Bump

We're aware that at some point all babies learn how to high-five people. "Give me five!" is a technique even the most child-inept adults possess. And the child, in turn, gets to interact at his or her level in a non-threatening way. It builds confidence. It's fun.

But Julie and I are trying to teach Lyla how to fist bump. She makes fists all the time. Why not teach her how to greet Howie Mandel should she ever appear on a baby version of Deal Or No Deal? Plus, if she ever has a boyfriend with a soul-patch, God help me, she needs to be well-versed in the only way I'll allow her to touch him.

This doesn't mean we won't also teach her the high-five. I don't want her to stare in bewilderment at the first person who offers to high-five her. Imagine the social consequences.

"Hey, that Lyla girl doesn't high-five, pass it on."

"Like, I know! With me, she covered her head like I was going to smack her!"

"Is she Amish?"

Heck, I'll even teach her the "High five, on the side, up in space, slap your face" game so she can be ready for it. And nobody will achieve "Down low, too slow" with Lyla, mark my words.

Julie is even more ambitious. She's trying to teach Lyla the fist bump followed by the fist expanding to a palm, coupled with the explosion sound. Currently it's a bedtime game, which I discovered yesterday when I bounded up the stairs not as quietly as I should have.

"If you wake that baby, then effin' hell," she hissed at me. "I played fist bump with her for ten minutes to settle her down."

Are we totally cool, or completely lame? I'm afraid the existence of the question gives us our answer.