I'm Tired So You Get Pictures Vol. 3

Well...to be quite honest, I'm not only tired, but I'm a bit drunk. We had our friends Jeff and Sydney over for dinner tonight and they came equipped with a couple bottles of "2 Buck Chuck" direct from Trader Joe's. Anyway, not much in the mood for writing...I'd rather be hanging out with Young Old, weaving tall tales of gentle goblins, sober pirates, and fiendish Republicans.

So yeah, a few pictures to tide you over.

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Young Old and I on a recent neighborhood excursion with Mama K to return those goddamn Mom to Mom diapers (see earlier post). He loves his stroller, checking out the passing scenery or napping like a narcoleptic whenever he so pleases.

Mama K's life. Milk Bladder, Burp Rag, Sleep Aid. Those are her three job titles. And I love her for it. She's easily the most patient, loving person I know. Big ups.

One of our favorite shirts...thanks, Annie! One of the great things about this whole "Baby" thing = free shit from loving friends/family that you previously wish you could buy but couldn't afford. More on that later.

Mark of the B(r)east

Big Brother recently cast his gaze upon our son, as evidenced by this envelope dropped in our mailbox by uniformed government agents. Young Old's first piece of mail, and it's the allotment of a number, his number, a notification that he's now part of "The System."

While we muttered about the silly necessity of it all, Young Old was displaying a marvelously mature level of apathy, showing less interest in any imagined black helicopters hovering overhead than in the delicious taste of said envelope as he brazenly began to devour his SSN card, a federal offense, to be sure.

"Fuck the Man" in his own special way.

I'm Tired So You Get Pictures Vol. 2

Not only am I too tired to write much (maybe four hours of sleep last night broken up into 1/2 hour chunks), but Young Old is in need of consolation, so I'm typing this with one hand...

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The rarest of moments.

Another rare instance of sleep.

Okay, so maybe he does sleep a lot, but Jesus, it's at all the wrong times. I don't think he's quite grasped the idea of day and night. Seen here with our homie Pork, who's basically another mother to Mama K and I. Not seen is her hubby Mike, who threatened to cook Young Old up if "it" came near him. We love you guys.

Telepathy rules.

This little pig in a blanket loves kisses.

Or not.

One thing he does love is his personal Milk Bladder AKA his mother.

The Nap: Once Hated, Now Loved

I've never been one for naps. They so happen to be Mama K's favorite pastime, but for me, life is just too short for sleeping during the day when there are so many interesting places to visit, people to meet, foods to taste, books to devour...

Honestly, I've never been much in support of sleep, in general. I maybe manage a solid six hours each night, and usually savor those last few hours before bed like a death row inmate's last meal. I'm with Nas on this one: I never sleep/'cause sleep is the cousin of death.

That being said, my candle having finally been burned steadily from both ends until all that's left is a sad, tired, wick-less lump of spent wax, I found myself sprawling on the sofa with Young Old, our lids craving a bit of the Sandman's wares.

I napped for the first time in over a year, and my goodness, it was a delightful experience, letting go of the expectations caused by the plethora of delights waiting to be consumed, instead simply snuggling up to my son, drifting off into the land of REM together.

I love you, O gracious Nap. We shall meet again.

Currently My Favorite Book

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I haven't had much time for reading from my personal library since our Big Bang popped off (or is that out?). When I have a free minute or two, I usually find myself hitting up our stack of baby books rather than saying what's up to my homeboys Conrad, Twain, and Chekhov.

Lately, I've found myself turning more and more to a single book when I'm at my wit's end with our newest addition to the family. It's called The New Father, and it's written by some cat named Armin Brott. It's a fucking life saver, and I'd gladly recommend it to any new progenitor.

Thank you Mr. Brott, you're saving me from losing my sanity. As a bonus, I also get to bring up some occasionally interesting baby factoids and spout out amazing "insights" during the course of the day's activities, causing Mama K to think I'm some kind of parent expert or something.

Score.

I'm Tired So You Get Pictures Vol. 1

With this, I'm ushering in a new self-explanatory series of posts called "I'm Tired So You Get Pictures Vol.__"...this is to avoid having to constantly explain why there's very little in the way of written updates coming your way on that particular day (Hint: it's due to sleep deprivation and my inherent laziness. Blame it on my genetics; I sure do).

Furthermore, Sundays will be a period of rest for me, the God of Blog having declared it so. Only when I'm feeling particularly blasphemous, will a post come your way.

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His hands look so...little. This was taken just after trimming his razor-sharp, thinner than tissue, nails for the first time.

One half of the Kecky duo, our friend Kate doesn't quite know what to make of this little breeder product. That thing on her lap? Only the greatest invention ever (aside from the boom box, obviously). It's called a Boppy, but we call it our Spare Tire. It helps prevent arm fatigue from holding up his 37 lb. skull package and doubles as a mop of sorts for all the gallons of milk vomit Young Old secretes.

A radiant Mama K, overjoyed with our Baby Bjorn. You, too, can be a marsupial.

Wow, I'm so totally smitten by these two. Life is good...

First Outing: Hollywood Farmer's Market

This last weekend we decided to give Young Old his first true taste of the outside world. Immature immune system be damned, we were going stir crazy and had to get out of our apartment and do something besides cleaning up processed-milk leakage. So we set out for the Hollywood neighborhood's lovely farmer's market, a veritable bonanza of local, and usually organic, foods. It was a lot of fun watching Young Old's reactions to the sounds, colors, and smells. When he wasn't sleeping or wincing from the retinal sun damage, he seemed to be enjoying himself, as much as a two week-old former fetus can.

A few photos:

Young Old Gets Grouchy / First Bath

Things had been going so well, but apparently, the only constant in parenting is the fact that things change on a near-constant basis.

We didn't sleep a wink last night, grumbling through a nightmare of screams, frantic milk-gulping and shit-leaked diapers. We finally said "Fuck it" around noon:thirty, and dragged ourselves out of bed in order to make it to another doctor's appointment. Young Old has been grumpy, irritated, and ravenously hungry, feeding every hour or so. Thanks for being a wonderfully efficient laxative, Mr. Milk! Because of you, we got to change drippy poop bags every 30 minutes today! The Boy hasn't been sleeping well. In fact, we've abstained from taking any photos today in fear of waking the Breast Buddy with the flash or the noise of the shutter.

On top of all this, his diapers are completely faulty, certainly in need of a recall. I thought that, while waiting for our cloth diaper service to kick in, I'd stick it to The Man, and not support Huggies for once, opting instead for the Mom To Mom: Sharing Wisdom brand. Big mistake. The company should be renamed to Child to Parents: Sharing Fluids. They don't even hold a single serving of pee, and definitely don't deliver in the doodoo department. On the front of the package, they proudly display a satisfied (and likely fabricated) consumer's testimonial. It states: "My baby stays dry and comfy--and they're so soft." Fuck you. My son has a diaper rash thanks to your soft, comfy, dryness. I know, you're all probably tired of my frequent mentions of excrement and urine, but get over it, this is our life right now and Young Old will be forced to look at these annals in the future in order to prove how much we love him and his incontinent nether-regions.

So we did some reading, and it turns out that at this point in the developmental cycle, Young Old is apparently going through some sort of a growth spurt. Spurt is right. All these things we're going through with him are natural, but goddamn we're tired. Supposedly this "Spurt" will last 4-5 days, at which point we'll likely be reduced to burned-out husks of our former selves. An early bedtime is indeed called for. Let's say 7pm.

Well, good night.

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In honor of happier days, here are a few adorable photos of Young Old's first bath.

His APGAR Was Off the Chain

We had our first well-baby visit today, and Young Old is doing great. He's strong like tiger, falls into all the normal ranges for weight and height, has a small head for his age group (being a pinhead runs in the family, right Mama K?), and released a dirty bomb right into the waiting hands of our pediatrician.

Atta boy.

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A few pictures from this past week:

Cold chubby cheek chillin'.

Push-ups on the gym mat. He hates exercise as much as I do, but he's pushing past the pain. He should be ready for the 2032 Olympics on Rigel XIII.

Dude loves his mama.

We miss you already, Grandma Fox. Now who's going to wash all these crusty dishes? Seriously, though, you kept us going these last two weeks. And Young Old already misses you.

Young Old doing that weird Travolta/Thurman dance from Pulp Fiction.

Our little titty tree frog.

Homeboy's first doll. They're already fast friends.

Sleep-deprived, utterly delirious, and loving every second of this (though I must admit, I'm counting down the days till Young Old and I can go drink 40s on the Steel Bridge and wax poetic).

My Little Rap Fiend

Young Old is rapidly developing into a musical connoisseur. For the last week or so, every time he's getting his diaper changed by Poppa Old, the ancient boom box in his room has been quietly bumping some form of tunage. Easing him into the the world of ear candy slowly, we started off with some light-hearted jazz...Oscar Peterson Trio, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Scott Joplin, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, etc. He loves the stuff, listening calmly, his body still with such rapt attention that at first I thought he was having a seizure. However much he's diggin' this shit, though, I still don't think he's quite ready for Coltrane or Monk. It'll certainly be awhile before Sun Ra enters the rotation.

The other night we sat down to watch a movie for the first time since his birth. Perusing through our ever present stack of rented library films, I thought we'd pass on The Crazies and Aguirre, Wrath of God, instead opting for Amadeus, a wonderful loosely-based historical piece about Mozart and the rumored-hand that fellow composer Antonio Salieri had in his murder. Anyway, the entire film was scored with Wolfgang's breathtaking music, and for the entire duration, Young Old lay there, eyes open, a look of peaceful relaxation stealing over his features. Since we're raising Young Old pacifier-free, classical music shall be our method of choice for soothing the beast.

Last night, while Mama K was out of the house picking up some Chinese take-out, the Boy started to get fussy, which eventually led to a full-on exhibition of his screaming abilities (which are prodigious, to say the least). Our little Baron of the Breast was starving, and the Boob was unavailable. I tried everything to soothe him. I re-swaddled him. We rocked, we danced, we swung back and forth, we jiggled. I changed his diaper. I tried burping him, tickling him, singing to him, telling him a ridiculously outlandish tale. All to no avail. Finally, I went the hip hop route. For the last few days I had been having this serious internal debate over which rap record I'd use to introduce Young Old one of my musical passions. Would I go old school and play him some Grand Master Flash & The Furious Five? Indie-style with some Project Blowed? Bay Area with some Hieroglyphics? Gangsta with The Chronic? Angry militancy with Public Enemy? Drugged-out with Dre Dog? Happy-go-lucky with Pigeon John? Tie-in the love of jazz with Digable Planets? Metaphorically demented with Aesop Rock? The sheer greatness of the Wu-Tang Clan? As you can see, it was enough to make my head spin with the pressure, this heavy burden of a weighty choice that could set the path for my son's musical preferences for the rest of his life.

So in the end, I chose Nas. Specifically, N.Y. State Of Mind off of the classic hip hop album, Illmatic. A supremely wise choice, I soon found. All that crazy crying Young Old was dousing me with, all that frantic milk-starved hysteria? Gone in a flash the moment the track started up. Wide-eyed, he absorbed every word (thankfully he can't yet understand the fairly inappropriate lyrics), and I'm sure would have nodded his head to every beat if he had the muscle strength.

Not to brag, but my boy's got good taste:)


[Update: I've since played the Illmatic album in its entirety, and indeed, he loves every minute of it.]