HAPPY BIRTHDAY ABE

Spending Abe’s 80th birthday with him was worth every ounce of stress about our first flight with Evan, the MSG poisoning by Uncle Frank, and the dinner poop-cident. Gloria went all out for Abe’s birthday with the family, friends, and food and I’m not sure who got more birthday attention, Abe or Evan. But what I do know is we wouldn’t have missed it for the world! Happy Birthday Abe!

Uncle Frank Comes to Dinner

Us, happily and blissfully unaware of the poop wrath about to befall us.

Unless you’re a celebrity or have the money of one, when you become a parent all hope of glamour and sex appeal dies a tragic and unavoidable death. Conversations become about poop consistency and if you’re lucky, the poop you’re talking about is your child’s. Instead of dreams of Milano Blahniks, you begin to understand the allure of orthopedic shoes. Late nights that leave you disoriented and only half coherent aren’t the same kind of nights they used to be, and the caliber of a “nice” dinner plummets to the type of restaurant that gathers the entire wait staff to sing Happy Birthday. Not that parenting isn’t amazing. It is. It’s an adventure unlike any other. But what it’s not, is glamorous or sexy…

So when we decided to go out to dinner with Wes and meet his current girlfriend, Aly, it was one of the nicer events we’ve planned in the past 10 months. My hair wasn’t in its usual ponytail, I actually put on lipstick, and above all, I wore uncomfortable shoes. Our evening of glamour took a slight detour when we had to cruise around Arrowhead in the minivan, searching for Evan’s specific type of formula. But that can easily be recovered from.

Halfway through our search for the perfect formula, my dreams of being that completely organized and together mom I wish I was but fear I will never become, took a blow. Melinda called and told us we forgot the diaper bag. I hadn’t even noticed it was missing, although based on the lack of poo we had seen that day, I should have had it glued to my hip. Evan was withholding. Again. And I was getting scared. He’s on a stool softener which means he can try to hold it all he wants, but it’s coming out with or without his permission. And they’re no small poops.

I actually said the words to Melinda: “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine.”

But Melinda insisted. They were on their way out anyway, they would be heading in our direction… Glutton for punishment that I am, I actually told her for a second time that we didn't need it. But once again, and Thank You God, she insisted. An experienced mom knows these things. So instead of going straight out to celebrate her 40th birthday, Melinda and Art took a blessed detour and brought us our diaper bag.

By the time we pulled into the resturant parking lot, all hopes of being the on top of it parents were completely dead. We had wandered aimlessly for 30 minutes searching for our fomula (but we found it), we drove 20 minutes in the wrong direction in search of the restaurant, and we forgot the all important diaper bag. But as we pulled into the parking lot, things finally began to turn around. We got First Class Rock Star Parking five feet from the front door of the swanky restaurant Wes had chosen. Satara Thai Cuisine and Wine… BAR? Were we really those people? Were we really taking a baby into a bar? Leave it to the perpetual bachelor to choose an upscale wine bar. (Oh those days of not considering whether a restaurant is appropriate rather than just whether or not I wanted to eat there…)

Sometime between the appetizers and the main course, Uncle Frank showed up in all his glory. And I don’t mean Uncle Frank the person, I mean Uncle Frank’s namesake (see previous post).

Brad looked across the table at me with nothing but panic on his face.

“He needs his diaper changed,” he said as he jumped up, bypassed the bathroom and ran straight out the restaurant.

“Are you sure?” I asked, trying my best to keep up with his frenzied sprint towards the door.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

As far as Poop-Xplosions go – oh, excuse me, Uncle Franks – it was a relatively minor one. It oozed out the diaper and halfway up Evan’s back, soaking his new shirt, but there was no poop in the armpits, so we got off pretty easy. What makes this Uncle Frank especially noteworthy though, was the consistency. It was liquid poo. It looked like a diaper full of chocolate milk. So wet was this diaper, that when Brad took it off, I actually picked it up like I would Levi’s poop, grabbing a plastic bag, pulling it over my hand like a glove, and then grabbing the diaper with my “gloved” hand and turning the glove inside out. It couldn’t possibly have been picked up any other way. And it was HEAVY.

Consistency aside, what made this Uncle Frank more difficult than most, is we were minus the luxuries of home. When we got to the car, we couldn’t initiate our usual Poop Protocol because that would entail Brad and I both getting naked in the parking lot. We had no changing table to lay Evan on and no shower to usher him into. So, we improvised. We folded down the seats and turned the back of the minivan into a makeshift changing table. Next, we stripped Evan while he stood on the pavement next to the minivan. We actually had to pull his shirt down over his body rather than up and over his head to minimize the poop-sposure. Suddenly the luck that brought us our First Class Rock Star parking directly in front of the restaurant didn’t feel so lucky anymore.

At that moment, our night of glamour was made complete when an unsuspecting driver rounded the corner and illuminated Evan’s full moon in all its glory, the car's headlights like two spotlights. And there was Evan, happily prancing around, doing his naked baby dance, letting it all hang out, as blissful and happy as can be. And just like that, our Rock Star Parking turned to Porn Star Parking and that once prime real estate turned into a nuclear waste dump.

Ahhh, the adventures of parenting…they are adventures, but what they most certainly are not, are glamorous and sexy…

That's Nice Uncle Frank

Every family has one. Crazy Aunt Sophie who wants to be buried with her cat, Cousin Gladys who hasn’t left her house or taken out her garbage in 7 years, Uncle Yoseph who stuffs his mattress with money but smokes in bed… The family eccentric. For the Newhalls, it’s all of them. For the Lincoln Family, it’s Uncle Frank.

Uncle Frank’s response to anything he doesn’t like?
“That’s nice…”

The explanation:

Two southern women are out to lunch together.

Woman #1: My husband bought me a diamond ring, and my does it sparkle.
Woman #2: That’s nice.
Woman #1: My husband sent me the nicest spa, I got a massage and a facial and they pampered me till the cows came home…
Woman #2: That’s nice.
Woman #1: My husband is the best husband ever. He doesn’t let me do a stitch of house work…
Woman #2: That’s nice.
Woman #1: Well Sugar, what’s your husband do for you?
Woman #2: My husband sent me to charm school.
Woman #1: Why Honey, charm school? What could you possibly learn there?
Woman #2: They taught me that a proper southern woman doesn’t say “fuck you,” she says “that’s nice…”

Our first day in Phoenix we were relaxing out on the patio, I had Evan in my lap, and before I knew it Evan was chewing on a Cheeto. Vacation generally voids all rules, but I didn’t want to get too wild and crazy our first day, so I told Uncle Frank no more MSG for Evan. The next day while I was out shopping with Melinda, I called to check in and was told Uncle Frank had introduced Evan to the wonderful world of Diet Coke. I had Brad relay to Uncle Frank that when I got back, he was dead.

In the background I heard Uncle Frank’s defense:
“But there’s no MSG in Diet Coke!”
(He’s right. I checked)

When Brad told Frank he only had a couple hours left to live, Uncle Frank’s response was:
“I’d rather be pissed off than pissed on…”

Now I could probably argue the grammar and semantics of the statement, but one thing I know for sure; no matter where you come from, that’s no apology.

My only possible response to Uncle Frank?

“That’s nice…”

Needless to say, Uncle Frank was one of Evan’s favorite Phoenix attractions. Evan finally found someone whose maturity level matched his own, and boy did they bond. Every time Uncle Frank walked into the room, Evan’s face lit up. His best friend had arrived. Evan had Uncle Frank and Mary wrapped around his finger just like everyone else. He had the two of them helping him practice walking around the house, back and forth, up and down and every which way. Evan’s quick transition to walking after coming home from Phoenix was most definitely due, in part, to the two of them. All joking aside though, Uncle Frank may be a trouble maker, but he is the kindest, gentlest, sweetest man there has ever been.

So, in honor of Uncle Frank preferring to be pissed off than pissed on, we have renamed the Poop-Xplosions. From here on out they will be referred to as “Pulling an Uncle Frank,” or simply an “Uncle Frank.” Because when the shit hits the fan, it seems like Uncle Frank’s always the one who’s flinging it – and has control of the fan.

Baby On Board

How great would it be to have the ability to explain yourself to the world with a T-shirt? I’m sure there’s a market for an “Insecure-trying-to-lose-the-baby-weight” T- shirt. Or how about a “My-dog-just-died-cut-me-some-slack” shirt? I’d certainly buy the “My-disorganization-annoys-me-too,” shirt.

Brad and I have always made fun of those “Baby On Board” signs hanging from car windows. But then we experienced our first drive home from the hospital with Evan. To say Brad was a nervous wreck would be a gross understatement. He drove below the speed limit, used his turn signal vigilantly, and took those turns like he had a beach ball balanced on top of the car. Half way home Brad turned to me and said:

“Now is when I wish I had one of those stupid Baby On Board signs so everyone knows why I’m driving like such a douche.”

And just like that, those useless signs served a purpose.

Our first flight with Evan was a little like that first drive home. We wanted T-shirts with, “New Parent’s First Flight With Baby” printed in bright bold letters across the chest. I know how annoying crying babies are. Pre-parenthood I was the person offering very little sympathy to the parents or the crying baby. I’ve heard people on a plane say, “Oh, the poor thing, his ears must be plugged.” Not me. Up until now I’ve always been a resident of camp “If you can’t control your kid what are you doing here.” I know from personal experience the depth of hatred that can brew when you’re in an enclosed space 30,000 feet above ground and for the past couple of months I’ve been nervous about the combined hatred of 250 people focused on me and my child. My biggest fear? That I would have an entire plane wishing the cabin door would fly open and suck Evan and me out the door.

The day of the flight we packed extra bottles, his favorite toys, his favorite books, snacks, and as a last resort, baby Benadryl. We also made sure to dress Evan extra cute in case all efforts failed and we turned out to be that crying baby anyway. After all, it’s much harder to hate a cute crying baby than it is to hate a crusty unkempt screaming brat.

But all my worrying was wasted energy, Evan did great. His first plane ride was a success. He flirted with the flight attendants, danced in the isles, fed Cheerios to the therapy dog sitting behind us, and clapped his way from Seattle to Phoenix.

Tooth Proof

The elusive tooth has finally made its appearance. All that time spent wondering if a sleepless night was because of a tooth were wasted hours. This tooth took us by surprise and appeared before we suspected a thing. For once we were attributing Evan’s sleepless nights to something other than the possibility of a tooth. We were sure walking was to blame for the latest sleepless spell. But then out of nowhere that phantom tooth that had become our nemesis for almost a full year finally reared its sharp little head. Contrary to what we had been telling ourselves, now that the tooth is finally here, not a single thing has changed. Evan still wakes up in the middle of the night to eat, he still gets constipated, he still gets diarrhea, he still gets fussy – all the things we tried to blame on an innocent tooth – the tooth is here and the symptoms remain.

That is, unless he’s getting another tooth…

EVAN'S FIRST STEPS!

EVAN TOOK HIS FIRST SOLO STEPS TODAY AT 1:32 pm! The only downside is that Brad wasn’t here to see it and that it was so short I didn’t get a picture. Well, that and I now have to go buy a baby gate... and outlet covers... and cupboard locks... oh, and door locks...

Evan and Levi

Evan has rediscovered Levi in a whole new way. Tuesday while Evan was eating his snack, Levi was in unusually close proximity. I watched Evan for a moment and then realized why. Evan would eat a Cheerio, give a Cheerio to Levi, eat a Cheerio, give a Cheerio to Levi… Levi is now permanently camped out below Evan while he eats.

Wednesday I put Evan on the bathroom floor while I was taking a shower. He entertained himself by playing peek-a-boo with Levi by shutting the door in Levi’s face and then opening it back up again. Poor Levi didn’t know what was going on.

Evan’s trying very hard to walk, but no harder than when Levi is near. He’ll take tentative steps to reach Levi that Brad and I couldn’t dream of coercing out of him. One of Evan’s (and Levi’s) favorite games now is chase. Evan (with our help) chases Levi around the couch at top speed, screaming at the top of his lungs.

The vacuum is a continued source of fascination for both Evan and Levi. Anywhere in the house the vacuum is, Evan wants to be. He’s going to take his first steps towards the vacuum possibly even before he takes them towards Levi.