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.