I Write. You Read.

For most of my adult life (and my childhood, for that matter, ever since my tonsillectomy in kindergarten) getting sick has not been an issue. It happens once in awhile — on the average of once a year, I’d guess — but it never really gets in the way. I can’t breath well for a couple of days or run a slight fever. There may be some vomiting involved. Unpleasant, but by no means debilitating. In fact, I’ve often felt good about being sick, because it gave me a guilt-free reason for missing work or being a slacker (the latter in which I indulge all too frequently without justification). Like going on vacation and getting a mild sunburn, it’s a pain but it fades in time. The important thing is the time off from everyday hassles.

I never worried about being around others who might be sick. A cough in the hallway was just a passing thought: “Sucks to be them. If I had a cough like that I’d take the day off.” I rarely gave much thought to the idea that I could catch what they had or spread the plague myself. Discussion of the “flu season” only made me think in passing of Stephen King’s Captain Trips.

My, how parenthood changes things.

A cough or a sneeze, or worse a series of coughs or sneezes almost make my heart skip a beat. What if that’s contagious? Why aren’t they covering their mouth? Why for the love of God didn’t they stay home today if they’re feeling so badly? I ride to work on a combination of buses and trains, which in my darkest thoughts play the role of mobile incubators for disease. Don’t these people care about the children?

The first thing I do when I get home in the evening is kiss my son. What if my lips picked up something on the way home? Did I just pass that cough to my boy? I’ve come close to getting up and moving to a different train car because someone near me was coughing. The only thing that stopped me was a lack of an empty seat.

Almost worse than passing on a germ to Simon is the idea of getting his mother sick or falling ill myself. The two of us together have a hard enough time keeping our home going together. I shudder at the thought of one or both of us being incapacitated. I am the Provider. I must bring home the mammoth meat and wood for the fire. His mother is the Nurturer, without whom Simon would be scared and alone.

Looming beyond the specter of contagious disease is the knowledge that I’m by no means as healthy as I could be. While my yearly physical continues to show no signs of physical malady or malfunction, it’s obvious that I lack a proper balanced diet and a consistent regimen of exercise. As far as I can tell, these are the two most basic elements of long life and good health. I’m not too worried about my diet; I don’t eat a lot of junk food and Angie does a good job of keeping good stuff to eat in the house. I should probably eat more fruit and vegetables, but I don’t avoid them. Exercise, on the other hand…

I’m incredibly out of shape, whether or not it shows. I get out of breath when I walk up long flights of stairs, and Simon practically wore me out the other day while I was merely giving him a bath. I feel pathetic. What’s going to happen when he starts running around on his own little feet? I don’t feel like I’m in any danger of a heart attack — there haven’t been any warning signs — but there’s always a chance, right? I need to take better care of myself. I’ve started making use of the treadmill that we bought last year, but it’s the keeping up that has always given me more of a problem than the starting.

I realize there is a healthy dose of paranoia going on here. But I’m finding that I worry more about these things now, as a father. I have a lot more reasons to stay healthy than just to feel good about myself.

But if you cough and I run out of the room screaming, you’ll know why.

Although he is small, soft, cute, makes interesting noises and so far shows only a limited amount of conscious control of himself, Simon is not a toy. Of course, that doesn’t stop me — and others — from doing what we can to amuse ourselves at his expense. We tell ourselves that we’re helping him learn, broadening his experiences in his new life as a person, but the truth is that we’re looking for a good laugh.

Laugh with us so that we don’t feel like horrible people.

A part of me believes that Simon knows how to read. Not only do I believe that he knows how to read, I believe he possesses the wherewithal to navigate the internet without assistance. I believe all of this because not even a week after that last entry — in which I extolled the many wonderful accomplishments he has made in the past month or so — my son decided to stop sleeping through the night like an angel. Instead, he has decided to stay up as long as possible, screaming and fighting the entire time. We know he’s sleepy. *He* knows he’s sleepy. But he doesn’t want to go to sleep.

Last night was the worst night in recent memory. The little guy screamed and blubbered for about two hours, refusing to lie still and drift away to dreamland. We rocked him. Angie fed him. We tried to soothe him with the binky, which he had seemingly outgrown all on his own (and which still didn’t do very much in the soothing department). No matter what we tried, Simon simply rolled over on his stomach and cried.

After awhile I decided to try something new. I took off Simon’s pajamas, leaving him in only his diaper. This seemed at first to be the magic bullet. He immediately calmed down and seemed to be ready for sleep. I left him lying on his side, softly cooing in a way that said “I’m going to sleep now…”

Strutting in a very smug and arrogant way, I went into the bedroom to join Angie for a peaceful night of uninterrupted sleep. I was, as she put it, a Hero. I had stopped Simon from crying by simple application of trial-and-error, changing the conditions in a way that hadn’t been tried before. I won.

I then became convinced that not only can Simon read the internet, he also has super-hearing. After our little pat-Daddy-on-the-back moment, he began to wail again. Loudly. Our parental stress level was raised, we seemed to be at the end of our ropes. Heated words of frustration were exchanged. We were both (all three?) dead tired, and just wanted our baby to go to sleep. We all needed him to go to sleep. NOW.

Eventually, he did go to sleep. Angie was the winner. She sat up with him and, I assume, fed him some more until he was soothed. I love her dearly.

I’m hoping this isn’t a trend. This has been at least two nights in a row that Simon hasn’t slept to the best of his ability, the second being worse than the first. Tonight we embark on a late-night car trip — initially planned to coincide with our little angel’s normal bedtime and period of deepest sleep — and I’m afraid that it won’t be the picture of silent bliss of which we’ve been dreaming.

Wish us luck.

Oh, I know what you’re going to think. Of course he says his child is a genius. It’s his kid! What parent wouldn’t evangelize the accomplishments of his offspring, especially when they include the discovery of a cure for cancer, the eradication of world hunger and the Elfstrom Plan for World Peace (That Actually Works)™? Really, who wouldn’t be proud?

Here in the real world, though, Simon has made quite a few milestones recently. In a time span of just over two weeks he has:

• Begun growing teeth
• Learned to roll over from his back to his stomach (this is reproducible and I have seen it happen)
• Discovered the wonders of solid foods (in three distinct flavors: rice cereal, carrots and squash)
• Slept through the night on a consistent (yet still somehow irregular) basis

I’m sure that I’ve left something out… Like cold fusion or a pill to stop aging. I’ll have to check my logs.

But speaking of teeth, Simon bit me yesterday. It hurt. It started out innocently enough, with an attempt at finger-sucking. This was kinda of an adorable development over the past few weeks, as my index finger or thumb became a target for slobbery gumming, but that was before the Tooth. The Tooth has now broken the gum surface, and it is very sharp. I thought he had broken the skin at first, but it turns out the Tooth merely left a dent. It’s a good thing; I’ve heard that once they have the taste for blood, the Teeth have to be put down.

Simon’s mother has had to deal with the Tooth more than I, of course, but I can’t speak for her. Let’s just say that an increasing number of feeding sessions have ended with an abrupt yelp of painful surprise.

The Tooth seems quite pleased with the solid food, however. Simon slurps it down like a champ, and already he seems eager to take the next step ��chewing. He watches us eat with an expression that may not be hunger but is certainly related to desire, or at the least curiosity. It’s hard to resist the temptation to feed him new and exciting things, just to see what might happen, how he would react. We’ve been advised, however, to introduce new foods slowly, so as to reduce the impact lest some insidious allergic reaction make itself known.

Along with the change of input has come a significant alteration of the output. You call it poop. There’s been less of it, and it’s of a very different nature than the breast-milk poop. More of a big-boy poop sized for a little boy. And that’s all of the poop talk for today.

The sleeping is not going as well as it began two weeks ago, but it’s pretty good. I’d estimate that three or four nights out of the week Simon sleeps solidly from about ten o’clock at night until five-thirty or six o’clock in the morning. I have to estimate because I don’t get up in the middle of the night when he doesn’t make it; I have to infer the night’s sleeping pattern from the mood of his mother. She’s especially chipper when Simon doesn’t wake her up at one-thirty, especially not chipper if he does.

And then there is the Rolling. I haven’t seen him roll front-to-back just yet, but Angie assures me that it happens. Watching him roll back-to-front, though, is fantastic. For the first week or so he had a hard time getting the roll-side arm out from underneath his chubby belly, but these days it pops right out more often than not, helping to prop up his little turtle-like head. He’s a lot more steady now, more able to hold up his melon without so much of the bobbing. But when he gets tired, that thing drops like a brick.

As you can see from the evidence presented so far, our little Super Genius is making quite a lot of progress. I’ll be printing up his business cars any day now, and hope that he’s better at catching his quarry than that self-immolating coyote.

Just the other day I was one half of a happy DINK household, living the carefree life which was all that I had ever known. Today, I am the proud father of a four-month-and-two-days-old baby boy. “Just the other day” seems like so long ago…

…and yet four months have gone by in the blink of an eye. The other day, Simon could only cry. Today, at four months, he can cry and make goo goo monkey noises like he’s trying to make words. The other day, if I placed him face-down on the floor he would…lie there. Today, he pushes up with his little hands and stays there for minutes (minutes!) at a time, with an expectant look that seems to say “OK, Dad, let’s get this show on the road! I want to go thataway!” Once he had the extensive repertoire of moods known as Sleepy, Hungry and Upset. Now he moves fluidly between Sleepy, Hungry, Upset, Excited, and Happy.

Happy, of course, is the best one. The one with the gummy smiles. I’ll miss them, I think, once he grows teeth. There’s something sweet and special about Simon’s big toothless grins, a smile of complete innocence. One of my favorite time-wasters these days is to watch Simon look at his Mommy, and the smiles that brings to his face.

It’s hard to put all this into words. So let’s look at some photos, instead.

Launch photo gallery

Angie called just a little while ago to tell me that Simon rolled over for the first time, from his stomach to his back. This news has filled me with more joy than anything since his first gummy little smile. Praise the Lord for little babies.

Babies Eat Time Like Candy

Some of you probably think I should write more. I agree. Toward that goal, I’m going to make an effort at posting more frequent, shorter entries. When I can find the time I’ll still weigh in with some big ones, but in this case I think increased frequency is worth the loss of some depth.

Speaking of Baby Beethoven

Simon loves his Baby Beethoven DVD. He’s not to the point of squealing in delight, but it will certainly keep his attention longer than anything else short of his (apparently new) hands. He stares at them now, to the point of going cross-eyed. Maybe he’s attracted by their glistening coat of drool. Soon we begin The Teething.

Before Simon — Part the Second

(follows The Beginning)

We knew we were pregnant, but decided it was a good idea to get official confirmation. Angie got an appointment fairly quickly with our regular doctor, and soon we would find out that yes, indeed, we have a baby on the way. The first test was correct…as were the following four or five. He recommended an OB/GYN — the same fella who had delivered all of our doctor’s children — and Angie tried to get an appointment ASAP. “ASAP” turned out to be several weeks later.

It was a weird sort of limbo. The doctor had verified our initial test(s), and Angie was in fine health, but the more detailed status of the new life now growing inside her was an unknown. I don’t recall any actual anxiety that something could be amiss, but I was eager to hear what a specialist had to say. The more information I got, the more “real” the whole idea became in my mind. I wasn’t in denial so much as a state of awe and wonder.

When the day finally came for us to visit the OB, I was extremely excited. We were going to get our first sonogram, and although there wouldn’t be much to see, there would be something. We’d be able to see our baby.

There was some preliminary paperwork to complete, and I nervously sat beside Angie as she filled in all the blanks. She was the patient, after all. I was just there for the show. The exact sequence at this point is fuzzy, but I recall a short meeting with a nurse to go over a bunch of “so you’re having a baby” literature and that sort of thing and then they ushered us into the sonogram room. Showtime.

Chit-chat. Application of a coldish jelly-like substance to promote good transmission of sound. Then the miracle. Through the magic of technology, we got to see our little baby, hovering in the fuzzy black-and white nebula of the womb. I wish now that I’d had the forethought to keep a “pregnancy journal,” because I’d really like to remember exactly what I was feeling at that moment, what I was thinking as I saw for the first time the little peanut (only about two centimeters head-to-toe) that would grow up to be our son.

I know that I was happy, scared and full of love for life. All three would grow in strength throughout Angie’s pregnancy, and seem to continue swelling even as Simon continues to outgrow clothes.

What’s the word for “more than overwhelmed?” “Überwhelmed?” I really need to know, so I can use it the next time I get that feeling that hit me today on the bus ride home from work. That feeling that hits me almost every time I spend more than a few seconds thinking about Simon and everything that he means to me.

On Saturday, which is typically “mommy gets some time off” day, I was able to watch Simon for a few hours while Angie went out shopping. We mostly sat around and either played with the musical flashing light thingy or watched TV, but when he wasn’t sleeping Simon was mostly sitting on my knee. Twice that day, while being held in my arms and bouncing, my little boy fell asleep like it was the most comfortable place in the world. It was the first time in recent memory that Daddy was the one to soothe him, without the aid of Bouncy Ducky Chair or Mr. Binky, not to mention Mommy.

Thinking about this on the bus today and how much I love to just hold him in my arms is what makes me — Superwhelemed? Megawhelemed? — by my new role as a father.

Here’s a few little movies for you to watch, since we couldn’t make it out of town for Easter. (You’ll need the Quicktime plugin to watch these.)

• Playtime with the thingy

• Bunny ears

• A little talkin’

Ask any new parent what their biggest adjustment has been, now that they have a baby in their lives, and I’m willing to bet most of them will have the same answer: sleep, or more precisely the lack of sleep. Everyone seems to have their own ideas on how to “deal” with the sleeping problem, from “sleep when the baby sleeps” to “slip the kid some Baby Tylenol.” In my own experience, there’s only one way to live with such a drastic change in one’s sleep schedule: get used to it.

With all the other changes coming in my life, the last thing I need to fret over is losing a little sleep. I’m going to have runny noses to wipe, cuts to bandage, bobos to kiss, broken hearts to mend… My mind boggles at the enormity of what the future holds in my journey through fatherhood. I think missing a few hours sleep (in the big scheme of things) is going to be a small footnote in the record books.

Honestly, I’ve already gotten used to it. It’s just a matter of routine. Overnight Simon usually sleeps at least two-four hours between changes/feedings, which seems to be just about right for getting two good REM cycles per night. He goes to bed around ten o’clock, and I follow at about eleven or twelve. He wakes us up (cries of “Change me! Feed me!” coming from the air itself through the magic of the baby monitor) at about two. I’m up for five minutes changing his diaper while Angie gets ready to feed him, and then I get back to sleep. Simon wakes up again around five-thirty in the morning, giving me another five minute break in sleep before my final thirty minutes or so of snooze-button-mashing pseudo sleep. Then it’s time to make the donuts get up, take a shower, make my lunch and head out to the train station.

The hard part isn’t the not sleeping. The hard part is the not allowing myself to stay up and watch Simon sleep. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single living thing more at peace than my little boy sleeping.

Launch photo gallery