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.