been there

At some point in the recent past our household has undergone a transition much to my unawares and much to my delight. Whereas the first seven or eight months after Ben’s birth continuously involved some or another First This, or First That, or First Time Doing Whatever, or First Trip to Someplace Else, I think our family has finally graduated into a routine of Been There/Done That, and this - I’m fairly certain - is good. There is a level of confidence shared by the three of us that has allowed me, the typically infant-retarded oaf, to do things and go places with the youngest of our clan without worry from mom, from baby, and even from oaf. And this is important because although gaining confidence from an infant can be achieved by anyone with a decent pair of hands and a moderate sense of caring, gaining confidence from a mother is about as difficult as [insert analogy here]. And while I may have confidence in my own abilities to, say, change a light bulb or pick-up supermodels, it is only recently that I have built at least a small amount of confidence in taking care of my son. It’s akin to riding a bike, or in The Ben’s case, learning to crawl; once you figure it out at the most fundamental of levels, you never forget how to do it again. And then you get better, and faster, and then you’re popping wheelies and taking jumps off of the neighbors shed and you’re climbing stairs and opening cabinets and pulling down floor-lamps. Or going on a trip to the electronics store with your goofball son sans-mother and making it back home in one emotional-piece. Or hearing the query, “I’m going to the mall to buy some clothes, would you mind keeping Ben with you until I get home?” and NOT responding with, “Dear dear dear dear DEAR Anna goddess beauty, please please PLEASE don’t leave the two of us here all alone!”

Now the thought of 37 hours of time alone with my baby while his mother goes shopping isn’t scary at all, and in fact, can be kind of exciting. It’s during these times that I get to dress him the way I want to dress him (orange and blue, striped green socks) and teach him the things that I think are important (blowing raspberries, catching a ball, looking at a woman’s breasts without disturbing her conversation). And, by the way, the blowing raspberries thing? Highly overrated. The first time he tried it while eating oatmeal he spit all over my shirt leaving me the challenge of not laughing while I tried to teach him a new lesson (that being the age-old phrase that begins with “NO!” and more frequently than not ends with “God-d#$@%!”). Any future parent reading this blog, know this: the only thing more difficult than wiping your face of baby-spewn oatmeal is wiping your face of baby-spewn oatmeal while laughing, subsequently inducing more baby-spew and more wiping of your face. The second day there was a lot less laughter on my part, which might have something to do with the cashmere sweater I was wearing. . . or the scowl on my pretty wife’s face aimed permanently in my direction.

And the Illini beat the Badgers in Wisconsin. Life is indeed Good.