Orange

Legend has it that Julie's parents drove her and her sister Jen to the doctor because they were orange babies. It turned out the girls were not Oompa Loompas as their young parents perhaps feared.

The doctor said something like, "By chance, do these girls like carrots?" and the girls got a carrot-wild look in their eyes and started foaming at the mouth. When they realized he didn't have any carrots to offer them, they attacked him, gnashing their gums on his jugular vein. It took their parents plus three nurses to pull them off the poor man.

As he wiped the saliva from his neck and the sweat from his forehead, he explained that c-a-r-r-o-t-s (which he spelled this time, lest he be attacked again) had beta-c-a-r-o-t-e-n-e, which could turn you orange if you ate enough.

Okay, I got a little carried away there.

Lyla loves Gerber carrots, slurps them like a toothless Bugs Bunny, so we decided to make our own. Curiously, though, when we fed Lyla the carrots we had steamed, cooled, and puréed, she reacted as though we were actually feeding her puréed Oompa Loompas.




So what's the difference between Gerber carrots and real carrots? Are theirs like special free-range carrots or something? Maybe we should dump some sugar on ours.

Counterproductive

Besides rolling in various directions, Lyla is beginning to maneuver her body in a way that resembles crawling. Trouble is, she moves backwards.

I've heard this is pretty normal. Still, it would be frustrating to see a wonderful treat, say an ice cream sundae or an iPhone, and by willing yourself to walk to it, you actually walked away from it.

Let me give you a Lyla-specific example. Eventually she decided that Tulip's bone should be her bone.


Tulip is deft with a bone, so Lyla wasn't able to get it away from her. Instead of giving up, Lyla decided that crawling closer would improve her angle. Here she is moments later, without any paternal interference:


Three seconds after that, she started screaming. I would've too.

Tutu

Ridiculous!

Why does a baby need sandals? I know, I know: because they're cute. But she doesn't walk yet. Doesn't even crawl. Hey, a tattoo might be cute too. What about an eyebrow piercing?

Today Julie and I strolled (and in Lyla's case strollered) around Lake Nokomis before eating amazing pizza at Fat Lorenzo's. While there, Julie said, "I've wanted to ask you something all day."

"Seriously? What?"

"I need your advice on something." She looked at me expectantly with a hint of mischief. "Should I buy Lyla a tutu?"

"A tutu? No no."

"Pink maybe? Green? Blue? Purple?"

"How about gray?"

"Dan, be serious."

"Brown?"

"Dan!"

"Pink?"

"Pink? Really?"

"Buy her a pink one and a green one. Two tutus to...what do babies do in tutus?"

"They get their pictures taken in them. Men are so clueless."

Sanity

Not to minimize the experience of actual lunatics, but by Friday I'm just about there. I'm more apt to attribute a failed nap attempt to some grand cosmic conspiracy, more apt to mutter at inanimate objects that get in my way, and more apt to get choked up by articles in Sports Illustrated. All baby and no play makes Dan a dull boy.

I should call in for reinforcements when I start to feel my mind fester like Lyla's diaper pail, but I don't. I suck it up, shove down the stress, and fantasize about how long her nap might last. Could today be a two-hour day? Oh please, let it go at least 90 minutes.


Yesterday was an awesome Friday, however. My mom came over mid-morning with greasy food. We chatted; Lyla was cute. I left for awhile to read at Starbucks. Then twenty minutes after my mom went home, Julie called to say she was coming home early. By 5:00, we were at the pool. The pool exhausted Lyla, who slept like a champ last night, and then Julie took her out today without me for several hours.

And sanity, sweet sanity, returned.

Goodness

Maybe you've heard this story. I read it today in Sports Illustrated. In a college softball game with two girls on base, the batter hits it over the fence. It's the first home run of her life in the last game of her college career. As the crowd cheers, she rounds first and realizes that she missed the bag, which you have to touch. She turns back but her cleat catches and she crumples to the ground with a torn ACL. Her coach is informed that if anyone on her team touches her, she'll be called out. And if she's replaced, it'll be counted as a single because that's as far as she got.

So two players from the opposing team walk over to first base, which she managed to crawl back to. They pick her up and carry her around the bases, lowering her to touch each bag with the foot on her good leg. I'm a pretty even keel guy, but with frayed nerves on a Friday I read something like that and totally lose it. It's Lyla, you know? It's parenting. Sometimes it just hits you.

Floater

I took this photo today with my replacement phone, which shows that either I haven't learned my lesson about mixing phones and swimming pools, or that I just like to stare danger in the face.

Speaking of faces, Lyla's in that picture doesn't quite represent her emotional state while wearing the life jacket. It's amazing I even got her into it.

"Honey, I told you. They don't have pink ones."

"Hmmmmmmmmmmm," she whined.

"One...more...arm."

"HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

"And...all done! See? See how fun? We can float and bounce in the water! Bouncy bouncy bouncy."

"Hmm."

"Do you like to bouncy bouncy?"

"I'm trying to poop."

"Ah."

Dunk

I had reservations about submerging Lyla's head in the swimming pool. Sure, our parents gave us a quick puff on the face and shoved us under with no problem. And sure, as kids we all got dunked by bigger kids who had premature armpit hair. And even though some of them were girls, we turned out fine.

Didn't we?

Is it necessary for parents to submerge their babies? Is the thought that they can handle it because they bobbed around in amniotic fluid for the first ten months of their existence? Or is it because there aren't many things you can do with an infant in a pool? You put her on her stomach, you flip her on her back, you get her to flap her limbs and blow bubbles--and then out of sheer boredom do you say, "Oh, what the hell," and dunk her like an Oreo in milk?

I thought I held firm beliefs about avoiding submersion, but it turns out that when faced with perceived peer pressure, those beliefs didn't hold water. Namely, I wasn't about to be the only parent in class with an undunked kid. So Lyla got dunked today, and she coughed a little but it was mostly her dramatic cough, not her cough cough.

In my defense, it wasn't a dunk as much as a face swoosh. It lasted maybe 3/10 of a second. I am weak, I realize, but I'm the only man in the class. Someday I'll thank Lyla for taking it in the face so I wouldn't lose face.

Better

Swimming class was better today. We were on time, and they skipped the "Welcome to our water cult" song.

The instructor did lead several other songs, complete with ambitious vocal flourishes that Randy Jackson might call pitchy, dog. The lesson of the day involved holding the baby like a football in hopes that leg and arm movement would ensue. Lyla's legs went nuts, but her arms were more nonchalant. I still think that if we lived in China, the government would have already swept her away to start training for the 2024 Olympics.

In other pool-related news, I'm getting a new phone. Recall that my old one took an accidental dip last week. It hasn't recovered despite the rice treatments, but luckily I unwittingly planned for such a snafu a year ago by opting for the total replacement plan. So that was a nice surprise, although the replacement phone, likely a store reject in the back of a warehouse somewhere, will be green.

Better than pink.

Class

We were ten minutes late this morning to Lyla's first swimming class. It was completely her fault.

Once there, I noticed two things right away: Lyla was the youngest in the class, and I was the only dad. As I lowered us into the pool, fully aware of the befuddled dad stereotype I had reinforced by being late, the singing began.

Yes, the singing. Apparently each class begins with the welcome song. I'll do my best to recall the lyrics: "Welcome to the swimming pool! Join us now! Swimming pool! Come into the swimming pool, and let us eat your souls!"

Today's lesson was how to hold a baby in the water so the baby might feel compelled to kick. Lyla's buddy Anja and her mom, who I teach with, waded over to practice with us. It was obvious (and a little embarrassing, I might add) that Anja and Lyla had far more raw talent than the other kids in the class. Not to take anything away from those other kids, but their kicking lacked precision. It's like Anja and Lyla were Michael Phelps, and the other kids were Michael Phelps in the bong picture.

"Is he kidding?"

"I'm offended!"

"How can Lyla even kick with those thunderous legs?"

Hush, voices. Seven classes remain, and in the final test next Thursday the kids have to work together to rescue a drowning Elmo doll. Or something like that. We'll try to be on time.

All

I've written previously about the difference between Mother's Day and Father's Day, namely that on Mother's Day the moms get pampered all day, but on Father's Day the dads run around with the kids and at some point grill food for everyone.

That's all fine and good, but I want it all. I want the grilled food and the pampering. I'm a new dad, dammit! Recognize!

Julie recognizes. Yesterday she sent me to a spa to get a massage. While there, I also sat in the sauna for awhile and then showered using the fancy spa liquid soaps under the giant spa shower head. After that, I went to the salon for a haircut. Later that day, we went out for sushi, and Lyla generally behaved herself. And that night, a buddy and I sat on the roof of Brit's Pub downtown and just hung out.

The brilliance of yesterday was that it wasn't technically Father's Day, so the activities away from Lyla felt just fine, not like I was shirking the family part of Father's Day. Today is the more traditional celebration: grilling at my sister-in-law's place with Julie's side of the family and dinner later with mine.

So it's been a spectacular Father's Day, but I've decided to rename it. It's now Father's Weekend.



Oh, and as for my own dad, his gift was a no-brainer. I'm taking him to get a massage.

Army

Sometimes in the opening minutes of a nap attempt, you sit downstairs and listen to Lyla cry on the baby monitor, trying to decide when or if to intervene. For Julie, the defining moment is when she hears the thwap of a binky hitting the floor.

If this happens and Lyla's clearly upset about it, I'll run upstairs, rub her head, put the binky back in her mouth, and leave. Julie, on the other hand, tiptoes upstairs; then, once she reaches the hallway outside the nursery, she hits the deck as though she's heard enemy fire. Next, she army-crawls to the nursery door and peeks her head around in order to do recognizance on Lyla's position in the crib. Once Julie determines that Lyla won't see her, she inches forward into the nursery, still on her belly, finds the binky, and lobs it into the crib like it's a grenade. Then, like a ninja, she's gone.

I wonder if Julie's weirdo genes are dominant.

Footage

This afternoon I set up a camcorder in the nursery. I wanted to see how Lyla falls asleep at the beginning of a nap. These photos are stills from that video.




Obviously there are some time lapses; suffice it to say that in about ten minutes she covered every inch of her crib. And she wasn't crying, mind you, just occasionally snuffling, whining, and cooing.

But look at this next one:


You can barely see the epic struggle underway. Lyla had previously lost track of her binky but located it finally, just out of reach. For a full four minutes, she strained for it. The crib bars and an immature sense of ingenuity prevented her from figuring out a way to reach it.

Downstairs, I listened to the baby monitor, wondering why in the world she was crying all of a sudden. But just as I was about to run up the stairs, she calmed.

Reviewing the footage, you can see that she gave up, shoved her thumb in her mouth, and went to sleep:


And she stayed asleep for two hours.

Back

A friend recommended that I stuff my wet cellphone in a bag of rice to dry it out faster. I like the logic of the solution coupled with the absurdity of actually carrying it out. Until the rice works its magic, I will use Julie's girly phone with Beyoncé's "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)" ringtone. If you call me and I'm in public, expect a quick answer.

On another subject, Lyla's ideal wake-up time is somewhere between 7:00 and 8:00. Anything earlier is the first ingredient in the recipe for a challenging day. It might have something to do with my desire to drink coffee and eat cereal in relative peace.

Today she woke up at 6:23. In cereal time it was immediately after I poured the milk. I chug-slurped it all down and prepared for a back-to-bed attempt, the baby-equivalent of baseball's suicide-squeeze play.

The back-to-bed involves taking Lyla out of her crib, changing her diaper, feeding her a small bottle, and putting her back in her crib before she realizes she's awake. When it works, she'll sleep for another hour, sometimes two. But everything needs to be timed and executed perfectly. I am simultaneously the bunter and the runner on third.

This morning's back-to-bed was successful. Lyla slept until 8:45 and woke up cheerful, as you see in the above photo. It'll be a good day--provided I'm able to rice my phone back to health.

Transition

I know it's been a hard day when I realize too late that I haven't taken any photos of Lyla for the blog, necessitating a stealthy post-bedtime shot.

Lyla does not appreciate parenting transitions. After a weekend with both parents, she is not pleased on Monday when her mother goes back to work. She's crankier. She gets a case of the Mondays.

Well this week, Julie stayed home on Monday and Tuesday so I could tend to some family issues that I won't get into here. And so today Lyla had to deal with just me for the first time in several days. I love the kid, but she was a total pain, fussing while she ate, played, and hardly napping at all.

Julie got home, and we canceled dinner plans out because we knew that Lyla was not at all in a cooperative mood. Infants are notoriously difficult to reason with. So instead, we took her to the pool where I promptly jumped in with my cell phone in my pocket. Awesome. But Lyla kicked around and tired herself out, as evidenced by the above picture. She's been rolling to her stomach lately, but after today's shenanigans she fell asleep mid-roll.

Claw

Julie has invented a game called "Claw." Above is a photo of Julie winning at Claw. See if you can guess the rules.

I think it's pretty clear, but I'll explain anyway just in case. You put an object on the floor and lower Lyla over that object. If she decides to grasp the object and holds onto it while you raise her, you win.

It's exactly like those claw games in arcades and certain restaurants. You only win about one out of twelve tries, and it feels rigged. But when you do win, you feel like your Jedi powers probably contributed.

On an entirely separate subject, Julie claims that she is a better baby photographer than I am. I'm beginning to agree.

Thumper

I feel like when Lyla rolls over, I should cradle her head so she doesn't thump it on the floor. But then, she might never learn to roll properly without that head-thump consequence, which could lead to a dysfunctional adulthood because, you know, rolling correctly is so important.

I also don't want her to destroy braincells unnecessarily. It's not like she cares, by the way. The thumping sound is comparable to a fruit zealot testing the ripeness of a cantaloupe. She doesn't cry, probably because it's on carpet and because when she looks up after a thump, Julie and I act super happy so she doesn't think it should hurt.

That won't turn her into a psychopath, will it?

We'll resolve, perhaps, to catch her head some of the time, keeping her accountable but not concussed.

Wet

Our house is a five-minute walk to the city pool. Today we bought a season pass.






In this last picture, she is in fact falling asleep in the water. It must have brought back drowsy, amniotic memories.

Push

Lyla is rolling purposefully now. Show her an interesting toy and put it out of reach, and she'll usually find a way to get to it. There's a lot of grunting and occasionally farting, and she doesn't always take a direct path, but she gets there.

I like to watch her struggle. I even like it when she gets frustrated as long as the frustration doesn't become anguish. I think about students I've known who don't persevere at much of anything, and then I think about the toy that's four inches away from Lyla's hand, her arm stretched to the max. I could so easily give it to her.

But no. If our life continues on its current path, Lyla might not have many real struggles. We certainly don't want her to get used to having things handed to her. And I guess there's no better time to start than now, with that plastic turtle whose head is so fun to suckle. Just a little closer, Lyla. Push it! But watch out for the TV stand.

Today

Lyla's hair was all kinds of crazy today.

This morning I left Lyla with my sister and attended my school's last workshop before summer. It always consists of a breakfast, a meeting where the principal honors retirees and reflects on the year, and a couple hours to clean desks, inventory textbooks, and finalize grades. It can be a tedious morning and I didn't have to go, but I went anyway.

It's tradition; I've been at the place for eight years. And like Holden Caulfield in Catcher in the Rye, I wanted to "get a goodbye." Even though I haven't taught since early March, it wouldn't feel like summer without that morning workshop to give closure.

My parenting leave is technically over, so now I'm just a teacher on summer break. Lyla starts swimming lessons a week from Monday, we're taking her on her first vacation in July, and by August she might be close to walking.

And then comes September, when this stay-at-home life will end for me--for Lyla, too. One thing's for sure: when you have a baby, looking forward to anything is a mistake. Maybe nostalgia is, too. For now, instead of anticipating things to come, and instead of looking back, I'll mention once more that today Lyla's hair was ridiculous and hilarious and beautiful.

Responding

Whimpers and whines on the baby monitor even a month ago always concerned us. Is she crying? Not really. Well, kind of. Do you want to check on her? Let's both go.

Now it's more like, yeah she's practically asleep.

We're better able to navigate her cries, and we know that some should be left alone. The halfhearted, tired-in-the-crib cry, for instance, is not one you want to walk in on. Whereas before we could rub her head a little and take her from tired to sleeping, now the moment we enter the room the tired cry becomes the murderous shriek. Leave her alone, though, and she'll usually just put herself to sleep.

But she's still a baby. Last night Lyla went from zero to wailing banshee the second she touched the mattress. I picked her up and rocked her to sleep before putting her down again as gently as possible. Then I went downstairs to the sound of my daughter screaming baby profanities at me. Five minutes, I told myself, setting the microwave timer.

She was fast asleep in four. Odd creature.

Morning

Occasionally I drive Julie to work. It's like a mini date, and then I listen to Minnesota Public Radio on the way home. Hard core, right? I'm quite the thrill seeker.

Usually Lyla is awake in time to leave, but this morning I snapped the above photo before waking her up. Julie was against the idea, said let the child sleep and that she would just drive herself. But I don't like it when dates get canceled, even mini ones.

Lyla was cute when I picked her up, all twisty and squinty. Then she started chattering during her diaper change and continued as I strapped her into her car seat. On the road, Julie and I sat contentedly and talked about nothing in particular the way married couples do sometimes. After I dropped Julie off, Lyla fussed for awhile before the car's hum on the road lulled her.

Back home, Lyla had a bottle and a long nap. I drank coffee and ate cereal. It was a good morning.

Wave

This is my 200th consecutive day of posting on this blog, so I'm glad I have something amazing to write about. I've solved the mystery of where waving comes from.

Lyla started waving at us the other day. Specifically, she raised her arm and opened and closed her hand. We did it back, and now it's a game. We're not sure she's aware it's a game, but that's okay.

But see, I recognize what she's doing. A baby has an instinct early on to help with her mother's milk production. With her tiny hand, the baby massages the breast as if to say, "You can do it!" It's the baby equivalent of a football game ass slap.

Lyla's hand movement during the wave was identical to her boob rubbing technique. Therefore, Lyla wasn't waving at all. She was thinking about milk. Not realizing this, we simply mimicked her movement, and a new way to communicate was born.

It has occurred to me that I might be full of crap. I hope not, though, because I like the idea of the wave coming from parents and babies who aren't on the same wavelength.

Teamwork

Whenever Lyla is in the highchair, Daisy saunters over and positions her face within Lyla's reach. Lyla obliges every time, reaching her hand down to be licked clean by Daisy's tongue.



Did I say licked clean? I don't know if that's necessarily true. Yes, they say that a dog's mouth is cleaner than a human's, but I highly doubt they were talking about Daisy.

Incredibly, Julie encourages this interaction. When Daisy starts licking, Julie says, "Daisy, baby. Good girl!" Apparently "baby" will be Daisy's command to go lick off whatever mess Lyla's made on herself.

When Lyla reclaims her hand, she immediately shoves it into her mouth. Just by typing that, I feel like I should go brush my teeth.