smile

We took The Ben to get his first professional pictures taken this week (because the 2,337 digital pictures we’ve snapped thus far just aren’t enough) and were surprised to learn our son prefers his women short, bubbly, a little peculiar (in a pleasant kind of way) and much, much older. His photographer made all the right moves and had Ben smiling like he had known her for years (who knows – maybe he has). I started just a tad bit jealous to see this complete stranger coaxing giggles out from inside our little butterball when those things have typically been offered mostly for family and friends, but then I realized if our Ben turns out to be the boy/man that we see in him now, he’ll be flashing that infectious grin at more and more people every day. Anyhoo. . . the pictures should be online shortly for those who’d like to see them, just as soon as Ben stops laughing, keeping me from my web-updating activities.

Up next? The Ben’s third trip to Cheeseland, USA - this time to see his grandmomma’s house in Eeewww Claire. The trip will start with zero miles on the trip meter, a sleepy mom just returned from a night’s work, a tired baby recently fed and awaiting his mid-morning nap, and a wired dad fresh off of four-and-a-half cups of joe. The trip will end 300 miles later with a still sleepy mom, an uncomfortable infant, and a wired dad fresh off of four-and-a-half cups of joe. At least we know there will be some great cooking awaiting us on the other side of the line. . .

xbox and dirty dishes

If there has been an overwhelming theme underlying our first semester of child-rearing, it may very well be 'expectations'. As in, you shouldn’t have any expectations for your time, as these will likely lead to frustration and eventually a breakdown of your otherwise blissful family habitat. I’m not trying to sound like a cynic here, just a realist. Anna and I have found for instance, if you expect to get some chore or another checked off your list before you make your way under the covers for the night, and then fail in doing so due to an atypically cranky baby demanding your constant attention, or maybe because of an exceptionally happy baby demanding all of your interest, you’ll most likely find yourself lying awake in bed thinking gratuitously about how many windows didn’t get cleaned instead of maybe, I don’t know, say, sleeping. And then you’ll end up taking your sleep-deprived frustrations out on others, namely your family, who is the only assembly of human beings actually required to listen to your rants less they become the subject of the next. The best way, I have found, to enjoy your time at home is by taking it one day at a time. One hour, or one minute at a time, if necessary. I’d like to think that Anna and I have done a fairly decent job of keeping our home in order, all the while maintaining something that resembles our personal life b.b. [before Ben]. And I’ve found that keeping our expectations low, when considering what we think we can accomplish in a day, has made us happier people.

Now, those A-types out there [myself included] are probably starting to protest that you’ll never succeed in life if you don’t have higher expectations, and I would normally join in the chorus, but I’m only talking about having expectations for your use of what would normally be leisure time. Time, which is now spent making giggly faces at your grinning infant, which, in my opinion, IS success in life.

dog days of summer

Stand Stand and walk.

Tragedy Is cheap and so is talk.

Decision Yours to make what will you do.

In the end It comes back to you.

Thunder Don't scare me at all.

Lightning Well, just a little.

Pressure It ain't worth a dime.

And your wounds They'll all heal in time.

Cause it's a long... way to fall .

.......................................................................

The answers are getting harder and harder,

And there ain't no way to bargain or to barter.

But if you've got the angst or you've got the ardor,

You might faint from the fight but you're gonna find it.

For every challenge could have paradise behind it.

And if you accept what you have lost and you stand tall,

You might just get it back and you can get it all.

So now you know why it's a long way to fall.

Yeah, cause it's a long way to fall.

Blues Traveler, Stand

grrrrrsshhh, ah-goo

Maybe even more delightful than sleep is the just-awoken baby-speak moments that The Ben and I share now with increasing regularity. With mommy spending more of her evenings either working or recovering from work, The Ben and I seem to be growing quite a bit closer [not just because our tummies are growing at equal rates], and I think we have come to an understanding of tongues, namely, I show him what my tongue looks like and he mocks me with one of his open-mouth grins. I don’t mind it really. If I can keep him amused for 15 minutes, lapping my chin and drooling all over my U of I tee shirt well, I’m willing and able. Big kicks are also had when I echo his vocabulary, which pretty much consists of the music-to-my-ears clatter represented in the title of this entry. I swore one day before I became a paterfamilias, that I would never become one of those mall-walking, baby-talking, soccer-sticker-on-the-back-of-my-minivan parents you see all over this fine, infested land. Well I suppose, with great drudgery, that the baby-talking part of that parental sketch is fine by me, but if anyone out there ever catches glimpse of me piloting a minivan, much less one with a soccer sticker pasted on the rear windshield, please stop me, drag me out from behind that wretched steering wheel, and beat me senseless with the baby-on-board sign from the passenger window.

I digress. What was I saying, then. . . yes, that’s right. The baby-talk. So much fun. Goo-ga. You should try it, aaa-boo, sometime. Ba. Good stuff. Works on, daa daa, all kinds of babies, ooo-ba, just not the cranky ones. Goo-ga. Whaaaaa! Ah-goo!

and then there were two. . .

It seems that The Ben has taken rather fondly to the sleeping thing lately. Each warm and starry night following the Independence Day debacle has been experienced only by mother and father whilst the son slumbers for between 6.5 and 9 hours a stretch. And none to soon. Anna spent three of those past eight nights hustling around the Lake Forest Hospital labor and delivery rooms leaving father and son on their lonely own to fall asleep watching baseball while eating Doritos and thawed breast milk, only to wake up again without the third and most enjoyable person in the family. I suppose things could be shoddier. Anna and I are truly too blessed. Thank God for healthy little sleeping babies. Especially ours.

America, f*ck yeah!

Independence Day holds special meaning for millions of Americans and the means by which we celebrate our nation’s birth can be both heartwarming and patriotic. The means by which The Ben and I celebrated our first night of Independence from mommy, however, resembled more the war that was fought to win our nation’s freedom: It started when the sun descended on the virgin battlefield and finished nearly seven years later with our return home to the mother[land], tired from the fight. The moments that passed between were filled with frightful screams, deadly cannon shots, and projectile vomiting. I won’t lie – there we’re times when I thought we’d never make it. But when the two of us emerged from our bunker to greet the sun again and tend to the wounded, we found ourselves closer than ever before. I’m proud to have fought side by side with my son in the absence of our guiding light, and I’m not ashamed to say that I couldn’t have made it without him [of course I wouldn’t have even been there if it weren’t for him to begin with].

I’m reminded of a lyric from one of my favorite bands, which always used to made me think of my wife, though now perhaps more fittingly my child:

I am lost. I’m no guide.
But I’m by your side.
I am right by your side.

So yes, this past Sunday was Anna’s first night back to her other reality which is, “Uh, excuse me, nurse Anna? Can you please help me with my vagina until the baby comes out?” This meant that The Ben and I were left alone for the very first time, even if I chickened out and spent that night with my parents. Now, before you go on and assume that I am just one big wuss of a father, remember that I alone tended to my son all night, even if he kept everyone else in the house awake as well. And it wasn’t as bad as I may have made it out to be I suppose. Before we sauntered off to sleep, The Ben and I agreed we would make the night extra special, you know, as a reward for our independence from mommy, by waking up early to watch the sunrise. But I think we must have gotten the time all wrong because the sun didn’t make its way out of the eastern hemisphere until, like, three hours after we woke up to see it!

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in the case of a father who has spent the first night alone with his infant son, absence makes the heart grow desperate. Anna, I can’t imagine what this would all be like without a mother such as you, and I feel for every child in the world who will never have the experience of being mothered by specifically you.

God bless America.

Note: for those curious and irritated souls who wish to understand the title of this entry, get in your vehicle, drive to your favorite movie rental facility and ask to borrow a copy of Team America: World Police [from the makers of South Park]. I guarantee you will laugh at least once.