Hiatus

"Ho-hum, I miss Daddy's blog"


Blog on Hiatus until two things happen:
A. Holidays are over
B. Natalie stops waking up four times a night...

Let's hope B happens before A.

Happy Holidays to all!

- Old Man Conklin

Fruncle Rules

Would you let this man hold your baby?

My two best friends are coming to town this weekend. I couldn't be more excited for them to meet my daughter and have them share in the joy of her smiles, her cooing, and her crying at 4:30 AM...

But as their visit approaches, I realize I desperately need to create a set of rules for "Fruncles" (Friend-Uncles). These laws are especially important for those Fruncles who have yet to experience the joy of children.

What follows is my attempt at a universal set of rules that new dads everywhere can pass out to their "un-babied" friends. * Yes, I am giving babied a new meaning. "Babied"; Used to describe a male who has recently undergone an inevitable and drastic shift in his entire world due to the birth of his first child. I've totally been "babied"*

So, without further ado, I present my first attempt at the "Fruncle Rules" (though I'm quite sure I'll have a few more rules after this weekend when my friends remind me what un-babied 20-something men are like...)

Rule #1: Pigskin problems

There is a method of carrying a baby called the "football hold". This does not mean you should do the Heisman pose while toting the baby or pretend she is a football in any way. You will be banned from ever holding her again. (Rule can sometimes be ignored if mother is out of the room and football is on the TV)

Rule #2: Failure to Flatulate

Babies fart.

A lot.

However, it should be noted that mothers generally don't find these gaseous eruptions hysterically funny (surprisingly). A chuckle and wink to your buddies is sufficient. If you make a huge deal out of the tiny baby's booming buttocks, your friend will get the "I've always hated these fools" look from his wife, and your next invitation may not come for awhile.

Rule #3: No. You are not allowed to watch.

Breastfeeding is not a "free show".

Rule #4: Shut up. Seriously.

You are positively not allowed to brag or complain about the part of your life that you and your friends used to talk about for hours on end. He doesn't want to hear it.

Rule #5: Helping hands.

When women visit they like to carry the baby, remark on how cute she is, and speak in silly baby voices.

You should not feel obligated to carry the baby, especially if you will not be able to obey Rule #1 or are afraid you might break, drop, or permanently scar the child.

However, remarking on how cute the baby is will win you points with the baby's mom.

Entertaining the baby with silly voices will win you points with your current significant other, if she is around, possibly leading to the aforementioned unmentionable events from rule #4...

Rule #6: Change is gonna come...

Your friend will be different. I am not sure exactly how, it could just be a shaggy beard, an extra fifteen pounds, and gigantic bags under his eyes or it could be a complete shift in priorities. But he will be different. You have to love him anyway. But, as always, you don't need to express that love in anything more than a hand-shake man-hug combo.

Rule #7: All-nighters are all-gone

Your friend is not going to stay up past midnight with you. In fact, he may be in bed before ten. But you won't have to wake up at 2:30 and 5:30. Don't make him feel guilty. He wants to stay up but doing so might disturb the delicate balance of sleep he manages to get by going to bed at ten...(all four hours of it)

Rule #8: Plan Ahead and plan on being disappointed.

If you want to do anything with your friend, a quick trip to the movies or a weekend long visit, you better do some advance planning. Life is more complicated with a baby. It was one thing for your friend to spring a visit on his wife when it was just the two of them. If he did it now, you would be dooming him to at least ten back-rubs, four fancy dinners, and five manicures before she forgave him. Just call like two months in advance and don't be surprised if he says he's already busy.

Rule #9: Baby comes first.

No matter what. You'll understand when you have one.

That's all for now. I'm gearing up for the Fruncle arrival in t-minus 4 hours. I've swathed the baby in bubble wrap, rubbed my wife's feet, and warmed up the x-box. I'm sure these Fruncle Rules were completely unnecessary but Rule #10 is that Dad's are overprotective of their baby girls.

Natalie put on a big smile and get ready to learn that Fruncle's Rule.

Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks were "Whimpy in Seattle"

Attack of the Restless Baby!!!

If you're thinking...

"Hey, Josh, where are those mildly entertaining and somewhat disturbing blog entries you used to write?"

I invite you to my house where Natalie has decided she can no longer sleep through most of the night. Apparently waking up at 12:30 and 3:30 is preferable. The past few nights I've caught "Eddie Murphy Raw", bad science fiction, and sports scores at 4 am, while comforting Natalie back to dreamland and trying to allow Sara an extra hour or two of sleep.

All I have to do is stumble through diaper changes, feedings, and silly songs, (made sillier by my lack of sleep) but she has to make important decisions that could shape the mail industry as we know it...

So if your postage machine suddenly becomes completely impossible to interpret, you can blame Natalie, who decided she really wanted to catch the late night showing of Rollerball...

Baby Talk

"Ah-goo, Daddy, Ah-gooooo!"






We've all seen one of those TV shows or movies where some alien or primitive race uses one word or a grunt to express all manner of things. (Admit it. You liked it too...Deep down we're all suckers for stuff like this...it's not just me that's the dork here...is it?).

Well, I'm suing all those producers for stealing the idea from Natalie and babies everywhere.

My darling daughter's vocabulary currently consists of various vowel sounds and dramatic grunts, the most notable of which is her adorable and constant "Ah-goo". (Apparently this is one of the first vocalizations beyond a simple vowel that many babies utter. Scientists have theorized that babies make this sound because of its inherent cuteness, enabling them to lull adults into a false sense of security before completely taking over their world...)

Though at first it might seem that "Ah-goo" is a meaningless quip, I've used my baby-language converter (it sits on a shelf next to my wife-language converter) to weed out the complexities of Natalie's so called babbling.

1. A-goo: "What-up?"
2. Ah-goo, Ah-goo: "I'm hungry"
3. Ahhhhhh-goo: "I just peed"
4. Ah-gooooo: "Listen up!"
5. Ah-goo followed by a grunt: "I need to poop"
6. Ah-goo followed by a devilish smile: "I pooped, now clean it up"
7. Ah-goo followed by a raspberry: "What-Ever!"
8. Ah-goo, A-wa, Ah-goo: "I could use a stiff drink"
9. Ah-goo, your mamma, Ah-goo: "Your mother is my grandmother. I would never disparage her with one of those lame 'your momma' jokes that you and your loser friends found funny in high-school. God dad, you are sooo embarrassing.
10. Ah-goo, oooo, Ah-goo: "Isn't the Gerber baby dreamy?" (Is the Gerber baby a boy or girl?...)
11. Ah-Ah-Ah-goo: "Hold on, it's on the tip of my tongue."
12. Ah-goo-goo: "I wanna party!"
13. Ah-goo-ba: "You are now under my control. Surrender all mammary glands, rattlely toys, and cuddly stuffed bears, attend to my various demands at all times, and dammit get me Elmo on the phone!"

That's all I've been able to work out so far but I'm sure I'll discover new meanings soon.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to make a phone call to an imaginary puppet...

Ah-goo

Paging Dr. Hoover

As a new parent, navigating the magical and wonderful world of responsibility, I am always on the lookout for new ways to help my child understand and appreciate the subtle truths of society.

Like; People are created equal, love is a powerful and dangerous emotion, and always be on the look-out for short-cuts...

Luckily getting Natalie to sleep has provided an opportunity to demonstrate the final lesson. Don't get me wrong, I'm willing to walk and sway my way along the slow path to serenity if that is what it takes, but if there is some magical swath through the forest of fussy, then my feet will find its cool grass. (Wow...forest of fussy...really?)

So, I've fallen in love with our vacuum.

Natalie has reached the point in her development where she is willing to fight sleep. She'll give clear "sleepy signals" (eye-rubbing, yawning, glassy-eyed looks) and then when I lovingly pick her up and begin rocking her to dream-land (a tactic that worked brilliantly up until a week ago) she squirms and wails and looks at me with great disdain. As if to say, "you better come up with something better than this bucko"

Which brings us back to my new best friend, Mr. Hoover. Apparently babies love white-noise. It's been scientifically proven that this is because while in the womb babies can only get A.M. radio stations on their tiny in-utero boom-boxes and most of the time these stations come in poorly so babies are forced to listen to staticky talk-shows...

Armed with this scientific knowledge, I strap Natalie into her front-carrier and switch on Mr. Hoover. I've always liked vacuuming the most of all chores, probably because the big loud machine makes it feel more manly. Now I have a new reason.

By the time we reach the kitchen, my little bundle of crankiness has floated off on the river of loud but dust-free dreams. The whir of the vacuum like a gigantic baby-Ambien.

The icing on the cake is that when Sara gets home, I can brag about all the vacuuming I got done...(until of course she reads this blog...)

Now if only I can teach Natalie to fall asleep to the sound of clanking dishes, or better yet, the subtle whir of my X-box...

Death of the One-Armed Wonder?

Is this the end of our Hero?!...
(See Previous Blog Entry "One-Armed Wonder")







In what can only be described as a tragic blow to the super-hero community, the "One-Armed Wonder" may be dead.

The little-known super-hero was perhaps best remembered for his ability to clutch his sidekick the "Super-Dooper-Pooper", while simultaneously relieving himself. The duo's epic defeat of "Captain Diaper-Rash" by using the "Hair-Dryer-of-Glory", is also a noted accomplishment.

The One-Armed Wonder's super-friend and disgruntled wife, "Engineering Momma", had this to say, "Really?! He's writing another blog entry about this? What a dope. I can't believe I have entrusted the care of Natalie to him. And, no, I will not call her the "Super-Dooper-Pooper". God, what a moron."

It had been rumored for months that Engineering Momma was under the "Grumptatious Curse" of "Sargent Sleeps-so-Little" and it appears those unfortunate whispers are true.

While many mourn the death of the "One-Armed Wonder", others claim that he and the "Super-Dooper-Pooper" have simply evolved into a Voltron like super-hero; a singular entity seen above, which is currently being called "Pappa-Kangaroo", a name that seems destined to strike fear and confusion into the hearts of evil-doers everywhere.

Have our heroes bonded together in a new and more powerful way? Will Engineering Momma divorce the One-Armed Wonder? Can anyone stop this string of lame blogs?...

Only time will tell. Only time will tell.

Tune in next week for the Third Episode: "Pappa-Kangaroo and the Couch of Misfortune"

WOOOOOOO!

Sox Win! Sox win!

I can sleep before midnight! I can sleep before midnight!

Now that the Sox epic October is successfully over I promise more blogs in the coming days, once I catch up on my sleep a bit.

In celebration of their victory late last night, I shook Natalie's milk bottle and sprayed it all over her...we're both very happy this morning and looking forward to some power naps.

Two-Month Wasteland.

"Uh-Oh...nobody tell Al Gore..."






Yesterday I set a record; most diapers used in one changing session. But I totally blame Natalie.

She simply refused to cooperate. Apparently babies are funny that way.

Just when I thought there couldn't possibly be any more poop and began strapping on a new diaper, Natalie would smile an evil Dr. Evil-like smile (I went to school for writing), and soil another diaper, a few extra wipes, and the nation of Uruguay.

Being the loving father that I am, I simply laughed, called her a poopy-face, told her she was beautiful, and apologized to all Uruguayans (By the way, spell-checker isn't picking up Uruguayans, so apparently it's a word).

I calmly grabbed another diaper, cleaned up, waited a minute to make sure she was done and then slid diaper number three under her adorable little tush. (As a father, I am now legally allowed to use words like tush without raising any eye-brows. )

And it happened again. Another devilish smile. Another devilish outburst. This time she spared Uruguay but managed to soil her outfit.

But how quickly the eyes of a father forgive.

After another wipey-bath, I put her in a fourth diaper and set her in the crib. I quickly rinsed her dirty outfit and pulled another cute little get-up from the depths of her dresser, which is twice the size of mine. Her dresser is twice the size of mine because as I've been told by various female family members, little girls need lots of clothes they will never wear as part of some strange feminine rite of passage.

Once her next outfit was ready, I swooped back to her crib to find her contentedly looking at her mobile and wearing a grin that some might relate to what I was about to find in her diaper...

Finally, after another change, Natalie decided tormenting her father and small South American nations was boring. She shifted her attentions to a particularly interesting piece of her crib bumper and drifted, angelically, off to sleep.

We'd managed to run through five disposable diapers in one fell swoop.

Was I bothered that my daughter apparently has no concern for the health of our planet?
Sure.

But what really bothered me about the whole diaper fiasco was finding out my sweet little girl is a Republican.

(Editors note: I know, I know...I should be using cloth diapers but I am way too lazy and way too easily grossed out for cloth diapers. I applaud all those mothers who did it in the "olden" days and those modern moms with more motivation and gumption than me. The rest of you, who might be ready to point the finger, feel free to come visit for a week and bring those diapers with you. Natalie has something she would like to show you...)

Free Agent Deal

Honestly Mr. Beckett, how cute is she?







I've contacted Josh Beckett after last night's performance and offered him Natalie's hand in marriage 21 years from now. Terms of the proposal will not be disclosed but I can report that he is said to be "Seriously considering" the deal and that it includes an opt-out clause if he ever joins the Yankees...

Indian Summer

Why is this racial stereotype smiling?

It's all my fault.



Several weeks ago I started a blog entry and now I wish I hadn't.

Why you ask? What could be so terrible about a blog entry, and furthermore, why would it take weeks to finish?

The answers to those questions are simple:

I forgot the #1 rule of a Red Sox fan. And it takes me weeks to finish because I'm busy with diapers, feedings, cleaning, napping, more diapers, more napping, and other manly things.

Anyway, when the Red Sox made the playoffs I started reminiscing about my childhood as a Sox fan. During the fall months baseball was typically over. The Red Sox were out of it, having found some new and more painful way to finish second to the Yankees, and I was depressed...in the dumps until a Halloween-candy induced high shook me from my malaise in late October.

Now I'm raising a Sox fan (At least she better be a Sox fan. Of course I'll love her even if she's not. I just won't speak to her from May until November) and things are different. My beloved team is in the playoffs almost every year and at the start of these playoffs looked primed to win another World Series. I was so confident I even started a blog about the Sox new found success...

How would this new Red Sox Nation affect the formative years of my dear daughter?

Some might suggest that a new, happier, less-paranoid fan base was emerging; these fans looked forward to the fall months, didn't hold their breath every time the Sox did make the playoffs, and could wear a Sox cap in NY without being subjected to "1918" chants...but that was exactly why I was concerned.

The misery induced by the Red Sox helped shape my early adolescence. I learned to deal with heart-break, failure, and bitter disappointment (all key abilities when I became interested in girls). I learned more from Bill Buckner, Mariano Rivera, and Mo Vaughn then I did from many high school teachers.

The Sox helped turn me into a hopeless romantic and in turn a writer...I often wonder if I would have become a poet if I was a Yankee fan. (Do Yankee fans even write poetry? Do they know how to write?)

Before and during the Red Sox epic World Series run of 2004, I would have been trying to find the various series of superstitious positions, foods, and daily rituals to help the Sox win, knowing it was foolish the whole time, but believing it all the same. During the playoffs I would bite my nails, lash out at random people, and wake up in the middle of the night wondering if it was possible to put a contract out on Grady little...

This year? I plopped myself on the couch haphazardly and expected good results...when they easily swept the Angles, I took a hard look at myself and wondered aloud if I wanted to raise a daughter in such a climate. Did I want a little girl who came to expect her team in the playoffs every year? A girl who would demand nothing short of a World Series? A girl whose father rooted for a front-runner? In other words...did I really want to raise a Yankee fan circa 1990?
(A picture of your typical Yankee fan)

A difficult question for a man trying to shape the moral fiber of his daughter. Perhaps I should start routing for the Cubs, in order to ensure plenty of October heartbreak and teaching moments for my little girl...

Now, weeks later, I'm reminded why that was a foolish concern. The Sox are down 3-1 to an annoying Indians team and I'm muttering at the TV. I'm grumpy, angry, and ready to punch the first Indian fan I see (though a Yankee fan would do)...This is the October I remember.

The Red Sox will never be the Yankees because as soon as something starts to go wrong Sox fans are still ready to throw up their hands, sigh, shoot back a couple a Sam Adams, and begrudgingly wait till next year. (Although despite what Manny Ramirez says, it IS the end of the world...at least for a couple weeks)

We have plenty of October villains left to discover (I'm looking at you J.D. Drew and Coco Crisp). While I remember and love 2004, I also remember with a sort of gut-wrenching enjoyment all the tough years, the ones that taught me patience and a hopeless romanticism. I'm sure my daughter will have plenty of sad Septembers in her future and we'll curse the Yankees in bitter glee. Then, when the magic does happen again, it will be all the sweeter shared.


p.s.- And If you think I wrote this blog as a counter-jinx in order to help the Sox turn it around tonight...well...

Monday Morning Blues

You'd think since I take care of Natalie every day of the week would feel exactly the same.

Monday through Friday would be a jumbled mass of diapers, silly songs, and naps but alas even house husbands are subject to a bout with the Mondays..

Sara is off to work and I'm home alone again with Natalie and stack of projects...good thing I have this blog to help me procrastinate...

I need another cup of coffee.

Man Maintenence

This guy doesn't need any help...

(Editor's Note: Um...I shaved this off a day later. I just wanted to see what I would look like with a mustache...turns out I looked like a cross between a 70's porn star and Charlotte Bobcat Forward Adam Morrison (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Morrison)
In other words, too awesome to unleash upon the world.)


WARNING! WARNING! The following blog contains politically incorrect jokes. If you are sensitive to gender-role stereotypes and are wound so tightly you can't laugh at a guy poking fun at himself and "traditional values" then close this blog immediately before I make my first lame joke...no seriously...here it comes...I warned you...fine. Read the stupid thing then.

My friend and former colleague Todd G., an English teacher and canoe-racing enthusiast (seriously, if you want to know about racing canoes ask Todd) e-mailed recently after a particularly effeminate weekend of laundry, grocery shopping, and cooking.

Todd was distressed and worried that he might have misplaced his Y Chromosome somewhere in the produce aisle. Naturally, Todd turned to me, knowing I do a "women's work" on a regular basis but also aware that despite my daily activities I ooze more manliness than a 1980's Tom Selleck. (http://www.imdb.com/gallery/mptv/1319/Mptv/1319/5412_0030.jpg.html?path=gallery&path_key=0080240)

He wondered if I had any tips on getting back his "Man-fire"... apparently his beautiful wife was trying on his pants and he really didn't like it.

Well Todd, you're in luck. You came to the right man. I've spent a lifetime maintaining a strong sense of masculinity while tackling more grass stains than quarterbacks...

So here are some fail safe tips to help men concerned with the flaccidity of their testosterone:

1. Watch sports: Preferably a high-contact sport like football. Make sure to invite other men so you can high-five when your team scores. Ignore the fact that you are watching other men perform in tight uniforms.

2. Eat Meat: All meat should be cooked on a grill and be so rare that you risk ingesting some sort of parasite. This will lead to your woman asking, in a particularly condescending tone, "Should you eat that?" Your response should be a grunt and a mouthful of meat. It would also be good if you killed said meat yourself.

3. Make Something: One of the most primordial male drives. It doesn't matter if you are completely incapable of producing a functional item. Just pound some nails into wood and call it your "Manly-Wood-thingy" On second thought, don't call it that...

4a. Scratch yourself: Go ahead, remind everyone that you have something to scratch.

4b. Spit: It doesn't matter where or how. Just spit on the ground. It wouldn't hurt if you scratched yourself at the same time...it shows a coordinated man presence.

5. Win something: Don't be afraid to make it easy. Challenge a third grader to an arm wrestling contest, a woman to a driving contest (...oh I'm gonna pay for that one), or me to a spelling contest.

6. Drink Cheep beer: This beer should be so cheap that people regularly remark how bad it is. This will allow you the opportunity to say, "It's fer getting drunk, ya nancy-boy" at which point you will have proven your manliness and can stop drinking the crap.

7. Get a woman pregnant: This is a leave-no-doubt option for those of you who lost to the third grader.

8. Think of me: Honestly. Right now I have a baby on my shoulder, a load in the laundry, and am trying to figure out what I should make for dinner...

I probably should make a nice rare steak.

Priorities

Most evenings Natalie tends to be a bit fussy before bed time. The 6 o'clock to 8 o'clock hours can often be rocky. She's not willing to sleep and she's not willing to play. A general grumpiness overtakes her. It's just part of her otherwise content and happy day and we're happy to take it in exchange for the fact that she then settles down and has a good six hour stretch of sleep.

Last night, however, she spent most of that time quietly asleep in my arms, with only the occasional squirm to reposition her tiny little body on my chest...

She obviously knew the playoffs had arrived and the Red Sox were playing game one of their ALDS series against the Angels. So I cheered quietly (it was a challenge not to stand up and shout when Papi hit the home-run or yell at the TV when Lugo was called out at second but I'm learning to be a less animated fan) and Natalie slept soundly and we all enjoyed a Red Sox victory.

Here's to hoping for at least ten more quiet nights during October!

Breaking News Alert!

This young woman looks relieved...





In an update to a previous story (see: "Diaper Defiance") an agreement has been reached between the two sides on the DooDoo debate of 2007.

The cartoon characters have agreed to allow all pooping to resume, while parents have agreed to relegate the use of prune juice to extreme cases only.

Representitive Kermit-the-frog had this to say, "Look, it's not easy being green but we're happy with the end result. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go lobby for the Pig Farmers of America."

The negotiations also included a stipulation that no discussion of bodily functions shall occur on this blog for at least a week.

In a related story, my wife is talking to me again.

In a further related story don't expect many posts for at least a week...

Diaper Defiance

Elmo and Orange Elmo (I haven't seen Sesame Street in awhile) aren't going to take it anymore!



Natalie hasn't pooped in four days (Editors note: I promise all these entries won't be centered around my daughter's bowl movements) the doctors and the books all say this is normal. Her little insides are changing and absorbing milk more efficiently so she'll begin longer stretches between poops. Still, the doctor wanted to see her so we went to the office (I can hear my mother's intake of breath as she wonders if her dear, sweet, grandchild is okay....).

She checked out fine. However, in order to help her along they prescribed Prune Juice. Yup, Prune Juice. I deeply regret that our daughter's first foray into the wonderful world of food outside of milk will be prune juice. What's next? Fruit Cake?

Anyway, while the doctors are confident that a little extra fiber given in the form of revolting juice should help Natalie's colon relax, I'm not so sure. You see, the doctors clearly haven't heard about the strike...

For years diapers and the cartoon characters printed on them had it rough. Brought into this world, they're happily packaged together; smiling little faces, fluffy little sheep, and happy little clouds. But they're soon and unceremoniously plucked from the flock and strapped onto a baby's bottom. Once attached, they spend their remaining hours waiting for the inevitable deluge that will signal their removal. To add insult to injury they are then discarded in the nearest receptacle. It's a tough life and now, after years of torture, they've gone on strike.

Elmo, spokes-puppet for the recently formed union had this to say, "We're not gonna take this crap anymore. We'll take the pee cause it's sterile but were putting our furry feet down on poop. Well, not on the poop itself...on the issue of poop...is what I meant to say."

Another outspoken member of the group, Dora-the-Explorer chimed in, "I'm not accepting any more of these little rug-rats' 'presents', I mean honestly who calls this 'presents'? Would you want to invite them to Christmas?!"

Indeed the anti-poopimation league (APL) has grown strong, drawing support from countless children's characters like Bob-the-Builder and Cookie Monster, each of whom have strong constituent backings.

But unfortunately the group can't depend on any help from older generations, as parents and grandparents everywhere are outraged. "My son should be allowed to poop whenever he wants. This is ridiculous. I mean, it's what they're made for!" said one frustrated mother.

It is unclear when this issue will be resolved but a committee on Poop Affairs has been formed in the Senate. They are currently listening to the APL's demand that prune juice be banned, since as one angry little sheep put it, "We can hold back normal doo-doo but prune-enhanced ka-ka may be more than we can handle."

Stay tuned for the latest on this hot-bottom topic...

Alpha Gamma Poopy

"Dude, I could sooo go for some Motz sticks."



Most of my posts thus far have been light-hearted. Today, however, I need to address a serious and disturbing subject. My daughter is actually a college fraternity brother in disguise.

Absurd you say.

Impossible you object.

Let's take a look at the evidence:

1. Both like to binge on dairy products:

For frat brothers it's pizza, motz sticks, cheesy burritos, or any other gooey milk product they can afford. For Natalie it's milk. I mean, it's ALL she eats.

2. An infatuation with flatulence:

On any given Saturday night, you can find a group of fraternity brothers sitting around eating afore mentioned dairy products and giggling about the intestinal trumpeting that results from a human overdose of cow's milk.

Likewise, Natalie has a lot of gas...a lot. Furthermore, she often seems to find her raucous sounds extremely amusing. Smiling broadly after particularly loud toots. I'm seriously waiting for her to ask me to pull her tiny finger.

3. Her incredible video game skills:

Natalie consistently beats me at Madden 2008. Alright, that was a lie...she always beats me.

4. The obsession with breasts:

No explanation necessary.

5. Partying all night. Sleeping till noon.:

I swear if I find a keg under her crib she's going straight to her grandparent's house.

6. Drinking too much:

While frat boys consume copious amounts of beer, often until they leave some of it in small puddles across campus mixed with the digested remains of all the dairy products they consumed earlier that night, Natalie chooses to regurgitate small amounts of milk...directly on my shirt.

7. Random grunting:

It's like they share some sort of secret language where grunts can take on countless meanings from I have to poop to boy I could really go for some dairy products right about now.

8. Napping Frenzy:

Seriously, is making it through the day without a nap too much to ask?

As you can see, I clearly have reason to be concerned. I was hoping that Natalie would grow out of this phase and prove she's not actually a college fraternity brother, however, perhaps the best approach is to join in...

How soon till she can pull my finger?

It's My Party!

Natalie discovered that she has lungs. Lungs full of air. Air made for crying.

Until yesterday she cried almost exclusively when she;

A. Had gas
B. Was Hungry
C. Was tired or over-stimulated

I can only speculate on the various reasons why she cried yesterday, since she managed to use her afore-mentioned lungs with great success. Here are some ideas;

A. She had gas
B. Was hungry
C. Was tired or over-stimulated
D. The dog looked at her funny
E. I had the nerve to move when I wasn't supposed to
F. She was having a bad hair day
G. She was too cold
H. She was too hot
I. I dressed her in a pink top and green pants...Daddy has no fashion sense
J. It was Monday
K. No one noticed that mommy did her nails on Sunday
L. She was still upset over the Bears loss on Sunday night
M. She found out I called her a poop-machine in my blog
N. Her stock portfolio plummeted
O. Could we diversify her diet already? It's always milk, milk, milk!
P. It was her seven-week birthday and no one got her a cake
Q. She heard a rumor that the world does not revolve around her
R. She finally got around to watching the third Matrix film
S. She got in a fight with her favorite toy, "Mr. Starface" (and yes, that's what I call it)
T. I explained my boyfriend policy
U. Two Words: Diaper Rash
V. Three Words: Daddy's Coffee Breath
W. She feels a lot of pressure as the cutest baby in the world
X. Just getting ready for the teenage years
Y. I totally won't let her get that sponge-bob tattoo
Z. What else is a seven-week old baby supposed to do?

It was a long day but the next turned out to be much happier! Thank god for the mood swings of little girls...I guess I better get used to it :).

One-armed Wonder!

As the father of a seven-week-old baby, I do a lot of heavy lifting. I carry Natalie when she's fussy, gassy, about to be fussy or gassy, or because she fell asleep while I was carrying her and there's a good chance she wakes up if I put her down.

(Editors note: Everything we've read says you can't carry a baby this old too much and in fact it may help with any kind of colic they're experiencing...so essentially I'm the father of an eight pound sack of potatoes, which I've decided to have welded to my chest).

Besides being good for the upper-lats (although a bit rough on the lower back) all this time lugging Natalie around has helped me discover the many things I can do one-armed. Here follows my top-nine list (never can be too careful about copyright infringement) of things to do with a baby slung across your shoulder.

9. Eat or Drink: This can get tricky and I certainly avoid drinking anything hot unless she's sound asleep but since I'm not given a bottle or breast every few hours on demand, (boy do babies have it good...) sneaking a snack here and there has become essential. There may be a few more crumbs in the couch cushions and she may occasionally get the stray drop of water plinked on her pretty little outfits, but a guy's gotta eat!

8. Read: I don't recommend thrillers since she's likely to get fussy just as the villain opens to closet door but poetry, short stories, or a classic you've read before, are all great options. I've also taken to reading some of the baby books we've received. (I'll post some recommended reading in a future blog)

7. Solve the Health-care crisis: Well, maybe that's a bit ambitious but having an infant provides plenty of time for reflection, even if much of that thinking is done while that little bundle of joy wails. I have internal discussions, reflect on the previous day, plan the next one, or just do a little day-dreaming about a world where baby cries are coveted and earn parents rich rewards...

6. Make Coffee: Until I started teaching a few years back, I hated coffee. All I needed in the morning was a cup of OJ and a shower...then I started working with teenagers...and...well...that all changed. Now I crave my morning cup of caffeine-infused power. When Natalie starts her day with a hearty set of sobs, I start mine by carrying her to the kitchen. Once she settles down, I actually get to pour and drink the coffee but at least it's ready.

5. Write a Blog: Duh!

4. Pee (Guys Only) I know I'll catch some flak for this one but when she's just gotten calm on my shoulder and my second cup of coffee hits...well...god blessed men with the ability to pee standing up with one or possibly no hands...I will now head directly to the store to buy a dog house for when Sara reads this...

3. Exercise: 8 pounds may not be a lot but I suppose it makes those squat thrusts and calf-raises all that much more effective and since I haven't exactly been eating healthy lately, I could use them.

2. Tidy-up: When battling sleep-deprivation the last thing I want to do when I get twenty free minutes is pick up the random stuff that has accumulated around the house but right now plenty of random stuff is piling up. Mail left unread for a few days, that pacifier she spit out on the floor, that pacifier she spit out on the floor and the dog made a chew toy, the project I started believing I had twenty minutes until she started screaming...anyway the point is putting a few things away now might mean a nap later...mmmm....naps.

1. Count your blessings: There's a baby on my shoulder and she is the most beautiful amazing thing in the world...

I think I might even give my right arm for her!

Top Dog?

Editors notes:

1. I've decided to drop the whole anonymous "our daughter" and "my wife" stuff since most everyone who will read this blog knows who I am anyway and I don't expect anything controversial to line these pages.


2. You should now be able to make "anonymous" comments. Meaning you won't have to log into the site or have an e-mail account to post something scathing about my misuse of the possessive (something I'm unfortunately famous for) or remark upon how adorable Natalie is...

Now onto the days blog:

It's been a rough go for our various four-legged friends since Natalie arrived.

Hamlet, our adopted stray, has gone missing. We hold out hope that he may yowl up to our doorstep one morning or that some kind stranger seduced him with a can of Tuna. I also like to imagine he's traveling back to his original home, preparing a play, and seeking to wreak vengeance on an evil uncle.

Bruce, our house cat the size of a house, (he's slimmed down to 18 pounds) has been simply aghast that we've allowed something else to curl up on our laps. He spends his time hunting moles (which he has become remarkably successful at), brooding in my office, and eating a lot of food in a meaningless attempt to fill the void. But he's a cat. He'll be alright.

We found out shortly before Natalie was born that Fenway, our lovable if slightly over-zealous mutt, has a form of mouth cancer. The Vets suspected an aggressive carcinoma, which they believed would likely metastasize elsewhere, so we are doing all we can to treat the symptoms and extend his life-span as long as possible. He remains energetic and happy even if we have to soak his food and give him multiple pills each morning. In fact, getting pills is now his favorite daily activity, since they are wrapped in a piece of tasty ham or bread.

He has, however, been a bit displaced by the arrival of Natalie. He is normally a bit "clingy" but now he's down-right attached to our hips. This wouldn't be a huge deal except that we're navigating a small house with a baby on our shoulder, so he regularly gets shooed and scolded.

If life were a gym class and we had the big red jelly-ball, he would be the kid nearby yelling "Hey, I'm over here! Throw me the ball! Come-on guys! I can really catch. Don't throw it to the little uncoordinated kid over there!" (Editors note: I think this metaphor fell apart sometime after "If life")

I wish I could explain that it's not just him we've been neglecting. Dishes sit in the sink, the vacuum gathers dust, and Sara and I haven't gotten hair-cuts in two months (and no that's not what the kids are calling it these days). Emotionally I feel terrible that he doesn't get as much attention as he once did, even though logically I know we need to focus on Natalie.

Well, it's late, I'm tired but before I go to sleep I need to go give my dog a good pat, and maybe give my cat some more food.

The Whole World Smiles with you...

Over the past few days it's become clear; our daughter's mind-charming lip-curls are not solely due to the various rumblings passing through her intestinal track. She's smiling. At us.

Wow.

And that about sums it up. Wow.

Some parents will tell you they know the exact instant when their baby first smiled at them. These are the same parents who will proclaim that their baby slept through the night from day one, didn't cry when she had her vaccinations, and poops tiny gold nuggets.

For us, or for me at least, it was a gradual realization. When her smile wasn't followed five minutes later by a loud toot, (I promise a future post on the amazing noises our daughter is capable of making...I know you're already excited for that one) I started to wonder if perhaps that cute-little-gummy smile was for me.

Luckily, her first big day of smiling came when her mother was home from work. When we both agreed these were full-fledged smiles, we were transported to an alternate dimension called "Our-daughter-is-smiling-at-us-land" where intelligent adults spend hours trying to get their babies to repeat actions, even though the babies just want to stare at a set of horizontal black lines or concentrate on the all-encompasing task of filling their diaper. We coaxed and cooed and eventually she coalesced with a few more brilliant moments and we caught several on camera, which, grandparents will tell you, is more important than actually enjoying the event itself.

Throughout the day she blessed us with several more "smiley" episodes and seems to enjoy her newfound ability. I know we do.

First Day Jitters

It's my first day as an official "Stay-at-home Writer-Dad", so I naturally decided to create a blog. I mean, with the countless spare hours of free-time I am bound to have raising my daughter, I should be able to write a measly little blog...right? How hard can taking care of an eight pound little poop-machine be?

(Editors Note: My wife would like me to explain that my daughter is not a poop-machine but a beautiful angel. She would also like me to note that when my daughter does poop it smells like a fresh spring morning in Colorado.)

The truth is that this short post took hours to complete. Between changes, feedings, and other various parental activities. Much of it was written one-handed with a squirmy baby on my shoulder in various stages of grumpiness. But I need to keep writing and while I hope to continue writing poetry and short stories, I may not always have the fuel or the fire. In other words, I'll be too tired.

What this blog will become, I am unsure. I hope it becomes both a place for friends and family to remain updated on my daughter's early progress through life and perhaps even a resource for other stay-at-home moms and dads...Maybe even an epic literary journey of discovery and wonderment culminating in a lavish book deal...but I'm getting ahead of myself a bit. For now, it is enough that I am writing. Gotta run, the poop-ma...I mean angel needs a change...