Apr
18
April 18, 2006
The other night there was a segment on the national news about brains or memory or something else that makes it ironic that I only partially remember the subject, and part of the story focused on babies; specifically, teaching babies to sign. The program seemed to suggest that people do this in order to stimulate their children’s intellect and ready them for an educational fast-track straight to Harvard.
Now, to me the super-cool thing about baby signing is that in theory you get to figure out what the HELL their problem is. Let the other parents worry about whether or not Junior will be eligible for the Montessori Gifted Snowflake Program, I just want to find out the exact shape of the stick that’s rammed up my son’s ass so I can remove it and we can all get back to American Idol.
Yesterday I was convinced Riley had a cold. All the signs were there: slight fever, snotty nose, coughing, unbelievably horrific disposition. Then halfway through the day I started wondering if his problem had less to do with a virus and more to do with the second incipient tusk emerging from his gums. After all, there were the familiar tsunami-sized drool levels, anger towards solid food, and general nihilistic outlook on life. But who can say for sure?
I’ve wished in the past for a device that interprets babies’ cries and displays the appropriate message: “I’M COLD”, for instance, or “I FEAR FOR THE SAFETY OF BRITNEY SPEARS’ CHILD”, but these days I feel pretty competent when it comes to understanding Riley. I know when he’s tired (rubs eyes), hungry (bleats like goat, furiously sucks arm hickey), and in need of a change (erodes nasal mucociliary lining of all within twenty yards).
However, there are definitely times like yesterday when I’m at a loss, and my only recourse is to give him a mother’s comfort by holding him, kissing him, and staring deeply into his eyes while murmuring these soothing words: “What in the blue fuck is wrong with you, anyway?”
If he were signing, maybe he could make some elaborate hand gesture that means “Ah, mother dear, my second bottom tooth seems to be at a particularly uncomfortable point with regards to the surrounding gum area, and my schedule for this evening shall include at least three anger-fueled awakenings. Let’s see…are 1 AM, 3:35, and 5:48 good for you?”
On the other hand, it probably doesn’t really matter whether he’s teething or fighting off a cold, the end result is similar enough: a slug of Motrin, a visit to the trusty old rocking chair, and a fervent desire for morning to come so we can fob him off on hapless daycare workers.
(P.S. “My 5-week old baby made the sign for milk and I photographed it!” Yeah, right. And afterwards I bet he created the likeness of the Virgin Mary in his diaper.)
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The Baby Thousand-Yard-Stare that precedes a nice healthy screamfest. If there was a gesture for this mood it would definitely involve one finger in particular.
Apr
17
April 17, 2006
Life with a baby is both predictable and wildly erratic. On one hand, you’ve pretty much got your Friday nights pegged for the next decade (“So, Netflix or Blockbuster tonight?” “Oh, I’m feeling adventurous–let’s do pay-per-view!”), on the other hand, the pendulum is constantly in flux, one minute you’re flitting through a metaphorical field of daisies telling everyone with ears how life is so magically delicious and you simply couldn’t be one iota happier or you would explode in a vanilla-scented hail of love, sweet wove; the next, you find yourself mired in a kind of Bataan Death March as you stagger hollow-eyed to and fro in an attempt to soothe a desperately unhappy child who can’t be put down for one single millisecond without manifesting the sort of noise you imagine plays at top volume in the echoing halls of HELL.
Yeah, so the boy is sick. A feverish, sneezy kind of gunk that I’m sure JB and I will contract all too quickly and convert into something like the Hantavirus.
I’m taking a brief break from my chief duty of suffering like Job praying for death keening softly while repeatedly rocking back and forth caring for the infested child to tell you this:
Yesterday JB and I colored some eggs using one of those cheapo PAAS egg-dyeing kits. The box came with some stickers, and I noticed JB frowningly applying a few, which I thought was sort of odd, as the stickers were all foofy little lambs and flowers and shit. It was only when he proudly held up his decorated egg that I realized the effect he was going for.
Now, I don’t know what you see here, but to my eyes the tableau is clearly a naughty one, and the “Happy Easter Sister” text just makes it worse by sprinkling a hint of incest over the backdoor-bunny scene. So of course I thought it was hilarious, and we laughed long and hard (heh) over it, and I took a picture, and he emailed the photo, as a joke, to his brother. Ha ha ha, right?
Except that for some unknown reason he also emailed it to his parents.
Who thought that this was our way of telling them that I was pregnant.
With a girl, apparently.
And got really excited.
*cough*
So. I hope that whatever you’re doing today, you’re neither 1) hoovering an oil freighter full of snot out of a screaming baby’s nose, or 2) explaining to your in-laws why two bunnies fucking on an Easter egg does not mean a second grandchild is on the way.
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