Tuesday Top Ten: Awkward Baby Photos

Between work, parenting, and practicing for dance team tryouts, I have been too busy this week to write my own Tuesday Top Ten.  Thankfully, someone posted an article on Facebook called "The 30 Most Horribly Awkward Baby Photos In The History Of Baby Photos."  The title speaks for itself, and the photos are hysterical.  I'm not sure who compiles these things or where they find them, but whoever does deserves some sort of internet Emmy award for Best Compilation of Awkward Baby Photos.

Tuesday Top Ten: 10 Mistakes New Parents Always Make

Exactly two months ago today, Jester finally birthed a male heir to my record production empire.  We ended up naming him Son, since it was both descriptive and the only name we could agree on, given our mutual love of Delta blues pioneer Son House.  

Here is a photograph of Son.  As you can see, he has already mastered the wry smirk that has gotten his father into a decent amount of trouble in the middle of what some spouses consider non-amusing arguments.

Thus far, Daughter and Lollipop have not tried to murder him.  Note:  I did not say they haven't tried to kill him.  They just haven't intentionally tried to kill him.  Apparently, the concept of not coughing in a newborn's face despite repeated warnings that he has no viable immune system is lost on 2- and 4-year-olds.  

Nonetheless, Son has so far proven to be a valuable addition to the family, providing comic relief in the form of audible and surprisingly pungent flatulence while the rest of us are eating dinner, earning him the nickname "Ripper."  He seems to have taken an interest in the Sweet Science, shadow boxing all things hanging-plush-animal-related.  He cries at an appropriate volume, which is to say, not at a piercing level.  And, last, but not least, he's fucking adorable.

Of course, anytime you bring a newborn home, the first question people ask is, "How are you sleeping?"  To which I respond, "Usually on my stomach, unless I have the spins."  Son sleeps on his back, with his arms and legs bound, as he is physically unable to roll onto his stomach just yet.

This brings me to this week's Tuesday Top Ten.  Wisconsin-based news outlet The Onion has put together a slideshow of "10 Mistakes New Parents Always Make."  It provides valuable tips for new parents and refreshers for those of us who are a little rusty.  Most importantly, it's nice to see that it's okay to make mistakes and that you're not the only one.

Lollipop

My posting over the next couple weeks may be limited, as the wife just birthed another one of my offspring.  We decided to name her Lollipop instead of Poppy-Honey.  (Jester won that battle, despite my tear-filled pleas.)  Thus far, Lollipop is satisfactory in almost every way.  We took this picture of her floating in the midnight sky.  Oh yeah, she can levitate.

New Potential Name

So this second kid isn't here yet, despite the prognostications of the charlatans who hold themselves out to be medical doctors.  As I indicated a couple weeks ago, we haven't picked out a name yet.  Our problem, apparently, is that we were limiting ourselves to the 1000 most popular names in the U.S. for each of the last 130 years.  Not finding any name that glorified our love of the vernacular of Puerto Rican strippers and deep Southern diner waitresses, we decided to buy a baby name book that contained 60,000 names.  You can imagine how happy we were when we came across the name of our soon-to-be-born daughter:  Poppy-Honey.  Yes, that's a real name.

The Name Game, Part 2

With the impending birth of our next child, who doctors and shamans assure us will be female, time is ticking to pick a name. We hit it out of the park the first time around with Daughter – a name that perfectly describes the fact that she is the female child of parents. As a result, it's tougher the second time. Daughter suggested the following names: Chicken, Lulu Cow, and Lollipop. Those are completely unrealistic choices. Sometimes I don't know about that kid. Daughter #2 and Second Daughter seem like logical choices, but I don't want the newbie to think she's second best or somehow inferior to Daughter. I was leaning towards The Deuce, but then I remembered that's the nickname for the only time I ever clogged (and overflowed) a hotel toilet, which occurred sometime in May 2004 at the Holiday Inn at Merchandise Mart when I was in town for Uter's bachelor party. Apparently, you can't just ask for a plunger at hotel. They have to send someone up with a plumbing snake that, while unclogging the toilet, sprays your own fecal water all over your bathroom floor. Then you have to wait for someone else to come up to bleach and clean the bathroom floor while your friends laugh their asses off. But I digress. Then I was briefly thinking about naming her Number Two, but then I'd always be asking her "Who does Number Two work for?" The Sequel is another option, but again, I don't want to set her up for failure, as most sequels are not as good as the original. Also, people might assume we cloned Daughter. It may be one of those situations where I have to see her before I name her. She may pop out and I might see her and say, "Sweet Jesus, you are definitely a Lollipop."

Daughter is doing great. Thanks for asking. She is developing nicely, slowly but surely earning my trust, respect, and unconditional love. Here are some tidbits about her:
-Her coping mechanisms are still rudimentary.
-Dinosaurs. She can't get enough dinosaurs, whether it's watching that delusional Canadian Dino Dan, reading books about dinosaurs, or playing with toy dinosaurs. What is it with kids and dinosaurs? I haven't had the heart to tell her what happened yet. That's going to be a rough day.
-Thus far, she has openly declared her love for her mother, her grandmothers, toast, yogurt, and two separate stuffed animals at a store, but not her father.
-She handles a samurai sword surprisingly well, but she can't catch a football worth a damn. Go figure.
-Thanks to classic Pavlovian conditioning, she can sing portions of Warrant's "Cherry Pie," George Clinton's "Atomic Dog," Ice Cube's "We Be Clubbin'," Master P's "Make 'Em Say Uhh!," and AC/DC's "Thunderstruck." I'm not sure I could be more proud. Next on the list are: "Born to Run" by Bruce Springsteen, "Up All Night" by Slaughter, and "Rock and Roll All Nite" by Kiss. I guess something by T. Rex, Dinosaur, Jr., or Was (Not Was) might be appropriate as well. At some point, I will video tape these and make a megamix, which should vault her into superstardom.
-We are working on what will become her adorable catchphrase: "You gotta be shittin' me!"
-She can spell just about anything incorrectly.
-She seems to draw most of her comedic influence from the observation-based humor of Tom Green. When she sees a bird on the roof across the street, she says, "Bird on the roof" and laughs. Or when our dog is under our kitchen table, she says, "Harley is under the table" and laughs. Or when there's a piece of corn on the table, she points at it, says "Corn," and laughs. I'm interested to see who becomes her Glenn Humplik and Phil Giroux. I'm just thankful she's not into mimes.

Tuesday Top Ten: Favorite and Least Favorite Baby Names for 2010

Sorry for the relative lack of posting lately. I've been busy as all hell preparing for Judgment Day this coming Saturday.

A couple weeks ago, the Social Security Administration released their list of the Top 1000 baby names for 2010. This takes on particular importance, as we have bun number two in the oven, and we have to be cognizant of trends and whatnot. You don't want your kid to have a name that everyone else in his or her class will have, but you also don't want your kid's name to be too bland, too weird, unpronounceable, susceptible to constant misspellings, or to require him or her to always spell it out or say "no, with a 'j,' not a 'y.'" (Note: you should probably avoid names with a silent "j" all together.)

For the first time in 55 years, Elvis in not in the Top 1000. This is nothing short of tragic. I urge anyone having a boy this year to reverse this trend. We're not talking Gene Vincent here, people. Elvis is the King. Pay some homage. But don't name your boy King.

As in years past, I have counted the number of boys' two-syllable names that have a long "a" in the first syllable and a "den" sound in the second syllable. Two years ago it was 38. Last year it was 41. This year it's still at 41: Jayden (4), Aiden (9), Brayden (40), Ayden (79), Jaden (91), Aidan (94), Hayden (96), Kaden (106), Caden (119), Kayden (123), Cayden (151), Kaiden (166), Jaiden (174), Braden (207), Caiden (265), Aden (288), Adan (332), Braydon (337), Zayden (338), Braeden (409), Braiden (468), Jaydon (493), Aaden (556), Jadon (573), Zaiden (618), Aydan (636), Raiden (640), Aydin (664), Kaeden (693), Aidyn (703), Jaeden (708), Bradyn (734), Jaidyn (873), Aedan (884), Jadyn (894), Kadyn (898), Jaydin (903), Rayden (929), Haiden (945), Kadin (985), and Jaydan (999).

It appears to have crested last year, as most of the names are falling in popularity. Braedon (919 last year) fell off the list completely, although it was unfortunately supplanted by Rayden, which is dangerously close to Radon, which is just plain dangerous. Still no Iron Maiden. Maybe in 2011.

Here are my top ten favorite and least favorite names in the Top 1000 (five boys and five girls in each category), in numerical order. I apologize in advance if you have named your child (or plan to name your child) one of the least favorite names, but at the same time, you should probably apologize to your kid. Seriously, though, it's amazing how horrible some of the names in the Top 1000 are.

Boys – Favorite
1. Griffin (231)
For he is the king of the creatures.

2. Leon (417)
As most of you know, this is my favorite boy's name. It means lion, for Christ's sake

3. Ace (619)
Sure, you guarantee your kid is going to be a grifter or a pool hustler, but man, what a ride it's gonna be!

4. Odin (858)
By the hammer of Thor, what a strong name.

5. Legend (946)
I shit you not, this is on the list. It's perfect for someone whose last name is Airy and middle name is Waitforit.

Just missed the list: Maximus (233); Cash (261); Orion (466); Maverick (504); Cannon (599); Memphis (609); Major (880)

Boys – Least Favorite
1. Jayden (4)
In a terrifying power play, Jayden has moved up to #4. Of course, he always carries a shiv, so that's not too much of a surprise. "Should we name him Jay or Aiden? Those are both nice names. I know, let's name him something that everyone will hate, including him."

2. Bentley (101)
This would be perfect if you were naming a Jack Russell or a luxury car.

3. Skyler (262)/Skylar (528)
I've never liked any variation of this name for a boy. These are girls' names, as evidenced by the fact that they are on the girl baby name list (Skylar is 181 and Skyler is 477).

4. Krish (854)
"Chris?"
"No, Krish."
"So is that C-H-R-I-S-H?"
"No, it's K-R-I-S-H."
"Why?"
"Because my parents wanted me to have this conversation every single time I meet someone."

5. Crew (1000)
What? Why not Lacrosse or Squash or any other number of sports popular among the East Coast prep school set? Does this kid come out of the womb listening to Vampire Weekend?

Just missed the list: Braxton (171); Jax (348); Noe (534); Sincere (643); Iker (647); Misael (768); Adonis (796); Lyric (816); Isai (865); Jayvion (913); Bridger (916)

Girls – Favorite
1. Hazel (262)
There simply aren't enough Hazels around anymore, probably because most of them died before glasnost.

2. Willow (290)
You are great.

3. Janae (703)
I love Forrest Gump, so the fact that someone has created a name that is spelled how Forrest Gump pronounces Jenny just saves me the guilt of pronouncing Jenny like him anyway.

4. Abbey (887)
This is a particularly great name if the last name is Road (or Rhodes, etc.).

5. Azaria (905)
It's nice to see that the vocal characterization abilities of Hank Azaria are finally being recognized by American parents.

Just missed the list: None. These are the only five acceptable names for girls.

Girls – Least Favorite
1. Nevaeh (25)
"Is this Nevaeh?"
"No, it's Awoi -- her twin sister."
I also still think this sounds like a skincare product.

2. Ashlyn (156)
Although I am a fan of word combinations in general, you may be surprised to find out that I think word combinations in names are generally terrible. This one is a prime example. Ashley or Lynn would have been acceptable. Ashlyn sounds like a girl who one day strip, sometimes for money.

3. Maci (232)
In general, I have no problem with Macy, nor her redneck cousin, Maci. However, the article about baby names I read changed my mind about the latter. "The top 1,000 names includes Maci, modeled after one of the stars of MTV's '16 and Pregnant' and 'Teen Mother,' Maci Bookout. Maci was the fastest-growing girl's name in the country in 2010." Anyone who names their child after someone on 16 and Pregnant should be sterilized. There, I said it.

4. Journey (422)
Don't stop believin'.

5. Precious (960)
Your daughter is not a fucking cat. Or is she?

Just missed the list: Genesis (89); Paris (327); Tenley (458); Brynlee (509); Briley (656); Ember (825); Kynlee (886); Princess (901); Kimber (961)

The Easter Bunny Cometh

Happy Easter, Christians. I can eat red meat and fried food again, which probably isn't a good thing. Thanks for nothing, Easter Bunny. Yesterday, we discovered that Daughter, while interminably adorable in an Easter dress, lacks the proper coping mechanisms to deal with a dropped plastic Easter egg that splits open, expelling the jelly beans inside. Dude, the jelly beans are right there on the floor. You can just pick them up and eat them. No one is disappointed in you. Now calm down and do your impression of an elephant because that shit's funny.

I don't know if it was the effect of consuming an unhealthy amount of sugar, my inability to come down after the Blackhawks' OT victory, my near-fever-pitch excitement over the upcoming royal wedding, or a combination of the three, but I was tossing and turning all night last night. At one point, I woke up laughing with knowing why. Has that ever happened to you? It happens every now and then to me, and I always wish I knew why I was laughing out loud in my sleep. Presumably, I heard a good Polack joke, witnessed a good t-ball liner to the coach's crotch video, or read a cartoon from The New Yorker.

At another point last night, I kid you not, I woke up to find myself scratching my wife's quadriceps, while wondering out loud whether Jake and The Fatman has been released on DVD. (After some quick research today, I was amazed to learn that it is, in fact, available.) Thankfully Jester is a pretty sound sleeper. I only wish I could remember the dream that led to that, since I hate touching anyone above the knee and I have never seen an episode of any show starring William Conrad.

Wu-Tang Baby Nicknames

One of the most important aspects of naming a child is figuring out what, if any, nicknames are easily derived from potential names. A nickname can literally make or break a child, figuratively. For instance, when we came up with the name Daughter for our daughter, there were no bad nicknames associated with the name. But there was a completely awesome nickname: Ol' Daughter Bastard.

First, Chappelle's Show brought you Wu-Tang Financial. Now, since I'm weird, I bring you Wu-Tang Baby Nicknames -- nicknames based on Wu-Tang Clan members that you should think about if you want your kid to be a total badass.

RZA
-Barbarza
-Sandrza
-Debrza
-Rzanna
-Rzanne
-Rzandrew
-Rzandall
-Rzodney
-Rzosalyn (or Rzosalynn, depending on how you might spell it, or Rzosalie if you're a Thin Lizzy fan)
-Rzaef (I know a lot of you weren't thinking about Raef as a possible name for a boy, but this could change your mind)
-Chrzastopher
-Grzace

GZA
-Olgza
-Helgza
-Gzary
-Abigzail
-Gzoe

Method Man
-Bethod Man (or the more formal Elizabethod Man, or even Mary Bethod Man)
-Method Dan
-Metheodore Man (or the less formal Metheo Man or Methted Man)

Raekwon
-Raekwon (or Norma Raekwon)
-Raykwon
-Erikwon
-Raekjuan

Inspectah Deck
-Inspectah Declan (this is my favorite)

Ol' Dirty Bastard
-Ol' Dirty Barry
-Olden Dirty Bastard (my shout-out to Olden Polynice)
-Olivia Dirty Bastard
-Orenthal Dirty Bastard
-Ol' Donny Bastard
-Ol' Dolly Bastard (This is particularly relevant where Dolly is born to unwed parents. Frankly, if you're having a kid and aren't married, you should probably steer clear of the name Dolly for this exact reason.)
-Of course, you can also go off on a tangent with some of his aliases. I suggest O.D. Bea, Dirt McGertrude (this is my second favorite overall), Big Baby Jesús, or simply Osirus.

Ghostface Killah
-Ghostface Kyle
-Ghostface Kyla
-Ghostface Klily (or the more formal Ghostface Klillian)

U-God
-Eugene-God
-U-Godfrey
-Lou-God

Masta Killa
-Marissta Killa
-Marcia Killa
-Chesta Killa (of course Chesta Killa is not the first nickname one thinks of for someone named Chester, so keep that in mind)
-Masta Kisabella
-Miasta Killa

Cappadonna
-Cappadonna

I encourage you to post any suggestions you might have in the comments.

Tuesday Top Ten: Future Professions For Daughter

Daughter – my daughter – recently had her six-month checkup, and the results were shocking. Plain and simple, she is an Amazon. Her weight is in the 90th percentile, the size of her head is in the 95th percentile ("heeeeed!"), and her height is literally off the charts. Seriously, the doctor's charts didn't got that high. I take this to mean that she is, in fact, taller than any other six-month-old human in the world.

As someone of average height, I'm at the same time terrified of, and excited for, her. Her gigantism got me thinking: what career path should Jester and I push on her? Here is what I came up with.

10. Professional model
9. Professional model/volleyball player
8. Professional model/tennis star
7. Professional model/inconspicuous ninja
6. Professional model/giraffe feeder
5. Homemaker
4. Professional model/professional large shoe model
3. Professional model/WNBA hall of famer, if there is such a thing
2. Professional model/guitar player (she also has grotesquely long fingers)
1. Mothra

Could this enormous girl one day terrorize the citizens of Tokyo while at the same time wearing the latest Calvin Klein pantsuit? Only time will tell.

Shit I Hate: Smart Babies

The title is a little deceiving because I don't hate smart babies. In fact, I have no idea if a baby is smart or not, and neither do you. That's the problem: parents who exclaim "my baby is so smart." If your kid can't speak in full sentences, I would venture to say you can't gauge the level his or her intelligence. "But he already grabs onto things, and he recognizes faces." Great. So do monkeys and Dutch people. The simple fact is that we are incapable of measuring how smart our kids are until they start taking tests or playing music by ear when they're two. In fact, one study explicitly revealed that babies are stupid.

I can say that Daughter is, undisputedly, the best baby in the world, but I'll have no idea if she's smart for at least a couple years. Taking a page from Dexter Manley's book (pun intended – not that she would get it), she puts up a front by pretending she knows how to read, but she doesn't. Hell, she's clearly turning the pages from right to left, and the book isn't even written in Arabic.
A couple days ago, I put a laptop in front of her and told her to Google "baby modeling," and she just sat there drooling and then tried to eat her foot. I had even pulled up the Google home page, so all she had to do was type it in. She had no idea how to do it.
And then last week, I went though an extremely detailed and laborious lesson on art movements with her, explaining which artists were a part of which movement. After the lesson, I threw her a softball and asked her which movement Monet was a part of. Her response? "Dada," and then she tinkled in her pants. Dadaism, really? Did I say Marcel fucking Duchamp?!

The bottom line is that babies are babies. Some might develop in different areas more quickly than others. If you claim your baby is smart, all you're doing is setting the kid up for failure. You have absolutely no quantifiable evidence to say that your baby is smart, just like I have no quantifiable evidence to say that your baby is an idiot. Although, let's face it, all babies are idiots. Because they're babies.

Shits and Giggles

Recently Daughter has been constipated. Apparently this happens regularly (pun intended, motherfuckers) when babies start eating real food. Over the last two days, we've been giving her some natural remedies -- black coffee, bean burritos, the jambalaya from Table 52.

Tonight, the three of us were sitting on the couch, watching a How I Met Your Mother episode about the many joys of smoking. Daughter was laughing her ass off, wearing a onesie. Jester picked her up and put her on her lap. The following is a direct quote: "Mabye we'll horse ride this poop out of you." With that, Jester started bouncing Daughter on her knees. They went over one jump, and by the time they landed, this kid who I helped make had filled her diaper, crapped out the side, somehow missed her onesie, and left a healthy smattering of recycled pears and peaches all over her mother's dry-clean-only pants. Now that was some funny shit.

Father Time

This weekend was my first real test of fatherhood. Jester went out of town to The Meadows for the weekend -- something about a "much-needed coke binge." At least, I hope she said "coke." Thus, it was just me and Daughter (and Harley) this weekend. After two days of being a single parent, frankly I don't understand what all of the fuss is about. It was a fun-filled and action-packed two days.

We laughed, she cried.

We went shopping on Armitage and told people what time it was, or at least this one chick who was all "do you know what time it is?" Time to stop hitting on me, trollop.

We went to a birthday party for another infant, at which she slept for a total of 14 seconds, and cried for the remainder, thus prompting an early exit and a deserved 15-minute scolding once we got in the car.

I taught her how to terrorize an autistic dog into submission by opening umbrellas and making a fog horn sound by blowing into the top of an empty beer bottle. Oh, I also taught her how to drink beer.

We made gratuitous use of the Baby Bjorn.

She learned the ins and outs of yelling at the TV during White Sox games. Her first word will either be "mercy!" or "yougottabefuckingkiddingme."

I taught her how to make a shitload of hard-boiled eggs, eat all of them, and then buy another 18-count carton of eggs to make it look like nothing happened.

And all of this is just while she was awake. When she went to sleep, I recited The Big Lebowski to her from memory. After that, I got so much done: dishes, laundry, watching Metal Mania, online trivia, filing my canines into fangs, writing a screenplay about my weekend.

On the online trivia front, I've become pscyhologically addicted to Sporcle. While I have played many a game on there, here are the five that stuck out to me thus far as ones that you guys should check out:

1. Olympic Cities (10 minutes). Name every city in which the Olympics (summer and winter) have been held. I got 38 out of 47. For some of the winter cities, you would pretty much have to live there to know them.

2. Chicago Bears QBs (8 minutes). You have to name every Bears starting QB since 1985. I got 20 out of 28. Not to give you too much, but I am pissed at myself that I missed Will Furrer.

3. The OC Characters (6 minutes). They give you the actor/actress, and you name the character. I got 25 of 30. God, I miss that show.

4. Led Zeppelin Songs (12 minutes). Name every song from Led Zeppelin's 9 studio albums. I got 50 out of 81. My early Zeppelin is far more solid than my late Zeppelin.

5. Beatles Songs (19 minutes). Name every song from The Beatles' 13 studio albums. This is the motherlode. I got 127 of 192, which I consider to be pathetic. In the spring of 1999, I would have gotten a 192.

By the way, whenever you play MLB trivia games, do not forget about Nap Lajoie.

Dreams to Remember and Crap You Don't Need

I've received a flood of emails and carrier pigeon letters asking about Daughter. Here is an update.

Monday night, I had this really fucked up dream. I took Daughter to some sort of Puritanical outdoor wedding on a meadow. She was somewhat fussy, as I assume she also doesn't appreciate the strictures of organized religion, so we walked towards the back of the ceremony (which was still a while from starting). Some Puritan woman who looked like Chloe Sevigny's character from Big Love kept asking to hold Daughter, and I kept being all, "Chill out, ankle-length dress, I don't know you from Adam" (presumably referring to my friend Adam). There was something off about her. Anyway, eventually Daughter puked. This must have had some meaning in the Puritan world because the woman said something like, "Now it's my turn to hold her." She grabbed one of Daughter's arms. I pushed her hand away and clutched Daughter, then flew (yes, flew) swiftly to the front of the ceremony, where I came face-to-face with a priest who was sitting in one of the chairs in the second row. He had demon eyes and jagged teeth, like that creepy old lady in the trailer for Legion. I stared him in the eyes and let out a primal, guttural howl -- one of those yells that felt so real that I was sure I was actually yelling in my sleep -- to indicate that none of these evil beings would be handling Daughter. Then I woke up, only to realize it hadn't been a dream at all.

From day one, I've made it clear to Daughter that insolence will not be tolerated. For the most part, she has fallen in line. I don't know if it's the codeine or what, but she is sleeping really well. I am not, however, as I am inclined to watch Daughter sleep and, well, I am having night terrors about demons trying to steal my baby. I have no idea why or how Daughter is sleeping for 6+ hours at night, but I don't question it, since I have been told by many a people that I am very lucky.

She appears to be smiling more often, but her smiles are often followed by flatulence. Like father like daughter.

She kicks just as much on the outside as on the inside. She can kick herself in the face.

Sometimes she gets flaps of skin that hang down from her lips, caused by feeding. When that happens, we refer to her as Bunnicula. It's frustrating because she doesn't get the reference.

In less than four weeks on the planet, she has already played in as many NCAA championship games as every Purdue men's basketball player ever.

Her ability to pull exposed chest hair is progressing at an alarming rate.

Here are a couple other notes and observations for new or soon-to-be parents:
-The Diaper Genie is worthless. Our friend Kelly gave us her old Diaper Genie and told us it sucked. We didn't listen and tried it out anyway. It does suck. A garbage can with a lid does the same job.
-Huggies are better than Pampers at preventing shit and piss from leaking out the sides of the diaper and through a onesie and onto an adult's shirt.
-A changing pad cover is a waste of otherwise usable fabric. Our changing pad has a waterproof soft plasticky surface. For some reason, we bought a pink fuzzy cover for the pad. After the second time Daughter peed on it while being changed, we realized our mistake and burned the cover.
-We have received as gifts two "Rockabye Baby" CDs, which respectively include instrumental lullaby versions of Beatles and Queen songs. They work pretty well at soothing Daughter, as you might expect. There are many other artists as well. I might have to get the GNR, Ramones, Zeppelin, and Metallica CDs. I'd love to hear a lullaby rendition of "Mr. Brownstone."

Don't Call Me Daughter

So, you might have noticed I've been a bit light on the posts recently. That is a direct result of Jester birthing a child. Said child -- we'll call her Daughter -- is absolutely adorable, but she looks very little like Jester or me (although clearly better looking than both of us). Now that the paternity test has confirmed that I am the father, I feel comfortable writing about Daughter.

We brought Daughter home a week ago today. The past week has been filled with tears, mustard-colored stains, blood-curdling screams, and, most notably, feces. The same goes for Daughter's week too.

But seriously, folks, Daughter is awesome thus far. She is already sleeping for 4-6 hours at time at night. Her dumps sound hilarious (kind of like the dying giraffe from the South Park movie). Her hair forms into a natural mohawk when dried after a bath (see picture to the left). I find the rhythm of her crying to be soothing. She has learned how to give the middle finger to both Kentucky and the Packers. She loves swinging (as in sitting in a baby swing, as opposed to going to key parties). She is already quoting Seagal movies ("I'd like to kill you so bad I can barely contain myself. But I've been thinking, death is far too merciful a fate for you."). She's already recruiting fellow babies to join her in the IU Class of '32. And she can already hum the melody to several Iron Maiden songs, including "The Trooper," which we have hilariously renamed "The Pooper." She hears it approximately 6-8 times in every 24-hour period. The lyrics of the song are eerily applicable to the changing of diapers.

Many of you have asked about Harley. She got off to a rather disconcerting start with Daughter and, therefore, had to be destroyed. It was a tough decision, but a necessary step to ensure the safety of the child. We had her stuffed in her classic "lounging on the couch" position and even put a Santa hat on her for the holidays.

I kid. Harley has taken a very zen approach to the baby's arrival. There has been some curious sniffing, but little else.

All in all, the first week of fatherhood has been slightly easier than I expected. For writing that, I fully expect shit to hit the fan (quite possibly literally).

We Have a Winna!

Well, the kid was born Thursday night. Slowly but surely, she is earning my love and respect.

She was 8 lbs 5 oz., which means that Beth won the "guess the baby's weight" contest with her guess of 8 lbs 3 oz. Beth, email me your address to receive your very own copy of the album Jessie played pretty much all day on Thursday, Black Sabbath's heavy metal classic, Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, a dark and plodding album that should be a part of every central Indiana librarian's music collection. And every birth.

In addition to the deliciously evil title track (which contains a totally badass riff and, oddly, was once covered by The Cardigans), highlights of the album include:
-"A National Acrobat," which is a pyschedelic metal masterpiece about, appropriately, the miracle of conception (I kid you not).
-"Sabbra Cadabra," which is a rollicking song with the approximate beat of my kid's kicks when she is being changed.
-"Killing Yourself to Live," which, in addition to being an awesome song inspired by Geezer Butler's kidney problems from alcohol abuse, is also the title of Chuck Klosterman's 2005 book detailing his journey around the country to various sites where rockers died.
-"Looking for Today," which is another great, fast-paced song, presumably about Alzheimer's.

And of course, the cover art was inspired by that one episode of The Odd Couple where Felix has a nightmare.

Rolling Stone described the album as "nothing less than a complete success." Merry Christmas, Beth, from our little girl, Ozzy.

Don't Forget

It's looking like Thursday will be the day. Don't forget to guess the baby's weight before then. Click here for details and to submit your guess.

Guess the Baby's Weight

So the fetus that has been residing in Jester's womb for the past 9+ months will be arriving this week for sure, with Thursday being the latest possible birth date. With this joyous occasion nearing, we at GMYH are having a holiday giveaway. The person who correctly guesses Baby GMYH's weight (or who comes the closest, without going over) will win a mystery CD of my choosing from my extensive collection.

Please post your guess in the comments (and yes, I will approve them all). There are no duplicates, so if someone has already posted your pick, you must pick something else. Anonymous posts are ineligible. Only one guess per person.

Just to give you guys some context, I was 2 weeks late, and I weighed 8 lbs 1 oz. Jester was a month early, and she weighed 3 lbs 2 oz. Good luck, and happy holidays!

Thankswaiting

Thanksgiving weekend this year was relatively low key. As we were awaiting the fulfillment of the prophecy and the concomitant arrival of our first born, we told our families to stay the hell away and politely informed everyone that we would not be leaving the city limits until our fetus becomes a human.

Thus, while many of you were celebrating Blackout Wednesday, Jester and I were chilling at home, playing cops and robbers with Harley.

Thursday morning, I made some pumpkin pie while Jessie took pictures.

That afternoon, we went to the home of Alex and his anonymous wife, as they had graciously invited us to share in their feast. And what a feast it was.

Alex's anonymous wife drank three different kinds of wine at one time.

Per tradition, I wore my turkey shirt (and made my classic "Thanksgiving creepy eyes"). Deal with it, America.
We had two pies for four people. I ate until the point of physical discomfort. There was enough food to go around that Alex's anonymous wife found it to be appropriate to make their runty dog a plate of people food.

When I woke up Friday morning, I kid you not, my pee smelled like turkey. And shame.

Friday was D Day. And no, I don't mean to imply that Friday was either June 6, 1944 or Daniel Simpson Day. Rather, Friday was the date that some charlatan predicted would bring the birth of our child.

Friday afternoon, we saw a movie about men who stare at goats. From what I gathered, the entire point of the movie was simply to alert you to the existence of some men who stare at goats.

Friday came and went without the fulfillment of the prophecy. Friday night I got over ten hours of sleep, possibly for the last time in my life.

Other than a trip to the Smoke Shack (a local BBQ place) with my dad (who stopped by on his way out of town), much of Saturday was spent doing nothing, although we did go shopping for rugs (not toupees or murkins, but actual rugs), to no avail. We also went to Whole Foods, where they apparently sell a lot of excellent, extremely potent winter beers that I am incapable of not buying. Saturday night, I drank some of said beer, along with Ryan, as we watched Road House on Spike. After about a half hour into the movie, I realized that I own Road House on DVD, so I popped that in, caught up to where we were, then watched the rest of the movie uncut. When we finished, there were still 15 minutes left on the Spike version, so we got to see Brad Wesley die twice. But then again, if the sheriff asks, we didn't see Brad Wesley die.

Sunday was also spent doing very little. We watched some football, grilled some old burgers, and watched Gregerson's dog pee on our kitchen floor and then on our deck.

At the present time, we are still waiting for this kid to be born, if for no other reason than so we will be able to yell at her once she comes out for being so unpunctual. I hope this insolence isn't a trend.

On a side note, that wives' tale that walking induces labor is horse shit. And if one more person tells Jessie to walk or drive on bumpy roads or eat spicy food or eat a big meal (or any of the other wives' tales for inducing labor that don't really work), I fear that my child will grow up with a mother behind bars for murder. Seriously, people, those things only work to move the process along if you are already in the beginning stages of labor. Telling an already miserable, overdue pregnant woman to do something she knows is futile only serves to remind her that she is still pregnant and can't do anything about it.

A few months ago, I posted the Top Ten Things Not to Say to Pregnant Women. Here are a few things you should not say to pregnant women who are past their due date:
-"Be patient." The first nine months were about being patient. Even if you are a woman who has gone past her due date, you shouldn't be saying this.
-"Enjoy it now because you won't get any sleep when the baby comes." It turns out really pregnant women don't sleep very well as it is, especially when they have acid reflux.
-"Have you had that baby yet?" No.

Use some common sense, people.

And why is it that pregnancy seems to make people think they can talk to me about my wife's privates? I'm pretty sure if she wanted you to know how many centimeters she is dilated, then she would volunteer that information herself. Don't ask me that shit (and don't ask her, either). I love you all.

Can you please pass the placenta?

So this weekend, Jester and I went to our friend Amanda's family's lake house in Michigan. Joining us were Amanda (as you might guess) and her husband Adam (of 30 in 8 fame), Alex, and Alex's anonymous wife. Originally, there were several others who were supposed to come, but had to back out for various (and surprisingly legitimate) reasons at the last minute. Thus, the food and drink that Alex and his anonymous wife had purchased was enough for 9 to 10 people. Needless to say, it was a weekend of gluttony. The motto for the weekend was "You're Never Not Hungry."

We each likely gained several pounds over the course of 48 hours, but that's beside the point. Friday night, we were sitting around the fire pit, telling scary stories and the like. Predictably, the conversation turned to placenta. As I'm sure we're all aware, placenta is the organic mass that supplies fetuses (or is it feti?) with oxygen and food while in the womb. I will spare you a picture of the placenta, but if you're curious, click on the Wikipedia page and scroll to the bottom. Remember that image as I tell you the rest of this tale.

Alex's anonymous wife mentioned one of her acquaintances is pregnant. This other woman -- we'll call her Crazy -- is, from what Alex's anonymous wife describes her, kind of, well, crazy. For example, Crazy cut out an article -- presumably from Crazy Ass Pregnant Voodoo Chick Magazine -- for her husband to read. The article was about keeping and, gulp, eating the placenta. And just to calm you down, Crazy's husband is not Crazy nor crazy, so he dismissed this as an option, although in her defense, Crazy supposedly claimed she never actually intended to eat her placenta. Nonetheless, this is something some apparently people do. I'm sure every single one of us would be lying if we said we haven't been at least somewhat interested in what pan-seared human flesh might taste like, but this seemed a little savage to me.

As a True Blood fanatic, I immediately imagined something along the lines of the Hunter's Soufflé that Maryann recently prepared with a human heart, resulting in an unknowing Tara and Eggs going crazy and punching each other in the face. Curious, I asked how one might eat placenta. Is it sautéed? Baked? Deep fried? Cubed and skewered, kebob style? No, no, hell no, and no. Get this: it is pureed into an afterbirth smoothie and then drunk. Holy. Fucking. Shit. This, of course, begged the question: does eating your child's placenta give you superhuman powers, sight beyond sight, or everlasting life? The answer might astound you: No. This means that there is literally no good reason to eat your (or anyone else's) child's placenta.

The rest of the weekend involved a lot of food consumption, a small bit of rain-soaked golf, some horseshoes, a lot of fire watching, some Swisher Sweets, not enough beer consumption for how much was purchased (apparently 132 beers is too much for three guys and one drinking gal to consume in a two-day period), mosquito bites, sleep watching, and zero discussion of how to prepare human placenta.

Weekend Recap

It's been a while since I've done a weekend recap, so now seems as good a time as any.

Thursday night, I hit up the Double Door to see stellastarr* with Chandler, his ladyfriend Lisa, and several hundred people I've never met. Before the show, Chandler, Lisa, and I met up at Blue Line, where they ate, I drank, and all three of us watched some awesome show on one of the Spanish language shows that revolved around motorcycle and bike accidents and scantily clad women bowling. It made no sense and perfect sense all at once.

Chandler is a bit of a stellastarr* groupie, so he conversed with the guitarist before the show, the bassist after the show, and no one in the group during the show. Anyway, the show was good, and I was happy to learn that the Double Door sells Natty Light for $2.50 a can. Having never paid more than about 42 cents for a Natty, I stuck with Oberon. After the show, I stole a Segway and very slowly made my way home.

Friday was a bit more low key. Jester and I drove out to the burbs, where, in order, we (1) went to Oak Brook mall to buy her a pregnant chick dress, (2) ate a full beef and cheese on garlic at Paul's, (3) hooked up a 60-year-old woman's TV and DVD player, and (4) traded a Segway for a baby's bed.

Saturday was killer. After approximately nine hours of sleep, Jessie (who had already been up) woke me up to let me know that she had purchased a Sausage McMuffin with Egg for me. After approximately two and a half more hours of sleep, I rose from my coffin and devoured the now-room-temperature, but still delicious, breakfast sandwich.

I then used a mobile telephone (my own) to contact Chandler, who was nice enough to risk getting stabbed by going up to Rogers Park with me to pick up a dresser that Jessie arranged to be purchased on some website run by a dude named Craig. Upon our return -- free of puncture wounds, mind you -- we put the dresser into my apartment, grabbed Jessie (figuratively!) and headed to Rocks for a late lunch. The burger of the month this month is the Star Spangled Burger, which includes both cheddar and smoked gouda, chopped-up little smokies, onion strings, and chipotle BBQ sauce. It was awesome.

I then painted the walls of a room that will one day be inhabited by my spawn, while listening to The Last Shadow Puppets' The Age of The Understatement, The Dictators' Go Girl Crazy, and The Dead Weather's Horehound. Meanwhile, Jester painted the aforementioned dresser, which Chandler called a bureau.

Saturday night, Jester and I headed to Resi's Bierstrube for Bohmann's birthday gala. I have never been to Resi's before, but I highly recommend it. We sat in their bier garten (or beer garden, for you English-speaking readers), which was excellent. They have a wide variety of German beer, and a pretty solid menu of German staples. I went with the schnitzel, which was excellent. We also managed to drink them out of Hacker-Pschorr Dark (which was also excellent).

For Greg, it was a birthday he won't soon forget. After filling up on schnitzel, kartoffelsalat, and dunkel, he spent much of the evening splayed out in his chair, laughing heartily as a pert, untouched, and unpolluted young Amish woman hand-fed him slices of freshly made sharp cheddar whilst singing lullabies in Pennyslvania Dutch. He then declared this to be "the Year of the Dachshund," slammed a half liter of a beer with an umlaut in its name, and then did the worm down Irving Park while a crowd of disinterested onlookers avoided his pet monkey, who had momentarily escaped from his cage and managed to pepper the sidewalk with his feces while singing the Alka-Seltzer jingle. What was strange is that the peyote I took never really kicked in. After that, I crab walked home.

Yesterday, Jester and I hit up Home Depot to get some more paint. For those of you unfamiliar with the Lincoln Park Home Depot, it is right next to a Guitar Center. There were all these unkept, hirsute dudes in black Slayer shirts lined up outside Guitar Center. It all made sense when we found out that Slayer guitarist Kerry King was going to be appearing there, probably to shred or not smile or disembowel a woodchuck he caught with his bare hands, or whatever it is dudes in Slayer do on Sunday afternoons.

After that, I put another coat paint in the fetus's room, this time while listening to Ratt's Out of the Cellar, Dokken's Under Lock and Key, and The Answer's Everyday Demons. Then I assembled a crib. At one point during said assembly, I went out onto my back deck -- probably for no reason. My neighbors and another couple were eating dinner on their adjacent deck. Somehow in the twenty seconds I was on the deck, I managed to make an awkward joke about the fact that all four of my grandparents are dead. I then went back inside.