A funny thing happened on the way to awakedness yesterday (for those of you that don’t know how I sleep, this is a VERY involved process involving forklifts and cranes)…
Prologue
So we’re not the best parents in the world when it comes to sleep-in-the-crib time. By the end of the day, Rachel and I are usually so awash in a sea of poopy-drowsiness (both literally and physically) that by the time the showers, baths, feedings, work, dishes and dinner are washed off of our tired souls, there is nothing better than having a little Giggle Fest ™ in bed with the Zen.
GF consists of a good hour or so of insane faces/noises/gestures/zerberts that provoke Tenzin into salacious cackle only heard by dogs and paternal beings. Often times throughout the torture he’ll take an intermittent break to paw or rappel from the mound of surrounding pillows, making an obvious effort to “run for it” over the side (that kid is moving!). Even with our hands tightened securely around his ankles, he seems to think he still has a fighting chance at freedom, unconcerned about the 4 foot fall to the hardwood below. We pull him back up and the process starts all over again.
On a side note, I can already picture it…God help him when tries to jump from an oak tree with an umbrella like his dear old dad. God help him even more when he reattempts the jump an hour later with a garbage bag.
By the time GF winds down we’re 15 times more tired than before, thus eliminating any chance that we’ll ever make it to the nursery with baby in tow (believe it or not, the 15 foot walk is a killer!). Even when we do, in fact, make it to the nursery we still can’t help but bring him back in to the bedroom before the alarm goes off at 6:00 (then 6:15 and 6:30 and 6:45). I seriously think Rachel needs snuggle Methadone to kick her habit. I, however, am just fine and can quit whenever I want to. I’ve got it under control. I swear. But I could use a hit here soon.
Back to the story at hand…
So I’m a very moley guy. OK, “moley” is putting it lightly. Basically my back looks like the bottom of a rabbit’s cage (and yes Mom, I had them all checked out by a dermatologist less than a year ago and they’re all in tiptop “mole shape”). More on this below.
Lately, to keep Tenzin occupied while we prep his evening meal-o-mush, we’ll give him about 5 or 6 puffy Gerber stars strategically placed over the span of his tray (he’ll try to cram them all in his mouth if he picks them all up at once). They’re small, about half an inch at the most, and he loves to pick them up on his own (still left-handed like Uncle Jared (sorry, Sarah…Jared can throw a baseball)).
So yesterday I was a bit surprised when I awoke to something strange. It wasn’t your typical morning because Tenzin didn’t signal dawn by a) striking me in the groin with his heel b) slapping me on the nose c) digging his fingernail into my eye socket d) head butting me in the ear, or e) my personal favorite, biting me on the nose. The hazards of snuggling with a nine month old!
That morning was different because I awoke to my back being rubbed ever so gently, almost as if my son had given up his dreams of mixed martial arts fighting in favor of becoming a weak-handed, small-fingered Masseuse (a slight dichotomy of career choices, I’d think!), but alas those dreams were cut short when I quickly realized my son had mistaken my moles for brown puffy Gerber stars, with their chocolaty goodness just out of reach. Paw as he might, those stars were just not releasing their grip from Dad’s skin.
The event was quite comical and we had some good laughs, but the laughter didn’t last long. As I turned my head to tell Rachel the hilarious ordeal at hand, our son extended his hand to my face, c) impelling his fingernail two knuckles deep into my eye socket.
Good morning, Tenzin.
In other news, Tenzin went to the truck place on Tuesday and bought himself a four-wheel drive conversion kit. He had it installed in no time.
It wasn’t much distance-wise, but it was a record-shattering marathon in Daddyworld. The knees and hands worked independently of one another in harmonious movement, propelling him forward six whole feet to the perimeter of the rug. I think he even surprised himself. He shot us a look, obviously accusing us of moving the rug.
I’ll try to get some video, but you all know the Murphy’s Law of parenting: the cute stays until the flash goes off. So it might just be a ten minute video of us in falsetto shouting, “You can do it. Commmmmme on buddy. Handsies and feetsies. Come get your toys.” Until then, I’ll be busy covering the house in bubble wrap and rubber.
Oh, and we've got a new word for poop in the diapers. It's offically known as a Stinkie Twinkie.™
Too funny.
Prologue
So we’re not the best parents in the world when it comes to sleep-in-the-crib time. By the end of the day, Rachel and I are usually so awash in a sea of poopy-drowsiness (both literally and physically) that by the time the showers, baths, feedings, work, dishes and dinner are washed off of our tired souls, there is nothing better than having a little Giggle Fest ™ in bed with the Zen.
GF consists of a good hour or so of insane faces/noises/gestures/zerberts that provoke Tenzin into salacious cackle only heard by dogs and paternal beings. Often times throughout the torture he’ll take an intermittent break to paw or rappel from the mound of surrounding pillows, making an obvious effort to “run for it” over the side (that kid is moving!). Even with our hands tightened securely around his ankles, he seems to think he still has a fighting chance at freedom, unconcerned about the 4 foot fall to the hardwood below. We pull him back up and the process starts all over again.
On a side note, I can already picture it…God help him when tries to jump from an oak tree with an umbrella like his dear old dad. God help him even more when he reattempts the jump an hour later with a garbage bag.
By the time GF winds down we’re 15 times more tired than before, thus eliminating any chance that we’ll ever make it to the nursery with baby in tow (believe it or not, the 15 foot walk is a killer!). Even when we do, in fact, make it to the nursery we still can’t help but bring him back in to the bedroom before the alarm goes off at 6:00 (then 6:15 and 6:30 and 6:45). I seriously think Rachel needs snuggle Methadone to kick her habit. I, however, am just fine and can quit whenever I want to. I’ve got it under control. I swear. But I could use a hit here soon.
Back to the story at hand…
So I’m a very moley guy. OK, “moley” is putting it lightly. Basically my back looks like the bottom of a rabbit’s cage (and yes Mom, I had them all checked out by a dermatologist less than a year ago and they’re all in tiptop “mole shape”). More on this below.
Lately, to keep Tenzin occupied while we prep his evening meal-o-mush, we’ll give him about 5 or 6 puffy Gerber stars strategically placed over the span of his tray (he’ll try to cram them all in his mouth if he picks them all up at once). They’re small, about half an inch at the most, and he loves to pick them up on his own (still left-handed like Uncle Jared (sorry, Sarah…Jared can throw a baseball)).
So yesterday I was a bit surprised when I awoke to something strange. It wasn’t your typical morning because Tenzin didn’t signal dawn by a) striking me in the groin with his heel b) slapping me on the nose c) digging his fingernail into my eye socket d) head butting me in the ear, or e) my personal favorite, biting me on the nose. The hazards of snuggling with a nine month old!
That morning was different because I awoke to my back being rubbed ever so gently, almost as if my son had given up his dreams of mixed martial arts fighting in favor of becoming a weak-handed, small-fingered Masseuse (a slight dichotomy of career choices, I’d think!), but alas those dreams were cut short when I quickly realized my son had mistaken my moles for brown puffy Gerber stars, with their chocolaty goodness just out of reach. Paw as he might, those stars were just not releasing their grip from Dad’s skin.
The event was quite comical and we had some good laughs, but the laughter didn’t last long. As I turned my head to tell Rachel the hilarious ordeal at hand, our son extended his hand to my face, c) impelling his fingernail two knuckles deep into my eye socket.
Good morning, Tenzin.
In other news, Tenzin went to the truck place on Tuesday and bought himself a four-wheel drive conversion kit. He had it installed in no time.
It wasn’t much distance-wise, but it was a record-shattering marathon in Daddyworld. The knees and hands worked independently of one another in harmonious movement, propelling him forward six whole feet to the perimeter of the rug. I think he even surprised himself. He shot us a look, obviously accusing us of moving the rug.
I’ll try to get some video, but you all know the Murphy’s Law of parenting: the cute stays until the flash goes off. So it might just be a ten minute video of us in falsetto shouting, “You can do it. Commmmmme on buddy. Handsies and feetsies. Come get your toys.” Until then, I’ll be busy covering the house in bubble wrap and rubber.
Oh, and we've got a new word for poop in the diapers. It's offically known as a Stinkie Twinkie.™
Too funny.
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