this Christmas. With layovers, I count 14 flights this year. With a one-year-old child. Which makes him a well-seasoned traveler, and his parents dumb AF.

The Chicago trip was amazing, especially because nearly my entire family went to a Cubs game while we were in town; walking with him into the stands, and seeing him look out on that field and the ivy for the first time was really special. The game itself was not so special, but fortunately there was a large structural post blocking our view of most of the action, so we didn't have to watch much of it.

The Holden Beach trip was also fun. He got to dip his toes in the Atlantic, making him officially bi-coastal. He also got to be covered from head to toe in nature's glitter (i.e. sand), which delighted his mother and made his father take seven showers.

But on the upside, he got to meet his cousin Sully, plus Noah, and Logan, and Theo, and Max...there were a lot of babies and kids there. But also beer and wine, so it evened out. Then there was also that time when we were out to dinner and Oliver had a major blowout, so Erin took him outside to her mom's new car to change him. He twisted and turned, smearing fresh shit all over the interior. This delighted his father and made his mother take seven showers.

That's About It

As this heading indicates, that's about it. Oh...he's got his sixth tooth coming in, he loves the flamingoes at the zoo, and he thinks it's funny to hand us something and then snatch it back just as we're about to take it. Okay, now I think that's it. If I think of anything else I forgot, I'll text you.

Putting the Loco in Locomotion

This kid likes to move.

He isn't really a "sit still" kind of person, we're learning. If he's between us on the couch, Erin and I are basically human guardrails on either side of a pulsating, mutating mound of flesh with flailing appendages. At times it appears that this mound seeks to escape captivity; at others, it looks as if it's trying to become one with the cushions. Like a shark, he must always be moving, although it's not immediately clear why.

Bedtime is no different. Watching his tiny, grainy body on the monitor is like watching a Mexican jumping bean that's just had 10,000 volts run through it. He bounces against every side of his crib like a pinball with eternal momentum. Okay, enough similes. You get it. He has a lot of energy.

He's still a relatively good sleeper, although he has recently begun a new routine which I refer to as his "2 am Squirm & Shout." And because he can now sit, roll over, and beg (we teach him all the best tricks), his middle-of-the-night freak-outs look on the monitor like a prisoner in his cell going quickly insane. Okay, that was another simile. I'll try to stop.

Doesn't look like he's going to be a crawler. Knee-walking be damned, he says. Instead, he's a butt-scoocher. I mean, if you can't walk yet, I suppose it's the way to go. You get to stay more or less upright, and hold onto some shred of your dignity as you're going from place to place, for Chrissakes. Butt-scooching isn't the most graceful action a person can perform, but it's clearly superior to a four-limbed waddle. We've evolved, dammit.

But he won't be scooching for long. We got him a walker, and by Day 2 he's already zipping across the kitchen floor, ramming into stools and doors and whatever else dares to get in his way (sorry about your lives, cats; you had a good run).

Soon to be a holy terror

Trying to get him to stay still at doctors' appointments is an adventure. Kinda tough to keep him in place on that cushioned table without a supply of bungee. Of course, the most fun part is trying to keep him from ripping up the sanitary paper they make him lie upon. By the time we're ready to leave, the office looks like the aftermath of a bull mastiff getting into the bathroom trash.

Yeah. Okay. I have a simile problem. I see that now. 

Anyway, with all of this movement, it's clear that there are going to have to be some changes, and fast. We can no longer leave him alone on his playmat for more than about 15 seconds. Any longer than that, and he just might have butt-scooched from here to Timbuktu. Or at least to the fireplace screen. And it's going to get even worse once he starts walking. So we're in the beginning stages of baby-proofing. Moving cleaning products to high shelves. Putting rubber bumper protectors at the bases of tables and bookshelves. Installing outlet covers. Moving our S&M supplies to the garage. It's a process. 

It's an exciting time, but I'm exhausted just thinking about how exhausted I'm about to be. What's the consensus on leashes and/or cages? Are they frowned on? I haven't been reading any parenting mags, so I'm out of the loop. 

Slobby, the House Elf

Hey, did you guys know we had a Christmas?

In case you missed it, we did. Right before the end of the year. There were lights and everything.

Anyway, this was a special Christmas, because it was Oliver's first one. You should have seen his mother. It was the culmination of her entire life. If she'd been drinking wine, and it had been snowing, and a Newsie had been there, I think her brain might have shorted.

As it was, we had a very nice Christmas, just the five of us (Toby and O'Ryan were also in attendance). The pile of presents under our tree was truly disgusting. Capitalism had pulled down its designer jeans and taken a wicked dump in the corner of our living room. You would have thought that fifteen people lived here, or that we were collecting for a donation to Shriners. Nope. Pretty much all for one kid. A kid who had no clue what the hell he was looking at, or why he wasn't allowed to tear all of the shiny paper and jam it down his gullet.

This may be my last year without having to assemble something at 2 am, and for that I am grateful. This year, all we had to do was buy him one of everything in the infant toy aisle at Target, and then open boxes full of one million wrapped presents from friends and family. In related news, my son and his belongings are now the sole residents of our home. I'm taking Erin and the cats to live in a Public Storage unit in Panorama City. Please visit.

So yeah, he made out like a bandit. Not that he cares, really. His three favorite activities are still putting books in his mouth, putting stuffed animals in his mouth, and putting his fingers in his mouth until he gags himself and spits up six ounces of pureed corn. He couldn't care less about all the new gadgets with the flashing lights and catchy songs that his parents can't stop singing. ("Maybe you could be a purple monkey in a bubble gum tree, and...") He's a simple man, with simple tastes. And those tastes, by the way, do not include green beans. Saving you some time there.

He had a fun and exciting holiday season though. How can you not when your mom dresses you up like an elf and you look like this?

Yes, I cut his mother out of this photo. Maybe someday she'll get her own blog. 

Oliver also got to meet Santa, whom he did not mind:

He got to be Santa, which he minded slightly more:

And he got to see a couple of awesome light displays (light display not pictured):

He even got to star in his first ever Christmas card: 

So now, here we are. Seven months-plus, and he's turning from a baby into a little boy right before our eyes. He's sitting up like a pro. He's eating big people foods. He literally got his two front teeth for Christmas. 

2018 was an adventure. But something tells me we just left the Hobbit-hole. 

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.