Important Lessons

Today's Lesson: Throwing back a cold one...

As I mentioned in my most recent blog, Natalie is constantly learning new tricks, many of which result in us having to keep a closer watch over our darling little imp.

Another part of that equation, however, is explicitly trying to teach her important life lessons, even as she continues to spit up on her clothes. Life lessons like, no means no, or the cat doesn't like it when you pull out tufts of his hair, or daddy doesn't like it when you pull out his chest hairs...

My most recent quest was to teach Natalie how to give high-five. Some might scoff and suggest there are many more vital lessons I could be teaching my nine-month old daughter but those people are lame and probably wear sweater-vests.

The high-five is an integral part of American culture. Think about how many times you have given someone a high-five or some variation there-of. It's especially important for anyone involved in athletics and given how strong and squirmy Natalie already is, I am confident she will dominate all other children in every sport she pursues. In fact, I recently took a call from Nike about a sponsorship...they want to put the swoosh on all her diapers...I told them I'd think about it.

Anyway, in a matter of minutes Natalie figured out how to give a high-five and let me tell you it is the cutest high-five ever. A tender little smack followed by a gummy little smile. It's awesome.

Tomorrow we move on to fist-bumping and "giving skin".

It's a new adventure every day.

Clap your hands everybody...

Grandpa teaches Natalie to sing...loudly

People always want to know what exciting new things Natalie is up to. Is she walking? Has she said her first word? Does she know the Quadratic equation?

The answer to all three questions is no. (though I think her math is better than Hillary Clinton's).

This stage of baby-hood is filled with exploration and small accomplishments but few that can be bragged about to co-workers and friends.

I can't fathom, for instance, excitedly telling a friend, "Guess what!!? Natalie totally squirmed more than normal today." or "She finally figured out how to poop without screaming!" or "She babbled agobada for the first time."

These moments seem tiny and insignificant but parents notice even small steps on the way to larger and more recognizable achievements. We revel in them.

Despite the seemingly slow pace of progression, Natalie did learn something new this weekend while her grandparents were visiting. After about thirty minutes of constant clapping and encouragement, her grandmother managed to teach Natalie how to clap. And clap she did.

She clapped when anyone else clapped. She clapped when kitty entered the room. She clapped when she farted. She clapped when the Yankees won....obviously she hasn't figured out the whole context thing that goes along with clapping but it's certainly a start.

This, along with countless other momentous, if minute, new deeds help propel Sara and I out of bed each morning, hoping that perhaps today will be that magical day when she learns to put both her feet in her mouth and we enthusiastically applaud.

Insubordination

"The Cavalry"

As a father, one of the first things you must learn is that no matter how involved you are in your child's life, you will always be second in command for all procedures related to 'operation baby.'

The mother of your child could live on the moon 360 days a year and you would still answer to her regarding the baby.

If you've been married for more than 3 days, you should be well prepared for this chain of command.

Here are some of the things you might (read: will) do that your wife will consider insubordinate and result in punishment. (How do all women know the secrets of disciplining their men? Is there some hidden location where they all learn these methods?)

Possible Insubordinate offences:

1. Referencing the fact that your child farted: Your child does not fart. She might "toot" or do some other innocuous sounding thing, but she does not fart. Even if she "toots" so loud the house shakes, it is best to keep your mouth shut.

2. Giving your child un-flattering nicknames: Cutey-pi-too-ti or Angel are perfectly acceptable. Ms. Mc-poops-a-lot and Stink-worm are not.

3. Insubordination topic number three has been blacked out by the superior officer.

4. Discussing the odors your child produces: Anything that comes out of your baby smells like flowers and spring.

5. Pretending to drop or let your child fall in order to produce laughs: It may produce laughs for the baby but if your commanding officer catches you, the only thing it will produce for you is welts.

6. Letting the dog lick your child: You and the baby may find it amusing but chances are mommy will not.

7. Letting your child lick the dog: See above.

8. Suggesting in any way that another child may be cuter: The truth never matters here. Never. Your baby could be placed next to the Gerber baby and would still be ten times cuter. Your baby could look like a tiny Orc and still be cuter than any other baby...Natalie does not look like an orc...a hobbit maybe...

9. Suggesting in any way that anything your child does is not cute: Everything your baby does is perfect and brilliant and cute. Your child can throw poop at you and it is cute. Accept it.

10. Placing the child in unapproved outfits: It is not humorous or fun to place the baby in flannel pants and a polka-dot shirt. Babies, especially baby girls, must be in matching outfits.

11. Questioning the superior officer: You are allowed to make suggestions. You are allowed to help. But what the superior officer says may as well spring from God's mouth...and if you don't believe in God it might be a good time to start...

p.s.- This blog itself represents an act of insubordination

p.p.s.- I will be punished.

Priority fix

"Daddy's priorities are all screwed up...but I've got mine straight."

Last night something occurred that I never thought would happen.
I went to bed at 10:30.
When the Red Sox were on.
Playing the Yankees.
In a close game.

Sure, in the course of my 29 years of fandom, I might have missed the occasional west coast game against the A's in the middle of the summer, or left a blow-out against the Rangers early, but I never left in the middle of a close Red-Sox Yankee game unless it involved some other sporting event, severe physical distress, or some life altering event.

In 1999, during the ALCS I was in the hospital for one of the Red Sox/Yankee games. I'd just had surgery, I was hopped up on various drugs, and I insisted on staying awake for the whole game, even as the nurses insisted I needed rest and even after I threw-up in my hat.

I'm a die-hard. And yet, last night I didn't even consider staying up to watch the whole game. Dice-K was working at a snails pace, every count went to 3-2, and I decided by the 4th inning that once Natalie nodded off, I'd do the same.

But I was worried.

I knew I wouldn't sleep. Knew I'd be kept awake by thoughts of the game. I'd toss and turn and eventually surrender to the call of rivalry and late-inning drama and fist-pump inducing strikeouts. Instead I surrendered to that demon pragmatism.

Somewhere, in the depths of my mind, a new little angel Josh voice, devoted to his daughter and to not being a zombie the next day, beat up the incumbent little Josh voice, devoted to following the Red Sox through thick and thin. It was an insurgent candidacy my brain didn't see coming.

I was asleep in a matter of minutes and I only woke when Natalie cried at 3:45. I sat up and, to the horror of the bruised and battered incumbent voice, didn't immediately rush to the computer to check the box score. I rubbed my eyes, stared at the clock, told Sara to go back to sleep, and retrieved Natalie from her crib. She quickly drifted back to sleep in my arms and at that calm and serene moment I heard a tiny and frail voice calling out from the recesses of my Cerebellum. I cradled Natalie, grabbed the remote, and turned on ESPN. The Red Sox had triumphed despite my abandonment...

I laid Natalie back in her crib and both voices sighed contentedly.

Cheap Date

One of Natalie's favorite friends, "Captain Remote-face"

Last night, while lying awake in bed, I planned to write an important and serious blog about the fear of parents in a world that pushes fear.  I was inspired after watching various stories on Autism for National Autism Awareness day...then I didn't sleep and Natalie woke up at 2 with a leaky diaper and failed to get back to sleep till 3:30.  My brain is  currently being held together by more Duct Tape than Pedro Martinez's body and that brilliant and article is gone. 

Instead, I'm going to write about Natalie's favorite toys.  Not as important but much easier.

My daughter is a cheap date and I'm proud of it.  They say that kids are often happier playing with the box the toy came in and that seems to be true for Natalie.   She likes her rattles and especially her musical toys but she is just as happy, if not happier, playing with the following...

Daddy's old beat-up Red Sox hat: Clearly she has good taste in teams.

The Remote Control: She always changes the channel to stupid shows like American Idol, so I've given her an old remote...Daddy rules the TV!

A piece of paper: She is totally happy to shake a piece of paper for hours on end. 

The Dog and Cat: When she gets mobile, Bruce and Fenway are going to lose a lot of hair.

Plastic cups: There just so plastic-y!

The Couch Pillows: For some reason she's found them enchanting since birth.

Mommy's and Daddy's face: Ah, the joy of grabbing noses, lips, and cheeks.

The Butt-Paste Canister: Her love for the Butt-Paste can has been well documented

A diaper: Don't worry I only give her clean one's...though she wouldn't care.

There are more but the Duct-tape around my brain is getting lose...

Let's just say I will remind her of all the fun she had with this stuff when she is 13 and asking me for that pair of designer jeans.

AKA

Noodles...WHAT?!

I grew up in NH. I am Scottish. I am really, really white. But my friends and I grew up listening to Wu-Tang Clan, one of the most popular and raunchy rap groups of our time. Now that we are older and more mature we regularly make references to those days long ago and giggle like thirteen year old girls. Seriously, we're pretty cool.

Before Natalie was born, we were engaged in such a giggle-fest while discussing her name. Since we didn't know if she'd be a boy or a girl we needed something ambiguous to call her in the meantime...we settled on "Noodles", a reference to an old Wu-tang song in which they list off countless nicknames. I don't know exactly how and I don't know exactly why but we found it uproariously funny.

In deference to Wu-tang and for the sake of posterity I am posting all the nickname's Natalie has accrued in her first 8 months.

Noodles
AKA
The Pea
AKA
Squirmy Worm
AKA
Yoopie
AKA
The poop machine
AKA
Yooper-uni
AKA
Natalie-bo-batalie
AKA
Peaches
AKA
Worm-face
AKA
Milk-face
AKA
Giggles
AKA
Silly-billy-goat
AKA
Chubby Cheek-ers
AKA
Madame Mc-Poops
AKA
Pea-Head
AKA
Big-Baby Worm
AKA
Babble-onian princess
AKA
Diaper Dandy
AKA
Super-dooper-pooper
AKA
Peaches
AKA
Cuddles
AKA
Doll-face
AKA
Baby Awesome-o

That's all I got for now...I'm glad I am writing this blog so that some day she'll look back and realize just how cool and not at all lame her daddy is...

Consumer Confusion

There are lots of Diaper Cremes out there...Choose wisely.

As a man, (yes my Y chromosome is intact) it's soldered into my DNA to hate shopping. Like all men before, I've learned the steps to successful purchasing...

1. Walk into store
2. Locate desired item
3. Ignore any alternatives to said item
4. Pay for item
5. Leave store

This five step program helped me mitigate the large consumer world for the first 28 years of my life. Sure, there were shopping trips with my mom and sister when I was growing up that nearly killed me, but I survived those long tedious afternoons and thought they were gone forever.

Then we had Natalie. Luckily, through the generous nature of friends and family, we haven't had to do much clothes shopping but I've discovered, through trial and error, that the manufacturers of all baby related items assume that women are making the purchases.

For example, the other day I had to buy some nipples, (are you expecting me to make a joke here? You should have learned by now that this blog is above such low-brow humor and I would never make any kind of joke about buying nipples) so I entered the store and proceeded with the five step program. I found the nipple section of the store, (I was secretly hoping they'd have a whole aisle labeled "nipples" so I could take a picture and send it to my other mature friends) located the specific nipples we needed for the specific bottle we use. This task was difficult for my tiny male shopping brain cell because there are 349 different brands of bottles and nipples. But I got the brand of nipples we use and headed for the checkout.

I decided I needed something manly to divert attention from the fact that I was buying nipples, so I purchased a sports magazine and a bottle of Mountain Dew. "Take that!, judgemental checkout girl" I said to myself.

The next day I woke up fully prepared to boil the previously purchased nipples (you have to boil nipples before you use them) and put them in our nipple rotation, weeding out some of the older nipples intended for younger and less awesome babies than Natalie.

As I began to rip open the package of nipples, I saw a small but vibrant word on the cardboard backing..."Advanced". My tiny male shopping brain cell groggily rolled out of bed and stared transfixed at this word, confused by its meaning. At first, he surmised, it must mean this is for more advanced babies but then he sadly realized that this particular nipple was meant for our brand of bottle but not for the subset of bottles within our brand. The brain cell cursed and many interested onlooking brain cells, which included a pack devoted to baseball box scores and another extremely large group who were only interested because they heard the word nipple, turned to see what was happening.

So now I need to go back to the store and find the right brand of nipples and the right subset within that brand. I see this type of thing happening many more times as Natalie gets older. A mother would have read the label, read the back cover, seen if the nipple came in any different colors, and found a sales clerk to ask if any generic brand nipples fit our particular bottle. In other words, she would have followed the complex female shopping constitution that is too long for any man to understand. But she would have bought the right nipple in the first place.

In related news, we are going shopping this weekend. Luckily, however, my brain cell and I aren't worried. Sara is coming, which means he'll just have to wake up every so often and agree that whatever item she picked out is perfect. Then we can go back to thinking about box scores and other manly things.