Milk duds

As Jennifer and I plunged into parenthood, our generous friends and family inundated us with a flood of gifts, including a fine piece of literature called Safe Baby Handling Tips. Many of you probably have seen some of the tips included in this book, as they have been spread throughout the internet. Our friends Jon and Dara, who are due in December, even posted some of these tips on their blog. Sociologists and pediatricians agree that if every parent followed the advice offered in Safe Baby Handling Tips, we probably wouldn't have all the problems we have in the world today. Thanks to this book, I know now that I shouldn't keep Kyle in a cage, wash him with a garden hose, or calm him down with booze (at least not until a few years from now). There's one particular tip, though, that I felt you should see:

Our little Kyle hasn't quite mastered this concept. Let's just say, as of now, Kyle is not picky about where his nutrition comes from... and for some reason, he seems to think that nutrition can come from me.

This does put a slight damper on our cuddle time. Just when I think Kyle's resting comfortably, he gets that wild look in his eyes, and then starts scaling Mount Dave, wiggling his body, kicking his legs, and bobbing his head up and down with his mouth wide open. There's no stopping him as he squirms left and right, in pursuit of that elusive fountain of milk. I try to reason with him, but he becomes more persistent than ever, letting out wails as he unsuccessfully tries my arm, my armpit, the left side of my chest, the right side of my chest, the middle of my chest, and, if I let him, my nose. I tell him that I can't help him, but the screams get only louder. Sometimes I manage to calm him down by giving him a finger, a bottle, or a steak, but that goes only so far. Eventually Jennifer comes to the rescue and provides Kyle with a proper feeding.

Of course, there is an upside to Kyle's confusion. We now know that Kyle is hungry whenever he starts sucking on my shirt, and the bobbing of his head is certainly helping with developing his neck muscles. However, I am a little leery of doing the "skin to skin" bonding, as recommended by some baby books. I would have to place him on my bare chest... and, well, I'm a bit concerned that he might try some serious milking and put me in a lot of pain.

I'm guessing Kyle will eventually grow out of this phase, perhaps before puberty. We'll probably wait, though, until long after grade school to show him the video we took of one of his unsuccessful hunts for milk. Maybe we'll just hold onto that until he gets a serious girlfriend.

Tater tot

Kyle is no longer a just a homebody. These days, he regularly goes out on neighborhood strolls, and this past weekend he went to church for the first time. These ventures do come with certain risks, though. We are extremely cautious with each encounter we make with another person, and Jennifer has come awfully close to tackling those who attempt to touch our little one. We don't want Kyle to catch any diseases, such as a cold, the flu, or disco fever. But most of all, we're concerned that these other people might try to eat him.

I never thought much about the threat of cannibalism before Kyle was born. It wasn't something covered in our birthing class, and when he was born, nobody asked if we wanted fries with him. But now we're wondering whether our friends and family are smacking their lips thinking of our little one.

Just a few days ago, one of our friends wouldn't stop talking about how Kyle has great "frog legs." Shortly afterwards, her fiance said his little toes looked like kernels of corn. At that point, we had to kick them out of our apartment and ban them forever. Granted, we wouldn't have been as upset if these were simply acquaintances or gourmet chefs... but these friends are on the short list of possible BABYSITTERS for Kyle. How can we be sure now that they won't sprinkle some seasoning on him the moment Jennifer and I head out the door?

We can always pray that Kyle won't ever be used as a main course, but that's also tricky to do, especially when our church's congregation has hungry eyes for our munchkin. When one member met Kyle this past weekend, she called him a "little pork chop." Others just drooled when they saw him, many asking how much he weighed, as if he was a slab of beef for grilling. In the meantime, we set the baptism for next month - I just hope they don't Christen him with barbecue sauce.

(Above: Kyle thinks he's tasty)

With all these stomachs growling for Kyle, you might think that the only safe place for him would be at home. Yet he's not even safe here. My parents were here last weekend, and my mother - yes, my own mother - said Kyle was born with "chicken legs." She is now impressed with how "plump" he has become. What's that supposed to mean?!? And next week my mom will return to New York to help us out with - of all things - the cooking! You can be sure I will be keeping a close eye on her.

In the line of fire

Having a baby boy is a risky business, as some of you may know. Every day is wrought with peril, as we parents brave the "underworld" known as the diaper change. A baby boy is a locked and loaded weapon, ready to fire... and fire he will... when his target is in range, armed with nothing more than an unscented wipe.

We were warned, of course - in fact, the image on the left is from a card sent to us before Kyle was born. Friends, family members, doctors, parents, food delivery guys - practically everyone told us to take caution when changing a diaper to avoid being squirted. Our friends Sarah and Alex, proud parents of a young boy, recommended that we use a cloth as a shield whenever we change a diaper, while my cousins Kris and Craig, proud parents of TWIN boys (God bless them), urged us to go to Target and buy lots and lots of washcloths. We took all this advice, cleared out Target's linen department, and armed ourselves for battle.

For us, changing a diaper is a lot like that opening scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark. One of us holds the washcloth with one hand while using the other hand to undo the diaper, carefully unsticking the tabs as to not trigger any booby-traps. Then, almost instantaneously, the diaper is pulled off and -WHAM!- the cloth is thrown down. After cleanup, we make another attempt at the same tricky operation, this time to remove the cloth and slap on a new diaper. If all goes according to plan, everything stays calm, we are not bombarded with projectiles or boulders, and Kyle's sinister plans have to wait until next time.

(Above: Kyle plotting to strike)

The washcloth shield has been a savior. Many times Jennifer and I would change Kyle and then realize that the towel was soaked. Beads of sweat would roll down our brow as we look at each other, knowing full well that we were the intended target. Those times we consider ourselves lucky, since the washcloth cannot protect all of the time. Kyle's grandmother was an unfortunate victim when she simply checked to see if a diaper needed changing. Many onesies also have been sacrificed.

(Above: Mortally-wounded onesies)

If you look at the odds, it's amazing that we're not hit more often. The inexperienced may believe that a diaper needs to be changed once or twice a day. Not so. Kyle's bowels are timed to our thoughts and actions, so whenever we plan to eat, take a nap, sit down or breathe, they spring into action. We change diapers 15 to 20 thousand times a day. Sometimes twice or three times in once session.

And then there are the surprises, and I leave you with the worst one of all. It happened Saturday morning, and NOBODY prepared us for it. I will spare the details for those of you who like to eat while reading my blog. Let's just say that on Saturday we learned that everything - EVERYTHING - is projectile... and that a dirty diaper doesn't necessarily mean the eruption is over. Most importantly, we also learned that your bed can never be far enough away from the changing table.

Dry cleaning is going to make us broke.

King Kyle

I am writing this post today because Kyle is letting me write it. It's an honor, because Kyle doesn't let me do a lot these days without his permission. Since seizing control of our apartment a little more than a week ago, he has ruled with an iron fist.



Sure, to the casual observer he might not look like the demanding type. Some may think he gurgles and coos all day with a cute baby smile. They may believe that when Kyle needs something, he may simply point to it, or even ask ("Excuse me, dearest Mom and Dad - would you mind changing my diaper? I appear to have soiled it"). Yet the picture above is all too deceiving. When Kyle wants something - a clean diaper, another round of milk, the New York Times crossword puzzle - this is how he asks for it:



Every day - and more disturbingly, every night - this is the Kyle we must obey. Jennifer and I are at his mercy, and he knows it. Every cry has become louder, as Kyle faces every problem - major (diaper) or minor (diaper) - as if he is heralding the end of the world. As you may imagine, this is making Jennifer and I very very very very very very very very very very very very very very tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrreeeeed. In fact, Jennifer is trying to get some sleep as I write this (again, because King Kyle is granting her permission).

There were warning signs, of course. In the days after his birth, Kyle managed to keep both his Mom and Dad very busy at the hospital. The fatigue engulfed us, and by the end of the stay we were not able to think straight, and we kept losing stuff. In fact, one morning on my way to the hospital (they didn't let me stay overnight for my own safety), I left my apartment with a bottle of water in my hand. I got halfway to the subway stop and realized that a) I was no longer carrying the bottle, and b) I had no idea what I did with it. I was rather embarrassed by that. It wasn't until I got to the subway that I realized I also wasn't wearing any pants.

Of course, in the week since he's moved to Brooklyn, Kyle has been peaceful at times... watching the Celtics win the championship...



... being terrorized by the jungle play mat...



... and dreaming that he's a superhero...



We appreciate those moments when they happen, and enjoy some rest ourselves. But when our little one's mood changes, we spring into full action, 'cause one thing we've learned for sure...



... don't mess with King Kyle.

Okay - I gotta go now. I think I hear a dirty diaper.

Homeward bound

Kyle comes home from the hospital today. He's very excited about it and already has his bags packed. He even bought a MetroCard, but I don't think he should use the subway - it takes too long to get home that way. I'll probably have him hail a cab instead.

In leaving the hospital, we close the first chapter in Kyle's life. It was a chapter marked by sleeping, crying, feeding, crying, pooping, crying, sleeping, swaddling, and more crying. There were also some tender moments, like this picture I shot yesterday:



After that image was taken, Jennifer threw Kyle to me, and, as you can see from the picture below, I caught him! (It took only a few tries to get that right)



All that activity can make a kid tired...



And, in the hospital, Kyle is forced to sleep in his vehicle.



... so it's a good thing he's going home. He'll have a nice bed there.

Born to be wild

Look out ladies... a new Beaudry is in town!

Meet Kyle - he arrived at 12:58 a.m. on Friday, June 13th. He's a muscular 8 pounds, 10 ounces... and he knows how to party! (or, at least, he knows how to stay up all night and make a lot of noise)

Everyone's doing fine - more pictures will be coming soon.

The waiting is the hardest part

Any day now. That's how I ended my last post: any day now. Well, it's been a week later, and apparently Kyle didn't get the message. Yes, we're still a week away from the due date, but we're getting a little impatient. The little one has grown considerably, and frankly that hasn't been too comfortable for Jennifer. As for me, all my shows are now in summer reruns, and I'm just anxious to do something else.

So, we're trying everything we can think of to get him to come out. We talk to him about the beauties of being outside, and how he'll have so much room to move about. We go on and on about the walks we'll take him on and the playgrounds we'll visit. Like any good salesperson, we occasionally have to stretch the truth about the outside, and say things like "we'll teach you how to FLY!" But even that doesn't seem to be working... the little one just stirs in the womb, showing us that he's very comfortable in there.

If coaxing doesn't do the trick, perhaps other means will. We've heard that riding over bumpy roads can spark labor, so whenever Jennifer and I go driving, I aim for every pothole we pass, even if it means going into oncoming traffic. We've also heard that spicy and hot food works, so this is our dinner menu this week:

MONDAY: Spicy Mexican

TUESDAY: Spicy Curry

WEDNESDAY: General Tso's Chicken

THURSDAY: Fire Wings

FRIDAY: Fire

Our final option has been bribery. As of now, if Kyle decides to come out in the next couple of days, he'll get extra desserts for a week when he's seven years old. He will also be awarded a trip to Disney World, and he'll be allowed to name his younger sister or brother. We might even throw in a car. Granted, if he goes beyond the due date, those prizes disappear, and we'll start taking away things. If we don't celebrate his ninth birthday, this will be the reason why.

So I'm asking all of you to think about Kyle being born, and maybe your collective thoughts will make it happen. But, please, don't think of Jennifer going into labor during rush hour traffic, or in the middle of the NBA finals, and certainly not when we're just about to go to bed. Let's think 10 am, after a good night's sleep. 10 am this Thursday. Does that sound good to you? It certainly sounds good to us. Gooooooo, Kyle!