title bout

Our rough and tumble macho baby Ben has apparently met his match. This past Sunday afternoon The Ben was introduced to his canine-equivalent: a puppy named Buckaroo who was every bit as energetic, fearless, and cute (though with quite a bit more hair, refined motor skills, and slightly superior bowel control). Just as The Ben spends his days taunting and tormenting our poor house cat, Buckaroo spent this particular afternoon freaking-out our humbled Benjamin. Buckaroo is the offspring of Tony and Roocharoo Cosenza, our friends from Iowa who, despite criticism from family members, named their dog for their favorite adult toy. Our two children met in the Cosenza’s puppified family room and sparred with nipping teeth and screeching, tentative laughter. By the time we left, Ben was all too tuckered, leaving Buckaroo drooling for more baby to bat around. And though he left without any visible scars, the debasement Ben suffered was evident while avoiding eye contact and falling silently asleep in the back seat of the car.

It’s funny how similar puppies and babies can be. I suppose I would have to imagine babies are a bit more difficult to rear, mainly because they live longer and require stuff like Playstations and college educations, but raising a puppy is pretty difficult too. At one point while listening to a conversation about picking up dog-doo in the yard, I actually sat there and thought to myself Damn, I would hate to have to do that every day. Glad I have a baby instead of a dog! Then the absurdity of the thought was slammed home as my nostrils caught wind of the Huggies crawling around my feet. And like Tony said, if things get really bad, he can always just go and dump the dog in a forest on the other side of town.

In the morning our little guy woke up and took out his previous evening’s frustrations on the cat. I have no idea why she keeps coming back to him for more abuse, but I have a feeling it may be because she expects Ben to learn from his experiences with Buckaroo so that Ben might protect her from other doggies as he gets stronger and wiser. Or maybe she sticks around Ben because she knows Anna and I are never far away. Then again, maybe she just likes the smell of dirty Huggies.

natural selection

Its funny (in retrospect, of course) how easily we glaze through the daily routines, mini-milestones, and emotions involved with our child’s early months, to one day arrive at Potbelly’s in Deerfield with a near ten-month-old eating green beans and bread amidst trying to impress the family in the table behind us with his fifteen-something dimples and ability to clap his hands. Life is now settling down to a place where a spur-of-the-moment dinner at some random sandwich shop after an afternoon of shopping is again possible, and really, the experience isn’t all that different from the time when Anna and I used to eat out alone (except maybe for the pile of cheerios and bread we now leave under the highchair - sorry floor-sweeper guy! - or rather, “Excusa, pavimento-barrendero hombre!”). And now we have another person with whom we can share the burden of entertaining ourselves. Who needs intelligent conversation anyway? Shit, the conversation at our restaurant dinner table has probably taken an intellectual leap for the better since Ben joined the fray. Who better to have around to lighten the mood when talk turns toward troubled finances or unwelcome obligation then a dude who knows nothing of nervous conversation except that he can make it stop by giggling at the strained looks on your faces. I like having a family of three.

It’s just so weird to think that we have come this far. I know I keep obsessing about it, but I think it’s worth at least this momentary fixation. So much of our own formative years have long been forgotten, and in our children we have the chance to live vicariously. For all these small moments that Ben will never remember, we can remember them instead. They’ll likely be more important to us anyway. But also, in each of these tiny events we have the joy (and worry) of wondering whether that particular moment will carry the potential to actually BE remembered by our son and possibly even be woven into his evolving character. To think that the foods we feed him, or the color we painted his room could someday affect his adult predisposition towards “green”. . . that’s just so cool.

I suppose that type of thinking can lead you down some pretty scary paths, but how can I worry when Ben is staring at me with his nose wrinkled, his mouth a grin, his eyes half-closed and he’s snorting like a pig? Worry? What? I’m just trying to keep a straight face while my wife across the table is fretting about our tax--- wait, no - now she’s laughing too. . .

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.