There was once a time in my life where I would be surprised to find that it’s a pair of dirty socks preventing this window from closing completely.
That was a long time ago.
 When a toddler says “we’re all out of toilet paper”, it behooves you to contemplate this statement with a high degree of seriousness.
It might be benign. Or it might just portend thousands of dollars in flood damage.
Be sure, either way.
Sleep Eater
Apologies to Gary Wright.
I couldn’t get this idea out of my head.
To the tune of Dream Weaver.
I’ve just closed my eyes again.
Climbed aboard the Sleep Eater train.
Eater take away my restfulness of today
And leave no sorrow behind.
Oooooo.. Sleep Eater,
I believe you will eat my sleep tonight.
Ooo Sleep Eater,
I don’t believe that I’ll see the morning light.
Eat all by my sorry sighs
Or maybe I’ll just go in-saa-aaane!
I know sleep is just a fantasy
help me to forget tonight’s pain
Oooooo.. Sleep Eater,
I believe you will eat my sleep tonight.
Ooo Sleep Eater,
I don’t believe that I’ll see the morning light.
Though the dawn may be coming soon,
There still may be some time.
Fly me away god I need some sleep soon,
And let me see some dayy-liiiiight.
Oooooo.. Sleep Eater,
I believe you will eat my sleep tonight.
Ooo Sleep Eater,
I don’t believe that I’ll see the morning light.
Sleeeep EEEATER
You’ll eat my sleep tonight
Sleeeeeeep Eaaaater
Eat my sleep tonight
My sleep tonight
 Lewis is like a New York City cab.
It’s not so much the fact that he’s always covered in spit-up, but because his cry is like the cabbie’s foot on the throttle.
It’s either off. Silent. Still.
Or FULL ON. A raging bleat that throws your head back.
There is no in-between.
It was packing up my bag at work the other day when I realized it.
I was rocking back and forth.
Whenever I’m on two feet, my body is swaying. The kid’s got me trained.
 My award-winning novelist wife has sold her second novel.
This is wonderful!
This is terrible!
This means she has to finish her edits this summer. Even with Augie in preschool three days a week, she’s left with an infant on her lap 24/7, which is not terribly conducive to productivity.
As a means to help her get a chunk of time alone, I have begun taking half-day Mondays at work. I go into work in the morning, then come home at lunchtime to take over child-rearing duties for the rest of the day, both for the weeks-old fetus and our 3 year old brute. The rule is “no disturbing Mommy” and for the most part, it’s been successful.
It’s great. On Monday morning I have only a half day at work. I’m more productive there, and look forward to a half day “off”. Then I’m a single dad for the next 8 hours.
I don’t think I’m ever as exhausted as I am on recent Monday nights. Wow.
 Our new spawn.
Light of my life.
Eater of sleep.
“Behold! For I am become Shiva, Shatterer of Worlds!”
He’s a good kid, for a fetus (and until they hit three months old, clearly humans are just fetuses outside of the womb, cursed to the airy-world due to their enlarged heads). But one foible of his that his elder brother did not have is his strong preference for warm, rather than room temperature, milk.
When making formula, this is not a major problem. I use warm water from the tap instead of cold. But when the formula’s been made, or the breast milk is coming from the fridge, this means warming it up for him, or else half of it will end up splayed across your body while, in shock and horror, you witness Lewie’s impression of a lawn sprinkler. Then a red-faced air raid siren.
The other night, he was handed off to me early in the evening so my suffering wife could actually get some shut-eye. Our diagnosis before I started a movie was that he was “about to wake up”, so I kept the bottle of milk warm underneath my armpit. For the entire, terrible, movie (Captain America: The First Avenger). After that, fetus was still asleep, so I went to bed with the milk in tow. I didn’t want to let it cool to room temperature and face his wrath.
I slept for three hours with a bottle of milk between my thighs; he just kept sleeping.
This has happened since. I now consider a bottle of milk uncomfortably kept warm as a talisman against the Sleep Eater.
Uncomfortable, yes.
Worth it.
Always be bussing.
Thinking of Alec Baldwin’s “always be closing” speech, I think one key to sanity as a father is to always be bussing.
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Headed upstairs and there’s a basket of laundry? Grab it on the way.
Headed downstairs and there are some water glasses scattered on the bedroom side tables? Grab them on the way.
The kid brings an element of unending chaos. The only way to make a dent is to ALWAYS be bussing. If you wait until it’s time to clean, it’ll be an insurmountable pile.
It’s a boy!
Or, at least he will be in March 2012.
This from our 20-week ultrasound. All systems go.
Augie has a little brother cooking in “Mama’s belly”.
More ultrasound picture here.
 Why? Why? Why?
I appreciate that my son has a curious mind. However, surely any father gets sick of answering the same question over and over. Clearly it’s his first reaction to almost any statement, from “It’s time to eat” to “Please stop licking the chair”.
I’ve made it a policy I’ll always answer a question… but I make him formulate it in an actual sentence. “Why?” doesn’t count. I’ll respond “Why what?” and if he can articulate what he’s asking, I’ll gladly answer WHY until we’re talking about subatomic particles.
I’ve developed a new theory on the origin of religion. Just as it was a way to explain to ancient peoples to themselves what was going on in the world that (they didn’t yet have a real explanation for, like the sun rising, etc.), I think it also may have been a way to shut their kids up.
“Why?”
“Because God said so, and faith in his word is a virtue.”
“Why?”
“Don’t contradict God! Bad boy!”
… or something like that.
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