A “Daddy Blogger” Manifesto — Dadblast.com

It’s no secret that many bloggers have, ahem, questionable ethics. In an effort to demonstrate my unimpeachable character and moral timber, I have outlined my core principles here in the form of a declaration – a manifesto, if you will, for daddy bloggers.

I offer it these truths (without copyright restrictions) for all to embrace as their own, and, as warranted, to use as the guiding framework in college ethics courses. Off we go:

1. It is my inalienable right – and the right of all fathers who blog about their kids – to hate with a passion the term “Daddy blogger,” even if that is the culturally accepted moniker bestowed upon dads as a logical counterpart to the wildly popular phenomenon known as the “Mommy blogger.”

It is also my right to point out the flawed naming convention, since people who blog about finances are known as “money bloggers.” People who blog about restaurants are referred to as “food bloggers.” And people who blog about the shenanigans of pill-popping celebrities are dubbed “gossip bloggers.”

But I won’t push this last issue. No sir. No how. Because the logical alternative to “daddy blogger” is far more awkward:

Q. So, do you have any hobbies?

A. Me? Sure do. I’m a child blogger.

Q. Oh … you’re a … you um … you blog about little KIDS?

A. It’s complicated. I’m actually – wait, where are you going?

2. I shall not be ashamed to write emotionally about my family. Look, I’m just as apt to tell my son to “rub some dirt on it” as the next guy (unless the next guy is Chuck Norris), but I’m also getting sappy the older I get. Maybe I’m going through andropause, or maybe I’m just a weepy old fool. But writing about the ups and downs of your family life necessarily means illuminating the emotions associated with important milestones.

It means capturing with words the things you simply don’t want to forget. And sometimes in the telling of these stories – the first steps of your first child; the first Christmas; the first time you hear “mama” (and nobody’s wearing leather or brandishing a riding crop) – it gets you good; right in the soul.

So, yeah, I’m a daddy blogger who likes writing about snuggling with my family. So pour yourself a warm French vanilla latte and grab the Kleenex, bitch.

3. I will turn a blind eye on “the man.” I will not accept payment by big corporations for my blogging commentary. I refuse to accept products, services or actual currency from giant organizations looking to capitalize on the goodwill I have earned from you, my dear readers. I simply cannot be bought by these huge enterprises, and my opinions are solely my own. Period.

That said … if you happen to be a slightly smaller corporation and you have some fun, free stuff, go ahead and send it my way and I’ll praise your marketing schwag as if my own son invented it with help from a magical unicorn. No questions asked.

You may also (without so much as a peep from me) set up a SmartyPig account for my children. Note: If you’re reading this post and you happen to represent the FTC on blogger guidelines, I’m just kidding about all of this! (wink).

4. I shall never use emoticons on dadblast.com. If I’m not clever enough to convey my stories without the help of cheap symbols and other vulgar visual gimmicks, what’s the point? We’re not cavemen, after all. What kind of example am I trying to set for my son? That we should communicate not with the elegant machinery of the English language, but instead using crude hieroglyphics? That his dad is half monkey? A hapless ape?

ROFL!

5. I hereby declare that I shall never take an additional wife. The one I have now is more than enough (sorry Utah readers!) and she makes me perfectly happy. My sweet Bixie has the kindness of an angel and the grace of a saint, and she’s an important part of my commentary here on dadblast. As I write this she’s off entertaining at some fancy party in New York, and tomorrow she’ll be in Boston. That leaves me and our infant son alone together for, let’s see … oh, five days?

Wait – what the hell?! Five days? That’s a mighty long time.

Some day I’ll explain to my son, likely in a folksy cowboy voice, that a man can get powerful lonely in five days. (At this point I’ll pretend to spit into a spittoon – pffft-ding!). I’ll tell him that “it ain’t right to sidle up with no hellcats while the missus is off the ranch, unless’n you’re ready for a mean ole dustup when she hears tale of your tomfoolery.”

“A man’s got to have one woman and one woman only,” I’ll conclude dramatically, wagging an index finger in front of my boy’s wide blinking eyes. “‘Cause more’n one wife ain’t natural – an’ more’n two’s plain crazy.”

Disclamer: I’m not sure if this is an appropriate lesson for a child or not. Or an appropriate topic for this manifesto. Nonetheless I’d like to thank my small corporate sponsor for the nice trip to Disneyland!

(Just kidding, FTC. LOL!)

Mommy Monday: Nightmare Baby Sleeping Habits Turn Dreamy!

When it comes to sleeping, our family has been suffering quite a bit for the past few months. When Gus was three months old, he was already sleeping 6 to 7 hours at a time. We felt SUPER lucky and thought we were on the road to restfulness. Then right around Thanksgiving time, everything changed. We could blame it on hospital visits, traveling back East, being sick, teething, putting Gus in different sleeping situations or just pure bad luck. Whatever the cause – we were all (including Gus) exhausted from being up anywhere between 3 – 7 times a night. Each time he woke up, the only way to get him back to sleep was to pick him up and, more often than not, feed him. It wasn’t fun and our weekends were a series of patchwork naps and sleeping stints in an effort to “catch up.” I started to dread night time and going to bed which, for anyone who knows me, knows that I LOVE a good, long sleep.

Last Friday, Parry and I agreed that this had to stop. Realizing the toll it was taking on us, we could only imagine how it was affecting the Gus man and what bad habits we were cultivating in him. I went to Facebook, my sister Nicole & Super Parents Kerri & Simo for advice. Everyone agreed it was time for sleep training and they all had the same tactic – which turns out is called the Ferber method.

For those of you who don’t know – the Ferber method is about letting your babe “cry it out” while comforting him at time intervals (i.e. after the first 5 minutes of crying – a parent goes in and gently soothes the babe without picking him up or feeding him). The idea is the time intervals gradually increase so the babe doesn’t expect or need the parent in order to fall back asleep. It sounds cruel – as every parent hates to hear their babe cry – but we also knew that we couldn’t continue down the sleep path we were on. At 6 ½ months, Gus is at a crucial learning & retaining phase – we didn’t want to affect his development because he was exhausted.

We decided to start on Saturday and I was terrified. I was afraid Gus would be starving in the night or that he would simply cry throughout the night and then be scarred for life. There was a quote in an article that made me feel much better about the process which basically said that sleep training is one of the first hard things that parents do to help their children be more independent. So, while I was scared, I was also sold. This HAD to happen.

The first part of the training happened on Saturday day which we spent getting Gus back to eating every 3 – 3 ½ hours. It was a bit of a tearful, stressful day – but it worked and before bed time on Saturday night Gus had a hearty meal of cereal & bananas, as well as his nighttime bottle. We gave him a bath and then Parry tucked him in at 6:30 pm. We had agreed that training would start from the moment we put him down. Wouldn’t you know – at 7 pm, Gus started crying. Parry bravely followed the protocol of going up in time intervals (we had decided on 4 minutes, 6 minutes, 10 minutes and 15 minutes) and the first two times, Gus kept wailing. And I kept cringing at the sound of his sobs. But, much to our surprise by 7:17 pm, Gus had fallen back asleep.

We were ready for a trying night and when he started crying again at 9 I wondered if this was something I could actually do. But Gus stopped crying before the first 4 minute interval was over. Whew – lucky! Parry and I hit the sack around 10:30 and even though we both woke up numerous times checking the monitor (to make sure it was on, that he was breathing – all that rational stuff), Gus didn’t wake up again until 3 am. Parry had to go once and by the second interval he was asleep again. I had decided that after 4:30, I would go in and get him figuring he would be starving or just need me. When I woke up at 5 am, I turned on the video monitor and saw something that honestly brought tears to my eyes: Gus was playing in his crib. He wasn’t crying or fussing, he was content and trying to suck on his feety PJs.

We figured night #1 was a fluke and were prepared for night #2 to be much worse. But last night was even better – he went to bed at 6 pm and woke up at 6 am – with only one crying stint at 1 am that lasted for 6 minutes. We are obviously really lucky that it has gone as easily as it has – so far. But I think that half the battle is knowing that we can all get through this. And that we’re not hurting him.

I know that sleep training seems and sounds like a selfish thing – but I cannot explain how proud I am of Gus. It turns out that he isn’t a difficult sleeper but that WE, as his parents, had gotten him into a bad cycle and it was our job to set him up to successfully get out of it. While I imagine this isn’t the end of our challenges with sleep, I do know that it’s the beginning of Gus’ independence and it’s been pretty amazing to watch so far.

New Year’s Day: Sorrow and Joy in the Circle of Life

I learned today that a person very dear to me passed away, and that a new member of the family was born. Both pieces of news – polar opposites on the emotional spectrum – came within the same hour on New Year’s Day, 2010.

First, let me take a moment to say a heartfelt goodbye to an important part of my past. Further down, I’d like to say a warm hello to an important part of my future.

Joan Frances Young, or “Joanie” as I called her, was my childhood best friend’s mother who lived in my home town of Georgetown, MA. She passed away at the age of 78, and if there is justice in this world she’ll be sipping champagne and enjoying a healing massage from the fingertips of angels in whatever sort of heaven she imagined there’d be.

I spent most of my time with Joanie over a 20-year stretch from 1980 to the end of the century, after which I moved to California. But during those years she was as much of a mother to me as my own mom, and in fact she probably saw me more, since I practically lived at her house on Jackman Street.

Her son Christopher and I were not exactly choir boys, and Joanie was hardly a fool. I remember waking up extremely hung over at her house one morning. She knew we were both under the weather, to put it mildly, and I can imagine her eyes twinkling as she banged a roaring vacuum cleaner into the hallway doors outside my room. Her message, I’m sure, was this: there are consequences in life, fellas. Don’t forget it.

More than anyone I knew, it was Joanie I most wanted to make laugh. And I could do it, too. I think I believed that if I could make such a decent and humble woman laugh at my jokes, then perhaps it meant I was a good person. Like maybe she could see something in me that I couldn’t; maybe I had promise.

Joanie was married to Richard “Buddy” Young, an extremely bright guy with acerbic wit. I was equal parts awed and terrified by him. He was a more cerebral version of Archie Bunker, with one-liners that could stop a man in his tracks and make everyone else pee their pants laughing at him. And in many ways Joanie was his Edith, who was dutiful to a fault, but unlike the sitcom Edith, Joanie was never fooled for a minute. Yes, she was loyal and doting. But make no mistake: Joan was no dummy.

I remember sitting in the living room with Joanie one day, her in her corner chair, watching her zip through the New York Times crossword puzzle. It was one of the ways she liked to relax when not working at United Foam and Plastics Technologies, where she worked every day for 30 years, and where was cherished for her loyalty and work ethic. I asked her how she knew all of the random answers to the puzzle, and her eyebrows rose quizzically as she considered the question.

“When you live as long as I have, you pick some things up along the way,” she said, and then laughed in a way that suggested she’d seen a lot, loved a lot, and lost a lot.

That was probably 20 years ago. And no doubt Joanie saw a lot more, loved a lot more, and lost a lot more since then.

But today everyone who knew Joanie realizes they picked some things up along the way from her. To know Joanie was to learn that some people can indeed be selfless and decent when it’s much easier to turn the other cheek. To know Joanie was to have a ham sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk waiting for you on the kitchen counter, and to understand that she made herself happy knowing you weren’t hungry any more.

Giving made her happy. Sacrificing for her family and loving her husband made her whole, and when Buddy passed away many years ago I think Joanie started mentally packing her bags and making reservations to join him in the great hereafter.

I like to think she’s with Buddy right now. He’s drinking a Bud Tall and holding court with a group of newly departed folks, and she’s sitting by his side laughing uncontrollably at the outrageousness of his jokes – even as some goody-goody types are appalled.

Joanie Young. She was truly one of the great ones, and I’ll cherish my memories of her and Buddy forever.

Peace.

———————————————————————————-

An hour before I heard about Joanie waving the great goodbye, we received news that my wife’s family, my extended family, said a big hello to a new baby girl!

It’s a cute-as-hell name. Are you ready?

Evie Sugar Lafreniere.

It’s Bixie’s sister Ali who had the little cupcake girl on New Year’s Day, and it comes as no small relief, since she was due in late December. Funny to think that her girl was born on the first day of a new decade, though I don’t think it was the FIRST child born in the new decade because I probably would have seen it on CNN or TMZ.

Bixie is over the moon excited to have a new niece, and a new buddy for our son Gus to wrestle around with. It’s hard, though, to live across the country when big news like this happens (Ali lives in New Hampshire).

Ali and her husband Josh (Bones) are in for a wild ride, if our own experience with Gus is any indication. But they’ll do a fantastic job, because they both have a great sense of humor and have been planning for this for many months (nine, for you math wizards out there).

I know Ali won’t skip a beat, since she works with kids and is a natural with babies. Bones, like me, will have a steeper learning curve. My guess is he’ll ask this question a lot: “Am I doing this right?”

I remember constantly asking that of Bixie during the first couple of months of Gus’s life. And what I eventually learned is that you can never do everything right, but as long as you nail the important things you’ll do just fine.

I think Joanie would concur with that sentiment, and I think it’s a fitting way to end this post on an emotionally-charged day. For many people 2010 marks a new beginning, a new chapter, while for others it signals the setting sun on a tumultuous decade.

It’s the circle of life, with the revolving door always in full rotation. And as I look out at the road ahead, the best I can do for myself and my family is to focus on the important things and, with luck, try to do them well.

Everything else will take care of itself.

Happy New Year!

Thoughts From My Son’s Hospital Room

Here we sit, on a reclining bed in room 512a inside California Pacific Medical Center’s Pediatric Care unit. Wheel of Fortune is playing on TV, and a woman just guessed “Self Potato” for a puzzle whose correct answer is “Self Important.” Our first good laugh in a while.

Gus is sprawled out on his back and finally sleeping, his limbs dramatically flung in odd directions like a chalk outline at a nursery school crime scene. A soft spoken Asian nurse wearing a surgical mask is holding a small plastic hose directly in front of Gus’s nose, from which healing vapors pour out and encircle his head and then dissipate.

He’s blissfully unaware of all of this, which is nice. The treatment is aimed at helping his breathing, which has been labored for the past few days and began rattling and crackling today. Not words you like to hear in association with your infant’s lungs.

What began as a nagging cough about 10 days ago has morphed into something concerning enough that our primary care physician had Gus admitted to the hospital for overnight observation. We also just learned tonight he has an ear infection, the star on top of Gus’s Christmas tree of physical maladies. Yes, he’s also teething.

But the headliner tonight is his respiratory problem. So far the signs are encouraging – his wheezing breathing seems to be a nasty virus that isn’t life-threatening. Chest X-rays revealed moments ago that Gus doesn’t have pneumonia, so it looks like a consistent diet of antibiotics and hugs will turn things around for the little monkey.

Still, I’d by lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless today when doctors noticed his oxygen levels dropping after administering breathing treatments – clamping a mask on his face as Gus strained and wailed against the vapor treatment and the accompanying tubes and wires. Mostly I pushed the fear back and did what we had to do, but somewhere in the back of my brain lingered dark thoughts and admittedly irrational outcomes. I guess that just makes me a dad.

Bixie and I haven’t spent a night in this hospital since Gus was born. Six months later we have a plump, 16-pound cupcake-faced boy who just recently started to giggle and squeal with delight when we tickle the fat rolls under his chin. Tonight we’ll sleep together as a family back where it all started, at CPMC.

I’m looking forward to a healthy new year for Gus and for my wife. I like to think that I have a solid perspective on how lucky I am, but nights like tonight ratchet up my appreciation to the highest levels.

And that’s what I’ll be thinking about tonight as I squeeze my wife’s hand in hospital room 512a.

UPDATE: We’re home from the hospital, and Gus seems to be doing much better. Thanks, everyone, for your kind words and thoughts. We appreciate it very much!

For New Dad, Christmas is Magic Again

In the many years Bixie and I have been together we’ve never had much of a Christmas tree. Our families live in Boston, were we always spend the holidays, so hanging up a fat tree in San Francisco or Sausalito (where we now live) seemed sort of disingenuous, in the same way that rooting for the San Francisco Giants seems silly when you’re a lifelong Red Sox fan.

This year that changed (the tree, not the sports). We’re still going back east for a stretch, but that didn’t stop us from putting up a tree in Sausalito. See, it’s our first Christmas with our new baby. Not having a glittery tree during the month of December now seemed selfish and perhaps even psychologically irresponsible.

No bright lights for the baby to gaze at? No ornaments to bobble in his sticky hands?

So for the past week Bixie, Gus and I have given our television lots of time off. Instead, we’ve been playing Christmas carols in the evenings as we hang out together as a family, with Gus smiling and cooing in his swinging chair in the glow of the holiday lights. Our stockings are hung by the chimney with care.

I find myself looking back and forth at my wife (who is typically solving a crossword puzzle) and my son (who is typically blowing spit bubbles) and thinking this really might be the meaning of life, or perhaps its purpose. That if you could bottle up the coziness of this moment and share it widely the world could enjoy a protracted period of peace and harmony.

And right when I’m thinking about this Gus typically craps his pants, which is a handy reminder that a world filled only with joy isn’t one worth experiencing, since it’s only through adversity that you can truly appreciate the good times – like when Gus isn’t crapping his pants.

All of this is a meandering way of saying the following: Christmas feels truly special to me again, because I’m once again seeing it through the lens of a child. It’s true that Gus won’t really understand the hoopla this year, but nonetheless, as a new father I’m getting caught up in the magic.

Because this year I have the most amazing present anyone could ask for sitting under the tree in Sausalito. And his eyes are bright with wonder.

Mommy Monday: Dadblast Author Isn’t Total Schmuck!

This installment of Mommy Monday makes my chest puff out with parental pride. See, Bixie discusses the division of labor (irony and pun intended) associated with raising a baby when both parents work. Turns out I’m not a total slacker! But don’t take my word for it, read on:

I remember my mom telling me a story about when she and my dad were first married. It was before kids and she came home to my dad vacuuming the living room floor. She was pleasantly surprised – given the day and age – and it ended up being just the beginning of my dad’s household contributions. I’ve always looked fondly upon my parents division of labor and, in fact, remember thinking about how “lucky” my mom was to have someone who helped out so much. I also remember doing a lot of great things with BOTH of my parents. My mom stayed home when we were young – so she was constantly doing fun things with us like taking us to puppet shows, doing crafts & baking with us. I also remember my dad doing a ton on what I can only assume were nights and weekends – taking us sledding, playing wiffle ball with the neighborhood kids, etc. Since my mom stayed home, she was obviously spending far more time with us, but looking back – I feel really lucky to have spent quality time with both of them as much as possible. And I feel like they were able to achieve if not the reality, then certainly the illusion, of things being 50/50.

So, when I got pregnant – I became obsessed with the idea of things being 50/50. After all, I didn’t want to be one of those women who ended up resenting her husband because I did all the work while he just sat around bouncing the baby on his knee when it was convenient. I was nervous that I’d be the exhausted, frazzled mom while he’d be the funny, well-rested dad. And the Gus came along.

I’m not going to say that we didn’t have a few bumps along the way. But the truth is that we had a plan from the start that Parry would wake up for the first feeding each night – and then I would handle the rest while I was on maternity leave. Some nights, one of us would let the other sleep through the night and just take all the feedings – cause one of us was particularly tired. By the time Parry got home from work, he wanted to spend as much time with Gus as possible. He’d change him, feed him (I was expressing milk for that very purpose), read to him or play with him. And, at first, I’d watch every move and make “suggestions” on how to do things a little bit better. Then I read an article in Parenting Magazine that made a lot of sense. By making suggestions, I was insinuating Parry was doing it wrong – which, as you can imagine, wasn’t very motivating. I stopped doing that as much as possible and watched as he and Gus formed their own way together.

When I started back to work – everything changed – I didn’t have all day long to play with Gus, make dinner or get errands done. So I started to stress about the 50/50 again. Until I realized that things would never be completely 50/50 – but they would be balanced – because we were both invested in making it that way. In fact, there are many days when Parry does much more than me. The point isn’t that things need to be exactly equal. The point is that we both feel supported. That we both can see when the other needs a break. And that we both want to create the illusion (if not the reality) that things were 50/50 so Gus can look back and be happy that he spent quality time with both of us as much as possible.

How have you achieved balance while raising a family? I’d love to hear about it!

Infant on a Plane: The Ridiculously Friendly Skies

My wife recently gave me terrible news. We were back in Boston with Gus to attend her best friend Peg’s wedding. The event itself was excellent; equally tear-jerking and hilarious, as these things tend to be, and my wife was the maid of honor. She gave a stirring speech about the bonds of their friendship and there was nary a dry eye in the house.

But I was crying inside for a different reason. See, I had recently found out that Bixie had to fly on business to Denver from Boston, instead of flying across the country with me and Gus back to San Francisco.

A well known equation explains this dynamic: Dad + Infant + Airplane – Mom = Terror.

Those of you who don’t have infants may not know or remember this: you fly with the baby IN YOUR ARMS the whole time. And a typical flight from Boston to San Francisco is almost six hours! That’s like:

**Watching two whole NFL football games back-to-back.

**Driving from Boston to New York – and halfway back.

**Cooking an 18-pound Thanksgiving turkey. TWICE.

Six hours with a crying, pooping, screeching infant in your arms. On a plane. And no escape. Nobody to pass Gus off to for a sanity break or, for that matter, a bathroom break.

I could tell from the reactions of Bixie’s mom and sisters that I was in deep trouble. There was lots of nervous laughter when they found out I was flying solo, as if I had announced at dinner that I intended to quit my job and pursue a career as a salsa dancer.

“You’ll be fine,” they finally said, smirking at one another. “Really.”

Fast forward to the day of the flight. Checking through security with Gus was dizzying. Normally I’d just unbuckle my belt, pop off my shoes and take my laptop out of its case. Done. But this was something else entirely. It was like a test of memory and agility and organization, with the added bonus of a line of impatient people behind me, crowding me and (I’m sure) judging me a hapless parent.

I literally talked myself through it: “Take the bottles of milk out of the baby bag so they can scan it separately; collapse the stroller and feed it through; turn the car seat upside down; do NOT put Gus through the conveyer belt; CRAP – MY BELT!; Please don’t cry, Gus, it’s okay!; CRAP – MY SHOES!; Where’s my cell phone?; It’s okay, Gus, YAY!; Why is the car seat NOT GOING THROUGH?; Sorry, people, my wife had to go to Denver!; CRAP, WHERE IS MY CELL PHONE?!; Oh no, where’s my boarding pass? WHERE’S MY BOAR – oh, here it is; It’s okay, Gus – we’re going to Boston – YIPPEE!; Why is this car seat NOT GOING THROUGH THIS GOD DAMNED X-RAY THING?!; Look, Gus – a nice police man! Look at the nice police man!; Crap –MY CAR KEYS!”

And so on.

Since Bixie was also booked on the flight (but wouldn’t be on it), I walked up to the JetBlue employee at my gate holding cute little Gus in my arms. It was Bixie’s idea to try to guilt them into letting me keep her seat by showing off Gus when I asked the question. If I succeeded, it meant I could sit my baby in his car seat next to me for the trip, versus holding him in my lap like a sack of octopuses.

The JetBlue employee eyed me suspiciously and then Gus smiled at her.

“I think we can work something out,” she said in a sing-song voice, smiling at Gus. “We can give you the whole row in the back of the plane, right next to the bathrooms.”

I squeezed Gus so hard at that moment that I think I made him break wind.

“It’s a Christmas MIRACLE!” I yelled. I really did say that, and I really did yell.

But JetBlue was just getting warmed up. When I got into my own private row at the back, me and Gus were immediately greeted by two delightful young Flight Attendants. Turns out they both had young babies of their own, and they were smitten with Gus.

“We’ll take good care of you today,” said a gal named Cynthia. “Gus wants to hang out with us in the back, don’t you Gus?”

Boy, did Gus ever!

Instead of an anchor on my lap (that I was expecting) Gus was transformed into the unofficial JetBlue mascot on that flight from Boston to Oakland, and I swear to God no fewer than 20 different women passed Gus around like a Botox brochure at an Anti-Aging Convention. A steady drumbeat of ladies, young and old, stopped by to ask me how I was doing, how old Gus was, and how far I was flying, etc.

I must have seemed pathetic to them. Like I needed to be rescued. And can I share a little secret with you? That’s exactly what I was trying to project! Whenever a woman walked down the row toward us, I’d kiss Gus a few times on the forehead and then turn my eyes upward pathetically, pleadingly.

“Would you mind if I held him for a minute?” they’d ask.

I’d pause for a minute as if considering what was best for the child. “Sure, I don’t see why not. Hopefully he’s not too cranky . . . I think he misses his mother.”

Jackpot.

Just as we were disembarking on the first leg of the trip in Long Beach, stellar JetBlue Flight Attendant Cynthia tapped me on the shoulder and asked what was my final destination. I told her I was destined for Oakland.

“Well, I have good news for you. This is the plane you’ll be flying there, and I’m going to be working your flight.”

It gets better.

“So feel free to leave your bags right here, and when you get off, tell the person at the gate to set you up with a good seat. I can tell you right now that there are 27 empty seats on that flight. See you in an hour, Gus!”

I did as instructed and was rewarded with an upgrade to the first class section of the flight. Seat 3C. Full row. Extra legroom. Right at the front of the plane for easy disembarking. Jackpot.

Gus ended up napping for the entire second flight, so he was unaware that another handful of women were cooing at him during his slumber, complimenting his good looks and cuteness and good behavior. They also told me, nearly all of them, that I was doing a great job.

You might be thinking, “yeah, a SNOW job!” And you might be right. When I called my wife between flights to tell her I was being treated like a rock star, she said it was “so not fair” that she didn’t enjoy the same treatment when she flew solo with Gus. And she was only half kidding. In fact, I think she was dead serious.

The funny thing is, the fear I had about flying alone with Gus was very real, until JetBlue employees and a community of loving ladies rushed to my aid. Or maybe they all saw me as a slam-dunk chance to snuggle with a cute baby (because they knew I’d welcome it, whereas a mom *might* get offended at the request).

Either way, it may be sexist to assume that a father is somewhat disadvantaged when it comes to dealing with an infant on a long flight. That we don’t have the coping skills for the chaos.

But I also happen to believe it’s true, and that I’d have been a wreck were it not for the overwhelming kindness of strangers.

Happy Thanksgiving, all you ladies I met in the clouds!

**And to JetBlue, I think you just nudged ahead of Virgin America in my book.

Got a story you’d like to share about flying with babies/kids? I’d love to hear it.

Where the Wild Thing Is: Poop where you eat?

Last night Gus fussed and wailed, waking his parents up several times. We followed all of the rituals that normally calm him back to sleep, but sometimes what seems logical and has worked many times in the past has absolutely zero effect. And I’m pretty sure I know why.

Our baby is essentially a wild animal.

Eventually we’ll domesticate him. He will learn to govern his emotions and begin to behave modestly. He will understand shame and pride, and will have the wisdom to know when to exhibit both. He will grapple with issues of diplomacy and discipline, and, with luck, will complete this whole package with a modicum of emotional intelligence.

But for now, he’ll fart directly in your face.

He’ll poop in your lap while you’re having dinner.

He’ll cry when you’re trying to make him laugh and he’ll laugh when you stub your toe and collapse to the floor in a heap of pain.

He’ll puke on his own shirt and smile with a milky strand still dangling from his lower lip.

He’ll lick the floor. Greedily.

If Gus were born with sharp teeth I’m certain I’d be missing a finger by now. Fortunately he just has slobbery pink gums with which to suck on everything he can get his sticky paws on. If we give him a plastic ring, for example, he shakes his head aggressively from side-to-side while clamping down, in much the way a shark might thrash its teeth more deeply into the torso of a surfer to maximize the damage and increase the size of the chunk removed.

Imagine if adults behaved this way? On Thanksgiving we’d have to throw plastic tarps over the furniture to protect against the spatter.

But while Gus may be a wild animal, he’s MY wild animal and I love him beyond description. This morning I was feeding him a bottle when he began grunting, the way a caveman might grunt as he hoists a buffalo leg onto his shoulder. This went on for about 30 seconds, and then …

Guess what happened next?

Was he ashamed to do such a thing while eating? Nope. Did he recognize that it was in bad form to stomp his bare foot into the horrifyingly messy diaper while dad struggled to change him? Puh-lease.

If an adult did these things and smiled about it we’d have that adult committed STAT. But when Gus does it, it’s actually a freakin’ riot.

What an animal.

Gus in pictures

Gus was a ghost for Halloween, although it’s pretty clear he wouldn’t be scaring anyone but himself this year. His mom kept him in the outfit pretty much all day, and maybe I’m immature, but i found myself wishing I could wear an identical costume, adult sized.

Pumpkins bring out deep thoughts in Gus. In this particular patch he was trying to keep his emotions in check, and he succeeded.

Below you’re looking at one of the last couple of nights that Gus was ever swaddled. Soon after this shot he began to flip onto his side, while swaddled. That’s not good, so we busted him loose.

Wisdom Teeth: When Gus is 41

I’m 41 years old and crossing a major milestone tomorrow in that I’m finally having my wisdom teeth extracted. I know, I know, you’re jealous. It’s not every day you get to have a dentist put his foot on your chest to gain leverage while trying to twist free the roots of a tooth deeply calcified into the core of your jawbone.

Am I nervous? Yes. If I weren’t I’d either be ignorant or one of those loons who like to be “punished” by whip-wielding gals in pointy heels. That ain’t me. For me, pain = horror. And tooth pain = horror wrapped in madness and deep fried in crippling trauma.

But enough about my (incredibly attractive) cowardice. This post talks about the symbolism of having my wisdom teeth pulled within a month of when my son will cut his first baby teeth. That’s a 41 year diastema.

And I can’t help but wonder how my little baby’s life will be similar to or different than mine when he’s 41. Will he married to a wonderful woman like his mother? Will he be living in Boston or California, or in another country entirely?

What will a cell phone look like in 41 years? Will there be such a thing, or will today’s iPhone have the same impression on him that a crude typewriter does on me? What about television? How much bigger/flatter/better could they possibly be? Will technology have advanced to such a degree that you can simply roll up a wafer-thin TV like a yoga mat and take it with you? Will you be able to unroll it and paste it to any surface and get a perfect picture wirelessly? Will it also be a computer?

And what of our political system? Things are pretty terrible right now, with jaws jutted forward and knuckles white at the ballot box, but will they be infinitely worse or, fingers crossed, somehow more civil? Will our two-party system be three or four?

When Gus is 41 years old will there still be a single gas-fueled automobile on the road? Will commercial airlines be able to circumnavigate the planet on a single electrical charge? Will there be a hotdog stand on the moon? Proof of life on another planet (not including our people selling hotdogs on the moon)?

I can’t imagine Gus actually walking on his own, let alone shaving or dating, but will he have kids of his own when he’s 41 – or by that time will it be common for folks to wait until they’re 50 to begin raising a family?

And what about dentistry? Will today’s method of tooth extraction be remembered as barbaric when Gus is 41? Will they have figured out a way to prevent the growth of wisdom teeth at birth?

Gus will read this some day, and when he does I think he’ll laugh his butt off at some of these silly thoughts. “Ha! My father thought there’d be a hot dog stand on the moon!” for example.

Go ahead and laugh, Gus. It’s 2009, and we were supposed to have flying cars 10 years ago. And lord knows, there should have been a better way to get rid of wisdom teeth by now.