Laid-Off Dad

* The "F" is for "Felicitate"

Greetings, everyone. As you might have guessed, there hasn't been much time to write lately because Grandma Jellyspoon skipped town this week, after almost a month of service above and beyond the call of duty. She arrived here by train on April 28 and spent every night on the floor wedged in the corner of Robert's bedroom, on a leaky old air mattress that I had to re-inflate every night. And all the while, she made Mary Poppins look like Nurse Ratched by keeping us 1) fed, 2) clean, 3) organized, and 4) up to our expanding waistlines in baked goods. Number 4 was especially shrewd, given her twofold agenda. One, it kept Robert engaged for hours in an activity he loves (I often came home to find him coated in flour and proudly asserting, "I made something for you!"). Two, that something was usually a few dozen chocolate-chip cookies or a pie made with fresh produce from the Farmers' Market. 

Sure, you're thinking, she sounds like a dream mother-in-law. But all that help must have come with a price, in the form of tons of smothering, unsolicited parenting advice.

Nope. Not a syllable.

When I found a moment to thank her for all she had done for us, she said she was blessed, because so many grandmas don't get the chance to be a part of their grandchildren's lives (or for that matter, to be the first pair of hands they feel outside the womb). At this point I forgot every word in the English language and just backed away, genuflecting as I left the room.

So this is our first weekend on our own with two children, one of whom is suddenly steadfastly opposed to setting foot outdoors. Instead, he'd rather enjoy extended Naked Time and build small Lincoln-Log/MegaBlok cities that he deems obsolete approximately 90 seconds after completion. He then attacks his creation with cacophonic gusto until it crashes to the floor and startles a dozing TwoBert. This is more of a drag than you might think, because TwoBert is struggling with a case of reflux that is pushing my gas-removal skills to the limit. It's hard to get a good nap in when you're stuck in a constant cycle of nurse-fuss-burp, nurse-fuss-fart.

So thank you, Grandma, for everything, from the bottom of my heart. You're a true MILILF. *

Don't stagnate! Eructate!

I've always firmly believed that everyone has one special super-talent that can be used for the betterment of humanity. Aquaman talked to fish. Dirk Diggler had his magic wand. And me? If I lay my hands on you, I can make you burp.

We first discovered this power three years ago with Robert, and I've uncannily maintained it since. My wife will nurse TwoBert until he pulls off and makes his body as rigid as possible, his face seized in a rictus of trapped gas. She will go through all the proper burping motions, cuddle, caress, cajole, all to no avail. Then I will reach for him, and he'll launch some sort of air biscuit before his chin reaches my shoulder.

It's something you truly can't appreciate until you see it for yourself. Once, I just reached over and caressed his smooth little noggin, and he Gumbled loudly enough to startle the cat. I've been experimenting with different ways to make as little contact as possible, with mixed results. One day, I hope to be able to do it telekinetically and just walk the Earth, easing the pressure in infantile G.I. tracts.

We've also found, however, that this power only works within a person's first year of life. I suppose it's for the best; otherwise, receiving lines could become really awkward.

PB&KY

When we finally got around to poking through the unused supplies in our home birthing kit, we hit the mother lode--about two dozen individual packets of lubricating jelly.

I'm desperately fighting the impulse to slip a few into the condiment bin at the deli.

Alone again, unnaturally

Thanks to the fickle finger of Dame Serendipity, I am home alone. The apartment, currently home to six fully functioning life forms, is now eerily silent. It's a wholly satisfying experience that I'm savoring as fully as possible, because it won't happen again until I'm eligible for AARP.

This has been the weekend of the ex-roommate, who came by on Saturday to render unto TwoBert and to see what's become of his old bedroom. (Since it's piled high with books and underpants, not much has changed.) Then, this morning, he and I shrewdly avoided the hordes of ravening faithful and took in EPISODE III, which was easily the least rotten of the prequel trilogy. (For a particularly savage review, click here.) Whenever Yoda was on screen, all I could think was, "I have a son who looks like that."

It was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far way, when I last lived alone--for six whole months, between when my roommate moved out and my girlfriend moved in. In fact, if the human body completely regenerates itself cell by cell over the course of seven years, then I am literally an entirely different person. And after Grandma skedaddles out of town on Tuesday, I'll be embarking on an entirely different plane of existence: Multiple Parenthood. For the next several months, those who visit our apartment will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Choose to defuse

As Grandma Jellyspoon's tenure as World's Greatest Governess winds down, and my wife and I cringe along toward the Summer of Chaos, I'm starting a new entry category: It Should Have Been Said. (For the first installment, click here.) See, playground parenting can be a challenge when your kid is threatened by another parent's carelessness, and I just know that if I don't vent some steam here, my sleep deprivation will team up with my feral, "protect the progeny" instinct and cause me to do something I'll regret.

Dear Fellow Playground Daddy:

I'm really glad you have the time to have a catch with your 9-year-old son. It's great that you can spend time together while he gets some fielding practice. However, did you see the sign that says "No hardballs permitted"? There's a reason for that. See, there are a lot of much younger kids frolicking around thinking they're not about to get concussed by a stray line drive. So could you switch to something else, like a tennis ball, please? Thanks a lot.

Hey. Didn't I just ask you to use a different ball? Oh, you changed to one of those semi-soft baseballs. I see. And that's supposed to be OK, is it? I have an idea. You can take the little rubber ball that my son and I are using and throw it at my head as hard as you can. And then I'll throw your ball at your head as hard as I can. Which of us do you think will leave under his own power?

Oh, so now you're giving me attitude? You come in here, ignore the rules and endanger my kid, and I'm the asshole? OK, you useless, arrogant pantywaist. You keep playing with whatever ball you want. And if my son gets hurt, I'm going to do the same to you. While your kid watches.

All the best,

LOD

Ah. I feel better already.

On a related note, Two-Bert really knows how to fill a diaper

My wife was on the phone with her grandmother, passing on the details of the blessed event, when I overheard this:

"Oh, and his birthday is easy to remember: '05-10-05.' "

[Pause.]

"That's right, it does sound like a fertilizer."

Episode III: Enough With the Melodrama, Already

OK, I agree. This episode format isn't working. I had the best of intentions, though, because of all the cliffhanger moments during Two-Bert's last fetal minutes. But reader Jenny nailed it: There weren't a lot of blog entries during the birth because there simply wasn't time. We went from zero to baby in no time flat.

So, since we're all hip-deep in postpartum weirdness, let's just cut to the chase, shall we?

We woke up Tuesday cranky as hell, because my back was (almost) as sore as her front. And once again, as soon as the sun rose, the contractions spaced out. So the two of us spent the morning wondering how much more sleeplessless my wife could withstand. I even considered going to work and re-scheduling my paltry two days of paternity leave. (Don't ask.)

Then, out of the blue, the contractions accelerated, and when they were six minutes apart (and curiously "double-peaked") we called the midwife, Martine. We'd been through the false-labor wars with Robert, so we weren't concerned--until it dawned on my wife that the "double peaks" were actually individual contractions that were three minutes apart and alternating in intensity. The wheels were in motion, but would Martine arrive in time?

Suddenly very uncomfortable, my wife decided to go sit on the toilet--the firmest chair in the house. She soon began making very anguished noises that resonated off the tiles and piqued Robert's interest. We hadn't planned for him to be around for the birth, but it was apparent we wouldn't have a choice. We told him she was making cow noises (which wasn't far from the truth), and he was so delighted that he began marching around the apartment singing "Click Clack Mooooooooooo!" After that, we got him settled in front of "Bear in the Big Blue House" and cranked the volume to 11.

Half an hour passed and still no Martine, who was driving from the Upper West Side. As visions of crippling traffic jams danced in my head, Grandma announced that the water had just broken. Time to page Martine again, just to pass this little nugget of information along.

My wife's cries continued, and the buzzer rang just as Grandma gave us another interesting update: Two-Bert's head was crowning. (We later learned that all the local parking garages were full, so Martine had swerved into a metered space that someone else was backing into.) By the time Martine reached our floor, she couldn't get her cart past a huge box my neighbor had left in the hallway (remnants of the Levels Project). She raced past me into the apartment, while I ran out, dead-lifted the cart over my head, and chugged in behind her--and Grandma, whose composure was starting to erode, told us: "OK, the head's out!"

Martine dashed in just in time to catch my new son and place him on his mama's chest. Which wasn't that big a deal, since the real work involved inspecting the placenta and taking care of the feeding tube. (As soon as I cut it, oddly enough, I got a call from Tom DeLay ordering me to reattach it.)

Overall, the home-birth experience was everything I hoped it would be. Martine took excellent care of us, and my wife got to recuperate in her own bed while Two-Bert snuffled in her arms. The strangest part was how fast it all happened. There we were, slogging along in this flaky, turgid limbo.

And then, suddenly ...

Episode II: The Waiting is the Hardest Part, but the Floor is a Close Second

When last we left Daddy, he was swamped in womanosity. Luckily, he found just the right source of re-vamped testosterone (it's technically safe for work, but certain eyes may look at you askance).

On Monday morning Mama is a basketcase, as labor pains have kept her from sleeping for longer than five minutes at a time. She is further maddened when those same pains stay very intense when she lies down but space to more than 20 minutes apart when she sits up. This is progress?

Unable to lie flat, the mama-to-be resolves that night to sleep sitting up on the couch, her feet elevated by her birthing ball. Daddy, chivalrous to the end, crashes on the floor by her side.

Will Mama get enough sleep to stave off a psychotic episode? And will Daddy's 40-year-old back ever play the piano again?

Station break

We briefly interrupt this program to point out that people are nuts.

The Two-Birth, Episode I: The XX Factor

The scene is Mother's Day, when a portly mama-to-be waddles up to church—much to the surprise of most parishioners, who were convinced they'd seen the last of her before the birth. The mama endures so many well-meaning pleasantries ("You better have that baby soon! You look like you're about to bust!"), that she decides to walk home (all 40 blocks), accompanied by Grandma Jellyspoon.

Hours later, early labor begins, forcing the mama to lie motionless on the couch. And that night, during negotiations for the household's only TV, she plays the Mother's Day/Incipient Motherhood double-whammy card. Her particularly offensive programming choices culminate in a PBS special on Mothers and Daughters, a tender treatment of the unique, tenuous-yet-unbreakable bond between the sisterhood of ohmygodmakeitstop.

The daddy-to-be retreats, awash in a maudlin riptide of estrogenesis. Will his manhood survive intact?