Tag Archives: babies

Name that tune – the home edition

One of the toys that has been passed down from the first son to the second is a baby activity exersaucer. You lower the baby down into the cockpit in the middle of this toy. He can then turn himself around and play with any of the myriad interesting toys on the circular, outer ledge.

baby playing in exersaucer

Multitasking: picking out some music to enjoy with Mr. Sunshine.

I like this toy. It can buy a busy parent up to 15 minutes of baby-free, two-handed productivity. In 15 minutes, the baby will realize that the outer ring of toys is not really that interesting after all. The baby will begin to wail his head off for someone to come extract him from a device he now considers little more than a psychological prison.

But that 15 minutes is golden.

baby biting Mr. Sunshine

Lunging to give Mr. Sunshine a kiss – or bite him. With that new tooth running the show, you never know what that little mouth is going to do.

One of the toys on the outer ring of our saucer is a group of large buttons with an image of an animal on each. Every time one of these buttons is pushed, the device says a word, or makes a noise, associated with the pictured animal. If the baby is successful in pushing one of the buttons four times in succession, he is rewarded with a snippet of classical music. The one exception to this is the cow button, which plays Old MacDonald, as if the designers could not find a fifth piece of classical music in the public domain.

baby wailing on music

That blur in the middle is the baby’s arm beating on the music player in a fit of classical music dance fever.

The baby, like is brother before him, really enjoys hearing the music. He smiles and swings his arms. The selections are quite lively and melodic, excepting, of course, the insipid Old MacDonald. In fact, the whole family enjoys these bits of music, especially Big Brother, to whom, it seems, they bring back the pleasant memories of his own distant youth.

One day, the baby was pounding away on the cat button when we were all rewarded with the inspired notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Big Brother’s eyes lit up. “I know that music!” he shouted with glee.

It warmed a father’s heart to know that this timeless melody had stayed with him through the years. Maybe he would develop an aptitude for music. Maybe he would become a great musician himself – our own little prodigy.

“That’s the Judge Judy song!” he declared.

And so it is.

This little piggy led a jailbreak, and this little piggie’s on the lam

I’ve never met a baby who wanted to wear a sock. And yet, we make them all wear two.

Why babies hate socks is unclear. They seem to be able to come to terms with wearing diapers, shirts, pants, and even some regrettable onesies that they will, no doubt, one day recall as fashion mistakes. It’s almost as if babies know that their toes will never again be so cute as they are during these first months. This is the time to show off those little piggies. Let them go gleefully to market and have their roast beef while they are still pink and round.

Whatever the reason, babies like staying in socks like Houdini liked staying in straitjackets. Turn your back for three seconds and the baby will have one sock off and the other hanging by a big toe. This phenomenon is the one, and only, viable rationale for baby shoes. Babies need shoes for no other reason than to shackle their socks to their feet.

Baby with one sock

The liberated toes work to free their imprisoned comrades. It’s amazing how many socks a single baby can shed without ever using his hands.

When they grow older, kids seem to like socks a lot more. My preschooler would wear the same pair of socks for days, including to bed, if I let him. I’ve warned him that mushrooms would start to grow between his toes if he didn’t change his socks. Somehow, he thought I’d said marshmallows, which only encouraged him. What better way to enjoy sugary snacks without parental interference than by growing them between your toes?

Our baby went the whole summer without anybody bothering him about socks. Now that the weather is turning cool, the battle begins in earnest. I’m glad to see that his sock-escaping skills have not diminished with lack of practice. Every time I turn around, I’m looking for a missing sock. In stores, I have to mentally mark our route so I know all the places to search. I will not admit defeat by buying shoes for somebody who is so far above doing any of his own walking.

Baby socks are cheap and easy to replace, but I find myself becoming sentimental about whichever sock our baby has cast to the winds. I don’t want a new sock; I want that sock. If he could lose both socks at the same time, I might be okay with buying a new pair of socks, but I’m not springing for two socks when I only need one. I’ll find that sock, even if I have to search the basket of every shopping cart to do it.

I’ll find it, and I’ll put it right back onto that child’s foot. I’ll show that little baby; he can’t break my will to keep his toes warm and dry. I will sock every naked foot I find, until every toe has succumbed to the necessity of being clothed. I will do it just as soon as I get up from my hands and knees and finish searching under the racks in the bakery department.

Baby toes

If my little piggies were this handsome, I guess I’d want to show them off to the world at every opportunity too. The comparison almost makes me want to wear two layers of socks.

A Land Shark is born: baby’s first tooth

The baby is cutting his first tooth. To be more exact, the baby is cutting everything he can get into his mouth with his first tooth. It’s funny how popular culture phrases it as though something destructive is happening to the tooth itself when, in fact, it is the tooth that is tearing up the world as we know it.

I’ll concede that the sensation of that first little nub coming in may be inspiring the baby to bite down on things for pain relief. It would be helpful to know how much trouble this developing tooth is causing him, but we are largely in the dark. The baby can’t tell us because he doesn’t speak English, although I could swear I’ve heard him sigh, “Oh, yeah!” a couple of times, right after he’s belted a grand slam into the upper deck of his diaper.

If teething is indeed causing him pain, he is doing a good job of sharing the joy. That little diamond-tipped blade he has poking out of his lower gum is hell on naked flesh. The fact that it lies hidden behind a baby-soft pair of lips makes it doubly dangerous.

This young man has always enjoyed rolling a parent’s fingers between his gums, but the advent of the tooth has turned him into an adorable little piranha.  It’s as if the tooth has taken charge of him, commanding him to snap at any fleshy target in its insatiable lust for blood.

baby peace sign

“The tooth asks that you respect his right to privacy. No pictures, please.”

Fingers should always tread lightly around a teething baby’s mouth, but this boy bites shoulders now. Of course, it’s not his fault; it’s that demon tooth that rules him. That sociopathic shard of enamel smiles at you from within that happy little mouth, lulling you, endearing itself to you through your gullible weakness for developmental milestones. It sucks you in, toys with you, until you are so deceived that you actually feel betrayed when the shark bites.

baby grabbing at camera

“Okay, that’s it! I said no pictures of the tooth. Give me that camera.”

From my recollections of the first child’s teething time, it seems that there is an unspoken understanding between baby’s teeth and mother when it comes to breastfeeding. Smart babies know not to bite the boob that feeds them. That’s one spigot that no youngster should do anything to turn off at such a tender age. It could lead to the gnashing of teeth, as soon as he gets another tooth to gnash against the first one.

Meanwhile, the baby is always looking for something or someone to try his new tooth on. I feel like I should be pushing raw steak at him with a long stick. Does anybody know where I can get a pair of rawhide gloves and shoulder pads?

Football, putting the kids to bed, and other rough sports

My boys are too young to know much about sports, but they do have an eerie sense for knowing when my interest in what’s on TV has intensified. Something in their childhood instincts alerts them that Daddy wants to watch the game, and they know it’s time to go feral.

My sports season runs from fall to spring, headlined by football and basketball and seasoned with a sprinkling of hockey. Summer has its baseball, and occasionally the Olympics, but those don’t get me psyched up to watch them on TV, which is why my kids are relatively quiet during this period. Daddy can watch all the reruns and reality shows he wants in peace. As it turns out, he doesn’t really want to watch any.

The baby was born in spring, at the end of the sports season. Until recently, he has been a remarkably quiet, contented infant. Through the whole summer, he has been all smiles and giggles. His deep thoughts have been interrupted by tears only for the most sensible reasons. That was the off-season baby.

Scene at football game in early 1900s

With these new wide-screen TVs it’s almost like you’re right there at the game.

When I sat down to watch the first big football game of the year, the baby’s long-dormant sensors fired. Suddenly, I had a loud and proud infant, in mid-season form. He began to whoop and holler, cry and whine, like the most notorious of his breed. Then came the four-alarm diaper blowout.

His big brother joined him in his antics, putting on a show of his most distracting and annoying behavior. The normal consequence of this display would have been for him to go to bed early. On this evening, early would be in the middle of the second quarter. I’d have to endure him until halftime.

Halftimes are too short for parents battling the delaying tactics of preschoolers at bedtime. From having to pee, but not until after several minutes of standing at the potty, to trouble with the tooth brush, everything took longer than the eons it takes at normal bedtimes. Of course, the book he selected for his bedtime story was a nice thick one, with paragraphs and everything.

Third quarters are overrated anyway.

At least I didn’t have to put the baby to bed. Mommy would see to that, when he was good and ready to settle down and be put to bed. For the time being, he was really into this football game. His passion was so intense that his deafening crying could hardly be eased by either parent.

Eventually, the baby wore himself out  and accepted the call of slumber. I think the game was over by then, but I find it difficult to remember. I don’t remember much about the game at all.

I hope my boys grow up to be ardent sports fans. Enjoying sports may eventually grow to become an experience that we can share. More importantly, when I am old and senile, and no longer know or care who’s playing, I plan to cling to just enough reality to go to their houses during Super Bowls and Final Fours and blow up my Depends undergarments like Armageddon.

Buxom woman holding football

My problem may be that I am not enough of an imposing figure. Nobody gives Big Bertha any guff when she tells the fellas to simmer down so she can watch the ballgame in peace.