3 Months Old!, Thermostat Wars

My daughter turned 3 months old today.  To mark the occasion, she rolled over about 3/4 of the way and pooped at least 12 times.  A busy day.  She can also hold her head up expertly, and looks tremendously cute sitting upright leaning back on our huge couch.  I celebrated by running 9 miles and having an aching knee, although the bottle of wine that my wife and I shared over lunch helped that a great deal.  

When I returned from running some errands my wife urgently informed me that it was freezing in our house.  In fact, it was the same 73F that it has been all summer, much warmer than the 68F I would prefer.  My wife is convinced that our daughter is always cold--despite pediatricians recommending keeping a home with a baby in it 68-72F.  So I'm pretty sure our daughter is fine, if not hot.  So, here's the question: why are women always cold and men always warm?  It seems counter-intuitive because women have more body fat and typically more hair.  Are they secretly reptilian?  It sucks.  And now, of course, our thermostat is set to 75F because let's face it, life is too short.  At least now I won't feel bad about spending the entire day in my underwear.  Of course, as my daughter grows up and becomes one of the vocal, cold-blooded females of the world, I'm going to be outnumbered, and it's going to suck.  Bottom line: I need a  son, ASAP.  But having a second kid scares the crap out of me, because my daughter is so fantastic.  And having an ally in the thermostat wars might not be the best reason to have Irish twins.

Getting Out

We went to a friend's wedding yesterday afternoon and evening, the first time we've left our daughter with a babysitter to whom she isn't related.  

It's very stressful to leave your baby, very unnatural.  After a long, long tour and explanation of everything to the sitter--"the number for 911 is 911"--we left and looked at each other in a 'here goes nothing' sort of way.  We texted the sitter from the wedding, gotta love modern conveniences, and were told that our daughter had been great but was lately "kinda fussy."  We took that as a euphemism for crying inconsolably which is probably about accurate, but we were happy to receive a follow-up text that she had since fallen asleep.  And in spite of eating almost nothing, she slept through the night!  Rockstar baby.

The good news is that we're now pretty comfortable with the idea of leaving our daughter with a sitter in future--no adverse effects, house didn't burn down, wasn't struck by a meteor--so look out Chicago nightlife, here we come.  An ironic parting fact: we spent more on the babysitter than on the wedding gift.  C'est la vie.

A Long 18 Years...

I always thought, and I guess I still do, that I'd want a smart alec kid.  The sort who sees the humor in someone stubbing their toe, rather than a kid who'd cry in sympathy.  Well, today my daughter was having a rough patch, fussy, nothing would make her happy.  Finally, I tried lying on the couch and holding her above me, doing the "flying-baby" of which she is quite fond.  She was okay with that, but still not thrilled.  As I was about to lower her, she puked all over me.  And proceeded to giggle--happy as could be--as I surveyed the scope of the barf with a gagging look on my face.  If that's how it's going to be, it may be a long 18 years for Bum Dad.

Fart sounds

My daughter is wonderful.  Yesterday she was unhappy about something, so I stuck my tongue out at her and made a fart sound (I don't recommend this for dealing with unhappy women over the age of 3, however).  She immediately smiled, so I did it again and again, and she became more and more excited and giggly each time.  Finally, she decided she wanted in on the fun, and stuck her tongue out.  She crossed her eyes and fixed them on the tip of her tongue and looked expectantly at it, waiting for the sound.  She starting straining her neck forward, trying to figure out why her tongue wouldn't make a noise.  When she surmised that that wouldn't work, she tried darting her tongue in and out like a little frog.  Still nothing, so she decided it wasn't going to happen for her and reverted her attention to my tongue farts, a big grin on her face.

Smartest Baby Ever

I started running 3 weeks ago, and I'm addicted.  Nothing too ridiculous yet, 5 miles 4 or 5 times a week.  I never had the combination of time and energy while I was working, but now burning 45 minutes is no big deal, and I get plenty of sleep.  I think when I reach a plateau and am not going faster each time out I may get bored, but for now the obvious improvement every time makes it enjoyable.  Well, yesterday I went running by the lake, and headed south.  I was flying.  I couldn't believe how fast I was going, I thought maybe I had seen the wrong time on my iPod when I started, or something.  I stopped for a drink at my usual water fountain and turned to head back home.  Holy wind, Batman!  Apparently I had had a 20 mile per hour tailwind the whole way down.  Going back home I swear it felt as if I were running but going backwards.  It sucked.  From now on I will always check the wind direction, and run into the wind first. 

What made it all worth it, though, was about a block from home I jogged by a woman trying to parallel park on the street.  I saw her first attempt from a distance, and was alongside her as she tried for the second time.  No luck.  This was a huge, huge space.   A large SUV could easily have parked there, yet she couldn't get Corolla into the spot.  I saw two more attempts before she realized I was watching and laughing, at which point she peeled out, ran a stop sign and disappeared.  Note to self:  I will personally teach my daughter how to park.

The highlight of the day, though, was of course my daughter.  She's had an interest in playing peekaboo for a while now.  I'll lift her shirt over her eyes, she'll squeal, I'll lower her shirt and she'll be oh so happy to see me.  Sounds boring, but trust me it's awesome.  Anyway, last night we were playing, and instead of giggling when I covered her eyes, she strained to lift her whole body up so she could see me over her shirt.  She was pleased with herself, but I was beside myself.  I got my wife to video it and everything, it's on YouTube now.  If you can find me another 2 month old who can figure that out, I'll be very surprised.  In sum, I have the smartest kid ever.

Boasting Dad Alert

Happy Birthday Dad!

You'll hear a lot of parents, especially dads, proclaiming that their child is the greatest, smartest, best, cutest, whatever.  Guess what?  They're all wrong, because my daughter is the greatest.  I don't brag about her much because it's tacky, but today is an exception.  It's grandpa's birthday, so let's hear how awesome his granddaughter is.

One of the theaters near our place has a "family matinee day" for the first screenings of all movies on Tuesdays.  By family, they mean potential screaming babies and loud children are allowed.  We decided to go see The Dark Knight, since everyone says it's the greatest movie etc etc.  There were maybe six or eight other babies there besides ours, and they all started screaming at one point or another.  One screamed pretty much the entire movie, and his dad saw fit to stand beside the last row (which happened to be where we were sitting) and hold the screaming baby rather than address the problem.  Not too cool.  But anyway, my daughter didn't cry once.  She made her hungry grunt and wave once, and got fed.  She napped a little, but mostly entertained herself.  She looked puzzled at the crying babies, peering down her nose at them from her car-seat throne, Queen of the Babies.

Oh man, still laughing.

 I'm too tired to write anything today.  My daughter wouldn't go to sleep last night, so we had her in bed with us.  It was like trying to sleep next to a bear cub.  A hungry bear cub that smelled honey or salmon or whatever the hell bear cubs eat.  Luckily, my sister-in-law sent me this wonderful little picture, and I think it's funny enough to warrant its own post.

Herding Cats

I was running on the trail that borders Lake Michigan today.  There were all sorts of 3 and 4 year olds running wild, part of some pre-school group I think.  I felt bad for the poor ladies who were chasing after them, trying to keep them semi-orderly, and to lose less than 20% of the kids (that's the acceptable rate, so I hear).  Whoever coined the phrase "herding cats" was spot on--no sooner would one of the tenders retrieve a straying child than another child would start wandering off in another direction.  I can't think of many worse jobs.

I ran on, dodging kids hither and thither, until I came upon a very strange sight.  There were 12 or 15 kids in a group, walking in single-file, and as I got closer I saw that they were wearing matching reflective vests.  As I came up beside them, I saw that they were all holding on to a rope with loops attached for them to grab onto.  I don't think they have juvenile hall for 3-4 year olds, but if they did, this what the chain gang would look like.  I half-expected them to be picking up garbage, but they didn't appear to be.  Bummer.  Guess I won't be able to threaten my daughter with having to go pick up trash near Lake Michigan if she doesn't finish her dinner.

Dress Up

If my daughter ever has trouble deciding on a Halloween costume, I think Harry Caray would work.

Motion Sickness

My parents are going to read this with big smirks on their faces: my daughter has severe motion sickness.  Up until about the age of 12, just about any sort of movement would make me vomit.  I puked on planes, in cars, on boats, in buses.  I even threw up in a planetarium in Denmark--apple cinnamon pancakes, I remember it vividly.  To their credit, my parents never got visibly upset with me, though I'm sure they were livid.  I guess there's not much to do about it, you know the kid feels like total shit too.  I think possibly my earliest memory is being 3 or so, and eating at least a pound of strawberries at the airport as we were embarking on a trip to the US from Botswana.  As soon as the plane took off, I vomited all over myself and my parents.  We had another 30 hours of travel ahead of us.  I don't remember that part.  I bet they do.

Motion sickness is no joke either.  Maybe the worst I've ever had it was in Mozambique when I was attempting to get scuba certified.  I was wearing a wetsuit that fit too tightly around my neck, and we were in a small inflatable boat that was belching diesel fumes straight at me, charging through pretty big swells.  I really didn't want to barf in front of everyone on the boat, so I managed to keep things under control until I was in the water, floating, waiting to go down.  At that point, having my snorkel in my mouth put me over the edge, and I threw up my breakfast.  I decided to say fuck it to scuba diving, and swam back to the boat.  Not a good move.  Once one the boat I thought I was going to die.  We were over a mile offshore but I decided the best course of action would be to swim for it.  I told the captain this, and tanks and all I prepared to jump back into the Indian Ocean and make my way to shore.  Luckily, he stopped me and hailed a passing boat, put me on that, and I made it back to shore alive.  I lay face down in the sand for a while, ecstatic to be on solid ground.  

So a few weeks ago we received a baby swing as a gift.  For those of you who don't know, its basically a car-seat looking contraption that is suspended by a pole, connected to a stand.  It is battery-powered and rocks from side-to-side.  Babies supposedly become completely sedate when placed in swings, hence their nickname, "neglecto-matics," because you can leave most babies there for long periods without a peep.  

The first time we put our daughter in it she didn't seem very happy, so we took her out quickly, and that was that.  The second time, she was quiet and got a glazed-over look on her face.  She whimpered a bit, so my wife picked her up--barf!  Hmm, maybe she just didn't feel well to begin with.  We tried it again a few days later, no whimpering this time to warn us, just barfing.  A lot of it.  And for those of you who don't know, baby barf is pretty bad.  It looks like cottage cheese and smells like the sourest milk you've ever smelled.  These episodes, coupled with a few incidences of barfing in the car (most babies fall asleep instantly in car-seats) has lead us to the unfortunate realization that she has very bad motion sickness.  I have to say, if she ends up flying before she's a teenager (a bragging point in the South--"I rode a plane!!") she will be so drugged up she won't have any recollection of the trip.  

So Mom and Dad, guess its my turn to deal with a barfer.  In retrospect I'm glad I had the same problem so I can relate to her and not get upset.  Also, before we try any inter-continental flights such as to visit the grandparents, I'm going to need a supply of elephant tranquilizer.  Anyone in southern Africa have any black market leads on that?  I'll trade you some manhole covers for it.  

Doctors, Doctors, Bottles

Good day medically for the family.  This morning I went for my yearly check-up with my dermatologist.  Seeing as though I grew up in Africa, got sunburned quite a bit as a kid and am on the paler end of the pigmentation spectrum, I'm always a little bit concerned that this is going to be the year that I'm diagnosed with skin cancer.  But good news, looks like that isn't going to happen until I'm older than 30.  Oh yeah fuck, I'm turning 30 next year.  

Then this afternoon my daughter had her 2 month pediatrician visit.  She is still on course to be about 15 feet tall and weigh 500 pounds.  97th percentile weight and 90th percentile height.  Not quite sure how, since neither my wife nor I are huge people--both a few inches taller than average--but the pediatrician says its all good, so I think its great.

I'm not sure why having a big, fat, healthy baby is a point of pride, but it is.  I was in the grocery store the other day and saw a mom with her daughter.  The daughter was walking around--staggering might be more accurate--but was no bigger than my daughter.  I felt a tinge of pity for her parents.  I do hope, though, that people realize that my daughter is a huge 2 month old, and not a dim-witted, not crawling, not walking, not talking 18 month old.  If they don't, I'll be sure to kill them.

Besides the good medical news we received today, my daughter finally willingly and happily drank a whole bottle that I fed her.  Lately she has despised drinking from one, and would rather go hungry until my wife breast feeds her, but today she guzzled her 3 ounces like a champ.  The best part was that she started gripping the bottle with her left hand, and had only her middle finger raised, straight in my direction.  Fuck you guys for giving me a bottle, but I'm so hungry I no longer care to fight you.  My girl.

Ow my ribs...

Whoever said that 2 month olds are blobs forgot to mention that their heels are not especially blobbish.  Last night my daughter was sitting on my lap, facing me, and managed to kick me in the ribs.  It hurt a little bit at the time, but I didn't think twice about it.  Today, though, I am in agony.  I got hit in the ribs by a softball traveling at a pretty rapid rate of speed three summers ago, and this definitely hurts worse.  And apparently you use your intercostal muscles for just about everything.  I went jogging today and it hurt like hell.  Even putting my arms over my head hurts. I'll quit my bitching, but good lord, you spend so much time and effort trying to not damage your baby, you never think she'll maim you.  

New Zealand seems like a pretty nice place.  Outdoorsy, picturesque, produces great wine, residents have an affinity for having sex with sheep--I'm not hurling accusations, just reporting the facts.  So the place has lots going for it.  Add to the list broadcasts hardcore porn in the middle of the afternoon.  Wait, what???  Apparently a rugby match on TV was interrupted when the broadcaster inadvertently switched feeds to Desperate Black Wives 2 (I preferred the original) which was on another channel on the same satellite.  Mildly amusing, since the New Zealand rugby team is known as the All Blacks.  I think for different reasons, though.

Here's a quick New Zealand wine recommendation for you.  Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc 2007.  Smells like freshly cut grass and has a refreshing, limey tang to it.  The perfect wine for a summer afternoon/evening (or morning if you like, I won't judge you).  The good news about it is that it should be widely available, maybe even at your supermarket, and it costs about $15 making it an affordable everyday drink.  All that being said about the Kim Crawford, I have never tasted a bad New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, so if you can't find the Kim Crawford I strongly recommend you try any other one you come across when you're next shopping for white wine.

Tennis, Shots

Wow, if you didn't see the Wimbledon men's final between Federer and Nadal you really missed out.  It will probably be on ESPN Classic for the next 20 years, so you'll have plenty of chances to see what happened.  I played a game myself while watching.  Try to spot a single black person in the crowd.  The Williams sisters don't count.  Its like Where's Waldo?, but harder. 

My daughter's two month pediatrician visit is Tuesday, and we're trying to figure out which vaccinations she should get when.  Its really pretty fucked up, the system now.  The doctors all try to pump the kids full of 3-4 shots per visit, their rationale being, "Well there's no definitive proof that's it bad, and it'd sure suck if your child got Polio.  Wouldn't it?  Huh, huh?"  Well yeah, no shit, I don't want my kid getting Polio, but here's the thing:  there's a lot of anecdotal evidence that vaccinations can cause an increased risk of autism, and the risk seems to be higher the more shots that are given at once.  So while I agree that Polio would suck, autism would suck as well.  

Of course, the American Association of Pediatrics recommends their approved schedule, which is a crap load of shots every visit for the first year or so.  Hmm, could the pharmaceutical companies have something to do with this?  The pediatricians need the drug companies to produce the shots so they have an excuse to see your kid every month and get paid, so why would they rock the boat?  The whole thing is a cluster fuck, and its hard to get straight answers.

The worst thing about it is, we have one of the more liberal doctors in Chicago, and she still isn't thrilled that we're delaying our daughter's shots, and spacing them out more.  A lot of doctors won't see your kid as a patient unless you're on their vaccine schedule.  "You wouldn't want her to get Polio, now would you?"  No, but I wouldn't mind you getting it.

What about 'Daddy and Me'...?

Everywhere you look around my neighborhood in Chicago, there are signs and advertisements for "Mommy and Me" classes and events.  The target demographic is stay-at-home moms who are looking for activities that they can do with their kids.

There's Mommy and Me Yoga, regular yoga modified to incorporate occasionally holding your baby.  There's Mommy and Me Pilates, again a modified class where the baby is used for weight and resistance.  And there are pottery classes, outdoor exercise classes, special movie showings, picnics, aerobics.  You name it, there's a Mommy and Me version.  And the genius thing is, even though the cost to the facilitator is the same as a regular yoga or Pilates or pottery class, they can charge more because moms will pay it--and who are you to question what a mom thinks is best for her child?

Now that's all well and good, and being unemployed I definitely appreciate having some peace and quiet around the house when my wife takes our daughter to one of these things.  I do wonder, though, where are all the Daddy and Me classes and events?  

How about Daddy and Me instruction down at the driving range?  If you can concentrate on your swing with a screaming child right there, those loud assholes on the next fairway over shouldn't be an issue again.  There could a Daddy and Me day at the Porsche dealership.  Find out once and for all, can a child's car-seat fit into the back of a 911 Carrera?  (For the record, I think it can).  Daddy and Me Cubs game?  Actually, trying to change a diaper in the Wrigley Field men's room should probably be number one of the list of things never to do with a baby.  Definitely at least not until she's had all her vaccinations.  That place is like a Turkish prison.  Oh, how about Daddy and Me day at the strip club?  The strippers could bring their kids too--sorry to burst your bubble, they all have kids--, it would be social and the kids could meet other kids from different socio-economic backgrounds.  Diversity and shit.  What's that, wife?  You don't want our daughter hanging out either at strip clubs, or with the children of strippers?  See what I have to deal with on a daily basis???  

Crossed-eyed babies, dead dogs

My daughter turned 8 weeks old today--hurray, haven't broken her yet--and she continues to get more and more interesting every day.  She smiles all the time, and is trying her best to laugh, but it comes out sounding a little like a donkey, I think because she only laughs while inhaling.  And now you're thinking about how you'd hee-haw, yup, I can read minds.  

The other slightly worrying thing is a face she makes.  She can somehow manage to completely cross her eyes, and only does so when her tongue is stuck out.  It looks hilarious.  I told my wife today that I thought that our daughter only did it because I laugh when she does--she's just that smart.  I got: "well honey, maybe that's true (eye-roll, eyebrow-raise)."  She's a great mom.  I mean wife.  Okay, both.

I read today that the University of Georgia's mascot, a bulldog, died this weekend.  In a good use of state funds, the university is planning a funeral service for the dog in its football stadium, before it is buried in some decorative tomb in front of the stadium, next to its ancestors, the previous mascots.  

This dog really summed up what it means to be a southerner.  He died with no pants on, of a heart attack, at the age of 9 (That's 63 in dog-years, so he did way better than his kin folk).  He also couldn't read, had funny looking teeth, never finished high school, and hated black people.  If that's not a portrait of a fine southerner, I don't know what is.  Rest in peace, bulldog, its values like yours that General Lee fought to defend.

Missed opportunities

My dad has always had a lot of good ideas for intentions.  There are several products that have come to market in the past fifteen years that I can clearly remember him suggesting before the actual "inventor" came up with them and made them happen.  For example, he always said how he wanted an LED scrolling panel in the back window of his car so he could share his feelings with motorists behind him--in Botswana sometimes the finger isn't clearly understood.  And I have to admit, being able to flash "Go Fuck Yourself!" to a guy tailgating you does seem like a great idea.  I even suggested that you could have one mounted on the front of your car that displayed mirror-writing so drivers in front of you could read it in their rear view mirrors.  Step on it, Grandma!"  Genius, right?  Well, lo and behold, I saw a product very similar to that which I just described in a catalogue the other day.  And that sucks, because my dad totally invented that fifteen years ago.  

Anyway, growing up I always said that if I had good ideas I would make sure I developed the product and made some money in the process.  So shopping for baby clothes...b o r i n g.  The Gap tries to spice things up a little bit by having cute sayings on the front--"Monkey Business" and a picture of a monkey.  Precious, sure.  But, I thought to myself, wouldn't it be great to market a line of baby clothes with dark humor printed on them?  Yes, indeed that would be a fantastic idea.  Lots of people my age like dark humor and lots of people my age are having kids.  Well last night I was looking for baby clothes online (yes, my life is that gloriously exciting) and what do I come across?  A website that sells the very clothes I thought up.  And instead of making a hundred thousand dollars off the plan, what did I do?  Yup, I spent $40 on two articles of clothing, and contributed big time to their hundred thousand dollars.  Damn it.

I will say though, that that site has some damn funny baby clothes.  A shirt with a picture of a fifth of Jack Daniels on it, with the text "Mommy Drinks Because I Cry." Or "He Thinks He's my Daddy." One of my favorites was a picture of a toilet roll, "Don't Forget to Wipe My Ass!"  Another: a picture of a rainbow, "They're Raising Me Gay!"  or a recycling sign with "Made from Recycled Genetic Material" printed below it.

So I clearly missed the boat on those, but I think I have another plan.  Little kids apparently love to dress the same as their parents--god help them--but it seems like it would be hard to find matching  clothes that weren't from Wal-Mart.  So maybe I'll come out with funny matching clothes.  You could have a mommy and daughter t-shirts that said "Mini-Me" for the mom, and "Please Tell Me My Ass Isn't Going to be That Big!" for the daughter.  Or maybe a matching father and son get-up with a kid's shirt that says "I Wet the Bed" and the dad's saying "Bet He'll Take an Interest in Reading Now."  The possibilities are endless.  Anyone want to invest?

Golf and appetites

Beautiful weather in Chicago this week, cloudless, not humid, warm.  What better time for an unemployed person like myself to play some golf?  On the subject of golf, I saw this video this afternoon, and although I've done some stupid things before, this has me beat. Wow!

When I got home from golf, my daughter was napping.  When she woke up she greeted me with the biggest, warmest, most sincere smile I've ever seen.  She is awesome.  She also continues to grow at a ridiculous rate.  Since the heart-melting smile she has proceeded to actively eat for three and half of the last four hours.  And she doesn't fuck around, either.  When she decides she's hungry, she seems convinced that starvation is just around the corner, and will try to eat anything in site.  A few days ago she latched on to my neck and gave me a hickey.  While she's trying to locate a food source, she opens for mouth as wide as possible, python-like, and I worry she'll dislocate her jaw.  When she thinks she's found something that might be a boob, she slams her head into it.  Like a hammerhead shark, I guess.  Last night she just about concussed herself on my collarbone as I carried her to my wife.  Of course, after slamming her forehead into my collarbone, she lets out a howl and looks at me like I'm the asshole.  Women...she's learning the ways of her sex early.  I am outnumbered and I know it.  Best to play golf.

Luckily neither my wife nor I are working, so dealing with the leech baby is not as bad as it might be.  The worst consequence for me--my wife's the one who has to deal with her latched on non-stop-- is that she has several nicknames that we call her by that all have to do with her voracious appetite.  There's Sumo and Pork Chop, and my current favorite, The Hungry Hungry Hippo.  Remember that toy from the 80s?  The four hippos that you controlled, and you tried to get your hippo to eat as many marbles as possible?  She knows the game, and she's damn good at it.  

The only problem with these nicknames is that we've got to stop using them well before she realizes what they connote.  The last thing I want is a little girl who thinks, "Great, my daddy thinks I'm a hippo.  I need a donut friend."  Maybe I'll run a competition on this site--"Nickname my Daughter."  Monkey and Stinkypants are already in use.

Father's Day

Ah, my first Father's Day, and it was outstanding.  My daughter slept for seven straight hours, which is a record for her, so I got plenty of sleep.  When we eventually woke up my wife made my favorite breakfast, eggs and biscuits.  She then made my favorite thing in the world, brownies, which said "World's Best Daddy" on them, making them the world's best brownies.  

Mother's and Father's Day when you have a baby is kind of weird.  Obviously the kid has nothing to do with the gift, nor any clue of what is going on.  So its all down to your spouse.  The first one is like a first wedding anniversary, too--you don't want to fuck it up because that'll haunt you for the rest of your days.  I thought I did a pretty decent job with Mother's Day, especially since our daughter was only 6 days old.  I got a very nice floral arrangement (also got flowers for her mom, who was staying with us at the time), I cooked one of her favorite meals, and I got her a Kindle.  When Amazon was conceptualizing the Kindle they must have my wife in mind.  She reads like a fiend and buys books by the box load.  Now with the Kindle, she gets books instantly and they're a lot cheaper too.  Our house doesn't look like a crazy book collecting hermit lives here, which is a plus as well.  So I thought I did pretty well.  I think my wife has bettered me though.

After eating myself close to oblivion, it was present time.  Since I've quit my job my one complaint has been a lack of adrenaline rushes.  Nothing like risking a couple hundred thousand dollars several times a day to get the juices flowing--or to stress you out to the point of quitting, as the case turned out.  So while I've been relaxed and overall much happier, if I could tweak one aspect of my life it'd be to make it a little more exciting.  Blogging just isn't cutting it so far.  So, my wife and daughter got me a first flight school lesson.  I get to do a couple hour course, then fly around Chicago for 45 minutes with a flight instructor, and coolest of all I get to do some of the flying.  Now I am a little uneasy flying commercial, but this sounds fantastic.  The only problem standing in my way is my wife's realization that the plane is a single-engined Cessna.  You would think the pictures of the plane with a solitary propellor on the website and gift certificate might have tipped her off, but apparently not.  I'm not sure if she was expecting me to be tooling around, circling the Sears Tower in a 747, but regardless she can't believe our 6 week old daughter would want her dad up in a single-engined plane.  I guess I can see her point, so her call.  Whether I do the flight or not, coolest present ever.  

Baby talk

I'm sure this is totally normal and all dads do it.  So don't worry about reading any further.  And don't judge me.  Sometimes when I'm holding my daughter and talking to her, she'll make a face or smile or coo, all of which is awesome.  But when my wife is around, I'll venture guesses out loud at what my daughter is trying to communicate.  Thing is, today I did that and realized that for the past five weeks I've been giving her the voice of a ghetto black guy a la Chris Rock.  She had an anguished look on her face this afternoon, so I asked her, "Sweetie, what are you doing?"

"I'm pooping my pants, fool, what does it sound like I'm doing?"  

"Oh, I see."

"That's right, and you'd best be changing me before I blow out this here diaper all over your cracker-ass lap."  Chuckles.  "Cracker-ass-cracker."

Having visited the pediatrician today, I think I may switch from Chris Rock to Fat Albert.  She has gained 3 pounds in her 5 weeks of life.  Hmm, 3 times 10 is 30 times 10, carry the 3...holy shit!  That means by my calculations she will weigh a little over 300 pounds by her 10th birthday.  Luckily, she has also grown 3 inches.  So...--phew, this calculator is getting a workout!--that's 300 inches in 10 years.  Um, no one tell Homeland Security, but my 10 year old daughter may be 25 feet tall to go with her 300 pounds.  And that's making the modest assumption of linear growth.  Throw a natural logarithm in there and Godzilla had better watch his scaly ass.  

So my daughter is going to be an ebonics speaking 25 footer.  Fantastic.  At least the WNBA will be a little more interesting and she'll be able to support me in my dotage.  But even if my daughter turns out to be normal-sized and not the white female Yao Ming, I'll have all the wonderful income from my Google Ads which you will find conveniently located just to the right of this post.  The funny thing about Google Ads is that they make you agree to a serious list of conditions and things that you won't do.  For instance, I'm not supposed to click on my own ads.  As Borat would say, "That would be like doing it with my sister.  Very nice!" Fair enough, I guess, no blog incest.  I'm also prohibited from soliciting my blog visitors to click on my ads.  Well what the fuck?  Are they supposed to click themselves?