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.

Joseph blogs

Daddy was funny yesterday. Mommy had to go to her friend's baby shower (Yay! A new friend!), so it was a guys' day out. Daddy has been wearing the same clothes since before he and Mommy got married, so that meant we had to go shopping. Daddy said that "clothes shopping with Mommy is like taking the SATs while being clubbed with baby seals," but I didn't know what that meant. I was just glad to get out of the house.

We went to some place called "Old Navy." For some reason that made me hungry, so after Daddy buckled me into my stroller I politely asked him to unbuckle and unbundle me and feed me in the back of the car. I don't know what Daddy is talking about--there's plenty of room back there, and when Daddy's legs are crushed up to his chin, it makes a nice little place for him to cradle and feed me. Daddy kept staring at a man with lots of wrinkles in his face in the car beside ours. He said "What are you looking at, Yoda?" Daddy says funny things sometimes.

Old Navy was fun. Daddy is afraid that I'll cry in public or something, so he drives the stroller really fast to make me laugh. He doesn't do that around Mommy, though, because she gets nervous and slappy.

Daddy picked out some pants and shirts in less than five minutes. That's different than Mommy. When we go shopping, we stay out ALL DAY LONG. I like shopping with Mommy because we go to lots of different stores. People look at me and say I'm cute. Mommy puts this fuzzy hat on my head because it makes people say "Awww" and "Ooooh." Daddy says the hat makes me look like a back-up dancer for New Kids on the Block, but that's cool because I AM a new kid on the block!

Daddy took me into a "changing room" and said "please, please, please work with me, buddy." I hate it when daddy begs, but I tried. Since I'm so small, though, my attention span is really short. So when Daddy took FOREVER to unbutton the first shirt he brought in there, I was sad. When I cried, Daddy started dancing all round and acting goofy. I was confused, but it was funny, so I laugh/cried. Daddy kept saying "Just another minute, just another minute," but I don't think Daddy knows how to tell time. We were in there for more than three minutes! As soon as we left the changing room I was happy again.

Then we were done. Daddy said he'd never bought so much so fast before, but he must have been grateful because he said "Thanks a lot, buddy." He said we'll probably go back to Old Navy next week when he finds out none of the clothes fit.

Yeah, right, Daddy. You go shopping once a decade.

Gotta go now. I did something in my pants and need to call the Female Care Provider, a.k.a. Mommy. Buh-bye!

Happie dai

We torture our child with banana mush

We make cute babies.

My baby got da blues

Of all the times not to have a video camera...

Yesterday (Sunday), Joseph was being a little jerk. He was well-fed, well-cleaned and well-loved, but nothing satisfied. He whiiiiined. It isn't the worst sound I've ever heard, but prolonged exposure could easily lead to patching holes in walls. Judie has heard this whine a lot more than me, and I could tell from the way her coffee cup would shake in her hand that she was just...this...close to snapping.

We decided to go on a field trip to the zoo.

Unfortunately, I completely forgot about Life Rule #27--NEVER drive into the city on a nice, temperate Sunday afternoon. I mean, I haven't been this naive since, well, since I bought a massively overpriced condo and trusted that "it would all work out..."

I'll spare you the details because they're almost totally irrelevant, but the point is that we never found a parking spot at the zoo, and more than an hour after leaving our place, we finally gave up on Joe's first zoo experience. (Like he would have cared anyway). So, we decided to get a snack in Old Town, Alexandria and kill some time before Mass (and hopefully cool down--city driving puts me into a black rage).

So, we walked along the waterfront where the boat we used for our reception is docked. The usual cast of characters was there--skinny magician man with the child molester mustache (who makes balloon characters that make you raise an eyebrow), 17th century guitar player who can do a really good "Star Spangled Banner" with his hands, and the "Way of the Master" street evangelists who were trying a new tactic--they had a booth set up with a hand-drawn sign asking "Are you good enough to go to Heaven? Take the quiz and find out!" I've seen how Way of the Master operates--obviously nobody is good enough to go to Heaven. I was tempted to take the quiz, knowing full-well that I'm not good enough to get there on my own, and see the results. I can imagine that they'd be shocked--"This guy knows he's not good enough to go to Heaven, which means...he might go to Heaven!" Then their heads would explode and my work would be done for the day.

Wow, sorry for the tangent.

There was another guy I don't recall seeing before. He was a blues musician and he had the whole setup--dobro, drum set, harmonica. He played them all together so well even I forgot about my dignity and started shucking and jiving against my own will. Hey--it was sunny, warm, on the water, with my beautiful wife and (for the moment) happy son. It was a good day.

He also had a hell of a voice. I don't know how many packs a day you have to smoke to get a blues voice like that, but he should keep it up. Or double it.

We stood there with the crowd and watched a bunch of kids dance to the, well, somewhat naughty song. I think it was called "I dust my broom," and well, I'm not sure what exactly that meant, but the rhythm was fine.

Joseph started dancing then. I was holding him in my arms, his back to my stomach so he could watch, and he just went wild. Arms flailing, little (powerful) legs kicking, eyes wide and focused intensely on the musician. Then he started singing. "Uhhh--ooo--ah--ga--ooo---uhhh!"

I told him that was more jazzy than bluesy, but he didn't care. He was IN to it.

So, my baby got da blues. Go fig. I think I'll start calling him "Joey Fats" or something.

Joe's first rollover

He's a pro at rolling over now, but here's a video from July when he did it for the first (or second) time: