Food is an important part of a balanced diet.

-Fran Lebowitz

[Looking at our dinner as Burcu began to have stronger contractions] 

“So this is what I’ll be pooping on my doctor tonight.  Hope they like baked ziti.” 

 

[Trying to get Juniper to breastfeed] 

“It’s like trying to get a gay man interested in your boobs.” 

 

[Watching Juniper smile as she sleeps] 

B: “Look, I think she’s dreaming.”

A: “I wonder what babies even dream about.”

B: “Murder.”

 

What’s a Turkism? Find out here.

“If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the English language.” -Burcu

As the earlier post and the picture of a sleeping baby suggested (it was very subtle, so you might have missed it), my wife and I are now parents.  Proud parents of a beautiful ball of shrieking, shitting wonder.  Life is a miracle.  It truly is.

 

My deficiencies in sleep are still rather great, so I think I’ll forego a narrative for a collection of random thoughts, moments, and insights.

 

At 8:23, on a cool Wednesday evening, we backed out of the driveway and sped to the hospital.  I was surprised at how calm I was, weaving through the evening freeway traffic.  So much so that I began to feel inadequate.  Here I was, failing to be the frantic cliché of an impending father you see in the movies.  In a weird way, it left me feeling somehow ashamed that I wasn’t a bit more hysterical about the whole thing.  So, thank you Hollywood.  If the magical moving pictures you produce for my consumption cannot be relied upon as accurate and realistic standards by which to measure the events of my own life, what’s the sense in living?  That’s right, apparently there is none.

 

The low point of the entire event:

After staying by Burcu’s side every second since bringing her to the hospital on Wednesday night, I took the opportunity to run down to the car and get our bags once Burcu got her epidural and was quietly resting in the delivery room.  When I returned fifteen minutes later, the nurse was standing over her with a panicked face and Burcu was breathing through an oxygen mask with monitors all over her.  In that short span of time, her water had broken, sending the baby to a vitally low heartbeat and forcing multiple nurses to rush into the room and give her an emergency shot to boost her blood pressure.  When I had returned, everything had pretty much stabilized but not being there for Burcu as such a crucial moment made me feel shittier than I ever had.

 

The shivering that is a side effect of the epidural was far more unnerving to me than I would have anticipated.

 

A vacuum had to be employed to help Juniper make her uterine exit.  Though watching the entire birth, cutting the cord, and examining the placenta oddly didn’t make me queasy in the least bit (the opposite of what I was predicting), I was terrified to see how much of her head was sucked up into that suction cup.  The malleability of a baby’s head is both wondrous and shit-your-fucking-pants scary.

 

In what was truly the biggest WTF moment of the entire labor and delivery, we discovered that our delivery nurse grew up in the same tiny, traumatizing town in northern Illinois that I had.  I can’t even begin to fathom the odds of this.  And if anyone appreciated the rapid “Did you know so-and-so?  Isn’t that so-and-so’s sister?  Is so-and-so related to this so-and-so?” between my mother and the nurse, it was Burcu in the midst of pushing a small melon-sized being from her love canal.

 

My father died when I was a child and since the aftermath of that, there have rarely been moments that could make me cry.  It’s just been a matter of comparison, I suppose.  But when I saw my daughter slide out into the world, a slimy blood-covered mess, and placed in Burcu’s arms, I wept like a little girl and I’m not the least bit ashamed to admit it.

 

When deep in slumber, Juniper wears a myriad of facial expressions that make me laugh.  My favorite has to be the half-smile reminiscent of an Elvis lip curl.  Although, the super-serious frown that resembles an angry, judgmental nun (aren’t they all?) is pretty amusing too.

 

My wife chose to breastfeed Juniper and some early latching problems led to every subsequent feeding being a rather painful experience for her.  Extreme nipple soreness isn’t just to blame, it’s the fact that our daughter has the jaw strength of a James Bond villain and the tenacious perseverance for rooting that a horror movie serial killer has for slicing up teenage skinny-dippers in wooded lakes.

 

There’s no terror quite like the moments when I am holding my darling daughter to my chest and she begins to root around for a nipple.  I’ve seen the monstrous things she’s capable of doing to nipples – and food actually comes out of those.  On the bright side, I don’t feel as guilty for soiling myself with fear since soiling oneself is pretty much the modus operandi around our house since the baby took over.

 

The Numerous Nicknames I’ve Already Devised for Our Daughter:

• Juni
• June Bug
• June Berry
• June Blossom
• Bug
• Count Colostrum (Because she feeds like a vampire breaking a week long blood fast)
• Colostrum Monster (“C” is for Colostrum and that’s good enough for her)
• The Product of My Superior Seed
• The Genetic Wunderkind
• Houdini / Judini (For her miraculous ability to escape the confines of the tightest swaddling in mere seconds)
• Shithead

 

My initial plan was to debut a new segment on the website titled:

THE DAILY STOOL: A POO REVIEW

The idea was that I was going to take the morbid fascination of new parents with the bowel movements of their offspring to new heights.  I planned for high-definition pictures, in-depth reviews that took into consideration such crucial data as color palette, consistency, aroma (all with the intolerably haughty vernacular of a wine enthusiast), and a five stool rating system (like stars) so that one could filter one’s poo reviews by the highest rated.  Pretty ambitious, I know.

 

Alas, it took but one fouled diaper to sully this dream.  Because in all honesty, the last thing I’m thinking when I’m faced with an open diaper full of moved bowels is: let me go get the camera, snap various-angled shots, record pertinent details and initial insights, and then blog about it.

 

You’re welcome.

 

Oddly though, it’s not necessarily because I find it disgusting.  Even though the thought of changing diapers had always frightened me, I stepped into it pretty seamlessly.  Instead of retching, those initial “tar-like” poos you hear of were more an exercise in novelty to me than anything else – like cleaning extra-terrestrial space guts of the space shuttle windshield.  They were gross, sure, but oddly fascinating.

 

No doubt, the most difficult part of parenthood is the sleep deprivation, which is exponentially exacerbated the longer it occurs, the louder the shrieks, and the more futile your efforts to stop said shrieking become.  And it’s only natural that the worst occurs at night.  When most of the world is at rest, the silence is more conspicuous, and you have fewer options to turn to for help.  The first week was so awful that preparing for bed felt like we were arming ourselves to battle some horrific supernatural monsters that emerged only at night – banshee zombie vampires sounds about right.  The mental preparation was literally a battening down of the hatches and the first, sweet rays of light as dawn stretched her rose-tipped fingers…that!  That eagerly welcomed morn made you feel like the biggest, monster-surviving badass around.  That’s right, suck it Van Helsing!

Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.

-George Burns

“When I was younger, one of the baker’s sons was in love with me.  I could have been rolling in dough.”

 

 

One evening, Burcu and I were playing the board game, Cranium, and it was her turn to act out the clues in a manner similar to charades (using only gestures and sounds, but no words).  The card’s only clue was that it was a person.

 

Burcu proceeded to walk merrily across the room and appear to take off an imaginary coat, all the while humming an indiscernible tune.

 

Rather unexpectedly, she begins to simulate the act of a man masturbating himself, eyes rolled back in her head, and grunting.  Naturally, I am shocked.  Or, at least I pretend to be.  This is, after all, Burcu.  But still, this is supposed to be a game that kids can play.

 

This sequence of events repeats for two more cycles before our time runs out.  I am completely baffled.

 

Burcu, exasperated, begins to argue that she couldn’t believe I didn’t guess the answer.

 

“You know, it was that guy with the children’s show who got caught masturbating in a theater.”

 

“Oh, okay, Pee Wee Herman,” I reply.

 

“Oh.  That’s not what the card says.”

 

First confusion, then a sheepish smile spreads across Burcu’s face as she looks at the card.

 

“Okay then, who’s Mr. Rogers?”

 

He was the nice man in the sweater that I used to watch at my grandmother’s house, before the imagery of that charade forever raped my childhood.  That’s who.  It’s no wonder Mr. Rogers had to keep asking, “Won’t you be my neighbor?”

 

 

 

I’m a bit of a connoisseur of pirate jokes and had recently told one to Burcu that has numerous variations, but boils down to essentially this premise:

 

A pirate walks into a bar with a ship’s steering wheel down his pants. 

The bartender says, “Excuse me, but do you realize you have a ship’s wheel down the front of your pants?”

The pirate replies, “Aye, I do.  And, it’s driving me nuts.”

 

A few weeks had passed since I’d told this (or any) pirate joke, and Burcu was relating how she had this great pirate joke she wanted to tell.  Very excitedly, she sets up the joke, adding her own little flourishes, until she gets to the punch-line.

Proudly, she says:

“Aye, I know.  And it’s driving me crazy!”

 

What’s a Turkism? Find out here.

“If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the English language.” -Burcu

Here’s the little sapling, Juniper Sude, born on Thursday morning, Nov. 12.

 

Like her father she was punctual, being born on her due date.  Burcu is doing great and has proven to be a phenomenal mother already.

 

More information to follow by the end of the week, when I’m able to string enough hours of sleep together to make my fingers click and clack the right buttons on the keyboard.  Until then, this will have to suffice.

Everybody knows how to raise children, except the people who have them.

-P. J. O’Rourke

In perhaps the only good decision George Lucas has made since 1989, permission was granted to create the most brilliant fusion of nostalgia and consumerism our planet has ever witnessed.

 

I present to you…the Tauntaun Sleeping Bag.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It even has a lightsaber zipper!  You can save poor, frozen, Wampa-abused Luke again and again.  And then fall asleep and do it again in your dreams!  All inside the warm, fuzzy confines of dead Tauntaun guts. 

 

The only drawback (besides the steep price tag, that is): it only sleeps one.  Of course, the very purchase of said item nearly assures that space for one is all that will ever be needed.  By which I mean, the guy who buys this is likely to be swinging his own lightsaber long after the Ewoks come home.

 

Still, 100% pure awesome.  Hell, I’m even starting to consider self-imposed celibacy and shell out the hundred bucks for one.  Then, I remember Episode I, II, III, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and I come to my infuriated senses.

 

Hit the link for more photos.

[To me, as I was attempting to sleep in on a Saturday morning.]

“You’re so much like a sea otter.  You don’t want to come out from under the covers.  Another way you resemble a sea otter: your beautiful smile.”

 

[Singing] 

When I look into your eyes, I see love.

When I look into your ears, I see wax.

When I look into your mouth, I see food.

I wish that I could eat it with you.

 

 

“I never liked maps.  They always felt so forced.  Go to sleep now.”

 

 

“Feliz Jalepenos!  Accidente caliente!”

 

 

[Spelling, in the format of a spelling bee]

“Squirrel.  S – Squirrel, Q – Squirrel, U – Squirrel, [etc. etc.]”

 

What’s a Turkism? Find out here.

“If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the English language.” -Burcu

In honor of Sesame Street’s 40th anniversary, I’m repackaging and regifting this little essay I wrote a couple years ago about my favorite hirsute dessert enthusiast.  

 

C is for Cheapskate, that’s good enough for me.

 

COOKIE MONSTER SEARCHES DEEP WITHIN HIMSELF AND ASKS: IS ME REALLY MONSTER?

 

  

  Me know. Me have problem.

 

Me love cookies. Me tend to get out of control when me see cookies. Me know it not natural to react so strongly to cookies, but me have weakness. Me know me do wrong. Me know it isn’t normal. Me see disapproving looks. Me see stares. Me hurt inside.

 

When me get back to apartment, after cookie binge, me can’t stand looking in mirror—fur matted with chocolate-chip smears and infested with crumbs. Me try but me never able to wash all of them out. Me don’t think me is monster. Me just furry blue person who love cookies too much. Me no ask for it. Me just born that way.

 

Me was thinking and me just don’t get it. Why is me a monster? No one else called monster on Sesame Street. Well, no one who isn’t really monster. Two-Headed Monster have two heads, so he real monster. Herry Monster strong and look angry, so he probably real monster, too. But is me really monster?

 

Me thinks me have serious problem. Me thinks me addicted. But since when it acceptable to call addict monster? It affliction. It disease. It burden. But does it make me monster?

 

How can they be so callous? Me know there something wrong with me, but who in Sesame Street doesn’t suffer from mental disease or psychological disorder? They don’t call the vampire with math fetish monster, and me pretty sure he undead and drinks blood. No one calls Grover monster, despite frequent delusional episodes and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. And the obnoxious red Grover—oh, what his name?—Elmo! Yes, Elmo live all day in imaginary world and no one call him monster. No, they think he cute. And Big Bird! Don’t get me started on Big Bird! He unnaturally gigantic talking canary! How is that not monster? Snuffleupagus not supposed to exist—woolly mammoths extinct. His very existence monstrous. Me least like monster. Me maybe have unhealthy obsession, but me no monster.

 

No. Me wrong. Me too hard on self. Me no have unhealthy obsession. Me love cookies, but it no hurt anyone. Me just enthusiast. Everyone has something they like most, something they get excited about. Why not me? Me perfectly normal. Me like cookies. So what? Cookies delicious. Cookies do not make one monster. Everyone loves cookies.

 

Me no monster. Me OK guy. Me OK guy who eat cookies.

 

Who me kidding? Me know me never actually eat cookies. Me only crumble cookies in mouth, but me no swallow. Me can’t swallow. Me no have no esophagus. Me no have no trachea. Me only have black fabric throat. Me not supposed to be able to even talk.

 

Me no eat cookies.

 

Me destroy cookies.

 

Me crush cookies.

 

Me mutilate cookies.

 

Me make it so no one get cookies.

 

Everyone right. Me really is cookie monster.

 

 

The folks over at QN Podcast (formerly Quirky Nomads) did a reading, in character, a few months back.  Check it out here.