Babies Are Useless

Once you get over your, "(gasp) How can he say that about those precious little angels?" you'll agree with me. Think of all the animals within our mammalian phylum, they can at least support their own head's weight once they shoot out of the womb. A baby deer practically sprints out of his momma. Sure that could be to escape the 12-gauge pointed in their general direction, but it is impressive nonetheless.

I've monitored Benjamin's growth over the past two weeks and other than a few extra ounces and a few random gas related giggles, I see no progress. He's only 2 weeks old, but I feel like we're already a month behind. He's not even speaking Spanish yet, summer school looks to be inevitable.

I of course love seeing his slow progress and he is very cute, but that's about all human babies have going for them. God designed them to be incredibly cute so people would stick around and give it stuff. I read a new theory by "experts" that the original gestation period for human babies was actually 10.5 months - which would better prepare them to function with an extra month in the ol' oven.

Apparently carrying a baby for over 10 months was causing a slight case of death in mother's as they tried to push the gi-normous baby from their...area. So these early humans evolved to a shorter gestational period so the baby's head would be easier to fit through. This, however, rendered the baby to be completely useless for that first month in the world. I see some validity, but it is just a theory until I add my soon to be gathered empirical data.

One up-shot of a newborn baby's uselessness is that it makes them incredibly easy to use for impromptu puppet shows. I'm hoping the muscle memory will kick in, because he's been playing a mean air guitar and air drums. He can also put his hands in the air, and wave them like he just don't care. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that Benjamin is still pooping at 1st grade level.

What is Heaven?

If you ask Biblical scholars, they will tell you it is God's address. If you ask the women in yogurt commercials, it is strawberry Yoplait® Lite. But if you ask me, it is 7 hrs of sleep - which I can proudly say I got last night.

We implemented a few countermeasures to young Benjamin's routine last night to ensure that he falls asleep at the proper time and stays asleep - they seemed to do the trick. The real litmus test will be tonight and tomorrow night and the nights leading up to his college going away party. I won't bore you with the minutia of what we changed (different time, different sleep location, no swaddle), the important thing is that a pleasant night was enjoyed by all - unless you are the breastfeeder (she's a trooper).

I never really needed very much sleep to function at a high rate, in fact I used to pride myself on how little sleep I needed. In college, I was the first one up clanging the cereal bowls together and the last one clanging the midnight snack cereal bowls together. Sleep was actually a bit of a nuisance, it was the thief that stole primo hours from my night to read/play/watch/do/think. But now, I love me some Zzzz's.

Now if I don't get proper sleep for an extended period of time, I get headaches. Migraines that would put a water buffalo down on the ground. You seen the Hulk? It's like that, except my clothes don't rip apart and the only muscles that bulge are in my temples. You ever had a headache that made you throw up? Welcome to my world. For about a year I got a garden-variety migraine once a week, but I had to work so I dealt with the pain. But every now and then, like a sighting of Bigfoot or the appearance of Brigadoon (kudos if you got that reference) I will get a migraine so off the charts that the only relief is A.) Ice pick to cranium B.) find a cold bed with zero light in the room and shove my head into a pillow.

I give you all of this setup because my Benjamin induced sleep debt was reaching critical levels, not because of him or Emily, it has just been a shock to the system. I would hate to subconsciously link my pain to my child, but that's the way we humans work. When are vitality or sanity is compromised, pushing us to our primal edge, we lash out. You can see this behavior in action at your local pizza buffet on a Friday night.

So let's review: Yogurt, good. Headache, bad. Sleep, heaven.

I've Discovered A Wormhole

Having a baby has totally ripped a hole in my space-time continuum. Time is trickling right through my fingers like the sands of an hourglass, never to be spent again. This isn't "man, he's just growing up so fast (sniff)", this is literally reflecting on how the hours of the day feel like minutes.

In my typical work day, I feel really productive - I'm movin', I'm shakin', writing this, concepting that. Then I come home and get a workout in, eat some food and hang out with the Missus. Now, I feel like I'm doing 1/3 of my usual routine and burning twice the midnight oil. Some how, and I can't get the math to compute, everything takes 30 minutes to do. Feed the baby, 30 minutes. Bath the baby, 30 minutes. Walk the dog, 30 minutes. Cook Minute Rice®, 30 minutes.

And the real kick in the pants is that I feel like I'm moving twice as fast - helping Emily help the baby, cleaning up the house, food prep, bath prep, prep-prep. When I finally feel like I can kick back, it's 9:00 PM and my own fatigue is starting to seep in. I know, woe is me. There are plenty of people out there that do twice what I do, but they're called "Nannies" and they are getting paid.

It just occurred to me, my little cycle has a very Groundhog Day feel to it. Which helps to explain the loss of time - time remains the same but the incessant repetition of the actions blend them together so it feels like I'm only doing 4 things all day. I developed a helpful equation to represent this phenomenon: Freedom (F) equals Activities (A) multiplied by Repetition (R) divided by Time (T) or in other words: F=A(R)/T.

I have no idea how couples who have Quintuplets do it. Feeding one (1) baby = 30 minutes. Feeding five (5) babies = 90 minutes (assuming double dipping 4 of the kids). By the time you've burped and changed them, guess what, it's time to fire up the rubber nipples again for another feeding. So I suppose the lesson here is to be thankful for your own situation and treasure the time you do have before it ticks away.

By the way, writing this took 30 minutes.

I wonder, is it frowned upon to put a baby on an IV milk-drip? Sure, I may get glares from people, but if it means reclaiming 30 minute pockets of my life back - let's the self-righteous judging begin.

The Crying Game

Alright, let the real fun begin - implementing the disciplined schedule to a newborn baby. Goodie. I've heard some parents say that there is nothing more beautiful to their ears then the sound of their baby crying. Those people need to be committed. A baby's furious wailing is a mind-numbing noise that, when heard repeatedly, doesn't even sound human.

In fact, your own personal level of sleep deprivation bends and contorts the sounds of a baby's cry so it sounds like: the bah'ing of a baby goat, a Geiger counter hovering over a pile of Uranium, a dishwasher with you inside of it. Forget water-boarding, they should pipe in a play group's worth of infants into an interrogation chamber, that'll get the Taliban gossiping like US Weekly.

Getting back to the task at hand, we are following the routine of - feed, waketime, naptime. So after a hearty meal, it is 20 minutes of waketime activities (like wind-sprints) and then it is off to bed with him, whether he wants to or not. Here is where the crying comes in. Obviously the baby wants to keep the good times rolling, but if they stay up too long, the schedule is thrown into flux. Emily and I encountered severe push-back on this last night, and we made the mistake of attempting this regime change at 3:00 am. Kids, nothing good ever happens at 3:00 am.

Being new parents we could easily fall prey to "letting it ride" or "I'll just hold him for a bit." From what we hear, that is the first step down a slippery-slope that some parents can never recover from. They will forever bow down to their baby's every whim - MaMa....PaPa...kiss the ring. Thankfully, I can put up a nice stonewall of emotion and not give into the cries of my child to keep the greater good intact.

You see it's not my heart-strings that are pulled by a baby crying, it is my sanity strings. Too much of any sound ('cept the sound of $$, holla!) will drive me crazy. Music, alarms, bird cackles (the worst) - the simple repetition of the right/wrong frequencies is a cheese grater to the very core of my being. I disassembled a coworker's Big Mouth Billy Bass after hours one time. I was secretly thanked by the entire office.

I can't wait to get to the other side of this part of parenting. Oh, and I could do without the yellow deli-style mustard poops too.

Baby Skin

So many cosmetic companies tout their products as "baby soft" or "smooth as a baby's bottom" - this is simply false advertising. There is nothing on Earth softer than a newborn baby's skin. The only rival I can possibly think of is an angel's hair that has been recently cream rinsed.

Benjamin's skin and hair are so soft, in fact, there are times when my fingers can't even register that I'm touching something - void of friction, void of surface tension, void of capillary detection.

His skin makes mine feel like a dry Acme® brick covered in five o'clock shadow. Which makes me wonder what he must be feeling as I dredge my mitts across his soft, chubby cheek - over, and over, and over again.

You know what's not soft on a baby? Their fingernails. I was all up in his face giving him an Eskimo kiss and SNIKT, he swiped my forehead with his Wolverine claw. It didn't hurt, but much like a paper cut, it was a severe annoyance. Probably worthy of a Purple Heart in the French Army (le zing!).

We would trim them, but both of us are nervous about clipping or filing his nails down, the same way he don't like to trim our dog's nails. Because if you mess up, overshoot the nail by a micron...we're talking pain jack, serious scream your guts out, call Child Protective Services - pain. So we may let it ride and just insist that he takes an interest in playing the guitar or banjo.

The Love of a Big Brother

It may be news to some of you, but Benjamin is actually our 2nd child. Emily and I adopted our first child in 2003 and he has been the sole recipient of our love, wisdom and discipline. Sure, he is covered in hair and poops outside, but a parent's love knows no bounds. I am of course talking about our beagle/cocker spaniel wonder-mutt, Schmax.

I have a special place in my heart for dogs. The only times I have teared up at the cineplex was during the Passion of the Christ and Homeward Bound. I wanted to sack Mike Vick right between the numbers the more I heard about his deprave canine escapades. I just love dogs and everything they represent. Except Chihuahuas, those were grown in a lab somewhere.

Schmax is a great pooch. And he is a little "special." Out of all of the dogs in the free-world, we of course adopt one with allergies; allergies so bad that he will literally scratch his ears until they bleed. Thus the $50 dog food and the cone he is cursed to wear like a scarlet "C". All of this is to set up the fact that not only was Schmax the top dog (groan) in our house, we cared for him in special ways. Needless to say Emily and I were VERY interested (concerned) to see (monitor) how Schmax would react (pounce) when we brought home a new lifeform that requires even more attention than slapping on a plastic cone.

Without having any background whatsoever in zoological studies, I have been able to observe both subjects in their natural habitats, trying not to insert my presence unless it is totally necessary. My findings follow the classic stages of grief:

Denial: This was incredibly easy to spot. "Hey Schmax, come meet your baby...Schmax...hello...o-kay." He gave Benajmin an initial sniff and then went about his arduous schedule of sleeping 21 hours a day. We would try to coax him to come out and he clearly preferred to lick himself.

Anger: Luckily this one hasn't truly manifested into anything physical. It was more passive-aggressive. The 2nd day we were home, Schmax walked over to the pack-n-play and saw Benjamin. He then shot a glare, dripping with humanism, that we interpreted as "Hmph, HE'S still here? Whatever." It was starting to seep into his lemon-sized brain that this "thing" was going to be here awhile.

Bargaining: This was the funniest to me. If Emily or I were ooh'ing or aah'ing over Benjamin, Schmax would quickly run up to me with one of his squeaky toys, as if to say "Hey, remember how much playing 'chase' is with me? Let's play it right now, c'mon, whatareyouwaitingfor?!?"

Acceptance: Schmax has made a breakthrough. He is still curious at this new creature and all of the new sounds and smells, but he seems a lot more comfortable with the new family dynamic. In fact, and this is a true story, Benjamin was laying on our couch 2 days ago and Schmax hopped up on the couch and dropped his precious football toy next to Benjamin.

It was a sweet moment, despite our baby being covered in toy slobber and our dog hopping on the couch (a forbidden zone punishable by death). But that's what dogs do, they just love. And I can't wait to teach Benjamin about what a cool older brother he has in Schmax. And I truly can't wait for the day when my two boys and I can watch Homeward Bound together.

Give it to me straight Doc...

I have been blessed with decent coordination and a fairly strong immune system, so I have rarely had to go to the doctor for anything other than a cough-n-turn check up. I have not, however, been inside too many pediatrician's offices. So today was new for both Benjamin and myself.

First, the parking lot is packed (never a good sign). Second, they must tell everyone to just come in at 9:00 AM. Third, I didn't want to look or touch anything or anyone there. Again, I am not a germ freak, but I don't want my baby to catch whatever these walking dead were infested with (harsh?). I seriously held the baby carrier in both arms as if it were the last parachute on a crashing plane. This waiting room looked like the leper colonies of Calcutta, minus the lepers and the cattle, but you get the point.

Thankfully I slipped the nurse a $20 and she let us wait behind closed doors (I avoided the pun of slipping her a 'benjamin, you're welcome). The doctor is a very nice woman and seems competent in every way, but there's one thing I can't get out of my head - how much she looks like "Stands with Fist" from the movie Dances with Wolves. She is explaining how great Benjamin is doing, gaining weight, etc. but all I can hear in my head is "John Dunbar", "Kicking Biiird", and "Ta-ton-ka!"

Enough of me. Benjamin is back to his birth weight (9.6lbs) and has grown an inch. He has lost his bellybutton-thingy and skin is looking good - thanks Aqua Velva! He does have one little malady, a blocked tearduct. Not a big deal, but it gives his eye a very alien-like quality. When he opens it, it looks like a xenophobe egg is hatching, yellow strands of mucus preventing the eye from achieving full breach. There may be some hyperbole in the last sentence.

He is a trooper. Life is good. And we thank God for blessing us with a healthy baby, xenophobic eye and all.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

You're familiar with this term from cop TV shows (cue the Law & Order sound). There is always the rough cop that shakes the perp up to rattle his cage, and then his soft-spoken partner comes in and calms things down so the perp will give up the goods. The Bad Cop is the grizzled vet who is always named something like Scagnetti, while the Good Cop is usually easier on the eyes and wears a nice Windsor knot.

Take a guess which role I have sloughed into? Dale Scagnetti reporting for duty.

It has only been 6 days and I have already become the bane of Benjamin's existence, and it mainly stems from the coldness of my hands. I could seriously make you a scoop of ice cream with some milk, rock salt and a little patience. They feel great to me, but to a newborn they contract every muscle fiber in their body and invoke a lip-quivering grimace.

So my duties include waking the baby up for feeding (quiver), keeping the baby awake after feeding (shudder), and swaddling him to go back to sleep (dad, quit touching me!). His interaction with Emily, however, teeters on reaching the 7th plane of nirvana. Her warm hands and body cradle him (ooh), he gets a nutritious milkshake every couple of hours (aah), and she is all-around more pleasing to the eyes and ears (mom, i wuv you).

I guess the one saving grace is that there is no Good Cop without Bad Cop, there would just be "cop." Much like other relationships (sun/moon, night/day, hot/cold) you have to one to appreciate/loathe the other. Maybe me and my hands will be more useful in the future when Benjamin is swoon with the flu or has eaten too much salsa. We'll see...now, who wants ice cream!?

I'm already tired of washing my hands

I am a pretty neat and tidy person, some of you would call this an understatement. But in the past week I have washed my hands so many times, you may not be able to fingerprint me. Let the cat-burgling begin!

I have always washed up after bathroom breaks and before cooking, etc. but it has never been an activity that randomly hits me, "Hmm...I think I'll wash my hands, just cuz!" But I've caught myself doing that a couple of times, just in case a baby touching event is about to happen. There is also a direct correlation to my increase in hand washing with my increase in handling poo-poo.

We keep a bottle of hand soap in our guest bathroom and it seriously seems to last us a month or two. Now, I would be surprised if it lasts the week. Time to rework the budget I suppose.

I do not like hand sanitizer, there is just something wrong with a liquid that instantly evaporates taking all of the bio-material on your hands with it. Theoretically, if it is airborne, won't we inhale it? A guy at Proctor & Gamble is reading and just stole my idea for Nostril and Mouth Sanitizer.

I'm sure all of this mega-cleanliness will fade when the baby still gets sick, and I rationalize that all of my scrub-a-dubbing is a waste of time. Plus, I don't want to become a parent that sterilizes every single thing a child comes in contact with. I am a big believer in keeping a healthy amount of bacteria in and on our bodies to help protect against the really bad kind. That's why I'm going to rub Benjamin down every night with active-culture yogurt, and follow the instructions on the container and put the "fruit on the bottom".

It's official, we are not babysitting

This entire time we have had Benjamin, some part of me in the back of my head is still looking at this as an extended babysitting session for some friends of ours. Like any minute they will show back up and take their bundle of joy back to their house and we can resume life a la Alexander-style - sleeping in, playing some Xbox, chasing Schmax around.

Not so. That small piece of my brain is slowly coming to the realization that that mythical couple is never showing up and we are the primary caregivers for this baby. I am pretty sure that this is one sided, Emily has taken to parenting like a fish to water.

Beyond the babysitting allusion, my brain has also reverted to what I know best - video games. There are a lot of times in my travels from here to there that to pass the time, I play out the task at hand like it were a video game - the better I complete the task, the more "points" I earn, like a Sims® game (no, I don't keep a tally of points in my coat pocket, but let's say I have 17,835). So I have noticed that I've been doing this with the baby, parenting as if I were in a parenting simulation.

I don't think I'm "winning" at this game yet, I'm learning the layout of the controller so to speak. But I also don't want to deprive myself of the warm and fuzzy moments of parenting because I'm so busy trying to optimize how well I can change a diaper and clean up afterward (47.3 sec). Even typing this passage makes me consider - am I really a cyborg? 101010010010101

Benjamin has arrived

This is admittedly quick and really more of a test of the site, but Benjamin Grant Alexander is now home and life with a baby has begun for Emily and myself. My first comment is that I feel like a magician's assistant to Emily's magician - never really doing the trick but always whisking away the elements from the last spectacle and prepping for the new illusion - tada!

I hope I keep up with this and don't run out of steam. So here's to writing a blog that less than 10 people will ever read. Enjoy!