Yup.  This one’s a keeper.

 

The picture, I mean.

 

But, the kid’s pretty cute too.

 

You don’t have to say it.  I’ve already come to that realization.

 

Hi, my name is Andy and I’m one of those parents.  Yes, those.

 

The ones that think their child is the greatest thing in the universe.  Better than ninjas!  Better than dinosaurs!  Even better than bacon!  Hell, I’m willing to go way out on that limb (you know, the one they keep putting that baby in cradle from the song on) and say that my child is better than ninja dinosaurs made of bacon!  There.  I said it.  I have no regrets.

 

So as one of those parents, I am obliviously immune to any journalistic, scholarly, or literary standards I had previously set for myself with this site.  As such…

 

Who wants to see more adorable baby pictures?!?!  Well, Gentle Reader, excitedly flailing your arms about and shrieking “Me!  Me!  Me!” it’s your lucky day.  And for those who aren’t flailing or shrieking: 1) You’re a big dummy head who smells like antelope farts, and 2) Need I mention it again?  BETTER THAN NINJA DINOSAURS MADE OF BACON!  BACON, for God’s sake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you perchance happen to have the time, guv’nr?  [If you don't understand why she's British in this caption, you clearly have no understanding of anything ever.  You're sad.  And pathetic.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Insert favorite Bill Clinton quote here:_____________________.  Just don’t insert anything else of Bill Clinton’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is Spaaaarta!  No, wait.  This is Phoeeeeeeeeenix!  It’s in Arizona.  The place with the giant Earth-gina, or Big Canyon or whatever you want to call it. 

[Cut her some slack, she's only two months old.  Clearly, she's not the best at distinguising ancient Greek warrior states from modern U.S. retirement states]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZIM ZIM ZALA BIM!  Suck on it, Robin Williams.  And, uh, Jeannie, who gets dreamed about often.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Glamour Shots: Now Available at the Mall.

 

 

 

 

 

And, as a fitting photo to round out this post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DISAPPROVING BABY:

DISAPPROVES

On a recent somersaulting trip down Memory Lane (an actual dead-end street near my house in Phoenix), I began flipping through old photo albums of myself to see how my infant appearance compares to that of my darling progeny.

 

What I discovered was that I was a fat, hungry-looking baby.  The kind that I avoid eye contact with at the pediatrician’s office.  Then, as I stared disconnectedly at myself through three decades, I was tangentially sucker-punched and left pondering the nature of continuity and the self.

 

But then I found this gem, and snapped right out of it.  Notice anything…special?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you see it?  Of course, you see it.

 

Impressive, huh?  Even as a toddler I apparently couldn’t control my excitement in public.  But clearly, I could handle it, if you know what I mean.  And I know you do.

 

Maybe a color portrait will give you a better idea of what you’re looking at.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still left wondering what it is that’s protruding from my waist and being proudly hefted in my youthful hands?

 

Or, maybe wondering why my toddler (pee-pee / willie / wang / scallywagger / Official Flagpole of Sausagetown – whichever term of endearment you prefer) appears to be orange in hue?

 

Perhaps wondering if your prolonged gaze at questionable portraits from my toddlerhood constitutes pedophilia?  (I checked and it does, you filthy, filthy pervert!)

 

Here’s the other photo from the shoot for purposes of illumination.

 

 

Enlightenment feels good, doesn’t it?  Like one of those annoying pictures you stare at for hours and hours and everyone sees some damn dolphins jumping over a waterfall but all you see is a bunch of stupid pink and purple and black spots and then you finally see it and think: “Wow!  I just wasted two hours of my life, but I see the truth now!”  It’s kind of like that feeling, isn’t it?  Except, if you were staring at my portrait for two hours, you’re probably under house arrest and restricted from going within a hundred yards of schools and playgrounds.

 

But you should have been able to guess Big Bird from the beginning.  Big Bird.  Ya get it?  Do you get it?  Big.  Bird.  Big is, well, big.  And then bird.  A cock is a bird. 

 

Do you get it now?  Huh? 

 

Why do you never get it?  You clearly have some kind of humor-detecting deficiency and should probably be in therapy.  Just saying.

 

I can’t decide whether the photographer who took the picture, developed it, and handed it to my mother with a straight face was either the most oblivious person in the universe or a visionary, evil genius that knew he’d just provided the boy in that priceless photograph, many years down the road, one of the best Facebook profile pics of all time.

 

 

PS – You’re still a pervert.  A filthy one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wary of tall, even-toed safari ungulate mammals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Solving crimes / complex trigonomic equations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Casting evil voodoo spell / making Beethoven impression in poor taste / moving bowels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Detecting flatulence / watching Jersey Shore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stoic pose for future biographers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Newly initiated pirate (i.e., absence of hands) / karate master.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chillin’ in da’ hood.  A pretty, pastel pink and blue hood.

Juniper surprised all of us this week by rolling over from her stomach to her back.  At one month of age.  Which, by infant developmental milestone charts, is akin to a child from the planet Krypton.

 

Couple in the fact that she did this on the very first day we started putting her on her stomach and we might as well all agree that she is the greatest baby in the history of humanity.  Probably all life in the universe.  People would pay to see her, right?  I’m banking on it, what with my new business venture: The Extraordinarily Stupendous Bryan Circus featuring the Exceptionally Astounding Phenomenal Rolling Baby!

 

It is with this momentous event that I fully understand what parenthood is.  It probably has something to do with the fact that I just used the word momentous to define an action most canines can perform.  Parenthood is going batshit crazy with pride for the most ridiculous of things your baby does.  Eating.  Having a bowel movement.  Burping.  Farting.  Keeping your eyes uncrossed.

 

 

 

And, oh the pride!  From my reaction, you’d have thought I just won the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness.  And I didn’t even do anything other than watch (and possibly mock her a little bit for puking first).  And my mother, who also was there to witness the first roll – she might as well have just won the lottery. 

 

And for those naysayers who claim it’s just a fluke, she’s done it nearly every time we’ve put her on the floor since.  So, suck on that, naysayer, saying your nays.   

 

You know, I’ve decided to embrace this.  By all means, I should feel personal pride.  We all know it was my superior genetic contribution that resulted in an infant with superhuman strength.  I just can’t wait for all her other superhuman powers to develop.  At that point, I think I’m supposed to move to a farm in Kansas.  I don’t know, I’m still reading up on this parent of a superhuman stuff.

 

 

PS – Rolling over and startling the world with her profoundly incredible awesominity wasn’t Juniper’s only milestone this week.  She saw her first hobos in the park.  Simply awesome, this child is.

Couldn’t decide which one was cuter: the pass-out or the sleeping model pose.  So, you get both.

Yes.  That’s right.  You’re just that lucky.

If she keeps getting more adorable as she gets older, daddy’s going to have to get more gun able. 

 

 

She is, after all, the genetic culmination of her parents.

 

We’ve never been so proud.

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!

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.

As you all are no doubt already familiar, it was recently reported that Mel Gibson and his Russian mail-order bride musician lady-friend had a baby girl a couple days ago.  It may shock you to learn this, but I really don’t give a flying fuckabaloo about celebrities, their children, or their televised attempts at finally getting a real shot at love.  However, as I scanned the myriad headlines of what passes for “Top Stories” at Yahoo, I was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of foreboding and terror.  So much so that I spilled a good portion of the water I was drinking right (where else?) on the fly of my pants.  Or, at least that’s the excuse I’m using until it dries.

 

So why the terror?  Why the foreboding?  Why the thinly masked incontinence?

 

Simple.  I don’t want my daughter to share the same name as any of the offspring of Mel Gibson.  Or any celebrity, for that matter.

 

The problem is, I have a dark and incontinence-producing premonition that one day it may.  And I just know it’s going to be a celebrity I despise.  Most likely, Brett Favre and Alexandra Guarnaschelli’s (the truly heartless and evil judge on that horrible Food Network show “Chopped” that my wife is always watching) love child.

 

The danger lies in the fact that my wife and I chose an “untraditional” name for our daughter.  It is a name we decided months ago and while it has definitely not received any standing ovations from those we’ve shared it with (most times, it is met with a very conspicuous silence, followed by an avoidance of all eye contact), we both love the lyrical nature of it and the associations we have to the word.

 

The name:

 

Moon Unit No. 2

 

Actually, the state of Arizona is outlawing our first choice, so we settled on…Juniper.

 

Yes, Juniper.  Like the tree.

 

Oh, quit rolling your eyes!  It’s not like we’re going to name her Apple, or Blanket, or Moon Unit No. 2 (thanks to the overbearingly paternalistic nature of the state government of Arizona).

 

So before you go accusing us of being those parents, or marvel at our over-the-top tree hugging ways (I’ll have you know that I do not hug trees, I only dry hump them), allow me to explain.  Not justify, but explain.

 

Why Juniper?

 

First of all, most “normal” names belong to people I’ve already met.  As a general rule, I hate people, so I couldn’t choose a name that carried with it all the negative connotations of all the horrible people I’ve already met with that name.  I mean, really!  Would you have me despise my first child because you so selfishly ruined the name for eternity with all your personality defects and poor life choices?  I think not.

 

Two, I love it because, to be honest, I’ve never been a big fan of living in the desert.  I look forward to the opportunities to escape to the high country, full of pines and mountains, and away from God’s attempt to melt us all with his magnifying glass like the rotten, scurrying little ants he must think we are.  One of the first tangible signs you’ve successfully fled the desert proper is the juniper trees that populate the landscape.  For me, it’s a great feeling.  One I also get when I say the word.

 

And three, I’ve always felt it had a kind of poetic lilt to it.  Plus, the diminutives it affords are off the charts!  June Bug, June Berry, The Shrub.  The possibilities are endless.  Or, perhaps, three in number.

 

So, this brings me back to my original point – the terror.  The problem with unique names is that they stand out that much more when someone revolting has the same name.  Don’t believe me.  One word: Paris.

 

Fortunately, Mel and his Comrade-Under-the-Covers, Oksana, named their child Lucia.

 

We dodged a bullet today.

 

Who knows what the future holds…