Death By Lego

I have discovered a pain more traumatic than amputation, more piercing than a knife wound to the chest, and some say – more excruciating than childbirth. And, not that fancy “hospital childbirth.” No! That nasty, “delivered-in-the-back-of-a-car-going-90-mph-on-a-bumpy-road-on-the-way-to-the-hospital-with-no-epidural” childbirth. The pain that makes all others pale in comparison is the pain of stepping on a Lego (barefoot) in the middle of the night.

Last night, at 2:15am, I awoke thirsty and decided to get some cold water from the refrigerator. With both eyes closed, I exited the bedroom and turned left towards the kitchen. I made it approximately 8 feet when “Lego-mageddon” occurred. I stepped on a 2×1 Lego piece while barefoot and a bolt of hot pain and sharp spasms shot up my leg, traveled up my spine, and then slammed my brain against its protective skull. I slumped over as if my legs had been taken out from underneath me. A tsunami of curse words never before uttered in that particular sequence in the entire history of mankind began to spew out of my mouth. But, because there were three other people under my roof sleeping peacefully, I had to clasp both hands over my mouth to keep from waking anyone up.

I found myself slumped over, holding onto the wall for support, and trying to open my eyes wide enough to find the Lego that brought a grown man to his knees! I lifted the bottom of my right foot and there was the culprit…still sticking to my foot. I grabbed it and threw it across the room. In anger and frustration, I gave up on the water, turned back towards the bedroom, and limped back to bed.

I would like to point out something interesting here. Legos are from Denmark. “Protective” Wooden Clogs are from Sweden. Both are Scandinavian countries. Hmmmmm…….I see a conspiracy here……..

My Fat Baby

Garrett is clearly smarter than us. GWE and I have a combined three college degrees, years and years of business experience, and a lot of common sense. However, our Butterball of a baby has managed to outwit the both of us…again.

At the beginning of the year, we got Garrett to sleep through the night. He would go down around 8:00pm and wouldn’t rise again until 6:30pm. For two adults who hadn’t slept for more than 4 hours at a time, this was heaven.

A few weeks ago, he began crying in the middle of the night again. It would range anywhere from 2:30am to 4:30am. Once again, GWE and I found ourselves taking “shifts” with Garrett. The on-call parent was in change of hearing him, waking up, racing into the kitchen, making a 6oz bottle of formula in the dark with both eyes closed, racing back to Garrett’s room, changing his diaper, feeding him, putting him back to bed, and then hopefully…..HOPEFULLY, getting a few more hours of sleep.

After awhile, I started to notice that Garrett was looking a little “pudgy.” All babies are “pudgy” – a lot goes into them and they don’t move that much. But, Garrett’s rolls of fat were starting to gather their own rolls of fat. He was starting to resemble the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from “Ghostbusters.”

It wasn’t until GWE took the baby in for a checkup that the doctor began asking questions about Garrett’s routine. Once she told him that Garrett was crying in the middle of the night and needed a bottle, the doctor put the brakes on that very quickly. “He shouldn’t need another bottle,” said the doctor. “Let him cry it out. Ferberize him!”

It turns out – my fat baby was conning us for more milk. Some people sleep-walk to the refrigerator. Our baby got us to do the walking for him! Cunning little blob monster!!

 

You May Be Right….I May Be Crazy….

It’s not easy to admit to a five year old that he was right and I was wrong. In my defense, it was 6:45am on a Sunday morning; I did not get a lot of sleep; and honestly….I didn’t believe him.

After giving Garrett his morning bottle, I placed him in his “nap nanny” on the floor of the living room and made sure that he was happy. I decided to shut my eyes for a few minutes in an attempt to catch up on Sunday morning sleep that I was sorely missing.

In an excited and slightly panicked tone, Justin rushed over to me while holding his plastic sword and sheath. He handed me the sheath and told me that his “gold” was at the bottom and he could not get it out. I shook the case and smacked it on the floor a few time. Nothing came out and there were no rattling sounds. I handed it back to Justin and told him that he was mistaken – there was nothing in there. He replied “Yes, there is daddy. Get it!” I looked again, but didn’t see anything.

He grabbed the sheath from me and stormed off. Two seconds later, he returned with the sheath and a flashlight. “Here, daddy! Look!” He flicked on the flashlight and (for the third time) I looked for his gold. I saw nothing…just blackness. The following conversation then took place:

Me: There is nothing down there.

Justin: Yes there is. Look again.

Me: Justin, there is nothing down there. I’ve looked.

Justin: Look again!! Look again!!!

Me: I swear to you on all that is holy…there is no gold down there.

(In the meantime, Garrett was in his special seat babbling at the two of us like he was also a part of this conversation.)

Justin: DADDY!! It’s down there! Get it now!!!

Me: Don’t yell at me. There is nothing there!!

Justin: DADDDDYYYY!!!! Don’t make me give you a time out!!!!!!!

Me: Justin, relax and go ask mommy.

(Ok, this was a “jerk” move on my part. This was my way of getting Justin to wake up mommy. I figured that if I had to be up to endure this – so did she!) Justin marched off to the bedroom and I heard him having a conversation with GWE, but could not make out the details. I was later told by GWE that Justin woke her up by shining the flashlight directly into her eyes. She was dreaming at the time and thought the police were out to get her!

Dejected, Justin returned to the living room and began to chant “Daddy sucks! Daddy sucks! Daddy sucks.” In a moment of exhaustion from lack of sleep and frustration from hearing how badly I sucked on a Sunday morning, I turned to Justin and barked, “Put the sword in the case. There is nothing blocking it! It will go all the way in!!” He angrily grabbed the sword and jammed it into the sheath. And……it only went halfway in. “SEE DADDY!! I TOLD YOU!!!!!!”

I looked at him and the sword in disbelief. There actually was something stuck. I took the case, banged it on the floor once, and out popped a silver dollar. He was right!!!! What made this much worse is that he knew he was right and now that he knew that I knew he was right, so he decided to rub it in my face.

“I TOLD YOU….I TOLD YOU…NANANANANA….I TOLD YOU…..DADDY IS A DUMMY…….I TOLD YOU.”

I smiled, waited until he was done, looked him in the eyes, and then asked one direct question: “Justin – where did you get the silver dollar?” We both knew the answer. He stole it from my nightstand. At that moment, he froze and realized “oh shit.”

Gotcha!

My Life with a 9 lb. Terrorist

It is 3:54am and I am awake. I am not tired….I passed “tired” four days ago. However, being awake at this time of night does have its advantages. I usually have my moments of greatest clarity in the middle of the night when I am alone and the world is quiet. Tonight is no different.

I love this kid and he is truly amazing. BUT….I’ve been thinking about Garrett and what this new child has “inflicted” on us since his birth and I have come to one simple realization – my baby is a terrorist!! Even though he is two weeks old, he has managed to effectively use both psychological and chemical warfare on us. He has performed torture techniques on GWE and I that would make a Guantanamo Bay guard blush!

The psychological attacks came first and in two forms. The first was the sleep deprivation. Neither GWE nor I have slept more than a few hours consecutively since Garrett’s birth. I realize that I have less to complain about than GWE (since she was the one actually delivering our massive child while I sat nearby taking pictures), but damn it – I’m tired too! We started off with an hour of sleep here and there. Now we’re up to three consecutive hours of sleep – sometimes. Any normal person can handle that for a few days….but, after a few weeks it starts to take its toll. I knew I was tired, but didn’t realize it fell into the category of “deprivation” until I looked it up and realized that I had a number of the symptoms: muscles tremors, memory confusion (someone asked me for my cell number and I honestly could not remember it!), bloodshot eyes, irrational irritability (hey – fuck you, you fucking fuck!!), and malaise. There have been a couple of times over the past two weeks when I’ve had trouble retaining a coherent thought. I now know what Dr. John was singing about when he wrote, “Brain Salad Surgery!”

The second was “the crying.” With our first son, we decided to try using the “Dunstan Language” to decipher what he wanted. “Neh” meant “Hungry”; “Eh” meant “Chest Gassy”; “Err” meant “Butt Gassy.” It worked well and we were able to communicate with Justin from birth. Garrett has proven more of a challenge. All we’re able to hear from him is “WWWHHHHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!” Yes, there are only three things that he could need at this point in his short life, but “WWWHHHHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!” does not narrow it down. And, it gets louder and more intense in a short span of time. Within 5-6 minutes, it sounds like he is being stabbed! I don’t care how patient and understanding you think you are – the sound of this kid crying cuts through your defenses and it’s hard not to get affected by it.

The chemical attacks came next. (In fact, I am writing this after having just been blasted by “The Holy Trinity” – poop, pee pee, and spit-up.) I can handle the pee pee – no problem. I still have a five year old with aiming issues. I’m pretty sure everything in my bathroom has been pissed on at one point or another. Plus, Justin likes to have a conversation with me while peeing and he’s been known to forget what’s going on and turns his body to talk to me while still peeing. You get the picture. So far, Garrett has peed on me, the blinds, the rocker, and the lamp – all while lying on his back on the changing table.

Baby poop is disgusting, but predictable. Garrett makes a grunting sound when he’s going and you pretty much know when he’s done because he looks exhausted. Right now, it looks like dark mustard with seeds. (There is usually a “bomb” of some sort in his diaper. Another act of terrorism!) However, Garrett has sneak-attacked me with poop twice. He has waited until I’ve removed his diaper for changing AND I’m in the process of applying Butt Paste when he has decided to “unleash the hounds” and spray me with poop.

The worst is the spit-up. It usually happens when his head is resting on my chest and he is looking up. With no warning, I hear “BLEECH” and I immediately get a burst of hot, white, projectile, half-digested “milk” in my face, neck, chest, ear, etc. Gross does not begin to describe it. And, what makes it worse is his smile right afterward. I know he feels better, but that smile is just his way of rubbing it in my face – literally!

All in all, we are being tortured by the one we love. If I knew any state secrets, I would have gladly given them up by now. All that’s left is a good water boarding. I love this kid and would not miss these experiences for anything. However, they would be much more enjoyable after a hot shower, a clean change of clothes, and an Ambien!