Week 4 Day 5: "He really does look a lot like you."

Today Gavin and I went to my friend Rosemary's house for a play date. Rosemary has two little girls, 4 years and 18 months. They're a little old for Gavin, but he's not really into interactive play right now. Mostly he likes to watch Ella, the four year old, run around. If I had a dollar for every time she said, "I love you," directly to Gavin in this very earnest and yet playful kind of way I would have several dollars. When we arrived both girls were taking naps (well, Maddie was. Ella was listening to stories on CD in her room and occasionally using the nursery monitor as an intercom system to summon her mom), so the main "date" for Gavin's play date was Rosemary herself, which was great. It's pretty awesome to watch someone you love ooh and ahh over your kid. And Gavin was totally in his element, trying to climb over her and slobbering on her pants. He has a way with ladies.

At one point while I was holding Gavin Rosemary said, "He really does look a lot like you," which is something she's said before but it was really nice to hear again. I'm not sure it's deserved because I am astounded every day at how completely adorable and handsome my son is. I told Rosemary it was because we both have chubby faces, but really his face is way chubbier than mine. I think it's the eyes -- he has blue eyes and I do, too, although mine are much lighter, a grayish blue, and his are a darker blue, more blue jeans blue. His donor has blue eyes and I would be lying if I didn't hope very hard that this trait would be passed on to Gavin. Stacy's eyes are more hazel. Brown sometimes, but definitely not blue. Gavin also has lighter hair than Stacy. It's more like mine, in fact. I was so obsessed with picking his donor and I have no doubt that I made the right choice.

It's not like if Gavin looked nothing like me I wouldn't love him or something. But it does matter in the grand scheme of things. When we picked a donor we knew right away that he had to be white. Not because we're KKK members or anything, but because we knew from the start that living in Michigan I, being the nonbiological mom, wouldn't be able to legally adopt whatever child we had together and our lives are much simplified if my race and the child's race are the same. Right now when I call Gavin my son no one questions it. And he IS, damn it, but not in the eyes of the law. So the fewer doubts placed in other people's heads the better.

In any case, that people say (it's not just Rosemary) that my incredibly handsome son looks anything like me is pretty much the highest form of flattery. And it's also a real boost to my mom ego. I don't really think much about him not being my biological son. And being told he looks like mine helps me think about it even less.

Speaking of handsome sons, Stacy and I watched About A Boy tonight and although I cried at the recital scene, mostly I couldn't get over how homely the boy in question was. I know I am a shallow and terrible person, but come on. It made me think of Home Alone 3, which I was subjected to on a flight bound for Japan. I couldn't stand the way the kid looked. It was mostly his hair. How on earth did an entire movie get put into production and nobody said, "Hey, maybe we should use a cute kid like we did for the first two movies." I know, I'm going to hell. And in that hell everyone will have terrible, terrible hair cuts. Actually, now that I think about it, that probably is exactly what hell has in store for me. Assuming, of course, that each person's hell is an individualized experience.

Week 4 Day 4: Baby Time, now with more babies

I had to go to a concert last night for work (it's a long story) and that was after my date with Amber to see the gay Jew movie so I had no time to write yesterday. And I must admit, Day 4 of Week 4 is a little hazy. But I'm writing this as if it were, in fact, written on Day 4 for continuity's sake.

I'm assembling my best of 2009 mix (this always takes me a long time, but this year it's taking especially long) and Gavin has been helping me. During play time I put on CDs that I dug from last year and decide if they're worthy. We've tossed several out that I'd thought of as contenders earlier last year (Ida Maria, Tune-Yards, Grizzly Bear to name a few). Gavin doesn't really have much editorial discretion, but he is my main dancer parter and fellow music listener. It's actually really nice to just lay on the floor with someone and listen to records. It's like we're teens in the 60s.

This morning was Baby Time at the library again. The weather was complete shit. Snowing, super cold, and blowing wind. Despite that, everything was in line for us to get there on time but then Gavin woke up with a poo filled diaper. That kind of clean up isn't something you want to rush, so I resigned myself to being a couple minutes late. But because of said weather most people were a bit late so we didn't have to be shamed or anything. I'm happy to report that the story time portion of Baby Time did, in fact, consist of a different book than last week's. Because last week all of the kids knew all of the hand movements to the book, The Itsy Bitsy Spider, I thought maybe they did the same book each week. Which would be disappointing, but only for me. Little kids love repetition. They did sing the same songs, though, which went smoother this time because I was more familiar with them (although I did screw up "Wheels On the Bus" by singing "all day long" instead of "all through the town." I wasn't following the song sheet. Thankfully I sing very quietly right into Gavin's ear so he's probably the only one who noticed. And by that I mean no one noticed because he doesn't know the song either. He's still very resistant to the song where you're supposed to clap your hands. He doesn't like to have his arms grabbed and manipulated, so trying to make him clap is basically trying to get him to touch his clenched fists together. He's more interested in the carpet. In fact, while he was sitting there, he was so interested in his neighbor's carpet square, which was a different color than his, he reached for it and did a face plant. I caught his arm so he didn't fall with his full weight on to his face, but pretty close. He cried a bit but recovered quickly. I always do my best to put on a happy face and a sort of "play through" demeanor when he gets hurt (which hasn't been often and certainly hasn't been badly) or startled (this happens more often) to minimize tears. It's not that I'm a terrible mother who won't let her son cry (like the guy my sister was telling me about whose mom used to hold him in front of a mirror when he cried so he could "see how ugly" he looked). But I have certainly learned that kids take their cues about how scared to be from their parents. And if I'm not freaking out, chances are good he won't either. There are a lot of really good reasons to cry in this world and real, actual pain Gavin will unfortunately probably experience some day. So I just want him to have a good grasp on which is which.

In any case, there were a lot more moms and babies at Baby Time today and Gavin made a new friend named Clementine. When I told my little sister Amanda this she said, "Is Clementine a dog?" No, she is a little girl almost Gavin's age and about half his size. Clementine's mom, whose name I can't remember, was really nice and I think we might have a lot in common. She got her MFA recently (in non-fiction) and her husband is getting his right now (in graphic design or something along those lines). They moved her from Minnesota (I think) pretty recently. So maybe we'll be future play date friends. I thought about getting her email or something but I figured I'd see if she shows next week first. I don't want to rush things. She and her daughter could turn out to be terrible people. You never know.

Week 4 Day 3: Active nap resistance mode

Gavin just does not want to take naps. Apparently screaming for an hour is much preferred. Babies: you can't reason with them. You also can't force them to go to sleep. All you can do is set the conditions for sleeping to happen. That's what the books say. And the books also say that night time sleeping is easier than naps. Naps are harder. Gavin is living proof of this. Nighttime has been a breeze in comparison. Maybe all that sleep training hell was worth it. For the past three nights or so he has gone to sleep without crying and only woken up a single freaking time between 3 and 4 a.m. to nurse. After boobies it's back to sleep until 6 or, in the case of this morning, after 7:00. Of course, Stacy is the one who puts him to bed at night, so I could just jump to the conclusion that I am cursed, but I take solace in the fact that she has just as much trouble putting him down for naps during the weekend as I do during the week.

Side note: I'm always disturbed by the phrase "putting him down" for a nap, because I can't help but associate that with dogs and, well, when you put a dog down you kill it. This is, of course, the complete opposite goal of putting a baby down.

But aside from the naps, or lackthereof, not a bad day. We didn't go anywhere, though Laura and Jamie came over around 1. When they arrived Gavin was crying in his crib and it was time to get him up from his not-nap. "Want to see the most pathetic thing ever?" I asked them. "Wait here." I fetched Gavin from his crib and brought his reddened tearstreamed snotty nosed mug out to greet them. He was still reeling from the crying. He had "cry hiccups," as Jamie called them. He seemed a little confused about their presence as if he were thinking, "This isn't how things go. Usually Mama D gets me up and it's just me, her, the cat, the dog, and what we both wore to bed." Speaking of which, I did brush my hair and change my shirt before Laura and Jamie got there. I told them as much but I think they thought I was kidding.

Gavin was much better after he had a bottle - which was slow going since he was distracted by Laura and Jamie. Mostly Laura since she was walking around the room talking. It's hard to track someone when you have a nipple in your mouth. He's quite the charmer when he has a full belly. Though he also had terrible gas. This isn't unusual for him, but it was particularly rank today. Maybe it's the oatmeal he's eating. As my dad put it, "He farts like a drunk trucker." This is a very accurate description. It doesn't bother me, though. Granted I don't love it when he gasses up the room (though "gas is better on the outside" is what we say to him, a term we stole from a friend who says the same thing to her two kids). But he's just so innocent about it. He can fill his pants and smile at you like you're the most wonderful person he's ever seen all in the same moment. He has no sense of shame or worry. It's what I love about dogs, too. Dogs and babies have a lot in common.

Hmmm. According to Facebook Howard Zinn died. And I missed the State of the Union address. Son of a bitch.

Week 4 Day 2: No nap baby

Today was a day of crappy napping. Does this mean more crabbiness? Yes, yes it does. Alas. Perhaps that is our destiny, Gavin and I. Things actually started out okay. And his first nap was good. But the second one was not. And the third one was non-existent. A lot of crying. An hour's worth of crying. And once you've cried for an hour, that's it. No nap. I tried. I really did. But no amount of swaying to Bebel Gilberto could help us today. Alas. Fucking alas.

Crying can really get on a girl's nerves. More specifically, Gavin had me pretty frayed at some points today. Not that anyone needs to call child protective services or anything. Did I tell him to "shut the fuck up?" Yes, yes I did. But not to his face. And not loud enough so he could hear me. He was busy screaming in his room, refusing to nap. Refusing to do what is good for him. Willful, that's what he is. A willful little dude. And that's probably the most frustrating/annoying/maddening thing about being a parent thus far: no mind/body control powers. You can't just touch the side of your nose like Samantha in Bewitched and have a peacefully slumbering baby. But then, this is probably for the best. Too many would use such powers for evil. Not that parents need magic powers to be evil. I just read about a woman who forced her son to kill his hamster with a hammer because he got a bad grade in school. What the fuck? What the fucking fuck? I am nowhere near that point.

Though I do recognize that I need to stop saying "fuck" so much. It's kind of astounding how often I use that word in a day. I would like Gavin's first words not to be, "Get the fuck out of here," something I have said more than once to the cat whilst getting Gavin ready for a nap. Parenting awards? Sign me up.

Today was not all sadness and swearing, however. Gavin and I took a successful trip to CVS where we refilled Henri's prescription for his mental meds ("chicken pills" is what we call them around here
since each dose is meted out inside of a very pungent chicken flavored treat). And we bought toilet paper and Kleenex, two things I feel should always be purchased on sale, which means a small stockpile in the basement. This, admittedly, drives Stacy crazy since she claims our house is too small to store stuff, but if buying Kleenex on sale is wrong then I don't want to be right. And we go through a lot of Kleenex here. I have terrible allergies year round. And now we have a baby who frequently needs his nose and/or mouth wiped. Not to mention the cat, who has a chronic sinus problem that results in cat snot on our furniture. It's a glamourous life, the least I can do is be armed with tissue to deal with it.

Anyway, enough about Kleenex ("Kleenex is all you like" my youngest sister Amanda said to me one year when I was a teenager after I exclaimed with glee over getting pocket packs of tissue in my Christmas stocking). CVS was a win, I think. I put Gavin in the Baby Bjorn and threw our coats in a cart. He looked around, though the Baby Bjorn has him facing toward me, which limits his visibility. So sometimes he'd turn his little doughy face upward and gaze at me while I shopped and I would kiss his nose or make faces at him.

Oh, and Gavin also befriended a homeless dwarf at CVS. Okay, a slight exaggeration. But when we arrived there was a woman near the entrance of the store sitting on the floor reading tabloids. She was kind of hunched down. I don't think the people at the counter could even see her. We passed her a couple of times. She was wearing a camouflage jacket and a snow hat. I think she had a back pack. In any case, she looked like she'd been there a long time. While Gavin and I waited for our prescription I decided to check out the baby aisle and see what they had along the lines of "pee all night" diapers since Gavin is sleeping for longer periods of time and often wakes up with a diaper that has reached its maximum pee capacity or with wet clothes. So I'm crouched down looking at the piss poor selection and Gavin is, by default, also crouched down since he's in the Baby Bjorn hanging off of me. I sense someone coming toward us and when I look up my field of vision is filled with the face of a woman who has crouched down next to us. She's closer than I'd like someone I don't know to be and so I stand up only to realize that she is also standing and that I am much taller than her. Now, I am not a tall person. 5'3" most days, maybe 5'4" if I'm standing up especially straight. She's cooing at Gavin and calls him a cutie or something and then says, "What's his name?" At this point I have come to realize two things: 1. This is the woman in the camouflage jacket we'd passed by the entrance and 2. This woman is not "all there," to use American Psychological Association lingo, something I'd assumed the moment I saw her in bunker mode pouring over The National Enquirer. Now, the whole "don't talk to strangers" thing was instilled in me as a youngster and I know that today's safety savvy parents don't do things like publish birth announcements in the local newspaper (they're practically party invitations for kidnappers) or let their kids eat random berries they find on wild bushes (okay, not related to this story, but this is, in fact, something my parents warned me about as a kid, perhaps thinking the lush vegetation of the Metro Detroit suburb I grew up in would prove too tempting). But none of this really occurred to me until seconds after I said to the woman, "His name is Gavin." I might as well have added, "I'm sure he'd fit in your back pack." Actually I had and have no fears that Gavin was in any danger of ending up in the back of this woman's van and not just because I doubt she is tall enough to drive. But I just felt kind of silly afterwards like, "Was that a bad idea? Did I just violate some kid safety 101 rule?" Maybe. But then, what was I supposed to do? Lie? That would have made me feel worse, I think. And besides, this was a stranger, yes, and a strange stranger, but this was also someone who was all moon-faced over my baby. And what parent doesn't puff his or her chest out a bit when this happens? "His name is Gavin and yes, he is a cutie and he is mine! Can you believe it?" Because sometimes I can hardly believe it myself.

And then we got home and he had his no-nap meltdown. But still, not a total loss! We got out of the house. I even put on a pair of jeans and a bra. It was practically prom.

In other news it looks like we're getting a high chair from a friend of mine. This is very exciting. Have you ever tried to feed a small child oatmeal while both of you were sitting on the floor at cat/dog level? If not, you don't need to. I have done it and it results in swearing at the cat. And then the dog. And then begging your son to stop looking at the cat and dog and open his mouth for Mama, that's it... No, over here. Look over here. Open your mouth. No, you can't grab the bowl. Seriously dude, look at me and open your mouth... You know what? Fuck this. No oatmeal today.

Actually oatmeal feeding went rather well today. It was yesterday that was an oatmeal fail.

Week 4 Day 1: It'll all come out in the wash

There was no big accomplishment to speak of today. I was a bit cranky, Gavin was a bit cranky. The day went by very quickly, but also at an agonizingly slow pace. If that makes sense. And even if it doesn't. I'm standing by what I said. Time felt very other-dimension today. Gavin's schedule is changing - in part dictated by him and in part by us. He's growing every day and the bigger he gets the more we have to work to keep up. What worked for 5 month old Gavin doesn't necessarily work for 6 month old Gavin.

Sleeping and eating are what I'm talking about here. His naps are getting longer which throws off his 2 hours on, 45 minutes off schedule. He slept for well over an hour for his first two naps today and then his third was a paltry 30 minutes. Stacy says he's phasing the third one out. We're also trying to feed him every 3 hours instead of every 4 with the end goal being phasing out one of his night feedings and then both. Parenting is all about phasing out. There really is no stasis.

My goal was to get out of the house and go to the library today, but that didn't happen until after Stacy got home. Then we went as a family. But Gavin and I stayed put today. Though I did get dressed and I did take a shower. I made an effort. I also did some laundry. But I have little else to show for my day besides a living baby. And lots of baby laundry. He went through five outfits today. He peed though whatever he was wearing last night and what Stacy changed him into he peed through during his first nap. Then he got oatmeal on his next outfit. And then he puked on the one after that. When Stacy got home he got more oatmeal and another filthified outfit.

The highlight of the day today was when Stacy put peanut butter on Gavin's bare feet so that Henri would lick them. This is not something I would have ever condoned but I was not consulted. Even just writing it I am kind of grossed out. And yet, it was pretty adorable in execution. And if seeing Gavin as a source of peanuty goodness helps Henri be cool with him, so be it.

Tomorrow's goal: less crabbiness for all. I am chalking today's lack of patience up to PMS, though I don't know if that's accurate. I'm just really fucking tired.

Week 3 Day 5: Sicko

Last night between, oh, 3 and 4:30 in the morning I was holed up in the bathroom expelling my guts. I don't know why -- food poisoning, maybe. I am happy to say that I did not wake up Gavin whilst vomiting. I can not say the same thing for my dad when I was growing up. He was a very dramatic puker. There was never any doubt what was going on. Well, by the second time at least. The first time I was pretty sure my dad was dying and/or drowning/trying to holler with his mouth full of liquid. Personally, I have never found it necessary or even desirable to use my vocal chords while I vomit. My dad, on the other hand, apparently did. I wish this was not one of my childhood memories.

In any case, when 6 a.m. rolled around I really, really didn't want to get out of bed. Stacy brought Gavin into our room and put him in bed with me while she went to use the bathroom. He smiled at me and was super sweet. But I felt wiped out and my guts were still (are still?) unsure about whether or not they want to continue on with life. Stacy offered to call in sick, but I don't want her using her sick days just because I'm sick. Plus she works relatively close by, so she was only ever a half hour away.

Thankfully I didn't need to call her and I only had to drag Gavin into the bathroom with me once for a "Mama doesn't feel good sit in your Bumbo chair and play with toys and do not let this moment implant on your brain please God" moment. But I would be lying if I said I was a very enthusiastic or charismatic mama today. The time in between Gavin's naps felt interminable. All I wanted to do was sleep and I couldn't. When he was asleep I took that time to eat oyster crackers and saltines. Considering my body decided to rid itself of the contents of my stomach, I felt like I was starving when I woke up. But, surprise surprise, food didn't exactly seem appetizing. And crackers never actually quelled my growling belly. And so sleep I did not.

But the point is, we made it. Three weeks. We had some very nice family time once Stacy got home. We all piled on the bed and Gavin climbed over us and Stacy hoisted him in the air and stuff. Things I usually do when I'm not out of commission. He's so happy to see her when she gets home and she's so happy to see him. They just beam at each other. One of my favorite things is listening to Stacy talk to Gavin after he finishes nursing in the morning or in the evening. She talks very softly and sometimes he even coos softly back. I am usually in the living room and can rarely hear what they're saying, but I understand the conversation all the same. It's pretty awesome.

Stacy and I were supposed to go on a date tonight. My mom was all lined up to watch Gavin. Alas. Some other time. It's been too long. Not like we were ever real party animals or anything, but it'd be nice to spend some time together where Gavin wasn't trying to slobber all over our faces.

Week 3 Day 4: It's Baby Time!

When my wife came home from work today I was a bit crabby. Gavin and I had a good day together and everything, but I was ready for my shift to be over. My allergies were bothering me and I was really tired.

"Two weeks with Gavin starting to feel like a lot?" she asked.

"It's been three weeks, Honey," I said. "Three." And then I thought, "Holy shit, has it really been three weeks already?" Mind you I'm jumping the gun a bit since Friday lies before us (lay before us? I am not good the whole lay/lie thing. I do know that lye is not a good thing to get on your skin, though).

Uh, oh. Gavin is crying. It's 9:30 so he's been in bed since before 7. He's not screaming. He's making his pissed off trilling sound. Kind of sounds like he's rolling the letter D, much like how in Spanish you roll the letter R. And by "you" I mean you since I can't do it. This really pissed off my exploratory Spanish teacher in junior high. As if I were faking my inability or something. But I still can't do it. And my wife is a Spanish teacher so it's clearly not something I have against the language.

I realize that writing that my son is crying right now makes me seem like an asshole. I mean, I'm obviously not going to get him. Because I'm on the Internet. And that's important. Babies just don't understand. I'm kidding. Sometimes he cries at night but then gets himself back to sleep. If he's not asleep by around the 15 minute mark, then I go soothe him. Granted, if he were screaming or something seemed out of the ordinary, I would go to him right away. I'm not a monster.

Speaking of out of the ordinary, the last nap he took today he slept for almost an hour and a half. For months now his naps have been 45 minutes like clockwork. When I realized that he'd been sleeping for almost an hour I went to check on him, convinced he was dead, that he'd flipped himself over onto his stomach and died of SIDS. Of course, if he wasn't dead, I didn't want to wake him up, so I didn't, like, fling open his door or anything. I opened it quietly and watched him intently, looking for a rising and falling chest. My eyesight isn't great, so I couldn't see anything from across the room but as I was about to move further I saw his hand twitch. A sign of life. And then he slept another 20 minutes.

Okay. So I just went to check on and soothe Gavin. He was on his stomach and had his head in the corner of his crib. This is his new thing. We obviously can't prevent him from sleeping on his stomach since he can get there on his own. I suppose we could tie him down or keep vigil by his bedside. Maybe rig up some kind of alarm that would sound the moment his belly and the mattress met. It's not the stomach sleeping that is a problem. It's the creeping. I can't imagine it's super comfortable to sleep with your head in the corner of a crib. So I readjusted him and then scooped him up to let him calm down. Then back in his crib he went, which pissed him off. I soothed him further by patting him on the chest. He really likes rhythmic patting. If he's on his stomach I'll pat his back, but since we put him to sleep on his back I figured why not trying patting out a rhythm on his sternum. And he likes that very much. As soon as I stop he starts to cry again, but it helps soothe him enough that even when I leave the room then, the crying doesn't last for very long. Which is what happened now.

Today was a big day for us. Our first official social activity. Yesterday I signed Gavin and myself up for Baby Time at the Ferndale Library. Every Thursday at 9:15 in the morning. We were the only new folks in the group. Everyone else knew the songs and stuff. I am not much of a "sing 'Itsy Bitsy Spider' in public" kind of person, but I did sing, quietly, right into Gavin's ear as he scratched his fingernails through the industrial carpet we were sitting on. Baby Time basically goes like this: moms (there were no dads) and kids gather on the floor. Lady in charge sings a song welcoming each kid (sung to the tune of "Frère Jacques"). Then everybody sings a song about friends or something (it went by so fast. I was given a song sheet, but I was primarily focusing my attention on Gavin so that he didn't tip over on his little carpet square and also looking at him looking at everything). Then a couple of other songs are sung. Then the lady in charge reads a book. And that book was (is always? I don't know, but all of the other kids already knew all of the hand motions and everything) Itsy Bitsy Spider. A quick read. Then after the very brief story, it's playtime and the lady in charge busts out a basket full of toys and the kids play for about 15 minutes. This was, I think, Gavin's favorite part (see photo). I haven't seen him do much interacting with other kids so this was interesting. I observed the following: 1. For Gavin, playing with other kids at this point consists of trying to take toys away from them. 2. Other kids' shoes are fascinating and must be touched and would definitely go directly into his mouth if given the chance. Overall, I would say that Baby Time was a success and we will be back next week. And I'll let you know if they hear a different story.

Week 3 Day 3: Shorn poodle

Our big adventure today was dropping Henri off at the groomer and then going to pick him up later. Henri was a fuzzy mess. Basically fur with eyes. Now he's all shorn and he looks like a different dog. I wonder if Gavin knows its the same beast. Gavin is prone to cracking up when Henri looks at him, but he's done no cracking up since the haircut. Perhaps Gavin was really laughing at Henri because of his poodle-fro. I should work on making Gavin less judgmental. As soon as I figure out how to do that myself.

Great moment in parenting today. Gavin nearly pulled a lamp down onto himself. It's not a particularly heavy lamp, just a cheap floor lamp from Target that cost maybe $10. But it was positioned just close enough to his exersaucer for him to reach and sure enough he did. And I knew it was too close and made a mental note to move it yesterday, but that mental note was not a particularly well-sustained one and, well, I forgot. I often plop him into his exersaucer (a hand-me-down from my friend Rosemary) when I'm preparing his bottle because it's somewhere he can't escape from or, usually, get into trouble. He's very fond of it, though when he's done exersaucing (this is a very commonly used verb in our house) he is not shy about letting you know. People have remarked that Gavin has a pretty low-pitched voice for a baby, but when he's had it his voice becomes very high pitched and dramatic. Sometimes this small hysterical demonstration means, "Get me out of this exersaucer, I'm bored." Other times it means, "Why isn't my bottle ready right now? All my other mom has to do is open her shirt and it's buffet time. The service in this restaurant is terrible." Rosemary defines this as a baby determining that his or her parent "lacks urgency."

Gavin has been going to sleep easier with less crying lately. Keeping my fingers crossed that this trend holds. Stacy put him to bed tonight and she said he was out very quickly with no crying. None! I was at Whole Foods looking for some baby oatmeal but they only had the same rice cereal we already had. So I ended up at Kroger. No organic hippie oat cereal for my baby, I guess. Tomorrow will be a new solid food adventure. Stacy went to parenting club tonight (it's a group of parent who have kids born around the same time organized through Beaumont Hospital) and they talked about feeding. Parenting club is from 7-9 and Gavin is asleep by 7 so he only went to the first couple of meetings. So tonight he stayed home with me and Stacy went alone. In any case, Stacy said Gavin is the only kid there who isn't eating a lot of solid foods yet and since we're all about peer pressure, we thought we'd better hurry so he can catch up. Actually, that's not true. We were planning to introduce more cereal all along. It's just that he digs breast milk and gets everything he needs from it. But Stacy can't keep up with the demand since she's at work full time unless she wants to whip the pump out in front of the elementary school kids she teaches. And something tells me that's kind of frowned upon. I have to admit, though, when Stacy came home and reported how many of the kids had teeth or were rolling over or were eating squash now, I worried for a second that Gavin was less developmentally advanced somehow. That maybe I haven't been doing all I can in these past three weeks to help him build crucial synapses in his brain or whatever. Like all the time he's spent entertaining himself in his exersaucer was time I could have been holding up baby flash cards to teach him to spell or dance or sing. Of course, he'd have to really learn how to talk and walk first. Gavin is the biggest kid in parenting club. There is a kid there who is almost as long as Gavin, but this kid is only 12 lbs. Gavin is almost 21. He's a giant.

Week 3 Day 2: Get the hell out

While today Ted Kennedy's Massachusetts Senate seat was lost to the Republicans, it was a day of successful comings and goings for me and Gavin. Not a day of successful napping, sadly, but we did manage to leave the house two separate times, go somewhere in the car (me driving), get something accomplished, and make it home again.

First I dragged Gavin to an appointment in Bloomfield Hills, during which he was charming and adorable and only started to fuss a bit at the end. On the way home he fell asleep so I kept driving past the turn for our house on down Woodward. I knew he would be hungry when he woke up so I didn't want to get too far from home. I kept looking at his little sleeping face in my rearview mirror. Actually I was looking at a reflection of his little sleeping face in the mirror above his rear facing car seat. He really looks beautiful when he sleeps. I used to watch him in his crib when he was younger -- "newer" is maybe more appropriate -- and didn't stir as easily once he was asleep. He gets this little Mona Lisa smile on his face. I hope this is something he does into adulthood because I think chicks will dig it.

We made it home in time for me to heat him a bottle before he had a complete meltdown, but it was pretty close. He had cried himself red-faced and runny-nosed by the time I got the bottle in his mouth. Every time I go to feed him he always turns toward my breast first even if he's already seen the bottle. Needless to say, that's a no-go. And a bit frustrating for him. He's a boob man and would take that over a bottle any day. I'm sure part of him wonders why mine don't work. I think it's sweet though, in a way, maybe a little sad. It's like, "Sorry, Dude, I don't have what you want. This restaurant is take-out only. No dining in."

After I got a bottle into him I rushed him back into the car so we could make it to the unemployment office. It's actually not the unemployment office, it's Michigan Works, a place for people who are looking for jobs. In Michigan that's a lot of people. I am laid off right now and as part of the whole unemployment benefits thing I have to register at Michigan Works. In any case, I didn't even put a coat on Gavin. Just his little skull cap and I covered him with a big fuzzy blanket in the car. I whisked my jacketless little guy to the entrance of the MW place and was stopped by a sign that said, "No children allowed in the office." This posed a problem since I, in fact, had a child with me and I wasn't about to leave him in the car. I thought, "Oh well. If they ask me to leave I'll tell them he's my seeing eye child." But nobody said anything. Maybe they felt sorry for him because his mom is jobless and he doesn't even have a coat on in January.

Michigan Works is a sad place. A lot of folks out of work and a lot of folks who don't have it together. Almost everyone who approached the counter while I was there was missing crucial parts of their application, especially resumes. So many people didn't have one even though the Michigan Works Web site is very clear about that requirement. You can't register without one. The woman helping me was nice, but clearly tired and overworked. She gave me some forms to fill out and then took me over to a computer terminal where she had me type in my user name and ID#. She then went through and filled out the form on the screen herself as she asked me questions, as if she deals with so many people who can't use a computer she just assumes the worst about everyone. Gavin reached over and poked a few keys while she was entering my Social Security number and that screwed things up a bit. But not much. I have to say, Gavin was an angel there. I didn't bring any toys or anything to keep him occupied. After the keyboard incident I gave him my cell phone to suck on which satisfied him long enough so that the lady and I could finish the form. She then gave me a receipt that verified that I had actually shown up and registered. And then she pointed to the place on the form where I'd written my user name and ID# and said, "And here's your user name and ID#. Hang on to this in case you forget it." She turned to the next page and pointed out a workshop I could take, for free, about creating resumes and stuff. "Because last year's resume is not this year's resume," she said. I did not disclose that my resume was, in fact, created last year and I just plugged that info into their system. Because that's not what she meant. In any case, it was not an uplifting experience. And I would much rather be unemployed than work there.

Week 3 Day 1: Shot to the heart

Stacy had the day off of work today so she was home for part of the day with me and Gavin. Despite having the day off, she went into work anyway to get some stuff done. She was home in time for his doctor's appointment, though. I am happy to report that he is A-OK. He's 20 lbs. 12 oz. and 28 inches. He's got a pretty big noggin, too. He's in the 90-95th percentile for weight, so when I say he's a big dude, I have science to back me up. He is not, as my brother Brian claims, obese. Apparently in his 27 years Brian forgot that babies are fat. Granted if Gavin has this same figure when he's 30, he'll be obese. Because right now when he stands up (assisted, mind you) his legs look like pudding with feet attached. I'm pretty sure he could live off of the fat stored in his thighs longer than Bear Grylls could live off of seagull shit enemas.

Gavin was a champ about his shots today. I can't remember what ones he got (there are SO many) except for polio. He got four shots in his legs. I gently held his hands down and kissed his face while telling him I loved him, and Stacy held his feet. Last time he went to the doctor Stacy had to work so my little sister Amanda came with me and she held his feet. He screamed like crazy. After he was done we made jokes about how Gavin thought he'd just survived Saw 7. In any case, this time around he hardly cried at all. Not that I'm lauding his lack of crying, necessarily. Because he had every reason to cry and wouldn't have been less of a baby because of it. I just take comfort in his crying less because I hope it means it didn't hurt as much as last time or that it was less miserable. Maybe needles don't bother him as much as they did two months ago. We'd better be careful lest he become a smack addict.

Tomorrow I have two places I need to go and will have to take Gavin along. I am very nervous about this, particularly for an appointment I have in Bloomfield Hills, which is about 20 minutes from here. So that's 20 minutes there, an hour for the appointment, and 20 minutes home. Almost 2 hours. Which is really his max "stay-up-between-naps" capacity. The thing is, it's unlikely he's going to wake up at the exact right hour so we can get the timing right. More than likely there will be nap overlap, meaning he'll be awake when he wants to be asleep. Meaning he'll be pissed. He's a lot like Stacy in this way. They need their sleep and things are not okay if they don't get it. Food, too. When Stacy and Gavin are hungry it is a huge mistake to stand in their way. Gavin's motto is right out of Jay-Z's song "Big Pimpin'": "I got no patience and I hate waiting."

Week 2 Day 5: The crabs

Gavin had the crabs today from about 2:30 until well past his bed time. I was hoping that once Stacy got home he'd be reunited with the nipples of his dreams and all would be well again. Alas. We think maybe he's teething. We also thought he might be getting a cold because he was pretty snorkley last night. But he seems fine now. Maybe there is a hair wrapped around his toe (this has been mentioned specifically in more than one of the parenting how-to books as something to look for when you can't figure out why the baby is crying. You're basically supposed to do a strip search of the poor kid after you've tried all of the soothing mainstays). So tonight going to bed was rough. A lot of crying. Hard, "I'm serious about this" crying. When I left the house at 7 he was asleep, but Stacy reported that he woke up crying hard again an hour later. She went to check on him and one of his legs was through the crib slats. My friend asked why we don't have crib bumpers. But I've heard those are a suffocation risk. Hopefully he'll get better control of his body soon so that he'll stop trapping himself.

I went to a show tonight with my sister Laura and her girlfriend Jamie (Aunt Laura and Uncle Jamie, as they dubbed themselves in their Christmas card to us). It was a good show - two bands, Either/Or and Husband & Wife, played in some chick's basement right here in Ferndale. It was a really weird set up, but a good show none the less. In any case, I am really tired right now.

I thought Gavin and I might go over a friend's house today, but she didn't call us back so we stayed home. In our PJs. Actually I changed Gavin out of his PJs and into little pants with monkey feet and a matching shirt. So at least one of us got dressed today. I did shower and change before leaving the house, though, so that's got to count for something.

I got some laundry done today and I vacuumed the living room rugs, something I've been wanting to do for days. I can't stand it when the rug is dirty. But I can't vacuum when Gavin is sleeping and I was hesitant to vacuum when he was awake because he's pretty easily startled (once while bottle feeding him I sneezed and he burst into tears). Most of the time I vacuum when Stacy is also home so she can be on Gavin patrol. But I could not take it any more and put him in his exersaucer and vacuumed right in front of him. He seemed startled but he didn't cry. I kept smiling at him and saying "Loud sounds! Loud sounds!" Henri and Jasper were no help in the putting-the-baby-at-ease department as they both fled in panic. Wimps.

Monday is Gavin's 6 month check up. I'm really curious how much he weighs now. I'm guessing 20 lbs. We'll see how close I am. Because it's MLK day Stacy gets time off of work so we can all go to the doctor's together. During Stacy's pregnancy, when she was getting pregnant and after she got pregnant, I rarely missed a doctor's appointment. I think it's weird how there are never any dads there accompanying their pregnant wives or girlfriends or whatever. Granted, I had a schedule that allowed me some flexibility, but I think for a lot of dudes it doesn't even occur to them to go. That isn't something I get. Maybe it's a lesbian thing.

Week 2 Day 4: Cat food victory

Gavin and I went out today. Like in the car. To a store. Pet Supplies Plus, to be more specific. Jasper was out of cat food. Something had to be done (in truth, it was hardly an emergency. Jasper is a really big guy with noticeable reserves in his gut. "You could put a saddle on that cat!" is how my dad put it). Granted, a trip to the pet store is hardly an epic journey, but it was a big step for us. "A confidence booster," as Stacy called her first trip to the store alone with Gavin (to Ace Hardware, in fact). We can do this. We should do this. We will do this. Which means I'm going to have to start taking a shower a lot earlier in the day (lately I've been waiting until Stacy gets home because there's never enough time to get even a fraction of what I'd like to get done even started). The trick is, our forays need to be short and in between Gavin's nap and feeding times. No pressure.

Having a Baby Bjorn makes taking him out a lot easier, though I haven't found a graceful way to get it on or off or get him in and out of it. It helps tremendously that Stacy figured out how to adjust it to make it bigger (we got it as a hand me down from friends so no instruction book). Sadly this didn't happen until this evening when she came home from work and we were suiting up to go for a walk. He was really crammed in there before. I think he'd like being in one of those back pack ones so he can see what's going on in the world. He likes to look around and that'd be easier if his face wasn't crammed into my chest.

These last two days have been pretty good days. Gavin took all of his naps today. He drank all of his bottles. This wasn't always the case. When I was working I taught Monday, Wednesday and Friday and was home with him Tuesdays and Thursdays once Stacy finished with her maternity leave in November. Gavin had grown quite fond of Booby Cafe and when I tried to give him a bottle he'd cry. He's no dummy. We'd actually drive up to see Stacy during her lunch period so he could nurse. Although it was nice to see Stacy during the day, it put an extra kink in our day. We had to be there exactly at 12 which meant that if he was napping I had to wake him and if he needed to be napping, I had to keep him up. Gavin is a lot like Stacy in that when he is tired and hungry he pretty much breaks down and no longer functions. He cries more than Stacy, but not by much.

Stacy reported that last night was really good. No prolonged crying. I was totally unconscious, though I remember slipping into a semi-conscious state at one point when Gavin was crying and it felt like he'd been crying for hours but he'd actually cried for five minutes. I went to bed at 8:30 last night. I'm pretty sure my Grandma Helen stays up later than that. It's past 10 now I am pretty much fighting unconsciousness. Might as well give in before Gavin wakes for his first night feeding.

Week 2 Day 3: Better

It's 7 p.m. and I am completely exhausted. A quicker way to say this: "I am a mom."

Today was much better than yesterday. Thank God. Gavin took all three of his day time naps and even tried his hand at a fourth. Granted the fourth nap was not very substantial and there was a lot of hooting and whimpering, but no full throated crying. From either of us.

I didn't have to drive him all over town to get him to sleep like yesterday when I drove from Detroit to Clarkston and back and then cruised up and down 8 Mile while he snoozed. Sadly an unexpectedly loud guitar riff on the Julie Doiron CD I was listening to startled him awake and we had to head home. But he slept for a half hour and then a short time after waking fell asleep again and had been sleeping for almost an hour when he woke. It's the first time I've ever done the Dream Cruise. In fact, when Stacy suggested it the night before I scoffed at the idea. But he was in desperate need of sleep and I was in desperate need of him getting sleep. I just don't like the idea of putting the baby in the car and driving around. It's much safer if he sleeps at home. Chances of him getting hit by a semi-truck when napping in his room are nearly zero. I mean, it could happen. But probably won't.

I never changed him out of his PJs today, so that's a strike against me. I also never changed out of my own. Strike two. Or took a shower. Strike three. I'm not moving very quickly in the direction of get out of the house and do things. But neither am I feeling depressed and isolated. Plus this whole sleep training debacle has really thrown us for a loop. Baby Bear has been over tired for days now. Not exactly a "let's go grocery shopping" mood.

I would like to join some kind of group or do some kind of activity that gets us out of the house. The Main Art Theater had mommy movie days where you could bring your kids. Though I don't know how any one actually got to see an entire movie. I don't think they do it any more though. Stacy told me there's a story time thing at the library I should check out for kids 6 months and up. So that's on my agenda.

I got Gavin a book today called Mommy, Mama, and Me about a kid about Gavin's age being raised by two moms. I read it to him and Stacy tonight. It's a good book. I think it will be good for Gavin. Stacy asked if she could be Mommy and I could be Mama and I thought that she was talking about identification with the women in the book, but she meant in real life. Or "IRL" as the kids these days say it. I'm pretty much stuck with Mama D which came about when Stacy and I got our first cat (Wedge Kitty, may she rest in peace if she is, in fact, dead. She ran away soon after we got our dog. On our anniversary, in fact. Thanks, Wedge! Great gift. That's sarcasm. Then again, she wasn't particularly nice. Beautiful: check. Vicious: check. Kind of cancels the first one out). We started referring to each other as Mama D and Mama Stacy regarding the cat. I've adopted Mama D and it's mine. It felt weird at first, but it's starting to feel right. I don't think it would ever feel right to me to be called "mommy." People ask us all the time what Gavin is going to call us. For some reason the idea of him referring to Stacy by her first name, i.e. Mama Stacy, doesn't set right with me. But then, it's largely up to Gavin. I'm just hoping he doesn't call us something like "Mom" and "Other Mom."

Stacy just dropped something into the bathtub and made a loud noise. I'm now waiting to hear if Gavin wakes up since the bathroom is adjacent to his room. And our house is the size of a kiddie pool. Okay, no crying thus far. Though now she's just come out of the bathroom loudly, just kind of flinging open the door and letting go of the noisy knob. Then again, I'm probably just overly sensitive since I'm sleep deprived. Maybe it wasn't that loud IRL.

The big test will be how the night goes. Last night he spent a good deal of time up crying and complaining after his feeding around 1 a.m.

Shit. He's crying now, in fact. The 15 minute clock is on. If he's still crying after 15 minutes it's time to soothe. He's started rolling over in his crib like a drunk tumbler so I'm afraid he's managed to get his legs trapped in his crib slats or something. But he's not crying like he's in pain. In fact, he's just whimpering now. It sounds like he may even be soothing himself back to sleep. Praise Jesus -- that is, if Gavin soothes himself to sleep. Otherwise, thanks a lot, Jesus. Way to let a baby down.

Week 2 Day 2: PTSD

Gavin clawed the hell out of his head again last night. "A tiger got me," is what he tells us. But the truth is, our son is a cutter.

I really don't want to fuck this up. This being the whole parenting thing. Granted, I'm sure most parents don't want to fuck things up, even the ones that do. But there's really no surefire way to know you're doing things right.

The sleep train has been derailed. Or perhaps rerouted is a better word. The whole "cry it out, Tough Guy" approach has been nothing but horrible. It has made Stacy and I both feel like the worst parents in the world. Gavin is a really sensitive little guy and I think we really screwed up. I feel really guilty. Like I should have had a better idea or answer. But it all seemed so reasonable at the time. Which is something I often think about crazy shit I did as a teenager. Though, for the record, I didn't really do crazy shit as a teenager. I was a pretty good kid. So my idea of crazy shit is probably pretty boring. Like when the brakes failed on my 1984 Ford Escort as I drove my twin sister and I to school one morning. I remembered the whole "pump the brakes and do something with the emergency brake" thing from driver's ed and there was still some, albeit very little, braking power left. It seemed perfectly reasonable to not only continue driving to school but to also pick up our friend Meghan on the way. When she got in and I said, "Buckle up. We don't have any brakes." As if "buckling up" wasn't already a rule in my car and brakes were an optional feature like power windows.

In any case, my heart is pretty broken over letting Gavin cry for over three hours the other night and for an hour or so both yesterday and today during naps. I'm worried the poor little dude is going to have PTSD. Getting him up after he's spent an hour crying instead of napping he looks like a wounded animal. His face is all red, eyes all puffy and shiny, little salt trails down his face. All I want to do after that is hold him. Like I can somehow compensate for that hour of neglect. I've really hated every second of it.

And yet. Tonight he fell asleep after less than five minutes of crying and it wasn't even full throated. I was taking the trash out and then went to the library so I missed the bedtime routine. But Stacy said it went well and Gavin was asleep soon after 6 p.m. Here it is, almost 10 and he's still asleep. So maybe, just maybe, it hasn't been all for naught? Still, we've revised the sleep training plan a bit. I just can't stand to let him cry like this. I feel like we're teaching him that his crib is a scary place where he is offered no comfort and left alone. I don't want him forming negative associations with his crib. And I don't want him forming negative associations with bedtime either. So soothing has entered the process, though it's supposed to be minimal. No picking him up. And no rocking, since that's something we're trying to get him to let go of. Both Stacy and I agree that we can't expect him to learn how to self-soothe if he's totally losing his shit. That's like trying to help someone with an intense phobia of flying by sticking him on a hijacked jet with an engine failure.

I went to the library to get another sleep book, of course. Two of them, actually. If it's possible to over research something, then I think we've over researched this. Stacy is the kind of person who wants as much information as possible in order to make a decision. She wants to read book after book about a topic and weigh pros and cons. I do, too -- to a point. But I also am the oldest of five brothers and sisters (one brother, actually. Three sisters) and I baby sat a lot when I was younger. So I have some experience with kids. Not a lot of quality experience, mind you. Looking back I have no idea why people let me babysit their kids when I was a pre-teen. A pre-teen! Maybe these people did not love their children. But I would never leave Gavin with a god damn 12-year-old. Hell, 16 is too young in my opinion. You leave your baby with the teenager down the street and the next thing you know she's humping her boyfriend on your couch when you come home a little early from work (that happened to my dad. There's also an excellent story about a babysitter taking Laura and I to a high school football game when we should have been at home in bed. According to my father, our Grandma Bea, God rest her soul, was working the concession booth and saw us in the stands in just a t-shirt and a diaper and she marched all the ay across the field to retrieve us. Granted, this is according to my father who is an unreliable narrator.

Stacy and I have been together 12 years and I was with her when she changed her first diaper. Not her own diaper. She doesn't wear diapers. Thank God. But Stacy and I went to the Michigan Women's Music Festival oh so many years ago and, because the Festival is like vacationing on a commune, I signed up for a work shift in the Sprouts and Shoots area. Which meant watching little kids. Very little kids, it turned out, though I thought I was signing up to watch kids who took care of their own potty-related needs. Not so. (It should be noted that when I signed up for my workshift I had the choice of kids or garbage. The choice seemed so obvious). And because Stacy loves me, she went with me to my work shift and was watching a little girl named Cassidy who was still in diapers. Cassidy could walk, but not talk and spent most of her time playing on a slip and slide type thing set up in an area with little grass and lots of mud. When it was time to change Cassidy into dry clothes and a clean diaper, Stacy found, to her horror, that Cassidy's privates were packed with dirt. I was off somewhere else trying to reason with a little girl named Maya to put her Pull-Up on so that she didn't take a dump on the play room floor (because toddlers respond so well to reasoning) so Stacy was left to shovel out Cassidy's nethers on her own. And while she did the best she could, I still worry that Cassidy ended up with some kind of infection.

And to think that Stacy still wanted to have kids after that. And that she still would like to go back to the MWMF. I am with her on the first (obviously), but I feel like I have more than earned my Lesbian Scouts MWMF badge and never have to do that again.

Anyway, my point is that I think parenting requires you to trust your gut more. There's so much conflicting information out there. It's crazy making.

So. Sleep training continues. But a kinder, gentler sleep training. And as Gavin learns to sleep, Stacy and I learn to forgive ourselves. It won't, I'm sure, be the first time we have to remind ourselves that we're doing the best we can, even if that "best" looks terrible in retrospect.

Week 2 Day 1: Sleep training is for assholes

Okay. That's not fair. And maybe not even true (only time will tell). All I can say is that the past few days and nights have been really horrible. LAst night Gavin cried for almost 3 and a half hours between 1 and 4 a.m. Needless to say, Stacy and I didn't sleep during that period either. Today everyone was tired. Everyone was crabby. Especially the Gavin part of everybody. Poor dude. He was crying through naps left and right today. By the time STacy got home from work Gavin and I were both fried.

I don't know how anyone gets through the sleep training process without a) getting divorced or b) their children becoming wards of the state.

But maybe the worst is behind us. That's what the testimonials re: the book say ("the book" being Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth). One lady wrote a review on Amazon saying her kid cried for three hours the first night, an hour the second, and 20 minutes the third. After that it was smooth sailing. I hope that's the path we're on. But when you're listening to your kid cry for over three hours it's hard to stay sane. I mean, crying is supposed to get your ass moving as a parent. So to hear Gavin cry ("lustily" as the book says. Gross) for so long and not go to him, make it stop, make it all better is torture. And last night was so hard, but at least Stacy was there. Granted at times I had made her out to be the enemy. Her decisiveness wavering at the same time mine meant not that we were both under a lot of stress but that she was responsible for all of this and therefore she was forcing me to be a bad mom to my son. But then I put my head in her lap and she ran her fingers through my hair and massaged my scalp and I found myself dozing off in the din.

But not today. Today Stacy was at work. Gavin and I had to go it alone. I was sleep deprived. So was he. And he cried without fail every time I put him down. And there was no one to blame but me. And there was no one to comfort me. And I wasn't allowed to comfort him. By his last nap I was so over it. I was so ready to tell Stacy that sleep training was OVER and I was now in charge of our son's emotional well-being since she clearly didn't know what she was doing or care. Mind you, I may have been over reacting a bit. And we're still sleep training. So that should tell you something. Granted, I never told Stacy that I was thinking any of these things. I didn't really see how my lack of sleep derived ranting would help the situation.

I hear Gavin crying all of the time now. Even when he's not. I'm constantly on edge, listening for it. I want him so badly to sleep, not only so that I may sleep, but because I know it is what is good for him and that's the whole point of this godforsaken thing. But I hear his cries even when he's sitting in his exersaucer right across from me smiling his little crooked-lip smile. There's just this phantom crying constantly in my head. Maybe it isn't safe for me to be alone with him.

Do I need to mention that neither of us changed out of our pajamas today? Although I did take a shower. After all, the shower drowns out the cries at least for a little while. Exasperation-driven hygiene is pretty much the level I'm at right now.

Week One Day 5: Cry baby

Tonight's the night. Right this very minute my wife is putting Gavin to bed without a swaddler and without rocking him to sleep. And by rocking him to sleep I mean holding him vertically so he falls asleep with his head on my shoulder or on Stacy's chest (she's taller than me so can hold him lower. I am not explaining this well. Hey, I'm not a physicist). I'm not going to lie, I am feeling really nervous about this. Very anxious. I mean, I know it's for the best or whatever all of the sleep books we've read say. But I can't help but ask myself, "How did it come to this?" Over and over again the books (we read a LOT of books) told us not to establish a routine that will become unworkable once your baby is the size of a large Thanksgiving turkey. The Baby Whisperer's advice, "Start as you mean to go on" might as well be carved inside my brain. And yet every night for months we've rocked him to sleep to the same Carla Bruni CD. I'd say "Carla Bruni song" but it always takes more than one song. And sometimes it takes the entire CD. It's a good workout, but unless we create some kind of pulley system in his room to suspend him, it just can't go on.

My wife and I are not not bodybuilders. We are not huge people. Gavin will probably be taller and bigger than us by elementary school. I've heard my dad saying to Gavin, "One day you'll be big and strong and then you'll show them," them meaning us, me and Stacy. I'm not sure what this means. Is my father predicting that once Gavin is able to he will kick our asses? I can't help but recall the story my dad told me years ago about the mentally ill son who shot his parents in their eyes because they always said, "We're watching you." Did I mention that my dad is a criminologist and that he buys me murder books for Christmas?

In any case, waiting for Gavin to go to bed I'm sweating like a whore in church (an expression I learned from my father). Last night I was thinking this would be easy. After all, part of what stresses me out so much when he cries at night is that I often don't know what's wrong and I have to fix it. In this case I will know what's wrong, but have to let him fix it himself. This is going to be painful for all of us. I probably won't cry, but I guarantee that Stacy will.

By the way, today marks the end of Stay At Home Mama D Week One. Gavin is still alive (see above photo from today). I'm still alive. So far I'm ruling it a success.

Week One Day 4: Midnight cowboy

For the past two nights Gavin has gotten up at midnight to nurse. Usually this wouldn't be a problem for me because nursing is not my department. That's all Stacy. In fact, we call her Booby Cafe, Gavin's preferred dining establishment. All I offer is Pump Lunch (and, today anyway, rice cereal mixed with formula that caused Gavin to make the face I might imagine him making had I fed him directly from Jasper's litter box. After about two spoonfuls we were done with that. It has since hardened to a foul smelling cement in its little bowl on the counter. I'm surprised the cat hasn't eaten it or at least knocked it on the floor for the dog. They tag-team like that). If Booby Cafe is his own personal restaurant, I'm pretty sure he sees Pump Lunch as some kind of roadside stand. Gavin is quite good at taking a bottle, thank God (this was not the case a couple of months ago), but he is definitely a boob man. In fact, Stacy has even surmised that he dreams about her nipples. And standing up, which he loves to do (assisted, of course). But mostly her nipples.

Anyway, for whatever reason, the past two nights Gavin has decided that after his midnight feeding it was "up-up time," as we call his conscious hours. We took turns rocking him to sleep, gently placing him in his crib, only to have him start crying as soon as we made it back to our own bed. This lasted about an eternity (a.k.a. an hour) each night. Perhaps Gavin knows that we are planning on Ferberizing him soon since the rocking to sleep thing has gotten progressively harder now that he's 19+ lbs. Maybe he's testing our wills.

Gavin and I watched some trucks out the front window today. A yellow tree chipper and a small white pick-up truck belonging to the city. A few guys out there in dark blue jumpsuits feeding huge branches into the machine. I tried to explain it to Gavin, how the chipper cut made the tree branches into tiny pieces and that you had to be very careful when you used that machine because the chipper doesn't know what is going into it and will make anything into tiny pieces. "Someday you'll watch Fargo," I told him, "and then you'll understand."

Gavin's Aunt Amanda came over today to watch him for a couple hours while I went to an appointment. I got lost on the way there (I'd never been to their new location before) and was very stressed out. Then on the way home I got even more lost and it took me forever to get home. The weather is really crummy outside. We're under a Winter Weather Advisory here in SE Michigan. I'm hoping that Stacy's school has a snow day tomorrow so she can stay home with us. Maybe we'll take Gavin outside in the snow. And take pictures, of course.

On pictures: there are hundreds of photos of Gavin (over 400 on Facebook alone) in existence. By the time he's a year there likely will be well over 1,000. He's very photogenic. "Photo session" is part of every day's routine activity. I love dressing him up in his little outfits (I buy him clothes almost compulsively) and taking pictures. He has a grandma and other relatives in Florida, an aunt in Boston, an uncle in Arizona. My best friend is in California and Stacy has friends in D.C. So it's a duty and an obsession to take pictures of Gavin so that his peeps can track his growth from afar. Plus, did I mention that he is very photogenic? He is so very handsome. I love his face. Probably too much in that I love it to be clean as well. And if this means picking his nose or constantly dabbing at drool on his lips and chin, I consider it my job. He doesn't like it at all. He'd be fine with hunks of dried snot hanging on his face, but I care about him too much to let him go around like that. Granted, I can already see how this is only going to become more difficult as he gets older. Eventually I won't be able to get him to sit still for countless photos and there will even come a day when I no longer pick out his clothes or take care of his hygiene needs. About age 18 sounds right.

Added mama bonus: persistent heartburn every night. Awesome.

Week One Day 3: We take a walk

After putting out a request for toy suggestions on FaceBook, the majority response I got was "get out of your sweatpants and leave the house." Actually, this is the advice that I've been getting for weeks leading up to my stay-at-homedom. And today we actually did it. Well, part of it. I didn't change out of my sweatpants, which, in fact, were/are my pajamas, which I am still wearing now at nearly 8 p.m. But I did strap Gavin into the Baby Bjorn and snap a leash on Henri and go around the block.

Keep in mind, this is Michigan and it's cold here. So going anywhere, even just going outside, is a production. Everybody has to be all swaddled up and then after you get moving it gets too hot and nobody's happy. But I think I adequately dressed us -- well, I adequately dressed Gavin, anyway, I didn't even bother to put on a bra, but hey, it's my life. I bundled Gavin in his fleece University of Michigan winter thing (it's once piece, it has feet and little fold over sleeves and a hood. I'm sure The Children's Place has an official name for such a garment, but I think "winter thing" is sufficient) and put a little baby cap on his head under the hood. I put my jacket on but couldn't zip it since Gavin was on the front of me, but he kept me warm.

So we walked. Henri peed on things. I talked to Gavin pointing things out like, "Look, that is a house we don't live in. If we go in it the people will call the police," and explaining things like, "Dogs like to pee on fire hydrants. Dogs pee outside and babies pee in diapers. And that's okay but not forever," and, "We have to be careful because ice is slippery and it would really suck if we fell down." I am an optimist, obviously.

Another suggestion I got was to get him books. Well, he has LOTS of books. His mom and I are avid readers so our friends and family got him a lot of books. And I buy books for him compulsively. I have an Amazon.com Wish List of hundreds more. He likes to be read to, but mostly at night during wind-down time. During his day time awake periods he likes to be very active. Books right now seem frustrating to him because he lacks the dexterity to turn the pages (even in the big chunky kids books) and just sucks on the corners. Eventually I'm going to have to have the "books are not for eating" discussion with him. I'll let my wife have the big sex talk with him later on.

Gavin is pretty good at playing on his own. He loves his exersaucer, for example, which does not have room for both of us, and he can get pretty absorbed in some toys by himself for short periods. He tends to like things that are very busy and colorful and have lots of different parts and pieces and sounds. I bought him a bunch of organic tree-hugger toys and he expresses zero interest. None. ANYthing else, even trash (Kleenexes, etc. within his reach) interests him more. Alas.

I also do play with him a lot as opposed to toys. I'll lay on my back and hoist him in the air above me, or let him stand balanced between my knees and then knock him down (gently, of course, and I should add we're on the bed and by "knocking him down" I mean letting him fall back about two feet into the bunched up comforter. It's not like I'm cold clocking him or anything. That's his territory, anyway. He's really into pulling my hair, sticking his fingers in my mouth, nose or eyes, and slamming his 100 lb. skull against my face while I'm holding him). I have him stand on me and yell out, "Giant baby!" I kiss his cheeks and neck until he has a laughing fit. But I can't sustain this for non-stop one and a half to two hour play periods in between naps.

As for TV: no TV. Not even the Backyardigans, which has been so highly recommended to us.

Advice from my mom: "Take him for walks, and point out all different aspects of his world as you do. I did that with you and [your twin sister] Laura. That is how I taught you your colors and what sounds different animals make etc. You did, however, think that everything was a dog for a while and say "woof" when you saw some sparrows one day."

My father recalls that during our "everything's a dog" period my parents took us to the zoo and every animal we saw we'd say, "Woof woof." As he recalled it, "It was like going to the zoo with a couple of retards."

Week One Day 2: I am already sick of all my son's toys

My son has lots of stuffed animals, but stuffed animals, at this point in his life, are just big, hairy things to smother himself to death with. My dad has a particular obsession with buying stuffed animals and now that he has a grandson he has what he perceives as an appropriate place to channel it. Right now as I type this there is a giant gorilla the size of a morbidly obese toddler staring down at me from on top of the living room entertainment center (although "entertainment center" really is overshooting what's actually contained inside. Our TV is all tube, no plasma. We don't have cable and our DVD player hooks into our TV manually with audio/visual cables in the front of the TV. We also still have a VCR, though I always forget how to plug it in and since I haven't actually used it in longer than year, will probably never recall that information. We should probably get rid of it, but my wife likes to watch old, terrible French and Spanish movies that no one will ever bother putting on DVD. Then again, we have a child now. No one's watching any movies).

The gorilla was a Christmas gift from my dad for Gavin. When he brought it over he told me to get the camera because there was something he needed to get out of his car. Gavin was already past nap time, but I'd kept him up to see Grandpa Mike. When my dad came in with it Gavin stared, mouth agape. It wasn't a reaction so much as a semi-comatose state brought on by sleep deprivation. Dad was really excited about the gorilla and shoved its hulking form toward my son. The thing was so big Gavin couldn't even see it as anything more than a great black mass.

"Look Gavin, it's a buddy for you," Dad shouted. He then proceeded to tell me that the night before, he'd placed the gorilla in my little sister's bed. She is in college and still lives at home. When she returned late at night after hanging out with some friends, she, according to my father, was spooked and burst into my dad's room, hurling the gorilla into his bed and shouting something about having the shit scared out of her. "She thought there was a big black man in her bed," Dad said. "Now she's having rape dreams or something." So that's Grandpa.

I dutifully took a picture of Gavin next to the gorilla and then we said goodbye to Grandpa Mike so Gavin could take his nap. About 45 minutes later Gavin was ooooh oooohing to let me know he was awake. When I unswaddled him it looked like he was covered in cat hair. "What the fuck?" I thought. Now, we do have a cat, so it wasn't impossible that Jasper had festooned Gavin with his fur. But as I looked closer it was obvious that these little black tufts weren't real hair. It was the gorilla's. So not only is the gorilla too big to play with, he also has mange.

Full disclosure, the majority of Gavin's stuffed animals are/were mine. I have a collection of stuffed monkeys and other primates I've collected over the years. They are on a shelf in his nursery. He's never had physical contact with them, but they're his more or less (I'm obviously a little torn). But he also has a big tub of more stuffed animals of various species in his closet. There are several bears, an elephant, a wolverine, a pastel green frog with a rattle in his head, a stuffed dog that looks like our miniature poodle Henri, a small seal about the size of a cat toy, a mouse from some children's book I've never read, and a big brown dog with squeakers in his paws that is actually a dog toy. Another gift from my dad. But as I've said, Gavin isn't really into stuffed animals unless he can fit part of them in his mouth and soak it with spit.

Next to his tub of animals is a tub of toys that aren't stuffed. These are the toys he actually plays with. A lot of rattles and animals that are semi-stuffed. He's got a little picnic set that I like more than he does. And he's got a set of really annoying bongo drums that neither of us cares about much. They're not quite his level. I think he'll grow into them and drive me insane. In any case, I am already sick of these toys. Probably more than he is.

Week One Day 1: Nobody died

I started my new job as a stay at home mom today. I didn't choose this profession so much as it chose me. I used to teach at the University of Michigan (just a lecturer, don't get excited) but then I got laid off. Seeing as my wife and I have an almost 6 month old son and a week of day care is more expensive than an evening with a call girl, we decided that I would stay at home with Gavin. It's not really how I ever imagined my life, but I don't really think you can imagine your life after you have a kid. And anyway, once you have a kid, all bets are off. So here I am.

As for my first day: nobody died. I never manged to shower. But I did eat once or twice. And Gavin drank all of his bottles and took all of his naps. We played with toys. We danced and sang to Lady Gaga. It was exhausting.