Fletch rides the Bull

It seems we have our own little Urban Cowboy at home. Fletcher, playing the role of Bud, likes to flail his left arm to some sort of rhythm only he can divine. Oh yes, and he does this while breastfeeding.

So, if Fletcher is Bud, does that make The Mommy Unit....what?....the mechanical bull?

Oh dear. I cannot believe I just wrote that. I will be counting the minutes from SEND to phone call. :-)

By the way, if you have not seen Urban Cowboy in a long time, I highly recommend it. It was on this past weekend, and it is just chock full o' fun stuff. Like 70's hair. And mustaches. And hard-hitting screenplay such as this--
Bud: What happened to your face?
Sissy: Got hit.

Indeed.

Big Pimpin' Baby

Recall that a "Jenism" is something funny that Jen says when she thinks she is being serious.

Here is what Jen THINKS are song lyrics:
"Big dipper, little dipper."

We will have to ask Jay-Z what HE says his song lyrics are.
"Big pimpin, spending G's."
Here's a helpful link.

Jen is funny.

Alpha Dog

"Coop must see boys as other dogs. Maybe that it why he sniffs their butt."

Classic.

Body Clock

It is 5:46pm as I begin this post. I am sitting on the coach, laptop on lap, and Labrador Retriever 12 inches from my face. He is staring me down, just sitting there. Statue-like. He knows that I know what he wants: food.

That dog is amazing. His mealtime is 6pm. The last several days, he has wore me down 5 minutes at a time. The dog keeps better time than a Timex. Gotta go. His Highness demands his buffet be served.

Lt. Pearl brings it!

Will Farrell is in a world of hurt. Pearl calls 911 -- oh wait! She *IS* the police!! Punk.

caution: language

I Kid, I'm a Kidder

No small part of my day is seeking opportunities to have fun at The Wife's expense. This takes many forms, usually very benign, and is almost always an expression of my love for her, albeit in a kindergarten-sort-of-way. (And may I never outgrow it.)

Job #1 as Dad will be to teach The Boy how to properly tease his mother. Now, I need to set about to devising my next prank. Do you suppose it is the prank itself, or the anticipation of the prank, which is sweeter?

time for androgeny

Nothing emasculates more than washing a woman's breast pump.

Nuff said? Or shall I go into more detail? Nah. I did not think so. Some things speak for themselves. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I have some old episodes of Oprah on the DVR...

Out with It

Dads are strong. They are the rock upon which the family leans. So, what happens when that foundation is cracked? Such was the case this weekend, when Fletch got sick.

It is a delicate matter, with no delicate way to describe it. So I will just out with it, even if Fletch cannot: The Boy is constipated. Without getting into the gory specifics, he seems a bit uncomfortable. That's hard on a first-time dad. (I imagine that once you done this before, you develop a super-power to tell when the child is really sick, or just a little sick.)

Ultimately, it is the uncertainty that bites. There is little to no differentiation between a small ailment and a big one, because the kid cannot really tell you how bad, or where, it hurts. He just cries. (Except for The Vaccination Cry. You hear that one, and you KNOW he's unhappy. See my post on the 2-mo. doctor visit to appreciate its ear-piercing nature.) And you don't want to be one of THOSE parents, the ones the nurses at the doctor's office talks about. "Can you believe Mrs. Smith? Calling 14 times over the last 2 days. Get over it lady. Babies cry. Suck it up." C'mon, you just know they talk like that once you hang up the phone.

And of course, you don't want to go the other way, allowing your child to suffer needlessly.

Maybe my wife just has me worked up about this. Of course, she just called. The doc says no need to worry until The Boy goes about 5 days without poopin'. 5 days? I don't want to change that diaper!

Precious Time

A friend and I were talking, and he asked if I had any regrets about resigning my last job to spend time with Fletcher. None. Not one. This time is precious. I know this all the more now, because Fletcher has started day care.

"Wait a minute. Day care?! Didn't you just say you want to spend time with Fletch?!" Hold that thought.

The time is precious all the more because I miss the little guy terribly during the day. Seeing him a couple of hours at night seems...insufficient. Clearly, I have grown attached, perhaps too much so.

However, I am ready to go back to work. My job search is going well, with many interesting discussions with a diverse line of companies spanning a few industries. I came very, very, VERY close to moving my nascent family to Chicago. Chicago!! Ultimately, I felt it was too soon to make such a large move. I prefer to keep Fletch close to his family: grandparents, dozens of cousins, etc. Maybe I will change my mind down the road, but for now, I feel I owe it to the little guy to really try hard here in Texas. Other opportunities have not yet worked out, for a variety of reasons, but we've come close. For these reasons, and more, I remain optimistic. What is it the kids say? Ah yes, "I got mad skills." And, apparently, confidence.

So, why not have The Boy stay at home while I am looking? For those who do not know, getting a slot for an infant at a day care or child development center is terribly difficult. At least here it is. Therefore, what would I do if I suddenly got the dream offer tomorrow? SOMEONE has to stay at the home with The Boy. Now you see the dilemma.

In the meantime, the search continues, and Fletch enjoys the heck outta daycare. Each time I have gone to pick him up, that boy is just enjoying himself. I really don't think I am projecting here. That child o' mine marvels at the babies around him, smiles at the care givers, and oohs and aaahs at the various points of visual interest around the room. And I know that Fletch is doing well, because the teachers have already said "he talks. A lot." That's my boy!

I'm Just Sayin'

I interrupt this broadcast to point out, not so subtly, that I did let a very obviously puerile joke opportunity pass me by yesterday when I pointed out that Fletch grabbed his bottle. "Must...resist...joke."

And yet, I still chuckle to myself whenever I read that. Kinda like saying "butt paste."

Grabbing the Bottle

Fletcher grabbed his bottle for the first time today. And no, this is not a euphamism. He really did grab hold with both hands.

This reminds me of an interesting conversation with friends at lunch in Houston a couple of weekends ago. We essentially agreed that there is selection bias in parental reporting of their children's accomplishments. That is, no parent will say, "My baby did NOT do something today, and all the books say he should have been doing something 2 weeks ago! I am thinking of taking my 13 week old to a child development specialist." No, instead parents share what their little Pride and Joy is doing well.

This should not be surprising. After all, how many adults do you know that go around bragging about how much money they LOST investing in a particular stock? Baby bragging is just a variation of the same theme. Except I am not bragging, mind you. I am **reporting**.

But I am equally as certain that no other 12.4 week old baby boy can grab his bottle as well as Fletch. OK, now THAT is bragging.

Baby Blue Eyes

Many family members, and some friends, have marvelled at the fact that Fletch has blue eyes. How can this be? I mean, Rick and Jen both have brown eyes. Fear not, my confused friends, I am here to help explain.

Let's let "B" (capital B) represent a gene for brown eyes, and "b" (lower case) for blue eyes. Eye color is the result of 2 genes, 1 from Mom and 1 from Dad. So, a child will have a 2-gene combination, one of the following: BB, Bb, or bb. Have your eyes glazed over yet? (There is no gene for glazing over.)

Brown is a dominant gene. If B is present, the child will always have brown eyes.

My Dad has blue eyes, and my Mom had brown. Since a brown gene, if present, will always present brown eyes, then it stands to reason that my Dad's gene sequence for eye color is "bb" (2 blue genes). My Dad could ONLY pass on a blue gene "b" to me, so we know that I have at least ONE "b" gene (blue). But I have brown eyes, therefore I also have a "B" gene, which I must have received from Mom. So, my personal gene sequence for eye color is "Bb". A similar story exists for Jen, whose mother had green eyes (blue, from a genetic standpoint).

Rick: Bb
Jen: Bb

So, if you got into some boring combinational mapping, you would see that there is exactly a 25% chance that any one of our children will have blue eyes. Fletch has blue eyes ("bb"): I gave him one "b" and Jen gave him the other "b."

Fletcher beat the odds.

Ciao, Friends

During the course of analyzing traffic to this blog, I am happy to see that some friends in Italy have visited. Achille, Walter -- thanks for visiting! I hope you are well, and I hope you enjoy hearing about how I stumble through parenthood. :-)

First Father's Day

My first Father's Day was absolutely spectactular. Fletcher slept in, so Jen made me my favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, cheese, and biscuits. I got to enjoy a cup of coffee, and we both snuck upstairs and gently awoke our little guy. As usual, he greeted his day with a huge grin once he recognized his Mom and Dad.

I gotta tell ya -- that is about the most awesome feeling in the world! I could have stopped right there, and said, "Yup, Dad's Day #1 a success." But, I got a daily pass on diaper duty (though I did manage to sneak one in), and we had a visit from my brother and his family while they were in town. This was my sister-in-law's first time to meet Fletch, and of course he was just as friendly as could be.

After everyone had left, Fletch went to sleep, and Daddy got to lay on the couch and watch the US Open (golf). A little rest and relaxation was just the medicine I needed. A great day indeed.

This Hurts Me More Than You

Today was Fletcher's first day at daycare. Check that. At the Child Development Center. There is a difference, although I am just as sure that I cannot explain it. It being his first day and all, I drove The Boy, Mommy in tow, to his big day. His diaper bag chock full of enough supplies to sustain an army (of bouncing little 12 week olds), we happily marched through the front door, signed over a handsome sum of money, and handed over our handsome son.

Granted, these are not perfect strangers, mind you. We had long since scouted them out. Interviewed them. Asked questions. Checked behind their ears. All clean.

I have to say it was far harder on Mommy and Daddy than on Fletcher. He is pretty much a happy little man, eager and outgoing. I took him from his car seat, gave him a big nuzzle --you know the kind where you make growling bear noises and pretend you eat his little check but really you just give a couple kisses -- which eliciting a resounding giggle, and handed him over to the teacher.

I then proceeded to drag Mommy out of there, her nails scraping at the drywall. We then went to Starbuck's for The Daily Dose. Although she would not admit it, it was nice to just be a married couple for a moment.

And, upon arriving home, rather than actually calling the daycare....oops, child development center...she talked about calling the daycare (it's easier to type). And talked. And talked.

We made it through half of the day, and Fletcher made it home in one piece. No worse for the wear.

99 Bottles of Milk on the Wall

"Babies have the same mannerisms as drunk adults."

Well said, Jen. Let us count the ways.

1. They bobble their head about.
2. They babble jibberish.
3. They throw up on themselves.
4. They soil themselves, and don't see to care much.

This is the first Jenism I will record for this blog.

Jenism, noun (JEN-izm): a statement made by Jen (aka, The Jen, The Wife, Mommy, The Mommy Unit) which is unusually funny.

Sound of Daddy Sobbing Softly

This morning, in pre-market trading, Delcath Systems (Nasdaq: DCTH) traded up $21 from $4.50. For a few fleeting minutes, Mommy and Daddy were rich. Visions of lighting the fireplace with crumpled-up $100 bills flashed through my head. Or sending The Boy to Harvard. Or not working AND not worrying about it.

But alas, then the market got his senses back and Delcath came back to earth. And Daddy felt a tear well in the corner of his eye.

As bad as I felt, mourning a loss that was never really mine to lose, imagine that poor person who bought 800 shares of DCTH at $25 and change, only to realize the stock presently trades at around $5. That hurts.

What Mommy Looks Like

Today, Fletcher noticed his feet. And in true family form, he obsessed about them. He looked, he giggled, he kicked, and he "oh'd". Yes, those feet are mine. Yes, look I can MOVE them. ON COMMAND. I so am the MASTER of my feet. And on it went, with every waking moment of the day, save the one moment in which he did smile at Cooper (which was pretty cool in its own right).

And so this got me to thinking: what does The Boy see when he looks at his Mommy? Certainly, he sees an object of adoration and affection, but I have to ask, does he adore Mommy in the way that Daddy adores, say, and I'm just saying, a juicy beef filet? With creamed spinach. And, oh yes, fried onion strings. Because nothing spoils a juicy filet like a side of onion. I'm telling you, come around dinner time, which for Fletch is about, oh, every 2 hours (on the money), that boy gets a look in his eye. Have you ever seen the Bugs Bunny cartoons where Elmer Fudd is so hungry that when he looks at Bugs he sees a cooked turkey? (Of course, this begs the question why Fudd simply did not see a cooked rabbit, but I digress.) THAT is how Fletch looks at him Mom at dinner time. He sticks his fist in his mouth and smacks. Loudly. Oh, come here, you Deliverer of Milken Elixer. You know what I want. (click here for sound)

Has any other Dad observed this? Just me then? Right.

And, to punctuate his point, as if we were not clued into the fact that The Hunger stirs, The Boy grew tired with us and belted out an Impatient Cry. With capital letters, yes. I have heard people tell me, "Oh, you will learn to tell your baby's different cries." I always thought they were full of hooey, or something that smelled close to hooey. No longer. I have now identified the Impatient Cry. It usually presents every 1 hour and 59 minutes, so I've had plenty of practice in observing said behavior. And I can distinguish it distinctly from the Vaccination Cry, which sounds like a blood-curtling hurl from the bowels of one's being, a Cry so vile that it moves otherwise stoic parents to tears. No, this is not a cry for the faint of heart. And perhaps because I have heard the VC, I can hear the IC and say simply to myself, "Damn, that boy can eat."

Hotel Crazy Paw-Paw

Welcome to the Hotel Crazy Paw-Paw.
Such a lovely place, such a lovely place.
Plenty of room at the Hotel Crazy Paw-Paw.
Any time of year, grandchildren spoiled here.

OK, Eagles tribute behind me, this weekend was a great little family trip to Houston for the in-laws surprise 20th anniversary party. Now, I should point out that my in-laws are certainly not old and decrepid by any stretch of the imagination, but neither are they exactly young. In short, I admit to being a bit uneasy yelling "SURPRISE!" to anyone once they have celebrated their 40th birthday. And 40 is long since in the rear-view here. Happily, no one sported the Crappie Flop on the floor, and it was a great party.

This was Fletcher's first sleep-over. PRODUCT RECOMMENDATION ALERT: Graco Pack-n-Play. The thing sets up and breaks down simply, packs compactly, and most importantly, most excellently serves as a travel crib. Most excellently? Did I really say that? Am I somehow channeling the spirit of Jeff "Surfs Up" Spicoli? Anyway. The Boy had no trouble sleeping.

Friday was awesome in that we were able to see my Dad, and Fletcher put on quite a show. I've been telling Dad how much Fletch is a little chatter-box, experimenting with vowels, consonants, and, occassionally, reciting Shakespeare. I am certain of it. But all he did at first was cry, and my Dad was like, "Really." No, Dad, I swear, the kid can orate with the best. Finally, toward the end of the visit, while Dad was holding him, Fletch put on quite the display for Grandpa, gigglin', gurglin', and squealin'. It was awesome.

Oh, and a word on "Grandpa." My Dad is "Grandpa." I heard him say, oh about two decades ago, when my brothers and sisters started spewing forth grandchildren, that he wanted to be called "Grandpa." This stuck with me, even as every last one of those grandchildren called him Paw-Paw. It's a southern-thang, I suppose. In any event, I laid claim to the name "Grandpa" for my Dad, and father-in-law was more than happy to lay claim to the name "Crazy Paw-Paw."

How will THAT work at holiday dinner? "Crazy Paw-Paw, please pass the biscuits. Crazy Paw-Paw, can I have some more pie?"

I am grateful that Fletcher's grandparents are so close.

SHOUTS OUT to our friends with whom we were able to meet this weekend: Kim, Jenny, Noah, Betsy and Tiny E! It was great seeing you all!!

Are you a slacker Mom?

OK, so I have no idea if this Google Ad will be up when you read this, since the ads change frequently, but you should check out the Slacker Mom Quiz. Good times.

Growing up fast

Jen walks into the study this morning, and shows me a sequence of photos we took of Cooper when he was but a young pup. Apart from being an extraordinarily funny sequence culminating in his barking full-puppy-throttle at the photographer (Jen) and with my being recorded comforting a visible agitated dog, this got me to thinking. First, Cooper has changed so much. Next, Fletcher has changed and will continue to change.

We've got a couple things going for us. One, this blog: I'm documenting the events for family, friends, and perfect strangers alike, to watch Fletcher change and grow over time. Second, digital photography. No longer do we have to PRINT photos. Plus, digital photography makes it so much easier to spoil the political aspirations of one's children, because, after all, who wants their child to be President? Sheez. I don't need THAT kind of attention. So, yuk it up, kiddo. Daddy is not far behind with the Nikon.

Two of the nurses (Teresa, and Sr. Linda) mentioned to us before leaving the hospital that we should take pictures of Fletcher at 1-month intervals, and to put together a montage of those photos to show how much he has changed. Well, we are now 2 months into this adventure, and I can tell you: Fletcher changes every day. Every. Single. Day. It's ALWAYS something, though sometimes subtle.

So, I'm not going to spoil the surprise and post month 1 and month 2 photos here in this post. I am sure the more enterprising among you can look back through the posts to see how much he has changed.

He is much bigger, though less swollen. Sleeps at more appropriate times. Personality is starting to emerge: laughs and jabbers. (I secretly fear my little boy is going to be the clown with a long list of "conduct cuts" because he cannot be quiet in class.) Hair is still red. Eyes are still blue. (Speaking of which, I still have a bone to pick with the milkman.)

Good coffee house in Austin

Jen and I took The Boy down to meet a friend and her young 'un at a cool coffeehouse. Irie Bean Coffee Bar had a really great "Cheers" type of feel to it. Jay, the owner, was pouring the espresso and finding time to play with Connor (the aforementioned "young 'un"). The feeling was "all irie, mon." Lots of regulars. Everyone knew everyone's name. Good coffee, quirky digs.

To me, and this is just me, this place seems like a good place for the Mommy Mafia, although apparently it has flown below their radar so far. Maybe that is part of the charm. Starbuck's it is not, and I think all the better for it. Look, I like Starbuck's. But as our friend Gina says, she is not about to let Connor run wild in Starbuck's! Here, they love Connor (and vice versa!), play with him, and the environment is very laid back.

Fletcher mostly slept, but when he was awake, we just fed him. And by "we," I mean The Mommy Unit. I mostly just watched and drank my coffee.

Laid back. Good on ya, Jay!

Fletcher goes to church!

Yesterday, we took Fletcher to church for his first time. We had been holding back, for fear of exposing him to so many people (and germs, to get right on the point). He did GREAT! As luck would have it, there was no nursery care during his first visit, so he got to get the whole church experience. He loved the singing and the lights, and, if he is anything like his pop, which he is, he loved all the attention!!

The sermon was from Romans 5:1-5, which I found quite fitting. It's about rejoicing, in good times and bad. Since Fletch has joined our lives, there has been a lot to rejoice about. He was/is absolutely worth the wait!

Oh, and he pooped his diaper TWICE during church. Good job.

As I write this, he is chillin' in his bouncey, playing with a toy parrot. It's the first time I've seen him ever express interest in the parrot (usually, he's all about the elephants or bears), and the first time I've seen him GRAB for something. It's pretty cool to watch. Not every Dad gets the chance, and I am thankful.

Nakedness, Please

If my boy was to have his druthers, he would explore the world wearing nothing but a smile. I say this, because everytime we try to change his clothes, he cries. The taking off of the old uniform -- not a problem. He giggles with glee. The putting on of the new one? Not so much.

Maybe one day when he can speak, he will 'splain it me.