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.