A Post Involving Star Wars References and Vodka - Win

In the near or distant past or future we may or may not be going on a business or pleasure trip to a land either very far away or extremely close (problem, potential house robbers?).

And, oh my god, let me tell you how awful it is to pack for said trip.  Ready?  Commence whining.

You never realize how much stuff you need for a child until you're trying to pack it into one suitcase.  We've been packing for 3 days (or rather, we had been packing or will be packing) prior to our departure.  And just for feeding the little Sarlacc we've spawned, we're probably using up a good 900 pounds of our 50 pound per suitcase limit (by the way, thanks for that awesome aspect of flying, airline industry).  And because he constantly throws up on himself, or pees everywhere, or has explosive, projectile poop making for a deadly gauntlet of fecal matter, we need to bring 7000 changes of clothes for him, just for the week (or day, or three months - insert anti-Joe Pesci vagueness here) that we're going to be gone.  We mitigated the feeding issue a little bit through the purchase of a Magic Bullet, vigorously endorsed by our insane nanny (who, by the way, apparently has been enlisted to act as a cosmic counterbalance to all people who do not like talking).  However, I'm not entirely convinced TSA won't think this is some kind of terrorist item and force us to part with what our nanny has dubbed "the manifestation of freedom in America". 

We pre-checked in for the flight, and dropped $100 just for the luggage (without it even being weighed).  I'm still having trouble sitting down from the experience.  I'm excited for that moment in the airport where we're hastily rearranging our underwear to get under that ridiculous 50 pound limit.

But, to be honest, I'm slightly excited, because I've been given a mission: figure out a way to pour out the water from a water bottle and fill it back up with vodka without opening the top.  Why?  Two reasons.  First, I don't know if you knew this, but I'll be traveling with Russians.  They like vodka, and they don't like paying $10 a shot for it.  And when I say "They", I really mean "I".  And reason #2?  It's like I'm an awesome 1920's gangster, trying to smuggle alcohol.  It's a ridiculously cool feeling.  I just want to see if I can do it.

I figured out a few possibilities: remove the label, cut a tiny hole underneath where the label was, pour in the vodka through a paper funnel, put clear duct tape over the hole, and replace the label.  This only works half way, and looks like crap.  Or, poke a tiny hole in the cap and do essentially the same thing.  This works slightly better, but the problem could be if the rent-a-cops at the entrance decide to investigate even remotely, it's easy to see that hole, and the smell of vodka is pretty potent.

The last resort, I think, would be to wear loose sweatpants and stuff water bottles into socks underneath the sweatpants.  They just ask you to remove items from your pockets, not to take off all your clothes.

I'll let you know how that goes (or went).  But in the meantime, Enjoy your Thanksgiving!  I've scheduled a few filler posts to provide your daily dose of Borscht during the time we may or may not be gone or here. 

Until then!  or not...you'll never know!

Sammy Learns Some Physics

Guys!  GUYS, I gotta tell you something. 

So last night, I was out for a walk with Sammy.  You know, that kid I've got.  This one:

"Happy Birthday...Mr. President"

And we're walking in the dark because WTF, Earth, it gets dark at 5pm.  So I'm blabbering to him about the cars and the streetlights, and he's basically just playing with his hands or making Goo goo sounds. 

Then, all of a sudden, a helicopter flies overhead, and I say to him, "Sammy, look at the helicopter!" and he looks skyward to see the lights of the helicopter pass over the trees and stares at it for a couple seconds as it flies past. 

We both sit there for a bit while the sounds of the helicopter die out and in those few seconds, I'm realizing I'm having my first "moment" with my kid, where he's listening to me, and it seems like he's REALLY understanding what I'm telling him. 

This is important because he usually pretends like he DOESN'T understand.  Like when he's in his walker and doesn't understand "no" when you tell him he can't put his hands inside the trashcan or open up the drawers, or tip over plants.  If you tell him it's time for bed, he sort of looks at you and thinks you're saying "Hey, time to play!"  If you tell him he needs to be careful standing because he doesn't know how to walk yet, he thinks you're saying "let's see if you can run across the room!"

So I took advantage of that moment after the helicopter passed when he was listening to me to describe to him the detailed physics of how helicopters can stay in the air.

Surprisingly, this is not it.

Sammy's Bedtime Story Last Night, or I Need to Drop Out of my MBA

"Once upon a time, there was a King in a far away land named Sammy.  He was a smart and powerful king who ruled over a little village that was plagued by the presence of a giant and hungry dragon.

"Every day, the dragon would come down from his dragon cave and eat 15 of the villagers.  This was very concerning to the villagers because there was a limited and dwindling number of villagers.  So they asked their king to figure out something to do about the dragon.

"First, King Sammy thought that he could appease the dragon.  So he sent 30 villagers up the hill as a sacrifice.  The dragon seemed very happy to eat them, but came down the next day to gather up 15 more.

"Then King Sammy thought that perhaps the Dragon could be reasoned with.  So he sent 40 of his top diplomats to the cave to plead with the dragon to stop eating the villagers.  But the dragon promptly ate them and the next day came back for more.

"Then King Sammy thought that perhaps the cave could be walled up and the dragon sealed inside.  So he sent 50 of his best engineers to construct an enclosure around the cave.  But before they could lay a sufficient foundation, the dragon ate all the engineers and the next day came back for more.

"Then King Sammy thought that perhaps he could storm the cave and kill the dragon.  So he sent 100 of his strongest warriors to attack the dragon.  But when they entered the cave, the dragon crushed them all and ate what was left of them, and the next day came back for more.

"Then King Sammy was fed up.  He hadn't been able to come to a solution to the problem through any logical means, and the dragon had almost eaten all his villagers.  He asked the remaining farmers how many cows they had and found out that they could spare about 15 cows per day on a renewable basis, especially with the reduced population.  So he went up to the cave himself, thinking the energy the dragon would use to eat one person wouldn't equal the calories gained by eating said person.  He asked the dragon, 'What if we were to provide you with 5 cows per day?  Would you be satisfied and not eat any more of our villagers?'

"The dragon responded, '5 cows?  You must be joking!'

"And the brilliant King Sammy answered, 'Certainly not, especially considering you eat 15 people a day, and the average cow is approximately worth three people in body weight'.

"'I'll take no less than 10 cows per day'.

"And the shrewd King Sammy found that to be ridiculous, saying, 'You'll get no more than 8 - this gives you an extra 9 people's worth of meat per day, increasing your daily meat intake by more than 50%'.

"The dragon thought for a minute and finally agreed to the terms of the agreement.  No more villagers were lost to the dragon, the deal was settled for less than budgeted by the farmers, and the dragon got to eat (in essence) 9 more people per day.  And everyone lived happily ever after.

"The End."

From Memory to Poop - Disjointed Post Party

I have a horrid memory.  That's why I just wrote this post, and then almost as soon as I wrote it, I forgot that I did.  And now I feel guilty that I haven't stuck with it in any way at all.  Also, last night, my wife asked me to go make tea and defrost something for dinner.  I went into the kitchen, made tea, and started thinking about something (I don't remember what it was, but it was likely something along the lines of optimal lip angles for tea cups both for drinking and for transporting tea from one room to another, and the difficulties of incorporating personal preference into that measurement).  Then I forgot what I was doing, only to be reminded by the ding of the teapot that I needed to bring my wife tea.  Then, she freaked out that I didn't defrost anything.

And by "freaked out", I mean, "made a tsk-ing sound" once or twice.

It's gotten so bad recently that I've resorted to keeping my own honeydew list (so named because cantaloupes get too much goddamn attention already) which as of this moment has 21 things I need to do ranging from register my wife to vote (I'm stalling because she's a republican) to selling out of my trading positions to buying chap stick (because it's that time of year when everyone's lips get leprosy and I refuse to use Vaseline).

It's actually  vastly increasing my productivity.  Whereas before, if I had any extra time to be doing anything, i'd just sit around and play risk, I'm actually takin' care of business.

I'm not entirely sure where I meant this post to go, mostly because I spent a great deal of time seriously considering how to optimize tea cups.  Seriously.  I even did a couple Google searches in the middle of the post.

But I DO want to say that Sammy is 9 months today!  Gotta go to the doctor's tonight to ask all the important questions regarding pooping and peeing.

on a related note, I wonder how many times a pediatrician either says or uses a euphemism for poop in one day.  Probably a billion.

I woke up not a zombie today

Ok, I know the last two posts have been rough to get through.  Too analytical, not funny, and all around uninteresting.  Mostly, this is because I'm in the middle of an incredibly interesting class that has been dry-humping my face.  This has got me thinking about the class, and strategy, and greater implications of analysis on lots of other random boring crap blah, bla - oh my god, shut up - nobody cares.

But also, I'm not sure if you knew this, but we've got this kid, see.  And he doesn't like to lie down or sit anymore.  He discovered the wonders of standing.  On top of this, he is busting out his second set of teeth, and contrary to the last two, these (or this, i'm not sure how many are coming out) is a bastard tooth.  It's like those stupid tooth characters on those annoying kid commercials from the 80's telling you that you've gotta brush your teeth while wielding this massive toothbrush, and you just want to punch it in the face and say, "shut your goddamn mouth, tooth".

I want to punch this guy in the periodontal membrane

So Sammy's been up almost all night for the past two nights crying and moaning and writing in agony.  And not only is it exhausting to be up rocking him in your arms all night long (so my wife tells me - I have been bad about keeping my eyes open), but it really sucks to know he's in so much pain. 

And standing?  Sammy is now waking us up by poking his head over the rail of the crib and giving the baby equivalent of "HEY! I see you!! Why are you not paying attention to me!?!" So because he doesn't want to lie down anymore, this ALSO decreases the amount of sleep everyone gets because he's now permanently playing his own version of Jenga (or is it stack attack?), where he wobbles back and forth and your only job is to basically make sure he doesn't collapse down on the floor and bang his head off of the only sharp thing in the entire house (which is like a magnet for baby heads) and smash into a thousand pieces.

But I woke up this morning with a little extra excitement.  Reason #1 - Either Sammy let us sleep through the night, or I didn't hear him crying at all.  Reason #2 - it's an absolutely beautiful day outside.  and Reason #3 - we've got less than 45 days until our absolutely awesome vacation that is going to be like Odysseus returning home, putting his feet up on the coffee table with a beer and having Penelope feed him profiteroles, or whatever it was that people ate back then wherever he was from.

"I intend to never wear clothes again!"

I'm already dreaming about all the nothing I plan on doing.  Just sitting in a balcony on the third largest ship in the world, watching the waves go by.  I'll likely be drinking a beer too.  With my wife bringing me profiteroles.  And like Odysseus, I'll also be perpetually naked.

The Many Advancements of Sammy

It's been a while since I've updated Sammy's status.  And the past month or so has pretty much been the month of the badass for him, so I think it's worth chronicling now.

First off - he gained three pounds in as many weeks.  While this might not sound desirable for those health-conscious people out there, remember that he is a baby.  Staying 15 pounds forever is unhealthy and weird.  And while this might not sound that impressive, given that I can drink a half-gallon of water in one sitting, which is 4 pounds gained in less than ten minutes, remember again that he is a baby.  3 pounds to a 15 pound baby is like, a million percent of your body weight.  That would be like if I went from 200 pounds to 240 in three weeks.  Don't tempt me, especially with the holidays fast approaching.

Second - once he packed on the pounds like a giant lardo, he leveled off and focused on getting to regular human status.  This means he popped out TWO TEETH SIMULTANEOUSLY.  He was all like, "yo, all you otha babies are weak with your whole one teeth at a time wussy-pants thing".  And he didn't even get fussy, as if to reiterate his badassness.

He also went from dry-humping the air in a kind of awkward rocking motion on all fours to 100% legitimately crawling in under a week.  Ok, maybe he crawls like he's a goose-stepping horse, but a victory's still a victory.  And just to make sure we're all aware of his stubbornness, he STILL refuses to sit.

This foal is seeking Kyle

And with these two huge unexpectedly amazing advancements, he finally learned how to suck on things.  I always thought this was the first thing babies learned - but not with this one.  But we gave him a strawberry and his head almost exploded from happiness and deliciousness.

Which brings us to our last advancement - he's starting to have fits.  Already.  We took the strawberry away from him after it was done, and he (for the first time ever) fell into a fit of rage and then depression.  He screamed like someone was shooting him in the face, then peeing on him, and then kicking and peeing on his dog.

Psh, joke's on him though - he doesn't even HAVE a dog.

iPhone Photo Phun, Where Sammy Learns to Stick his Tongue Out

Two of my very good bloggy friends KLZ and Liz have come up with a great meme.  iPhone Photo Phun. And while it's frustrating that everyone in the world has a better phone than I do, I can still appreciate the joys and benefits of posting photos and calling it a post.

And for this special photo, Sammy has learned how to stick his tongue out at his father.  We had a blast while he was in the tub, sticking our tongues out at each other.  To this day, I'm still not sure whether he was doing it on purpose, or if he was just sensing the air like a snake does.  No matter, I caught it on film and will believe whatever I want about the photo.

Also, I think I had a finger over the lens - see top dark part of photo

Got a photo you love on your phone? Or one you have no idea how it got there, but it shows you wasted with a bunch of random people you've never met at a bar you've never seen before?  Link up with Liz and KLZ for iPhone Photo Phun!

Wordless Wednesday - Crying

A Balanced Approach to Kicking Sammy Out

This was me yesterday on my way to work:

Which is why I didn't post anything.


The reason?  Sammy is being a ridiculous person, and the wife is following suit. 

You see, we've had him sleeping in our room ever since the beginning of time.  Never in our bed, but always in his crib/bassinet.  But when we first started out, we could play the bagpipes, throw tambourines at each other, and play the penis game but with megaphones.  Whatever we did, Sammy wouldn't wake up.

But now, his highness needs absolute quiet in order to sleep soundly.  And you know what?  I DON'T MIND.  He's a baby, and that's what they do/need. 

But you know what I DO mind?  His sleeping in our bedroom.  Or let me be more clear: my wife's insistence on his sleeping in our bedroom.  And the fact that no matter how quiet I am, she still yells at me to be quieter.  So what follows is a plea to her - to get her to agree to move him into his own room, down the hall. 

Reason #1: The following is a list of things that make sounds in the bedroom with very little perturbation (yes, that's a word) and there's nothing to do about it:  The door hinges, the creaky floor, the creaky bed slats, the clanky curtain shades, the bathroom faucet, the toilet, the drawer sets, the closet, the clothes in the closet, your slippers, the computers as we're going to bed, the door to the bathroom, the alarm clock in the morning, the beeping of the bottle warmer.

Reason #2: When you shush me to be quiet, you actually are louder than anything I've done to provoke said shushing.

Reason #3: I almost guarantee that he'll sleep better in another room where I won't be constantly trying to fairy-flit around like giant 200+ pound tinkerbell/ballerina in boxer briefs. 

Reason #4: I almost guarantee that WE'LL sleep better not having to constantly shush each other. 

Reason #5: If WE sleep better, we'll be happier, and I'll be able to pour more effort into this blog, which will garner attention from large bigwigs, who will want to sign me up to write the next great American novel which will bring in gazillions of dollars which we will use to buy lots of really sweet nerf guns.

And, because I was always taught to weigh the counter arguments:

Counterargument #1: But he's too little!
     Reality: Psh, he's got adult sized poops.  That's the only metric I go by.

Counterargument #2: But the room isn't ready yet! There are no cute animal stickers on the wall!
     Reality: Amazon has 2-day shipping for a reason.  Problem solved.

Counterargument #3: But I'll miss him! 
     Reality: if, in the middle of the night, you miss him so terribly, I won't have any problem with you going down the hall to kiss him and hug him and rub his face with your face as much as you want.  No problem at all.

Counterargument #4: But what if he gets up 9 times a night like he is now?
     Reality: Ok, this is really the only legitimate argument.  I still maintain that he's getting up solely because he's we're making sounds in the room that are above 0.001 decibel.  Or because he's teething and grumpy.  We could do a trial period.  Three nights.  Two to get over sleeping in a new place, and one just for good luck. 

Counterargument #4b: Yeah?  and Who's going to get up to take care of him?
     Reality: If we do it over the weekend, and I'm allowed to take unlimited (or just one) naps during the daytime, I'll take the brunt of the workload.  Just to prove a point.  If I'm wrong, we'll bring him right back and wait until he's a year and I'll be completely silent about it.  And I'll work on levitation.

Please, people, send some support for the cause in the comments!  She reads all of them!

Six months of Sammy

Sammy is Six months today, and looking back at the past six months, I can't believe that he ever was this small

That he slept almost constantly the first couple days:

That he ever had trouble smiling at us

That we used to swaddle him and constantly keep him in hats

Or that he would laugh at the most benign things

Because for me, even though I look through the pictures, and recognize that he was so much smaller, and couldn't even hold his head, or that he didn't eat real-person foods, or show any interest in toys, I still will always hold him in my head as a generally naked, smiling and loving baby, who is curious and handsome and smart and loves to explore, and has exceeded every expectation I've ever had.

10 ways to NOT FALL ASLEEP

This week, Sammy will be six months old.  Yip-a-dee doo dah - it's exciting and all, but he still can't figure out how to sleep.  On Saturday, he went an hour and fifteen minutes from the time I put him in his crib until he finally passed out.  I seriously don't get it.  If I were in a room with a thousand gyrating people, and a giant Rhinoceros were to be doing the can-can while someone hit me in the face with a fly-swatter every thirty seconds while tiny leprechauns were to tickle my feet, I'd STILL be able to fall asleep in under 10 minutes.
 
I blame it on my wife.  Before we had Sammy, she always needed to chat for at least 45 minutes before going to bed, otherwise she'd stay up until 2 in the morning bored and unable to fall asleep.  Yeah, I don't know what's wrong with her, either.

So what follows is the 10-step-process by which Sammy goes through falling asleep every night, without fail. 

1.  Close my eyes?  That doesn't seem right.  Are you sure?  Get the instruction book again.

2.  Can I fall asleep like THIS? (rolls over on stomach and looks up at me)

3.  How about like THIS? (rolls to his back but flips legs up on side of crib)

4.  Hold on, do I need to have my eyes closed?  I keep forgetting that part

5.  How about if I were to try to stick my entire fist in my mouth?  Is that sleeping?

6.  I don't want my pacifier in my mouth! (Take it out and throws it across the crib).  I hate this thing!

7.  WHERE IS MY PACIFIER?!?

8.  I need my blankey!  Oh, and the eyes gotta be closed!

9.  Pacifier, dad!  Let's have it!

10.  Oh....hey, uh...I pooped...you gotta start all over.

Seriously, what's wrong with him.  You don't need a degree from an Ivy league school in order to figure out how to sleep.  Just close your eyes and let it happen! 

I am almost willing to be that my wife secretly slips him cocaine and meth just before bedtime solely so that Sammy can give me troubles when I'm putting him to bed.  Totally sounds like something she'd do.  Actually, I AM willing to bet.  Any takers?

Guest Posting at Daddy Runs A Lot!

Today, I have the grand honor of guest posting over at Daddy Runs A Lot - a blog about a dad who...you guessed it, runs a LOT.  Once, he just walked outside, willy nilly, and busted out a half marathon without even thinking twice about it.

I knew I liked the guy when he talked about his love of opera.  But then, he sealed it with an accurate discussion of the different types of zombies available to choose from when deciding which one to run away from first.  The list even includes the often contemplated "Rule 34 Zombies", who are at all times sexy, weird, and brain-hungry.

So, if you please, head on over to his place and peruse the merchandise, then read some blabbering monologue I put together about how impatient I am about Sammy growing up.

Investigation into my Wife's Sanity

So Sammy's been going through a little bit of a growth spurt.  How do I know this?  Because a week ago, he was all cute and playing on his play mat giggling and laughing as if the world had no limit to its happiness and hugging us with a determined look of complete love and adulation, and this week, he has declared war on us by attempting to shatter eardrums with his yelling, peeing on everyone, holding his poop until the exact moment he's got his diaper off, needing constant food, and generally hating everything.

So either he's magically leaped into his teenage years, his old and senile years, or he's going through a growth spurt. 

This means that just about every night, he needs to wake up, and scream at us Gordon Ramsay style to make sure we're moving fast enough with the whole "Get Milk or Die Trying" shtick.  Last night, we both got about 4 hours total of sleep.

But this morning, my wife, who was suspiciously cheery eyed and bright and much more beautiful than usual (though not necessarily a statement that she doesn't look good normally, just a statement that on this specific day, she was particularly stunning...I'm not sure how to get out of that one), looked over at me while she was getting ready for work, and she asked, "What's wrong?"

I turned towards her, picked my knuckles up off the floor, wiped the drool off of my face, and made a herculean attempt to seem less like the first patient in the coming zombie apocalypse and said, "What?  Are you insane?  Or merely not human?  What have you done with my wife?  Did you manage to travel back in time a few hours just so you could sleep a bit more?"  (please remind me to look into this)  I'm pretty sure, though I can't be certain, that I went on like this for a good hour or two.

The peppering of questions slightly annoyed her, and she lost her entirely unnatural early-morning sense of humor.  "Seriously, what's wrong with you?  What would make you feel better?"

Ahh, of all the the potential options, even after four hours of sleep, I could answer this question perfectly.  I could literally answer it in my sleep, because I wouldn't NEED to answer the question then.  And the amazing thing about this is that my wife didn't know the answer to her question already. 

Problem: Lack of Sleep.  Solution: ?  let's see, um...hamburgers?  uh...drinking pickle juice?

Which leads me to ask the question...what's wrong with HER?  I have deduced the following possibilities:

• SHE is the first patient in the coming zombie apocalypse, and I should stock up on shotguns and their corresponding ammunition
• She has been replaced by a Pod Wife, a la Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and I'll go outside one day to find her real body zipped up in a pea pod.  
• She has converted to Surrealism, and she will randomly change both emotions and appearances with no apparent purpose, pattern, or goal.
• She is ALSO sleep deprived, though this is probably the least likely scenario, due to her increased attractiveness this morning.  Everyone knows sleep deprivation and attractiveness are inversely related.  Just like happiness and how many spiders there are on your face.

Family Member Management

Sammy got sick again yesterday.  He threw up about fifteen hundred times, and covered the floor with vomit.  From a purely scientific perspective, it's actually pretty amazing how much he can hold in that thing.  But thankfully, we think we figured out what was wrong with him.  The last time we rushed him to the emergency room, it was after giving him Rice cereal; we haven't given any cereal to him in the past two weeks, and this time we also gave him rice cereal.  So either this particular box of cereal is bad, or he's got some reaction to the cereal, allergic or otherwise. 

But hey, I tried that crap - I wouldn't eat it either.

The science geek in me wants to wait another two weeks and try it again, just to see if this is what the problem is (and then perhaps switch cereals to see if it's an ingredient in the cereal).  But the father in me, especially after seeing how miserable Sammy looked yesterday, says no. 

Give it a week, and I'll probably start thinking about testing the cereals again.

But besides these vague lessons, one thing we definitely did learn was how to manage family members.  There is such a vast difference between how each of our parents reacted to the last incident:

Me: Ma - we took Sammy to the Emergency Room last night; he was throwing up like a fountain for at least a couple hours.

My mom: Oh yeah?  Well, it's good to hear that he's feeling better.

Me: What?  I didn't say he was better.  He still looks miserable and pale, and has lost a lot of weight.

My mom: Did I tell you about the time that you threw up a couple times?  It was amazing.  Also, have you given any more thought to coming up to see us?  We haven't seen our grandchild in two months! And even though I don't really do anything all day long, it's somehow your fault.  No, seriously - I really am blaming you for my not coming down to see him.  Nevermind the fact that he just threw up a hundred times, and I'm still acting as if nothing really happened.  Did you hear about my trip to the bookstore?  It was amazing.  I didn't know there were so many books published!  Your father and I must have walked out with three armfuls each.  I needed to stock up on books for my bookclub meetings!  Then we came home and had Beef Bourguignon glazed with a pinch of carmelized onions with a side of steamed carrots, and ate it on the patio overlooking our freshly groomed and pruned lawn.  Call your brother!  He misses you, and you haven't spent any time talking to him.  He's got three weeks off before he starts work, and is bored from sitting around all day, and you should really get yourself together and call him.  That reminds me, I just saw a bear on my walk this morning! 

Me: ok, bye.

And this is how the conversation goes with my wife and the in-laws:

Wife: Ma, we took Sammy to the Emergen -

MIL: DON'T say emergency room.
FIL (in background): EMERGENCY ROOM??? What's going on? Who's sick?
MIL: Oh my god, What happened? 

Wife: He thre -

MIL: He threw up everywhere?  Why didn't you called us sooner? It's because you're always drinking coca-cola, and it gets inside your milk, and then it's like he's drinking coke!  You don't feed him enough, he's all skin and bones!  How is he feeling now?  What can we do?  Do you need anything?  I can cook for you! We're on our way!
FIL: First find out where they are!
MIL: Are you at your house?  Ok NOW we're on our way!

Wife: Ok, thanks!

(three minutes pass by and the phone rings again)

MIL: I bet it's because he's not eating regular foods yet.  You should start giving him soups.  He's too skinny!  We're coming as fast as we can!
FIL: (in background) I've done a few dry runs in case this happened, and it takes me an average of 3 minutes at top speed to get to your house!  We'll be there in 49 seconds!!

(After spending some time with us, and making sure everything is ok first hand, they go home.)

(Ten minutes after they've gotten home, the phone rings again)

MIL: Is he still doing ok?  Call me with updates!!!

I actually just received a call from her saying that no one (my wife or the babysitter) is answering their phones and she assumed the worst had happened.

I've definitely decided I like the in-law's approach more, but we've come to the conclusion that we're probably going to wait until after any big events to let them in on the action.  It definitely made yesterday's experience slightly less stressful. 

I still haven't called to tell my parents. 

Wordless Wednesday

Please bear with me while I go through some Blog restructuring.  I love this format, but my wife thinks the banner sort of looks like the holocaust.  In reality, it's a bunch of drunk Russians ice fishing, which, admittedly, it's kind of hard to see.  In the meantime, though, enjoy this super awesome video!  He gets his sexy on there at the very end. 

Month #5 in Pictures, or Sammy Wants a Job.

Sammy turned 5 months old this week.  And true to form, he's already contemplating his future career choices.  His mother is so proud of him for considering his future at such a young age. 

Here he is as a supermodel.

I'm pretty sure there's a lot more to life than being really, really...ridiculously good looking.

And I'm not sure anyone in the family is happy about his secret desire to be a......towel.....head...?!?!?

I'm gonna cry and poop my pants until I get my 72 virgins, infidel!

And there was, of course, that time he insisted he wanted to be Teddy Roosevelt's Safari Jungle companion.

Wait, was he the one with Polio?  Have I gotten my shots?

And finally, he wanted to be a food critic or some kind of professional taste tester, but...

Wait, get that thing away fro..m..MMPH!

 

That dream didn't last long.

ACK!  Why did you do that to me?!? AND you're taking pictures?!?

I bet you Vasya over there with the cheap diapers hasn't even thought about what college he wanted to go to, let alone which career path would best suit him.  His parents must not love him enough.

The Proper Way to Raise a Child

For Russians living in North East Philly, raising a child is a magical thing.  A magical, but intense thing.

Ok, maybe not magical.  Intense is probably more along the lines of adjectives that describe this phenomenon. Intense with pangs of guilt, and judgey-ness.  Because you describe anything that happens in Northeast Philly without using the descriptor "judgey".

You see, my thoughts of childhood were always rife with memories of playing war in the backyard with the neighborhood boys, pretending I was treating a patient as a leading physician with the neighborhood girls, and living my life according to the tenets of Calvin and Hobbes before Bill Watterson even knew what a "transmogrifier" was.  I even played a version of Calvinball,but I called it "Billy-Ball".  Seriously.

But that's not how it works within the Russian Community.  You see, if you're a child being raised by Russian immigrants, your parents traveled across the entire world to give you a better life, and you'd better live that better life exactly as your parents dictate, goddamn it, even if you turn into a miserable wreck. It's a life-long guilt trip, and nobody does guilt better than Russian Jews.

As Sammy grows older, and discussions stray away from the consistency of his diaper droppings, the conversations are starting to get more centered around what activities we're going to involve him in. 

I'm the third one from the left.

My parents are advocating the position of the free range child - opening the door to the back yard and kicking him out until dinner time, and if he doesn't make it in for that, he'll make it back in for bedtime.  The more dirty, the more broken bones, the more trouble he gets into, the better.  Structure, for them, is bad parenting.  This is probably why I can't concentrate on anything for more than thirty minutes, and I've constantly got three hundred grandiose plans steeping in my brain matter - each one of them still on step 1.  This is definitely not an option, because I want Sammy to have at least some structure in his life.

But my in-laws are about as opposite as you can get.  Their position is typical of the entire Russian immigrant community: the more classes and extracurricular activities the better.  "Because WE never had these classes growing up, and we have decided for you that your future success will depend upon how many activities you've participated in before you graduated from diapers." 

This man is definitely not gay

So Sammy is in for it.  There are already plans for him to go to chess classes with a former chess grand-master, who will allow breaks from learning the Monkey's Bum Opening with mathematics tutoring. Apparently, Sammy will also be involved in dance.  I've been trying to compromise that if dance is a must, then let it be break dance.  How awesome would that be??  But the rest of the family wants either ballet, or ballroom.  "Look how far it got Maksim Chmerkovskiy!" is pretty much the best argument for anything, even those subjects not including dance.  There have also been long discussions over the optimum sport in which to participate.  Being a former swimmer, I suggested swimming.  But apparently, there's not enough strategy involved, and it has been suggested that Soccer would be a better choice. And over the summer, I've always dreamed of having a kid that went to Boy Scout camp, where he learned how to shoot bows and arrows, and build shelter from twigs and leaves, and not shower for a week.  But, there's a very good Science summer camp where he will be introduced to the basics of chemistry, physics, and biology.  Also, he must either play the violin, or the piano.  There is no room for argument there.

"BC" stands for "Birth Control".  

 

Maybe we should also get him some really awesome glasses too?  What the military calls "BC" glasses!  or perhaps a luxury pocket protector with matching calculator case!  They would be especially helpful on his trips to his math tutor's place!  Pretty much the only thing I'm 100% in agreement with is that they're also huge advocates of some kind of martial arts.  Good.  This way, when people who lived normal lives want to beat him up for being such a math and science loving tool-bag, he can protect himself better than resorting to throwing pawns at them. 

There's also the worry that if he DOESN'T do these things, all of the other Russian parents and grandparents will look down on him, saying "Oh, look at Sam-a-yul over there, who is already three years old and does not know how to do multi-variable calculus!  His family must not love or care about him.  What is he going to be able to do with his life?  He can't be a lawyer, or doctor, or financial professional, so he will obviously be a homeless drug-addict." 

Ahh, Northeast Philadelphia, if it wasn't for all the shish-kabobs and vodka, I don't know if our relationship could last.

Blah Friday

Ok so here's the deal.  I just wrote 8 pages to get something into my Professor for MIS by 12:00pm.  Class is officially over monday night.  

I want to do two things.

First, I want to discuss with you the requirements that are beset upon those in the Russian community in regards to raising their children.  They are insane.  And hysterical.

And second, I want to create drama.  A cliffhanger. So this wonderful, and imaginitive, and well-researched and discussed topic will be discussed in great length on tuesday.  After the MIS exam.  I start drinking heavily immediately after the exam, and thereafter I will be hastily writing extensively.  

From all the writing today, i'm adjective'd and adverb'd out.

So I will describe this photograph in only nouns.

Gangster.  Chronicles of Riddick. Geordi LaForge.  Grandpa.  Cyclops.

Never a dull moment

We ran Sammy to the Emergency Room last night.  Never a dull moment in the Borscht household.

He was with my in laws while my wife and I tried to put the finishing touches on our papers that are due tomorrow.  My MIL said he vomited like a fountain.

And he kept vomiting.  Violently.  He would vomit all over our shirts, look around surprised, and then smile from ear to ear at us.  This went on every five minutes, right up until the moment we got to the hospital.  Then he got his color back, looked right in the doctor's eyes, and laughed the biggest belly laugh a five month old can laugh.

Little punk.

We were both on the verge of having our brains melt from worry, and he was having the best giggle-fest he's ever had. He discovered the joy of putting his fingers in OUR mouths right while we were trying to discuss with the doctor what to do.  Laughing, fingers in mouth, laughing. 

Sorry, doc - we promise he really did throw up.

We left at midnight, with no answers, and no idea what to expect for the rest of the night.  Needless to say, we didn't sleep very much.  But thankfully, the ipecac fairy (cause that's as close as we can get to a real cause) has left him alone since then.

The ICC - brought to you with great risk to my life

Sammy, what's going on with you?  You've been sleeping like a coke fiend recently.

Well, dad - you've gotta understand something. 

Yeah?  what's that?

I might get in trouble for telling you this, but you seem cool.  Still too early to tell, really, but I'm gonna go with my gut here.  Have you ever heard of the ICC?

Uh, duh.  The International Cricket Council.  They're the ones that dictate how many tea breaks there are in a cricket match.  What does that have to do with your sleep patterns?

Oh, boy, dad.  I can see our family's future is completely up to me.  No, not the cricket douches.  I'm talking about the International Child's Conspiracy.

What?  Conspiracy?  Are we in Nevada?  Even though you're what, 4 months old now, I haven't raised you to believe in that crap.

No, dad - listen.  Here's the phenomena - You know those two books you just read?  One of them said not to let children cry at nighttime lest they develop anxieties about falling asleep.  The other said that if you go and run to your child they will end up becoming severely dependent upon your help and thus not be able to function in society as independent adults. 

Yeah, I know.  It's insane. 

Exactly.  That's the point.  Studies by babies everywhere have come to the realization that they can better control their parents if they are confused, frustrated and sleep deprived.  So the ICC came up with a solution: publish books with vastly differing viewpoints to facilitate the confusion and frustration.  Get on forums and twitter and other online media and create rivalry between parents, saying that everyone ELSE is doing it the wrong way. Then, as a final measure, infiltrate the AAP, and control nation-wide baby-policy from there. 

Infiltrate the AAP?  How does a baby infiltrate the American Academy of Pediatrics?

Simple - they're incredibly likely to have children, aren't they?  And they're under a lot of stress already from being doctors and all that.  So we just get their babies on board.  It's as easy as getting an adult to give candy to a baby.

Clever line.

Thank you. 

But how do you communicate with them?  They're presumably all over the country, there's no way you get out of the house to travel.

It's sad how stupid you adults really are.  Do you really think those baby monitors are one way?  They've been engineered as long range walkie-talkies.

I'm afraid of you.

Eh, don't worry about it.  You're so sleep deprived, you'll get to work tomorrow and think that this was just some hallucination. 

No really, I'm afraid of you.  I'm gonna start tattooing clues on my body for me to remember this stuff later like that dude in Memento. 

Don't forget - that guy was actually a bad dude.

Was he?  I didn't really get that movie. 

Oh, dad.  Just be quiet and plug my pacifier back in.  WAAH!