There is No Defense For Chaos

"You're being unreasonable," I declared. My voice was not raised, though the exasperation was evident. That was the last sentence I got out before the macaroni and cheese hit me in the face.

Fortunately, that was the worst part about baby-sitting my two-year old niece this week. You can read as many books as you can, grill as many parents as you know, and watch as many DVDs and television programs you have time for, but nothing will prepare you for being a parent like babysitting. And by "will prepare you," I mean, "will make you realize how ill prepared you are."

I'm actually playing it off far worse than it was - for myself, my niece, and my wife - but the exchange above, the macaroni incident, highlighted something that I've neglected to consider: it is nearly impossible to have a logical conversation with an illogical child.

What brought that epiphany to light was actually chocolate milk. Carrying my niece in my arms, I was getting something out of the fridge when, spying her sippy cup, she requested chocolate milk. Thing is, that sippy cup had regular milk in it. Her chocolate milk was already out on the table. For a split second, I was about to be Awesome Uncle and hook her up with her chocolate milk. But two different cups with two different milks was too much for my niece to comprehend at the moment and, after trying to explain the situation to her, and steer her away from the regular milk in the fridge, finally exclaimed, "You're being unreasonable!" My words must have shook her, because she tossed her pacifier in my general direction, which landed on a fork, which Mouse Trapped into half a bowl of macaroni flying in my general direction.

Now, the situation isn't nearly as dramatic as I've described it and both my niece and I moved on better people. She was calling for me to sit next to her and read stories just minutes later. But it made me realize that I've spent years trying to form logical arguments, and now I have to prepare for just the opposite.

My Lovely Wife is an attorney. She's a damn good attorney, too. Her mind, her mentality, her inherent logical thinking has put her in a position to be atop her chosen field in due time. Also, it means I have never, ever won an argument. I resigned myself to that a while back, but have been trying to fortify any position with my own brand of logic, in a desperate attempt to win any small concession. And now I have to change up my style again.

Practicing logical reasoning and critical thinking is no match for a child who wants that milk, right now. Oh, and that 2% milk better be chocolate by the time it hits her lips.

I may have to mount a different offensive in my rhetorical battle, but the outcome will still be the same. I'll never win an argument with any female in my family.

Taking a Shower

Baby showers - just like a party, but sober. And with tiny sandwiches!

Yes, we attended our baby's shower last weekend, prior to heading off to the beach. Only 14 months removed from my wife's bridal shower, my heart rate had barely slowed by last Saturday.

Our baby's shower was, by all accounts, awesome. By my account, I showed up at my in-laws, saw some family and friends I hadn't seen in a while, was whisked away with the other menfolk, ordered wings and sandwiches, had four-year-old girls serve us cookies, and got lots of baby stuff that we needed.

Much as I bitch and moan, I did enjoy the baby shower, maybe even more than my wedding shower (mostly because no drive to Pittsburgh was involved). I have a roomful of items to assemble, wash, fold, and organize in anticipation of my daughter's arrival. I like social situations, especially with people I haven't seen in a while and when there is a set end time. And I really like eating tiny sandwiches, crab cakes, and deviled eggs.

What I don't like is accounting for all the gifts and writing thank you notes. Following our shower and our wedding, I was on thank you note duty. Regardless of the gift, a thank you note was required. It may have been hard to keep a straight face when writing great-aunt Ethel about the practicality of a left-handed smoke shifter, but at least it was my left-handed smoke shifter. The gifts we got on Saturday aren't even mine, they are my daughter's. Yet my wife and I will have to write the thank you notes. Something about that doesn't seen right.

I think it's time to change the shower/thank you note dynamic. Expectant parents have too much on their minds to worry about thanking someone for gifts that do not belong to them. That's why my daughter will write all of her own thank you notes. We'll start working on them early so that when she can actually write, we'll be able to get to suckers right out the door.

So if you were generous enough to purchase a gift on my daughter's behalf, my wife and I sincerely thank you. My daughter, on the other hand, you can expect to hear from in about six years. Sooner if you don't mind being thanked in crayon.

This Blog Is Going To The Beach

Two years ago, my in-laws planned a wonderful vacation for themselves, my wife and I (then dating), and their son and daughter-in-law. The Scandianvian cruise was going to last ten days and pass through countries I had never visited before. Plans were scuttled when my sister-in-law got pregnant.

Last year, my in-laws planned a wonderful vacation for themselves, my wife and I (now married!), and their son and daughter-in-law. The very same Scandinavian cruise was going to last ten days and pass through countries I have never visited before. My in-laws were the first to know of my wife's pregnancy, in equal parts happiness, joy, and "hope the deposit is refundable."

Who needs intercontinental travel when the beach is just three hours away? We're packing up our things and heading east for a few days of R & R with our in-laws. We'll be without internet for the duration (let alone that we'll also have 80% of this blog's readership under the same roof next week).

See ya Wednesday, tanned, rested, and ready.

Tiger's Cub, An Indecent Proposal Thwarted

I had this post’s outline already complete in my head. It was going to be brilliant. It was going to be self-promoting. It was going to be the first time I blatantly sold out my daughter for personal and (hopefully) financial gain. Then, it all came crashing down.

You see, Tiger Woods became a father on Monday. First of all, congratulations to the happy couple and Tiger, welcome to the Varsity Dad club. I hope that you have as strong a relationship with your child as you so clearly do with your mother and your late father.

After dispensing with the pleasantries in an open letter to Tiger and Elin, I would get to the heart of my correspondence. My daughter will be born in August and, after listing numerous reasons why, I was set to offer her hand in matrimony to Tiger and Elin’s newborn, Sam. Yes, I know it’s a bit early and that arranged marriages aren’t in vogue in the United States, but like bell bottoms and rotary phone ringtones, everything comes back in style at some point.

I have a good list of reasons, some serious, some funny, some absurd. And I was ready to send off my note of congratulations, along with my “sales pitch”, to the happy couple until I re-read the news item. Apparently, if Lefty and Sam marry, it will only be in Massachusetts. Sam Woods is a girl. Sam Alexis Woods, to be proper. Sam. Short for…Sam.

Now, I have nothing against the name Sam (What’s up, Sammy C?), nor do I have anything against the name Samantha. But when you start crossing common gender lines with names, it begins to bother me a bit. My wife and I recently had a discussion on this topic regarding one of our potential baby names. We liked the “shortened” form of this name, which would then be a traditional boy’s name. We ultimately ditched that name, but I was reminded of that conversation when hearing the news of Tiger’s baby.

I’m not surprised that Tiger pulled something like this, I mean, his given name is Eldrick, for goodness sakes. It might be tough for little Sam - many kids will get teased for having unusual names, and I’m sure Sam Woods will be no different. Granted, many kids don't have a mother who a Swedish model and a father is richer than chocolate soufflé, but still.

I just wish I knew all of this before I started poring over my assets for the dowry.

Home Alone

On the Friday before Father's Day, my first as an expectant father, my wife left me. Don't worry, she came back on Sunday.

Before we decided to take Labor Day weekend literally, my wife and I had whirlwind plans for the long weekend. Two of our friends, one of mine from high school, two of hers from law school, are getting married Labor Day weekend. The first wedding, where my wife was to be a bridesmaid, will be Friday, Sept. 1 in Long Island. The second, two days later in Saint Louis. Flush with expendable cash, energy, and liver, we planned to attend both.

Being otherwise occupied of Labor Day weekend, those whirlwind plans were abbreviated to my wife attending a bridal shower this weekend in New York. I had an unavoidable conflict on Saturday morning, leaving my wife to fend for herself (with her mother) up I-95 and the Jersey Turnpike, while I had to spend the weekend at home. Alone. Woe was me.

With the end of my Healthy Challenge Competition coming to a close in a few days, I couldn't fit in as much gluttony as I would have liked. I more than made up for it in sloth and laziness. But, come Saturday evening, I began to run out of deadly sins to practice, unless cleanliness and loneliness snuck on that list somehow.

So I didn't live it up in pure bachelor bliss the past 48 hours. But I did reconnect with my own bed for some quality time and I managed to ruin my wife's Father's Day present by finding it while cleaning and reading it. C'est la vie.

It was a fairly uneventful Father's Day 'round these parts. Despite getting a few "almost" Father's Day cards and calls, it's hard for me to fully embrace the day. It's getting credit for something I have not yet done. Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with the accolades. But come laud me next year, when I have nine months of successful child-rearing under my belt, and then we can talk about a holiday.

Houston, We Have a Ca-Ca

The fun and unusual baby news keeps rolling in from across the country.

Meet Natalie Meilinger, mother of three-month-old Jack and unwitting astronomer. Seems that Jack's video baby monitor has been picking up more than just his breathing and crying, it's been picking up satellite video of the space shuttle Atlantis.

In between the feedings and the changings, the Meilinger's have enjoyed video footage of the space shuttle docked at the ISS and astronauts heading out for a jaunty space walk. The pirated baby monitor video is not breaching any security system or encryption, it is a simulcast of public video shown in the Web. NASA officials, rocket scientists all, had no explanation for this phenomenon.

We picked out a baby monitor, but audio-only, no video. I'm starting to re-think that. Especially if someone can show me how to jigger the monitor to pick up out-of-market baseball games.

Bringing Home Baby

Being the uber-hip, environmentally conscious, city-dwelling DINKs that we are, my wife and I currently do not own a car. Actually, none of the above is true exacept for the last part. You see, when we lived in the heart of Washington, DC, we did own a car. First, we owned an awesome lavender pimpmobile, a hand-me-down from my nonagenarian grandfather. After that novelty wore off, we wised up and bought a more practical Honda Accord. We were paying, in our own apartment building, the same amount for monthly parking that we pay currently for property taxes.

When we moved from Washington, DC to the immediate suburbs, we naturally sold our car. It seems counterintuitive, but my wife and I both worked near a Metro stop (and I eventually changed jobs to somewhere walkable). Not having a car has some drawbacks, like having to plan ahead to buy watermelon or 24-packs of paper towels, but we accumulated a nice monthly savings in the process.

More than a year after we first moved to our current neighborhood, we still do not have a car. And, even with a baby on the way, we don’t have any foreseeable plans to purchase one anytime soon. Now, both my wife and I are fairly logical people. We understand that soon enough we will likely have to get a car for practical purposes, but we don’t have much need for that kind of expense right now.

Which is all well and good, as saving money and being “green” is from time to time, except for one thing: getting Lefty home from the hospital. As a rule, new parents cannot escort a newborn home from the hospital without a properly-installed car seat. I wonder what our hospital’s policy is on even having a car at all?

I recently established that even traveling to the hospital by car is not without its own pitfalls, so let's break down the pros and cons of some of the alternative methods of transportation for getting Lefty home safe and sound.

Metrobus
Pros: Hey, we live on a bus line, the hospital is on a bus line, it costs just $1.35/person, newborns and transfers are free; plenty of other passengers to help watch, hold, or change baby
Cons: Hard to pull "stop requested" cord with hands full of baby; jerky breaks not good for people without fully-fused skulls; keep getting in accidents.

Walking
Pros: Teaches my child the importance of self-reliance and physical fitness at a young age, relatively safe and leisurely, quality bonding time
Cons: Walking five miles? In August? With a newborn? And a wife who just gave birth? No one thinks this is a good idea (though honey, if you are reading this, were we delivering at Suburban, we'd totally be walking home).

The In-Laws
Pros: They will be there, most likely at the hospital, during or around the time of delivery; no cost; Volvos are the safest car known to mankind
Cons: Has a certain "I'll pick you and your date up at the dance precisely at 10 pm" quality that I just can't shake

Taxi
Pros: All the benefits of driving, but with someone else at the wheel
Cons: I'm not going to trust a stranger to hold my baby, let alone drive her around; the complicated DC Taxi Zone fare system does not account for newborns

Renting a Car
Pros: Being induced means know when and for how long to reserve a car; no need to clean up any "oopsies" on the way home.
Cons: All that time, paying for a car, while it sits unused in the parking lot does not sit well with this cheap bastard; Daddy would be driving and, to quote Ben Stone in Knocked Up, "They can honk all they want, but I'm not driving faster than 12 the whole way home."

Though I read them religously, I don't usually solicit comments in this space. Today, I am making an exception. What other methods of transportation have I missed? Should I register for Baby's First Segway? Look into renting a few camels for the day? See if our parking lot can be converted into a makeshift helipad? Or do I just tuck Lefty into the crook of my arm like a football and make a run for it?

Baby Delivered on Highway - Another Victim of Suburban Gridlock

Morning commuters on the Dulles Toll Road got a little surprise yesterday. About 5 lbs, 10 ounces worth, to be exact. Javan Anthony Cruz was born yesterday morning, three and a half weeks early, in an ambulance on the side of the road.

After going into labor around 7:15 am on Tuesday, Michelle Cruz hit the road with her husband Norman to get to the hospital. Since this is the Washington, DC area, and it was during the morning rush hour, the Cruz' proceeded to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for the next two hours. The Cruz' called for an ambulance, which did arrive in time to provide Michelle with an alternative to giving birth in the back seat of the family car. Though, if that had been where little Javan had been conceived, it might have been a nice circle-of-life moment in the Cruz household.

Little Javan is happy and healthy, despite being born into gridlock. Fortunately for the Cruz', they qualified for HOV status on the trip home and made it back in record time.

The Roar of the Lion

I’m not a big believer in horoscopes or astrology, but I know that many are. The horoscope takes up valuable real estate in my home newspaper’s comics section, and the only justifiable reason is that many people believe.

If all goes according to plan, my daughter will be a Leo – the lion – born between July 23 and August 22. And, looking at the traits of a Leo, living with and raising my daughter is going to be a frustratingly beautiful thing that will launch her to a very successful life.

Leos are, by nature, dominant and spontaneous, creative and extroverted. Now, those are some great characteristics, and those four traits all run through my wife and I, but reading that, as an expectant father, and I see, “Leos are, by nature, demanding and have a tendency to poop and pee at any moment, might think it a good idea to wear their underwear outside their clothes, or maybe just their underwear, and will chat up others as they do so.”

On the positive side, Leos are known to be ambitious, courageous, positive and strong willed which, to be perfectly honest, are a few of the qualities that made me adore my daughter’s mother. Those are qualities that, eventually, will make me proud of my daughter; I can only hope that she is a strong and optimistic as a Zodiac sign would suggest.

Taking years 0-18 out of it (oh how easy it is on paper), my daughter would be well-served to follow her Zodiac calling. I grew up in a middle-class suburb, a white male. With all hope, my daughter will also grow up in a middle-class suburb, white, but female. I know nothing of the struggles women face in a male-dominated society other than what I read, I hope that I have not contributed to anyone’s struggle, personally.

My daughter, on the other hand, as a positive, intelligent, strong-willed woman, should have no boundaries as she goes through her professional and personal life. Her sign, the Leo, after all are “lions of the industry.” A determined Leo can achieve greatness as an actor or musician, and it should be no surprise Leo musicians gravitate toward grand instruments.

The Leo is open and sincere with others, which is admirable in business as it is in other facets of life. Somehow I think that will apply to everyone but my daughter’s parents, at least until she turns 18.

The Leo also has distinctive romantic and love qualities…but we’ll have to wait a while before I can stomach that.

Knocked Out by "Knocked Up"

I should've been a headline writer.

What I should not attempt to be, however, is a movie critic.

My Lovely Wife and I went to see Knocked Up this afternoon. I would like to provide a thorough recap and analysis of the movie, but for the life of me, can only remember bits and pieces. But, if you like any of the below, you must see this movie:

• Pregnancy as humor
• Drug humor
• The supporting cast of Undeclared
• Paul Rudd
• Jews

As an expectant father, I did relate to many of the emotions, joys, and anxieties Seth Rogen displayed on screen. My wife admitted that wardrobe and makeup workers did a decent job of making Katherine Heigl appear pregnant. Knocked Up got it right (and someone thinks they got it exactly right), down to the reading material featured, and even gave me a glimpse of the future (thanks crowning scene, I can't wait).

Mostly, though, we both laughed. For a notch over two hours, the movie delivered - from the aforementioned drug, pregnancy, and Jew humor, to the minor characters, each with a peculiar personality (particularly those currently in the SNL cast).

If you are on the fence about seeing this movie - maybe you like comedies, and some of Judd Apatow's body of work - I cannot recommend this movie enough. That's my thorough analysis.

Aw...hic...that's so...hic...cute

One of the things that annoys many people when a friend or acquaintance has a new baby (particularly for the first time) is that everything said baby does, no matter how trivial, mundane, or disgusting, becomes the cutest thing in the world. I had one friend, at the time a father for all of three days, extol the virtues of new baby poop, and how he reveled in its yellow-ness. I found this to be both hilarious and horrible.

Well guess what world, I am about to become one of "them." You see, I'm not here to tell you that my baby is the smartest, bestest in the world (yet), but she - in utero, mind you - has already done the cutest thing. She has the hiccups.

Prenatal hiccups are not uncommon, and when reading a Daddy Book a few months back chuckled at the thought of it. My Lovely Wife gets the hiccups from time to time. And not the small, high-pitched kind. These are full-out Barney Gumbel diaphragm explosions. So I guess it's only natural (or genetic) that Lefty would come down with them, too.

I haven't had the chance to feel or hear her hiccuping yet, only living vicariously through my wife's excited phone calls. But let me tell you, my baby, drinking her amniotic fluid a little too quickly (aww, just like daddy at a bar!), to the point of having little baby hiccups?

Cutest. Thing. Ever.

It's it. What is it? It's it.

Twice in the past week I’ve mentioned to strangers that my first child – a daughter – will be born in August. And twice, from men I have never met before, I have been told the unmitigated joy of having a daughter.

My optometrist – at my very first appointment with him – even went so far as to speak in a hushed tone, hunching down to speak with me face-to-face while I sat in the examining room.

“Most people would think that men, men want boys,” he said, “I have four children, girls and boys, the first was a girl, and I cannot even explain it.”

I don't know what“it” is, but I bet I’ll soon learn. I’m thinking that “it” is somewhere in between the following…

…hearing “daddy” for the first time…receiving flowers she has picked…taking in an afternoon tea with her and two stuffed friends…finding her during hide and seek…seeing her wear mommy’s shoes, and nearly falling over…putting a tiara on her head…putting her into a beautiful Sunday dress that wouldn’t fit over my leg…combing her hair and hearing her mock me for not being able to braid it…becoming a horse for her to ride…and right up to that moment where it’s no longer cool to kiss daddy in public.

I’m not sure where “it” is, but I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.

One Year Ago

There's been a bit of a semantic battle in my house this weekend. You see, one year ago this weekend, a biiiiig thing happened. The conventional position, advocated by the women in my life (wife, mother) is that one year ago today, my wife and I were married. My position is that one year ago today, I was snoozing my way across the country in first class. One year ago on this date, however, my wife and I were married.

Insufferably debating minute points like that is one of my favorite past times, which makes our one-year anniversary that much more impressive.

One year ago (on this date), at this time, I was lounging around a hotel room, anxiously killing time until it was time to go the church. Today, I find myself anxiously killing time until dinner time.

With all of the changes in our life over the past 12 months - the purchases, the pregnancy - we aren't doing anything elaborate to celebrate. There's no returning to honeymoon suite or weekend getaway. There isn't even any leftover cake from our reception to eat for dessert. It's just the two of us, spending a lazy Sunday afternoon together, trying not to overeat before we go to dinner this evening. She's taking a romantic nap while I write this sexy blog.

It might not seem glamorous, but it's perfect.

Does This Make Me Intolerant?

"Why don't you get drunk for my amusement?"

There are some questions you don't have to ask me twice.

Since we first found out my wife was expecting, our per capita alcohol consumption has plummeted. I'm not one for hyperbole, so I can't sit here and say that shortly after we began teetotaling our local liquor store went bankrupt, but sometime in February my mom got a call from the shop's proprietor wondering where a donation could be made in our memorial.

But seriously, between her pregnancy, our budget, and my newfound respect for my general health, my drinking binges are few and far between. What was once a nightly activity has been reduced to a random few social occasions. On the whole, this is a very healthy development for everyone, with one minor drawback. My alcohol tolerance, meticulously crafted and enhanced over the past decade, has fallen farther than Kevin Costner's career.

So when my wife, randomly, requests that I have a few drinks at home last night and I happily oblige, I really shouldn't be surprised how quickly I can get drunk, suddenly decide it's time to pass out, and wonderful the early morning sun can be when you are hungover.

I had taken to waking up early on weekend mornings, sometimes even going for a run before settling in to start my day. But not this morning. I arose in that strangely familiar head-pounding-fog today. Yipee. That is one old friend that I haven't missed.