MetroDad

Parenting for Dummies

Being the proud papa of a 3-week old baby girl, I'm quickly learning that good parenting is often found in the details. Since BossLady and I haven't been the beneficiaries of much family support, we don't have the breadth of knowledge accumulated over generations. Hence, when it comes to baby care, we're pretty much free balling and letting it all hang out.

Here's what we've learned so far...

1. Swaddling a baby is a lot like making a good burrito.
2. Changing a diaper is like dodging bullets and trying to stay out of the rain while making a taco...all at the same time.
3. Bathing a child is like washing a slippery pig.
4. Breastfeeding ain't easy. Often times, it's like milking a cow...only to find out it's a bull.
5. Burping a baby is like product testing a whoopee cushion.
6. Feeding a baby from a bottle is like drinking straight from the keg.
7. Trying to eat while holding a newborn is like juggling bowling pins while swallowing knives.
8. Getting a newborn to fall asleep right away is like praying for rain in the Sahara.

(I'd normally come up with a few more clever analogies but, right now, I feel like I'm in some sort of sleep deprivation experiment being conducted by NASA. Anyone else got a good analogy that might help future generations of parents?)

Desperate Housewives

Just to set the record straight...

I pee standing up.
My favorite diet is steaks, scotch and cigarettes.
I never ask for directions while driving.
I prefer Mailer over Vidal, Connery over Brosnan, and the Stones over the BeeGees.
I've never worn bikini briefs, tie-dyed shirts or the color pink. EVER!

I bring all this up because last Sunday night during a commercial break in the Red Sox/Yankees game, I was flipping channels on TV. and, before I could stop myself, I actually heard the following words come out of my mouth, "Honey! Come quick! 'Desperate Housewives' is on TV!"

Holy Shit!!! Did I really just say that? The words came out of my mouth in slow-motion and I could hardly believe myself. Has fatherhood turned me into the long-lost member of the Fab 5?

Now, I've never been much of a TV guy. I find about 99% to be sheer crap and I'd usually rather spend my time catching up on some reading. I did have a long infatuation with "The X-Files" and "Law & Order." And I truly love "The West Wing" and "Da Ali G Show." But I generally always abhorred the Aaron Spelling zeitgeist drivel, the reality-show tsunami and the generic Dumb-Fat-Guy-With-A-Hot Wife sitcoms.

But there's something about "Desperate Housewives" that's gotten under my skin. It's like a previously undiscovered secret pleasure that I truly enjoy. I can't quite put my finger on what it is. The writing is definitely clever (or at least clever enough to keep me interested.) The female leads are certainly attractive (I've always loved Felicity Huffman).

But I think the main reasons that I like the show are because...

1. The American Family Association hates it so it must be good. They're the anachronistic organization that believes we should all live like the Cleavers. It must be nice to have an organization where all its member families have a husband who goes to work, a mother who stays at home, and 2.3 children. Seems as though the realities of divorce, single-parenthood, family counseling, child-care issues and financial struggles have passed them by.

2. Being a life-long Manhattanite and ardent supporter of the urban lifestyle, the show reinforces my unfounded suspicions about suburbia. I know suburbia isn't REALLY like that (is it?). But I've always believed that some truly evil and deviant behavior existed behind the Stepford veneer of most suburban households. Whenever I drive through a beautiful suburb, I never think "Oh. This would be a lovely place to raise the kids." I'm more often consumed with images from "The Ice Storm" or "Blue Velvet." I have visions of unrequited soccer moms, living lives of quiet desperation. Or fathers, waking up one day in their 50's only to run off with their secretaries.

Anyway, I'll have more to say on the meaning of "Desparate Housewives" in another post. But just to set the record straight, I checked the Nielsen ratings for last Sunday night. So I know I wasn't the only person who pees standing up to watch the show!

Which desperate housewife are you? Go to http://quizilla.com/users/gerigrrl/quizzes/

Don't tell the guys but....I'm Susan.

Johnny don't read no more

For those of you who care, the nominees for the National Book Award were recently announced. And among certain circles, there's been quite a bit of ensuing controversy. Of the five finalists, only one had sold as many as 2,500 copies. One book, Christine Schutt's "Florida", sold a measly 150 copies.

Now I'm not going to even get into how absurd this is in a year that saw new books from John Updike, Joyce Carol Oates, Phillip Roth, and Tom Wolfe. What I am disturbed about is how few people even care about reading anymore. According to the NEA, more than HALF the entire U.S. adult population doesn't look at ANY fiction, short stories, poetry or plays. EVER! What the hell happened?

I know many highly intelligent and extremely successful people here in NYC who never read. This never ceases to amaze me. How many times have you been in someone's home where they had a state-of-the-art video system and 50 DVDs--but not a single book? How is it possible to not have A SINGLE FUCKING BOOK? One book!!! Shit...buy a used one and leave it lying around so people don't think you're such a total dumb ass.

Listen, folks. I know you're all very busy with your lives. But really...the 4.2 hours of television you're watching EACH DAY? It's a little much.

The 34 hours you're spending surfing random web sites at home each month? I guess that's nothing compared to the 80 hours/month at work but still...

And the 700,000 of you who actually went to the movie theater to go see "Gigli"? What the fuck? You allergic to books or something?

Why is reading like Kryptonite to some people? Is it too hard? I know it's easier to sit on your ass and watch "Road Rules" but aren't you the least bit interested in pushing the limits of your intellect? Can video games really provide the escapism that you might better find in your own imagination? Is sitting in a chat room all night more enjoyable than discovering the commonality in reading about a character from another time or place? And really, hasn't the novelty of looking at Jenna Jamison's tits on the internet worn off by now?

Life's short, my friends. Carpe Diem. Thoreau once said that we should read the best books first or we might never get the chance to read them. Now, those expectations might be a little high. But try this. Next time you're bitching about how there's nothing on TV, pick up a book. Instead of buying a little kid a video game, give him a book you loved when you were his age. And this Christmas? Call me crazy but I really don't think Dad needs another fucking sweater with reindeers on it. Get him a book too.

Of course, I could be completely wrong. In which case, I apologize and leave you with the immortal words of Homer Simpson...

"How is reading supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?

(This public service rant was brought to you by Johnnie Walker and the fine folks over at Phillip Morris.)

BFF (Breast Friends Forever)

These are the kinds of retarded conversations you have when your wife is breastfeeding and you're both giddy from lack of sleep...

ME: "Hey honey. Have I told you that you're my breast friend?"
BOSSLADY: "That's great, Chief. You're my breast friend too."
ME: "Do you want to cook tonight or do you want to go out to a breastaurant?"
BOSSLADY: "Let's go try that new place up in Brestchester."
ME: "Ok...but I hear there's a lot of traffic on the Breast Side Highway."
BOSSLADY: "Don't worry. We'll take Breast End Avenue."
ME: "Or maybe we'll go up Central Park Breast."

BOSSLADY: "Too bad the San Gennaro Breastival is over."
ME: "Yeah. I love that time of year. It's the breast."
BOSSLADY: "By the way, zip up your pants, Chief. I can see your breasticles."
ME: "Thanks, honey. It's breast I cover them up."

Yep, we can do this for hours at a time, days on end. That's why I LOVE the BossLady.

Anatomy of an All-Nighter

Holy Shit, I'm tired.

Friday, my beautiful Peanut didn't sleep at all during the day. Hence, she decided to spend the ENTIRE night wailing and crying at the top of her lungs. All the child-rearing books suggest that the crying might have been a reaction to something the BossLady ate that got transferred into her breast milk. I'm not sure exactly what BossLady was eating but, based on the Peanut's reaction, I'm thinking it might have been crystal meth and jalapeno peppers.

Being a sensitive Dad of the new millenium and in order to reduce the debt owed to my wife for having gone through childbirth, I decided that I would be the one to stay up all night to watch over the Peanut and try to get her to calm down. I tried everything. I sat in the rocker and sang her Cure and Morrissey songs. I put her in front of the t.v. and had her watch Charlie Rose. I even read excerpts to her from Bill Clinton's memoirs. But unfortunately, even bad writing couldn't put her to sleep.

Then, I remembered that car commercial where the parents take the crying baby out for a midnight drive in their minivan. What a great idea! That's what I'll do. But then I remembered that we live in Manhattan and don't have a car. Since I thought it would be fiscally irresponsible to blow the Peanut's college fund by flagging down a taxi at 3:00 am and telling the cabbie to "just drive," BossLady and I put the Peanut in her stroller and went outside to walk her over every cobblestone street in New York. Somehow, it worked. An hour outside had her calmed down and ready for bed...until we got back to the apartment. I tried pushing her around in the apartment but it just wasn't the same. I think I'm going to have to start laying gravel down in the living room. Anybody know a cement contractor that paves indoor driveways?

Anyway, the Peanut finally got exhausted at around 6:30 am and fell asleep. I peeled myself up off the floor and barely made it to my own bed, staggering from extreme tiredness.

Now...I've pulled all-nighters in the past before. I once stayed up 3 days in a row to read Umberto Eco's "Foucault's Pendulum." I've stayed up camping with friends to watch the sun rise. And I've had my share of wild nights where the partying lasted until dawn. But never have I stayed up all night to soothe a crying baby. I was tired. I was confused. My vision was getting blurred. The fatigue was playing tricks on my mind. I think I may have even chopped a few lines of powdered formula and snorted them up my nose. And I'm not sure exactly what happened next, but when I woke up, the dog was wearing diapers.

I guess this was one of those official "Welcome to Parenthood" experiences. I'm sure that there will be many, many more. It's ironic because I've never considered myself to be that patient of a person. But with Peanut, I feel like I have these previously untapped and unlimited reserves of patience. I guess this is lesson number one in Parenthood 101.

Thanks, Peanut. Lesson learned.

Pee on my face, Shit on my finger, Smile on my face

After 7 days of practice, I thought I was getting the hang of changing diapers. But today, Peanut's butt decided to stage her own version of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. The whole thing was a comedy of errors. In fact, I'm not even sure exactly what happened. It was like a drive-by shooting, the whole thing occured so quickly. I can't even figure out how best to explain the enormity of her bowel movements...poop per square meter, poop as a percentage of total body weight, poop as a measure of relative density. All I know is that the fucking poop was flying everywhere. And unfortunately, in today's episodic disaster, a lot of it ended up on my fingers.

It's only my extreme love for the Peanut that prevents me from being utterly disgusted. I've suffered Montezuma's revenge on every continent on the planet. I've had 2 dogs, a cat, a rabbit, multiple gerbils, a parrot, goldfish and guinea pig. But NEVER have I experienced ANY form of skin-to-feces contact.

And you know what? The funny thing is that I didn't mind at all. I just had to stop and laugh at myself. Just a year ago, BossLady and I were using miles to take spontaneous weekend trips to Paris so we could party with friends over there. Not too long ago, our favorite hobby was trying to sample every single sushi restaurant on the island of Manhattan. And it was only until very recently that bottle service didn't mean formula and expressed breast milk.

But standing there today in the baby room with pee on my face and shit all over my fingers, with my daughter looking up at me with a gigantic smile on her face...

I don't think I've ever been happier. Ever.

In Hell, everyone wears pink

Since Peanut was born, we've been deluged in a sea of pink...pink sweaters, pink blankets, pink bibs, pink burp cloths. It seems that people love forcing their pinkness onto my 7-day old daughter. Now unless Pink is the new Black, I'm getting a little nauseated here.

For quite awhile, my friends wondered whether I was born wearing black. Maybe it was the cool urban sensibility. But once upon a time, colorful clothing was the sign of unspeakable naiveté, to be shunned in favor of black by all properly detached critics of society. Besides, black clothing is the unofficial urban uniform of NYC. What else am I going to wear?

Not that I'm going to dress my daughter all in black. I don't want her looking like the illegitimate love child of Dracula and Elvira. But the day I drape my child all in pink is the same day that I cover her in lace frillies and an Amish-style bonnet. (Isn't it great that we can all make so much fun of the Amish because they don't have internet access and therefore will never see this unless someone copies it on a piece of bark? But I digress)

Anyway, the color pink always reminded me of cotton candy. And cotton candy always gave me diarrhea.

What's the deal with pink for girls anyway? How did this all start? Is pink meant to be some sort of gender identification? If my daughter doesn't wear pink, will she grow up to be a lesbian? Because I don't really care. Let her be whatever she wants to be. I want no part in reinforcing gender sterotypes. Nor any other kind of stereotypes. Not in my life and not in my daughter's life.

Will not wearing pink make her less of a girl? Shit...I love nice clothing, days at the spa, romantic comedies, puppies and sunsets. Does that make me less of a man? (Come here and say that to my face, yo!)

Besides, I'm curious to see what Peanut likes when she can make her own choices. Maybe she'll like dinosaurs, Tonka trucks and baseball.

Now...if Peanut grows up and wants to dress like a little Disney princess, then God Bless her little soul. I'll smother her with Barbie dolls and Betty Crocker ovens. I'll paint her room pink and decorate it with dozens of pink mermaids. I'll purchase pink parasols, painted with pink polka-dots.

But of course, I'll have to run a paternity test. I'm sure she'll understand.

Welcome Home, Peanut!

We finally got to bring the Peanut home on Saturday night! Turns out that she had developed jaundice and needed to stay at the hospital for an extra day. Although I wasn't overly worried about Peanut's health, BossLady and I were fairly upset and disappointed that we couldn't bring her home with us. But you should have seen the Peanut when we left. She was under the phototherapy lamps with her little blinders on. She looked so damn cute. Like a little piglet basking in the sun on the beaches of St. Tropez. I kept waiting for her to lift up the blinders, peek up at us and ask me to go get her a pina colada and some more foie gras.

Now that Peanut's at home, the BossLady and I spend a fair amount of our time just staring at her for hours. I'll keep you updated from time to time, but as far as I can tell, NATURE is kicking NURTURE's ass. Since BossLady and I haven't had enough time to mold or influence her yet, we're attributing many of her actions to the prevailing importance of genetic coding. For example...

-Sunday night, the Peanut cried when the Yankees advanced to the ALCS. They weren't tears of joy. They were the anguished tears of Yankee Fatigue Syndrome. She was only able to calm down when I sang her "Meet the Mets, Greet the Mets."

-When the Peanut gets pissed at me, she gives me an eyebrow-furrowing scowl. Not just any scowl. But the same exact look that BossLady gives me when I've stepped on her foot, stayed out too late or failed (once again) to keep my promise to be at BuyBuyBaby by 10:00 am on a Saturday morning.

-Remember the scene in "Old School" when Will Ferrell is guzzling from the beer bong? Not only was that me in college, it's the Peanut with a bottle of formula. The resemblance is more than a little frightening. We're contemplating just putting her formula in an aluminum can, shaking it vigorously, puncturing it with a pen knife, and just having her shotgun it all down. It should be only a few days before she's taking her formula in a rocks glass with a few ice cubes!

-Finally, there are some unique characteristics of her bowel movements that are truly uncanny in their resemblance to either me or the BossLady. However, I'll save those stories until we know each other better.

Welcome home, Peanut! We've been waiting for you!

"A Star is Born" and "3 Days of the Condor"

Well...it only took 3 days of intense labor, 2 trips to the hospital, 1 tablet of Ambien, 2 doses of Demerol, one long epidural, 3 hours of pushing, one suction cup, and innumerable contractions but...my baby girl finally entered the world today at 2:15 pm, weighing in at 8 lbs, 10 oz and a supermodel length of slightly more than 21 inches.

I can't even begin to go into the details now. I'll save it for another day. However, let me just say that women are the superstars of our universe. My love and respect for BossLady (which were already high to begin with) reached ultimate highs. What this woman went through was incredible. I'd buy her the moon and the stars, and it wouldn't make a dent in the debt that I owe to her.

Really...watching your wife endure so much pain is almost like phantom limb syndrome. You know it's not happening to you but you would swear on a stack of bibles that it is. The helplessness that I felt in watching her go through so much pain was almost unbearable. The only thing that made it possible was the fact that I knew she was going through so much worse.

I could go and get mushy here and tell you about the beauty of birth and the miracle of life. But when I started this blog, I promised myself that I wouldn't turn this into some sort of Iron John, love-fest of life, parenthood and childbirth. And that's not the point of this entry at all. I just wanted to share my happiness with all of you and tell all the mothers of this world (especially BossLady)...

YOU FUCKING ROCK!

And for those of you living in the 'hood, I offer you the wise words of my main man Tupac Shakur...

"Dear mama
Place no one above ya, sweet lady
You are appreciated
Don't cha know we love ya
It's a struggle everyday, gotta roll on
And there's no way I can pay you back
But my plan is to show you that I understand
You are appreciated""