Elias' arrival

The social revolution that is Twitter and Facebook means that this blog is no longer the go-to place for up-to-the-minute news about things like births and Iranian politics. If you don't know the essentials about the birth last week, then you need to "plug in" dude.

Jaime describes this birthing experience as the perfect end to a miserable pregnancy. Smooth, easy, enjoyable. Boring, almost.

But let's back up to the point where we were sure all of this was going to kill her. Let's back up to Wednesday . . . was it Thursday? . . . I don't really remember at this point and Jaime is sleeping--as she should be--so I can't ask. Jaime was in the hospital for the the third time in the last trimester getting IV fluids and anti-nausea meds. She had hardly gained any weight during the entire big-weight-gain weeks at the end of the pregnancy. Her due date based on her cycle was the 22nd. Based on sonograms, it was the 15th. Calling Monday, the 15, her 39-week point, Denise, her nurse-midwife, had said that Friday night, the 12th was the earliest she would consider inducing. Jaime wanted to set that as the "GO" date. She made this decision with great reluctance. Both David and Simon were induced prior to their due date and Jaime was looking forward to a natural labor experience. But the inability to eat anything was more than she could take. So she asked to begin inducing on the 12th.

And her doctor said "no."

I was not present for this, but I heard the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Apparently there was a miscommunication or reconsideration, but her OB-GYN partners were not willing to allow this baby to arrive a minute before the 39-week point. Which means she could begin as early as Sunday night for a Monday birthday. I was not present or my suggestion would have been that we would agree to that as long as the Doctors making this decision agreed to eat no more than Jaime was able to eat for the following three days. Turns out, they would have come of OK in that deal. We went home, mom watched the boys, and Jaime slept. When she awoke (with fresh meds) she felt much better and was able to eat properly most of the weekend. Sunday night we went in as scheduled.

I'll spare you the details, but various treatments over night into Monday morning brought on spontaneous labor without Pitocen. Around 1:30, her contractions were so intense, she reluctantly decided she would need an epidural. This was the moment we had been waiting for. With her priors, the epidural was the event that moved her to the final stages and babies arrived shortly thereafter. I called my sister to come on up and mused that were going to be able to take the baby's first pictures with daylight. The anesthesiologist arrived and put in the epi.

And labor stopped.

So we had to start the Pitocen and waited around for the rest of the afternoon.

At this point I need stop and mention the nurses. One of the advantages of birthing in the hospital where you work is that you can know the nurses and can request your pick of the shift ahead of time. Jaime had requested Rita for when we went in Sunday night. Rita had taken care of her when were there three day prior and we thought she was wonderful. When Rita's shift ended at 6:00am Monday, we got Amy, whom we really didn't know, but there was no one scheduled for that shift she did know. Turns out a friend of Jaime's--Karen--was filling in on that shift unexpectedly, but Amy had already been assigned to us so that is who we got. Over the course of the next twelve hours, we came to love Amy. But the shift was ending. Both Amy and Karen would be going home. Amy had put in all this work taking care of Jaime all day and Jaime was sad she would not be able to be present at the birth. Jaime was equally sad that Karen, her friend, would not be present since she was also going off shift. But Rita was coming back on, so that was good at least. But wouldn't it be perfect if all three of them could be present? What is the solution? Full-on pushing right at shift change! They all got to be there. Along with a student nurse who has been following Jaime for a couple weeks, the nurse-midwife, my sister, two nurses from the nursery who would take over postpartum care, me, and Jaime--that was 10 people attending to this birth. It was like a knitting club. At one point I almost asked for all the sisterly chit chat and "go girl" encouragement to just stop already, but I was outnumbered.

Here is how Jaime has been describing the experience: the amount of pain-control meds were exactly right. She was able to feel the labor--even the pain of it, without being debilitated by pain. She was neither numb nor in a fog. It was perfect.

Elias came almost without complications. His umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck tightly enough that Denise could not slide it off over his head or push it back over his shoulders. This caused a momentary pause as his shoulder emerged. Denise was able to cut the cord at this point to allow him to come the rest of the way out. They are so strange when the emerge, like inanimate objects: purple and still. Then they transform like time-lapse films of a pupating moth. They wake up, change color, begin to move and cry. The child you see an hour after birth is completely unrecognizable as the one that emerged during labor.

APGAR at birth:8. After five minutes: 9
Weight: 8 lbs
Length 21 inches.

Since the birth, Jaime has had no problem keeping food down. Thanks to God and the women at church, she has no shortage of food to keep down. Both are feeling good, eating well, thriving. Sleeping? Not so much. But I have been here all week to take care of the older brothers, so mother and baby have had plenty of naps. Jaime is tired, but not miserably so.

After such a miserable pregnancy, we could not have asked for a better labor and postpartum week. We thank God. We also thank my mom for older-brother duty while we were in the hospital, Skylar for being present at the birth again, Denise, our super nurse mid-wife, the great nurses at St. Francis, our family's and our friends for love, encouragement, food, and baby supplies.

Jaime just put him in my arm, so I am typing single-handedly while he stares at me and I stare back at him. Jaime voices his thoughts: "Dad, how can you write about me when I am right here in your arm?"

I have no reply.

Brothers

"What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love."
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

I didn't grow up with brothers. One of my brothers died as a toddler and I hope intercedes for me before Our Heavenly Father. The other is quite a bit younger than me and has always lived in another town. I consider it a flaw in my character that I did not develop closer relationship with him. I have often envied the camaraderie of men who grew up together--brothers that I have seen in my extended family, books, and movies. Adult brothers often seem to interact within a constant running in joke, a funny, brave, and moving story about their lives together. Of course, sometimes that story is not funny and many brothers have tragic and conflicted relationships. Either way, the facets and flaws of masculinity seem to be amplified when brothers are together--stimulated by a lifetime of continuous reinforcement.

I was moved to reflect on this relationship when I saw this beautiful photograph of a groom with his two older brothers. The one on the right is friend of mine. Something about the groom's posture reminds of how I felt just before my own wedding. When I saw this photo, my first thought was about my own three sons. God willing, they will someday be gathered like this. They will posture, tease, horse around, recite old jokes and stories, allude to secrets kept between themselves. They will support each other, take council with each other and love each other. God willing they will be comrades in arms, teammates, shipmates, soul-mates. God willing, God willing, God willing. This is my prayer for them, that they will always be brothers.

Throwing in the towel, over and over

What is up with the spilling?!?! Can we not get through one single meal without someone spilling there drink? We have reverted back to the sippy cup with Simon because, even though he perfectly capable of delicately sipping a fine Chablis from a crystal glass, when he gets bored with his meal, he has to conduct hydro-entertainment experiments with his cup. David is simply distracted and clumsy. Then tonight, I had carefully set both boys' cups out away from them and there wildly gesticulating robot-velociraptor-tentacle-laser arms. In doing so, they were within reach of my gracelessness and I knocked one over.

We are averaging two towels per meal this week.

Don't let Simon drive the tanker.

To cardboard, hot glue, and beyond

Probably the earliest "father and son" memory I have is an afternoon home when I was four or five--about David's age, perhaps. Dad cut a piece of cardboard (or was is a grocery bag?) in the shape of a horse's head, drew in the details, and affixed to the top of a yard stick. I rode it around like a cowboy. It is a brief memory--almost a still photo--but one I think about often and fondly. I was hoping I would have opportunities to create such a memory with my own son. That opportunity presented itself this last weekend.

David has been begging me to make a cardboard Buzz Lightyear for him for a few weeks. Having no idea how I might go about this, I stalled until this last weekend. It turns out that what he wanted was a much simpler affair than I realized. He simply wanted a piece of cardboard cut out in the shape of Buzz Lightyear--with the wings out. So I googled Buzz, worked out what pose David had in mind (flying, with both arms extended), did some test sketches and then rendered Buzz on cardboard. Thank God for my art degree. I did the wings separately and glued them on. My only goal was that it would last as long as it took to make it (about three hours). So far, so good. He (rather, "Zorg") ripped Buzz's hands off but I reattached them. Jaime suggested I make them black. David seems satisfied. I was actually pleased when he disobeyed my order to go up stairs and ran to the front door to show the Buzz to his friend who was playing in our front yard.

"But Jason," you may be saying, "you are soooooo against having cartoon-character toys in the house." Well, as I mentioned earlier in relation to the legos, I don't mind my kids cutting the teeth of their imagination on cartoon characters in an imaginative way. Creating Buzz out of cardboard, or legos (or sticks or pieces of lint) allows him to stretch his imagination a bit without having an additional toy lying around that will eventually go out of style and have to be replaced with whatever the next fad is. I look forward to the day when David and Simon are creating their own worlds, but I am content to make them work a bit to recreate someone else's.

Pregancy Pact

I have been waiting for someone to articulate clearly my own response when I first heard about the Gloucester Pregnancy Pact (which was apparently a fiction).

FIRST THINGS: On the Square: "So there’s something reassuring about the idea (and perhaps reality) of the crazy Gloucester “pregnancy pact.” I find it so much brighter, so much more hopeful, than the alternative, which is the “sterility pact” of those so committed to controlling their futures that they can’t risk the uncertainties of children—or worse, the death pact of a society that seems either too self-centered or too pessimistic to venture the hope for the future that a new generation always evokes."

society rules

We have had to explain some really basic stuff to David this weekend: Don't knock on people's doors at 7:30 in the morning. Don't go outside without pants on (admittedly not a universal rule in our neighborhood). Don't go in other people's houses when they are not home. His innocent ignorance of these common concepts is both charming and disturbing.

He is entering a whole new world of socialization and freedom. He has finally hit it off with Cody, the four-year-old whose family moved in next door last year. Cody comes over and hangs out in our basement, David goes over to Cody's, and they generally want to spend every spare moment together--which is actually not a lot of time since they are four and by no means masters of their own schedules. David has also become good friends with another neighbor, Christopher, who is not quite three, but whose language and social skills finally allow for socializing. Christopher also has Transformers and the biggest Lightening McQueen in the neighborhood, which makes up for any linguistic or social shortcomings.

So now he has good friends near by and he was the freedom to play with them as much as possible. Be we all know that freedom isn't free. Well we know that. David is learning. And the lessons, they are hard.

The lessons began around 7:30 Saturday morning. In bed, half asleep, I was vaguely aware of David being up and around but didn't think much of it. He often gets up and fixes himself breakfast before we get up. Was that the front door? Nah, couldn't be. A bit later David pads into our room in his t-shirt and pull-up. He asks if one of us would go knock on Cody's door because he tried and no one answered. Though freaking-out inwardly, his mother and I try to remain calm as we explain that he cannot leave the house with neither permission nor pants.

The day then becomes a series of lessons and restrictions. The privilege of playing in a friend's house is revoked because he pitched a fit when it was time to come home. The privilege of being able to go to the park revoked because he went to the "creek" behind the park against explicit orders. The privilege to play outside altogether revoked because he then went in another friend's house without permission (which he would not have gotten). He spent the last hour before dinner sitting on the couch looking at books (more or less). For awhile I thought I would have to lock him in a box to keep him from going where he shouldn't go.

This culminated on Sunday with actual breaking-and-entering and burglary. I needed to put Simon down for a nap, leaving David alone in the front yard after reviewing the rules. I fell asleep myself, woke up an hour later, and went out to search for David. He came walking down the sidewalk I and I verified that he was staying outside. He said he had just gone in Christopher's for a minute to get some toys. Fine, just as long as he is playing outside. Then he asked if I wanted to play with him at Christopher's. I said no thank you, that he should play with Christopher himself.

Then he explained that Christopher was not home. Some confused Q&A followed and I gathered that, since no one was home at Christopher's, he simply opened the front door, gathered whatever toys he wanted to play with, and brought them outside. During our conversation, he mentioned that Cody also was not home. I noted that someone must be home because Cody's front door was standing open. Perhaps they were upstairs and didn't hear David knock. I explained that he can't get people's toys out of there house when they aren't home. Then, he and I kicked his new soccer ball around for awhile. Eventually, Cody's family's van drove into the parking lot and the entire family emerged. As Cody's father approached the front door, he was obviously perplexed that it was open. More Q&A with David from which I gather that HE opened it searching for Cody. More gentle explaining.

If no one was home at both Cody's and Christopher's home, how is they were both unlocked so David could get in? Well the doors around here are heavy and tight, so it takes extra care to make sure they are closed all the way and latched. It is possible that the front door of both homes was not latched, allowing a persistent four-year-old to push it open. He is used to struggling with our door (from both sides, apparently).

I am confident that David will learn all the new rules and responsibilities that come along with his new social abilities. I just hope he does acquire a rap sheet in the process.

Later, pants fans.

Reason #2 415 against "Santa Claus"

It's 12:17 am Christmas morning. I've just finished assembling the Big Wheel (thank you Grandma Suzie!). I'm supposed to let some jolly old elf take credit for this? I don't think so.

Mom's always have the last word

I just saw an X-ray of a boy's arm with a break which allowed the bones to overlap by an inch. This injury occurred whilst playing football.

Did I mention, An Inch.

From this moment forward the only sports my lovely angelic boys are allowed to play are:
Golf
Underwater Basket Weaving
Competitive Knitting
Air Hockey
Horse Shoes
and
Speed Walking

The Mother has spoken.

terrible, even when entertained

Val said:

I've also realized that if two-year olds were never bored there would not be the 'Terrible Twos'.

I challenge this statement, based on research and experience. Boredom is certainly a huge problem with two-year-olds, but even if it were not a contributing factor, the twos would still be terrible. The terribleness comes from a developmental stage common to both people and dogs. The Scientist in the Crib and Super Puppy both discuss this. Little'uns go through a stage where the want nothing more than to please you. This is a primary learning stage--imitation. But that would only get them so far-right? You can't learn everything about the world by just doing what your parents/owners do. So, the question becomes, "what can I do that is not what my parents want me to do?" Eventually, the moment comes where that you'll suggest to a toddler that he/she spends some time doing the one thing in life they most enjoy doing--"Let's spend the afternoon eating ice cream!" They will think to themselves "she wants me to eat ice cream, and she doesn't want me to stick a wet screwdriver in the electical socket. Hmmm. I wonder what she'll do if I go with the screwdriver plan anyway."

Of course this thought is deep below the consciousness, way down in the primordial brain. It doesn't translate well to the conscious brain and seems to cause them as much stress as it does you. I think this may be presenting itself in David's decision-making abilities. We'll give him a choice, he'll decide, then change his mind, and then again. We have to set a boundary about many times he can do this (the boundary is generally, "ok, I'm annoyed"), but no matter which choice we finally settle on, he'll cry, wanting the other one. "I want yogurt, no, I want raisins, no, yogurt, raisins, aghghghgh!"

As I understand it, this is the case no matter how "entertained" the two-year old is. Eventually, they will want to do something you don't want just to shake it up.

Later, terrible fans.

in love

Jaime and I have developed a little ritual. Each night before we go to bed, we check in on David. We make sure that he is sleeping ok, has his various sleeping crutches close at hand, that he isn't too cold or too hot. And then we just stand and look at him being the calmest stillest he has been all day. While staring at him a couple of nights ago, I reflected on what I was feeling. It took a moment to search around the attic of my psyche and lay my finger on just what I was experiencing. Then, I hit on it. I was in love. It was the very same giddy, I-want-to-stay-up-all-night-on-the-phone, I-want-to-write-bad-poetry, my-life-is-now-perfect, feeling of being in love right at the beginning of the relationship when you finally realize how you feel about the person. David inspires that almost every day. That inspiration, whether it is in teenage boys, or sentimental fathers, always makes one look at life differently. "My life is wonderful because of this, I never want to let it go." How could this happen every day? Perhaps it is because of the rate at which he is changing. Perhaps it is because I only get about three solid hours with him a day. Perhaps it will kill me, being too taxing on my heart. I don't know. Of course, I will have to let it go someday, which is fine too. There are 1,000 thousand different facets of love, and I have only experienced a few dozen so far. It would be stunting to cling to the most passionate ones forever.

Of course, he sleeps through all of this. The highlight of his day is riding his new tricycle and being able to share with you that he just farted and then giggling hysterically. Until he is a parent, he will not be able to comprehend what I am talking about. I'm sure no child has felt the same love for their parents that parents feel for their children. It is the ultimate unrequited relationship. Fortunately, I can share it with Jaime, whom I am confident feels the same way and we can commiserate that our sleeping little boy will probably spend most of his life unaware of 90% of the feelings that we have for him. If we can even convey to him even 10%, though, he will feel overwhelmed and probably resort to fart jokes to get us to back off. This will work. I have always hated fart jokes.

later, love fans

interview with laid-off dad

Since I am not actually updating this with my own stuff, here are three two very good excerpts from this interview with this daddy blogger.

"Most people think the usual things about New York, but not enough is written about how great a place it is to raise young children. It’s very neighborly; the coffee guy knows my usual, the deli guy has Robert’s bagel in the toaster before we walk in the door. Everything I need is less than three blocks away, and we don’t spend all day strapping babies into car seats. But we’ll never afford the space we’ll ultimately need, and on one very sucky day we’ll have to leave."

"I love how marriage and fatherhood have made me a better man."

Now, go read the whole thing yourself.

off with (the dirt on) his head!

Jaime says: "d was up at 6:30 this morning. as punishment i washed his hair. maybe next time he will listen when I say go back to bed."

CONGRATULATIONS!

The World's Biggest "Congratulations" goes out today to my Aunt Karen and Uncle Paul, who are expecting a new baby in January! However, I think we can assume that this the most unexpected expecting that you could expect.

Let me reminisce. Karen's current pregnancy is not her first. It is her sixth. Her first was 19 years ago. I was a mere 15 years old. I had some vague awareness of how these things come about, but no real concept of what conception really means. She continued to build up her beautiful family while I finished high school and went on to college, where my concept went from vague to silly. I became that annoying radical that made sarcastic comments like "You know how this happens, right?" and "So much for population control." I think my worst was when she told me she was pregnant with four or five and my immediate, unthinking reaction was something along the lines of "really? Is that good news?" I did a lot less thinking then than I should have; just ask anybody. But Karen was patient and forbearing with me and I thank her. At about the time that we all assumed that the Burns family was complete, give or take a pet, I began to shed the ridiculous sets of values of the University and got to get a glimpse from more experienced people of what real family life and values mean. It is an ever-growing concept, but the Burns family is one of the primary images of Family that I hold in both its ideal and its hard, everyday, practical, reality.

So, I am very pleased that Karen has decided to have another baby and give me the opportunity to say "that's great! Congratulations!" I also took the opportunity to ask her a question:

"When you were pregnant with [your first child], what do you recall was the most important thing on your mind? How do you view those concerns now?"

. . . boy, that was a few years ago (she was 19 in Feb.). I think when I was pregnant with her I was simply excited, scared and tired . . .all the time. You always go through a fear of “what if” sort of fear for the baby’s health. With your first one it is out of everything being so new and different, and from those well meaning acquaintances that insist on telling you about so and so and the troubles they had. I didn’t think much then of what sort of parent I’d be, but that is a very real concern now! Funny, you wouldn’t think so after already parenting five kids, two of whom are close to adulthood, but I think it is that very fact that I am concerned. I know the mistakes I made (some I don’t know--those are the worst). I also know the things I would do different so that is helpful, but each child is so incredibly different from the other that changes in my parenting might not make any difference at all! I have learned the best way to approach children is as an instructor. They don’t know something so you have to explain it, show it and be patient when they don’t seem to have a clue. Keeping this in mind has prevented the screaming and yelling so often accompanied by a tired, frustrated mom. Being an “old" mom will have some advantages simply because with age comes wisdom. I hope I have a little more now than I did nineteen years ago.

I also asked her if she told her husband yet.

It took me three days to convince Paul that I was indeed pregnant. The next day he had a rather dazed look on his face most of the day. I now have four doctors (or groups) taking care of me, two that are specialist in high risk pregnancies. I’m going to be totally worn out by the end because of the kind of time I will have to spend at the doctors' offices. We are over the shock and pretty excited.

two months

I can only take a moment, but I feel obligated to post at the two-month mark (which was two days ago).

The event was somewhat overshadowed by the fact that we are moving.

David seems to be a happy little baby and very active--kicking and flailing like mad just to let us know that he is awake and ready for . . . whatever. His grip is getting very strong--painful at times--and more deliberate. He still flails his head when he is sleepy. He gets fussy, rears his head back, slams his face into my collar-bone, and then gets this pouty look on his face like I hit him.

This morning he made sounds that were all the world like a laugh. If anything at all were going on to stimulate him, I would swear that he was laughing. But we were not doing anything. We were just watching him thrash violently and fart. Maybe he is at the stage where he thinks farts are funny--I hear that boys go through that.

He slept for five hours straight on Monday night which is the clinical definition of "sleeping through the night" (clinicians sleep a lot less than the average person), but he hasn't slept more than about two hours at a time since then. My conversation with Jaime yesterday:

Me: How is David?
Jaime: (sleepy, frustrated) I don't like David very much today
Me: Well, you don't have to like him everyday.

We are moving in with my parents and their two dogs and a snake. David now has the pleasure of four people watching him. I don't know what he thinks about it, but Jaime and I think that it rocks. Really, it is the only way to have kids. If you have a baby, I recommend that you just go find another couple to live with and all four of you raise it. On those days were you don't like the baby, someone else can spend time with him, acting as a buffer. He or she could grow up that way: "This is my mom and dad and these are my buffer parents for those days when mom and dad don't feel like I'm worth the effort."

Ok, if I think of anything else interesting, I'll post.

this fussy week post is brought to you in part by . . .

I see when I visit the site (yes, I visit my own blog) that there is
advertising at the top that relates directly to what I have posted.
Blogger, now owned by Google, has little programs, much like those in hit
film "The Matrix," that read my posts and then search for advertising
related to keywords in the content. So I am comforted to know that even if you are not reading this, Google is, and they could buy and sell you at this point. So I will try to post entries that are more conducive to advertising links so that we can keep this endeavor free of charge.

David, who only wears onesies by Gerber or Carter, has been particularly
fussy this week. He seems to be having sinus problems. He refuses to sleep on his back and when we lay him on his back to change his Pampers brand diapers, he fusses and his breathing is noticeably louder. We have been treating him with Little Noses saline solution and trying to suck out the snot with a Little Noses snot sucker bulb but with little success.
Additionally, he seems to be having tummy problems again, which makes him
cry for hours at a time and spit up his milk and Similac Brand Formula with Alumentum. Jaime suspects that the drainage from his nose is getting into his tummy, which is what happens when she gets a cold. And he will not sleep. In spite of all of our tricks and soothing and coaxing and cooing and dancing, he simply stays awake until his is so tired and cranky, that he just exhausts himself and can't hold his eyes open.

But when he is not fussy, he makes up for it by being more charming than
ever. He is smiling lots more, for instance. He is supposed to be
developing his social smile about now. He is so gassy that it is difficult to tell the difference between his frequent gassy smiles and anything else--when in doubt, we call it a social smile. He certainly focuses on things more--especially his mom. Several times I have seen him look straight at her and smile. His arm movements are much more coordinated. He can now successfully get his hand to his mouth seven times out of ten, which means he smacks himself in the eye much less frequently. We could hook some sort of generator to his legs and power the apartment with his constant, violent kicking. I was awakened yesterday by what felt like the U.S. Olympic synchronized swim team practicing treading on my back. I turned over to tell them that they aren't really athletes to discover that it was just David letting me know that he is hungry.

So he is fussy and charming. This is to keep us from refusing to eventually let him go while also preventing us giving him to the next person we see out the window.

Dreaming of dropping my son and taking care of four-year-olds

A friend asked me this week if I have dropped David yet. This is one of the most empathetic and insightful questions that I have been asked so far. The answer, of course is "no," but it is something that I think about ALL THE TIME. I try to take reasonable precautions and stay relaxed about it. I remind myself that, while dropping the baby is not good, it is not the end of the world. I am sure that many babies have been dropped and lived to tell about it if only in simple stuttering monosyllables. But I have had two horribly vivid dreams about dropping him. In the first, he fell out of his improperly fastened car seat as we were leaving the hospital. In another, he fell asleep on top of his mom and then rolled off on to the floor. Since he was born I have had frequent weird anxiety dreams, but dropping the baby dreams are certainly the worst.

Someday David will be four, which I think is my favorite age. Four-year-olds are charming. They have mastered communication well enough to carry on a conversation, but they are still as innocent as the angels. I have
recently been in the company of some four-year-olds at work. I read a story to one and then we wrestled. The other needed some help with the various stages of going to the bathroom and his mom was busy, so he asked me. He only knew me as the guy that wouldn't let him run in the gallery, but he couldn't get his pants back up and I have obviously mastered getting pants up, so it made sense to him to ask me. It was charming. Any younger, and he would have not had the skill to even try the potty without mom; any older and he will not need the help and will know not to ask strangers. It is sad. I love talking to little kids, and I really want my son to be able to talk to strangers, to feel comfortable sharing and asking for assistance, but I know that it simply is not a safe proposition. I know that sometime around age four, I will have to teach him not to talk to strangers, but I am very glad that when these little boys needed attention from someone, I was the stranger at hand.

jaime's first mother's day--jason battles dingos

I am thinking about paying my mother-in-law to live with us. Grandma Susie is packing up to return to Colorado and we shall miss her. She has taken good care of David and Jaime while I was living at the Museum, and she is great with the baby. We have gotten really spoiled--sleeping more than the average parents and dealing with a crying baby less. When he really gets going and we just don't want deal with it, we turn on the bat-signal and grandma comes to save the day (night). No more. Now we have to go for a whole week of parenting by ourselves before we move in with Jaime's mother-in-law.

We spent Jaime's first mother's day with family in Kansas City. It was a rare opportunity for four generations to be together. Company included David's second-cousin, Sam. I was remiss in not posting the news about Sammy's birth less than 48 hours before David was born. He was born to Jaime's first cousin Michelle, and her husband Cary. But I have an alibi for my neglect--namely a bill that proves I was busy at the hospital for a couple of days myself. The two babies are pretty cute together and when they are both crying, it's a lovely concert.

A story about Jaime's very first Mother's Day present:

Unbeknownst (sp?) to Jaime, I snuck off to the Mall one evening after work to get the present she told me that she wanted. I knew that she and her mom were on the West side of town at the same time that I was at Penney's. Well, I could guess that anyway. I think they spent more time in Sam's Club than at the apartment these last three weeks. However, I didn't think they had any need to go to the Mall. Just as I finished paying for her gift, I heard a baby cry. The hair on my neck stood on end and I went into hyper-alertness. That was not just some random crying baby; that was My Son. I took up my spear and headed off towards my offspring's distressed cries ready to battle dingos to save his life, if need be. I spotted him across the housewares department. Dingos didn't have him, thank God. Grandma Susie did. She saw me and I motioned for her to keep quiet as I snuck away before Jaime saw me.

I just thought it was very cool. I grew up on a rich diet of programs like "Mutual of Omaha's 'Wild Kingdom.'" Plain's grazers in Africa and momma bears in the Rockies can always distinguish the cry of their own offspring. So if a dingo goes after the calf of some Africa Gazelle, it will cry out and the mother can immediately know that something is amiss because dingos are an exclusively Australian species. So chances are the distressed calf is just crying "dingo" to get attention. I think that must be what David was doing.

chin chin chin chin chest

Earlier in the week, I was going to post a follow-up to the previous whining about how my son doesn't like me. I was going to tell you that the Thrush has persisted and that the Phanar of Flatulance is showing more symptoms and that is probably why he is so fussy. Jaime noticed persistent whitish stuff on his tongue and she has been experiencing continued pain while feeding him. I was going to apologize for casting aspersions on his ability to show me the love and respect that that he owes me as my son.

Thrush, however, is not the problem. The Big News this week is that Poops-a-Lot and Leaks-a-Lot do not have thrush anymore. They went to the doctor who examined them thoroughly and told Jaime that there are no signs or symptoms of Thrush. As it turns out, the whitish stuff is normal and mothering just hurts sometimes. Who knew?

This medical opinion of course contradicts the opinion our our synod of Lactation Consultants with all their womanly instinctual earth-goddess wisdom. They were disappointed when we called to cancel the leeching.

I am thrilled. No more boiling everything all the time. No more feeding Froggy Toes medication that could make his liver look that of an aging alcoholic.

Of course it leaves me with my original hypothesis that Squirmy is an unappreciative twerp.

The Dough-boy has topped eleven pounds. Jaime tried to count all of his chins but gave up after she got to the top of his diaper. The Doctor says that his weight is in the 57th percentile. This is the same percentage of people who would rather "hold it" than use scratchy, public restroom toilet paper.

Grandma Suzie got the stains out of the baptismal gown. Thank you Grandma Suzie!

oooooooo! dis!

Last night was a bad night.

That is an exaggeration.

Last night featured a bad 40 minutes of inconsolable wailing. I tried every trick, every hold, everything. Finally, I gave him a bottle, one ounce of which he eagerly accepted and then expelled with equal enthusiasm. Now I understand "itchy with baby vomit."

He kept this up until Grandma Suzie came out wearing a shiny blue jumper with red cape and an "S" emblazoned on the front and asked if she could help. I handed him to her and he shut right up. Didn't hear from him again the rest of the night.

Made me feel this big, let me tell you. He cut me so low, I'm playin' handball off the curb. This morning, I had to crawl up a ladder just to put on my shoes.

brat

We'll be reviewing this post when he asks for . . . well. . . anything.

IAQs

This has been an exciting fifth week. Not "exciting" like winning the Pulitzer prize for blogging, but "exciting" like, "wow, it's exciting how many diapers a person can change in five weeks; I had no idea."

The week began with the First Bottle. Mom pumped and Grandma Susie got to feed. This was followed by the excitement of Dad handling the 2:00 am feed while Mom slept for four hours straight for the first time in months. Mom's production is not quite up to feeding and providing extra meals, so when he takes the bottle it is a cocktail of milk and formula with a splash of Gripe Water--shaken (you fill in the rest). Toward the end of the week, he got his first bug. Minor fever, major fussiness. He got to have his nose plumbed with one of those little snot-extracting bulbs. The fussiness led to the First Use of a Pacifier.

I missed most of this because the Museum is my new home for a couple of weeks. Grandma Susie is filling in as Grandma, husband, maid, errand boy, and general angel. I wonder about 15 times a day how he is doing and if he wonders where I am or has he just forgotten all about me.

I learned this week that his name in Ethiopian is "Dawit"

My friend, Valerie, wondered via email what interesting question she could ask me so as not to ask some boring old question like "is he sleeping well" or "hey, buddy, what the heck is your problem?" I could earn a living with nickels from those. Well, for Val and anyone else unable to come up with a new question on your own, here are a few freebies:

"How many head injuries has he sustained as a result of his clumsy parents?"--three

"Who does he like best?"--In order, mom, grandma Susie, invisible person standing in the corner, dad.

"Which [euphemism] is his favorite?"--the left

"Should congress act now to pass legislation declaring that sweet baby smell an addictive substance like cocaine and cable tv and regulate it?"--yes, I could make a fortune on the black market selling David's smell.