Saturday, April 18, 2009
Joseph goes to the zoo
Not many animals in these pics, but it was tough to get any good animal shots with his face in them. Nonetheless, I think you'll be able to see that his cuteness has grown by at least 53 percent.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Boy's first haircut
He was starting to look like a little hippy. Now his hair is high and tight. Oo-rah!
Saturday, February 7, 2009
God protect little Joseph
Because if the anxiety I feel leaving him with the babysitter is even 1/1000th of what tragedy would feel like, I wouldn't survive.
Yes, I think these things all the time now.
Yes, I think these things all the time now.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
A midnight message to my wife
Thank you, honey, as you take another night shift to help our little enterprise stay afloat. Granted, we could have thought this through a little better, but I sincerely appreciate your work and sacrifice. Just know that tonight, when little Joseph stirs and begs to come to our bed, as he's kicking me in the face, I'm loving you.
Yours,
C.
Yours,
C.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Dispatches from the Fortress of Solitude
Is anyone there? Please, anyone? I need help. I've holed myself up in the bathroom while the Beast sleeps. My wife is sleeping because she took a job doing the midnight shift at the front desk of our apartment building. She does this on the weekends--Saturday and Sunday morning--and has to catch up on sleep for the rest of the day. That leaves me on babysitting duties the whole day, and I have work to do.
Please, somebody help me. He'll wake at any moment. Any sound could set him off. A dog has been barking in a nearby apartment since eight o'clock. Someone is playing hip-hop music. My situation is PRECARIOUS! I have dozens of e-mails to catch up on. I'm starving. I haven't showered. And this is the first time in 48 hours that I've been able to go to the bathroom. So, I'm multi-tasking.
He's sweet, I know. He's a very good boy. But he also likes to whack his head into things, and has a deadly affinity for light sockets. And even if the Boy doesn't kill me, the Mother will. While I merely try to keep our son alive, the house descends into a minefield of blocks, singing bear toys and Tupperware. If she wakes before I can clean it, she'll have my...hands.
Oh no! I heard a sound. Something down the hallway is stirring. Wait--is the bathroom door locked? Oh no! And my pants are still down! Help! No! You can't come in! Get out of that! Noooo!
Please, somebody help me. He'll wake at any moment. Any sound could set him off. A dog has been barking in a nearby apartment since eight o'clock. Someone is playing hip-hop music. My situation is PRECARIOUS! I have dozens of e-mails to catch up on. I'm starving. I haven't showered. And this is the first time in 48 hours that I've been able to go to the bathroom. So, I'm multi-tasking.
He's sweet, I know. He's a very good boy. But he also likes to whack his head into things, and has a deadly affinity for light sockets. And even if the Boy doesn't kill me, the Mother will. While I merely try to keep our son alive, the house descends into a minefield of blocks, singing bear toys and Tupperware. If she wakes before I can clean it, she'll have my...hands.
Oh no! I heard a sound. Something down the hallway is stirring. Wait--is the bathroom door locked? Oh no! And my pants are still down! Help! No! You can't come in! Get out of that! Noooo!
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Joseph's first Oktoberfest...
In keeping with the theme of the latest spate of videos, this doesn't have much to do with anything. But if you're into German oom-pa-pa music, this one's for you.
By the way, do YOU go to a church that hosts an Oktoberfest complete with beer, roast pig and a live German band? No? You should. Call me and we'll get you signed up for RCIA. ;-)
By the way, do YOU go to a church that hosts an Oktoberfest complete with beer, roast pig and a live German band? No? You should. Call me and we'll get you signed up for RCIA. ;-)
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Joseph about to crawl
As I processed this video from the camera, Joe was all over the place. He's the fastest crawler I've ever seen. So, this video is a bit dated (October 2008 sometime). Nonetheless, here's the last video of him before he could crawl:
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Joseph's first B.A.S.E. jump
It went well, actually. No broken bones, no cuts, scrapes, and just the smallest hint of a bruise.
The location: his crib. I was on the phone with Judie when it happened, yes, driving down the road. All of a sudden she starts screaming "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! I'll call you late--" and then she hung up, but not before I heard my 8-month-old son, my world, screaming in pain.
What does one do in such a situation? One drives in a straight line, stunned, imagining the most horrible things. Intruders...terrorists, no doubt...gas line rupture...building collapse...suffocating, hardening gel-like substance piped in by an evil multi-national corporation. (We've perhaps watched too much "Fringe.")
As it turned out, the little guy managed to climb over the railing of his crib, a feat we didn't expect for another month at least. Forensic analysis indicates that he probably folded himself over the rail, flopped forward, and did one complete rotation on the way down. He probably hit his head on the base of the crib, too.
Thankfully Judie called me before the road curved and I drove through a McDonalds. He was pretty PO'd, but alright. Since then his head has bounced off a variety of surfaces, and I'm pleased to see that it's made of material stronger than wood, tile, thin carpet and cabinets.
Post-script: My mom likes to tell the story, usually when trying to motivate me somehow, that I never learned how to crawl out of my crib. She'd ask me why I never tried to (so presumably I never learned to escape even after I'd developed my language skills), and I would answer, "I caaaaan't." That's been a common theme in my life.
So, good job, Joe! You've already surpassed your old man well before the one-year mark.
I might as well give it up and put on some diapers.
The location: his crib. I was on the phone with Judie when it happened, yes, driving down the road. All of a sudden she starts screaming "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! I'll call you late--" and then she hung up, but not before I heard my 8-month-old son, my world, screaming in pain.
What does one do in such a situation? One drives in a straight line, stunned, imagining the most horrible things. Intruders...terrorists, no doubt...gas line rupture...building collapse...suffocating, hardening gel-like substance piped in by an evil multi-national corporation. (We've perhaps watched too much "Fringe.")
As it turned out, the little guy managed to climb over the railing of his crib, a feat we didn't expect for another month at least. Forensic analysis indicates that he probably folded himself over the rail, flopped forward, and did one complete rotation on the way down. He probably hit his head on the base of the crib, too.
Thankfully Judie called me before the road curved and I drove through a McDonalds. He was pretty PO'd, but alright. Since then his head has bounced off a variety of surfaces, and I'm pleased to see that it's made of material stronger than wood, tile, thin carpet and cabinets.
Post-script: My mom likes to tell the story, usually when trying to motivate me somehow, that I never learned how to crawl out of my crib. She'd ask me why I never tried to (so presumably I never learned to escape even after I'd developed my language skills), and I would answer, "I caaaaan't." That's been a common theme in my life.
So, good job, Joe! You've already surpassed your old man well before the one-year mark.
I might as well give it up and put on some diapers.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The Crotch Matrix
Buttons. They'll be the death of me.
That's buttons on baby pajamas, that is. I can handle a lot. I've put up with a boss whose development seems frozen at 15-years-old for two years, for example. But pajama buttons put me over the edge, particularly when the cute little guy throws cuteness out the window and sets it to "white-hot rage" at 5:30 AM.
It's not buttons per se. It's a combination of buttons, hands, kicking feet, morning sluggishness and morning blindness. Sometimes he's an angel who waits patiently while I change is diaper. But that only happens when he's wearing his PJs with the zippers. When he wears his button PJs, all hell breaks loose.
Not too long ago I'd had a pretty typical day--9 to 5 W2 job b.s., moving business-related stresses, etc. But none of that really got to me. These last few years have taught me to quit being a whiner and be a man. What I used to think of as "crises" I now think of as mere pains-in-the-butt. So, when I got home and Judie was working on dinner, she asked me to give the little guy a bath.
We had lots of splish-splashy fun, and while I got soaked, I didn't mind. Nothing is more fun than watching Joe have fun.
But when I dried him off and tried slipping him into his PJs, fun time was over. Feeling all clean and still a little bit slippery, he thought he would just jump off the changing table and take off naked down the hall. Now, he can't actually do that yet, and I'm encouraged by his fearlessness (I personally never learned how to escape my crib, I'm told), but physics is physics, kid. Newton's Laws apply to you. If you squirm your way off the changing table, you WILL brain yourself on the floor.
Anyway, I pulled out the only PJs within arm's reach because I had to hold him down on the table. They were button PJs. By now, the formerly angelic little boy is arching his back and screaming. Not "crying," as in "Please feed me" or "Please explain what is happening, Daddy," but SCREAMING. My newly robust babese translation skills interpreted these screams as (and think of "The Exorcist" here) "RELEASE ME, MEAT SACK, OR I WILL KILL YOU."
I managed to slip the PJs under him and get one arm into a sleeve before he knew what was happening. He looked me right in the eye and shouted (in his language) "How DARE you!" I snapped my fingers and said "Hey!" That usually stuns him for a second, and it did this time, so I slipped a leg into the PJs.
Joe arched his back and twisted a la "The Exorcist" again. To be completely honest, I peed my pants a little bit. It was freaky. The kid can't walk unassisted, but he can apparently levitate.
I managed to get his other arm in, and then the other leg, but I made a fatal mistake. I started buttoning the PJs from the top. I'd gotten three buttons down when he kicked both legs out of the PJs and then laughed. He LAUGHED.
Look, I love this kid beyond all expectation, but right then I could have slid him across the hardwood floor down the hall and into the living room. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction, though.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and recommitted myself to the project. That's when I noticed that he'd learned a couple of other things: #1, he learned how to undo his diapers, and #2, he...how shall I put this...learned that he has a "special little toy in his pants." There he was, PJs half off diaper askew, grabbing "little Joe," a huge smile on his face.
"Uh, no, buddy," I said, unsure how to proceed. This was a conversation I expected to have with him in, oh, about twelve years. Now I've got to give him a course in Theology of the Body before he reaches his first birthday?
I grabbed his "business hand," and flung it away. He didn't react well to handus interruptus, so I double-timed it. Have you ever had to put a diaper on an infant while holding his dirty, sinful hands, AND tried to put PJs on? You practically need to be Vishnu.
By now I was fighting back my own tears. I'd buttoned the top few buttons and most of the ones down the legs, but then there was "the crotch matrix." After millions of years (or thousands, depending on your reckoning) of child-rearing, it shocks me that we still have complicated button arrangements on childrens' clothing. Is this leg button supposed to connect with the crotch button? Or does it go to the other leg?
My hands weren't cooperating. Joe is bucking and twisting and screaming, and I've somehow turned two PJ legs into one big sack. It looked like he was sewn into a sleeping bag with two little footies at the bottom. No, that wasn't right, I thought. So, I popped them all off and started over. This time I managed to connect a mid-leg button to a belly button area button.
Can I say "button" one more time???
That's when Judie came in. "Need me to take over?" she asked.
Without a word I let go of the bunched up fabric and baby in my hand and headed off toward the liquor cabinet.
So, that's my life. Defeated by the crotch matrix.
That's buttons on baby pajamas, that is. I can handle a lot. I've put up with a boss whose development seems frozen at 15-years-old for two years, for example. But pajama buttons put me over the edge, particularly when the cute little guy throws cuteness out the window and sets it to "white-hot rage" at 5:30 AM.
It's not buttons per se. It's a combination of buttons, hands, kicking feet, morning sluggishness and morning blindness. Sometimes he's an angel who waits patiently while I change is diaper. But that only happens when he's wearing his PJs with the zippers. When he wears his button PJs, all hell breaks loose.
Not too long ago I'd had a pretty typical day--9 to 5 W2 job b.s., moving business-related stresses, etc. But none of that really got to me. These last few years have taught me to quit being a whiner and be a man. What I used to think of as "crises" I now think of as mere pains-in-the-butt. So, when I got home and Judie was working on dinner, she asked me to give the little guy a bath.
We had lots of splish-splashy fun, and while I got soaked, I didn't mind. Nothing is more fun than watching Joe have fun.
But when I dried him off and tried slipping him into his PJs, fun time was over. Feeling all clean and still a little bit slippery, he thought he would just jump off the changing table and take off naked down the hall. Now, he can't actually do that yet, and I'm encouraged by his fearlessness (I personally never learned how to escape my crib, I'm told), but physics is physics, kid. Newton's Laws apply to you. If you squirm your way off the changing table, you WILL brain yourself on the floor.
Anyway, I pulled out the only PJs within arm's reach because I had to hold him down on the table. They were button PJs. By now, the formerly angelic little boy is arching his back and screaming. Not "crying," as in "Please feed me" or "Please explain what is happening, Daddy," but SCREAMING. My newly robust babese translation skills interpreted these screams as (and think of "The Exorcist" here) "RELEASE ME, MEAT SACK, OR I WILL KILL YOU."
I managed to slip the PJs under him and get one arm into a sleeve before he knew what was happening. He looked me right in the eye and shouted (in his language) "How DARE you!" I snapped my fingers and said "Hey!" That usually stuns him for a second, and it did this time, so I slipped a leg into the PJs.
Joe arched his back and twisted a la "The Exorcist" again. To be completely honest, I peed my pants a little bit. It was freaky. The kid can't walk unassisted, but he can apparently levitate.
I managed to get his other arm in, and then the other leg, but I made a fatal mistake. I started buttoning the PJs from the top. I'd gotten three buttons down when he kicked both legs out of the PJs and then laughed. He LAUGHED.
Look, I love this kid beyond all expectation, but right then I could have slid him across the hardwood floor down the hall and into the living room. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction, though.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and recommitted myself to the project. That's when I noticed that he'd learned a couple of other things: #1, he learned how to undo his diapers, and #2, he...how shall I put this...learned that he has a "special little toy in his pants." There he was, PJs half off diaper askew, grabbing "little Joe," a huge smile on his face.
"Uh, no, buddy," I said, unsure how to proceed. This was a conversation I expected to have with him in, oh, about twelve years. Now I've got to give him a course in Theology of the Body before he reaches his first birthday?
I grabbed his "business hand," and flung it away. He didn't react well to handus interruptus, so I double-timed it. Have you ever had to put a diaper on an infant while holding his dirty, sinful hands, AND tried to put PJs on? You practically need to be Vishnu.
By now I was fighting back my own tears. I'd buttoned the top few buttons and most of the ones down the legs, but then there was "the crotch matrix." After millions of years (or thousands, depending on your reckoning) of child-rearing, it shocks me that we still have complicated button arrangements on childrens' clothing. Is this leg button supposed to connect with the crotch button? Or does it go to the other leg?
My hands weren't cooperating. Joe is bucking and twisting and screaming, and I've somehow turned two PJ legs into one big sack. It looked like he was sewn into a sleeping bag with two little footies at the bottom. No, that wasn't right, I thought. So, I popped them all off and started over. This time I managed to connect a mid-leg button to a belly button area button.
Can I say "button" one more time???
That's when Judie came in. "Need me to take over?" she asked.
Without a word I let go of the bunched up fabric and baby in my hand and headed off toward the liquor cabinet.
So, that's my life. Defeated by the crotch matrix.
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