Demoted

Hey, y'all...Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Plinko. I'm the cat. I've taken over this blog for a little while to meow my displeasure about the events that have taken place at my house over the last three months.

I've been demoted.

I used to be the queen of the castle. Now, I'm not really a big deal. They call me a big sister...but, um, let's be honest....I'm a cat, and I'm not related to that kid at all.

I mean, he's cute, and stuff...but he's not me. Let's compare:

• I poop and pee in a box, and I have enough courtesy to bury it after I'm done. He does his business in his pants, and expects the humans to clean up.
  
• I don't cry. Ever. Sometimes I meow or purr. This kid? Cries all the freakin time!
  
• I sleep whenever I want to. He, on the other hand, does not sleep whenever I want him to.
  
• I eat my food out of a bowl. He eats his out of a, ummm...how do I say this politely?...umm, he eats his food out of a...well, let's move on.
  
• All of my toys fit nicely into one small box. All of his toys fit nicely into one Grand Canyon.
  
• I give myself baths. In fact, just before blogging, I licked my butt. This kid, though, requires water, soap, a tub, and supervision while bathing. And he can't lick his butt.
  
• My tail is in the back. His is in the front.
  

There are a number of additional reasons while, I, Plinko Wink Garvin, am far superior to my little brother. I don't expect you to care, but if you stop by house, throw a little love my way.

If you're lucky, I'll show you how to lick your butt.

Here's the thing....

Thanks to a busy schedule and an overall feeling of laziness, I haven't blogged in a long time. For this, I am not sorry. Well, maybe just a little sorry. I mean, sort of sorry, I guess. You know what? No...I'm not sorry.

We're two and a half months in. He lets us think we have him on a routine....diaper change and PJs on at 10pm, a big bottle....and he's down for the night. Down for most nights, I suppose. We've had some 8 hour nights and some 4 hour nights (and by we, I mean my wife).


What I've discovered over the last 2.5 months is that I have an overwhelming desire to tell everyone how awesome my son is, and why he is so perfect. And there are so many opportunities to call attention to a child (especially one as saint-like as The Dude). With this whole "Internet" thing taking off, informing the world that your offspring is certifiably cute is about as simple as can be.

Now, there are these "Beautiful Baby" Contests....a proud mom or dad (okay, but really, mom) posts a few pictures of Junior, and hopes that a ton of people vote for them.

Mom, Dad, and Junior get their hundred votes of fame....mostly from their friends and family....but they won't win the contest. Why? Because every baby is cute! It's impossible to produce a non-cute child. Being cute is the key to their survival. No one would put up with the mustard-diapers, spit up, and crying if it wasn't for the 45 minutes of precious each day.

Here's the thing....the only winner? The TV Station hosting the "contest." They get 10,000 people clicking onto their website each day, allowing them to make lots of money in ad revenue.

I'm not saying that people shouldn't enter these contests. I'm just saying that parents of infants need [people to acknowledge our child. We're knee deep in poop. We think our kid is perfect...but it's nice to hear it from others. Throw us a bone. These contests are just like posting pictures or updating a status on Facebook....validate us! Let us know that our kid is the best!

Thus -- I will continue to post pictures, update my Facebook status, and bore co-workers to death with stories. For this, I am not sorry. Well, maybe just a little sorry. I mean, sort of sorry, I guess. You know what? No...I'm not sorry.

Car trips

Each of the last two weekends, we've packed up the Wagon Queen Family Truckster and headed out on the road.

The clothes for my wife and I fit comfortably in one suitcase. The clothes for our 1/12th year old fit snugly in a suitcase of their own.

I mean, how do you pack for a week? Will he pee through no onesies on the trip, or fifty onesies? What if the hotel room is really cold? Should we bring a bathing suit and waterproof Pampers? What vital item did we forget to pack?

I suppose this is the easiest time to travel. He doesn't need to stop to go to the bathroom. He'll cry when he really needs something. If he's not crying, he's sleeping.

The first leg of the journey took us to Appleton, Wisconsin. Fun fact about Appleton...the TV character Edna "Mrs. G" Garrett (Facts of Life) grew up on a farm outside of Appleton. The Dude was great through Ohio; great through our lunch stop in Indiana; freaked out in northwest Indiana, causing us to stop; awesome through Chicago; pretty good during our Outlet Malling; awful through the last leg, turning a 2.5 hr drive into a 4 hour nightmare.

The return trip was great...The Dude was well behaved. At one point, we promised him that if he didn't cry, we would buy him a car when he was 16. We lied. But, he didn't cry.


Trip two was a "Meet The Dude" excursion to my hometown. The two hour trip seemed like a quick trip to the store compared to the eight (okay, twelve) hour pilgrimage to America's Dairyland.

I'm not sure anything unites a family more than a newborn.


The trip back home was fine, too. First of many trips to the homeland for The Dude.


Tips for future successful car trips: Aleve for me. Earplugs for me. That's about it.

Diapers, number two.

I love my wife. While I go to work each morning, she stays at home with The Dude. While at work, I rarely encounter anyone crying...and if they are, I'm not expected to feed that person or change his pants.

At home, though, my wife is the caregiver to a 1 month old. If he's hungry, she's on it. If he needs changed, she's there. If she's tired, he's awake. If she's hungry, he's hungry.

She's a beast.


When I get home, though, I become the diaper changer. I figure I can handle a few diapers here and there, compared to the amount she changes during the day. Usually a pretty easy go, unless she drops this bomb:

"Oh, and -- he hasn't pooped for me today."

Translation: Grab a Maid of the Mist poncho, noseplugs, and wipes. Lots of wipes. It's gonna get messy.

Luckily, The Dude hasn't had any constipation issues. He poops. And if he doesn't poop during the day, you can bet that there are a few heavily loaded diapers awaiting me that evening.


Generally, here's the rundown:

I change him. No poop.
Five minutes later, I hear a shart.
I wait a few minutes to see if there are other sharts to follow.
I change him. Lots of mustard-like poop.
Five minutes later, I hear a shart.
I wait ten minutes to see if there are other sharts.
I change him.


No one enjoys that shartty feeling....maybe your stomach hurts, and you try to pass a little gas, thinking it'll help....but sadly, there's something brewing inside you. Yeah....never fun. I think The Dude loves it, though. He'll get a peaceful look on his face...and I can't say that I blame him.

When I hear that rumble, though, I think, "Diaper, don't fail me now!" I really hope I was successful in putting the diaper on correctly. Too loose - it's everywhere. Too tight - it squirts out.

We've had instances of leakage. When this happens, I try to channel my inner-Adrian Monk, piecing together the events that led to a onesie soaked with pee. Sometimes the diaper was loose or tight. Sometimes, The Dude's dude was pointing up or to the side. Sometimes, he was just full of pee and the diaper was at max capacity.

At the end of the day, though, I realize that I don't need a poncho from the Maid of the Mist. Noseplugs aren't necessary. All I need is patience...and wipes.

Lots of wipes.

Bedtime

Lately, I've been the parent responsible for feeding our son just before bedtime. While my wife ties up a few loose odds and ends before bed, I'll take command.

In an ideal world, he'd take a bottle, burp, and fall asleep for 5 hours.

Sadly, you and I both know there is no such thing as an ideal world.


Here's the usual routine: Diaper, feed 2+oz.; burp; he closes eyes for 5 minutes; I stand up, thinking he's asleep; he opens eyes, remembers that he's still hungry; feed 2+oz.; burp; falls asleep.

At this point, I take him upstairs and put him in the cradle next to our bed. You might ask, "Why is he sleeping in your room? Put him in the nursery." I might answer, "Good point. But shut up....I'm tired and I don't need to argue this with you."

My son, though, might be the next Amazing Kreskin. Within 10 seconds of my head hitting the pillow, he starts to fuss. Kreskin knows that it'll only take approximately 15 seconds for me to fall asleep. Thus, as a courtesy compromise, he fusses after I've laid down, but before I fall asleep.

So, after fussing for a few minutes, he breaks into a cry. Not a Cry-cry....but a cry. Usually it'll take a few more ounces of milk to get things back to normal. Sometimes he can pacify himself by latching on to my pinkie.

In the near future, Young Kreskin will be moved to the nursery. This will provide me with more chances to trip over things before getting to him when he cries. (Note: by "me", I mean "my wife")

Guilt

With a two-week old, I find myself thinking about what my son will grow up to be.

I'd like to think I'm fairly open-minded, and that I'll support all of the important life decisions he makes....what college to attend, what occupation to pursue, who to choose as a mate.....all of that will be up to him. I'll gladly offer advice when requested (and sometimes when it's not requested).

There is one non-negotiable item.

My son will be a fan of Cleveland sports. His adorable diapered ass will be firmly planted on the seat of the Cleveland sports train.

My job, as his father and Cleveland sports mentor, will be to teach him about the history -- the highs, the lows, the lower lows and the lowest lows -- of the world of sports. Here are the cliffnotes:

highs: 1948 Indians, Browns up until Jim Brown retired, Miracle of Richfield, Wilkens-era Cavs, Steroid-era Tribe, Cleveland Crunch, LeBron-era Cavs, Joe Tait, Tom Hamilton, Nev Chandler, Casey Coleman, Jim Donovan
lows: Red Right 88, Don Rogers, The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, Braves pitchers, Marlins, Spurs, Red Sox, Magic...
lower lows: Expansion era Browns
lowest lows: Baltimore Ravens

I feel a bit guilty forcing my son to support Cleveland teams. I don't want to cause a Kinsella-esque schism. But I feel that by being a Cleveland supporter, there are many important life lessons to be learned. Among these lessons:

• how to lose honorably (See: 1964-2010)
  
• how to deal with disappointment (See: Cavs - 2009)
  
• how to see the glass half-full...especially while throwing said glass onto the field to express anger
• how to deal with "loss" of a hero (See: Thome, J - 2002)
• how to irrationally hate (See: Mesa, J)
• how to rationally hate (See: Yankees; Steelers)
• how to rationally hope (See: James, L)
• how to irrationally hope (See: 1964-2010)
  
• how to ridicule (See: Roethlisberger, B)
• how to celebrate (See: tumbleweed rolling)

I feel a little guilty....not letting him choose. I suppose that somewhere, down the road, he could give up Cleveland sports. I mean, with all the losing and disappointment, who could blame him? But, I'd like to think he'll understand commitment, heart, and unconditional love.

They say it's always darkest before dawn....hopefully, for my son's sake, the rooster crows very soon.

Diapers...

At the beginning of our pregnancy, my wife and I specifically requested a child who was potty-trained. If not potty-trained, at least litter-trained, like our cat, Plinko. If not litter-trained, at least house-broken, so we could let him do business in the yard.

As it turns out, our child poops and pees in a diaper. I'm told this is normal, and shouldn't be a problem. At about $100 a pop, I'd say that diapers is money down the drain. Sadly, it's like money down the diaper-pail.

Two weeks in, I feel pretty comfortable changing his diapers. I've been peed on three times....twice by him, once by me. His poop does not yet resemble poop. Instead of turds, it looks like fancy mustard gone bad.

The two worst times involved poop on the peeper before the circumcision site had fully healed. Thus, we had to take him to the sink and let water trickle on his area...baptizing his wiener, in essence.

The circumcision has fully healed. No longer does it look like he's trying to guide Santa's sleigh through a blizzard, and we don't have to put vaseline on him so it doesn't stick to the diaper. I can't imagine a pain worse than "circumsized penis sticking to diaper." I would not luvs that, and if it happened, someone would have to pampers me, or I would vow to blowout every diaper.


Yes, there have been some gross diapers, but I keep thinking, "This is nothing. The worst is yet to come."

Is two weeks too early to start litter and/or potty training him?