Embarrassing Stories From A Former Baby

As the tag line atop this blog reads, I started writing and posting here as "blog therapy," a way for me to sort through the emotions, pressures, and unparalleled joys of becoming a first-time parent. I hope to one day share this site with my child, who will look at the Web page and laugh, much as I do when I see screen caps of accessing AOL at 14.4kps speed on Windows 3.1.

But, until that time, I'm aware that there are people out there reading this - and I'm going to fully shatter the fourth wall here by writing something directly for those eyeballs. This isn't going to expose the inner workings of my psyche (though some people might say it explains a lot), it serves solely to entertain you -- and remind me of what I am in for.

Apparently, when I was growing up, I was developmentally...slow. Not in any certifiable or troublesome way, but when the books say that I "should"be doing something, chances are, I hadn't gotten around to it. Personally, I believe it - I'm lazy to this day.

I am the first-born in my family, my parents were "new parents" when I arrived (after my original due date, mind you). At first, my parents were worried about me, according to all the parenting books, I was missing milestone "firsts" (smiling, sitting up, crawling) by weeks, months even. For 12 full months, I didn't say a word. I am making up for lost time to this day. My mother says that eventually I balanced myself out when I did decide to speak, I quickly began to speak in full sentences, so that it was clear that I wasn't really developmentally disabled, but more developmentally unwilling.

My sloth-like attitude toward growing up extended past infancy and toddlerhood. You see, I apparently, did not want to be potty trained. Rather than learn something that you can train a common housecat to do, I rather enjoyed marinating in my own filth.

By the time I hit three and a half, I was still wearing diapers (I think right around three years is when you move from Huggies to Depends), and my mother was worried...and pissed. I was due to start preschool and wouldn't be allowed in with a diaper sticking out of my Oshkosh B'Gosh's.

My mother reasoned with me. She had a newborn (my younger brother) to deal with and calmly sold me on attending the big boy preschool, where pants-peeing was a "no no." I looked my mom in the eye, squirmed in my diaper, and told her I understood. I had to learn to use that toilet. I trained like a prizefighter leading up to that first day of preschool. I was going to take on Rodeph Shalom's morning-only three-year-old preschool program's toilet with all that I had.

My first day of school came. My mom sent me, diaperless and drier than the Sahara, off to my first day of school. Four hours, two milks, and one nap later I came home a happy boy. I made it a full morning without a diaper or an accident! I proudly walked through the front door, squirted past my mother's waiting arms, scaled the steps to my bedroom, grabbed one of my diapers, and stuck it in my mother's face. Realizing why I had rushed home so quickly after school, my mother dutifully strapped the diaper onto my body so that I, for the first time since leaving the house that morning, could finally pee.