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."