Name that Tune

I'm a game show fanatic.   I know the hosts, I whistle the theme songs, and named our cat Plinko. 

The Dude, it seems, has inherited a bit of the game show DNA from me. 

He must really love Name That Tune.  Specifically, he loves the Bid-a-Note section.  You know, the "I can name that tune in 3 notes" deal.  

Ma+Pa:  We think a full night's sleep means waking up at 6:20

Coops: I think a full night's sleep means waking up at 6:15. 

           Eventually, he gets us out of our comfort zone...

Ma+Pa:  We probably won't fall asleep at work if we can sleep til 6:00. 

Coops: Umm, yeah, okay.   How about 5:55? 

            Then we fall to desperation...

Ma+Pa:  5:55?  Are you crazy?    If you wake up earlier than 5:30, we might kill someone tomorrow. 

Coops:   5:15, bitches!

Ma+Pa:  Okay, fine!  Name that tune.


Somewhere, the Tommy Oliver Orchestra is smiling.   

Keeping up

Dang it.   It's been about a month since I've updated this blog.    I take no responsibility for this lack or updating -- I blame my son.   He's the one occupying my time.  

Over the last month, I've thoroughly enjoyed watching him gain some independence.   He's able to entertain himself, smile, laugh, and he's getting ready to roll over and sit up.    He still poops.  


There are times that I desperately want him to roll over, because it's another feather in his cap.   And, really, it allows me to brag to everyone that my kid is rolling over.    Really, I think that all of these milestones -- crawling, talking, eating, memorizing the quadratic formula -- mean way too much to us parent-types.   

It's not to say that milestones for the child aren't important during growth and development.   They are, I suppose.   I mean, once he can roll over, my son will be able to...umm, roll over again.   So, we got that going for us, which is nice.   


My son won't update his cutelittlebabyfacebook status when he rolls over.   He will, though, update his Twitter account, though.    Have you checked it out?    You might enjoy.  


For those of you that have young children, and you want to compare your child's accomplishments to my son's, here's a list of what he:   

• sits upright
• scoots
• sleeps through the night
• hates the Steelers
• holds his own bottle - kind of
• laughs
• ignores the WNBA
• updates Twitter

So, um, take that, other parents!

Back on track

Sorry about that last post. Plinko means well, but she needs to know she was out of line. I'm impressed with her typing abilities, though.

And if anyone else hijacks the blog, they'll receive the same reprimand as Plinko...and I don't think any of you will enjoy a shower of fine mist from a spray bottle.


Our son is officially a 21st Century child: He has his own Twitter account. He plans to tweet whatever he is thinking about. Check him out @thedudegarvin


One more quick thought today: My wife's body was able to house a child for nine months, allow said child to vacate the premises, clean up after the child, and now, she feeds the child. This is a new trick that her body kept hidden for the first 26 years of life.

The only new trick my body unveils is sprouting unwanted hair in weird places.

Totally not fair.

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.