drool spots

As if we didn’t endure quite enough psychological trauma during our first visit, the three of us decided to get a second dosage from Ben’s pediatrician yesterday. Actually, The Ben went to see a new pediatrician, as his original doc was woefully inept [that might be overstated just a wee bit but hey, she’s not reading this, right?] This time he suffered three injections, two different dudes manhandling his junk, and one crazy-retarded insurance company gumming up the works. It’s times like these when I get down on my knees and pray to the Children’s Tylenol gods.

All that aside, the doctor said our son is perfectly healthy, a little heavy [in a good way, unlike his pop], tall and strong. And handsome. And ready to start on solids [God help the diaper changers – oh wait, that includes me!]

Our little boy has been quite the fussy-pants lately, and the general consensus is that he is entering a phase known as “teething”. Well, I don’t exactly know what they mean by “teething”, but I would call it irritable-drooly-lip-sucking-irritable-chewy-drooly-irritible-fussing. And he’s been irritable too.

But he sleeps well and I have to admit that is a very, very nice present for his parent’s five-year wedding anniversary coming up tomorrow. He’ll be spending his first night without either of us within 20 feet of him, and he’ll be doing it at Grandma and Grandpa Bonick’s house on Saturday as mom and dad check into motel-love [and attempt to stay awake past dinner]. It will be our first night to sleep like we used to do on Saturday mornings before he was born which, I admit shamefully, lasted sometimes into the late afternoon [or evening. . . or night].

We’ll miss you, Ben, but we won’t miss the “teething”.

hoodwinked

Over the years I have accrued a tool bag full of arguments, excuses, foot-dragging routines and false sicknesses to utilize against my wife’s use of the phrase “let’s go shopping”. She usually tries to goad me into visiting that unpleasant, overcrowded, dry-mouthed-soccer-mom-and-daughter-disguised-as-fashion-whores infested dogpile more popularly referred to as the mall with promises of pit stops to my favorite electronic stores. Unfortunately for me the outcome is always the same: while anna frequents each and every single different women’s clothing boutique [which I am convinced all carry the exact same articles of clothing save for a slight difference in shade, i.e. Banana Republic carries an elegant camisole in chartreuse, while NY & Co. carries a punky camisole in light green, a conspiratorial system designed specifically to irritate husbands, boyfriends and children nationwide], I sit outside on some bench, or low wall, or step, or masonry-paved floor anxiously waiting and wishing [for the thousandth time] that I had a some sort of portable gaming device, or book, or magazine, or knife to cut my throat. And this past weekend, she did it to me again, only this time I had company.

Ben has already told me of the numerous times he’s endured that routine with his mother on his own, but this past weekend we got to share the experience together. Mommy tricked poor, slow daddy once again [truly a cruel act in my opinion, considering dad’s gullible love and blind trust in his wife] and promised that we were just going to go to a furniture store to look at some coffee tables and then later, if I was really good, just maybe we could go to the electronics store to look at DVD players too. And it started out just like that, but when the furniture store was nowhere to be found, oh my, would you look it that, the mall is just right there around the corner, maybe we could just stop in to let Ben stretch his legs and get something to drink or something? I promise we don’t have to go into any clothes stores. Hrmph!

And so the loitering began. Mom took a “quick look” into a maternity clothing store and was scheduled to meet the two of us across the corridor in one of the electronics stores “in just a minute”. Twenty minutes later, and two electronic store notches on our belt, The Ben and I wandered over to the walkway in front of mom’s store to appraise the scenery. The time and silence grew endlessly with the passing of each mother into the store then back out again while our mother still lingered inside.

“You know, Ben, when you’re old enough, you can choose not to do this anymore.”

Drooling, Ben labored to turn his head up towards me, “What’s that?”

“You know – this. Walking, waiting, thirsting stimulation. . . Shopping.”

“But - I don’t get it.” He went to grab his toes. Falling short, he settled to slobber all over my forearm.

“Shopping, Ben, shopping.” I wiped my arm with a burp-cloth. “Mall-walking. Trying on clothes. Fighting crowds. All of it - you don’t have to do this. Just because your father is too weak to stop it, doesn’t mean that you have to suffer the same condition.”

Ben almost wriggled right out of my arms. “Are you shitting me? You mean this isn’t like breathing, or eating? Are you saying that this isn’t required? This isn’t part of everyday life?”

I was confounded by his surprise. “Ben, how much time do you spend here with your mother?”

“I don’t know, like, two or three visits a week. Kinda of on a schedule, you know?”

It was funny actually. There indeed was a nugget of intellectual ability I can still say I held the advantage over my four-month-old son! “Ben, Ben, Ben. Even I, as hopelessly whipped as I must admit I am, don’t go shopping with your mother that often. You may be too young to do so – hell, you probably don’t even have adequate physical control over your limbs just yet – but eventually you’re going to have to learn to put your foot down about visiting the mall.”

“But, I mean, I cry, and I whimper and squirm. Doesn’t she notice that stuff?”

“You’ll have to try harder.”

“Dad, I even stay up late at night and wake up real early when I hear of her plans to go shopping just so I can be cranky while we're there .”

“What?!” The light was slowly creeping into my head. “You do that on purpose?! Benjamin Phillip Bonick!”

I can see that he was startled by my apparent lack of prior understanding. “Dad, I told you a long time ago that I purposely try to wake up at night because I love spending time with you and mom. Have you forgotten? I thought it was all okay?”

“Damn, Ben. I mean, yeah, it’s cute and all, but you need sleep, dude. We love spending time with you too. But, that time isn’t nearly as pleasant, if you haven’t noticed, when we’re sleep-deprived.”

I had to admit, his plan to deter his mother’s shopping trips was truly inspired for an infant. It was something that would make it’s way into my own tool bag soon enough. But we were getting off subject.

“Let’s just forget you said any of that, and hopefully your mother will remain unaware. You need to sleep, Benjamin, and that’s final. There will be plenty of time to play when you wake up.” He nodded. “Now, listen to me. You’re on the right track. If your mother keeps finding you in a foul mood every time she takes you to the mall, eventually she’ll learn to scale down the time you spend there. Maybe you can save up your poopy diapers for when she’s trying on new pants, or start spitting up whenever she takes you into American Eagle. You have to condition her, Ben, it’s the only way.”

I could see Anna through the store windows finishing up at the cash register and, picking up her bag of new clothes, make her way to the door.

“Dad, are you saying that I can control mommy’s actions and get her to do whatever I want to do?”

Knowing full well that I never could, and that his mother had actually mastered that art with me, I replied, “No, Ben. When you’re ready, you won’t have to.”

At that we were rejoined by Anna, who, so happy to have found her treasure, rewarded The Ben and I with a trip to Hooters. Yes, his first ever trip to that glorious watering hole. We enjoyed their delicious chicken wings then took our son home for his evening bath, and laid him to rest with plenty to ponder. And I think it is no coincidence that he has slept between 8 and 11 hours each night since or conversation in the mall four days ago.

lean on me

So now that The Ben has discovered his toes, he seems to be quickly falling out of favor with his fists. Although he still spends the majority of his waking hours stuffing one, three or five fingers into his relentlessly drooling mouth, you can now see his desire to replace those fingers with his feet. It was only a short time ago that he began pulling on his toes whilst mom or dad struggled instead to straighten his legs and get a fresh diaper under his bottom, but now you can begin to see the determination growing in his chubby little face, starting with a furrowed brow and pursed, drool-bubble lips, while he gradually pulls those delectable digits closer to his gums. Of course he hasn’t quite reached the nirvana that is suckling on your own wiggly big toe, but you can just sense it in the air that the journey will soon be over. It’s so much fun to watch him master these novel tricks and gain a new awareness for his surroundings employing what must be some newly developed part of his miniature brain, it makes you wonder why it ever has to slow down. I am so eager and excited to see the next trick of his and later I know I’ll be proud to say that I was around to witness it from the very beginning. This must be another one of those great moments you can never experience without raising a child of your own: like following your favorite local band from obscurity all the way to global superstrardom, only a parent can look at their adult Grammy Award-winning child and remember the first moment they laughed or uttered something resembling a word, well before all the fame and fanatical media glitz. We’re our child’s first fan, his first roadie, and completely non-sexual groupie. He’ll probably never know that these virgin riffs and practice sessions just might be equally as exciting as anything else he’ll ever perform, at least from his parent’s standpoint, and that much more exclusive.

I’ve recently read somewhere in some parenting book or other conspicuously left by my wife in one of my frequent paths of travel throughout the house [read: the bathroom] in order to subliminally educate me on the ways and means of better child-rearing, that babies at this stage are very ego-centric and rightfully so, as they haven’t yet developed the social skills required to master, for instance, concepts of sharing or empathy [did I get that right, parents?]. If I understand that correctly, then babies this age haven’t yet developed the ability to make their parents feel better after a long, shitty day, much like a good friend or family member might do with a shoulder to lean on or a bottle of beer. Well, I hate to prove those pesky authors wrong, but even if our babies aren’t fully cognizant of the effects their actions carry, they sure do have the natural ability to make our days so much brighter. Why else do babies smile but to make sure that their parents know they’re doing a good job and that, yeah, you might have to take me upstairs in a minute and clean the crap out from my hair but I do love you for it and, aw heck, you just do it so well I might ask you do it again, say 2:30 tomorrow morning? Follow that with a big grin, a spot of irresistible dimples, and all of a sudden, daddy feels like he’s actually worth something once in a while. If we let them, our babies can be the sturdiest shoulder to lean on or the deepest glass of beer with which to wash away our sorrows. And deep down, way way down, on some metaphysical level, I think they know it.

legging it out

Sometimes I wonder what it is that The Ben loves more: baseball, basketball or football. His first experience with any of these three sports [both televised and in-person] has been baseball, and I feel I can be certain of his passion for this sport when considering his relaxed and leisurely approach to watching the game with me, as apposed to his usual fidgety insistence on either standing up or moving around. Last night we enjoyed the kick-off to the 2005 Monday Night Football season featuring our beloved [and habitually beleaguered] Chicago Bears kicking the tail out of the Dolphins in a preseason match-up of league bottom-dwellers. The Ben was surprisingly riled-up while watching the game and he absolutely refused to sleep until after the victory was sealed [around 10:30]. Now, basketball has escaped his attention to this point, being that there are no games on for another three months, but given his fondness for his Jumperoo and his jumbo-length feet, I can only assume he is anxiously awaiting the arrival of Midnight Madness and the preseason NIT. Momma probably reads all these signs envisioning a future in medicine or law or acting or art or science or some other sub-standard profession, but daddy knows what his boy is really thinking: how can I get my college tuition paid for, make boatloads of cash, and buy my parents a mansion on the hill with an Escalade parked out front?

Now, before anyone starts thinking I am going to turn into one of those parents who pushes their kids into sports they don’t necessarily want to play, remember that I don’t live on a Texas oilfield, my last name is not Woods, and I’m only kidding. Ben can play any sport he wants to, so long as it’s not soccer [unless he’s just conditioning for basketball] or chose not to play entirely, so long as doesn’t want to embark on a career in dance or male modeling. I’ll be just fine with his decisions and I’ll be ready to help him along whichever path he travels in life [except for soccer and male-modeling – his mother can help with that crap].

Ben, if you’re reading this someday and you’ve just come back home from a long, tiring afternoon on the soccer field, remember who is doing the writing here and what a true comedy of errors he has been thus far in your life, then get back out there and kick that ball around some more, until at last, after hours of seemingly endless running and kicking, you kick that black-and-white cushioned sphere towards the awaiting net, only to have it kicked away, and kicked again, and then run, and kick, and run, and kick. Then run (and kick) some more and kick, then run. Run run run, kick kick kick. Run.

hello? are you there?

So this obsession with sleep persists and if you can imagine, Ben and I differ in opinion on the great, if not wholly vital importance of attaining it. Ben was just commenting to me late last night while laying naked on the changing table after he managed to crap up his backside, right out of his diaper and all the way up to the base of his chubby neck [resulting in his second bath of the evening], that he feels this whole sleeping thing is mucho overrated.

“Slumber,” he dignified, “is for the weak-minded and most fragile of souls.”

I was tempted to retort with the erstwhile, “Oh yeah. . .well. . .what do you know!? You’re only three months old!”, but alas, I couldn’t reasonably transfer the words from brain to lips in my current state of sleep deprivation.

Instead I inquired to my son, who was looking quite determined on his back madly trying to grasp his toes with his fingers, “How the heck did you manage to get the poop in your hair?! You barely even have any hair to speak of, nevermind that it is growing [slowly] almost 15 inches away from your butt! Wha. . . how?” At this Ben laughed (a silly, short cackle complemented with a few well placed dimples) and told me I needed some sleep.

Feeling fragile and weak-minded, I brought my stinky son downstairs for his final feeding and some White Sox baseball. It wasn’t long before he closed his eyes, resting his free-of-poop head on my forearm, leaving me to the remainder of my chores and personal hygiene habits. Of course it took me another three hours to finish the arduous journey into bed, at which point Ben subconsciously saw it fit to remind me with a stirring from his adjacent bedroom, that he hadn’t gone anywhere and would be seeing me in two to four. Sure enough, three hours later my baby-monitor alarm set off [and just who the hell, may I ask, bought that for us?] indicating our 2:30 a.m father-son bonding time had begun.

“You look tired, dad,” Ben said.

“You look hungry.”

“Now, you know,” he responded, taking a break after 4 ounces of thawed breast milk, “I was just kidding about the weak-minded thing I mentioned earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. . well. . I mean, I guess I just don’t like to sleep because I just hate not being able to share my time with you. With so much fun to be had, why can’t we just stay awake and goof around all of the time?”

I carefully considered the thought, and feeling warmed and wanted, responded, ”Ben, I love you, and I love spending time with you. But when daddy doesn’t get enough sleep, all of a sudden he starts imagining that you have a vocabulary and a perceptive outlook on life. You’re three months old. Get some sleep.” I don’t think he even heard me, so soon he fell back asleep.

I’ve said before how cute I think babies are while napping, but the sleep that follows an early wake up call brings out their cuteness ten-fold. I’ve been trying to cherish these special interludes while I can, difficult as it is at times, even if I’m imagining my son speaking to me as I clean the crusted poop from the folds of his neck.