Archives for posts with tag: Parenting

Someone pressed the power on button.  Smushie has been activated.  (Why don’t kids come with a power down button?  Or even a pause button?  Like for when I need to take an afternoon nap?)

About a week ago, Smush came alive.  Up until then she was just a reservoir tank with a sensor that beeped when empty, full, or about to burst from either end.  Also during that time, I tested her for any outward indications of brain activity and got no response.  (The test?  We sat her in front of a few of the best ‘Scrubs‘ episodes known to mankind and there was nary a chuckle, not even a snort.)  As cliché as it sounds, one morning Smush woke up and everything had changed.  The world became apparent and her body started responding to more than just food and a couple of jabs with a stick.

Now Smushie is watching and laughing at my fathering skills (which I mistakenly thought had improved), slapping me in the face, head-butting my collarbones, spitting up on my shirts, and peeing on my hands.  It’s all good.  Sort of.

She doesn’t seem to treat her mother the same way.  In her mother’s arms, she snuggles in perfectly.  She smiles.  She coos.  She lovingly babbles at mommy, with twinkling eyes and all.  When Smush is with Steph, her poops are no longer stinky.  And pee never overruns the boundaries of her tiny diaper.  Their bond is a magical one.  The two of them have filled the space between each other with so much love that they pushed daddy right out of the picture!

It’s no secret that I’m useless to my newborn.  I don’t make milk for her.  I can’t provide warmth.  (I barely have enough warmth to provide myself.)  And nowhere on my body do I have a soft, cushy space for Smushie to bury her head into.  (Though, maybe in a pinch, my butt cheeks could work…)  Yes, I feel a little inadequate as a parent right now and Smushie knows it.  To her, I’m not much more than a walking baby wipe.  One day, I aspire to be more.  But during this time, I am not the best support personnel for baby.  Her mother is.  So there is really nothing for me to do other than drink beer and go hammer stuff in the garage patiently wait by Steph’s side and rub her feet/back/neck until I am called to help.

Until that day comes when I am needed to be the prince in Smushie’s fairytale play, or I must fill the empty seat at the imaginary tea party, I will use my t-shirts to absorb all of the fluids that exit her little body and try not to gag.

Smushie, Can't You Just Make a Normal Face?

Smushie, Can’t You Just Make a Normal Face?

I’m an avid fan of sleeping babies.  Why?  Because if a baby (particularly mine) is sleeping, I don’t have to feed her, change her, burp her, bathe her, or soothe her.  And I can get all the cuddles I want from her whenever, wherever, and however I want them.  (It’s the less is more squared principle.  I’m doing LESS for her, yet I’m MORE happy and have MORE time to do other things.)

So when I came across an article about the Finns (or is it Finlandians? or Finnishians? or Finlandese? maybe Suomalaiset?) and how their society believes that babies sleep more soundly in subzero temperatures outside, I was interested in testing out the theory.

The article said that Finnish moms and dads would park their strollers (or prams) outside during baby nap time.  Prams would be left in freezing temperatures for up to a couple of hours so that baby would take a good, solid nap and reap some health benefits on the side.  For me, I would love to shackle secure Smush to her stroller on the sidewalk while I went inside the mall to watch a movie, visit the bookstore, or have a nice, quiet, dinner with my wife.  Then a few days hours later, I could return to my child napping away because she exhausted herself by screaming her head off for two straight hours with no one coming to her aid peacefully.  I see no downside so far.

The Finns believe (yes, all of them) that napping outside in the cold weather is good for boosting the baby’s immune system and helps them sleep more soundly, both of which are inherently tied together.  The idea stems from this guy, Arvo Ylppö, a Finnish pediatrician credited with starting the trend sometime in the 1920’s.  Seeing as how he dropped the infant mortality rate significantly during his working tenure, Ylppö probably had a pretty good understanding of public health and how to avoid, prevent, and treat disease.  The general population listened to his suggestions then and they’re still following them now.

Enough of the history lesson, this blog isn’t meant to add cells to your brain.  It’s purpose is to remove them one by one.

I decided to do an experiment.  It’s winter time in San Diego and Smushie sometimes has trouble sleeping in the night.  These two facts were just the right ingredients I needed for my laboratory testing.  The opportunity was here, so why not try to see if she would sleep better outside?  I suppose that if the Finns hold the solution to happily sleeping babies, I want to inject plenty of it into my own two lapset.  That’s Finnish for children.

Yesterday was my first clinical trial.  The temperature in my neighborhood last night was 12 degrees, extremely close to 0 degrees.  (Ok, so I converted it to Celsius for additional dramatic effect.  It’s not quite the same as the freezing temperatures in Helsinki, but it is as brutal a winter we’re going to get in Southern California.)  I bundled up the Smush in her onesie.  Socks on the hands, a hat on her head and a double layer of blankets were sure to keep my baby toasty warm.

Now, I could have left Smush out on the front porch to sleep, but for fear that (A) my wife would leave me (B) my parents would kill me, and (C) I’d spend a few years in the county jail, I decided to take her for a walk instead.  I modified my experiment into a ‘supervised’ cold weather nap.  I took a long stroll around the neighborhood.

Within minutes, the little one was fast asleep.  And she slept for the entire hour walk.  Yes, she opened her eyes occasionally.  But, it wasn’t because she was awake.  She was just giving me that creepy baby stare where she doesn’t blink or flinch a muscle and it feels like her eyes are piercing my head like a laser beam.  (If you’re a parent, you know exactly what I mean.)  Smushie’s eyes were open, but her brain was on a Dreamland vacation.

I thought to myself, there’s got to be something to this whole baby subzero sleeping thing!  Those crazy Finns don’t seem so crazy after all! To take it a step further, I backed up my data by repeating the experiment again and publishing my findings to the blog universe to become the next overnight internet sensation.  With the temperatures below 10 degrees (again, in Celsius for the dramatic effect), Smush was bundled up the same as the previous day, except that her hat had little bunny ears which provided some measure of additional warmth to her head.  I had to wear a long-sleeved shirt along with my shorts.  (I had to dig deep in the closet for my cold weather gear!)

Guess what?  It worked better the second time.  In fact, she napped for a total of 5 hours during and after her chilly evening jaunt.  Some of the napping was inside the house, but the better part of it was under the moon, stars, and alien UFO lightbeams.

So,  the takeaways from the article I read along with my own experiments and observations:

  1. In Finland, they don’t steal babies.
  2. In America, leaving your baby alone outside is called child neglect and is punishable by jail time in Guantanamo.
  3. Finnish babies are born directly onto the snow to acclimate them to freezing temperatures immediately, hence increasing their ability to brave subfreezing temperatures.  (I’m not making this stuff up.  Nope.)

The cold weather experiment brought Smush and I two great nights of sleep in a row!  No, we didn’t have subzero temperatures.  No, we weren’t in Finland.  But I was wearing a heart rate monitor and thinking about the next wife carrying competition (two very Finnish inventions), so at least in my mind, it was like we were practically natives.

I'm Not Kidding, Smush.  The Finlandians do This All the Time!

I’m Not Kidding, Smush. The Finlandians do This All the Time!

Normal people will sleep between the hours of 10pm and 6am.  I’m not normal.  I’m not allowed to be normal, thanks to all the sleep-sucking parasites I cohabit with.  Anytime I try to close my eyes, each one takes a turn prying them open.  And when I’m awake dealing with the loudest one, the others are resting up for the next attack.

The fun begins at 2:30 am.  (That’s sarcasm.  I’m old.  Real fun for me begins at 4:30 in the evening, when restaurants offer Early Bird dinner specials.)  When I get up this ridiculously early and look out the bedroom window, I see zombies walking the streets and sniffing for lost souls.  My house always beckons their collective nose and I hope one day to invite them in to steal me away.  Because I’m certain that eternal suffering of the undead is more tolerable than sleep deprivation.

It’s time to feed Smush.  Kitchen.  Fridge.  Warmer on.  Pee.  Warmer off.  Feed her the bottle.

15 minutes later, it’s burping time.  Light bouncing.  Nothing.  Soft patting.  Nothing.  Firm patting.  Nothing.  Really firm patting that borders on child abuse.  Nothing.  (And she’s sleeping right through all of it.)  Then I pull out the trump card, my patented baby origami technique.

“Pah!” comes from one end of the Smush.

Was that a burp, a fart, or was I dozing off?  Whatever it was, it’s good enough for me.  I give up.  It’s 3:30.  I change a diaper and return her to the co-sleeper crib.  Ah, back to me bed!

“Ugh!  Uuuuuugh!  Wah!”

Greaaaaat (a la Bill Lumbergh).  Sounds like someone’s got a case of the Mondays stubborn flatulence.  Could it be that I didn’t properly purge the little one earlier?  (Logic seldom prevails in the wee hours of the morning.  I blame Smush’s GI bubbles on my wife’s milk, not my poor technique.)  I repeat the above burp sequence.  Ok, who am I kidding?  I skip to the origami and begin folding Smushie forwards, backwards, sideways and wringing her out like a wet sponge.

Again, it’s “Pah!”

Music to my ears.  She and I both nod off…for about 6 minutes.  Then another “Ugh!” from across the room.  She’s straining again.  So I get up to hang myself in the bathroom squeeze the baby farts out.  And the same tired (pun intended) story loops in 6 minute increments until about 6 am.

Ah, my 6:30am alarm clock is going off.  Wait.  I didn’t set an alarm clock.  The music is coming from Worm’s room.  He’s awake and I’m hearing it through the wall.  I pull another pillow over my head to drown out the sound.  It’s working…until 7am rolls around…

…and Duncan is pawing at the door to be let out.  My pillow apparently doesn’t muffle this sound.  I imagine if it would muffle Duncan’s screaming when I smother him with it?  I jump out of bed to answer the obstinately impatient animal.  (If I wait more than 10 seconds, he most surely will scratch again.)

Open the back door.  I force Frodo to go outside with Duncan.  1 minute later, Duncan’s back inside the house.  Frodo is out there smelling the flowers…every stinking one.  He’s oblivious to me playing the role of doorman for him.  I call him to come inside.  Mind you, Frodo’s old and losing his already selective hearing and his eyesight.  Of course, he doesn’t listen or hear me.  (Yes, they don’t mean the same thing.)  The incredible desire to throw the kitchen knives at him almost becomes reality.  I just don’t have the energy to try.  The furry ba$tard stays outside.  I close the back door and go back to my room.

I crawl under the warm covers only to hear Smushie starting to stir again.  It’s 7:10 and about time for another feeding.  And as soon as I sit down to put the bottle in her mouth, Frodo is barking to come back inside the house.  (The only thing that will make Frodo more obedient is a taxidermist…and yes, I’ve thought about dropping him off a little ‘early’.)

Smush is fed, burped, and changed.  I’m so fed up and hot under the collar that there’s no way my frustration will let me lay back down.  So I go to the kitchen and make my breakfast.  And by 9 am, EVERY ONE OF THOSE DAMN CREATURES IS FAST ASLEEP…except Worm, who is speeding around the house in fifth gear.  It’s his turn to keep me awake for the rest of the day.

This is What I Dream it Would Be Like...If I Could Actually Dream.

This is What I Dream it Would Be Like…If I Could Actually Dream.

There’s a limit to the amount of risk I’m willing to take with Worm.  Holding a pointy scissors inches from that flailing toddler’s ears and eyes is outside of my comfort zone.  So I happily deferred this task to a professional.  That way, if anything happened to Worm’s precious little head, I could be a savior rather than the villain.

It wasn’t that we didn’t like Worm’s coiffure.  We just tired of washing the juice, peanut butter, and snot out of it.  (A slippery kid in a slippery bath being washed by my slippery hands for longer than 30 seconds, is a recipe for disaster.)  Less hair for him equals less work for us.  Besides, Worm’s hair is in that awkward stage between crew cut and mullet.  Yep, he’s got helmet hair…not quite the Gene Simmons look, but pretty darn close.

So off to the internet we went in search of a toddler friendly hairdresser.  Surprisingly, my Googling didn’t turn up more than a handful of local shops.  We picked out one that wasn’t too far away and hopped in the car, anxious as to what was in store for us.

Worm, Next Time I Get The Car!

Worm, Can I At Least Ride Shotgun?!

We strolled into the hair place and the first thing Worm saw was the big red car in the middle of the floor.  When his eyes lit up, we knew we had a winner!  Feeling kind of left out, I asked if I could get a haircut too.  (There was only one car and it took every last ounce of restraint for me not to shove Wormie to the floor and jump in behind that steering wheel!)  I settled for the normal lame-ass (I’m not bitter.) swivel chair.  At least I was sitting closest to the TV blasting the cartoons.  Yeah, the closest.  Me.

We both ordered our haircuts:

“What cut would you like sir?” said the hairdresser.

“Ung. Dat! Pop! Bebop Bo!” responds the diminutive communicates like a caveman.

“So how do you like it cut?” asks the other hairdresser.

“Could I please get 1/2″ off the sides and have the top cut short enough for me to spike it, shall the need present itself?” replied the sophisticated, dashing and debonair gentleman.

(Guess which conversation was Worm’s…)

And so the hair starts flying in all directions.  I braced myself for a deafening cry from the other side of the room, but I heard none.  Worm never once screamed or pitched a fit.  In fact, every time I had the opportunity to glance in his general direction, he was contently playing in my his little red Beetle or watching the cartoons on the TV.  He was eerily quiet.  (As the old saying goes, “A quiet toddler is the devil’s workshop assistant.”)  Today was the exception to the rule.

And at the end of it all, no tears were shed from either of us.  Worm got a nice big lollipop for his effort as well as a lock of his own hair that we will bake into a chocolate cake for his 18th birthday and serve it to him in the name of recycling.

The haircut was a resounding success!  Hooray for Worm being on his best behavior!

Two Good Looking Dudes!

Two Good Looking Dudes!

Next time though, I GET TO DRIVE THE BEETLE!

Gavin – 22; Dad – 11 (I was certain you were going to scream bloody murder during your haircut.  Guess I was wrong…)

When Smushie came out, I knew she was Worm’s sister.  She had such similar features to him, I thought that maybe we were the first couple in history to have identical twins born years apart.  But someone broke that ground already.  (Reuben and Floren Blake are twins born 5 years apart.)

Anyways, using the magic of photo editing software, I made a picture of both of our children side-by-side.  The game is to guess which one is Smush.

Which One Is Which One?

Which One Is Which One?

The battle of wits has begun!

All you have to divine is what type of person am I!  Am I the type to put the pictures in order or not?

Now it’s easy to think that the photo on the left is Worm because of the blue hat.  But if the hospital ran out of pink hats that day, you WOULD BE surely mistaken!

You may also think that I would subconsciously put Smushie in the picture on the right because she was born AFTER the Worm!  But, I’m cunning enough to know that you might think so and maybe that’s why I put her picture on the left!

But I am a man and it’s OBVIOUS that I think that men are always right, so maybe I had to put the photo of Worm on the right!

Though, it’s perfectly clear that the whole idea of this game is to trick you!  If so, then it would be preposterous for me to keep the pictures in order and I would HAVE TO put Smushie’s photo on the left!

And you may assume that the dark ambient light would be on Worm and the soft light projected on Smushie, because Worm was born at night and Smush was born in the morning.  But, I KNOW YOU KNOW THIS! It would be too undeniable for your naked eye to see that the picture of Worm was indubitably on the left and therefore Smushie on the right!!!

I know you’re trying to trick me into giving away something.  It won’t work!

If that wasn’t clever enough, then maybe they are both pictures of Smushie and I have had you utterly fooled this whole time!

Ha ha ha!

Related Links:

Twins Born Five Years Apart

Worm looked too happy to be doing “grown up” things like sitting on the couch and watching TV at only 2 months of age.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he hasn’t defied gravity just yet.  I taped his onesie to the couch cushion so he wouldn’t tip over.

This is a Very Fetching Picture of You Worm!

This is a Very Fetching Picture of You Worm!

June 2011

“Dad, I can’t feel my arms…and I’m not laughing.  I’d rather you practice on the stuffed animals before we try this again.” says the Worm.

My Arms and Legs Are Asleep...And That's About It.

My Arms and Legs Are Asleep…And That’s About It.

June 2011