Yeah, It's The Weather...

I called my parents 10 minutes ago. Because 10 minutes ago things were lovely. Skies were blue. Sun shining. Baby making cute, little noises as she rocked comfortably and happily in my arms. What a difference some minutes can make.

I've had a recurring headache-on-the-verge-of-migraine for the last four days. Because when Evvy wails she usually does so when I have her on or around my shoulder which is oh so close to my ear and its drum. I bought Advil Liqui-gels because they say it gets in your system faster. Bullshit. I need an Imitrix shot up in this bitch (and by the fucking way, all new parents, not just the moms who delivered the baby, should have a 6 month prescription of percocet.)

So, I phoned my folks 10 minutes ago because all was quiet and I thought it would be a perfect Ichat time (by the way, please Ichat with your parents and pray that your dad does what mine does: sits behind mom and makes faces at her when she talks...it is rife with humor) however my Mom was at D'agastino where "she was really annoyed because they were out of her decaf" (yep, my mom can not converse in the wee hours of the morning unless she's had her decaf.) So when my Mom got home she immediately called hoping for that Ichat. Too late, lady. 9 minutes too late. I said "Ma, the screaming...I just want to make Evvy okay...but that screaming..." my mom giggled. I said "it's funny, Ma?" While laughing she said "No..." I said "My head is pounding. I keep having headaches." She said "Because of the weather?" Hmmmm. The weather? Well, sure, could be. Or might it, I don't know, be what I just said...a yelping baby in my ear? Maybe?

The First Date Is The Hardest

The in-laws baby sat yesterday. We went on our first date. An 11:30 a.m. movie. State Of Play with Russell Crowe because Meesh said "I just love Russell Crowe. He's always so different in every film." To which I said "Which Russell Crowe films have you seen." Long pause. "Umm. Ummm. Wasn't he in American Gladiator?"

So we go to the movie. Meesh nods out (which happened before the baby, before the pregnancy, before all the befores) and then we go for lunch and discuss the movie. Meesh says "I only missed like five minutes, right?" Totally, honey. Just five minutes. I just agreed with all of her theories about the storyline.

And then we did what all of those before us have done and all of those after us will do. We talked about our daughter. Don't you love how she...and when she...and when that...and her cooing and cheeks and...and...and...

And so it is, our conversation has been forever changed. And I couldn't be happier.

P.S. don't go to a movie when you have parents or in-laws babysitting. lock yourselves in a shower and get a hummer for christ sake! then you can fall asleep and tell her about the "storyline."

Baby Clothes Or Waterboarding?

You would think that I am torturing Evvy when putting these baby clothes on her. Who is making these onesies? An evil? Getting her arms in is like, well, pushing a baby out of a vagina...it's meant to be but with strings attached: pain, crying, stitches. If it were up to me, Evvy would be in a pamper. Just a pamper.

And at night, Meesh just loves putting Evvy in these beautiful organic pajamas that have 6 thousand buttons. So when I get up to do the 5:30 breast milk bottle feeding (by the way, ever seen a woman pump in a hands free boob shirt? UTTERly hysterical...Meesh walks around while the bottles fill up, takes phone calls, writes thank you notes, why just yesterday I saw her doing her nails whilst a machine sucked milk from her bosom) I have to go through a screaming mine field. I've tried doing the pull-off-every-button-in-one-fell-swoop but Evvy was all "Dad, are you fucking kidding?" So instead, with flailing arms and kicking legs (p.s. this lady is mad strong) I attempt to un-button...and any given button could take more than a proper minute as I try to re-direct her limbs. Who invented this shit? "I have an idea, lets make the clothes super impossible to get off quickly so when the baby has a dump in their pants and a suckling mouth the Dad can get really stressed out and start sweating before sunrise."

Shmoolie Strikes Again

*If you have not read my post "The Things Wigged Women Say" please read that first and then come back to this.

It is Friday night.  Good Friday for those hunting for eggs.  Passover for those substituting bread for brick, err, matzoh (I must admit us Jews have really stepped up our game, any average grocery store now sells Matzoh in a variety of flavors...I've become friends with the flax seed whole wheat matz...didn't know you could hit the toilet during this holiday?  me neither.  but now, you might want to eat whilst in the lieu...this matzoh beats the elestra infused WOW! chips of five years ago by an un-scrolled Torah mile) and who knocks on our door but 7 year old Shmoolie and one of his many siblings (remember, they multiply Gremlin style).

I was changing Evvy in her room but I could hear the voices.  You never mistake a young Jewish voice.  You can hear the afikomen hiding in the throat.  Meesh answered the door and Shmoolie and his accomplice said "Where is Moishe (yep, they call me by my Hebrew name.)  We need him for a minyan...now!  right now!" (a minyan, for those of you not of our persuasion, is a grouping of 10 or more men who need to gather for certain Jewish prayers) I was the needed 10th.  Meesh said "Oh...um...well, we have had a long day with the baby.  And I need Matt tonight."  Shmoolie, as per Shmoosual, said "We don't care...we need him!"  Meesh got mad "Well, Shmoolie, I need my husband to help take care of our baby.  And he is changing a diaper right now."

Shmoolie, defeated yet still delusional, said "we are disappointed, but tell him to come as soon as he can."  Meesh has been sticking her nipples in a mouth for three weeks...they are sore...she is sore, tired and over it and she said "Ain't gonna happen, Shmool!  Baruch Atah!"  (yep, Meesh said Baruch Atah and she does not even know what it means however she did not want to say FUCK OFF so instead, she settled for anything Hebrew her brain could call up.)

If you are in a situation where you need to tell someone to FUCK OFF, just say BARUCH ATAH!

It's Like Sex...I've Tried Every Position

It is saturday and I just made my first I'm-going-to-lose-my-shit call to Meesh.  I have been up since, well, last night.  I couldn't sleep.  I heard noises outside.  The same noises I had heard before Evvy entered the world but now my hearing is supersonic (are you singing the JJ Fad song?  I am).  I'm like a fucking x-man:  I can hear conversations miles away and lift trucks and aircraft.  Having a baby has really given me some odd spider bite if you know what I mean.

So, the noises pulled me out of bed every half hour.  I would put my pants on, my sneakers, grab a phone for 911 purposes, run to the door and peak outside to see...nothing.  Point is, I am exhausted.  And today was Meesh's big morning outing:  TARGET.  She got dressed up for it, too.  Showered.  Blew her hair out.  Perfume.  Lipstick.  Very, as my mom would say, Uffcapatch (not nearly the right spelling but it is a Yiddish word I think and it means something like "look at me everyone, I'm all did up and shit.")

So Meesh is off on her big morning and Evvy decides to play games with me.  She would close her eyes for a moment after I rocked her in my makeshift swing (my arms...watch out The Rock) and I would put her in her bassinet.  I'd walk away and she would squeal.  Sounds fun, right?  Cute game.  Not as good as Monopoly and Scattergories, but wicked fun nonetheless.  Then I would do every technique from "Happiest Baby On The Block" (have you seen that DVD?  Working for you?) and failed brilliantly.  I swaddled.  And re-swaddled.  Binky.  No Binky.  Lay down.  Stand up.  Bounce around.  Sit still.  I almost tried to fake her out and pretend my nipple was the right nipple.  Didn't work.  It's official, I'm just like all of the dads who have come before me...I'm an amusement park.  

I called Meesh and said "Bring your tits home now!"

 

The Things Wigged Women Say

We live on a street filled with wigged, skirted women and peyas having men (the Jewish locks of hair that bookend a pre and post Bar Mitzvahed face.)

One family, in particular, has really managed to bring out the ghetto in me (and I'm not talking about a communal, walled dwelling.)

First off, their house is like a clown car.  At least 40 Jews live in it at any given time.  And apparently they prefer parking their broke-ass vans on the lawn instead of the driveway.  And for some reason there are always chicken bones on their property (throwing up yet?...wait) and when I walk the dogs I have, on ocassion, had to rip bones out of their mouths (puking?)

Yesterday, the Jewish Octumom (I don't how many kids they have but I swear it is like Gremlins up in that bitch...everyday a new one) stopped me on the sidewalk to say "So your wife...she ehhh...gave birth?"  I nod YES.  She goes on to say "So when is your dog giving birth?"

She points down to Thursday (an 11 pound chihuahua/jack russell rescue.)  I say "She's not pregnant."  The Hebrew Octumom giggles...a devlish giggle.  "But she look pregnant...she's fat."  I say "She's actually in great shape."  I start to walk away and she calls out "I get one of her puppies for my kids?"  In my mind I turned around and said "Listen bitch, she ain't pregnant and I hope one of your vans rolls off your LAWN and flattens you!"  But instead I turned around and said "Sorry, did you not understand me, sweety?  She IS NOT PREGNANT.  MEANING, SHE IS THE OPPOSITE OF PREGNANT."  I continue walking and I hear her maniacle laugh.

Later that day, one of her kids (a 7 year old boy named Shmoolie...I kid you not) saw me walking Thursday and as per usual he ran across the street to play with her.  I said "You shouldn't run across streets and you can't play with my dog."  He said "Why?"  I respond "Because of your mother."  I walk away.  Shmoolie says "I get one of your puppies?"  In my head I turned back and beat Shmoolie up but then I remembered I can't because he's 7 and I am a Dad.