The Consumption Ward

Children carry diseases.

Don't get me wrong. I love my little guy. But here lately, I might as well be living in the biohazard bin at a hospital eating dirty Kleenexes and drinking the latent spittle found in the mouthpieces of public telephones.

For his four month birthday, we took G-Man to get his shots, because that's what you do when you care about your child. I appreciate that some people don't, and that's fine. Just don't come crying to me when your kid shows up with measles and polio and tuberculosis. If you can't afford it, try your local health department. If you're hiding behind religious conviction, God wants you to live. Consider where we'd be if wheels went against God. Or fried chicken, for that matter. Or lobster.

Oh. Wait.

And if you're basing your decision not to immunize on that fraudulent research report linking vaccines to autism, then wake the fuck up. That's been disproved. Go ahead and discount the "conspiracy theorists" on the "Interwebs" too.

Anyhow, enough of my rant. We got him his shots, and he kinda felt puny after that. No big surprise, because he just got shot full of dead viruses. We took him home, he kinda got over it, and then we went back to school the next day.

However, after we got home the next day, it was clear G-Man felt terrible. We couldn't quite put our finger on it, but his cheeks flushed and he moped around lethargically bursting into tears for apparently no reason. It kinda looked like he was catching puberty for a second. Later that night, I got up to feed him at 3 a.m. Afterward I changed his diaper, and then put him in his crib while I picked up the dirty diaper to throw it away.

That's when I noticed his face.

I don't know how to describe it, but it clearly stated "I feel violently sick."  I grabbed the burp cloth, and at about six inches from his mouth, a stream of freshly digested formula hit the fabric, then turned downward to coat his face.

He looked like "Carrie," but with Similac instead of pig's blood.

He stared at me. Shocked. Eyes stinging and lungs filling with air for one tremendous yowl. I scooped him up and sat him in the sink with his pajamas on and started the water, wiping and washing away the milk. It was all I could do. 

This was the start of a cold, which morphed into a virus that turned into a stomach bug which turned into a cough which is now returning as a vomit-fest and underneath it all, we've got constipation and green rock turds that pear juice, extra water and Karo syrup just can't seem to fix.

Each time he gets sick, one of us gets sick, too. But not really sick. Just annoying sick. It's kind of like getting the sampler platter of sickness where you get to try out all the different flavors, but never really commit. So, yay. That's where we are at. I woke up with a sampling of his cough from ticklish throat and a splitting headache this morning.

If someone knows how to break the illness feedback loop we've gotten ourselves into, I'm all for entertaining ideas. And yes, we are washing our hands after we pee and not picking our nose very much.

And Then, Work Began in Earnest

"You know your life has changed when your relieved wife calls to tell you that your child nuke-pooped his outfit after several days of nothing." -- Daddy-O

I wrote that some time ago on my Facebook in ....November ... and that pretty much sums up how life has changed in the past four months.

Hi. I'm John. You may remember I started this damn blog after my wife had a kid and stuff. I know. I've disappeared off the face of the Earth after the beginning of September. Silly me thought that, since I'd be home on paternity leave, that I'd have scads of time to write about and ponder the joys and horrors of modern parenting. As you can see, I was mistaken.

So. Let me catch y'all up. We're just going to hit the highlights because, as some of you know, newborns are typically "wash, rinse, repeat."

G-man no longer insists on sleeping on daddy's chest, joining mommy and daddy for the hell of it or demanding a "death pillow." We finally broke him of that, and he now nestles into his bassinet each night with no problems. Even though the experts say not to put a blanket over him, we still do that because, hey, we like to live dangerously. It's not like we're covering him in a Wal-Mart sack and tying the handles shut.

By and large, the little guy sleeps pretty well. We get three hours minimum between feeds, but now and again, his lordship grants us a four-or five-hour stretch. On such days, there is much rejoicing in the scullery by his waitstaff. But such days are irregular at best and never predicable.

His turds have changed color from blackish tar to olive drab to the occasional vomited-up-margarita green. I tell you this because such matters are discussed by his waitstaff ad nauseum. He drops anchor about once a day now, or twice if his lordship feels generous.

His cries are no longer the great mystery, and we often land the plane on the runway with all the landing gear down. That's a great feeling. To know that you're needed in the cockpit, and most likely you're not all going to die tonight. Again. And again.

He made his first long trip to Cowtown to see his dad's parents in October. That went well. He grew every day until he almost outgrew some of the clothes we packed. We changed him four times in one night. Once home, we ordered larger diapers, and he hasn't ruined his clothes since. 

G-man went to his mom's parents
as a shark for Halloween. He was the best shark, too. Sometime around that time he started to laugh and smile at us because his eyesight finally came in and he could see how weird mommy and daddy look.

We've boxed our first set of clothes and put them up in the attic for possible future use, if his lordship would only give his waitstaff the time to concentrate on the future, that is.

Daycare is a great invention. G-man enjoys it, and the people watching him enjoy him. Mommy and daddy can continue "working for the man" in the meantime. My wife did very well at the "letting go" part, and we stretched it out during our last week off of work. Highly recommend doing so, guys.  Dumping them day of back to work isn't so hot, I hear.

Last two weeks, he's starting to use his hands to play with stuff he finds around the house, such as butcher knives and pinking shears, and enjoys making noise with these items.

In a few short days, he'll be four months. And he'll be asking me for the keys to the car.

Stay tuned, America. I'll try to do better.

A Perfect Night...or Sometimes Mother-In-Laws are Right

Nighttime just plain sucks.

Once the sun goes down in the West Texas sky, both my wife and I look at one another with trepidation and concern. The evening asswhip is about to begin, and it's not vampires we're worried about. As we stroll along our suburban sidewalks with our sweet child posed in his pram, drawing loving glances from our neighbors, we know about his dark side.

The nighttime brings out the very worst in the G-Man. The boy can't stand his bassinet for more than 30 minutes before he erupts with fury like Mt. Vesuvius. And then, the fun begins. Walking, pacing, rocking, massaging, loving, kissing, praying, bargaining and drinking (for daddy-o) -- whatever it takes. The storm may be quelled, but not fully dissipated. Once placed in the offensive bassinet by our bed, the clock ticks down to woeful unrest for the entire household. By morning, I look and feel like a bag of ass left out on a hot driveway.

Why put him in it, you may ask. And it's a good question. Only the insane, I'm told, continue doing the same thing while expecting different results. However, I am of the opinion that children should learn to sleep by themselves. My folks made it a point, and while some special nights I was allowed for a while, most of the time I was sent packing back to my own bedroom. It's a good boundary to have, I believe. Mommy and Daddy sleep together. The elevator car is full. Please take the stairs to the left and get your butt back in your own pee-drenched bed. Schmutz up your own space.

You see, I will not be evicted from my own room. Just not going to let that happen. I've seen it and heard about it happening. The kid comes in crying and daddy goes down to the den to sleep. Hell, even the couple who bought our old spare bed were doing it so momma and their 2-year-old son could get some shuteye together. While I try not to judge those who live that way, it's just not for me.

My son disagrees. Our first, but probably not our last disagreement.

When he kicks off, I feel like I'm in an airplane on which I have yet to be trained. The basics are the same. The control yoke points the attitude and the nose and works the ailerons. The pedals work the tail rudder. Levers in the front must be engine speed. But here I am in front of a dashboard which I don't understand. And when he kicks off, it's like 30 different lights and warning buzzers going off at the same time. I just have to keep throwing levers and flipping switches until he starts to respond and  peril is avoided.

"Whoop-whoop. Warning. Terrain. Pull up. Whoop-whoop. Warning. Terrain. Pull up."

It's like living "Airport '75" over and over again each night. And Charlton Heston ain't here to save our asses.

During our last week with my mother-in-law helping in the house, she discovered that G-Man liked to have lots of cuddles at night and then be placed on a pillow. He's zonk out while she watched crumby movies on TV and hang with him all morning until we got up. It was effective, but exhausting. But that's how we got through the second half of the horrible nighttime screechfests. Only problem was, she was staying up all night to make sure He didn't roll over and smother, and we couldn't do that night after night after night without gunplay at some point.

Foiled again!

Well, almost.

Then we decided to take a risk and try something that the experts would say was tantamount to bad parenting. Sometimes you have to land the plane without the gear, right?

OK. I get it. Putting a kid on a pillow is asking for SIDS. Putting a kid on a pillow in your own bed is asking for flattened pancake SIDS. But we are improvising here. We decided to put G-Man on a pillow between us. We lifted the edges of the pillow up onto our shoulders and arms to keep him in the divot in between us. And you know what? He slept for four- and five-hour stretches. Perfect angelic sleep. We actually got a touch of shuteye too. Amazingly. After that first night, I awoke to not feel like a cake left out in the rain, but an actual human being. I felt like I could actually probably tie my shoe competently or put gas in the car. Maybe...MAYBE...even balance a checkbook.

We've now tried it several times and it works. For now, the lion sleeps at night.

The Type of Dad I Want to Be...and Marathon Night.

The work never ends.

If I'm not bent over a washing machine, I'm bent over a dishwasher, a sink, a changing table or a Diaper Genie. Or I'm stringing a full basket of tiny clothes out on the line with my wife.

I thought this kid had more clothes than he'd ever need -- more even than his momma, which is saying something -- but he needs every stitch. We've gotten better about strapping his diaper down, but G-Man can soil some seriously large amounts of clothes in a short amount of time and take down countless blankets in the process.

Full of shit. Just like his daddy.

A few days ago, someone asked how my vacation was going.

Anyone who has it in his or her mind that taking time off work to take care of a newborn baby is a jolly holiday full of fun needs to stick his or her idea squarely in his or her ass. And you know what? It's way more work than one person can do alone.

It's fun, don't get me wrong. You see changes every day in the little guy. It's work, though. Serious, serious work.

I've decided to take the three months I'm due off to help my wife out, and I'm really interested in the way people react to that. Some folks are very supportive. Some are suprised. I've heard a lot of "I hear you took a whole year off," jokingly said, of course. But in some of those comments there's just a hint of bitterness, like I'm somehow slacking off or abusing the system.

Fact is, this may be my only shot at having a kid here, and I don't want to miss anything. I'm allowed to do it at my place of employment, and our families are hours away on both sides of the state. I certainly don't regret the decision to take 12 weeks off. Plus I've got sick time out the wahzoo because I never took my full vacation time for several years. We'll see if we feel the need for me to complete the full term, but I took it off just in case, and I see every indication that I'll be needed.

I know that back when, many dads left that sort of thing for the moms to do, and some dads may not have had then, or now, the time to chip in. It's a modern era, though, and childcare shouldn't be done just by one.

So, I've decided to get in there and do it all just as good or better than anyone else. I got over my fear of holding a newborn hours after he was born because I had to do it. I had a friend in second grade who told me that if you touch a newborn baby's head and you accidentally hit the "soft spot," they'd turn into a drooling vegetable. So for all these years, I've shied away from anything to do with a newborn baby for fear of retardulating them beyond repair. Turns out that isn't the case. Not that I'm poking around on his skull to see what happens, don't get me wrong.

The diaper change so far isn't my favorite task, but it's remarkably easier than first imagined. And I love feeding time. This one can put it away in short order. I figure it's good bonding time for me and my son. Sometimes, I can actually doze off while he sucks away.

Plus, with the both my wife and I working together, everything goes a lot faster. In a way, it's helped to strengthen our bond as a couple, too. We're keeping the house clean together and taking turns or working together with his tasks. I think we're communicating better now, even through the mundane discussions of bowel movements and feeding amounts. Other things spring up in between and we're kind of like a united front.

I did a little reading in my "Crash Course for New Dads" book, which I'm liking so far, and it turns out a lot of the shit work got put on the momma at the turn of the industrial revolution. So the idea of women need to stay at home and do all the child rearing isn't really all that old of an idea. Before that, everyone worked in their cottages, hovels, barns, shanties and lean-tos, and childcare was a shared experience. So now, in the modern era, we're trying to get back to that shared responsibility.

So I decided to fly solo three nights ago. Just me, the boy and a closed bedroom door. Full-frontal parenting with no wife or mother-in-law to save me.

Both had taken a brutal beating for several nights. We've tried fruitlessly to get the G-Man to lay down in his bassinet at night because I am a strong believer in children sleeping separately from their parents. Well, G-Man doesn't care much for sleeping alone, and we get about 30 minutes of downtime before he sounds the alarm that his bassinet is bullshit.

The routine for the first several nights was we'd take him for the first half. After he'd well and truly kicked our asses, my mother-in-law would stay up watching crumby movies and watching him in the night shift so that my wife could get much-needed rest.

I had a role during this time, but I also got away with a bit more sleep. So, so to keep a fair balance, I decided that I would do this full night alone with my son so the ladies could get some much needed rest.

I'm a brave sonofabitch. It's true.

I locked G-Man and myself into the nursery and handled everything from feedings and diapers to yanking out crib mattresses and changing the whole mess and spending countless attempts trying to make the bedskirt go back the way it was the first time. If he started yowling, I'd grab him, pacify him and run down the hall to turn down the thermostat so the air-conditioner to muffle his screams. And I rocked. I rocked and swaddled and swaddled and rocked until my ankles were screaming in pain and the little guy finally, finally gave up and slept.

There were times I wanted to quit. There were times I almost went into the living room to hand him off to Nana. There were times, after dropping the pacifier on the ground for the 103,000th time, that I wanted to cuss and yell because I couldn't figure out why he didn't want to sleep and why he wouldn't stop fussing. There were times I did cuss because I stubbed my toe on furniture I couldn't see in the dark.

However, I stuck it out, and we made it. We both made it to 4:30, and we could both lay our burdens down. Momma had gotten eight hours of undisturbed sleep that she needed to heal and continue. He had beaten me, but I had beaten him back. And somehow, in the melee of wills, we had both won.

How zen.


Mission accomplished.

It Came from Inner Space...!

I don't even know where to begin. I guess I'll start by saying it's a damn good thing I started this blog when I did because last Friday, we had one.

Well, actually he came last Saturday morning on the 37th anniversary of Elvis' death.

Let me introduce you. His name is Graham, and he's seven pounds, one ounce.  He's 19.5 inches long and he's a good-looking kid.

Some day this week (I'm not really sure which one because days mean nothing to me anymore), as I was going through the laundry, I noticed a sharp change in strata that reminded me of the K-T boundary denoting dinosaur reign and the world after. Above, a plethora of onesies and blankets mixed with T-shirts and sweatshorts. Below, work attire. The former life of two working childless people. 

Something definitely happened, although I'm not sure how to put it into words. Life is just different. Like, after the meteor or living on a street in London where the Germans missed your house for some reason. You're still alive. Your house is still there. But life is different in the broken glass and cracked plaster. It won't ever be the same. You're building anew from the old.

I'm rambling because I'm exhausted. I thought yesterday was Tuesday, and I can't remember how to finish out a thought. Like, I'll be talking and all the words slide out of my head. I just stare at the person I was talking with in the hopes that they can throw me a rope and pull me back into the moment. But they're not up in my head to follow the intricate pattern of ideas that somehow come together in my final edited speech, so they're just as lost as I am.

I'll wrap this up with a few things I've noticed.

Diaper changes. I know they're going to....evolve, but not as bad as I thought.

Outside time. Great place to get him to drift off.

Daytime Television. What a cesspool of entertainment.

Grownup sleep. Distant memories of that.

My wife. I think she surprised herself with how strong she really is.

More later.