I’ve got to admit it’s getting better

Paul: Getting better, All the time.

John: It can’t get much worse.

Here I sit. Week 9. And things are looking up. The cockles of my heart, which are normally crusted over with barnacles and flotsam, are slowly warming to my kid.

Two big things have happened in the last couple of weeks that have made our life easier. First off, when he wakes up, and sees us, he smiles. Oh my god. I would never have dreamed a smile could make my day. But when this drooling blob of a crying thing normally stares at blank walls… and then one day he catches your eye, focuses at you, and you can watch the smile expand across his face… wow. That just is awesome. You can actually see his little brain work. He stares at you. He locks in. And then this grin just blossoms to a full fledged smile as it cleaves its way across his cute little face.

The other big thing is that when we set him down on his back now, he’s able to stomach… er, umm, he’s able to “back” it a bit better now. He’s not going to set any marathon records for “chilling” (by the way, the lowest ratest Olympic event on television)… but he at least can occasionally occupy himself by staring at who-knows-what for 10-15 minutes at a time. You wouldn’t think that’s a lot — but it feels like a world of difference. (Like at my old job, when it was 1:45pm, it felt like I had all the time in the world to get shit done for the day; then suddenly at 2:45pm, I was in panic mode because I only had a couple hours left. It’s all perception.)

Feeling free for the first time… being able to not have a baby on your chest (me) or boob (well, me kind of, but supposed to be my wife) is amazing. I can go upstairs and poo. She can take a quick shower. We can microwave ourselves a nutritious dinner and scarf it down at the same time. We can eat with two hands.

So, yeah. Things are getting better at week 9. He can hold his little head up for longer periods, before his neck caves and his big ol’ noggin’ slumps over to his shoulders. (It’s like watching a weight lifter give out on the last bench press.) He’s following us now with his eyes when we leave a room.

And I can make him laugh with funny sounds. (Well, sort of “laugh…” It’s more like he’s smiling, and he tries to breathe in at the same time and it’s likely more of a wheeze, but I prefer to categorize it as a laugh.)  He has this weird jingly-toy with a bunny head and dangly legs. It sounds and looks like a broken wind chime with the head of a possessed bunny. My wife hates it– but it captures his attention for hours…er, well… minutes. (Which feels like hours when he’s quiet and staring at it.) I’ve given it life, and made a voice for the toy: she’s a Spanish speaking old woman, I call her, “Senorita Conejita.”  (Miss Bunny, roughly translated) And she sounds like your high school Spanish teacher on LSD, “Hola mi hijo. Como estaaaaaas? Me llamo Senorita Conejita. Como te llamas? Me gusta ir ala bibliotecaaaaaa.”

Oh, and all of the above stuff I whined about: my wife has it 20x worse. She’s much tougher than I am. She rarely gets a break. I leave for work sometimes, or go on short business trips. I’m complaining about having to hang out with him for maybe a few hours a day, and she’s stuck with him for hours. So I know I’ve got it easy to begin with.

Joining the elite ranks of the Parent Club

We live on a block with lots of kids. And the parents on this block were always having block parties. But we were never invited. However, ever since having our son we’ve been invited to two different potlucks. It’s like we finally gained access into their secret club where the only way to break into their ranks was to spit out a kid. All we need now are a couple of members only jackets and a secret handshake like the water Buffalo Lodge.

And if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to get in good with kids. So for the potluck, I decided to make the most kid friendly dish possible. That’s right: homemade macaroni and cheese. As I see it, you get in good with the kids, and that opens doors to getting in good with the parents. And that means, more invites to future block parties.

By the way, it was a crock pot macaroni and cheese recipe from Paula Deen. And it kicked ass. I even had parents coming up to me asking for the recipe. So easy to make. Just throw a bunch of crap into a crockpot and a few hours lator… voila! Instant popularity.

Count it. And one.

Do I really want to go to their block parties? No, not really. I just want to be invited to their block parties. Strike that. One of the neighbors really knows how to grill up meat. Plus, he has direct TV and he has the NFL Sunday ticket package. So I really really want to get in good with that neighbor.