Grizzly Adams

Day after Thanksgiving, 2007. We spent the night at the in-laws house just north of town. The house was empty, as the in-laws were out of town this holiday. (PAUSE typing-- as I look to see what trouble the tyke is getting into at my feet UNDER the coffee table. OK, he is fine.) The Boy took a morning nap, and as I was enjoying my warm coffee, gazing distantly out the rear picture window and focusing on nothing in particular this gray day, I notice...the pool waters are turbulent. Huh. Maybe it is the bullfrog I've heard so much about. That would be cool.

It is at this point I would like to point out that, yes, although I am pushing four decades of tred on these tires, I have never grown tired of boyish pastimes like playing with bullfrogs. Bullfrogs are cool. And so I will teach the boy to never completely grow up.

And so outside I dash into the gray chill morn. To my disappointment, I spy a squirrel. Whereas bullfrogs are cool, squirrels are the antithesis of cool. They are rats with good marketing. I mean, look at that cute tail. Tail = packaging = good marketing. Anyway, I watch a while, realize the squirrel's prospects for escape are nil, I help it out. It shivers off the water, chatters a bit at me, and runs off. I saved one of God's creatures. Thank God for that tail, little squirrel, cause without it, you may have paid a visit to Davey Jones. I don't know. I prefer not to think about it. Anyway, my point is, the squirrel breathes because of my small kindness.

Fast forward a couple hours later. The Boy's meltdownedness, coupled with some family illness upsetting our plans for the day, motivate us to cut our visit to H-town a day short. We load up, and as we are leaving the neighborhood, Rick's Wife spies a car on the side of the road, with its occupant fussing about something caught in a wrought iron fence. A baby deer! I pull over, get out, and proceed to bending iron with my bare hands.

Que the Bionic Man soundtrack. Ya-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Ya-ta-ta-ta-ta. insert sound of bending steel. The fawn protests my presence and attempts at aid. It jumps and bellows, not much unlike a baby goat. Soon, it is freed from its self-imposed prison and bounds off through the forest. I thank the ladies for their help, wish them a lovely holiday, and return to the car.

Weekend checklist:

• save squirrel. check.
• save deer. check.

big weekend

It was a weekend of firsts. Fletch reached for me for the first time while being held by another person. It was his first Thanksgiving. He rocked the corduroys from Aunt Julia. And there were a couple of others, but Daddy ate too much turkey and has slept since their occurrence. See also, Daddy has a horrible memory.

We asked so much of the little guy on Thanksgiving Day, and he delivered. It began with a 3 hour car ride to see my not-very-small family. You see, that means a never-ending torrent of well-intended family members who want to hold and love on my little tyke. Oh, and did I mention loud? I always like to say that I come from The Loud Family. Mix in a little I-do-not-nap, and you have the perfect combination for a Turkey Day Meltdown. All that said, it was a great visit. Fletch got to see Grandpa, Crazy Aunt Becky (who he LOVES, btw; "she knows how to make me LAUGH, daddy!"), and some of his cousins whom he had not yet met.

Of course, as the weekend winds down, I get the sense that he is wondering what happened to his 92-lb yellow housemate. We pick him up from the kennel tonight. And won't Fletch be excited to be reunited!!

Bananas

This morning, Fletcher had his first banana. Not the baby food jar kind of banana, a real, yellow, monkey-lust banana. He did not know what to make of it. I suppose it is a texture thing. Think about that the next time you enjoy the yellow fruit. But, Rick's Wife mashed it up and cut it with a little of his favorite, Plums and Apples. Which, by the way, and for fear of digressing too far off base, the Plums are simply brilliant in that they totally rectified The Boy's pooping problem. Good on ya.

After Fletch finished his simeon impersonation, we sat down to breakfast, and we set The Boy up in his high chair, tummy full and contented. He had one of his favorite toys with him, a simple colored star-ring-thing. You may know the one, it's made of hard plastic, is a bit transparent, and is made to be stacked with other ring-things on a post that then lights up. Yeah, yeah, just gimme the ring-thing, Daddy.

Anyway, as we are enjoying our bacon and eggs, Fletch drops his ring. He does not seem terribly vexed, yet nevertheless I stop to pick it up and return it to His Majesty's Enjoyment. He continues playing happily, and soon drops it again. Again, I return it to the warden. Over the course of about 10 times, you can see the look of realization come over The Boy's face. "Daddy, you are so my bitch."

Son, let's get something straight. Daddy is nobody's bitch. OK, I gotta go. Rick's Wife has a long list of honey-do's for me today.

The Great Pumpkin

Here's a couple Halloween photos of The Boy.

Not. Gonna. Do It.

It's a conspiracy, really. A conspiracy of existing parents to fool yet-to-be-parents into thinking that parenthood is a blissful state. We, the conspirators, give some ground ("Oh, there will be copious amounts of diapers to change. Belie' dat!"), if only to establish our credibility with our gullible friends. Then, we sucker-punch 'em with, "Sleep? Well, the first few days are a bit rocky, but you'll be surprised how quickly the little angel catches on. And before you know it, he will be sleeping 4 hours during the day, too!"

Ha.

And if you think about it, this is how we treat our friends. Can you imagine how we treat people we do not necessarily care for?

I confess. The Boy simply refuses to nap. Nope, not one bit. It is as if the mere sight of the back of his own eyelids sears his cones and rods. He is the leading candidate running on the No Rest for the Weary ticket. Read my lips, "Na. Ga. Doit." We drop The Boy at daycare, and they talk about how they don't really push him to get on a sleep schedule. Really? I had not noticed, I mean, when we are watching him on the weekends. Speaking of which -- why is there not daycare service for the weekends? Don't get me wrong, I love that little one. But, dang, kid. When are you gonna sleep?

Oh sure, we have it pretty easy at night. He goes to bed fairly regularly between 7 and 7:30, and usually does not wake up until morning, although sometimes he wakes a bit on the early side (4am) for a bottle, but it's not that bad. Did you see that? Right there? It's AAAAALLL relative, you see. It's all relative to the sleep deprivation you remember from the first couple of months. And you remember.

And there you go. God's built-in birth control.

No, Dear, You are not Impossible

"No, Rick, I am not impossible. I'm just difficult."

Fall Arrives in Austin

It was a bit brisk this morning, so Fletch bundled up. C'mon. Have you SEEN a cuter expression? I mean, really.

What Ghosting Taught Me

Have you heard of this thing called "ghosting?" Kids ring your doorbell and run, leaving a bag of candy --- not poo, like when I was a kid --- and instructions on how to repeat the procedure to 3 of your neighbors. Kind of like a live version of e-spam, but friendlier. And less likely to involve fake pharmaceutical offers or porn. But maybe a little more dangerous. Let me explain.

So, tonight we had just put The Boy to bed. And Cooper, our 92-lb of yellow furry exuberance simply does not do well with the doorbell. I think he only had time to bark twice as I bounded to the door to answer someone who I was certain was mentally deficient or illiterate, or perhaps both -- I had a "Please Knock" sign on the doorbell. At least I *had*. Jen took it down, apparently. Looking out the window to see no one, I immediately figured, "Kids are a little early this year for Halloween." I ran outside to apprehend the culprit / culprits. I'll show them.

Even as I realized I was officially now devoid of any of the mirth of my youth, I knew the rascal had to be hiding close. It was silent, brisk fall dusky evening. No AC units running. No one rambling about, except for yours truly, in my bare feet, but determined to dispense vigilante justice. At this point, I have no idea what I am going to do when I catch the kid(s).

I look under the cars, on both sides of the house, under the neighbors' cars. Nada. By now, my eyes have adjusted to the twilight, which in my reading I have heard is the best time for military movement, given the fading light and the tricks it plays upon one's cones and rods.

A ha! There. A red shirt, frozen, staring back at me from the shadows of the starboard side of my house. I channel my inner adult and offer in my sternest tone, "Kommen-sie here." OK, I did not intone German, but the child marched straight to me. Not 2 sentences into my field interrogation, the kid blurts out, "I'm 's son." That stopped me. So-and-so is a friend. Wait. I *know* this kid. "D--? That you? What are you doing?"

About that time C-- comes up. Hilarity ensues. They explained the deal to me. Fill 3 bags with candy, and do the same to 3 neighbors. Cool. Sounds fun.

I thought when I first started this missive, that there was going to be some sage lesson to be had, some wisdom to convey to my youngster in the years that follow. About the only thing I could come up with was, "Son, when kids ring your door bell, try not to look like an a$$ in your bare feet and undershirt as you crawl on the ground looking beneath cars for tiny feet."

I sure hope I did not scare D--.

How to Mess up a Child, or How I Spent 100G's on Therapy

A friend called tonight to let me know that his wife is expecting. during the conversation, he commented, "Well, I'm also looking forward to whatever advice you can offer."

The only response I could come up with was something like, "How messed up do you want your child to be?" I was only half joking. I poop you not, I am making this daddy business up as I go along. Happily, I might add, but totally by the seat of mein underwasche.

Generally speaking, for the first couple of months, the playbook is well established. You read a couple of books and speak to friends for guidance (hey, sounds familiar), but really sleep deprivation soon becomes the driving force. All other influencing factors become noise to the slumber lust's signal. So, short of dropping a child on its head, it seems to me there is precious little you can do to warp the child at such a tender young age. Just remember to give lots of love.

I guess the only other tidbit that sticks with me is to always remember that as a parent, you will be constantly trading one set of problems for another. Hey, it keeps you fresh.

I have seen the future

A boy and his dog. The dog, in this case, bears a passing resemblance to our Cooper Bear. The boy, in this case, bears zero resemblance to our Fletcher Bean. But still, this was touching.

Fair warning: if you don't have a child, or at least a dog, especially a Labrador Retriever, you will probably not be in the least bit interested in this video. Rick's Wife and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Cute.

Vacation

A confused family member asks, "Are you on vacation?"

Hah. That's rich. Reading into the question, what is really being asked is, why have I not been posting? That's easy: no time. But before I get to that, let's establish that I did have a long weekend last weekend.

Vegas, baby. Vegas. The golf was spectacular. The food great. The friends awesome. Upon arriving home, however, I come home to find one very grumpy baby. And of course, a very grumpy wife.

The course of this week culminated last night with a trip to the emergency room. Fletch had vomiting, and we were concerned at 4am about dehydration. Turns out, though, the folks at the ER thought Fletch had good color, so we just increased the quantity of fluid intake.

So, Rick's Wife had to cancel her business trip, and I had to take a sick day at my new job. I was not terribly comfortable with that, but priorities are priorities, and The Boy needs constant monitoring. He seems better today. Pedialyte is spectacular stuff -- I call it Gatorade for Babies. He still has more than his fair share of "the grumples," but this is to be expected I suppose. At least he is eating, and not vomiting.

I remember when my sick days were for me being sick. Now, my sick days are apparently for my kid. As is my free time. Hence, very little posting. Ahhh, would it not be spectacular if I could just find some time to watch TV. I'd love to watch the story of this woman, Jamie Summers, who having survived a horrific car accident, awakens to discover that she has had advanced biotech surgery to replace her arm, legs, eye, and ear. Bionic women are hot. Sigh. I gotta go. Time to change the diaper.

Injury Report

Going into Sundays football match-ups, here is the week's injury report:

Rick -- probable. Having undergone outpatient toe surgery earlier this week, Rick is, if not fully recovered, certainly ready to play. "My team is counting on me. I'm ready to lace 'em up and smack someone in the teeth." When reminded that he is not presently on any NFL roster, Rick responds, "Do you have dental insurance?"

Rick's Wife -- out. Tummy ache. "My tummy hurts."

Fletcher -- probable. The Boy fought off a fever earlier in the week, but is now facing a wicked bout of constipation. When asked if he is ready to push through the pain, Fletcher turned red in the face and began to cry. It obviously hurts to push.

Rough Couple o Days

In what I am sure is an omen of many a future phone call to Dad's workplace say in, oh, about 10 years, The Boy was sent home from school yesterday. No, he was not cuttin' up in class, but he did have a fever, his first. Poor little Fletch. He did not seem especially worse for wear last night, though he did awaken a couple times crying in the night. Rick's Wife stayed at home with The Boy today, so instead of receiving one phone call from school, I received 17 from Rick's Wife. That poor kid was wearing himself out, and like any good son of mine, was determined to make those around him equally as miserable. Poor Jen.

I left work a bit early, thinking -- hey, I have broadband. I'll get home, provide a little moral support, and get some work done.

Not so much.

In the vernacular of the common geek: The Boy's crying is a, what's the word? Oh yes: "non-maskable interrupt." That is geek-speak for "I'm miserable, and you must attend to me NOW!"

"I'm hot. I'm cold. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm tired of being tired. Daddy, when are you going to make this better? Fetch my fever reducer. How is the Lobster Thermadore? (I recommend it.) Then I'll have two, and put it on Mr. Underwood's tab."

Finally, he just got crazy cranky. A cool bath settled him down, and thankfully he is now sleeping in Rick's Wife's arms. She just whispered to me that she is not going to take him to his room yet, rather she intends to let him sleep in her arms. Generally, I would object, but if you could just see how peaceful he is right now, and how absolutely wrecked he has looked to me since I've come home today. I think I'll issue a pass, just this once.

Here's to hoping he can get some sleep. And that the dang fever goes away.

First Header

The Boy apparently took a header today at day care. He looks no worse for wear to me, and seems like his same ol' self --- jibber-jabberin' away at anyone who cares to listen, which is always his mom and dad, naturally.

By the way, his latest speech fascination is "ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba." Soon to be followed by "ba-ba-ba-BA-ba-ba." Rinse. Repeat. Yes, it is still cute.

Pavarotti

Here is a video of Luciano Pavorotti singing Ave Maria. This was my Mom's favorite song. I cannot hear this and not think of her.

God rest, Luciano.

Pamper's Cruisers

Not surprisingly, given the success Fletch enjoyed with the Pamper's Swaddlers, so has he done a good job with the next stage of diapers: Cruisers.

It's such a simple little idea: put some sticky tabs on the diaper to facilitate diaper change.

It's such a simple little idea: put some colorful Sesame Street graphics on the diapers to stimulate the kid's imagination at diaper change time. Rumor has it, Daddy even has a favorite (Cookie Monster), but he would never admit it publicly.

Speaking of which, some Oreos are calling my name...

2 white little teeth

Recall the earlier mention of teeth? Well, he has 2 full-on front lower teeth. He is about the cutest guy ever now when he laughs (which is often, even though he is bucking through a cold).

Darkness Falls

The day that Rick's Wife had dread for the last few months has finally come to fruition. It had loomed just below the horizon, out of sight, but evident for its long shadow cast over our household in anticipation of its arrival. The NFL 2007 Season has begun, and with it, so has fantasy football season.

You see, fantasy football is with me beyond a passion. It borders on what I am told is obsession. Whatever. It's only an obsession if you can't handle 4 fantasy football teams simultaneously. Which I can. And besides, I can quit anytime I want. So lay off with the intervention.

I tried taking The Boy today to a sports b--- um, restaurant, to watch some Houston Texans football. He revolted in the car en route, so I had to waive off on that little family outing. You see, I had thought that he had fully recovered from his little cold. He let me know otherwise, in no uncertain terms. Of course, the moment I turned the car around, he stopped crying. The kid has a built-in GPS in his diapers, I just know it.

Lots can happen in a week

Wow. First, I apologize to all the avid readers for my not writing recently. I have no delusions that you are interested in my writing, mind you. I fully realize and accept my place in the universe as the Scribe of Fletcher. So it is written, so it shall be done. (And, for those keeping score at home, I have not written because I have been adjusting to my new job.)

Back to Fletch. I picked up Mini Me at day care earlier this week, and what I saw made me drop my jaw. He was sitting up in a big boy chair. Holy cow!! (See picture.) First. Time. Ever.

Having mastered the use of sitting appliances, Fletcher then proceeded, through force of will alone, to produce 2 shiny new teeth. Remarkably, he never cried about it. Not once. And his poop still does not stink either. (Now. You do not believe that, do you?)

Let's see. He also mastered rolling over on command. No, not on my command. Just upon his own internal clock. As in, "Hey, I think I would like to plant my face in this here carpet. Oh wait. No. That did not work out as well as I'd hoped. Back to my back. Nope. I'm bored again. Let's try my face." And so you see how Fletcher spends his floor time.

OK. All for now. Rick's Wife is demanding that I cook dinner. In protest, I think I am just going to serve cold pizza. :-)

Humbling

So, Rick's Wife had to work this weekend, leaving me to watch the kiddo. We had a great time, he and I. He cried, and I tried to make him stop crying. Add formula. Repeat. I'm kidding. It was not that bad. Besides, the in-laws came to town to help watch The Boy, as Daddy had some important official business to attend to on Saturday morning: the fantasy football draft.

What was so humbling this weekend was the realization that Rick's Wife holds a very special place in The Boy's heart, leaving me to wonder how there can possibly be room in there for me. You see, a couple of times during the weekend, Fletch just cried and cried, and was not to be consoled. I held him, changed him, fed him, burped him, bounced him, talked to him. No avail. Finally, I walked him in his stroller, and that did the trick. The point is: much moaning and gnashing of Daddy's teeth. Then, Mommy comes home. And Fletch falls asleep in her arms after about, oh, 3 minutes.

For the record, Fletch has never, not once, fallen asleep in *my* arms. Behold, the power of Mom.