It's a Blunderful Life

The Toddler Formerly Known As Baby Chicken

2012-01-21T17:00:00.000-08:00

Back when Baby Chicken was around 7 or 8 months, I took her to a baby gym with a couple of her friends. Now, the topic of baby gyms could be discussed at length. But for now, I will just mention that this was my first foray into that world and I came away with my sanity and soul intact despite the overwhelming atmosphere of positive, child-friendly energy and the complete lack of cynicism, sarcasm, and adults speaking in normal conversational tones.

In any case, during a breakaway session, one of the instructors, wearing her best Barbie smile (doubtlessly requiring hours of facial muscle exercises at home), set up a baby trapeze, which brings to mind totally awesome visions of babies flying through the air several stories over our heads. This one was a good 4 feet off the ground, which is still impressive for children who can't stand on their own. One of Baby C's friends was positioned under the bar, and she dutifully grabbed it. And as she swung forward at a daring velocity topping out at what must have been at least a couple feet per minute, her whole body stiffened in fear and her face took on a look of abject terror, despite being held tightly to the bar by the instructor. Not to be outdone, Baby C's other friend in attendance took his turn and broke out in sobs and shivers during his turn.

And then it was Baby Chicken's turn. She swung forward, and her face conveyed pure joy and exhilaration. So, the instructor went faster, and Baby C squealed with delight. At the time, I could not help but swell with pride. My child was clearly superior to her peers (nevermind her complete disinterest in books, and total inability to distinguish shape and color). But, really, I should have seen it then.

I was doomed.

And so it has been that, ever since that moment, I have been desperately trying to hold back my daughter's physical development and reign in her daring, monkey-like ways. She learned to walk, and then she was running, and then she was asking for scooters, which she now rides through our house. She would spin in circles, climb the back of the couch, lose her balance, and fall off, only to get up (giggling hysterically) to do it again. Any toy she was given to push, she would figure out ways to stand on, balance herself, and then jump off of. And then there is the climbing, which I will not expound upon further as I feel myself aging faster just thinking about it. Sometimes I am able to stand back and enjoy watching her play. But most of the time, I am only calculating the many ways in which she is endangering her own life.

And that is my daughter. Little Miss Tarzan.

And Here We Go Again.

2012-01-15T17:53:00.000-08:00

Two weeks into the new year and I am already delinquent on my resolutions, one of them being to revive this pitiful blog and return it to its former greatness. And, by greatness, I am of course referring to reinstating it amongst that great pantheon of glorious websites that display words in a semi-cohesive format and have been updated in the last 6 months.

There is very little to actually say at the moment, though, which is rather disappointing.

But, at the very least, I am happy to say that of last year's resolutions, I failed in only one. And, by simple logic, since 2 of the 4 were the same, it is reasonably safe to assume that I am employed now. Blessedly and exhaustingly employed.

Also of note is the fact that the Baby Chicken is far from a baby now, having developed into a miniature person requiring a new moniker. If she had her choice, it would likely be "No" or "Mine," but we'll save her re-naming on this blog for another day, along with numerous other topics of one-sided discussion.

I suppose before signing off from this brief re-introduction, though, I should address one thing. Why do I feel like I should be writing this? Aside from both of you asking me repeatedly if I will ever update again, I should say that anytime I'm not regularly writing, I feel like I should be. And I miss it. And since Baby Chicken's arrival, it has felt more "necessary" even as it has become harder to actually know what to write.

So, we'll try and give this another go. For a while, at least.

Face. Plant.

2011-05-27T21:56:00.000-07:00

I have been staying away with a purpose. By some demented logic, I thought that if I focused all of my spare efforts on my pursuit of suitable employment, that I could actually succeed in that endeavor.

Silly me.

Apparently, the job market is not such a friendly place for an over-educated, skill-less stay-at-home father seeking to make a career transition.

To add injury to insult, even my occasional attempts to have fun have been plagued by ill-fortune. Most recently, while playing ultimate one evening, I dove for the disc and introduced my face in an intimate fashion with the ground, crushing my glasses against my forehead. The resulting welt was the object of much curious probing by Baby Chicken. Fascinatingly, my glasses did not shatter, but rather received a strange dent on the interior face of the lens so dramatic that you could feel it on the exterior face of the lens. Like any ultimate injury, I think this is very cool.

Did I catch the disc? Of course not.

Such highlight reel plays are reserved for the employed. Or the athletic. Or the stoned.

Progress?

2011-03-11T11:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, something momentous happened.

I got my first official job application rejection.

It was a form e-mail, for sure, but it was a very polite one, probably composed by someone who's seen their fair share of rejection in their lifetime.

So, does it feel better than not hearing anything at all, as I predicted?

I guess.

Silver Lining

2011-02-11T13:32:00.000-08:00

In general, I do not like running as a "hobby." As a social activity, it can be somewhat tolerable, but holding conversations during a long run when you are clearly the less athletic of the party can be difficult. As a solo activity, I find that it ranges from boring to really boring.

Why do I do it? A couple reasons. First, as I have mentioned before, I do not come from what one would call "good stock." By that I mean that my body sucks. While my asthma has never been an everyday nuisance, it does keep my lungs pitifully weak. How weak? I cannot blow up party balloons. For some reason, the Wife finds this endlessly entertaining. She is always looking for excuses to watch me attempt to blow up a balloon. She is awesome.

As a secondary reason under the "not good stock" category, my family health history tells me that I should be having a heart attack any day now. Perhaps if I continue to anticipate such an occurrence, it will never happen. As a precautionary measure, in case my pot-boiling theory of preventative medicine does not pan out, I try my damnedest to torture my body in the name of maintaining a healthy lifestyle.

The last reason is that, a long, long time ago, at a high school far, far away, I developed a love for ultimate frisbee, a sport that is, by my primitive count, about 10% catching, 10% throwing, 10% cursing, and 100% running. And while I may eventually be able to prove otherwise, it is rather difficult for me to play without that running part.

But when you step into an ultimate game out of shape, that equation becomes 10% catching, 10% throwing, 10% running, 30% cursing, and 40% doubling over and gasping for air.

And so I run. As a "hobby."

But a recent development has made the actual running almost enjoyable again. My job search. You see, when you get as frustrated and angry as I have been about the job search, you want to go out to an ultimate game and let out all your aggression. But, when you suck and/or you are out of shape, odds are that you just play poorly, which results in more frustration. And then there are the days when, no matter how decent you are, you keep getting matched up on guys that make it an obnoxious habit of schooling you. You know, the taller, faster, stronger guys. Which is almost all of them.

And so I run. Not just to stay in shape or be better prepared for the next game, but because, somehow, running around the labyrinthine neighborhoods west of our house is a remarkably effective way of releasing those frustrations. As though with every step, I am pounding the heads of HR reps into the concrete. It helps that the layout of the area is such that you only need to know one direction: uphill, corresponding with moving away from our house. So, I can make turns at random, enjoying the sensation of not caring which way I go, feeling lost without being lost as I release the day's/week's tensions. And that is why I find myself running quite a bit lately.

Thus, while I continue to worry about any lasting effects to my mental health during this job search, when I do eventually find work, I will be in damn good shape.

The Sweet Sound of Silence

2011-02-08T17:07:00.000-08:00

Trenches were dug. Traps were set. Sleep was lost. The escalation continued, with Skittles' raiding parties racing to and fro above and behind our heads at all hours while the pest control crew continued to amass the rodent equivalent of WMD's until even they were afraid to enter the attic for fear of friendly fire.

And then there was silence.

I will give Skittles some props. He was one that obviously led by example. And when he met his end above our heads, his minions scattered, fleeing to find some other roving gangs of ne'er-do-well rodents. Or perhaps they simply retreated, waiting for another to fill the great squirrelly void he left.

It matters not. With the main threat eliminated, our attic's defenses have been refortified against future attempts at retaliation.

Now everyone can rest in peace.

Pun intended, Skittles.

(We salute you.)

Talk Like a Man: He Who Asks the Question, Holds No Power

2011-02-02T18:53:00.000-08:00

The days of blank stares are a thing of the distant past. I barely remember those times when I would talk to Baby C just to fill the silences. And for the most part, that's a good thing. You feel kinda stupid talking like that.
And yes, we've skipped over many different evolutionary changes in our ability to communicate with Baby C. After those blank stare days came the somewhat-facially-expressive-but-still-verbally-uncommunicative days. And then there were the babbling days. Then the monosyllabic days when "ma" and "da" referred to just about everything. All the while, for the Wife and I, our ability to apply just about any meaning to her "speech" really stretched the boundaries of "interpretation."

It is inevitable that, before we know it, the Baby Chicken will be picking up words at an alarming rate. And then she'll string them together into sentences, which will eventually become an endless output string of questions as she voraciously absorbs information about the world around her.

In the meantime, though, we are in a unique phase: a semi-conversational declarative-interrogative phase, which stands in stark contrast to the previously mentioned phase that involves Baby C asking all the questions. You see, this is how it goes. Baby C will babble, and everything she says (occasionally mixing in an actual word) will be stated as fact. And when the Wife and/or I hear this, we will suddenly notice that she is doing something dangerous, daredevil-ish, and/or forbidden in our household and be compelled to ask her a question.

For example:
"How did you get up there?"
"Where did you go?"
"What's on your hands?"
"Why is The Booger whimpering?"
"Who turned on the dishwasher?"
"Why am I locked out of the bedroom?"
"How did you fit all those grapes in your mouth?"
"Where is my phone?"

And then she will look at us, and cheerfully exclaim, "Bah!" That, or she will run away giggling and squealing.

My Life, Boiled Down to its Essence

2011-01-28T09:57:00.000-08:00

Last week, while out running errands, the Baby Chicken took a side trip to the local Barnes and Noble. Because she likes riding escalators, and I like flipping through books I'll never read. We also both enjoy looking for tacky cover art, although we have widely diverging opinions on this subject.

While there, I let her run amok in the children's section to do her thing. You know, rearrange some books here. Topple some more over there. Acquire and redistribute germs everywhere. And all the while, there was an middle-aged store employee hovering behind us, ready to right every wrong inflicted by Baby C, swooping in to reshelve books and realign anything left slightly askew by my child.

And as he did this, I thought to myself, without the faintest trace of irony, "Doesn't he have anything better to do than to pick up after my daughter?"

The Suck

2011-01-26T21:57:00.000-08:00

It is with great sadness that I have discovered my New Years Resolutions are at odds with each other. Specifically, to find a job, I am having to excise most of the non-parenting fun out of my life, including such previously taken-for-granted pleasures as TV, writing, eating, and personal hygiene. Yes, yes, I know. You weep for me. But, even worse, it seems that finding a job is even at odds with itself, as the more effort I put in to the task, the less seems to be accomplished.

I need to do a better job picking resolutions next year.

I'll Tell You How I Really Feel

2011-01-17T13:47:00.000-08:00

It's not been a secret that I've been looking for work. However, I haven't really spent much time talking about the gory details of it all. Because, honestly, talking about depressing things is not something I enjoy doing and I'm sure reading about depressing things is something you don't particularly enjoy, either, unless you're Russian, you like Russian things, or you like catching up on all of the Best Picture Oscar nominees that no one hears about until this time of year.

It's the same reason why, when small-talking, people tend to always respond that things are going "okay," because no where in the term "small-talk" can you find the phrase "bitch session."

But I'm rambling.

Ah, yes, the job search.

It sucks.

You know why it sucks, though? It's not because I have not yet found a job, although that is obviously quite a big factor in it all. It's because, in the current environment, finding a job has been like throwing my information into a black hole. On only a few rare occasions have I received any sort of feedback that can help me in my continuing pursuit of employment.

Let's provide some illustrative examples:
Example 1:
Me: Blah, blah, blah, I think I fit one of your job openings well. Here's my resume!
Anonymous Employer #1: ...

Example 2:
Me: Blah, blah, blah, we both know so-and-so. I'd like to set up an informational interview to learn more about your company.
Anonymous Guy at Anonymous Employer #2: ....

Example 3:
Anonymous Recruiter: I saw your profile online and think you'd be a great fit for some openings I'm trying to fill for my clients. Please send me your contact info and resume.
Me: Sure, here you go. Let me tell you a couple small details about my qualifications, even though you've already seen them.
Anonymous Recruiter: ...
[a week later] Me: Hi, Anonymous Recruiter, I just wanted to follow up on the openings you had mentioned previously. Please let me know if you have any questions for me, or if there are any new positions you're trying to fill.
Anonymous Recruiter: ....

Example 4:
Me: Hi, Anonymous HR Person for Anonymous Employer #3, I saw your posting on linkedin and had a brief question about a discrepancy in the posting when compared to that shown on the official company website. Could you please clarify?
Anonymous HR Person for Anonymous Employer #3: ...

Examples 5-n:
Me: Blah, blah, blah, I think I fit one of your job openings well. Here's my resume!
Anonymous Employers #4-n: ...

And so on and so forth. Now, after a couple months of this, it occurred to me that maybe my e-mail account had caught whatever digital influenza is currently in vogue, potentially sabotaging all of my efforts. But, no, the truth is that the business world is full of douches whose time is far more valuable than mine. Well, that actually may be true if one bothers to go through the math, but, still, it would be nice if there were folks out there that exercised just an ounce of professional and personal courtesy to us jobless lowlifes. You know, spend those excruciating 30 seconds on a curt reply. Just a friendly note that says, "Hey, you're barking up the wrong tree. Go change your kid's diapers." I'd much prefer that over the silent treatment. Seriously, I would.

And just so I don't feel like a total hypocrite, I spent the last week catching up on all of my personal and professional correspondence, as I often go through significant lapses in communication. So, if you received an e-mail from me from out of the blue, don't be worried. I wasn't actually thinking about you, I was thinking about myself.

The House Arrest Era

2011-01-13T22:14:00.000-08:00

This photo pretty effectively sums up the first month or so of life with a Baby Chicken.

Quiet. Peaceful. Lacking any sense of place or time. Perpetually clad in pajamas.

The first several weeks after her birth were like living in a cave. The Wife and I camped out in the living room, alternating sleeping and being on duty, which often involved inadvertently falling asleep if the Baby Chicken allowed. Rarely did we even think to open the blinds, not that there would've been much to see, since it was the rainy season in the Bay.

Time did not exist. On one particular occasion, and I'm not exaggerating, the Wife and I briefly argued over whether it was Friday or Monday. Of course, it was neither. Actually, I'm lying a bit here. Sometimes I could tell what time of day it was by the quality of television programming. Also, it's amazing how one's tolerance for crappy TV goes up during those first several weeks.

Ah, but the peacefulness of holding a tiny, sleeping baby and drifting off to sleep without realizing it otherwise you'd be worried about letting her roll off the couch. It's amazing how much worry gets mixed in with those quiet, serene moments. Before Baby Chicken, I thought you could check to make sure your child is still breathing only so many times, but, of course, I was wrong.

Also, to all those folks that have perpetuated the feeling that breastfeeding is the only way to go and that you you shouldn't feel ashamed if it's not for you, but really you should be ashamed, so much so that you should keep making yourself miserable when you really should just be enjoying being with your baby? I'd just like to extend a finger of gratitude to you all. You guys are awesome.

I never expected to miss those days, but, on occasion, I do. There is something totally comforting about holding a baby that is completely and totally dependent on you.

Nowadays, Baby C wants to be so independent that I get warm fuzzies every time she reaches for my hand when we go for walks.

A War Has Begun

2011-01-11T21:43:00.000-08:00

The good news: the Wife and I are not crazy. Skittles is not a ghost, as our pest control people have heard him with their own ears.

The bad news: Skittles has a gang. And we have inadvertently declared war on them. We've taken it to the mattresses, except their mattresses are apparently in our attic.

You see, after weeks and weeks of futile visits and inspections, after the ratio of insulation to traps had begun approaching unity, something finally snapped for our pest control people. Literally. A rat was found dead last week.

And you think we would be rejoicing, except that after the corpse was disposed of, Skittles and whatever associates he has remaining in his employ threw a pow-wow, knocking over traps in rage and running laps overhead (because running laps is a surefire way to convey anger and violent intent, I hear) to let us know that they would not be going quietly into the night.

The pest control folks appear prepared for an escalation in conflict.

So, the Wife and I must wait and see who makes the next move.

Joy.

Oh, She is a Devious Little One

2011-01-08T13:18:00.000-08:00

As the primary caregiver, I have typically been the disciplinarian. I had no problem with this. When you spend that much time with your child, you become very tolerant of crying.

But Baby Chicken is no slouch. Sure, she spends a lot of time observing the Wife and I to figure out important things. Like how to blow on hot food or drink from a glass or brush our teeth. But she is also observing us for weaknesses.

And she found one.

Baby C recently put into effect Operation: Mommy Phase. It's a dastardly plan. So much so that I'm just as proud of her as I am exasperated by its effects. You see, for the past several weeks, she has made it clear that no one is good enough for her except for The Wife, which you can imagine makes The Wife feel awesome. But as the one who, until recently, shared every waking moment with her, this leaves me with quite the emotional bruise.

There would be times when I would get the Baby Chicken out of her crib and relish a hug, only to find her squirming out of my grasp and squealing for her mother. And they were squeals made of daggers.

But, you see, that was only part one of the plan. Part two involves her slowly letting me back into her life, but only after she'd broken me to the point that all I want is her affection with no room in my head or heart for obnoxious things like rules and proper parenting and child safety. And so now I bow to her every whim, ever fearful that the Mommy Phase might rear its ugly head again.

Whip smart, I tell you.

That's my girl.

Cliche and Mush

2011-01-06T13:17:00.000-08:00

At first glance, it is hard to believe that this is my daughter. But, on closer examination, it is easier to see the similarities. For starters, she is clearly making a lot of noise. Rings a bell. Secondly, she has already taken her hat off. Two for two.

This is what I remember from when the Baby Chicken was born.

Before she came into this world, I remember a whole lot of uselessness. Fathers are given a lot of time to worry about their imminent parenthood because, even as the birthing experience continues to trend towards sanctifying the whole process, their is still very little for the father to do except attempt to say nominally supportive things while the midwife or the doula or the nurse or the doctors are saying things that actually succeed in being both technically and emotionally supportive. You know what it's like? Your wife is an athlete on the field in a horribly pressure-packed clutch situation. She has coaches and trainers and teammates all giving her instructions to help her through, and they are all saying things in a language you cannot possibly even come close to tapping in to. And you are a fan in the nosebleed seats.

So, yes, I stood there and I watched and fretted and waited and dug down deep within myself to remember cheesy things I would say back when I was a coxswain in crew. In high school. Yes, those were the depths I mined to find supportive things to say to the Wife.

I remember drifting in and out of consciousness while we watched Finding Nemo during the wee hours of the morning, those blessedly quiet, totally unmemorable hours of anesthesia-induced calm. I have made a lot of questionable movie watching decisions in my life (Alive on New Year's Eve, The Road on a day quarantined in the house as Baby C and I hacked up our lungs), but this one could not have been more simultaneously appropriate and inappropriate. Still, that knotted-up of emotions, equal parts fear and excitement and worry, it just faded into the background for a while.

I remember things getting chaotic and very real in a hurry, as real as things can get for a fan up in the nosebleed seats. But, then, there was the Baby Chicken with her full head of hair and little misshapen head, and all I can really remember was a rush of euphoria and the glorious mix of relief and pure happiness and exhaustion on the Wife's face.

After the fact, I oftentimes complain about how useless I felt during all of this. How most people involved in Baby C's birth saw my presence as either a nuisance or a quaint oddity. But, really, I'm surprised I can remember any of that. Because, when the Wife and I held Baby C for the first time, the whole world shrunk down to this little sphere surrounding the three of us. And while it's easy to joke that I looked down in her wrinkled face and thought about diapers and college funds and tantrums and learning to drive and loser boyfriends and teen rebellion, in that moment, there was only one emotion, in its purest form, and I feel horribly cheesy even saying it: Love. And there was only one thought in my head.

"She's so tiny."

Filling in the Gaps

2011-01-03T14:25:00.001-08:00

In my efforts to write more, and also in response to the growing sense of nostalgia I've been feeling now that the Baby Chicken is old enough to drink (2% milk) and drive (her toy cars), I'm going to try something new for a while on this here 'ole blog and see how it goes. As always, I reserve the right to quit and/or forget what I'm doing as I see fit (or convenient).

The new twist is to go through old pictures and post whatever comes to mind. Yes, groundbreaking, I know. Too often, I've had an idea for something to write about, only to stare moronically at the screen when I sat down to attempt to do just that. So, we'll see where this leads.

Resolution Deja Vu

2011-01-03T11:35:00.000-08:00

The Baby Chicken has things easy when it comes to New Year's Resolutions. All of hers are attainable, either naturally so or by divine (i.e., parental) hand. For example, learn more words. I think she's going to be all over that whether I help her or not. As for giving up bottles? We boxed them up yesterday. It's tough to go cold turkey, but she'll live.

As for me, the resolutions look depressingly similar to last year. Actually, they are the same.
1. Find a job.
2. Read more.
3. Write at least once a week.
4. Find a job.

I've already got a good handle on the second two. The first and last one, though, are proving to be doozies. But, you know, it's a little too early in the year to despair over such things; so, Happy New Year's folks. May your resolution-fulfilling vigor last more than a month.

The Bad Day

2010-10-22T14:56:00.000-07:00

You know, looking back, for a day that included a car wreck, illness, and the Booger getting hit by a car, things could've been a whole lot worse.

No, really.

It actually started out somewhat promisingly. Having finally reached a breaking point with my eczema and sleeplessness, I had managed to wrangle a walk-in appointment with my doctor, schlepping the Baby Chicken and her gear into the city to get checked out. Normally, the idea of an impromptu trip to the city and the doctor with Baby C in tow would not register on the fun scale, but traffic was minimal and Baby C was happy to explore the examining room while eating Cheerios. And as we returned to the calm, measured pace of suburban life in the Bay (which, by comparison with our old life in NC, is only a few orders of magnitude higher on the busy and crowded scale), I eagerly stopped by the pharmacy for brand new, sweet, blessed drugs.

But then things started to go south.

In retelling the story, I have insisted that my decision to pull out into traffic from the pharmacy parking at the time that I did was a decision I would make on any other day. Whether the car I did not see was going too fast or the driver was not paying attention or my reflexes were too slow to see that car coming or I was too sleep-deprived and exhausted to make smart vehicular decisions....it's all irrelevant. I hit the car. Smashed it, really. At very low speeds. But it was smashed, nonetheless. My car on the other hand, just kinda shrugged it off. For a second, I was certain that my car had left a lot of vital components in the street and in the wheel carriage of the other car, because there were bits of metal and plastic all over my hood. Those apparently belonged to my license plate holder, the only true casualty on my end of the encounter.

Baby Chicken was less concerned with the wreck than with my getting her out of the car seat, squeezing her, and apologizing profusely to busting up our license plate holder.

So, yes, we got in a car wreck. The "victim" of the incident was perfectly civil, and we sorted out the mess after all the requisite calls to insurance companies. And compared to any other day, that would've been more than enough to qualify it for "bad day" status.

But an hour after returning home and spending more time on the phone with insurance-type people, a pest control man showed up to eliminate Skittles. It was disappointing enough that he found Skittles to be only a figment of my imagination, but in his last check around the house for points of entry, he left the back gate open for the Booger to escape into the street. Corralling an obnoxiously stubborn dog while holding a baby is not particularly easy, I've found. In this case, it ended with the Booger running across the street, trying to shoulder charge a red Buick's rear tire.

When I saw the Booger limp away from the ill-advised tackle attempt, bleeding from her foot, I reacted as any other person would. I wanted to kill her. But instead, I took her to the vet where they found she had a cut and a fractured nail and hopefully a deeper respect for both my authority and the uncompromising mass of moving vehicles.

So, the day's drama was over. I got the Booger and the Baby Chicken back to the safety of home, where I could watch both of them and the only cars I would have to worry about were the matchbox ones that Baby C liked to play with.

But, of course, that was when the fever and chills and body aches started.

As a parent, you get used to improvising. You have to be flexible. Bend, don't break, that sort of thing. And in this case, almost broken from the days events, I did the only thing I could think of to endure the illness while limiting my exposure to Baby C. I popped in a Pixar DVD and let her go into a trance while I sat in the corner of the room trying not to fall asleep while waiting for the Wife to get home. Whatever works, you know?

But, you see, it wasn't really a bad day at all when you think about it. Nobody, dog, man, child, or stranger, died or was hospitalized. Really, it was just an amusingly crappy day that I would not care to revisit.

Reason #33 Why Not To Turn Your Back On Your Toddler

2010-10-21T14:58:00.000-07:00

I don't think any captioning is necessary here.

As I Lay Me Down to Get Annoyed

2010-10-14T16:08:00.000-07:00

As happy as we are that the Baby Chicken has inherited the Wife's ability to fall asleep easily and sleep soundly through the night (except when teething), a small piece of me is a little sad that she doesn't wake up enough at night to render me completely sleep-deprived. Because, as we all know now, that helps you sleep better. Apparently, if you have trouble sleeping due to our own issues, you are out of luck. I could draw a logic diagram for you on this, but it might just confuse you more.

The short-and-simple of it is this: my "insomnia" returned recently. This time, the main culprit is obvious. My eczema has been horrendous. I weep for myself.

The return of my sleeping issues has reignited a years-long heated debate between the Wife and me. The subject? Books on mp3. Naturally.

You see, sometimes when I have trouble sleeping, I listen to music. Oftentimes, I can focus enough on the music that I ignore my burning skin and can fall asleep for 30 or 40 minutes. The Wife, when it takes her longer than 30 seconds to pass out at night, likes to listen to books on her ipod. It's a practice that confounds me.

Let me explain. I am not one who easily ceases an activity without finding a natural stopping point. Stopping a show before a commercial break? Pausing a movie in the middle of a scene? Putting a book down in the middle of a paragraph, much less a sentence? I find these practices both painful and loathsome. Even the advent of the Baby Chicken Era has done little to change this, although, the level of discretization needed to finish anything has increased dramatically (We can now enjoy our favorite half-hour sitcoms in 10-part viewings). So, the idea of listening to a book, only to fall asleep and wake up later in the middle of a scene possibility quite far removed from the last thing I remember... It makes me cringe. But the Wife argues, "but what if it helps you sleep better?" She swears by it, even though it takes her years to finish each story.

My counterargument: What if it just makes me angry in the middle of the night?

I'm sure you agree with me, because if I am guilty of anything, it is always being completely rational.

Do Not Taste the Rainbow

2010-10-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

The Wife and I have taken in a new housemate recently. It resides in our attic somewhere, scurrying this way and that, occasionally making scratching noises. Around 7am every morning, our attic squatter will do its little daily exercise routine directly above our bedroom, sometimes even in the wall.

We have named him Skittles.

Skittles did not bother us much at first. But, at a certain point, you start to worry about him taking advantage of our hospitality. Not cleaning up after himself, helping himself to the fridge or the baby, Bubonic plague. Stuff like that.

So, in sequence, our property manager, a subcontracted repairman, and a pest control guy have come out to negotiate with Skittles. Relocate whatever-he-is to a proper reservation where he can be with his own kind. Or kill him, whichever would be easier. And, in sequence, they have been unable to find Skittles or any trace of him.

Of course, that leaves us with only one logical conclusion.

Skittles is a ghost squirrel.

Broken News

2010-10-01T16:40:00.000-07:00

We interrupt your regularly scheduled lack of programming with this story.

You know, bad days are bound to happen. Rain, pours, etc. And while I have done my fair share of cursing today, I try to remind myself that as long as everyone is alive and healthy (and they are), one must try to keep things in perspective. Even laugh a little. I am too tired to laugh today, but Life, know that I am at least chuckling with you. You did a nice little number on me today, and for that, I will raise more than one bottle to you. Of beer, not formula.

There have been quite a few stories I've been meaning to post about lately about quite a few different things. I will probably still get to them. But, for now, I'm just going to rest and lick my wounds.

That is all.

In Order of Importance

2010-09-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

Big happenings around here lately. Chief among them is that we now have a new rice cooker.

If you were expecting stories about Baby C walking and climbing and squealing and dancing, I apologize for getting your hopes up.

But, you see, our old rice cooker had some serious issues. Namely, we could not touch it. The rice pot's surface had become so weathered that to even think of touching it brought to mind all sorts of unpleasantness. I never really subscribed to the cringing hysterics that came with hearing nails on a chalkboard, but after suffering through months of touching our rice pot, I have been converted. No, I am not exaggerating.

The new rice cooker is not super fancy, but what it is, is new, functional, and non-stick. After opening the box, Baby C and I spent 20 minutes just oohing and ahing over its slick surfaces.

Alas, its one major shortcoming is that is does not have a quirky, nonsensical saying printed on its exterior.

So, I dedicate this to our previous rice cooker, which, though we loathed to touch it, did serve us perfectly moist rice for many years:

Something Blossoming
The flower duet plays a gentle melody

Upon Further Review

2010-09-01T16:00:00.000-07:00

I am vain enough to look back at my own posts. More to appease the editor in me than the narcissist, I think. At least, that's the story I'm sticking to.

In any case, I noticed how the two pictures of Baby Chicken in my last post are actually not all that dissimilar from one another (from a guy's perspective). In both photos, her hair is flying about in (un/super)natural ways, as it is wont to do. I really don't have any other commentary to provide with that observation. Perhaps I am just reinforcing my original statement: Little Girl Hair is a strange beast.

While my success rate at pigtails has been somewhere in the 8-10% range, leading to much gnashing of teeth and squirming of baby, dealing with her mane during bath times has been a considerably more light-hearted affair.

Exhibit A:

("...And turn to the side...")

I Have Met My Match

2010-08-31T16:32:00.000-07:00

OK, let's be honest. That title is ridiculous. I seemingly meet my match everyday. That is life with an infant.

But over the last 9 months, I have squared off against colds, long distance travel, solid foods, crawling, cruising, and some truly awful diaper blowouts. And I am still standing, sanity 90% intact.

Now, I face a new foe that can no longer be ignored. And this enemy is a mysterious, impenetrable one that I have never faced the likes of before.

Little Girl Hair.

I mean, seriously, how does one wrangle something as unruly as this (referring both to the hair and the child):

Into this?

There is some sort of magic involved that no amount of domesticity can help me acquire.

It's the Little Things

2010-08-24T22:29:00.000-07:00

So what does one do on their first true day off in 9 months, 1 week, and 2 days?

Let's see. I cooked, I cleaned, I did laundry, and I played ultimate. And then the day was over, just like that.

Kind of underwhelming, eh?

But, you see, in between some of those things (which I did with masterful efficiency and loud music), I also took a whole 20 minutes to eat my breakfast, and a ridiculous 45 minutes or so to eat lunch while reading articles (in their entirety!) on NYT. Apparently, stuff is happening in the world. Who knew?

As for the ultimate, the rust did not only show, it sort of blinded. Of course, I chose to play the lunchtime pickup game for amblers, thinking it would be a good re-breaking in point. But somewhere along the way during the past many months, ambling got much faster than I remembered. By the end of the hour, the retirees at the game were encouraging me to just take it easy. Oh, but the glorious exercise. It's a wondrous sort of muscle pain I feel today.

As for the Baby Chicken's take on things, of course, she did a bit of crying at the new day care. But it was probably just a ruse to size up which of the big kids she'll have under her thumb within the month. I'm told she eventually warmed up and was scoping out the entire joint as much as her 2-ft perspective would allow.

And at the end of the day, when I picked her up, feeling both refreshed and exhausted, she held on to me and would not let go.

Best part of my day? I'm leaning towards yes.

It's Not Like I'm Ready to Push Her Out of the Nest

2010-08-23T20:40:00.000-07:00

When I took Baby Chicken to Alabama, she was 6 months old. She had learned to sit up, and while her little headstrong, adventurer personality was beginning to bud, she was quite manageable. And at the time, I had adjusted to the latest iteration of Baby C, and I had really hit my pre-mobility stride, able to handle all the day-to-day stuff along with all the usual curveballs that daily life with a baby involves. In other words, I thought I was awesome.

But when I got to Alabama and handed Baby C to my mother (or had her taken away, more like), I suddenly found myself without purpose. It might've been nice to have been told something like, "Go help out in the kitchen," or "Your dad needs you to teach him how to use the latest gadget he bought." But, no, I just sort of ceased to exist once I had relinquished control of Baby Chicken.

It was a weird feeling, to say the least. Practically every minute of my life for 6 months had been devoted to caring for the baby and fighting off the constant threat of total chaos that looms over any household with small children. So what did I do? Nothing, really. But it was the most unsettling nothing I've ever done. You'd think I'd have been pretty practiced at it after being in grad school for 20 years, but this was an entirely different sort of nothing. An idleness with an underlying itch to be useful, to be in control, rather than one that you could just wallow in and luxuriate in the lack of responsibility.

I did spend some time interacting with M, preparing myself for when Baby C can talk back. But, usually, M was off playing by herself in a closet, hiding from the Roomba. And so it was that I spent almost all of 5 days standing around feeling useless.

Fast forward 3 months and imagine how I felt today when I took Baby C to day care for the first time, giving myself my first 8-hour stretch without any contact with the little one during her waking hours. You'd think I'd have wandered around the house listlessly, holding back pathetic little sniffs every time I picked up a toy. But no. Strangely enough, there was no trace of that empty, useless feeling. In fact, I did not even feel any guilt, except the guilt associated with not feeling any guilt.

Strange. But I take it as a good sign that it's time for me to start looking for work again. As proud as I've become of my title of "Stay at Home Dad, Ph.D," I think I'm ready to hit the job hunt again.

But not before I squeeze in a few more games of ultimate on my days off.

Hopefully Not Speaking From Personal Experience

2010-08-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

Since I assumed the role of primary caregiver to Baby Chicken, I've been using a diaper backpack that has essentially been the equivalent of a plastic bag. And as Baby Chicken has gotten older and the demands of fatherhood have begun to include extra extra changes of clothes and snacks and extra toys, the plastic bag approach to going out with the baby has become much less practical.

Plus, whenever we go to playgroup, I think the other parents snicker and giggle (holding their babies up in front of their faces so as to be polite about it) as I rummage through my dingy little bag that's main organizational feature is that it holds stuff and does not leak.

So, finally, the other day, I loaded up Baby Chicken and went shopping for a suitably masculine diaper bag.

At the baby gear store, a woman pushing an old rickety cart full of dingy blankets approached me and began complimenting me on my beautiful baby. We get this treatment all the time; so, we've learned to be gracious and humble about it. Baby Chicken flashed a few coy smiles to fulfill her part of the introduction.

But then the woman said, "This baby is your life!" And she said it with a disturbing conviction, her eyes bugging out just a little.

"She sure is," I replied, pulling Baby C's stroller a little closer to me.

"The first woman in your life is your mother!" she continued. "And then it's your wife! But I don't see your wife around! And now it's your baby!"

"Well, she does think she gets to call all the shots," I said, slowly positioning Baby C behind me.

"And you would do anything for your baby!"

"Well, she does mean the world to me," I said, now holding up something referred to as a "Diaper Dude" in front of me like a shield.

"And if you had to, you would slit a cop's throat! If that's what you had to do to protect your baby!" This was accompanied by a throat-slitting hand gesture.

"...," I said. And then, finally, "Well, I hope it would never come to that, I suppose."

"She sure is a cute one, though," the woman said brightly, bug-eyes returning to their resting state, and then she walked away, stinky blankets in tow.

I was left speechless and not a little bit shaken. Baby Chicken, being generally fearless, was unfazed.

I ended up getting a SkipHop. It doesn't look as lame as it sounds.

I Give Up. For Now.

2010-08-12T11:23:00.000-07:00

There's a sport I used to play. I think it was called "Ultimate", or "Ultimate Frisbee" to the layman unconcerned with trademark issues.

It was a good sport for me. Above being able to get copious amounts of exhausting exercise without actually feeling like I was "exercising," playing ultimate was both social and competitive for me, two things I need at least marginal doses of on a regular basis.

But, of course, since Baby Chicken was born, my social engagements now consist of playgroups (talking about babies) and library nursery rhyme time ("Daddy's little baby loves dancing, dancing!"). I can sometimes convince myself that our walks provide something resembling physical activity, but as for fueling my competitive spirit? Not so much of that anymore.

When it was first reasonable to attempt to take Baby Chicken on outings with me, I had grand ideas of being that cool dad that can do it all. That can cart out his baby to a field with no fuss, play his heart out on the field, stop to give the baby a bottle or change her diaper, then play his heart out some more. But Baby Chicken said, "No."

And since I abandoned all efforts to play games while on daddy duty, just about every time I was presented with an opportunity to play an evening game baby-free, it was fate that would step in with a big fat "Niet". I would get sick or the Wife would get sick or we would have family visiting or it would rain. And just about every time I was completely unencumbered by real life, the game would be canceled.

On one occasion, I actually got out to the field, cleated up, and was so charged up to actually be running and throwing, that on the first point, I blocked the disc so hard it violently dislodged my wedding band from my finger. That was followed by half an hour of searching in the grass, half an hour searching the web for treasure hunters for hire, an hour and a half of listening to a treasure hunter regale me with stories of hunting for the love of the hunt, and then thirty seconds of me handing him a couple hundred bucks in exchange for my ring. That was in April. I have played maybe twice since.

In the past several months, I have spoken with many a parent who will mention some aspect of Their Life Before with a combination of wistfulness and mournful loss, and I imagine I have that look right now. But it never lasts long, because baby antics go a long way toward making you forget those little and big things you've sacrificed.

And, in truth, I know that I will again return to the ultimate field. One day when I no longer have speed or skill or hair on my side. But that is when I will begin grooming Baby Chicken to be the world's greatest ultimate player; so, it will all balance out, I suppose.

Public Non-Service Announcement

2010-08-11T10:03:00.000-07:00

It's a funny thing keeping up a blog. It starts out as something to do for fun, a diversion, or a creative outlet. But then, when life gets in the way and you fall out of the habit, suddenly, getting it going again almost becomes a chore, no matter how much you really want to get things kick-started again. You find yourself reassessing why you write the damn thing in the first place. Besides, after "writing" became "blogging", didn't blogging just become facebook-ing or twitter-ing? Shouldn't I have figured out how to condense my thoughts into easily digestible, witty one-liners by now?

No. This one does not tweet. It warbles and rambles.

When I first started this whole thing a handful of life events ago, it was meant to serve a few specific purposes:
1) as a completely unreliable record of memorable and not-so-memorable moments
2) as a means to reconnect with what I thought was a creative side that I had previously sacrificed to the Engineering Gods
3) as a way to laugh at myself and at life whenever it got in the mood to pick on me
4) as another outlet for my compulsive need to make lists

Along the way, I found a voice I was comfortable with, that I felt represented me and yet was just a half-step or three removed from what some might call "the real me". Whatever that means. But you get what I'm trying to say, right? I mean, I'm not going to go all "dear diary" on a completely public website. And let's be honest, I don't do "sincere" particularly well, anyway. As I was saying, though, that was a handful of life events ago. And now, there are times when I attempt to put fingers to keyboard and it just doesn't feel quite right.

So, yes, I am having some "voice" issues.

I suppose it is only natural with so much change in the past year. There are times when talking about Baby Chicken's poop feels awfully juvenile, when I'd rather just spew the verbal equivalent of rainbows and butterflies or perhaps ruminate on the difficulties of parenting. And, of course, there are times when all I'd rather do is wallow in all the accumulated sarcasm and cynicism that would be otherwise wasted in normal conversations with a 9-month-old.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, there are bound to be some growing pains around here.

That is all.

Still Here. Obviously.

2010-08-09T10:08:00.000-07:00

It has been over 2 months. In baby time, that is an eternity. An eternity filled with commando crawling, real crawling, pulling up, cruising, sitting down, babbling, liking solid foods, hating solid foods, daily head trauma, and at least 2 dozen teething false alarms.

And still, the Baby Chicken thrives under my mostly watchful eye. Singular "eye", because she is usually poking out the other one while mangling my glasses in her tiny grasp.

As a stay-at-home Dad, my life does not change all that much, despite the fact that Baby Chicken's abilities evolve constantly. So, there is not much worth telling to catch you up on that eternity of 2 months.

But I will tell you anyway.

When I get a chance.

Mmm... Sarap!

2010-05-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

Our pediatrician assured us that Baby Chicken's stranger anxieties are normal, just a little ahead of schedule. To stroke our egos, she said that Baby C's just smart for her age. She also informed us, though, that there really isn't a whole lot to do, and that we shouldn't force the issue with her no matter how annoying it gets having her bawl at all of our friends.

And so, as I type this, Baby Chicken is being passed around among a pack of partying Filipinos. Thrown to the wolves, so to speak, except the wolves are voracious only in their appetites for good food, karaoke, gossip and bawdy jokes (at high volumes), and cute babies to hold.

She is, remarkably, mostly okay with this.

So, why am I afraid?

First, she may in time realize that she no longer wants anything to do with these boisterous people, have a meltdown, and set herself back in the stranger anxiety department several months.

Second, she may alternatively decide that these people are a hoot and a half, and I will be hard-pressed to duplicate a similar environment when we get home.

And lastly, she may be returned to me with bite marks in her thighs. If you think I am kidding, you are not Filipino.

What's In It For Me?

2010-05-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

There are quite a few reasons why I am dreading my trip back to the South with Baby Chicken in tow. And because I like lists, I will enumerate these reasons for you.

1. Without taking any ridiculous, airline-associated detours, I am on the longest possible flight from here to Alabama. That's almost 5 hours sitting in a single seat with a 6-month-old. Thank Zeus my parents had the presence of mind to get us an aisle seat.
2. Baby C's receptiveness to strangers can best be described as a function of distance to the stranger. With decreasing distance, Baby C's reaction shifts dramatically from curious to nuclear meltdown. While physical features and personality can alter the transition point at which all traces of curiosity give way to pouting and crying and screaming, in general, 6 feet is a good working safe distance.
3. Baby Chicken has become quite the wiggly worm lately. Did I mention we will be sharing a single seat for almost 5 hours?
4. In stimulating new environments, Baby C forgets to sleep. When Baby C forgets (or refuses to) sleep, she gets cranky. When she gets cranky, she is less likely to be soothed by a bottle. When she gets hungry, she gets crankier. When she is tired and hungry, she is less likely to eat or sleep. Cue vicious cycle.
5. Now that we've dealt with the main travel-associated reasons, let's get down to the actual purpose of the trip. To see family. Now, what could I dread about my family? For starters, my mother will surely confiscate Baby Chicken immediately. I may never see her again. The Wife might be upset by this.
6. On the other hand, Baby Chicken might break my mother's heart should her stranger anxieties prevail. I might get disowned.
7. The four or five days of parading Baby C around the southeast to see all of her family there is likely to make a significant dent in her natural rhythms and habits. I might return home with a feral baby. The Wife might be upset by this. Also, did I mention we will be sharing a single seat for almost 5 hours?

I think I have a few other reasons rattling around in my head, but, my god, I'm already exhausted

The Hand That Feeds or Oh, It. Is. On.

2010-05-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

There have always been strains in my relationship with the Booger. When you get down to it, to her, I am not the Wife, and to me, she has bad breath, barks far too much, and I don't like picking up her poop. That's not to say she doesn't have her own unique charms, but, let's just say that when it comes to semi-intelligent drooling entities, next to this, this is not quite as endearing.

Lately, though, as the Booger has been further and further supplanted in all endearment-associated categories by Baby Chicken, the tensions have risen.

It did not help that there was a recent stretch of time during which it rained every day for a couple of weeks. And since the Booger does not find our current backyard as poo-worthy as the one back in North Carolina, an Incident was bound to occur. And it did. Right beside Baby Chicken's crib.

You would think that this would be a significant enough signal for me to start treating the Booger with proper amounts of respect and TLC, but because I am both stubborn and a little stupid, it only chilled my already cold heart. And so we had another Incident. Right beside Baby Chicken's crib.

I sincerely try to be dutiful about her care and upkeep, but I struggle with this concept when she whines for her dinner at 2pm (yes, that would mean a minimum of 3 hours of whining) or when she takes a demanding tone and stance as I prep the crew for an afternoon walk.

You would think that I'd have realized I have taken the coldness towards the Booger too far when she recently snatched a donut of mine, devoured it, and left me with a violently shredded paper bag. But you must understand a few things first. 1) It was not just a donut, it was a cinnamon twist from our local (super awesome) donut shop. 2) When it comes to food, I have 3 fundamental weaknesses: apple pie, french fries, and donuts. Oh, and wide rice noodles.

So, this latest non-poop-related Incident was a grievous offense, and I am taking the gloves off, bitch.

Party in the Back

2010-05-13T13:34:00.000-07:00

My hairline continues to display a disheartening cowardice, retreating millimeter after millimeter with no follicle brave enough to encourage his compatriots to regain lost territory. That war may have been lost before I was ever born, but I still feel as though my body has let me down.

Meanwhile, Baby Chicken's hair gets wilder with every day. When the Wife and I decided that I would spend some time at home with Baby C during her first several months, we joked that I would have to overcome the typical gender stereotype of being completely incompetent with little girl hair. And when Baby Chicken was born, we joked that I would have to learn how to braid hair in a matter of days.

While we have thankfully not reached that point yet, there is the matter of her unsightly baby mullet that must be dealt with. Even more unappealing is when she gets a bath, transforming Baby C into the cutest Steven Seagal impersonator ever.

Thanks?

2010-05-12T13:34:00.001-07:00

This is how I fell into my mother's trap:

Mom: I miss Baby Chicken so much. I just want to squeeze her every time I see her pictures.

Me: We wish you could see her more, too, Mom. Maybe you could take a long weekend to come out and visit?

Mom: She's changing so fast. It makes me sad.

Me: I know, she really is growing up fast. You know, we'd love for you to come visit again soon.

Mom: It's so hard to spoil her from the other side of the country.

Me: I know it's hard, Mom. We'd love for her to be able to spend more time with you. Hopefully you can come visit us soon. The Wife is out of vacation time; so, it's hard for us to plan anything right now.

Mom: [sigh]

Me: Well, maybe sometime this summer I can bring Baby C to visit you all there.

Mom: Oh, great! I just bought you a ticket. See you in a few weeks!

And that is how I ended up getting suckered into flying across the country solo with the Baby Chicken. The same Baby C that has become the Princess of Squirm. The same Baby C that is deathly afraid of strangers.

You Told Me So

2010-05-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

Someone suggested to me that Baby Chicken should be a baby model. I laughed. It is true that I think she is the most beautiful baby in the world (ever), but I realize that at least 5% of that thought is due to a personal bias. And after I laughed, yes, there was a moment when I looked at her and thought, "Hmm..."

There is a photographer who lives on our street, and she deals mostly in photographing children. Despite barely speaking to her before, she called me one morning and asked Baby C to come over to shoot some promo photos for her. And, the seed having been planted already, I jumped at the opportunity.

Unfortunately, Baby Chicken's modeling career was very short-lived. You see, in her modeling contract, she has a bold-faced disclaimer stating that she does not work with photographers not named Daddy. Particularly photographers not named Daddy who are female and wear glasses. And while no water bottles were thrown at assistants and no one actually stormed out on anyone else (Baby C being incapable of storming out on anything), there was much crying and post-cry hiccupping.

Oh well. There goes my meal ticket.

The Truth Is Boring

2010-05-08T13:05:00.000-07:00

Yes, we were experiencing some technical difficulties with Baby Chicken. I would have you believe that it was this protracted battle of wills that had us at our wit's end. That the Wife and I were getting no sleep, and all Baby C did was cry and scream and all we did in response was cry and scream.

In truth, our struggles with Baby C's eating and sleeping habits occurred over about a week. And generally only every other day during that week was a rough one, since Baby Chicken would be so worn out from her refusal to sleep that she would nap through most of the following day.

Also, that was a really long time ago. In baby time, it was ages ago (2 months!)

So, really, it was not much of a conflict at all. Which is kind of boring.

But, you see, when I am old and decrepit, I can look back at that series of posts (ignoring all the others, of course) and convince myself that I was being sincere and totally straight-faced truthful, that Baby Chicken was an absolute nightmare, and that she nearly broke me during those early years of child care. And then maybe I can guilt Adult Chicken into letting me live with her family instead of an old folk's home.

Everybody wins!

F.T.W.

2010-04-13T16:22:00.000-07:00

When a dictator has a tenuous grasp on her power, however much those grasping skills have improved, it cannot be long before an oppressed populace must strike back, even when that populace consists of just two tired parents.

And, so it is with great relief that I can say that the era of Baby Chicken as Ruthless, Tyrannical Dictator has come to a close.

We stood over her and forced her to submit to our will, the will of the people (in our house), the will of those who would give her food and shelter and clean diapers, and she bowed at our feet. Mostly because she cannot sit up yet.

Under the new kinder, gentler regime, Baby Chicken has returned to her two naps a day, and she accepts these without complaint. She also retires earlier in the evening, also without complaint. A certain level of compromise was required regarding feeding, as the Wife and I have relented on our previous policy of instituting per bottle quotas on formula consumption. The new rule is a bit more laissez faire, letting Baby C have as much or as little as she wants. And while at first we worried she was not getting enough sustenance, it is now apparent that we are all much happier this way.

All is good now. The Baby Chicken won that initial battle, but I won the war.

No Room for Negotiation

2010-04-07T12:38:00.000-07:00

It was not a bloodless coup. There were definitely casualties. Baby Chicken had to sacrifice her vocal cords for her cause, and, on the losing side, I found myself mourning my hearing and my crippled patience. Signs are pointing towards my sanity making a full recovery, but it was touch and go there for a while.

In the meantime, Baby C has been quick to establish the most important laws under the new regime. Loosely translated, they are as follows:
1. Thou shall not leave my sight, even if my eyes are closed.
2. I shall not take naps, scheduled or otherwise, unless I feel like it.
3. Should I choose to nap, I shall nap while being held.
4. I shall choose my own bedtime. Should you attempt to choose one for me, I will choose to not go to bed at all.
5. I shall not drink bottles, scheduled or otherwise, unless I feel like it.
6. Should I choose to eat, I shall eat as little or as much as I want.
7. Thou shall not put me down for any reason, unless I specify otherwise. Should you make the mistake of putting me down, I shall cry.
8. Thou shall not place me on my stomach. Should I desire to be on my stomach, I shall roll over thusly. Then I will summon you to expeditiously return me to a face-up position.
9. I shall not tolerate being in close proximity to strangers.
10. I shall not wear socks. Any attempts to cover my feet will be met with swift and brutal correction, i.e., the removal of said garments.

There Are Always Casualties

2010-04-05T15:07:00.000-07:00

For a while there, I thought I was kind of awesome, as far as being a stay-at-home dad went. Baby Chicken was thriving, laundry was getting done, errands were getting run, meals were getting cooked, and the house was remaining in a relatively orderly state. All was good.

But, when Baby C decided to revolt, I quickly realized that the only reason I felt I was doing an awesome job was because Baby Chicken had, until that point, been a freakishly good baby. The other mothers at playgroup would ask me when I managed to get everything done, and I would reply that Hazel enjoys watching me cook/clean/etc. And what I had previously thought were looks that conveyed "mad props to you" were actually masked sneers of envy.

Under the new regime, though, Baby Chicken had descended from true awesomeness to slightly less awesome. And that loss of a little bit of awesomeness by Baby C reduced me to having no traces of awesome whatsoever. As such, there have been days that have ended with me feeling and looking haggard, surveying with dismay the detritus of baby care strewn about every surface of the house, lamenting a skipped meal here or no plan for dinner there or uncleaned vomit everywhere, thinking to myself, "Ah, so this is what it's like."

And all the while, Baby Chicken relishes her new found control over me and trumpets to all, "Viva La Revolution!"

I'm So Over Her

2010-04-01T12:46:00.000-07:00

I take it back.

Baby Chicken is not as cool as I once thought. Why, you ask? Because she's showing signs of intelligence, and I will have none of it.

At some point last week, Baby C decided that the perfect baby schtick was getting old and decided to test out her attention cry. Or, as I call it, her smart cry. Her diabolical little brain has also figured out that being laid down means naptime and naptime means no more playtime. So, for the past week, she has begun crying bloody murder whenever I lay her down for her a nap.

Now, I'd be tempted to say that the joke's on her because then she plays for so long that she gets exhausted and then is forced to take a nap. Except, when this happens, the Baby Chicken only gets crankier and less capable of falling asleep, returning us to square one: screaming bloody murder.

And now that I have acquiesced to her demands a few too many times, she understands the power she holds in those little vocal cords and that little pout. Whereas before, she was content to hang out in all manner of baby apparatus currently in the house, now, the only acceptable one is Daddy's arms. So after hearing her pout and sputter for a minute or two and pick her up, she returns to her happy cooing state. But I know that behind that million dollar smile/blank stare, there is a sinister sneer.

I have been enslaved, people.

She's Creating a Monster

2010-03-31T13:57:00.000-07:00

Seriously, people. Baby Chicken's cuteness is starting to become a problem.

It's a strange thing, really. We receive compliments all the time about her. I'm not saying she is heads and shoulders cuter than any other baby (I might think it from time to time), but it's a polite, socially acceptable thing to compliment someone's baby. And so, as a parent, one should be used to this sort of thing. Yet, I cannot help but let these comments go to my head. I'm riding on the tiniest, cutest coattails ever.

I mean, it is one thing to hear that my baby is "so cute" or "adorable". Such pedestrian accolades. But when people start carelessly throwing in qualifiers like "Ever." or "in the world" or they toss in phrases like "baby model," it's easy to be convinced in my already way too enamored state of mind that Baby Chicken has busted through the cuteness wall into some other dimension where the adorable-osity factor is superhuman.

And it's not that I'm worried for Baby Chicken's sake. I can already tell that she is humble and down to earth. She shrugs these things off and just goes on about her usual business (sucking fists), gently reassuring the other babies in her playgroup (through coos and raspberries) that they are just as cute and that adults just get distracted by her hair.

No, I'm more worried about myself.

I generally feel uncomfortable drawing attention to myself. Which is why, although I think it would be cool if other people found this here ole blog (and, heaven forbid, kinda liked it), I am sorta loathe to try to publicize it in any way. It makes me feel a little dirty on the inside to shoehorn into a conversation, "Oh yeah, check out my blog!" And I even hate myself a little if I put a not-so-subtle link to it on an e-mail from time to time.

But no such feelings stopped me from announcing to every person I've met in the past 4 months that I keep a website for Baby Chicken. "Yes, Check Out Lady, she is quite adorable. You should see the pictures I posted today at BabyChicken.com!" And I was delighted to see that her site's traffic increased exponentially when I kept my facebook page (previously cobweb-ridden) updated with her pictures and site posts.

I justify my behavior by reminding myself that Baby Chicken lives hundreds and thousands of miles away from her grandparents and extended family. So, really, I'm just doing a service. But we all know the truth. I am addicted to hearing compliments about her.

Now, I suppose we could get all psycho-analytical about it and suggest that I have self-worth and self-confidence issues; thus, I poach all the good vibes directed towards Baby Chicken to feel good about myself. Or perhaps it is as simple as saying that I'm a proud father.

Regardless, let's just all agree to tone it down a bit before I get out of control, OK?

Obsolete

2010-03-25T12:24:00.000-07:00

The Booger's days are numbered. Not only is her replacement immeasurably cuter and far more fragrant (most of the time), but she has also learned how to roll over in just 4 short months. The Booger has had almost 7 years to figure this out.

She's going to have to learn some new tricks and fast.

Victory

2010-03-24T09:59:00.000-07:00

Every day has its own obstacles. Usually, the only real obstacle of the day is inertia, but I have resolved to take myself and Baby Chicken out every day. It serves to prevent albinism [I've heard] and also to feed my ravenous, stimulus-starved child with some new surroundings. At the minimum, this includes a walk with the Booger, which can be very rewarding ventures, since our walks almost always conveniently cross paths with a local donut shop. Funny how that works out. But at least a few times a week, I try to mix in something else, whether it be an errand or something more specifically baby-oriented.

But then there are the days when the obstacles pile up.

For instance, I missed my opportunity for weekend grocery shopping; so, this past Monday, Baby Chicken and I found ourselves in dire straights. After the usual housekeeping and baby-maintenance tasks of the morning, I loaded up the little one into the car and found the battery dead.

Unfortunately, all my attempts at jump-starting it proved futile due to a number of factors that I only managed to account for in a slow succession of head-smacking realizations.
1) My car is parked up a steep, narrow driveway, nixing any ideas of getting into the street for easier access.
2) My jumper cables are frustratingly short
3) The only neighbor's car I was able to wrangle over to my cause had a battery the farthest possible distance from my own (see [2])

Under normal situations, I might be peeved by all this. But, all the while, Baby Chicken sat in her Bumbo on the lawn and sucked on her fists happily, giggling whenever a breeze came by. So, I managed to stay remarkably zen about it all.

It would make a great story to say that I removed the battery and hauled it the 3 miles to buy a replacement, then hauled the new battery the 3 miles back home, all with Baby Chicken strapped to my back (uphill both ways in the snow). But that would be lying, and I never lie. In truth, I borrowed the neighbors car and drove the 1 mile to buy a replacement, got the car running again and still got out to the grocery store. So, yes, I emerged victorious (and fed).

In the end, the only loss of the day was that Baby Chicken lost a sock at the store.

Damn socks.

C'mon Now, Tell the Truth

2010-03-20T16:05:00.000-07:00

So, I know my baby is perfect and awesome and really, freakin' adorable. But, is she really?

Back in college, the Wife and I had a friend who swore that, when she had kids, they would be ugly. Her reasoning was that she was destined to marry an ugly man, whose ugly genes would dominate. But how would she know? Who would really tell her in the event that said ugly babies were ever produced?

What I'm saying is, it seems to me that we are so hard-wired to be absolutely infatuated with our own offspring (in a very excusable form of narcissism -- "gee, my genes are studs"), that it would be extremely difficult to notice whatever physical oddities our children might possess. I mean, Baby Chicken could have had a horn growing out the side of her head, and I probably still would not have noticed 4 months later (no offense intended at all to horned babies). For all I know, she might even actually have one. And, let's say she did have a horn growing out the side of her head, and I did somehow notice it. I would probably think it was the most adorable cowlick ever.

I'm not really sure what my point here is, but perhaps what I'm trying to say is that, even if you were to screech in revulsion at the sight of Baby Chicken, your screams would fall on deaf ears. 'Cause in my pre-programmed-to-think-this-way mind, she is absolutely beautiful.

Also, just to set the record straight, from a totally objective standpoint, she has been scientifically proven to be absolutely, freakin' adorably beautiful. I mean, c'mon. Just look at her.

Plan B: Ditch the Baby

2010-03-18T15:48:00.000-07:00

My efforts to resume physical activity (and, in the process, speak to other individuals that, for the most part, do not drool), were met with only very limited amounts of success. As outings for Baby Chicken, my few attempts to play ultimate were met with rave reviews by Baby C (as measured by deepness of sleep afterward). As outings for me to run and throw and dive and sweat and occasionally look skilled at running and throwing and diving and sweating, I only averaged about 10 total minutes of play time out of each hour and a half game. And, honestly, Baby Chicken could have played better than I did (I mean, she is destined to become the world's greatest female ultimate player, after all*).

Last week, though, my neighbor graciously offered to watch Baby Chicken so that I could go out and punish my body in the name of exercise. And when I heard the offer, I quickly blurted out my acceptance before I could give myself a nanosecond to ascertain whether she was just being nice.

It did not occur to me that I would ever feel guilty about parting company with Baby C for even 2 hours. Because I don't feel guilt. Except for over things associated with being a Catholic, 2nd generation Filipino who hasn't chosen his parent-approved profession and has moved 3,000 miles away from his family. But, of course, by the time I had put on my cleats, I felt like I had abandoned her. Left her in a dumpster somewhere for someone else to find (similar to the way my parents had acquired me, if their stories are to be believed). I suppose this is what happens when every 9 out of 10 breaths is devoted to Baby Chicken. And here I was worried about the baby suffering from separation anxiety.

Naturally, one point into the game, all feelings of guilt were forgotten. I was able to relish the feeling of sun and wind on my face and mucous coming up from my lungs. Ten points into the game, I was eating turf.

Still, the ability to return to Hobby #1 was glorious. The smile Baby Chicken flashed me when I returned to pick her up, even more so. I am discovering that, occasionally, it is actually healthy to be myself (and not Daddy) for short periods of time. Who knew?

Unfortunately, the hitch in Plan B is that my neighbor is 40 weeks pregnant.

*I am trying not to set my expectations too high. Hence, I did not proclaim her destiny to involve becoming the world's greatest ultimate player ever.

More Staring Than Playing, Really

2010-03-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

So, attending playgroup was an interesting affair that, believe it or not, actually went over pretty well. That's not to say the event did not have its fair share of awkward moments or minor Daddy faux pas. Here, I will enumerate them for you:

1. It helps to assimilate when you do not stand around awkwardly, desperately clutching your child for support.
2. It also helps not to look like this.
3. Apparently, pajamas are not appropriate attire for a playgroup. Thankfully, I was dressed rather reasonably. Baby Chicken, however, sure looked the fool.
4. Baby Chicken ate before arriving, whereas none of the other babies had planned that far ahead. So, there was a quiet, strange moment when the two of us sat and watched while 5 other mothers busily tapped formulas into bottles and shook vigorously (both bottles and babies...the babies less so).
5. Shockingly, I was the only male above the age of 5 months there.

For her part, Baby Chicken served as a very capable ambassador for the two of us, giving everyone and everything her million dollar blank stare. And towards the end of the event, she even fell asleep in my arms and snored quite audibly.

Fairly early on in the proceedings (which generally consisted of alternating babies between backs and tummies, with some occasional grabbing of each other's clothing), the leader asked the group who would be hosting next. And without giving even a second to let everyone think about it, she said, "How 'bout the new guy?!" And this was my response, perhaps mixed in with a hesitant nod of assent.

Still, I was grateful for the opportunity to talk in complete, coherent sentences, and Baby Chicken seemed to enjoy watching everything and telepathically telling me that I was right, she was the cutest baby in the room. We will see how well we handle hosting duties today.

To Boldly Go

2010-03-08T15:45:00.000-08:00

So far, I have managed to keep the Baby Chicken alive. In fact, she not only survives, but she also continues to hit all the normal developmental milestones, which occur every day and pretty much ensure that I am being constantly rendered into a pile of mush.

Staying at home with Baby C is not without its own inherent pitfalls, though. For the most part, I have managed to adapt. For example, finding a time to eat lunch has always proven difficult. Baby Chicken is typically wide awake for the entire period between 10am and 2pm, and as the weeks have gone by, she has required ever increasing amounts of interaction and attention during this time of day. But I have learned how to eat a satisfying meal in less than 5 minutes. Luckily, my body has also adapted enough not to retaliate from this type of gastrointestinal abuse.

However, even the most entertaining one-sided discussions I've had with Baby Chicken fail to provide the level of human interaction and adult conversation I require to maintain a functional amount of sanity. And no amount of out-loud narration of my day's activities ("Now Daddy is going to take out the trash.") can simulate the simple joy one feels when another semi-intelligent individual mutters, "'Sup."

And that is why, tomorrow, Baby C and I will infiltrate a mommy's playgroup.

I do not fear for the Baby Chicken's safety. Fist-sucking and wide-eyed staring are quite potent survival instincts for a 4-month-old. For me, though, if I should fail to make another post on this blog, then we will all know that I have made a grave mistake.

Second Verse: Same as the First

2010-02-06T14:16:00.000-08:00

I tried to take Baby Chicken with me to an ultimate game again this week. The result?
Baby Chicken: 2
Daddy: 0

On the plus side, I again played 4 points, but this time, I only committed 2 turnovers. A 50% reduction!

On the down side, Baby Chicken was not at all interested in having me outside of a 5 ft perimeter around her stroller.

I am not sure I have the capacity to win this battle of wills.

Baby Chicken Is Not On Daddy's Team

2010-02-02T16:42:00.000-08:00

This past week, I began the early stages of Operation: Daddy Has Needs, Too. Eventually, the grand plan involves regular exercise, and perhaps even a job. Or, at the very least, the opportunity to look for one. But, phase one will be limited to short outings with Baby Chicken to see what Daddy can get away with.

In this instance, I tried to attend one of my old ultimate games. I knew full well that I would only be an occasional substitute, perhaps playing every third point or so. And the other players were very receptive to the idea of having an extra sub on the sidelines at the cost of occasionally standing over a stroller.

So, after unloading the stroller, the diaper bag, the Baby Chicken, my cleats, and my water from the car and setting up camp on the side of the field (after watching my colleagues simply exit their cars and stroll to the field with a water bottle in hand), I restrained myself from jumping into the first point mostly because of the strange man drinking malt liquor out of his backpack 30 yards away. I'm not sure what he could've done against a dozen athletic man-types (and myself) nearby should he have decided to steal away with my baby, but his presence still gave me pause.

And after he left, as I was ready to remind my legs what physical exertion is like, Baby C decided it was feeding time. I was OK with this.

Many points later, I entered the game, turned the disc over, gave up a goal, and quickly exited the game for failure to get back to my goal line before the substitute. It was around that point that Baby C realized she was in a fascinating new place.

You see, Baby Chicken is quite the observer these days, and when she's in the mood to look around (which is whenever she is conscious and not eating), she will not accept any alternative activity. So, I found myself walking around the park, her big eyes taking in all they could. And whenever I attempted to set her back in the stroller to get a point in, she made her displeasure known to whatever poor sod had to stand beside her. And that poor sod made it his goal in life to run as hard as possible back onto the goal line whenever a point ended.

In the end, I played 5 points, all of which involved the other team scoring due to a turnover that I committed. So, yeah, there's some rust. The really sad part? I was exhausted.

All in all, though, I'd still chalk it up under the Small Victory column.

I Suppose It Could Have More Ruffles

2010-01-31T16:24:00.000-08:00

OK, I'll admit it. Dressing up babies is fun.

On a related note, I'm beginning to see why our children grow up to hate us.

Talk Like a Man: No, Really. Talk Like a Man.

2010-01-29T21:32:00.000-08:00

I was never blessed with a deep, manly voice. That is why I mumble and prefer to avoid situations that might make me excitable. Imagine the deep shame that came with having my sister's friends in high school call and start gossiping away not realizing that I was the one that answered the phone. Granted, that was before the gloriousness of puberty had fully kicked in, and my voice eventually settled down to something more adequately described as "unisex". But now that there is a baby in the house, the higher registers of my vocal range are once again getting a full workout.

Now, before you start imagining exaggerated squealing and squeaking, I will say that no glasses are ever shattered, and the Wife never gives me strange looks when I talk to Baby Chicken. But, let's face it, I sound ridiculous. I ask Baby C inane questions, I then answer those questions for her, and all the while I'm contorting my face and letting my voice rise to levels that are not even appropriate when singing karaoke.

But, again, when the baby looks me in the eye and responds with a smile or coo or even a well-timed burp or fart, I don't care.

Talk Like a Man: Grammar Lesson

2010-01-22T08:47:00.000-08:00

Here are the normal components of a conversation with the Baby Chicken from her perspective. You can essentially pick and choose at random, and the responses will pretty much always be appropriate.
A. [blank stare]
B. [grin]
C. [cry]
D. [squawk/coo]
E. [sigh]

As for our end of the conversation, a typical conversation with Baby C must be in the form of a question. The question must be repeated at least once, usually twice. More often than not, the question will refer to something on the baby's outfit. Common things seen on her outfits include "Mommy loves me," "I love my Grandpa," "Squeeze me," "World's Cutest Alarm Clock," "Too Cute," or "I could get away with murder." OK, I've never seen that last one. Barring an outfit-associated question, one should refer to the baby's state of sleepiness, hungriness, or stinkiness/dirtiness. And, when receiving an appropriate response from Baby Chicken (see above), one must typically counter with an affirmation, either exclamatory or interrogative in nature. Occasionally, one can respond to her with "No?" or "No?!", but almost never "No." or "No!"

Understand?

Here, I'll recap.
A. Ask a question.
B. Repeat the question.
C. Make sure the question refers to Baby Chicken's outfit/cuteness or diaper/sleepiness/tummy.
D. If Baby C responds, any of the following (or variations of them) are appropriate: "Yes!", "Yes?", "Yes?!", "No?", or "No?!" Repeat as desired. Combinations are acceptable.
E. Should nothing be worth asking the baby about, a simple "Hi!", repeated as often as one wishes, should suffice.

Example 1:
Daddy: "Are you 'So Cute'? Are you 'So Cute'? That's what your outfit says. Are you 'So Cute'?"
Baby Chicken: [blank stare]
Daddy: "Yes, you are! Yes, you are!"

Example 2:
Daddy: "I like your outfit. Are you my little All-Star? Are you my little All-Star?"
Baby Chicken: [cry]
Daddy: "No?! But, of course you are! Yes!"

Example 3:
Mommy: "Why are you crying? Why are you crying? Are you stinky? Is my baby stinky?"
Baby Chicken: [squawk]
Mommy: [sniff] "Yes, you are!"

Example 4:
Daddy: "Hi!... Hi!... Hi!..."
Baby Chicken: [sigh]

Talk Like a Man: Say My Name

2010-01-21T09:04:00.000-08:00

First thing's first. I no longer have my own name. "Chris" is a distant memory. For all the effort that went into naming my child something unique and special, I did not once consider the irony that I would join the anonymous ranks of those now known as "Daddy". Similarly, the Wife is now "Mommy". Those are now our designated callsigns, regardless of time, circumstance, or place.

The words "I" and "Me" are also irrelevant. Goodbye 1st person. Whether Daddy is talking to Mommy or Baby Chicken or Daddy, the only word that may now be used in association with the entity formerly known as "me" is, of course, "Daddy." Daddy will walk Baby Chicken around the house and say things like, "Just give Daddy a second. Daddy needs to eat. Daddy is famished." Or he will hand off the baby to Mommy and say, "Daddy needs 5 minutes to take a shower. Daddy reeks." And Mommy will respond, "Yes, yes he does. Daddy also needs to shave." Or Mommy will be curious why Baby Chicken is shrieking and ask, "What the hell is Daddy doing?" And sometimes, Daddy will think to himself, "What the hell is Daddy doing?"

Now, some may think this is all an exaggeration of the truth. No, it is not. Daddy does not exaggerate. Ever.

"Speech Impediment" or "Talk Like a Man", An Introduction

2010-01-20T09:04:00.000-08:00

When one has a child, you mostly just want to talk about the ever-changing nature of your baby. Yesterday she could look at me, rather than through me. Today she can coo. Tomorrow she will exhibit her much-anticipated "poo face." But, since I am self-centered, I have also spent a lot of time observing the ways in which the Wife and I have changed. And as a beta male with very few traces of alpha in him, I cannot help but focus on the ways in which the masculinity has rapidly been leeched out of my body.

I have mentioned how I am no longer capable of assuming a normal stance or walking gait. But, really, the first thing to go is speech. I have never had conversations with the Booger that have sounded as inane as the ones I hold with Baby Chicken, but as conscious as I am of how ridiculous I sound, I keep doing it. I can't help myself. The emotional attachment and the sheer overwhelming nature of her cuteness combine to melt my brain and make me sound like an idiot.

The interesting thing to me is how naturally one begins baby talking to their child without a hint of self-consciousness. What biochemical signal tells my brain to suddenly start operating at 5% of its previous standard (which, in my case, is already a very small fraction of its capacity)? You science types, feel free to chime in.

In the meantime, Baby Chicken smiles at me when I babble to her; so, I'm not expecting anything to change anytime soon.

Priorities

2010-01-19T12:23:00.000-08:00

When staying at home all day with the Baby Chicken, the main priority, other than keeping Baby C alive, is to combat entropy. By that I mean that my half hour of free time before she wakes up is devoted to fighting my own degradation, through the use of food, water, soap, toothbrush (toothpaste optional, depending on my current state of alertness), and clean clothing. Then, most snippets of Baby C-free time for the rest of the day involve the general disarray of the house: picking up/cleaning bottles, picking up various baby apparatus, doing dishes, cleaning surfaces that have accumulated visible coats of spit-up, milk, or the debris from hastily eaten lunches (because, now, every surface is the dining room table), cooking meals, and laundry.

It sounds like this whole process is grinding me down, but I must say that I am enjoying it. The one problem is that when I do find the time, spirit, and energy (3 factors that only align every couple of days) to attend to bloggish matters, I must then decide between this here blog with its 4 readers, and Baby Chicken's website, with the same 4 readers plus a couple dozen family.

And, as with pretty much every decision that I must make now that I am a father, Baby Chicken wins. But, I don't mind. I mean, she's pretty cute after all.

So, don't worry. The well is not running dry. It is brimming, but I am usually not there to attend to the overflow. Perhaps soon.

"Not Like John Wayne at All" or "Walk Like a Man"

2010-01-11T18:49:00.000-08:00

Fatherhood is changing me. I've heard it does that sometimes.

For instance, I spend a lot more of the day on my feet now. But I'm not running to and fro trying to get this and that done. I'm swaying or rocking or bouncing.

Like a lot of babies, Baby Chicken is usually soothed by a little movement. So, walks in her strollers or rides in the car are pretty surefire ways to soothe her or help her fall asleep or just to induce a bit of quiet alert time. But indoors, it is hard to simulate these types of vibrations, and for some reason, she does not find her bouncy chair particularly satisfactory. Thus, whenever I hold her, I'm either swaying side to side or doing any number of hokey, awkward rock steps to music.

This movement has become so second nature that I can no longer stand still without swaying. Today, Baby Chicken began fussing as I was prepping her for a stroll. She was already in her carrier, and I found myself trying to bounce her a little while opening the back door, except that I wasn't even holding her or her carrier.

I just hope this behavior does not come up when I start going back out on job interviews.

Are You a Robot?!

2010-01-08T19:34:00.000-08:00

In my first week on the job, I have taken Baby Chicken out with me on several errands. The task of saddling up all the necessary gear has not been too bad, but I've been a bit dismayed by how we are received in public.

No, I'm not talking about how I am perceived as a stay-at-home dad. I'm referring to the total and complete lack of strangers coming up and fawning over the Baby Chicken so that I'd have to get nervous about their stranger cooties getting on my little girl and making her sick and die.

We were at Babies R Us, and Baby C was easily the cutest lifeform in the store (granted, there was hardly anyone there), but no one showed the least bit of curiosity to look in her carrier and be trapped by the spells cast by her chubby-cheeked cuteness. What a bunch of asses.

Yesterday, the two of us walked to the downtown north of here (well, Baby C strolled. Or just slept) to go to the post office and the pharmacy. On this trip, strangers afforded us the proper respect, commenting on her and generally being overtaken by warm, fuzzy feelings and goofy grins. Damn straight. That is how it should be, I say.

It's Not Just the Balding or the Gray Hairs

2010-01-07T10:39:00.000-08:00

Another Christmas has come and gone. Granted, this one was a bit more distinguishable from the last several due to the presence of Baby Chicken. (And the fact that we celebrated it in California, and we're not in school anymore, and I don't have a job to go back to after New Years, and the Wife and I hosted my family for the Holidays for the first time).

I have noticed that while I still desire many frivolous things for Christmas, the types of gifts that actually elicit genuine reactions from me have shifted greatly towards the most mundane of items. Seriously, despite my oftentimes juvenile behavior, I am now so thoroughly entrenched in adult life that the present I liked the most this year (other than Baby Chicken, naturally) was a new set of towels. Might I add, though, that they are freakin' awesome towels. Green ones.

One might suggest that all my other gifts must've really sucked, but I'm pretty sure it's just that I'm getting older.

Do I Get A Raise?

2010-01-05T16:14:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my first real day at my new job. Whereas, before, I was listing my occupation as either "unemployed" or "bum," now, it is officially "stay-at-home dad."

The results? Well, the baby is still alive, the house is still intact, and the dog is also mostly still alive. So, time to start raking in those performance bonuses.

Can't Wait Till Next Year

2010-01-05T00:07:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up, I lived in a small 3 bedroom, 2 bath apartment with my grandparents, my sister, my aunt, and my two cousins. If my math is correct, that's 7 people. And since my sister was lucky enough to be a female teenager at the time, she got one of those rooms to herself. Which kind of blew.

The funny thing is...looking back, I do not remember at any time thinking that we were crowded in that apartment. Granted, I was ten, and all I really needed in life was a corner to build my Lego contraptions and a flat surface on which to do my homework (optional, really).

I mention this because my parents, sister, nieces, and cousins were in town for an entire chaotic week over the holidays, and the very thought of it exhausts me. The Wife and I spent part of Christmas day making the house spotless and ready for the population explosion, and, of course, within minutes of their arrival, the living room had vomited hastily emptied suitcases, presents, and wrapping paper all over itself and a minor uprising had begun regarding who was sleeping where.

I do not hate my family. I love my family. It would not be a proper holiday without them. We would not have invited them otherwise (except that they invited themselves first). And, it must be said, there were many great, memorable times to be had. But there were also plenty of times that could best be described with phrases like "herding cats," "pulling teeth," or, perhaps, "slitting my wrists."

To add to all of the craziness, we also had the issue of the Baby Chicken's normal sleep cycle, which usually involves staying up till midnight but sleeping in till 10 after an early morning meal. The Wife and I like this cycle. I already stay up till midnight; so, the Wife gets to go to bed at a reasonable hour, and we both get some extra rest in the morning. Go, Baby Chicken.

But there were 7 visitors in the house. Four of them go to bed early. One of them wakes up at 5am and plays revelry while cleaning the kitchen, reorganizing the cabinets, and cooking enough food for twenty. 2 of them wake up at 6am. One of those two will put on a Hannah Montana concert, and the other one will put on a five act musical play about princesses. And while the former kitchen-oriented activities are extremely helpful and the latter princess-related activities are extremely entertaining, one's receptiveness to their positive qualities is extremely diminished when they effectively down you daily amount of sleep by 3-4 hours.

But we survived. And it is quiet and peaceful in our home. The Baby Chicken's cries now resemble soothing nature sounds.

Next challenge: Being a stay-at-home dad.

Teenagers and Parents Know It All

2009-12-25T08:39:00.000-08:00

I've received a request or two for some sentimental blubbering; so, I will do my best, even though me and my sensitive side do not always communicate so well.

I find it interesting how newly minted parents always have the urge to impart advice, solicited or not, upon parents-to-be. I'm not saying this is a bad thing, but it's an interesting phenomenon. As if the whole experience involves some biopsychochemical trigger that stimulates you to relate your experiences to others so that the parenting torch can be passed on safely to your peers. I don't know.

But within days of hatching the Baby Chicken, the Wife and I were telling friends about what we couldn't live without at the hospital. Or baby items at home that are essential. Or why one should be bullish about getting as much help as possible with nursing so that you're not left in a panic when you're all by yourself at home. Or how, as much as you just want to stare at your baby, you should sleep whenever possible in the hospital 'cause you never know when the next chance will come.

And it's not as if we've become gurus overnight. All of these things were told to us by other friends who've had babies (who probably heard it from other friends or relatives). It's a circle of life kind of thing, I guess. But here are two things we hadn't heard. One is an observation, the other a piece of advice.

First, the observation. Having a baby is emotional. Duh. I'm sure you've figured that part out. But what I did not expect, and what no one else has related to me, is how almost every moment carries with it both an intense emotional fulfillment and a great sense of melancholy. Probably every reasonable parent has felt this, and it's probably lightly conveyed with all of those "Oh, they grow up so fast" statements. But I was taken aback at how strong this duality of emotion is. Driving the Baby Chicken home from the hospital, I could not have been a happier father, but then I was struck with the sadness that every first moment can also be construed as a last moment. She would never be that small again. Her first car ride home is almost over, and before you know it, she'll be crawling, then walking, then running, then driving. Seriously, I was enjoying a moment of euphoria driving the two of them home when I was suddenly struck by an intense sadness that could've even elicited tears if I was capable of crying. Which I am not. And then you hold her weeks later and marvel at how fast she's grown, only to be hit upside the head with a longing for her to stay this helpless little immobile lump of baby a little longer. There's a constant push-and-pull of anticipation for her next big or little change versus an inability to bottle each moment and savor it properly. It seems irrational. It seems that one should just be able to live in the moment. But that is not so easy, my friend. Trust me, if you have not experienced it, you will. Prepare yourself.

And that leads me to the one real piece of advice I would give to other parents-to-be, coming from my great position of authority on the matter.

Baby memory books are great. Everyone should be able to look back and relive that avalanche of change page by page. But, I would encourage you to write your own thoughts down, not necessarily for public consumption. Whenever possible, take a second to document your own take on things, not just the first coos or first steps or first words. Your own personal view, be it the frustrations after an evening of inconsolable crying or the peace of a quiet, completely uneventful moment holding Baby C at 4 in the morning. Life with a baby rarely gives you a moment to let your thoughts marinate. And as much as these times are about the baby, the parents are also going through a period of significant metamorphosis which should not be ignored.

Yes, this is middle-school English class. You can even bejewel the cover of your journal if you like.

And that is my somewhat sentimental blubbering for this holiday season. That is all.

Breaking the Law

2009-12-23T18:59:00.000-08:00

During the first couple weeks of Baby C's life, the Wife and I went to see a lactation consultant who confirmed our suspicion that I would not be able to nurse the Baby Chicken. We had dressed up the little one in a blue outfit with sharks and fish on it, making her look like quite the fearsome creature. While we were there, we mentioned to her and her assistant that I would be at home with the baby for at least the first few months, to which the assistant responded that I should be fine so long as I stopped dressing Baby Chicken in blue.

I waited for her to chuckle and signal that she was joking.

But we only awkwardly stared at each other for a few silent moments, and when she did not smile, I knew that she found it offensive that I was forcing this abomination of masculine blue on her. Except it was the Wife who put Baby C in the first place. Because we couldn't give a damn if a girl wears blue or pink. (That is a lie, of course, since we do care if she wears too much pink.)

In any case, I find the color prejudice both maddening and amusing.

Target Acquired

2009-12-22T22:07:00.000-08:00

The Baby Chicken has started smiling/grinning when awake. It isn't often, and it isn't completely voluntary, but it is pure baby smile. Which is to say that we just sort of dribble to the floor in pools of excessive fawning whenever it happens.

She really has only done it directly at me so far. With the Wife, she has smiled, but looking off into the distance.

I'm not so naive as to think this means she is showing any favoritism towards me. I think this is strategic on the Baby Chicken's part. Within the limits of her blurry 18-inch near-sightedness, she has looked at the two of us (and the Booger, I suppose), and determined that I am the most likely individual to wrap around her microscopic, little fingers if thrown a bone in the form of a baby smile.

I am wise to her act. And, yet, totally helpless.

At Least I Found the Dog After Cleaning

2009-12-20T21:06:00.000-08:00

Friday was my first full day back on the Force (Baby Chicken Precinct - Non-Lactation Division) after the whole puking-sickness thing. I celebrated by eating a bagel and cleaning the house. The order restored by my manual labor lasted all of about 4 hours. Not much time to savor the fruits of my labors.

I have noticed that, when a baby is present, entropy is generally an exponentially growing bitch. Keeping up with the diaper pail and the bottle cleaning and the dirty blankets and all of the assorted mess that accumulates when all 3.5 of us spend most of our waking/spitting up hours in the same space...it is a losing effort.

But that is just the price we happily pay for this:

The Toilet Is Our New Best Friend

2009-12-17T22:07:00.000-08:00

We are all still alive 'round here, but it was touch-and-go there for a little while.

Yes, I've been meaning to update for a while on our little adventures in parenting. It is amazing, though, that 7 pounds of immobile cuteness can fully occupy two adults. A few months ago, an obstetrician told the Wife and I that she recommends n + 2 adults in the household where n is the number of children under the age of 4 at home, including the newborn. And I can totally see why. That's not to say we don't have it under control, but I will say that we've managed to strike a precarious balance, just keeping ourselves in the "in control" zone, but teetering dangerously close to absolute chaos.

So, when the Wife got sick, hell did kind of break loose.

You see, we had friends in town last week. And, thinking I could get some brownie points, despite the fact that I will be staying at home with Baby Chicken all day come the new year, suggested that the Wife go out and enjoy a few hours in the real world while I watched the little one. What I did not say was to go out and contract a nasty GI bug that would have you puking your guts out. But that is what happened.

And so the puking commenced followed by the not eating and not-enough drinking followed by the lack of production of sufficient milk reserves for the baby. Meanwhile, I was on full time Baby Chicken duty, minus anything associated with lactation.

And just when the Wife started entering the clear (and I was about as exhausted as can be), I casually ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out. (Note: if you're ever interested in really freaking your partner out, try drinking a glass of fruit punch Gatorade before a violent vomit-fest. It's very dramatic.) So, the tables were turned, except, usually when one refers to "table turning", one party gets to enjoy some relative advantage over the other. Well, I suppose not vomiting is a relative advantage.

While we were both obviously concerned about our own/each other's health, the whole situation was all the more stressful because we were hoping and praying that the Baby Chicken would not contract the same ailment. And based on our violent responses, I'm afraid she would just explode if that were to happen. But it has not happened yet. Phew.

Meanwhile, as one can imagine, everything else had fallen into disarray. We are not even sure if the Booger is still around here somewhere.

But now the Wife and I are both feeling much better. I might actually eat something tomorrow. Today, I even took the time to shave off my record-length facial hair (2 mm). Balance is slowly being restored.

Hallelujah.

Waterworks

2009-12-05T17:24:00.000-08:00

In the title of this post, I am not referring to waterworks of the tearjerker variety. I could probably come up with a few stories in that vein that have to do with Baby Chicken, but those stories are personal, and I'd really rather not talk about losing my cellphone at the hospital. Yeah, and all that stuff about the overwhelming emotions that accompany the birth of your own child. Blah, blah, blah.

No, I am referring to waterworks of the drooling variety.

The Wife and I decided that our exile within the confines of our own home had ended and that it was time to start taking Baby Chicken (and by extension, ourselves) outdoors into the fresh air and car emissions. And since Baby C is a wide-eyed little girl that puts on quite a convincing display of being interested in everything (despite being able to see mostly nothing), we thought she would enjoy the sunshine and all the strange things one can see on a boring suburban street. Naturally, she fell asleep in 2 minutes.

But the Booger was ecstatic. You see, we've mostly forgotten that she even lives with us anymore. So, this was a real treat to go out and relieve herself on foreign soil and sniff up everything she can. And while the Booger is not normally so disgusting, when she is excited and in an environment that presents a myriad of new scents, she drools. Copiously. She drools a very viscous fluid that is incapable of releasing itself from her jowls, and so it just keeps accumulating. In this case, she started picking up leaves with it. We're glad one of the two at least enjoyed the stroll.

Oh, and we cannot wait until we have two droolers in the household.

I Guarantee It

2009-12-03T12:01:00.000-08:00

I would not call myself an insomniac, but starting around last March or April, I started having a lot of difficulty sleeping. I've actually never been particularly good at falling asleep in a timely manner, but last spring it got noticeably worse, with most night's involving a number of wake-ups and a lot of restless sleep. The Wife and I have a number of theories as to the root causes of this problem, but probably it is a combination of all of them. Moving, the change of climate, not having a job, having a baby, freak flare-ups of eczema, temporarily living in a cat-harboring household, and the embarrassingly old age of our mattress. As is the case with most of our furniture, our bed mattress is a hand-me-down, and it is easily as old as the Wife and I. Combined. Squared. Factorial. Archaeological investigations are still trying to pinpoint its date of origin.

But luckily, I have discovered a solution to sleep problems. Have a baby.

No, seriously, I have not slept this well in a long, long time. Somewhere between the 2.5 days of labor and the subsequent adrenaline that accompanies birth to allow you time to stare moon-eyed at your child, you develop such an insurmountable amount of sleep debt and physical fatigue that when you lie down, sleep comes instantly. It is absolutely wondrous. I can lie down for 30 minutes or 3 hours, be asleep in less than 5 minutes (as opposed to an hour or two, which is what I had to suffer through previously), and wake up feeling like a lightly fatigued million bucks.

So, ladies and gentlemen, if you're having difficulty sleeping, have a baby. You can thank me later.

A Stranger in My Own Home

2009-12-01T16:20:00.000-08:00

My parents came in for a long weekend. Ostensibly, it was to see their grandchild, but I am smart enough to know that, since they already have two granddaughters within spitting distance that they can spoil on a moment's notice, there would have to be at least one or two other reasons for them to cross the country and visit. In addition to seeing Baby Chicken, they were also here to inspect our new home and prepare it for their upcoming holiday visit, which will include my sister, her daughters, my two cousins, three french hens, and a cooler full of frozen food (in a pear tree). I am still trying to figure out when the Wife and I assented to having 7 people descend on our small residence for a whole week (during the first two months of babyhood), because now that I really take a moment to think about it, I kind of need to catch my breath.

Since leaving home for college, all reunions with my mother during the fall months have had a certain ceremony to them. Specifically, rather than warm greetings and hugs and how-are-yous, my mother rolls up my sleeve and jams a flu shot into my shoulder. Did I mention she's a pediatrician? Perhaps that would have been useful to know. In any case, after the requisite flu shot, then we are free to engage in normal pleasantries, like talking and cooking a meal together.

On this occasion, I got two flu shots and a third mysterious booster shot, and then I ceased to exist, as my parents' attentions zeroed in on the Wife, Baby Chicken, the Booger, the sorry state of our abode, and the emptiness of our fridge/freezer. When they left, we had managed to accumulate a month's worth of food and a bomb shelter's worth of inflatable beds, sheets, towels, ziplocks, trash bags, and chicken broth. You know, normal family visit stuff.

I would have you guess who among the Wife, Baby Chicken, and the Booger got the bulk of my mother's attention, but the answer is obvious. I mean, don't get me wrong, Baby C got her fair share of grandmotherly pampering, and the Wife was treated to some extra sleep and a whole heap ton of gourmet desserts and parenting advice, but it was the Booger who made out like gangbusters. If you're wondering how my mother normally behaves herself around our dog, I will refer you to this video. Obviously, my mom does not sit in a high chair, nor does she bounce around after dropping food on the floor, but you get the picture.

I have spent a lot of time explaining to her that we cannot openly endorse handouts of people-food to the Booger, since it would only encourage begging and promote canine potbellies. Thus, when we are feeling particularly sorry for the dog, we nonchalantly drop food on the floor and refuse to acknowledge that we ever dropped it or that the Booger ever ate it (although "inhale" is a more apt word). And so over the weekend, my mother managed to "accidentally" drop several ounces of turkey, some stewing bones, a few tablespoons of stuffing, leftover pieces of pancake, a leaf of bok choy, and several green beans. It was like the Booger had her very own Flint Lockwood Diatonic Super Mutating Dynamic Food Replicator. My god, the dog is going to explode when my parents visit for a whole week.

Fuzzy Logic

2009-11-29T16:05:00.000-08:00

This is the division of labor in our household right now:
The Wife: nurse Baby Chicken, recover from childbirth, sleep and eat when possible
Me: everything else, sleep and eat when possible
Booger: shed, beg for food, sleep whenever not begging for food
Baby Chicken: eat, sleep, look adorable

Obviously, Baby Chicken has a natural affinity for her mother. The logic is simple. Baby Chicken likes to eat (then sleep). Her food comes from breasts. The Wife has breasts. Thus, Baby Chicken likes the Wife.

Conversely, Baby Chicken hates having her diaper changed. I change her diapers (most often). Baby Chicken hates me.

But somewhere along the way, I have unknowingly offended her even more than what is normally associated with a routine diaper change. For, she has made it a habit of "Double Peeing". I will take her diaper off, and as I am finishing cleaning her up, she will relieve herself again. Sometimes, this necessitates a second clean diaper and/or a clean outfit. Always, it necessitates changing out the covers on her changing pad (catalyzing additional laundry washes). This phenomenon occurs often enough now that I have finally learned to permit her a few extra bare-bummed moments to give her an opportunity to exact her punishments on me without exacting them on the changing pad or the clean diaper or her clothes. And all the while, the Wife stands by and laughs.

I should be a little peeved by this behavior. But that is the thing about having a baby. Unless copious crying is involved, all of Baby Chicken's actions seem cute.

The Booger Meets Baby Chicken

2009-11-27T15:18:00.000-08:00

The Wife and I had worried how the Booger would react to having a baby around the house. She is a bit possessive of the Wife; so, we weren't sure whether she would transfer this possessiveness to Baby Chicken or if she would find an opportunity to slip the baby out the back door when we weren't looking (which, so far, is never). We even contemplated what some "professionals" have suggested: getting a baby doll and treating it like our own child, including fake strolls outside. Just to acclimate the Booger to these types of activities. But I am not so self-confident as to give in to such nonsense.

In the end, though, there's not much to say. We brought Baby Chicken home, set her carrier down on the ground, and the Booger took 2 or 3 good sniffs before deciding that she was more interested in whether she was going to get fed anytime soon. Ever since, every now and then, she'll walk up casually for a quick sniff inspection and be on about her not-really-all-that-merry way. Sometimes, I wonder if the Booger even recognizes Baby Chicken as a living entity in the house.

Of course, we're glad that she's not showing any outward signs of over-protectiveness or downright disdain, but, I suppose deep in our hearts, she would instantly want to cuddle with Baby Chicken and pose for fun pictures. So much for that.

I'm not saying that all's been moonbeams and rainbows and bacon snacks between those two. The Booger fully realizes that she has to choose between A) being a good dog, swallowing her sour grapes, and taking whatever attention she can get whenever she can get it, or B) acting out and whining like a bitch. She has definitely been a bit sulky, and she takes whatever opportunity she can to sit beside us (the Wife, actually) and get a little face time.

The Booger has also initiated a clever, subversive campaign of strategic over-shedding. Her undercoat is coming out in disgusting quantities, to the point that we cannot eat, sleep, change diapers, or swaddle the baby without encountering her furballs. It is a wonder that Baby Chicken has not choked to death. But, you see, it's a pretty genius strategy on the Booger's part. Because, we get so overwhelmed by her shedding that we are forced to take time out to comb her. So, not only does she get quality one-on-one time with us while Baby Chicken is left alone to eat her hands, the Booger also gets the equivalent of doggy massage, and she ends up with a radiant, shiny coat.

Indeed, I have underestimated her all these years.

No Lifetime Warranty?

2009-11-25T16:36:00.000-08:00

So, yeah, the Wife and I have a baby. She's alright, I guess.

Truth be told, Baby Chicken does not do all that much. She lies there, she tries to eat her hands, she stuffs her legs down one pant leg (usually the right), she eats, she sleeps, and she poops. I'm wondering at what point I can return her if she does not deliver on all the fun, cute stuff promised in all the brochures.

I kid!

So, I suppose I could talk about how great it feels to be a father. How incredible it is to hold Baby Chicken. How much time I spend just watching her while she sleeps (or squirms or cries or releases potent explosions of gas). But I have rules here. Rules that I try to abide by as strictly as possible unless it proves inconvenient or just not fun. Rules that I will not expound upon in detail, because, I could do without people playing watchdog on whether I actually abide by them (not that they'd care). In any case, one of these rules is that if I find myself getting too sentimental, shut it down. No one wants to hear me blubber.

And that should tell you just about all you need to know about how I feel about Baby Chicken.

Was It My Thick Southern Accent?

2009-11-20T21:54:00.000-08:00

When the Wife informed me that she was ready to go to the hospital, we called up Labor and Delivery to update them on our status and make sure it was an appropriate time to hit the road. Not knowing how long this call would take, I did the talking to spare the Wife from having to explain her situation mid-contraction.

This is how it went:
Nurse: "Labor and Delivery"

Me: "Hi. I'd like to speak with a triage nurse, please."

Nurse: "I can probably help you out."

Me: "OK, great. My wife's contractions started A hours ago, when she started having a bit of "bloody show". We happened to have an OB appointment yesterday right around the time they were beginning and she was dilated B cm and C% effaced. Since then, her contractions have progressed from being of D seconds in duration, about E to F minutes apart to being much stronger ones of usually G seconds in duration and H to I minutes apart. Her water hasn't broken yet, but the we think we've hit all the major benchmarks that the OB told us to watch for before coming to the hospital for delivery."

Nurse: "OK, sir. Can you please put your wife on the phone?"

I handed the phone over to the Wife, at the time grimacing in pain, and this is what I heard her say:

The Wife: "Yes, about A hours ago...[wince] B cm... At first, about D seconds, and usually E to F minutes apart... [grimace] Yes, much stronger now... Now they're about G seconds long... [more wincing] Yes, and H to I minutes apart. No, my water hasn't broken yet, but we have had some "bloody show". OK, we'll be there shortly."

So, I may be mistaken, but I think I had told the nurse on the line all the information she wanted or needed, but, apparently, it was unintelligible, or, coming from the mouth of a man, untrustworthy.

I don't know.

Plans Are For Suckers

2009-11-19T21:52:00.000-08:00

The Wife and I are planners. We like structure. Even if the plan for a day is that there should be no plan for the day, we are fine with that, since it takes away the pressure of feeling like we should be doing something. Babies supposedly do their best to upend these things, I've heard, but that's not the point I'm trying to make.

I mention this because, as tends to happen (thermodynamics and whatnot), everything we've attempted to plan out in the past year has been thwarted or mutated in one way or another.

For instance, my original plan was to keep putting up posts about memorable events for the past couple years that I never got around to mentioning, culminating in some thoughts about our last days in Durham. I thought it'd be a nice way of ushering in the new (and scary and awesome) by reflecting a bit about what led us to this point. But, of course, all that got thrown out the window fairly quickly.

And when we decided that we wanted to start the next phase of our life somewhere not in North Carolina, we were very intent on not ending up in California. The Pacific Northwest, maybe, but definitely not California. Truthfully, we thought we might end up somewhere in the Midwest. But here we are.

And when we moved, our plan was to get our old house cleaned up, maybe share and enjoy a meal with our friends, and then have a quiet evening in our empty house as a nice way of saying goodbye to a good home. But a series of snafu's resulted in our power getting cut off a day early, resulting in a bit of panic and a last minute sleepover at our friends', combined with frantic morning cleaning before the new homeowners would arrive. So, life decided that we did not need a quiet, reflective farewell to our house. Instead, we got a swift kick in the pants and that weird farewell wave from Crazy Lady, smiling her strange grin that seemed to suggest the intention of finding some neighborhood children and putting them in a cauldron.

And it was a nice bonus for us to move out here to the Bay Area where the Wife's parents live. Not only to help us get on our feet, but so that they would be nearby to see Baby Chicken born. So, of course, it was not in the plan that they would, in the span of 3 weeks, suddenly get a too-good-to-refuse job offer up in Seattle (of course) and move away the week before Baby C's due date.

It was also not in the plan (or you getting the point yet?) that I struggle to find a job and end up at home most days blogging about the Booger and Baby Chicken all the time. But, you know, I can think of worse things than becoming a stay-at-home dad.

Nor was it in the plan that the pediatrician we chose for Baby Chicken would decide to leave the Bay Area, too, resulting in weeks of phone tag with other doctors.

We also had originally set up to attend a Baptism class the week before she was due, since it was recommended to get it out of the way before the birth. But, then, the contractions started that same day. So, we thought, oh well, that's one plan we can deal with being thwarted. On the plus side, the Wife's parents had not yet hit the road for Seattle; so, they thought they'd get to stick around and see their grand-daughter. We thought, hey, things are working out.

But, of course, the contractions just moseyed along, not escalating in either intensity or frequency. So, the Wife's parents were forced to hit the road, lest they miss their start date. And while we never thought we'd be sitting through 2 hours of Baptism "training" while the Wife was being hit with contractions, we did.

In the end, Baby Chicken was, of course, not very cooperative, either, refusing to budge that last little bit necessary. The doctors came in and helped the Wife and Baby Chicken out with forceps, giving Baby C some impressive but very temporary battle bruises.

But then we had her in our arms. And that was always part of the plan. So, really, in the end, despite Baby Chicken now declaring to us that there shall be no more plans henceforth, all is good. Very, very good.

Idle Thoughts

2009-11-09T15:37:00.000-08:00

The other day, I had a pleasant webcam conversation with M, who is now 3 years old. She has graciously decided that Baby Chicken could have one of her toys. However, she emphasized that this donation be restricted to a single item. M also explained that she had feet. Two of them, in fact.

In other news, we finished laundering Baby Chicken's initial supply of clothes, and I am left wondering how one is supposed to maintain control over baby socks. Normal socks are hard enough to keep paired up, but baby socks refuse to be corralled or kept in order. They slip through the cracks in the laundry basket, they pop out of your hand like Mexican jumping beans, and they easily scurry away and hide themselves with just a hint of static.

When pictures of Baby Chicken start appearing on this site, and you notice horribly mismatched socks on her tiny feet, you will know why.

We Found Post-It Notes Around the House for Weeks

2009-11-08T09:26:00.000-08:00

The Wife and I lived a quiet life back in NC, rock banding notwithstanding. And when my sister visited with her two girls, that quiet life had been gloriously disrupted for a week. But that didn't hold a candle to having my parents come visit with my sister and the nieces about a year and a half ago. Having them all together is a special form of chaos, one which is suitably contained at their respective homes, which have specialized far off rooms where one can retreat for some relative silence. One that is not suitably contained in our modest former home. And so it was that we found ourselves swimming in coolers, frozen Filipino food, juicy juice boxes, dolls, markers, camera bags, shoes, post-it-note art, pacifiers, Hannah Montana DVDs, and an exponential increase in garbage output.

My parents had been idly talking about visiting for 3 years, actually. Except, I think they feared that there would be so little to do in NC that they would end up doing manual labor around the house for entertainment. Not to say there's really anything at all to do where they live in rural Alabama.

So, I think they were surprised that we managed to keep them busy the whole time, taking them out to Brazilian food, a local garden, the children's science discovery museum, and have an Easter egg hunt at the house with plenty of time to torment the Booger and fall asleep while L watched/danced to/sang to her Hannah Montana shows.

M continued to display her ability to become completely absorbed in mechanically-oriented tasks, like watering flowers, playing with blocks (or just transporting blocks from one child's play area to another's), sweeping the floor (a favorite activity of hers), raking sand, or just scribbling on post-it notes. At the children's museum, we watched for almost an hour while she played at a station of small cubbyhole-like doors, each with different types of locks. Nothing but putting a block in one cubbyhole, closing the door, and then moving it to another. For an hour. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth when we finally had to pry her away for fear of growing roots into the bench nearby. She also had a curious habit of hugging random children at the butterfly house, who apparently were not appreciate of said hugging. Strange children.

L, meanwhile, continued to display her abilities of mugging for the camera and being best friends with the Booger.

Overall, it was a fun, exhausting weekend of adults watching children play. And eating. Lots of eating. Because eating is synonymous with family get-togethers.

Not As Cool As My Aquariums

2009-11-07T18:21:00.000-08:00

Back in June, the Wife and I went drove down to Monterrey to see the aquarium. It was a bit of a birthday trip, to celebrate the last day that I would ever get to be the center of attention. Weep a monsoon for me.

So, yeah, we divided our attentions between the impressive displays and all the various shenanigans of the young children we saw. Like the boy on his push car ramming the bottom of the steps repeatedly, looking up at each descending person for approval. Or the little girl who would furtively slap her even littler brother, who would only stare back with a confused look, as if to say, "Was that supposed to mean something?" Reminds me of back when my parents laid down the law against sibling-on-sibling violence. And so my sister resorted to taking the heads off my LEGO people, putting them in her mouth, and then spitting them back out across the room. Which, in my 5-year-old mind, was akin to torturing kittens and puppies.

We cannot wait to have kids.

Anyways, it was a fun trip. Here are pictures with very little in terms of accompanying anecdotes or captions. Sometimes, pictures of fish are just pictures of fish.

I only post this blurry picture because I've never seen an octopus so active and out in the open. Although, judging by the way it would repeatedly back up against the rocks (there was a raw spot on the back of its "head"), I'd be tempted to say that it was high or something.

I think this one's really just a Muppet.

I Almost Forgot

2009-11-06T15:59:00.000-08:00

So, we got four votes on the poll about Baby Chicken's blog. Honestly, that was about 2 more than I was expecting; so, chalk it up in the win column!

I'm still finishing up all these "flashback" posts, but pretty soon, it'll likely be all Baby Chicken, all the time. Are you ready for an overload of baby-ness?

In any case, thanks for the comments, and keep 'em coming! Otherwise I mostly just sound like I'm talking to myself, and that's kind of sad.

Yes, that's two exclamation points in the same blog post! (Now 3!...cue: infinite loop)

In Memory of Fish I Have Bought and Sold

2009-11-06T13:41:00.000-08:00

Towards the end of my first year in grad school, many decades ago (0.8), I spent a lot of time thinking about how I would spend all my free time over the summer. Although I'd still be working in the lab, the absence of classes and homework would leave me with a lot of idle time that I was determined not to spend bettering myself in an academic/intellectual fashion. So, I decided to build my own aquarium. As one typically does in such a situation. If you're a loser.

Luckily, the Wife (The Girlfriend, at the time) did not find this decision to be repellent in any way.

So, yes, I built an aquarium. I would give more details about its construction and its particular specifications, referring to things like total volume, flow rate, filtration mechanism, and number of inhabitant species, but let's be honest. Just mentioning the term "flow rate" puts me in an elite class of nerd, and you'd probably just nod off anyway. For simplicity's sake, I will just say that it had fish and water in it. And coral. And crabs and shrimp and snails.

When all was said and done, the result was a living-room-dominating, eery-blue-glow-out-the-front-windows-creating monstrosity with a slight, barely perceptible slantedness to it. But I was a proud of it, and I enjoyed its presence (and usually, its maintenance) for 5 years. And our friends enjoyed cleaning the algae off the front glass with the magnetic scrubber. In truth, I was lucky that the whole system managed to establish a freakish biological equilibrium that permitted me to be increasingly neglectful of its upkeep without any significant consequences. Oftentimes, while the Wife and I were busy not deciding what to make for dinner, we would just sit and watch all the various goings-on in each tank. Like our flamboyant goby Armand grabbing food and spitting it into his burrow for his shrimp-partner Albert to eat in between shifts of clearing out new tunnels. Or the flame angel Fiona going about her usual business of biting chunks of tail off her tankmates.

However, as time passed and my favorite fish all died off from old-ish age (not really knowing the fish years conversion rate), I slowly lost interest in decided that it was time to break it all down.

Over a couple weeks in the fall of '07, I sold everything off piece-meal. And, let me tell you, it is very strange to take a fish that you had named and maintained for 4 or 5 years, and then haggle with a stranger over its price. And then to throw in the proverbial runt-of-the-litter fish into a deal because you knew nobody would buy it on its own. But I managed to sell of everything, recouping a significant amount of my investment in the process.

It was sad, but it was time to move on. So, the Wife and I used the money to buy kayaks. As one typically does in such a situation. The Wife loved the kayaks as much as I loved the aquariums. Sometimes she would make paddling motions in her sleep. We would often meet up with a couple of friends who had their own kayaks and venture to far off regions of eastern North Carolina to enjoy a couple hours of exploring and waterside picnicking and being bullied by fishing boats. Our kayaks even went with us on a vacation up to the Finger Lakes, where they mostly just attracted slugs and rain. Still, we felt like those outdoorsy people in the commercials as we drove around with those kayaks strapped to the top of the car.

Unfortunately, they, too, had a limited life with us. Bringing them with us to California proved to be impractical; so, the kayaks had to be sold. We managed a separate deal with our home-buyers over them and pocketed a significant amount of our investment.

And then we got to California and used the money to pay for half a month's rent.

A Tale of Two Sams or (Fake) Music Brings Us Together

2009-11-05T15:29:00.000-08:00

All I wanted was to get friends together in the same space and pretend to be a rockstar for a few minutes. Why did that have to be so difficult?

Well, first off, it boggles the mind that the Wife would not only give in to my desire to own the Rock Band videogame, complete with fake drum set that is fully capable of making drum-like-but-not-in-anyway-musical noises, but that she would actually buy it for me herself. She not only bought it for me, she left it as a surprise in the garage for me to almost run over. So, awesome with a twist of near-tragedy.

But, then, we realized that something was missing. An audience and fellow rockstars. And as we pondered this, we realized that something else was missing: a TV that wasn't 20 years old and that was capable of facilitating said fake-rocking without inducing blindness from eye strain. So, we bought a new TV. No big deal. And then we realized that yet another thing was missing: a new TV stand capable of housing our fancy, shiny new technological behemoth.

And that is where the trouble began.

The Wife and I were sort of particular in our search for a new entertainment center. The primary criterion, of course, was that it was big enough to house the TV. But it couldn't be too big. It also had to have doors to be able to hide the TV. But it couldn't be too dark, too antique-ish, too bright, too wide, too tall, too short, too narrow, too country, too contemporary, or too expensive. So, our couple weeks of scouring eastern North Carolina's furniture stores was essentially fruitless. Out of the blue, though, my parents suggested we look at Sams, because, after stocking up for nuclear war, the first thing I think of when I think of Sams is quality furniture. Lo and Behold, they had the perfect entertainment center, complete with sliding doors, nice (real!) wood construction, and a not-too-dark stain finish. The hutch for the TV for the videogame for the fake rocking for the friends who would want to come hang out because we're so cool had been found.

Unfortunately, we found it at the Sams in Raleigh, because the website declared it was unavailable at the one close to our home. We called the store, confirmed its availability, and inquired as to its relative largeness. "Oh, you should be able to get it in an SUV, no problem," he said, then hung up. So, we trekked out to the store in Raleigh, grabbed the item number and asked an attendant to let us see the boxes so that we could confirm its suitability for transport. "Oh, I'm not sure those are available just to take home by yourself. But I don't deal with furniture normally," he told us before disappearing. And then we waited. Three laps of food sampling later, we found another attendant, who looked confused then called to the back to send for help. Another half hour passed, and yet another guy took us to the back and pointed up into a distant, dusty corner. We squinted.

"You bring a U-haul?" he asked.

"It doesn't look that big," we responded, still squinting.

"That's the smallest of 3 boxes. And it's our last one. And they're discontinuing it," he said, annoyed. He then explained that we can have it delivered for just an additional 30% of the item's cost, and they have convenient shipping dates starting in 3 weeks. He advised that we go down the street and get a U-haul, which would only tack on an additional 15-20%. We actually briefly considered this, except that the U-haul center had no trucks left.

We left distraught, having wasted over an hour in travel and over an hour sampling not-so-good frozen delicacies from the Sams food section.

On a whim, though, we returned to Durham and stopped at the Sams there. Immediately, at the front of the store, we saw the entertainment on display. In five minutes, a swarm of attendants had gleefully confirmed that each box would fit individually in an SUV, and had retrieved said boxes from a precarious height, and had stacked them neatly on the curb outside for our pick up. How it is that two different branches of the same company operate so differently, I do not know, but we were ecstatic.

Nevermind that we had to rope in our friend Empty Cup to come with his SUV to join our two in caravaning the furniture home. And nevermind that the boxes (each containing one massive, complete chunk of the TV stand) were not so cooperative about fitting in our cars. And nevermind that Empty Cup, the Wife, and I lacked the strength to actually remove the boxes from the cars and into the house (apparently, furniture is heavy). And nevermind that we nearly crushed Empty Cup and/or gave him a hernia from the heavy lifting. We got the perfect TV stand for our TV for our videogame for (fake) rocking out with our friends who'd think we're cool. It was worth it.

Where is the TV stand now, you ask? Well, there was no way we'd part with it after all of those troubles, including nearly killing Empty Cup. So, the movers packed it up and shipped it across the country to us. And boy are we glad that we have it sitting in the garage collecting dust.

Our Bags Are Packed, We're Ready to Go

2009-11-04T15:27:00.000-08:00

The hospital kindly gave us a list of things we ought to bring with us when Baby Chicken is born. In TV shows and movies, you often see people heading off to the hospital in a panic, with one small bag or suitcase in hand. But this list insists that we will need all of our worldly possessions. The prospect of lugging all of the proposed items from parking up to the L&D suite is daunting. So, sorry, hospital, I don't think we'll be packing our rolling pin or a snowsuit for Baby C.

In any case, we pretty much are ready to go on a moment's notice. So, I guess I've got over a week's worth of finger-tapping, grass-grow-watching, paint-drying waiting to do.

Fun.

Baby Chicken Made an Enemy

2009-11-02T16:57:00.000-08:00

Because of the recent blood pressure scare, the doctors advised the Wife to undergo antenatal testing, which isn't so much testing as it is monitoring. In truth, she has shown no other warning signs, it's mostly just a precaution, but it provides us with half an hour of bonding time with the Baby Chicken once a week. Basically, we get a quick ultrasound, and then we listen to her heartbeat for 20 minutes. So, yeah, pretty painless.

Normally, this is about the most relaxing thing you can do as medical tests go. We just sit there and listen to the heart rate go up as Baby Chicken repositions herself or gives her mom a good swift kick in the ribs. And the nurse periodically checks in to make sure that the baby exhibits an appropriate amount of activity during our allotted time.

Unfortunately, our particular nurse is a bit crazy. On our last visit, she checked in and was unsatisfied with how much Baby Chicken had moved in the previous 10 minutes. I tried to point out to her a nice little peak on her heart rate chart, but she wouldn't hear of it, disappearing behind the curtains and saying that she'd be back to try out some of her "wake up baby" tricks.

That did not really prepare us for when she stormed back into the testing cubicle and began to shout at the Wife's belly, her face a good inch or two away from her stomach, clapping and hooting and hollering like a chicken on drugs (or a person wanting to be a chicken on drugs), seemingly oblivious to 1) how insane she looked, 2) how her screeches obviously caused us physical discomfort, and 3) how she was practically making out with the Wife's stomach. Pregnant or not, personal space had been violated, and it was extremely startling and uncomfortable to watch/experience.

Thankfully, Baby Chicken responded, heart rate skyrocketing angrily; so, the craziness ceased.

The nurse actually used to work on the L&D ward at the hospital. Man, am I glad that is no longer the case.

The Wisdom of Fathers

2009-10-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

Most of the women that the Wife and I talk to about babies and parenthood tend to say very specific, very instructive types of things. Sage advice about indispensable items we should have in the nursery, or little ways to establish a routine for ourselves that might save us a few minutes of sleep here or there.

The men I regularly converse with...that's another matter.

Here are some of the words of wisdom I have received over the last several months. Feel free to add your own in the comments, dads.

- Your life is over.
- Your life will never be the same.
- Say goodbye to doing the things you want to do.
- We'll see you again in 6 months. Maybe.
- You have no idea what you're in for. [Presumably, a child.]
- Don't sweat it. Life doesn't change that much. [His wife handles everything.]
- Do you get along with your in-laws? I hope for your sake that you do.
- Once they hit 12 pounds, life is gravy.
- Your child's feces will, for all intents and purposes, become an almost neutral compound to you.
- Pray for a girl. I'm tired of debating circumcision.
- When will your girl turn 18?
- Don't worry about her hating you when she's a teenager. She'll probably be embarrassed by you, but she won't hate you. She'll reserve that for her mother.
- Family trumps fun. [Just heard this one today! 10/26/09]

Yes, I'm Talking to You

2009-10-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

So, I've been thinking about this baby blogging thing. I've mentioned before that I plan on keeping a separate, family-friendly site devoid of as much of my running commentary as I am capable of suppressing (which will naturally overflow to here, I'm sure). You know, a site that my parents can easily pull up, show to their friends to show off their latest granddaughter, and use as a nice conversation segue into how the Wife and I have moved so far away, depriving them of their ability to spring surprise visitations on us.

Inevitably, though, this site will not be able to exist on pictures alone; so, I've been wondering how I should approach whatever writing may be necessary as exposition for all the various photographs of Baby Chicken [random aside: it is only a matter of time before I take pictures of Baby C in our stock pot]. This is where you come in...There is a poll to the right asking for your input on this matter. Should Baby Chicken's blog be written (A) in 1st person, from Baby Chicken's perspective, (B) in a self-referencing 3rd person from a parental perspective (complete with self-referencing as "Mommy" and "Daddy"), (C) in a generally objective 1st person, or (D) as Yoda.

For example:
(A) Today, I was very unhappy because I kept making stinkies. But Mommy and Daddy always come and make me feel all better.
(B) Baby Chicken has been pretty fussy lately; so, Mommy and Daddy have had a lot trouble getting enough sleep. Mommy can't wait to return to the quiet of work, leaving Daddy to deal with the crying all day.
(C) I took a picture of Baby Chicken crying.
(D) Cry all night, Baby Chicken does. Strangle themselves, her parents might.

There are your choices; so, make your voice heard. Seriously, you have an opportunity here to shape a whole website! And shape it you will, because your vote will likely be the only one. Also, feel free to follow up your vote with a comment or two below.

Naturally, I reserve the right to override the poll results. And, naturally, the Wife has the right to override whatever I do.

A Chucking Good Time

2009-10-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

While I'm on the topic of disc golf, I suppose it's a good time to get back to my photo-fueled trip down memory lane.

In grad school, most of my labmates played traditional ball golf; they would oftentimes slip out of lab early on a nice afternoon and play a round. I never joined them, having built up a number of prejudices against the sport, which are all perfectly justifiable despite my experience with the sport limited to an hour at a driving range in high school and intermittent games of the miniature variety. But I love disc golf, and luckily, many of my non-lab-affiliated friends did, too. It's a shame that there aren't more courses close to our place here, as was the case back in North Carolina.

For the uninitiated, disc golf is 20% walking, 5% throwing, 15% cursing when your throw goes awry, 10% debating with yourself whether a different disc will actually do what it's intended for or if you just suck, and 50% looking for your lost discs. So, you see, there's a lot to like.

In all seriousness, at the very least, you get to enjoy a nice hike with your dog and/or friends. And those 6 times when the disc does exactly what you want it to usually make up for the 48+ times it doesn't.

Back in North Carolina, we were a bit spoiled by having 3 courses close by and another half dozen within an hour. On one occasion, me, Other Chris, Colonel George, and Empty Cup ventured out to one of the more remote courses, sitting alongside a lake and in the shadow of a nuclear power plant, to see just how many discs we could lose (2). Now, you may think that pictures of people throwing objects sounds boring. And honestly, it really is now that I'm thinking about it, and I'm not really sure why I'm continuing with this post. But we can all deal with it, right? Also, I didn't actually take these pictures. Other Chris, sidelined by a self-inflicted gimpy arm, took them; so, you'll notice that they're actually in focus and well-composed for once.

This is a common pose while playing disc golf. More often than not, it follows a horrendous throw, but it also occasionally signifies a perfect throw. Knowing the abilities of Colonel George here, it probably was the latter.

This picture may look impressive, but I can guarantee you that Empty Cup's throw is going to fly way off to the right.

A more common sight than that of people throwing discs down open fairways is that of people throwing discs from behind a lot of trees. For example:

This course had a particular gruesome hole that involved throwing a disc an impossible distance over water to tail off towards the left where the basket was hiding behind a lot of overgrown reeds. From our reaction shots, you can tell we succeeded.

Our pathetic attempts on that hole led to some fun salvage follow-up throws from the muddy banks. In the second picture, I am both expressing concern that I am sinking and also trying to figure out where the hell the basket is.

Lastly, we have me doing my best Shoot McGavin impression, Colonel George making an interesting throw, and just a cool picture, courtesy of Other Chris.

Throwing Myself Back Out There

2009-10-22T15:44:00.000-07:00

It has been hard meeting people since moving to California. Baby Chicken will likely be all the company I need (and/or have) in the near future, but until her arrival, I have been struggling to find ways to fill the social void in my life. After all, I am an extrovert. Or not. But, I have started to notice how solitary a homebound existence can be when I noticed that my jaw would become sore after a full day of keeping it clenched in silence.

I do still play a lot of ultimate, but extending a friendship beyond the sport has proven to be difficult, since our on-field conversations are limited to the words "stall", "up!", "heads!", the numbers 1 through 10, and an assortment of inventive curse words ("This game brought to you by the letter 'Eff!'").

So, in addition to begging our neighbors to be our friends, I have also begun the awkward process of man-dating. Earlier this week, I actually met up with a guy I knew from ultimate to play a round of disc golf. And while we did have to go through an early period of awkward conversation, much like you would on a first normal date (not that I've had many first dates...not that I should be disclosing that), it went over reasonably well. Granted, we mostly just talked about disc golf and ultimate (and mushrooms, oddly enough), but it wasn't like I was expecting him to ask me to be his best man or invite me to a Giants game (if they were still playing, of course). Still, it is a start. And one day, maybe I'll even have a handful of folks I can call on for dog-sitting or car-borrowing type favors. But perhaps we've just been spoiled by the folks we left back in North Carolina.

Well, even if he turns out to be "just not that into me", at least it was a good game of disc golf.

Blame Her Mother

2009-10-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

When one of my co-workers at my old job had a baby, the Wife and I visited him and brought his fledgling family some food, because we heard that this is what you're supposed to do on such an occasion (hint: dropped. Like an anvil). While his wife's back was turned, my friend gave my wife and I a mischievous, conspiratorial look and motioned for us to come over and take a good look at his infant daughter. He applied a light pressure on the top of her forehead to wrinkle her brow a bit more, then pointed out a striking resemblance to The Brain. I have to admit, it was pretty funny, but in the back of my mind, I was thinking, "Would I do that to my own child?"

Yes. Yes, I would.

But, apparently, the Wife would do it first.

We went in for a precautionary anatomy ultrasound to check on the Baby Chicken this week. Here is what we observed:
1) She is head-down. Which is good.
2) She is not ready to come out. Which is also good. For now. This at least gives me time to install the car seat.
3) She has long legs, apparently part of the inheritance from the Wife. Seriously, her legs are 2 weeks ahead of the rest of her body. Baby Chicken will outgrow me before she learns to talk, I fear.
4) 36 weeks is too late for a 3-D rendered ultrasound, unless you're pre-casting for The Hobbit.

I could go into detailed explanations for (4), but the short and sweet of it is that 3-D renderings require a little bit of space around the baby's face to make a good picture. And at this stage, Baby Chicken is far too cramped to give us a 3-D picture. We never really were interested in getting one in the first place, but our sonographer was curious and insisted that she try. The result? Well, my first reaction was, "There's Baby Chicken! She looks kind of disgruntled."

The Wife's first reaction was, "She looks like Gollum."

But let me clarify. She said this with all the maternal love she had; so, monsters, we are not. It's not as if we really expect her to look like Smeagol outside of the womb. We hope.

And that evening, after hunching over, clutching her belly, and crying, "My Precious!", the Wife and I shared many a good laugh about how we can use this to embarrass Baby Chicken at various stages throughout her life.

A Novel Gift

2009-10-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, the Wife and I met some of her fellow residents for a dim sum lunch. In the middle of totally lunch-appropriate banter about tissue samples and mashing fat, we were presented with a gift for the Baby Chicken. She now has four new sets of mittens and a double AA battery to tuck into each one, fully equipping her to put a beatdown on any other babies who encroach on her territory without leaving behind a single baby fingerprint. Genius.

They also got us a bouncy seat.

It's Getting Kind of Real

2009-10-18T14:21:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, the Wife and I toured the labor and delivery suite where we will ostensibly go to pick up our baby order. The first item of business was to inform us that our insurance would not cover parking. In San Francisco, this pretty much means that keeping our car at the hospital will be more expensive than the delivery of our child. We have good insurance; so, I don't think I'm actually exaggerating on that one.

The second order of business was to herd all of the expecting couples up to the L&D suite and show us an immaculate birthing room, complete with full view of the city and the bay. Then to tell us that none of us will ever set foot in that room again.

After that, a nurse entered and proceeded to explain that they would respect our birth plans and try their hardest to accommodate our every need. Except, she continued, we should expect nothing, because births are long and loud and messy and chaotic and birth plans are oftentimes only good for being thrown out the window or crumpled up and thrown at nurses or doctors or expecting husbands. I liked this nurse. She had a good sense of humor.

Her news was reassuring, because the current birth plan I have written down says, "Deliver the baby with no loss of life or limb by any party involved." I keep forgetting to add the Wife's addendum: "Drugs are okay." I'll get to it soon, I think.

Afterwards, the Wife and I left with the same thought in our heads, "Holy crap. We're coming back here and leaving with a baby."

Imagine How Many Pictures I'll Take of My Own Daughter

2009-10-16T12:19:00.000-07:00

This is what typically happens when I travel back to Alabama for a family event: I am welcomed, I am hugged, I am fed, and then I am handed a camera to take pictures of everything with minimal actual participation. Or, I am handed a set of keys to go pick up relatives from the airport.

Typically, it is my mother handing me the camera, since she is the usual photographer. She always entrusts me with the picture taking because she does not trust my father with gadgetry (despite his role as the purchaser of said equipment) and because my presence is perceived as a bonus set of hands. I suppose it would be easy to fire back, "Take your own damn pictures, woman," but my mother is quick and whip-smart, capable of returning fire with any number of prepared statements:
1) I carried you for 9 months
2) How often are you around to help your mother?
3) I never vocally questioned your vocation.
4) Who helped you get all those extra points in Scrabble yesterday?
So, you see, I am defenseless. And so I take the pictures.

Such was the case when the Wife and I attended M's 1st birthday, just over 2 years ago. We arrived late the previous night; so, after the welcoming and the hugging, the feeding had to wait till morning.

The celebration was doubling as a house blessing; so, I got to be the only one moving around during all of the quiet, standing still time. You can also see the Wife towering over the Filipino contingent, having more in common with them than the Alabama contingent.

As is typical at these things, you can count on one of my unrelated cousins to roam the party and terrorize the little children (and the photographer..who is also little). I have a fair amount of dirt on this one from us growing up together, but I let him enjoy his temporary position of power.

As for the birthday girl, she was the only actual 1-yr-old at the party; so, she pretty much just waddled around and charmed the pacifiers off of every adult that noticed her underfoot. I could show you a few dozen pictures of strangers holding her, but that gets old.

I don't know why she looked so disgruntled when presented with her cake, but she warmed up to the whole idea when presented with her own personal one to attack like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Baby.

After the wardrobe change, it was time to open presents. I don't know what happened, but apparently there was an uncontrolled drool outbreak that necessitated an additional wardrobe change. I'm not sure the Wife and I will have enough clothes to change the Baby Chicken this often. Then again, knowing my parents, it's safe to say that we will.

After all the strange people had left, we had the opportunity for a quieter, more family-oriented celebration, complete with ice cream and a parade led by L (and another ill-fated wardrobe change). As you can tell, M really likes her ice cream. Some may call the Wife's teasing here cruel or reprehensible, but, come on, that's hilarious. We're totally doing the same thing with Baby Chicken.

If you made it to the end, kudos to you. Here are your party favors.

Man vs Dog vs Not-So-Wild

2009-10-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

Today, it is raining here on the Peninsula. But not just rain, it's windy, beat-you-into-submission rain. Since I am indoors, you would think I'd have nothing to complain about except that the power has gone out 5 times today. And you'd think I wouldn't be so foolish as to reset all the clocks three times, but well, there's not a whole lot else to do.

I mostly mention this because this will be the third time I've attempted to finish this post. Previously, my faith in Blogger's auto-save features was pretty strong, but it has let me down two times already today. And while many may say that the third time's the charm, I will say that if you are not satisfied with this third iteration about camping, it is not my fault. The post I wrote previous to this (and subsequently lost to the ether) was glorious. A magnum opus on my first experience camping, sure to make you laugh and cry and cheer out loud. An epic guaranteed to reaffirm your faith in mankind and the survival of the human spirit.

Instead, here are the dregs of my memory.

Eons ago, I mentioned that the Wife, the Booger, and I would be going camping with some friends and their respective dogs. I may have also suggested that the Booger and I are both ill-suited for such adventures. Well, over 2 years later, I have survived to tell the tale.

Luckily, we participated in a phenomenon known as "Car Camping." This is an extremely taxing, rugged, Man vs Wild type of activity that can really push one to his or her limits. Common, potentially lethal hazards one must contend with include backaches from bending over to get water from a faucet at your campsite, leg cramps from hiking 50 yards uphill to a fully plumbed restroom, and eye strain from the lack of 60 watt light fixtures.

And how was the camping? Well, here is what I remember:
1. S'mores taste good even without chocolate. Not that I would know what they taste like with chocolate in the first place.
2. The ground is hard.
3. The addition of 3 dogs makes any trip more interesting. We had Super G drooling rain out the window on the ride over to the state park, and then almost suffering from hypothermia in the frigid forest nights (lows in the high 50s!). We also had the three dogs tied up in a triangle formation around our campsite, ostensibly to avoid leash tangles, but also as a strange, highly ineffectual defensive perimeter. And then we had the Booger not understanding the strange disconnect between her hearing and her sight while inside the tent. There were multiple times when she would hear another dog or a squirrel and go lunging headlong into the side of the tent. So yeah, sleep came real easy out there. It was also fun to watch Super G bound up sheer, vertical rock faces like a mountain goat while the rest of us watched panting with our tongues lolling out. Or, at least, that's what the Booger did.

4. Arbitrary restrictions are lame. We did a fair amount of hiking over the weekend, letting the dogs reconnect with their animal instincts (on leash, of course...usually), but at one point, we just wanted to be lazy by some water and soak in the sun. Except that the state park had closed off their main pond for no apparent reason. Perhaps that portion of the park observed the Sabbath?
5. Nature is pretty. And then we showed up with 3 dogs, copious Duke paraphernalia, and cowboy hats.

5. Camping is tiring. Probably a lot of that has to do with item (2). And item (3). On the way home, we decided to relax and rest our bones by going to one of the longest disc golf courses in North Carolina. I'm struggling with the logic on that one, but I won the round; so, at least I went home happy.

A Matter of Perspective

2009-10-13T15:38:00.000-07:00

The Wife and I have begun unboxing and unwrapping all the various supplies I retrieved from Babies R Us the other day. Upon pulling out a single newborn diaper, we held it up in front of us and marveled at the minuscule nature of the thing and the minuscule nature of the soon-to-be-born Baby Chicken but not so much the nature (however minuscule or not) of what was to go into the diaper.

Then the Wife held the diaper up against her stomach, and it suddenly looked gigantic.

Will Baby Chicken Care About Thread Counts?

2009-10-12T15:12:00.000-07:00

For me, preparing for Baby Chicken has been like preparing for that great overseas vacation that you've been anxiously awaiting for months. You've already assembled an array of mental pictures of what it will be like, and you can already sense what it will feel like to be there, even through any anxieties about the travel or the sheer foreign-ness of what you will experience. And every time you revisit those mental pictures, you just get more anxious and excited about it all. But, of course, have you packed yet? Have you made sure all of your travel documents are in order? Are you really prepared? Well...

So, yeah, checking off things from the to-do list has been slow. And everyone who knows about the baby asks us about our general level of preparedness, and while I might respond with something like, "We've got just about everything," I am usually thinking to myself, "...except for things that aren't a crib or stroller."

Luckily, we have good friends. Not just so good as to lend us their stuff, but to physically haul us to the Babies R Us and point out all the things we don't have yet. Our college friends came up from LA with Greta and dogs in tow, and while the Wife was at work, I was treated to a game of You Have No Idea, Do You? And while there were many things that I was very much aware of our need for, there were just as many items getting thrown into the cart that left my face saying "?" or "!".

Also, I am finding it strange that, as you begin your transition (or descent) into parenthood, you suddenly are granted a license to publicly speak about all manner of body parts and functions that are normally not polite conversation. Who knew I'd get to say "nipple" so much?

In the end, I found myself at the checkout counter with an overloaded cart full of all manner of pint-sized implements (but no pink!). And as I watched the total on the register climb, a woman in line behind me took one calculating look at my purchases and deduced that I was shopping for a baby. I think the nipple cream tipped her off (or the fact that we were in a Babies R Us). After confirming with me that 1) I was shopping for my own baby, and 2) the baby was reasonably close to her day of arrival, she said, "You're a good man. Not many dads like you out there."

I am fully aware that I was to take this as a compliment, but I was prepared to fire back with one of two responses:
A) "Oh lord, please don't share."
or
B) "You mean most dads-to-be aren't terrified and scared shitless, as well as astounded/perplexed/apalled/inundated by all of this stuff they have to get, not to mention all of the other baby things they have to do but have no idea about?"

Instead, I smiled, stared bug-eyed at the receipt, then thanked her for her kind words as I carted off my new stash of baby goods, soon to be christened with all manner of adorable baby emissions.

In any case, thanks to our good friends, I am now feeling considerably more materially prepared for Baby Chicken. As for the emotional aspect, well, that's another story.

I Show No Favoritism, Preference, or Partiality of Any Kind

2009-10-09T14:48:00.000-07:00

The notion to start a family did not materialize out of thin air. We've always known we would want to have kids. But a couple years ago when I spent some time helping my sister, I got a true taste of chaos, and, strangely enough for someone who prefers routine, I discovered that I liked it. Actually, I loved it.

Now, the Wife always chastises me for showing favoritism towards M, saying that there will be dire consequences should I ever exhibit similar preferential behavior towards our own future progeny. But, you see, I did not get to spend much time with her older sister L when she was a baby. And, as Michael Lewis says in his not-so-encouraging memoir of fatherhood, "It's only in caring for a thing that you become attached to it." And yes, the "thing" in question here is his son. So it was that I spent a couple weeks staying up all night ~~writing my dissertation and~~ watching over M during her nothing-but-sleep-and-grunts phase, and so it is that I do have an attachment to her that I can't say I have for L. But my official statement on that would be: "I love both my nieces equally."

I say this because, as I begin to mosey down memory lane, you may find yourself a bit inundated with pictures of the nieces, and, in particular, M. Ignore them, or just suck it up and deal with it, I don't care. An added perk (and scare) of doing this is getting to see how quickly both of the nieces are growing up, knowing that Baby Chicken will be doing the same. She'll be slamming doors in our faces and wishing we weren't her parents in no time, I'm afraid.

In any case, the summer after I finished up that whole PhD thing, we managed to get my sister to visit with the then not-quite 4 and 1-yr-old nieces. How she managed flying with both of them on her own, I do not know, although I do vaguely recall her saying something about a "nervous breakdown" and "tranquilizers." They stayed with us for a week, during which all of our best-intentioned plans and schedules were routinely thrown out the window as naps and tantrums and the significant lag time associated with preparing two young girls for adventure had to be accounted for. Oftentimes, we were content to just relax with them at home, doing things like slaughtering strawberries.

Still, we succeeded in getting them to a few of our favorite NC places, if not always at the planned-on day or time. Most of our activities were associated with cooling off, as the heat and humidity of Carolina summers had come to full bloom by that point. Not something we'll miss about North Carolina, I have to say.

As you can see, M was not always in the mood for sunshine.

We also took them to our favorite popsicle store, where M really took to the more sour paleta flavors. L did as well, but they did not appear to help her cool off.

Lastly, we took them out to the NC Zoo, where by far the best attractions for the girls were the fake monkeys (pardon, chimpanzees) and the playground. Nevermind that we probably could have found both in Durham rather than driving the 1.5 hours out to Asheboro.

Split Personality or How I Will Manage to Occupy Myself Till Baby Chicken Is Here

2009-10-08T13:53:00.000-07:00

Permit me a moment to talk somewhat out loud to myself. Actually, the truth is that these blog posts are really mostly just me talking out loud to myself, because, really, it's pretty quiet around here and the Booger is not the best conversationalist. The fact that someone other than myself might actually read these things is just a bonus. Or not, depending on what embarrassing aspect of myself I choose to share on any particular day.

Um, yeah, so where was I?

So, the Wife and I have been discussing what my plans are with regard to documenting the expansion of our family and our transition into the world of parenthood and all of its joys and frustrations and rubber nipples. You see, she is generally very approving and encouraging of this whole blogging thing. She sees it as a great way to document the little and big moments of our life together, lies and embellishments notwithstanding. And we both agree that we'd like to keep it going once Baby Chicken arrives. The problem is that we would also like to provide a means for our families to keep track of Baby Chicken as she transforms from kinda-alien-looking, immobile, not-particularly-exciting baby-thing into a wide-eyed, cooing, baby-fat-encapsulated ball of cuteness and on into a teetering, mischievous toddler and so forth. Except, most of our family would not "get" this site. Not the nicknames or the pseudo-anonymity or the faux-ego counterpointed with amplified self-deprecation. Not any of that. And let's be honest. This blog isn't about Baby Chicken or the Wife or the Booger at all. It's all about me, dadgummit.

And if my parents were to read that last bit, they would probably have to have some words with me. Words associated with how I was raised better than that.

And if my parents were to read that last bit about words, they would probably have to have some more words with me. Words associated with privacy and propriety or whatnot.

So, you see, (and the Wife agrees), I can't just go public with this thing. That may sound odd considering that just about anyone can see this, but I think you get what I mean. Therefore, thusly, ergo, and henceforth, we will be starting a second site with the sole purpose of being a baby blog for Baby Chicken. It will likely be a bit on the plain, vanilla, white-bread side of things, consisting of mostly pictures and video and short, matter-of-fact details on her development with no hint of personality from me or the Wife whatsoever. And for those of you who could care less about me and the Wife and the Booger and how we all manage to adjust to Baby Chicken's presence, only wanting to see baby pictures, then, there'll be a link to this new site from here. Meanwhile, I will continue to "write" about our blunderful life here and share my lies with all 3 of you. And those baby-diseased fanatics who only care about Baby Chicken will have no link from her site to here. So there. Problem solved.

Meanwhile, we have hit that calm before the storm that is pretty boring and uneventful, leaving me with nothing to really talk about except the weather, which can be summed up for all eternity here mid-Peninsula with "sunny, breezy, and generally pleasant". So, my goal is to go back and fill in some memory gaps from the past couple years, up to our recent cross-country relocation. It seems fitting to count down the days to Baby Chicken's arrival by looking back on how we got here.

And for the record, for those of you wondering where the blog title came from in the first place, "blunderful" was a word that the Wife and I came up with in college to describe things that we are not particularly suited or prepared for, but we enjoyed nonetheless. Blunder + wonderful. It's not particularly original, and others use the word to alternate effect, but it's stuck with us over the years.

Scotty Beamed Her Up

2009-10-07T13:21:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I let the Booger out in the backyard. A few minutes later, I went out on the front porch to get the mail, only to find the Booger snooping around in the front yard. Upon thorough inspection of the backyard, I could not find any evidence of her escape.

Here are my theories:
1. It was a windy day. Perhaps she unfurled her ears and flew over the 6ft fence.
2. Unbeknownst to us, she has been high jump training. Given her affinity towards sleeping on the couch, I think this one can be safely ruled out. Much less likely than (1).
3. She moved aside the vent grates to the basement and carefully replaced them to cover her tracks.
4. A large bird carried her over the fence.
5. She duped a neighbor into letting her out.

As you can see, I have very sharp detective's instincts.

Hyperventilation is Easy When You Have Asthma

2009-10-05T15:04:00.000-07:00

A little over a year ago, the Wife underwent a procedure for a relatively minor heart condition. The doctor was top-notch, the procedure was relatively routine, and really, there should've been nothing to bite any nails or pull any hair out over. But, it was also one of those procedures that had a 1% chance of causing a stroke. However, I was a pretty informed spouse, having actually researched this type of procedure during grad school; so, I had no problems until I sat in the waiting room and began reading an article about the need to pick out a rehab facility before such procedures. Because You Never Know What Could Happen, and You Don't Want to Have to Make These Important Decisions After the Fact. Cue longest day of my life.

Lesson? Waiting room literature is evil.

Actually, the lesson is, that, no matter how informed and calm and prepared we are, it's still easy to descend into panic. I mention this because I have now entered the Irrational Fears phase of pregnancy/pre-fatherhood. With our rapid progression toward Baby Chicken's arrival, I've begun to think about anything and everything that could go wrong. And anything and everything that I may or may not be prepared for. And then there are the fears that really have no logical or natural (or, of course, rational) purpose.

Last week, we had a bit of a scare. Let me correct that. I had a bit of a scare. The Wife's blood pressure had started to spike, bringing about concerns of preeclampsia. And while I began wondering if she would have to go on bed rest or if there might be other complications, the Wife maintained a relatively zen attitude about it. Mostly because her current workload denies her the energy to worry, I think. But we began monitoring her blood pressure more closely (minor perk: I got to say "sphygmomanometer" more often). At first, when high readings would pop up, I would have to resist to urge to cheat and lie and pronounce a lower number, just to see if I could trick myself into not worrying about it. Eventually, though, they returned to relatively normal, and we began to breathe easier.

Tasked with worrying for the both of us, though,I am sure that I will be more than capable of fulfilling my duties of fretting over everything.

This Does Not Bode Well

2009-09-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

Let me walk you through our routine last night (all times approximate, since I do not typically log our activities by the minute):

10:45pm: We get back home from picking up the Wife from work. Yes, it was a long day for her and Baby Chicken.

10:47pm: I let the Booger out in the backyard.

11:00pm: After her shower, the Wife and I watch a little TV to wind down.

11:40pm: The Wife and I brush our teeth and get ready for bed.

11:50pm: The Wife and I morse code with Baby Chicken.

11:55pm: We turn out the lights.

12:30am: I get out of bed wondering where the Booger is.

12:35am: After checking under the bed and in the living room, I realize that I never let her back in from the backyard. Oddly enough, the Booger is oblivious, still sniffing around. What new smells she can find in a 15'x15' yard, I have no idea.

So, yes, I am all set for parenthood. I suppose I should go back and add to my list: 6) Do not misplace or forget the whereabouts of the baby.

Complete with Light Saber

2009-09-19T15:20:00.000-07:00

Baby Chicken's got wheels now.

I picked up her stroller from the store a few days ago and assembled it (put the wheels on); so, now all we need is the Baby Chicken. That's not to say that this was in any way a simple process.

The Wife and I decided that a stroller would be one of the things we would get ourselves, rather than accept a hand-me-down from friends or family. We're not really sure if this stemmed from reading about expensive strollers in Stuff White People Like or whether we just didn't want Baby Chicken to be totally slumming it in all second-hand gear. Nevertheless, we decided on these requirements for the baby's ride:

1. Must be easy to maneuver, likely with one hand, since the other one will be occupied keeping the Booger from eating poo.
2. Must not be pink.
3. Must make us look more active than we really are

So, the Wife went out with her mother for some "test driving" one weekend, and a couple hours later, she called me at home and asked me to look up a particular brand. I thought she wanted me to have a look at one of her top candidates, but she was actually hoping I could find instructions on how to return it from its transformed state (big, immobile hunk of wheels, bars, and fabric) to its active stroller state (big, mobile hunk of wheels, bars, and fabric).

When she returned home and encouraged me to go out and do some test driving of my own, I did not pick up any overly positive vibes from her experience. Sure enough, a few days later, I found myself staring down an aisle of dozens of strollers, mouth agape, trying to digest the sheer A) variety, B) complexity, and C) expense of them all. I actually went baby store hopping after an ultimate game; so, imagine a confused, sweat-soaked, dirt-smeared guy who looks 18-years-old at a distance (and sometimes up close) inspecting strollers, fumbling with straps and levers and buckles. It is no wonder that store attendants kept checking on me.

In the end, I helped narrow things down to two viable options, and then the Wife helped me see that the second option was just there out of formality. So, now the Baby Chicken's got a ride. And the Booger fears it.

Lofty Aspirations

2009-09-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about what sort of father I will be. Not necessary what my parenting philosophies will be, but just, generally, whether I'll be a capable one that my child will not hate. So, here's an exhaustive list of things I've been mentally jotting down lately.

Initial Goals in Fatherhood
(in no particular order)

1. Do not suck
2. Do not drop the baby
3. Convince Baby Chicken, for as long as possible, that she was hatched from an egg.*
4. Take more pictures and video than I can possibly sort through
5. Do not squeeze baby to death

*One Christmas, when my niece L was a bit over 2 years old, the Wife and I gave my mother a bag that had photos on it. We included one of the Booger beside one of L, who had not yet met or seen our dog. So, my father took the opportunity to explain to L that the picture of the dog was actually of L, before she was a baby. This was met with skepticism at first, but my father was persistent, explaining that everyone starts out life as a puppy, then they shed their fur and become a baby. Later, when shown the pictures and asked which one was her, she would respond, "This one is me. And this one is me when I was a dog." It is that sort of greatness that I aspire to.