Ryan strikes out

Remember how Ryan’s been getting up every night, and I thought he just wanted his Daddy? Last night he was up screaming, so I took him to the doctor after work. Our pediatrician only needed one peek. Ryan has an ear infection.

I should have listened to Gina, who’s wanted the baby checked out all week. I guess that’s why they call it the maternal instinct. Hopefully I haven’t inherited my diagnostic skills from my father, who would glance at us and say, “you’re okay” even if we’d just hit our head on the concrete or run into a tree face-first (two personal examples.)

At any rate, this latest infection is officially Ryan’s last strike. At his next regular checkup we’ll be given a list of ear specialists, and the baby may have to get tubes. Everyone I’ve spoken to has said tubes are a beautiful thing, so if that’s what it takes to bring Ryan relief, than I guess they’ll be a blessing.

In the meantime I’ve accepted my lack of sleep as a form of karmic punishment. Sorry I didn’t listen to Mommy, Boo. Now we both have to take our medicine.

Mother’s Day

Gina and I were trying for a year and a half when I thought she might be pregnant.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” I told her. And then I did anyway. I said what she took for a light period may actually have been a fetus implanting. I’d been doing my research earlier that day. I was getting my hopes up, too.

She didn’t want to take a pregnancy test until the next morning since they’re more accurate then. I got up, went about my routine, and tried not to think about it. I was getting out of the shower when Gina came in and said,

“We’re having a baby!”

“Baby baby?” I gave Gina a hug, and we kissed and laughed and cried. “Baby baby!” We held each other and rocked in a joyous circle. All the doubts and the few false alarms and the tests that I went through. All forgotten in this beautiful moment. A miracle.

A miracle.

Gina showed me the proof, a plus on her test. Then she made me buy another one. I was convinced, but she went and had a blood test for good measure. But first we called our families and I told everyone at work. There was no way I was going to be able to keep the news all to myself.

That was June 24, 2008. One of the best days of my life.

Happy Mother’s Day to my beautiful wife.

Just look at our little guy.

T.G.I.F.

This week Ryan’s been getting up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason other than to spend quality time with Daddy. I’ve been averaging three to four hours of sleep a night broken up into two shifts. Boo doesn’t seem to appreciate that while he’s going back to bed, I’ve got to go to work. He’s just not as cute at 3:00 in the morning.

I’m hoping this is just a phase.

Mr. Excitement

Having a baby adds a lot more variety to the question, “How was your day?” Whereas Gina and I would usually talk about what happened at work, now I have the fun of telling her what the baby’s been up to.

Like:

“He gave Pooh Bear his usual hug and now he’s eating his face.”

“He thought the lemonade was a flowering pot and he’s watering the kitchen floor.”

“He’s tearing the hair out of Brother Bear (from one of his touch and feel books.)”

“He’s spent the last ten minutes turning the TV on and off.”

“He’s trying to figure out how to plug my Xbox controller into the wall.”

“He just tried to dial a 50-digit number on the phone.”

“He’s throwing the laundry on the floor and walking around with his PJs.”

“He buried his sippy cup in his cereal.”

You know, the usual stuff.

Tater tot

As Ryan’s transitioned to table food, his favorite is mashed potatoes. Nothing brings the gleam to his eyes like a mound of creamy spuds. He shoves them in his mouth with his fist and only slows down when he gags. He’s even mistaken cottage cheese for them, which ended in disappointment.

At first we served Ryan the instant variety, but we thought we’d go healthier. So I took Boo to the grocery store to buy some whole potatoes. There were three-pound bags on display up front in the middle of the aisle, and when I picked one up Ryan squealed and gave the bag a hug. I don’t know how he knew these potatoes were the raw form of his favorite food, but he showed them the same affection as his favorite stuffed animal.

The sack rode up front with him in the cart. You don’t separate a man from his spuds.

The milk man

Ryan loves plastic bottles. It started with Gina’s Diet Pepsi’s. He hugs them, shakes them, tips them over and tries to chug through the cap. Gina often takes out two bottles, one for each of them. So imagine his glee when Ryan uncovered our plastic recycling bin.

I was in the living room when Boo came cruising by, with a crushed milk bottle in one hand and an empty Tide in the other. He was pleased as punch with his treasures. I confiscated both of them. He returned undaunted minutes later with a crumpled water bottle, than decided to sort through the entire bin by carrying it into the kitchen.

We let Ryan have his fun until he got into the trash. He must have equated one bin with the other and thought they were all fair game. We gave him stern “no’s” as he fished in the can. I relocated him twice. To our relief he lost interest in our rubbish after that.

But later that day I found an empty Coke bottle standing up on our bedroom floor, and shortly thereafter Boo handed me a folded Pop Tart box.

He had overturned the paper recycling bin.

The discovery never ends.

Exit strategy

Ryan used to be a self-soothing baby when we put him in his crib. But lately I have to walk him in order for him to go to sleep. I pace the nursery with the baby snuggling his head on my shoulder, and when he’s sufficiently groggy I put him down and tell him goodnight. Sometimes he’s out and flops his arms to his sides; others he stares at the ceiling. If he sees me leave he stands up and cries and we repeat the process. Which is why I’ve adopted a new bedtime ritual.

After I lay Ryan down I take a step back, using the aquarium on his crib as a screen. With only the gap between his mattress and the bottom of the toy for Ryan to see me through, I do what any manly man would:

I drop to my knees in one quick motion and crawl out the nursery door.

Gina finds it amusing when she sees me leaving the baby’s room on all fours. But my patented technique has proven to be reliably effective.

At least until Ryan relates my departure to the sound of my cracking knees.

Sacramental struggle

Ryan made for a memorable Mass on Holy Thursday last week. It was a long service and Ryan was good for the majority of it. But ever since he’s been mobile, he insists on being on the floor. This keeps me on my toes as the baby empties the pews of their hymnals, feels the pebble texture on the floor and randomly drops his binky.

Ryan was up to his usual tricks for the Thursday night service. After his fascination with the hymnals wore off he got into his diaper bag, amusing himself with the travel wipes we keep in a snap-shut case. The problem was that although he loved to close the container, he would fuss every time at his inability to open it again. After countless rounds of reopening the case and handing it to Ryan, I tired of the activity and set the wipes aside.

I should have reconsidered. It was time for Communion and Ryan immediately burst into tears. We were on the side aisle and had to walk to the back in order to join the procession. Ryan was struggling mightily and causing his first-ever scene at Mass, so I thought about breaking out of the line and cooling him down in back. But I really wanted to take Communion, so we continued our battle of wills.

There’s a beautiful baptismal font in the back of the middle aisle, and I ducked around it to avoid some parishioners as I continued to tangle with Boo. Ryan gave up his tantrum a few people shy of the pastor, and Gina and I took the sacrament and sat back down in our pew. At which point I noticed that my right pant leg was soaked. During my epic struggle with Ryan, I had stumbled into the baptismal font.

The service ended dramatically to prepare for Good Friday. The lights were dimmed and the altar was stripped of all of its accessories. The choir sang a mournful song to symbolize Christ’s suffering. And Ryan joined the chorus with a sorrowful wail of his own. I ducked to the back of church with him, but thought it was a nice touch. Maybe the choir will book him next year. As long as he keeps out of their hymnals.

Then the service ended and my thoughts turned to home, and a nice dry pair of pants.

The slippery sippy slope

Now that Ryan’s a Duck, he’s no longer allowed a bottle. It’s sippy cup or nothing, and he’s not liking that rule. I admit we haven’t been stringent about banishing the bottle, but now that daycare’s so hardcore we’re cracking down on the issue. This weekend we tried to stick to our guns and to beverages in cups.

Yesterday was one long sippy skirmish, but we managed to give him three servings. Today started well. He woke up and took the cup out of of my hand. But after a few swallows it was back to where’s my bottle?

By dinnertime Ryan had only had a few ounces of milk. We dutifully filled a cup and offered it for the baby’s review. He teased us again with a couple sips then proceeded to go ballistic. It’s his newest stunt, a red-faced tantrum he first debuted last Friday. He was bending backward and not too pleased. Gina and I had enough.

We both don’t see the value in daycare’s hard-and-fast sippy rule. Thirteen months seems pretty young to insist on going cold turkey. But we also figured we are the bosses, not some willful (but cute!) infant. If we caved, it would set a bad precedent. He’d be a difficult Duck.

None of this mattered much in the face of possible dehydration. So with Ryan still in the midst of his tantrum, we handed him a bottle.

He spit out his binky in a stream of drool and shut the tears off like a switch. Ryan happily chugged his milk.

Now he’s taking a victory nap.

Duck, duck Moose

The time has come for Ryan to leave the baby room at daycare. He’s been a “lamb” for the last nine months. Now he’s going to be a “duck.”

The idea was that this week Ryan would spend more and more time in the Duck room, then make the move permanent next week. The problem was that being carted between his usual room and the toddlers’ and back again was more confusing than helpful. He wasn’t eating much and was crying a lot, although he’s been happy at home.

So as of tomorrow Ryan is a full-time Duck. They’re jumping the gun by two days. The theory is that he’ll get used to the room without the disorientation.

We feel sad for Maria, his former caregiver who loves Ryan to pieces. She said he was the best baby that she’s ever watched. But it’s time for Boo to hang with the big kids and not the screaming infants.

Unlike the Lambs, the Ducks follow a stringent daily schedule. Gina brought home a list of their activities. It sounds healthy and fun. Then she came to the part about how no one is allowed to wear super-hero clothes. What?!! It’s some kind of attempt to curtail violent playtime among the kids. Apparently wearing your Batman hoodie is like flashing your toddler gang colors.

I guess I’ll change my Spider-Man shirt before I pick Ryan up.