Trips

I've only taken Lyla on minor errands these past few weeks, nothing that requires a diaper bag or bottle. I'm gearing up for next week, though, because I'm hell-bent on going to the zoo if it's at all nice outside.

I just Googled the phrase "hell-bent on going to the zoo" and confirmed that it's never been used throughout the course of human history.

A midday excursion breaks up the day nicely, for instance the grocery store. I'm kind of a grocery store diva, driving past a Super Target, Cub, Rainbow, and Festival on the way to glorious Lunds. I won't bore you with my reasoning except to say that I have never ever wanted to kill anyone at Lunds.

The only issue is their carts, which you can't bring to your car. If I'm by myself and it's a big week for groceries, I'll gladly carry three bags per hand rather than allow a bagger to help me to my car. With Lyla, however, I almost always need assistance, so then I really feel like a diva. "Right there in the 2002 Corolla please. Off with you now, young rogue; that will be all."

The other day I took Lyla on a beer run. Does this require explanation? We're having friends over tomorrow night. They might want beer. It wasn't one of those "Damn it, it's 8:30 in the morning and I already ran out of beer" situations.

So anyway, I've found when carrying a car seat into a liquor store, I have fewer beer options because most cases have two handles and I refuse to balance Lyla's car seat on a case of beer. I'm classy that way. The best one-handled case is Stella, so that's what we got.

But these mini-errands don't have the pressure of a longer one. When we go to the zoo, I'll need the diaper bag, a bottle, lots of diapers, and a change of clothes or two. Plus there's the possibility that Lyla will sleep the entire time and I'll be that creepy guy with the sleeping infant looking at the farm baby exhibit.

Wuss

Babies are heavy; I need a massage.

I bought Julie a gift card to a massage place before Lyla was born, and she never used it, not during her entire maternity leave. Is it bad that I'm three weeks into my paternity leave and I'm ready to steal it and use it after dropping off Lyla at the nearest McDonald's Playland?

She's over 16 pounds, which is only a modestly-sized dumbbell. But dumbbells don't squirm and tempt you to bend over incorrectly while holding them. Well, they don't squirm, anyway. I tend to put Lyla in the Baby Bjorn and think to myself, hey I can operate as though there is no baby. What to do...I know, let's vacuum under the couches.

I told Julie the other day that I wanted a present for Mother's Day. I was hoping for an appalled, violently offended response, but all she said was, "What, are you telling me you have a [woman's body part slang]?" which made me sort of appalled and violently offended but not any closer to a massage.

My hope lies in the University of Connecticut. Julie and I have a March Madness bet, and our scores are close enough that it all comes down to whether UConn can defeat Michigan State to reach the final game (we both have North Carolina winning). The stakes of our bet are that the winner gets to make a frivolous $50 purchase, no questions asked. And so I guess my only question is, if I win $50 from my wife in a March Madness bet and spend it all on a massage, would that make me less of a man?

Recess

As parents of a future elementary-schooler, the dog park helps us remember what recess was like. Everybody is potentially your friend, and you figure out the social stratification as you go. Kids don't literally sniff each others' butts, but there's a lot of drooling, barking, and chasing of tennis balls.

The only time I ever threw up in school was in second grade from spinning on the tire swing. I waited until the spelling test and then hurled in the class sink. Kids are basically puppies at that age, though I did ace that test.

The worst was when it rained and you had to have an indoor recess day. I suspect the teachers hated it even more than we did. We'd fight over which sticky boardgame to play and suffer through the afternoon with way too much energy. Likewise, our dogs have suffered some predominantly indoor days because we've been busy with Lyla. Now that the weather is getting nicer, we can go to the dog park and put Lyla in the Baby Bjorn. And when she's old enough to run around, we can tire ourselves out trying to prevent her from picking up feces-smeared tennis balls.

Today Lyla slept in the Bjorn throughout our entire dog park excursion. Our dogs, though, ran like happy idiots. Now they're dead tired, which gives us a recess.

Calm

In this picture we are at a friend's house and Lyla is sitting on the couch like a big kid. Earlier today she shopped with her mom and two aunties. Now it's an hour past her bedtime, so it's been a big day.

Julie and Lyla are having an important conversation as I type this. Julie is blowing raspberries at Lyla, and Lyla is trying to imitate her. Tulip, who is scared of the raspberry sound, is hiding under the couch. Daisy, meanwhile, is eviscerating a stuffed cat that I bought for her on clearance at the Disney Store.

It's bedtime. Julie excels at the bedtime routine and I suck at it, so we've kind of unofficially decided that bedtime is Julie's thing. I'm not being dense about this--some things are my things, like bottle washing and baths. Julie is bringing Lyla over to me for a goodnight kiss.

I turned it into a kiss/mock-face-eating. Now they've left for upstairs. Soon I'll hear the baby monitor turn on, indicating that Lyla is in her crib. Then Julie will come downstairs and we'll hug, which has become a tradition, the Lyla's-in-bed hug.

Safe from Julie's raspberry sounds, Tulip has emerged from beneath the couch and is running frenetic circles around the livingroom table. Daisy guards the new toy.

Now they've stopped. Now it's calm.

Brain

I just bought a book on the female brain, which should be interesting and/or make absolutely no sense. I'm specifically interested in the brain of the breastfeeding mother who has recently returned to work. It seems to me that this is a prime situation where a person's actions boldly contradict the brain's wiring.

A favorite argument of cave-people who are morally opposed to mothers who work is that it flies in the face of nature. Maybe they have a point. Pregnancy and motherhood do jumble up a woman's brain--or perhaps the better word is that they unjumble it. I remember when Julie was in graduate school and had January off. She nearly clawed the walls of our apartment, she was so bored. As a guy who relishes the summer schedule of a teacher, I thought she was borderline cuckoo. But anticipating her 16-week maternity leave, I brainstormed all sorts of hobbies to keep her busy.

It wasn't necessary. Something about motherhood took away her need for activity, or it provided exactly the kinds of activities she craved. So now being pulled from those activities, being pulled from her daughter, is understandably hard. Plus there's breastfeeding, which adds another hormonal component. Her instincts during the day tell her to feed her child, but what she does is attend business meetings and pump in the lactation room. How do working mothers, particularly breastfeeding ones, avoid going insane?

Julie must be just as curious, for there she is on the couch reading The Female Brain.

Errors

Today Lyla's highchair came in the mail, so I put it together. Julie picked it out based on reviews that touted its ease of cleaning. It also looks like something aliens would use, as though you'd visit Mars and not recognize anything but then see this chair and think, well that's what they must put their babies in.

I got the idea that Lyla would enjoy sitting in this chair and watching me make dough for a pizza crust. She would giggle and try to applaud, bouncing against the chair's straps. In actuality, she sat pleasantly until the moment I poured the wet ingredients into the bowl with the dry ingredients and plunged my hands in. Then she decided that the current scenario was most unsatisfactory.

Unfortunately, this was a new dough recipe and I couldn't just ditch it. Nor do we have a mixer, so I did my best to placate the child while simultaneously kneading the dough, adding water, adding more water, and nearly dropping the whole thing on the floor. To an older child or adult, this would have been a hilarious spectacle, especially when I started singing the music that always plays at the circus when the clowns come out and engage in clownery.

But Lyla was not even slightly amused, so I got that dough ball into the pre-oiled bowl as soon as I could, washed my hands, and pulled her out of the chair. She had shat herself silly, which I hadn't heard, probably due to the clown music, but realized the moment I patted her back to calm her. I believe sitting in the chair contributed to the diaper malfunction, but I suppose it's not the chair's fault entirely.

Upstairs I realized that we were out of clean long-sleeved onesies, except for the one that makes no sense. (Apologies if you bought it for us.) It has collars, like something you'd put on a doll or a puppy, and it makes her look like a boy. (But thank you for it! You're awesome!)


When Julie got home, she informed me that I had put the onesie on backwards, and I recalled upstairs thinking it strange that the snap-crotch snapped a bit further back than the crotch, which is more information than anyone needs. Plus, after a whole day of Lyla objecting to a proper nap, here's what happened when she hit her mother's arms:


So all in all, much of today was a comedy of errors. I'm ready for the weekend, and I'm ready for pizza.

Lulled

There's an easy way to get Lyla down for a nap and a hard way. The easy way is to rock her or feed her until her brain and body surrender, and then lay her limply in her crib or chair. The hard way is to put her down when she's awake and let her fall asleep on her own.

You can imagine which way is better for Lyla's development. If you have an easy time getting to sleep now as an adult, it's probably because your parents taught you how to fall asleep when you were little. And I bet it wasn't easy.

The experts say you shouldn't go from feeding directly to bed; instead, do some kind of physical activity in between, even if it's just changing the diaper. That way, she puts herself to sleep. At least theoretically she does.

I must admit that there are instances when I just have to lull the kid into oblivion. I need a shower, or I need a sandwich, and so on. But I'm getting to the point where by paying attention to routine and Lyla's signals, I can anticipate her need for sleep and take her maybe 80% of the way there and leave the other 20 to her. It doesn't always work, but more often lately, it does.

I suppose it helps that she has become a full-fledged thumb sucker, which pacifies her when the actual pacifier falls out. And if it's not the thumb, then it's a finger or two or the entire hand or both hands. I'm waiting for her to discover her toes to see if she's calmed by stuffing all ten digits in her mouth at once. Hopefully she won't be a sleep-roller.

Sleepy

Today was a supremely sleepy day, with Lyla napping for half an hour in the morning, two hours(!) in the afternoon, and another half an hour before Julie got home. I know better than to hope for a similar tomorrow, but I do find myself looking for trends to explain today's success. The most obvious thing I can think of is the enormous six-ounce bottle I fed Lyla right when she woke up. I have found that accidentally underfeeding Lyla in the morning sets us both up for a fussy day.

Also, feeling selfish during her afternoon nap (I'm reading Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers, which I'll discuss in a future post), I shoved the binky back in her mouth when she fussed at the hour mark. I didn't expect it to work, but she slept for another hour. I must say, though, that it would be nice to know beforehand how long the nap will be. It's tough to fully relax when you know the relaxation could end at any moment, like meditating in a minefield.

Oh, and I wanted to capture Lyla's size relative to Tulip, our smaller dog. Getting an infant and a dog to sit still at the same time is easier said than done.

Roll

Lyla rolled from her stomach to her back, sort of. Julie's calling it a rollover with assist since allegedly she kicked off the side of her baby jungle-gym. Still, it's better than either of our dogs can do, although I suppose Lyla can't really sit yet.

I'm glad Lyla waited until Julie got home to perform her assisted roll. At various times today we tummy-time trained hardcore. I'm also finding ways to get her to turn her head to the right. Basically it involves setting her down somewhere, moving to her right, and acting like a complete jackass. Invariably she turns to bask in my idiocy.

If you look online, you'll find all sorts of people whose babies prefer to tilt their head to one side or the other. In many cases, the baby actually cannot turn its head to one side. Even in those cases it's correctable, but Lyla's case seems much more mild. Still, we'll see a physical therapist next Thursday just to be sure. By that time, maybe she'll be doing cartwheels.

Signs

There's a class in our community education brochure on baby sign language. Apparently there are 75 American Sign Language signs that are appropriate for babies. And babies can understand signs long before they can speak. I'd ask Lyla if attending this class seems like a good idea, but I don't know the sign for it (nor does she, I suppose).

The three signs we are currently using with her are "milk," "more," and "all done." I will now teach them to you for free.

Imagine a set of cow teats dangling in front of your face. Milk them, and you've just done the sign for milk. Congratulations!

Now point to your open palm. Easy does it if you have sharp fingernails. That's the sign for more. Now you can sign a question to an infant: "More milk?" There's no sign for question mark, so you'll have to put an inquisitive look on your face.

Finally, point all your fingers skyward as though you're inspecting your fingernails. Now look at your palms. Now look at the backs of your hands. Now your palms. Now backs. Now palms. If you kept your hands still while contorting your head around them, you did it wrong. Instead, turn your hands using your wrists. See, isn't that easier? That's the sign for all done. You can make it a question or a statement depending on your face.

Practice makes perfect, so you can't slack off if you expect to learn these signs. I haven't decided if I'll shell out the $32 to learn the other 72. What could they be? I want to teach Lyla a sign for "I'm about to spit up into your shirt."

Wardrobe

Tonight I realized too late that we hadn't taken a photo of Lyla. This is the best our camera (and I, its clumsy handler) could manage in a dark room with no flash. I do notice that her head is pointed left again. Can't win them all.

Last night I rooted through Lyla's dresser in search of items that no longer fit her. It wasn't hard. After stuffing the last 0-3-month item in the tupperware, I took stock of what remained.

It was sparse. And so today, against the better judgment of men everywhere, I took Julie and Lyla to the outlet mall. The gorgeous weather made the outlet mall appropriate, you see, for it gave us the illusion that we were spending time outside.

The Carter's outlet store had the best selection and bargains, though it's interesting to note how difficult it is to weave a stroller around the crammed racks. It's a baby store, but it's not a place I'd want to take a baby.

Most of the afternoon, while Julie did her part to reinvigorate the economy, Lyla and I wandered around outside in search of entertainment. There wasn't much, but we did brave the men's room changing table. Lyla touched nothing, so all was well.

We came home with a load of clothes that actually fit Lyla--for now, that is. As for the tuppperware of tiny clothes, our next kid, no matter the sex, will dress like a girl.

Lean

I'm left-handed and Julie's right-handed, so we figure Lyla will be a prodigy at the piano, harp, and/or circular saw.

When Julie cradles Lyla with one arm, she chooses her left, since it leaves her dominant right hand available to apply lip gloss or gesture disapprovingly at me. But if I cradle Lyla with one arm, I also choose my left. It's stronger, and I can easily use my non-dominant right hand to help little old ladies across the street and pat the heads of infirm puppies at the vet.

You wouldn't think this would be a problem, but it turns out that Lyla prefers to lean her head to her left, which, if you picture it, being cradled sideways on the left would encourage your head to do. So she also sleeps on her left. And we're not sure, and Lyla's doctor's not sure, if this is--pardon the pun--right.

I'm guessing Lyla has developed more muscle on one side of her neck, like Popeye with his forearms. We'll be contacting a physical therapist of all things to see what we should do to prevent Lyla's head from shooting out sideways like Jim Carrey's when he drives with his head out the window in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. It's probably nothing, but it's nice to have a direction to point my neurosis at.

I've already started changing the position of things around the house. She'll sleep the opposite way in her crib so that if she wants to look out at the nursery, she'll have to turn her head to the right. Same with the changing table. And it's probably high time that I bulk up that right arm of mine. But even if she always looks a bit left, at least she'll align with us politically.

Seasoned

Tonight was bath night in preparation for Lyla's checkup tomorrow. It also happens to be her four month birthday tomorrow, so it's kind of sad she'll be celebrating by getting shots. I hope she'll be okay, and by "she" I mean Julie.

Hold on, I should point out that as I type this, Julie is feeding Lyla, and by the sound of it, Lyla just nullified her bath.

So anyway, there was a baby shower after school today for this guy in my department, so Lyla and I went. Our gift to them was some of our favorite non-obvious necessities: flannel blankets, cloth diapers (for use atop the changing table cover), the good kind of bibs, and a CD that Lyla falls asleep to every night. We've become experts at certain things, all in the past four months. They, on the other hand, probably have no idea what they're in for, excited and scared shitless at the same time. And that was us four months ago--which now feels like years.

But then five years from now, our kids could be in kindergarten together. That's wacky.

Curve

There's a stay-at-home-father learning curve that I'm trying to keep up with. When to feed her, how much to feed her, when she needs a nap, how to know why she's fussing--it goes on. Plus, I need to do all these things and also release the inevitable tension that builds in me during the day, tension that in my previous life I could release with a collegial chat and a beer.

It's coming along, but it's sort of like being a first-year teacher. I try a bunch of stuff, a lot of it doesn't work, and I'm basically stuck with my varying degrees of incompetence until the wisdom of experience kicks in. Which I'm hoping it will. And I find myself thinking--and I can't be the only new parent who has thought this--would Lyla be better off in daycare? Certainly a more experienced caretaker would know the right tricks to speed her development. What an ugly thought.

It'll be fine; I'm a relatively quick study. The blissfully ignorant whirl of last week gave way to the visceral reality of this week, so I've got to believe that next week will be full of epiphanies.

Right?

Irish

My great-grandfather emigrated from Ireland. Family rumor has it that he was a fugitive, which is sort of awesome. So I am a proud 1/8 Irish. I don't remember if Julie is Irish. (Am I supposed to know these things? I know she wears a size 8 shoe.)

Oops, I just found out that Julie is 1/4 Irish. I should've realized it since her fake Irish accent is twice as ridiculous as mine.

Regardless, if you do the genealogical math, Lyla is 3/16 Irish. That counts for something, right? Plus, my middle name is Patrick, so that makes her practically Bono.

But she's not wearing green today, so if you'll excuse me, I need to go pinch her.

And here's a relatively recent leg chunk picture, as promised.


Oh yes, and on an unrelated note, I baked bread today from the recipe on the flour bag. It tastes magically delicious.

Smock

Several people have commented that when a mom goes back to work, the baby eats more. It makes sense. When Mom is around, the possibility for food is around. When Mom is away and Dad offers a bottle, the baby suspects that food is scarcer. Her instincts don't communicate to her that there's more milk in the fridge.

During the day, I'm searching for the right amount to feed her. Too little, and I'm adding ounces in 30 minutes to settle her down. Too much, and she spews it all over me. I'm erring on the side of too much because I have more shirts than patience for baby rage.

Which reminds me: an apron would be nice. Or a smock. Didn't we all wear smocks during elementary school art classes? Or remember when those scratchy ponchos were in style for two weeks? I should get a couple. Or a plastic rain poncho. Then the milk would just slide off. A garbage bag would work too.

Lyla's unofficial weight is 16.2 pounds, which is nearly double her birth weight. I'll photograph some leg chunk tomorrow so you can get an idea of how massive she is.

Year

One year ago today at 6:00 in the morning, I drove unshowered to Walgreens wearing sweatpants, hoodie, baseball hat, and four days of scruff. As I carried the pregnancy test to the front of the store, I thought about how classy I'd feel if I also bought some Swisher Sweets or a box of Hot Pockets.

We didn't have high hopes since just a couple days earlier Julie had tested negative. This time, however, before the three-minute wait time was up, before she had even finished washing her hands, the line blazed pink.

So one year later, if you see me at Walgreens at 6:00 in the morning, I'll still be wearing sweatpants, hoodie, baseball hat, and at least four days of scruff, but I'll be there to buy diapers. And possibly Hot Pockets.

Etiquette

Julie has discovered that the lactation room at work possesses a unique set of unwritten rules that she has termed "lactation room etiquette."

In the lactation room, there are two stalls. This runs contrary to what I suspected, which was a prison-shower-like setup where you check your modesty at the door and pump on wooden stools in front of everyone. No, the stalls offer maximum privacy but obviously limit the number of lactaters to two at a time.

If you are occupying a stall and you hear someone walk in, it is customary to shout out approximately how long you'll be. Since Julie's company is one where every person is busy all the time, it can be disheartening to enter and hear "15 more minutes" or "I just got here, so 35-ish."

I asked her why she doesn't just pump out in the opening between the stalls. It's nothing that lactation room users haven't seen before. But Julie pooh-poohed my suggestion.

Then I asked why she doesn't just pump in her cubicle, which sits adjacent to a window and is quite large for a cube.

"People can look over the cube walls."

"Use your hooter hider."

She squinted her face into that cute "You're an imbecile" expression.

They do have windowless meeting rooms that they call enclaves, and Julie admitted she could pump in one of those, maybe with her back against the door.

Whatever she's doing is working so far; each day she comes home with tomorrow's ounces. I haven't yet had to dip into our freezer supply. Still, the inconveniences of pumping in an office remain. I think she should start a working mother's liberation movement and just pump wherever she happens to be, whenever she feels like it. Stick it to the man!

Gulp

By the time a baby is 10-12 months old, if they're still breast feeding, they should consume 24 ounces of breast milk per day. Today Lyla went through 23 ounces...during the day. She's not even four months. What the hell is going on?

Part of it might be the regurgitation volcano within her that erupted a couple times early on. She also might be growth-spurting again. But maybe she's ready for solid foods.

Most people say six months is when you should start introducing solid foods. Babies can transition earlier if they sit fairly proficiently, if they seem quite interested whenever you eat, and if breast milk no longer satisfies them. Right now Lyla only qualifies under the third criterion.

We'll see what happens as the days progress. I think she just had an off day (or a really really on day). Of course, I'm not smart enough yet to know when she wants to eat. After feeding her and noticing her fussiness, I run through the list of ways to get her to stop fussing without realizing that she might be still hungry. But to give you an idea, at 3:00 I gave her a full four ounces. Then at 4:00, she had another three, and at 5:00 another four. That's a lot, and she chugged it all down like a desperate-to-be-cool college freshman.

She has a doctor appointment next Friday, so I'll ask about it. Until then, I hope she doesn't drink us out of house and home.

Gales

Well, mission accomplished, and not like Dubya on the aircraft carrier. Lyla has moved beyond "Heh." This evening she erupted in actual laughter, all because I was pretending to hock loogies on her.

They were ironic loogies, which is where she found the humor.

If you're friends with Julie or me on Facebook, check it out. We got the whole thing on video.

I think I've discovered my favorite sound.

Goals

One of my goals yesterday was to compel Lyla to giggle. Julie has managed it a couple times with her slapstick, lowbrow comedy. My sense of humor is refined and sophisticated, not infantile, so I knew I'd struggle.

It's unconfirmed, but I think I got a courtesy giggle. It wasn't a "ha ha ha" but more of a singular "heh" and could've been the result of gas. Nevertheless, I'm counting it, for otherwise my impassioned falsetto singing of the word "Beebly-boobly" would've been in vain.

This morning I watched the Ellen Show while Lyla napped in the chair. Now I'm going to arrange some flowers or possibly knit.

After Ellen, Lyla woke up for a bit of the Price is Right. She gazed longingly at the female contestants' bouncing breasts as they ran to the stage after being told to "Come on down." I felt a little resentful.

My goal for today is to fold all my laundry and keep Lyla entertained or sleeping for most of the time. She might get a repeat performance of "Beebly-boobly."

Detective

Lyla slept until about 8:45, at which point I sort of woke her up. It just seemed weird since she normally wakes up by 7:00 or 7:30. Never wake a sleeping baby, right? Well, tell that to the guy who's staying home for the first time.

The feeding plan is three ounces every two hours or so. Of course, Lyla is allowed to request adjustments to this schedule. She got three ounces at 9:00 but then another two at 9:30, marking the first time she has exploited her power over me.

Afterward, Lyla got royally pissed. You need to become a detective at this point since she can't really tell you what's going on. Trial and error is one method, but careful observation is another. After an equal number of errors as trials, I stopped and listened. She sounded like a rhinoceros. Aha! Elementary, my dear Watson: the child was struggling with a booger the size of a Rice Krispy.

I used the baby turkey baster, carefully squeezing it before inserting it into the nostril, lest I accidentally blow her eyeballs across the livingroom floor. Out came the thing, and that moment was like one of those commercials where the miserable cold sufferer takes NyQuil and immediately falls asleep.

She's still sleeping. I've showered (haven't shaved in several days, but at least I'm clean) and written this post. Shh. What now? A snack? File tax returns? Watch the Price is Right? Snack wins. Snack always wins.

Switch

Julie goes back to work tomorrow, so I will be on my own with Lyla. My initial goal was to avoid totally screwing everything up, but that feels unrealistic; my new goal is to prevent Julie from finding out about it when I totally screw everything up.

This weekend I could feel her eyes on me, judging my every move and generally disapproving, as though she were Simon Cowell or my 3rd grade soccer coach. "You're lying in bed while she cries in there? Are you kidding me?"

"She's talking to herself."

"She's crying."

"Okay, I'll--"

"Never mind."

She's cranky because her maternity leave is over; who wouldn't be? She spent the first 16 weeks of her daughter's life home with her, and now she has to relinquish control to her dumb-ass husband who doesn't know the difference between talking and crying.

But Lyla and I will muddle through. And Julie will be fine, too, as long as she comes home each day and perceives that the parenting has been at least half-competent.

Wish us luck.

Pump

Julie's floor at work has a lactation room. I can't tell you what it looks like because men are not allowed inside. Her plan is to pump at work a couple times a day. Between the pumping at work and the actual feedings at home, we hope to keep the milk supply and demand balanced.

It would be easier if Julie could just sit in business meetings and pump. This is out of the question, however, as pumping is not an activity to be casually observed. But I bet I could invent something that would make pumping in public an option.

First, start with those cups that the milk-sucking tubes are attached to. If the cups were opaque, then half the battle would be won. And then Julie could use her Hooter Hider to get the cups situated, and voila. She could discuss with colleagues how to maximize business acumen without compromising synergy, all the while pumping breast milk into little bottles.

Or when someone puts a frivolous meeting on Julie's calendar, she could propose the lactation room as the meeting space. People might think to themselves, maybe we don't need this meeting after all. Better yet, an unwritten rule could materialize: never invite Julie to a meeting unless you really need her there.

It'll be interesting, but eventually Lyla will start on that disgusting rice cereal stuff, and maybe the milk won't be such an issue. In the meantime, I'll ask Julie if she wants me to smear some shoe polish on the outside of those cups.

Trigger

Julie and I got to go on a date tonight because my mom and sister babysat Lyla. We went Rollerblading in the Metrodome, which is a terrible venue for everything but Rollerblading. Then we ate with friends at Lucia's, an awesome restaurant in Uptown.

Lyla was fussy much of the day today for no particular reason, and she fussed as Julie and I made our way out the door. I take it all in stride and pretty much think to myself, "Oh well, she's crying...must be upset about something. Builds character." I still console her and try different things, but babies cry. What can you do?

Julie can't stand it when Lyla cries, to the point where she becomes agitated if Lyla is crying in someone else's arms. It's a little nutty, but it makes sense given the whole breastfeeding thing. If a baby's cry triggers the milk to let down, then it must trigger other things in the brain as well, instincts that were passed down since people lived in caves with dinosaurs as pets.

So when we left the house as Lyla complained about the state of the world, I had to convince Julie that everything would be okay. Meanwhile, I thought to myself that for the most part I couldn't care less if Lyla fussed all evening. She's not sick, she has plenty to drink, and I'm not there to hear it: out of sight, out of mind. Totally the male response.

We got home and learned that Lyla had been fine. Or maybe they just said that because they knew that it wouldn't be useful for Julie to hear otherwise.

I think Julie will have more perspective in several months when she stops breastfeeding. Then Lyla's cries won't provoke in her a physical response. Hopefully. Until then, I think my best move is to keep my big mouth shut.

Supporting

I am officially a stay-at-home dad until the end of August. It feels weird, though I suspect it'll really hit me on Monday. I'll be changing a diaper at 9:00 in the morning and realize that my former 3rd period students are in my classroom with a different teacher. That will suck, but perhaps I'll feel giddy too, like a truant.

My cabinet at school is full of toys and junk. I have giant dice, a Yoda pen, about 20 tennis balls, various super balls, a bunch of plastic aliens, and so on. I also have a life-size ceramic unicorn head that these two kids bought me for my birthday last year. They spent one dollar on it at Goodwill, and since that day it has sat atop the cabinet and lorded over the room.

But now it's inside the cabinet.

Every school year plays out like a typical plot structure, with exposition in September when you meet the kids and get everything started, mini-peaks along the way with various challenges to overcome, building steadily to the climax of spring break, and then the falling action weeks until the resolution at the end of the school year. It's always satisfying, but this year I definitely feel like I'm leaving in the middle of the story, like Mercutio or...I don't know, some other character who suddenly finds himself in a supporting role.

It's totally worth it, obviously. It just hasn't hit yet.

Oh, but Lyla welcomed me home by spitting breast milk onto my crotch. So we're getting there.

French

Lyla has a boyfriend.

Pro

It's bath night, and immediately upon lowering Lyla into her little bathtub, she peed. We have a policy against biohazard baths, so I pulled her out and onto her towel and then emptied and refilled the tub. Luckily Julie was right there to assist. While on the towel, Lyla spit up.

"That's two orifices," I said while testing the new water's temperature. "Will there be a third?"

There was not a third.

I'm the bath guy; it just happened that way. A few weeks ago, bathing Lyla felt as foreign as bathing an emperor penguin, cute but very slippery. I was a klutzy bather at best and would've likely grown self-conscious had Julie been there to critique me.

But now I am a portrait of efficiency, deftly maneuvering around Lyla's peculiar bulges and folds--I can actually locate her neck, for instance--all the while keeping the soap out of her eyes.

I eased Lyla out of the bath and wrapped her into her towel with a flourish. Julie applauded. I'm now a pro at baths, just as long as Lyla continues to exercise bowel restraint.

Enough

Is it possible to feed a baby too much, or is their natural instinct to regulate food intake themselves? I only ask because Lyla ate every two hours today, plus a 3-ounce bottle and a 4-ounce bottle this evening. And Julie's upstairs feeding her as I type this.

I'm not concerned about the breastfeeding. Julie has reported that when breastfeeding, Lyla will stop suddenly and look up and start "chatting" with her. Perhaps she's giving advice for foods Julie might avoid in the future to achieve a better milk taste, or perhaps she's just shooting the bull. But nevertheless, she stops, so it seems she knows when she doesn't feel like eating any more.

With a bottle, though, it's like there's a goal. I am a clean-plate-club guy in my own life, so I have a tendency to encourage Lyla to finish however many ounces I've poured for her. Is that right? Sometimes we'll stop for a burp or a shit, but then it's back to the bottle, task-oriented until it's gone, and she's generally game for it. And it's not like I'm the Kevin Spacey character from Se7en who force-feeds the guy spaghetti until he explodes, but I do wonder if there's a better way to put Lyla in charge of how much bottle milk she drinks.

The girl is in the midst of a growth spurt, that part is certain. And I'm more curious than worried, but I also don't want to predispose her brain to become like mine, which always wants to finish the bag of Sun Chips as soon as it's opened. Or God help me, Godiva chocolates. I bought two boxes on Presidents' Day (day after V-Day, so 50%-off) and they're both gone not a month later. So...like father like daughter?

Potato

We always have these grand notions of using potatoes in our cooking, but it never happens for whatever reason. So they sit on our counter for days and then weeks, and eventually miraculous things start to happen. This one began sprouting amber wisps in random places. It looks like a desolate planet with the occasional breeze that sends the wisps trembling in unison.

Let's back up the camera and see what we get.


Ah. Well. Never mind about all that. If Lyla's head really is a secret potato planet, then it's one with no gravitational pull.

***Update***
Julie [after reading post]: Oh my god, you seem like you're high on Oxycontin. That made like no sense at all.

Dan: Can I make up some dialogue for the post's update?

Julie: Sure, as long as it's better than the trite nonsense you already wrote. Sorry, that was mean.

Dan: [Trying to think of fake dialogue]

Julie: Your biceps are massive.

Dan: Our daughter has male pattern baldness.

Julie: Ooh, they feel like rocks!

Motion

You can hold Lyla in any direction, upright, sideways, out flat, and she stiffens her body like it's a board. Her neck is getting stronger. Sit her up and she still wobbles around like she's drunk, but there's no longer the worry that her head will loll backward and pop off.


We have a Bumbo chair, which allows her to sit with extra support. There's also a little table you can attach to it, so before long she'll be able to do calculus problems without assistance.

Ooh, it probably also means that Lyla is almost ready for a bouncy swing, the epitome of fun when you're under one year old. Then before long we can take Lyla to Disneyland, and I can take her on rides while her motion-sickness-prone mother sits on a bench with her book.