Eves

If you would've told me a year ago that this is where I was headed, then I would've written you off as a crazy sadist.

Two years ago on this day, we were in Amsterdam.


We don't have any pictures from New Year's Eve in Dam Square, but it was a little nuts. It was pouring rain, thank goodness, because otherwise we wouldn't have had that umbrella to shield us from the shrapnel from fireworks that went off constantly in the crowd of 10,000 people.

Our plan was for Amsterdam to be a last hurrah of sorts; we'd come home and try to have kids, pull the goalie if you will. But we decided in Amsterdam that this girl was not yet ready to be a mom.


And this guy was definitely not ready to be a dad.


So one year ago on this day, we were in Barcelona for a second last hurrah. New Year's Eve was also nuts, but significantly less nuts than Amsterdam, believe it or not.


The last hurrah in Barcelona did the trick. These two were as ready for kids as they were going to get.


So we got home, pulled the goalie, and everything fell into place.


Happy New Year, everyone. It's mind-boggling what can happen in a year.

Ludicrous

A lot of American moms go back to work about now, the six week mark. This is the point where Julie stops getting paid to be on maternity leave. She negotiated a longer leave, but for the next ten weeks, she won't see a paycheck. It's not her employer's fault; it's standard in the United States.

Or is it? I thought six weeks paid leave was required until I did a little research. According to an organization called Moms Rising, we're one of four countries that do not ensure a paid maternity leave. We're in the proud company of Swaziland, Papua New Guinea, and Lesotho.

Are you a little bit horrified? In the United States of America, working women are not entitled to paid maternity leave. We are tied with three third-world countries for the worst maternity leave in the world.

In Pakistan, you would get 12 weeks paid. In Afghanistan, 90 days. Same in Ethiopia. You would get 18 weeks paid in Cuba, 14 in Panama, and 12 in Guatemala, Colombia, Mexico, and the Dominican Republic. In Norway, a mother gets 18 weeks paid, and then 26 additional paid weeks to be divided between the mother and father. Now, I'm not saying we should suddenly become Norway, but couldn't we at least rise to the level of Bangladesh? Care to compare other nations with ours? Click here.

The Family Medical Leave Act does guarantee a person 12 weeks of unpaid leave to care for an infant. That's wonderful if you have a savings account; Julie and I are lucky to be able to take unpaid leaves. I cannot imagine putting our six-week-old in daycare, but I have nothing but respect for mothers who don't have a choice.

Card

I chilled with Lyla in a mall Starbucks while Julie ran around and bought stuff. We sat by the window and I read Time magazine, so I didn't pay attention to the throngs of humanity surging past us, slowing down to stare and admire. Those of you truly keeping track will note that Lyla wore these pants yesterday too. See, we're just regular people.

This evening the three of us dined at Chevy's, an exclusive Mexican restaurant masquerading as a garish, repugnant chain. The question for you to consider is this: is a Chevy's waitress more or less likely to card a young couple if they have a baby? This question ran through my mind as we pulled into the parking lot, as Julie had just fed Lyla and announced to me that she deserved a margarita.


So here we are, just so you can get an idea of the level of class and sophistication. Does bringing a baby here make us seem older, or younger?

Now, a word on pumping and dumping, the unlikely phrase that means draining all your milk and throwing it away. This was a concept that I misunderstood until about three days ago. I thought drinking alcohol poisoned all your milk, which meant you had to drain yourself completely and start again fresh. In fact, breast milk does not store alcohol. Rather, the alcohol, as you know, affects your blood, and anything in your blood can transfer to your milk. Once the alcohol leaves your blood, it doesn't remain in your milk.

There are a couple schools of thought about alcohol and breastfeeding. The extremists say don't drink at all until the kid is totally weaned. But most experts agree that a drink now and then is okay as long as you wait two or three hours before breastfeeding. Well duh. If you're not buzzed, your kid won't be either.

That said, everything is out the window if you're a total booze hound. Heavy drinkers or frequent drinkers shouldn't drink while breastfeeding. Again, well duh.

So the pumping and dumping isn't necessary due to alcoholic milk; it's necessary to deal with engorgement caused by waiting to feed. Fascinating stuff, people. It's great to be a man.

Back to the question. If you saw Julie and me at Chevy's, would the baby increase your estimate of our age? Or would you think, "Stupid young couple bringing their beautiful accident baby to Chevy's, tut tut." Well, the waitress didn't card us, and we always get carded, so I guess Lyla makes us look older. Yippee.

Amazonian

Lyla went to her first wedding today. New baby + new camera = me not paying attention. Here the music is lulling Lyla. I have no idea why her eyes are brown in this picture. They are decidedly blue in real life.


And she's out, sleeping in church just like Homer Simpson, and with the same hairstyle.

The reception was in the lower part of the church, a fantastic venue actually, unlike most church basements. We were seated in the back, conveniently close to the nursery. They also stored the extra beverages and ice in the nursery, so when I changed Lyla's diaper in there, I found an empty ice bag and stuffed it with the diaper and wipes, and then tossed the thing in the trash under some child's discarded drawings. Is that wrong? Are we supposed to be like hard-core backpackers and take our waste home with us?

They had a rocker in the nursery, too, so you'd think it would make the perfect breastfeeding location. But Julie, with a fervor reminiscent of 1960s bra burners, decided she preferred to feed Lyla right at the table, damn it. Dinner was over, no one was watching, and she had a blanket, a lovely assistant, and a hungry baby.

"But the nursery?" I said.

"Shh. Hold the blanket."

At this point the newlyweds said on the microphone that they would be announcing who was at each table, just highlights to acknowledge the different people in their life.

Nobody paid any attention to us as the newlyweds spoke about each table. We were table 14 anyway, so certainly Julie would be done by then. But when they got to table 12, Julie moved to switch Lyla to the other side.

"Um, holy shit," I whispered. "They're almost to our table."

"So?"

"You could do the other side when they're done."

"Nobody's going to know."

Who was this Amazonian turbo-mom? Certainly not the same woman who just days earlier wondered if she would ever breastfeed in public.

I pictured the worst possible scenario: Lyla dislodging and Julie's breast shooting a milk arc across the room and into the bride's mouth. But they got to table 14 and it was over just like that. Nobody even noticed. The people at our own table had no idea what was going on even though to me Lyla's gulping sounded like the tell-tale heart.

Later in the car, I asked Julie what had inspired her to risk public lewdness at a wedding reception.

"Lyla was hungry, and I didn't want to miss anything. Besides, I just shove her under the blanket and she latches on. What's your problem?"

Hmm. Julie has gotten better at it. Lyla has gotten better at it. I guess it's time that I get better at it too.

Zoo

Mother's Day is way better than Father's Day. Mother's Day involves the husband waking up early and cleaning the house while simultaneously tending to the child. This must be done silently to prevent the mother from waking. Then the husband and child make the mother's favorite breakfast, again silently, and the child serves the breakfast bedside at the mother's preferred waking time.

Then the husband and child leave the house for the day. The mother deserves time alone, and that is what Mother's Day is all about. Perhaps the husband and child return later to take the mother out to dinner, but if the mother prefers it, the husband and child stay in a hotel that night, returning home the next day.

But then a month or so later on Father's Day, the father prepares his favorite breakfast for everyone. Then everyone goes to the zoo, unless the wife wants to stay home. On Father's Day, the wife's participation is optional because it's really a day for fathers and kids to hang out. That evening there is usually a barbecue hosted by the father.

Later the father gets an ugly tie.

I'm calling shenanigans on that whole deal. For Father's Day I'm gonna sit in a bubble-bath and play video games all day.

Of course that's a lie. I'm taking everyone to the zoo.

Bank

We've had 20 or so people offer to babysit Lyla. The problem is I don't think we'd ever get her back.

No, really the problem is breast milk. I always thought that during a feeding, a baby might drink two or three pints of breast milk, much like a young lad at a pub in the afternoon. And when a mother would pump, she might get four or five gallons at a time, necessitating a second freezer in the garage.

Actually, like the baby's weight, ounces are what matter. Lyla will eat three or four ounces during a feeding, and Julie will pump one or two at a time in addition. At night, when Lyla becomes Lylazilla, thirsty beast from the depths, she will often ransack the fridge and claim whatever ounces Julie has stockpiled that day. So we do not manage to save much.

This reminds me of when I was 22 and trying to save money. I had hoards of money coming in, or at least it seemed that way with my bachelor's degree and low-five-figure teaching salary. I should've been able to save several hundred dollars a month, right? No, with all my expenses, including my wannabe-rockstar lifestyle, I felt I needed a loan.

Even though at 22 I thought a loan was the solution to my problems, I know better now. And it occurs to me that a loan from the bank is like baby formula: you might want to avoid it if you can. I know not all women have a choice and that it's a personal decision, but our perspective at this point is that formula is not as good as breast milk, much like money from a loan is not as good as money you've saved.

So Julie's saving a little milk at a time, and we hear that eventually it does accumulate. (Hey, if you ask me, those breasts deserve a pay raise.) And so once we have more in the bank, we might allow some of you to babysit.

Just don't expect us to pay you.

Gift

My family has a tradition on Christmas where the kids have to go upstairs before gift opening. There they wait until they hear the beginning of the Nutcracker Suite, and then they can run downstairs to the flashing of cameras and their presents.

We haven't had an actual kid at Christmas in several years. But we did today.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Hopefully you also got everything you wanted.

Unfazed

Lyla is in the Baby Bjorn here. She has spit up on me multiple times while riding around in the Bjorn, and sometimes I don't even realize it until I take her out and there it is, crustified.

I still manage to reject a lot of disgusting, sticky things. Give me a donut, and I'll still ask for a plate and fork. Give me a Christmas cookie, and I'll still hold it by the very edge.

As the parent of a new baby, however, I have had to let some things go. When changing diapers, it's inconvenient to put on a haz-mat suit first. Rubber gloves will not become a habit either, for I'd spend the whole day sterilizing them or throwing them away. No, the best method is to just dig in while my brain remains in its happy place.

Sometimes during a diaper change I realize that I should've waited another two minutes. It's like she's saved a special surprise just for Daddy's hand. Now, if any other creature on the planet squirted onto my bare hand, the next moments would probably find me plotting a hasty murder. But with my own kid I find myself curiously unfazed.

Wedge

I bought Lyla a wedge-shaped pillow for under her bassinet sheet. If you had a miniature foam bicycle and wanted to take it off a jump, you might ask me to lend you this pillow. I would say no, get your own, and wear a foam helmet. The thinking behind the pillow is that some babies, when slightly elevated, sleep better and spew all over themselves less.

We've had a couple nights where Lyla has been gurgly and disagreeable while we're trying to sleep. She doesn't appreciate that her mother and I would prefer that she spit up during the day or not at all. When she begins swearing loudly from the bassinet, Julie will shove the binky back in her mouth only to find that the child needs a new nightie because the current one is soaked in regurgitated curds.

So after the new nightie I take her downstairs and put her in the little bouncy chair thing, and she goes right to sleep while I snooze on the couch. Which got me wondering if there was some way to prop her up in the bassinet. See, we've learned that if you start brainstorming ways to make your infant a more productive member of the household, you'll probably dream up products that already exist.

Last night Lyla slept for six hours, the equivalent of a drive to Duluth and back from where we live, complete with a stop at Tobies for coffee and a cinnamon roll. Unbelievable. Now I can only imagine that this night, when placed among others in the grand scheme of things, will emerge as an anomaly, but it could also be that this wedge pillow is an amazing creation sent to Earth by God or aliens.

I should also mention that Julie was not a believer at first and in fact (you won't believe this) criticized this product when I pulled it out of the box. We'll see how she feels after a good night's sleep.

*Update: 24 hours later*

After sleeping for most of the day, Lyla partied for most of the night. Oh well. If it seems too good to be true, it often is.

Real

Julie and I are doing our best not to become smug new parents when talking to our childless friends. Everybody knows those incorrigible folks whose child causes them to feel superior to everyone.

"You two don't know what you're missing," they say in unison. "We used to be just like you, taking trips, going to nice restaurants, but now our lives are just so much more enriched." At a social gathering, they won't even ask you about your job or favorite hobbies, so convinced they are that stories of children, particularly theirs, trump everything. "I hope someday you're as blessed as we are," they say with pity.

Oh, and then they send the Christmas form letter with news like, "God really touched Bob's golf game this year!!" and "The new addition we built pushed our house over the 3,000-square-feet mark, praise God!!!"

I'm not talking about you or your spouse, by the way. Seriously, no sarcasm, you're both great. But you know who I'm talking about.

I do write a blog devoted to my daughter, though, so maybe I'm just as guilty. I'll try to keep it real and not let this thing turn into "Oh you wouldn't believe the cute thing Lyla did today! Everyone, look! Bask in her cuteness! Lavish us with admiration!"

No, I'd rather write about how yesterday I went through three shirts because I still can't remember to use the burp cloth, or about how Lyla's dirty diapers are starting to resemble Rorschach mustard blots.

Smile

It's a good thing babies don't know what embarrassing means. Or maybe they do but they can only express it by moving their right hand back and forth really fast, as in the picture above.

Julie and I decided to forgo all Christmas presents for Lyla this year. Lyla doesn't care, and she has plenty of relatives to buy her stuff that will soon be her heart's desires.

We did set up Lyla's college fund, however, so that's her Christmas present from us. It's a 529 plan, and you can get them through any state. Since Minnesota doesn't provide any specific tax benefits to residents, Julie did some research and decided to go with Iowa instead because they've historically had pretty good returns and a low management fee.


Lyla seems to approve. Is that a smile? Her first smile? I happened to take this yesterday, and I'd like to say it's her first smile, but that would be dishonest. It was a random face-muscle arrangement. Less than one second later it changed to this:


She'll be smiling soon enough. For now I'm happy we were given a preview, if only for an instant. And when she's ready for college and sees the fruits of our investments, then she'll smile for a week.

Up

I'm writing this at about 7:00 in the morning, having slept in until an impressive 6:30. After changing Lyla's diaper at 6:00 in anticipation of a feeding, I slugged back into bed. After some moments came a shout from the nursery: "Will you stop sighing? Sheesh!"

I inquired as to what on earth she was talking about.

"Oh poor Dan, back in bed. Sigh. SIGH."

A man has two options in a situation like this: be sensitive or be snarky. As I rose from the bed and padded across the hall, I naturally opted for the latter.

"I believe I have just been on the receiving end of the legendary 'breathe quieter' request. This places me in a new category of husband-martyr, and you in a new category of shrew."

"You're in a new category of tool." Then an epiphany lit up her face. "Are you awake because you're getting presents today?"

"No. I mean...no!" This has been so built up over the years. We're doing Christmas with Julie's family today, and every year I get teased by Julie and her sister Jen because once like 8 years ago I told them I had trouble sleeping on Christmas Eve.

"Go back to bed like a big boy."

"Shut it."

Then she got all sing-songy. "Is Danny going to get a present today? The big one under the tree looks like a firetruck."

I'll get my revenge. When Lyla begins to gain awareness of Christmas, I'll coach her that when she gets too excited to sleep, she should wake up Mom.

Hair

Lyla has gained 12 ounces in the past week. That's like the equivalent of a beer, isn't it?

I'm pretty sure that Daisy and Tulip think of Lyla as a tiny hairless puppy. Daisy still likes to lick her, as if welcoming her to the pack. Tulip tolerates her, and as long as Lyla never tries to eat her food, they'll be cordial acquaintances.

Neither of our dogs sheds much, but they do shed. On a pacifier left on the livingroom table, we'll find little black dog hairs and wash them off. Still, we wonder how much dog hair Lyla has accidentally ingested. One hair? Two? More?

We have joked that if we ever find a dog hair in Lyla's poop, then shortly thereafter we'll shave those dogs bald. And if you've ever seen either of our dogs after an aggressive groomer gets through with them, you know that any family of rodents would welcome them to a reunion picnic.

I do look forward to the day when Lyla decides to be master of the dogs. The ear and tail pulling, the poking, and the unpredictable movements will be good for our dogs to get used to. Perhaps they'll truly form a pack of three and plan insurrection against Julie and me. With Lyla's keen intellect, Tulip's blind ambition, and Daisy's recklessness, they could be a force to reckon with.

Let's just hope that Lyla doesn't become allergic to the dogs, or the dogs to her.

Envy

Freud wrote about penis envy, but he ignored lactating breast envy, which I happen to suffer from. As a non-lactating man, I find that a large percentage of my existence involves overcompensating. I'm considering purchasing a large pair of sunglasses, for instance, just because of the shape.

Today Lyla demanded milk every two hours, as opposed to her normal three. We think it's a growth spurt; by Christmas she won't even be able to fit in her stocking. So I got home, and Julie hadn't even had time to shower. What do I do to compete with that? The answer is whatever Julie tells me to do.

Normally I'm rather petulant when I'm asked to do a chore. With lawn mowing, for example, I feel that since I am the lone mower, then I get to dictate when the mowing occurs. Demand a mow, and I might wait a week longer out of principle. Immature principle, but principle nonetheless.

But add breastfeeding to the mix, and I find myself honoring requests ten times as unreasonable as "Mow the lawn today." Take this evening, when Julie declared that she hated the location of our Christmas tree. Sucker that I am, I moved the entire tree across the livingroom, decorations and all. Tomorrow if she recants her previous objection, I'll move the thing back, all because I can't breastfeed.

Smell

In case you're wondering how big Lyla is on the eve of her four-week birthday, she has now eclipsed the Cabbage Patch Preemie, but just in length.

Winter babies can have vitamin-D deficiencies due to relative lack of sunshine, so they often get supplements. The supplements come in a little liquid syringe that you sneak into her mouth during a feeding.

The two possible supplements are Tri-Vi-Sol and Poly-Vi-Sol, meaning a three-vitamin solution or a many-vitamin solution. Lyla's doctor said she could take either one.

Tri-Vi-Sol has a pleasant medicinal smell reminiscent of childhood sniffles and reading Highlights Magazine under a pile of blankets.

When our tiny bottle of Tri-Vi-Sol ran out and Target didn't have more in stock, we opted for Poly-Vi-Sol and later discovered that it smells like sweaty donkey scrotum.

Sorry to spring such a phrase on you. Had I just said "It smells gross," you wouldn't have gotten the full effect. The smell is so vile that you can't help but react viscerally. It's a smell that might cause a tree to suck itself back into the ground. Julie was so convinced that we had gotten a contaminated bottle that we bought another, but alas it was the same.

So we have refused to feed Lyla even a drop of Poly-Vi-Sol. Luckily Babies R Us had Tri-Vi-Sol, so now Lyla will get her vitamin-D without enduring the fetid, putrescent, eye-watering nastiness of whatever the hell is in that other stuff.

Song

During Lyla's nightly fussy time, she squirms, gurgles, and complains about everything. She struggles to find a comfortable position, but once she does, you're a fool if you move her.


Even if she looks ridiculous.

Lyla likes it when Julie sings to her, but Julie's repertoire is rather small.

"I know one verse of Silent Night, most of Jingle Bells, the ABCs, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but even that one I have to hmm-hmm-hmm my way through part of it."

"Good God."

"Yeah, right? And I realized today that I don't know Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

"You know that's the first line of the song, don't you?"

"Yes, so I'm like [singing] Twinkle twinkle little star...how I wonder how you are...up above us hmm-hmm-hmm...like a hmm-hmm everywhere. It's pathetic."

"Do you know Mary Had a Little Lamb?"

"Ooh! [Singing] Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb..."

"The next part's tricky."

"[Singing] Whose friends--"

"Fleece."

"[Singing] Fleece was white as snow."

"Good! What's next?"

"Well...[Singing] So then they ate the little lamb, little lamb--"

"Holy shit, they didn't eat the lamb! He followed her to school one day!"

"That's dumb."

"So you didn't sing nursery rhymes or listen to Raffi tapes when you were little?"

"What's a rafty?"

Carry

I came home to find Lyla resting in a papoose. I was able to hand Julie her Starbucks without baby interference.

The papoose sling thing came in the mail today. Julie likes it better than the Baby Bjorn because it's simpler and Lyla's more comfortable. I think it looks comfortable too.

"So you ordered it when again?"

"A while ago. Don't you love the color?"

"Yeah, I'm glad it's not too girly so I can wear it at the gun range or whatever."

"You can't wear it."

I paused for a moment to consider how we would ever manage to teach our daughter how to take turns.

"I never knew you were territorial about papooses."

"No, it's called a Hot Sling, and it's not your size. I ordered it based on bra size."

So apparently there's a baby papoose called a Hot Sling, and you can't wear one unless you also wear bras. This upsets me greatly as a man who is not well-endowed in the chest region. Now I have to wear the inferior Bjorn, which makes me feel like I'm hauling Lyla up a mountainside.

"Hello? Are you paying attention? You don't have to wear a bra. Men can order with their height and weight. This one will be too small for you because you're a big galoot ogre."

"Oh. Well then."


If I ever get tired of carrying Lyla this way, maybe I'll buy my own papoose with a fire design or cobras or something. Then this summer we can go to the zoo and I'll be the envy of all the moms.

Classy

A couple people have commented recently that Lyla looks a lot like me. They are of course referring to hairline and overbite.

This afternoon we drove to Julie's work holiday party. Lyla was a big hit, and neither of us held her much. When afternoon turned to evening and the party wound down, we said our goodbyes and then realized in the car that it was 9:00 and we hadn't eaten dinner. So we joined the prestigious realm of America that takes infants to restaurants at inappropriate times. Lyla should have been at home snuggling in her bassinet, but instead she snuggled in her car seat in a booth at Perkins. Somebody, give us an award.

I sat on the side that faced the sketchy couple in the next booth and the old tubercular woman several booths down, and Julie faced only me so she could breastfeed. And really, considering this was her first attempt at public breastfeeding, and considering how complicated it is to breastfeed a tiny baby, she did quite well. There was a nerp flash at one point, but what can you do? I suppose eventually the baby figures it out and you can just shove her under your shirt and she finds where she's headed, but Lyla still needs someone to chauffeur her to the destination. I stood guard and hissed at Julie, "Here comes the waitress with my soup!" which earned me an eye roll to go along with my dinner and show.

We are classy, classy people. I took a picture to someday show to Lyla's first boyfriend:


Ah, parenting. It's always something fresh and new.

Screwy

When Lyla yawns, her face screws up into the same expression as when she cries, which often makes her cry. I think she figures, if my face is like this, then maybe I'm upset about something.

Her yawn-cries never last long, which makes sense since nothing was bothering her in the first place.

Babies' yawns are the most natural yawns in the world. Same with their sneezes. It makes me wonder how the sneezes and yawns of adults become so absurd. Certainly you know people who sneeze, but it's not really even a sneeze because they try to hold it in. The sound is an apologetic "Ach-sng" and you wonder if their head will explode and shoot bits of brain from their ears.

At some point early in their lives, somebody taught them to be ashamed of their sneezes. Perhaps it's a Minnesota thing. I picture overbearing mothers who may or may not be Scandinavian: "That sneeze nearly knocked the hotdish out of my hands. Geez Louise."

And their yawns are like mortified little facial seizures. As kids they yawned in church once. "Is Jesus boring you? Perhaps you'll find the eternal fires of hell more exciting."

"Mommy, we're Lutherans. We hardly believe in hell."

"Stop making a scene, dear."

I suppose it's natural to try to get your kid to suppress their natural urges when they become embarrassing. One day I will teach Lyla that when someone new is holding her, she should try not to poop. And one day she'll need to cover those sneezes with a hand or sleeve. But for now, her sneezes are delightful. Each is a perfect "Achoo" with a tiny exclamation point at the end, and I can't imagine ever trying to shame that out of her.

Chunk

Julie went to the breastfeeding clinic yesterday to check on her latch. The latch was fine, but the nurse weighed Lyla and she was one ounce short of her birth weight. For a three-week-old, that's not great. As you can imagine, Julie was crushed. Like any new mom, she feels solely responsible for Lyla's well-being. I got home from school and found her in tears next to a giant pile of used tissues.

It's easier for the dad to be calm during these situations, but it doesn't do the mom any good to hear a bunch of rationalizations. Still, it's important that fantastic moms not feel like shitty ones. Ultimately, creating an action plan turned Julie from despair to hope. In anticipation of the next day's doctor appointment, we decided to cram Lyla with as much breast milk as possible. If we could get her to gain one ounce, the equivalent of a fistful of popcorn, then Julie would feel like a good mom again.

At the appointment today, Lyla weighed in at 8 pounds 9 ounces, a full 3 ounces above the birth weight. When the doctor came in, we told her about the last 24 hours, and she reset the scale and weighed Lyla again. This time she came in a little closer to 8 pounds 10.

So what the hell happened? The doctor thought the scale yesterday must have been off. It was an electric one, and those can go cuckoo. The scales with actual weights on them, like the one today at the clinic, are more reliable. Plus, Lyla doesn't look like an underweight baby. The girl has some chunk to her; it's not like she's got ribs all over the place. Her cheeks are like filet mignons.

Julie was ecstatic.


We spent the rest of the day at the mall. Lyla was a champion. At feeding time, Julie brought her to the Nordstrom ladies room (it's more like a lounge, she tells me) and Lyla chugged each side dry. So I'm guessing she'll be 8 pounds 11 by morning. Oh, and we ate sushi for the first time since Julie got pregnant.

So to sum up, Julie has fed her daughter to normal weight, she went shopping all afternoon, and then she ate sushi. I believe this is the best day we've had since the birth.

Cycle

Most likely, all parents of a teenager have said, "I hope you have a child one day exactly like you!" Which, to the narcissistic teen, doesn't sound half bad.

It's tough to imagine Lyla sassing off to Julie and me. She'll reach the point where being seen with us in a movie theater will be the epitome of uncool. She'll go to the mall with us only when we're shopping for her, and even then she'll keep a safe distance to prevent passersby from figuring out that we're together. Family functions might find her sullen, wanting instead to hang out in the basement with her cynical friends or, God help us, her loser pothead boyfriend.

What'll be so strange about her rejection of us is that Julie and I are such cool people. I mean, we're tight peeps, man. With it. In with the now. Slammin' to the max, yo. We'll be such dope parents that we won't be able to figure out why our kid thinks we're lame-o.

Plus, we'll remember what she was like before she even had a distinct personality. We'll remember the years when she accepted us unconditionally, like heroes or celebrities, and we'll remember how easy it was to unconditionally accept her. So when the pubescent little snot stomps all over our feelings, we too will have a fit of exasperation and tell her we hope she has a kid someday who's just like her. And she won't understand what we're talking about either.

Until she does.

Courtesy

I heard a story once about two Irish guys in a Dublin pub who were about to clink mugs after a toast. It's a sign of respect to keep your mug lower than the other guy's, communicating that you hold him in esteem and above yourself. Well, these two guys both wanted their mug to be the lower one. They began to argue as each lowered his mug at the same time, down to waist level, then knee level, and finally as each mug was nearly touching the floor, one guy got fed up and punched the other guy in the nose. That ended the courtesy contest.

They were best mates again a couple pints later.

Julie and I have a similar conflict at night. When Lyla wakes up at 3:00 AM and wants to be fed, I want to help. Sometimes I'm a little groggy, but I lurch into the nursery and earnestly ask the breastfeeding Julie if there's anything I can get for her. A glass of water? A blanket? A magazine? And she looks at me with hateful eyes and says, "Will you just leave?"

And I'm like, what the hell? What did I do wrong?

After having a civil daytime discussion with her about it, it turns out that she gets angry when I wake up because she wants to provide me with peaceful sleep. I'm the one working outside the house right now, the one who has to wake up early, she says. If she can tend to Lyla without waking me up, she feels like she's doing her job. So by trying to be a good husband, I make her feel like a bad wife.

Which is completely ass-bonkers. I sit in a classroom all day and chat with kids and occasionally tell them what to do. This does not require hours and hours of uninterrupted sleep. Plus, she already crabs at me for daytime infractions like bringing in the mail without sorting it. Must I also lose points at night for trying to be nice?

It's a new set of rules. One of us will have to yield eventually, but I don't think it'll be me. She gets to be in charge of Lyla's feeding schedule, but I get to be in charge of my own sleeping schedule. She doesn't get to lord over both. "You need your sleep!" Good grief, she's Lyla's mom, not mine. If I want to clink my proverbial mug beneath hers from time to time, then the daft lass better feckin' allow it.

Awkward

Julie took Lyla to Target today to show her where all the diapers come from and teach her the value of a dollar. Lyla, I hear, behaved herself nicely. She didn't throw any tantrums in the toy department and didn't demand any inappropriately sugary cereals. But she did poop her pants.

The car seat requires unnatural back strength to put in and take out, though. We have the base properly installed in the middle back seat. To get the car seat in there, you have to lean way over and maneuver it until it locks in. All together, Lyla and the seat weigh an awkward 16 pounds or so. It's like putting your arms straight out from your body while holding a bowling ball.

And that's assuming that you use a real ball and not one of those 8-pound glorified shot puts.

I don't know if there's a better way, and I'm wondering what happens when Lyla weighs several pounds more and goes on outings more frequently. Perhaps I'll install a pulley system above her car seat base. Or do people ultimately move the car seat to the side? That would be a lot easier, though less ideal in a crash.

Well, I guess there's one way to not have to deal with the middle seat. We could have another kid.

Soft

Normally the winter finds my hands dry and disgusting. They crack and ultimately bleed, and Julie ambushes me with lotion that I only allow on the backs of my hands because it feels icky on my palms. I'm also a nail biter, so much so that you'd look at my fingernails and conclude that I must lead a stressful life, perhaps as an air-traffic controller, a prison guard, or Laura Bush.

But now I find myself obsessing about my hands. I use a moisturizing lotion in the morning and at night. It's horribly gross, and in the morning I put it off until I'm ready to don gloves and leave the house. I've also stopped gnawing my fingernails. It's a terrible habit to break, and I find myself with nail between teeth multiple times per day, though I always stop myself from biting. They don't look spectacular yet, but I've purchased a file.

Hopefully I'll be able to keep it up. If you've touched a baby's skin recently, then perhaps you have also thought about whether your hands are worthy.

Weight

I never understood the big deal with these things until now.

Lyla has a doctor appointment on Friday. I think she's getting bigger, and Julie really hopes she's getting bigger. My main concern about this appointment is that the doctor or nurse will say something condescending like, "Well, do you think you're feeding her enough?" All Julie ever does is feed her, so if Lyla's not at least back up to her birth weight, then Julie's going to feel like it's her fault.

But it'll be fine. She must be gaining weight because she's eating and pooping. End of story. Still, the real peace of mind will come when the doctor confirms normalcy. I keep offering to take Lyla to the grocery store and plop her onto one of those deli scales to see if she's making adequate progress. I could also take her to the post office, but people might get the wrong idea.

Anyway, I've been coaching Lyla on how to respond should anyone ever act snarky toward her mother.

Public

Saturdays have a whole new significance now. Last week was a bit of a slog, trying to get back into the swing of teaching while simultaneously wanting only to be home. I don't like to miss out, although I'm happy that Julie is enjoying her time away from Corporate America and, let's be honest, her daily breaks from me. As for when we're both home, Lyla is becoming more portable now, having spent the past two weeks of flu season ingesting antibodies through her mother's milk. Now we can take her into public without feeling like bad parents.

It's good for Julie, whose first reaction to civilization was to gasp at the low gas prices.

Lyla seems destined to be a socialite. She's got the fashion sense, anyway.


Yesterday we took her to Starbucks, blanket covering the car-seat until we determined there were no mouth-breathers in our vicinity. Later that night we found ourselves at Perkins for pie with a couple friends. Lyla slept through it but commented later that we should patronize fewer chains.

Today I'm planning on sticking around the house. Julie's going shopping with her sister, and I have a stack of movies, two dogs, a bottle of milk, and a baby with miniscule toes to keep me company.

Club

The book is included for size comparison. Lyla is like a large loaf of bread.

I have been inducted, christened if you will, into the prestigious club whose members include new dads and college students with drunken, top-bunk roommates. I have been peed on.

After Lyla's bath last night, I held her lovingly to my chest and dried her with a fluffy towel. She seemed so peaceful, so relaxed. Suddenly a pleasant warmth licked against my stomach. My first thought was, hmm, that feels nice. My second thought was, oh, I am a fire hydrant.

When you were little (okay, 16) and your "friends" dipped your hand in warm water at your birthday sleepover and caused you to whiz in your sleeping bag, the same scientific principles were at work. Warm water causes sphincter relaxation. And when you're holding a warm, wet two-week-old, whose sphincter is lazier than the laziest man in Los Angeles County, you'd better have a raincoat on.

In truth, I'm proud it happened. I didn't find it revolting, and I wasn't even slightly upset or annoyed. You see, Lyla is the one who now belongs to the prestigious club, not me. The club is impossibly elite, and you'll never get in. It's the club of people I love so profoundly that they can piss all over me and I don't even care.

Break

Julie is thrilled to be able to zip her hoodie again. Late in the pregnancy, she could pull it about to where her ribs met her armpits.

I'm going to try to get Julie out of the house for awhile this weekend. Lyla is two weeks old today, and Julie hasn't been anywhere without her since conception. She feels quite the weight of motherly responsibility, I think, what with the whole feeding source thing. If Lyla doesn't make the right weight at next Friday's doctor appointment, Julie will take it personally. It's like she's Lyla's wrestling coach.

That's a lot to take on. Julie started to pump recently, and I actually fed Lyla her first ounces of bottle milk yesterday. Talk about power. I thought to myself, Lyla is eating now, and I am the reason why. I'm sure it's ten times as powerful if your nerps are where the food comes from. Really, dads with bottles are just posers.

But it might do Julie some good to go to the mall for an hour and get away from the immediacy of motherhood. As long as I have a bottle or two, I'll be fine. Domestic or imported, it doesn't matter.

Just kidding, I mean a bottle or two of milk for Lyla. 'Cause I can handle taking care of her by myself. I can. Maybe I'll have my mom over, and Julie can leave for like 45 minutes or 30 minutes or so. Maybe 15 minutes to pick up the pictures at Walgreen's and come right back.

Maybe we can both go out and leave Daisy to babysit.

Pat

Daddy's thumb is Lyla's new favorite toy. Christmas is going to be so easy.

We haven't mastered the whole spitting-up skill yet. After a feeding, Julie or I drape Lyla over a shoulder with a towel underneath and pat her back. She's supposed to barf regurgitated breast milk into the towel, right? Well, generally she just sits there. The barfing comes later when it's less convenient for everyone.

Last night at 2:00 AM, Lyla addressed us from her bassinet. She was so irate that it was impossible to discern what she was saying. I rose to investigate and found her floating in a pool of her own blurp. I hauled Ms. Drippy to the nursery and rooted through the top dresser drawer for a newborn nightie. Why we have the newborn stuff mixed with the three-month stuff is beyond me. It's hard enough to find what you need when it's not the middle of the night.

One nightie, one bassinet sheet, and one swaddled, dry baby later, sleep returned. We're slowly getting Lyla to sleep on our terms; now it's time to get her to spit up on our terms. Maybe when she's a bit older and has more ways to entertain herself beyond holding my thumb, she'll stop saving her blurp for when she's bored and wants some action.

By the way, Julie rejected this as our Christmas photo: