Tater tot

Kyle is no longer a just a homebody. These days, he regularly goes out on neighborhood strolls, and this past weekend he went to church for the first time. These ventures do come with certain risks, though. We are extremely cautious with each encounter we make with another person, and Jennifer has come awfully close to tackling those who attempt to touch our little one. We don't want Kyle to catch any diseases, such as a cold, the flu, or disco fever. But most of all, we're concerned that these other people might try to eat him.

I never thought much about the threat of cannibalism before Kyle was born. It wasn't something covered in our birthing class, and when he was born, nobody asked if we wanted fries with him. But now we're wondering whether our friends and family are smacking their lips thinking of our little one.

Just a few days ago, one of our friends wouldn't stop talking about how Kyle has great "frog legs." Shortly afterwards, her fiance said his little toes looked like kernels of corn. At that point, we had to kick them out of our apartment and ban them forever. Granted, we wouldn't have been as upset if these were simply acquaintances or gourmet chefs... but these friends are on the short list of possible BABYSITTERS for Kyle. How can we be sure now that they won't sprinkle some seasoning on him the moment Jennifer and I head out the door?

We can always pray that Kyle won't ever be used as a main course, but that's also tricky to do, especially when our church's congregation has hungry eyes for our munchkin. When one member met Kyle this past weekend, she called him a "little pork chop." Others just drooled when they saw him, many asking how much he weighed, as if he was a slab of beef for grilling. In the meantime, we set the baptism for next month - I just hope they don't Christen him with barbecue sauce.

(Above: Kyle thinks he's tasty)

With all these stomachs growling for Kyle, you might think that the only safe place for him would be at home. Yet he's not even safe here. My parents were here last weekend, and my mother - yes, my own mother - said Kyle was born with "chicken legs." She is now impressed with how "plump" he has become. What's that supposed to mean?!? And next week my mom will return to New York to help us out with - of all things - the cooking! You can be sure I will be keeping a close eye on her.

In the line of fire

Having a baby boy is a risky business, as some of you may know. Every day is wrought with peril, as we parents brave the "underworld" known as the diaper change. A baby boy is a locked and loaded weapon, ready to fire... and fire he will... when his target is in range, armed with nothing more than an unscented wipe.

We were warned, of course - in fact, the image on the left is from a card sent to us before Kyle was born. Friends, family members, doctors, parents, food delivery guys - practically everyone told us to take caution when changing a diaper to avoid being squirted. Our friends Sarah and Alex, proud parents of a young boy, recommended that we use a cloth as a shield whenever we change a diaper, while my cousins Kris and Craig, proud parents of TWIN boys (God bless them), urged us to go to Target and buy lots and lots of washcloths. We took all this advice, cleared out Target's linen department, and armed ourselves for battle.

For us, changing a diaper is a lot like that opening scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark. One of us holds the washcloth with one hand while using the other hand to undo the diaper, carefully unsticking the tabs as to not trigger any booby-traps. Then, almost instantaneously, the diaper is pulled off and -WHAM!- the cloth is thrown down. After cleanup, we make another attempt at the same tricky operation, this time to remove the cloth and slap on a new diaper. If all goes according to plan, everything stays calm, we are not bombarded with projectiles or boulders, and Kyle's sinister plans have to wait until next time.

(Above: Kyle plotting to strike)

The washcloth shield has been a savior. Many times Jennifer and I would change Kyle and then realize that the towel was soaked. Beads of sweat would roll down our brow as we look at each other, knowing full well that we were the intended target. Those times we consider ourselves lucky, since the washcloth cannot protect all of the time. Kyle's grandmother was an unfortunate victim when she simply checked to see if a diaper needed changing. Many onesies also have been sacrificed.

(Above: Mortally-wounded onesies)

If you look at the odds, it's amazing that we're not hit more often. The inexperienced may believe that a diaper needs to be changed once or twice a day. Not so. Kyle's bowels are timed to our thoughts and actions, so whenever we plan to eat, take a nap, sit down or breathe, they spring into action. We change diapers 15 to 20 thousand times a day. Sometimes twice or three times in once session.

And then there are the surprises, and I leave you with the worst one of all. It happened Saturday morning, and NOBODY prepared us for it. I will spare the details for those of you who like to eat while reading my blog. Let's just say that on Saturday we learned that everything - EVERYTHING - is projectile... and that a dirty diaper doesn't necessarily mean the eruption is over. Most importantly, we also learned that your bed can never be far enough away from the changing table.

Dry cleaning is going to make us broke.

King Kyle

I am writing this post today because Kyle is letting me write it. It's an honor, because Kyle doesn't let me do a lot these days without his permission. Since seizing control of our apartment a little more than a week ago, he has ruled with an iron fist.



Sure, to the casual observer he might not look like the demanding type. Some may think he gurgles and coos all day with a cute baby smile. They may believe that when Kyle needs something, he may simply point to it, or even ask ("Excuse me, dearest Mom and Dad - would you mind changing my diaper? I appear to have soiled it"). Yet the picture above is all too deceiving. When Kyle wants something - a clean diaper, another round of milk, the New York Times crossword puzzle - this is how he asks for it:



Every day - and more disturbingly, every night - this is the Kyle we must obey. Jennifer and I are at his mercy, and he knows it. Every cry has become louder, as Kyle faces every problem - major (diaper) or minor (diaper) - as if he is heralding the end of the world. As you may imagine, this is making Jennifer and I very very very very very very very very very very very very very very tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrreeeeed. In fact, Jennifer is trying to get some sleep as I write this (again, because King Kyle is granting her permission).

There were warning signs, of course. In the days after his birth, Kyle managed to keep both his Mom and Dad very busy at the hospital. The fatigue engulfed us, and by the end of the stay we were not able to think straight, and we kept losing stuff. In fact, one morning on my way to the hospital (they didn't let me stay overnight for my own safety), I left my apartment with a bottle of water in my hand. I got halfway to the subway stop and realized that a) I was no longer carrying the bottle, and b) I had no idea what I did with it. I was rather embarrassed by that. It wasn't until I got to the subway that I realized I also wasn't wearing any pants.

Of course, in the week since he's moved to Brooklyn, Kyle has been peaceful at times... watching the Celtics win the championship...



... being terrorized by the jungle play mat...



... and dreaming that he's a superhero...



We appreciate those moments when they happen, and enjoy some rest ourselves. But when our little one's mood changes, we spring into full action, 'cause one thing we've learned for sure...



... don't mess with King Kyle.

Okay - I gotta go now. I think I hear a dirty diaper.

The waiting is the hardest part

Any day now. Yes, we're still a week away from the due date, but we're getting a little impatient. The little one has grown considerably, and frankly that hasn't been too comfortable for Jennifer. As for me, all my shows are now in summer reruns, and I'm just anxious to do something else.

So, we're trying everything we can think of to get him to come out. We talk to him about the beauties of being outside, and how he'll have so much room to move about. We go on and on about the walks we'll take him on and the playgrounds we'll visit. Like any good salesperson, we occasionally have to stretch the truth about the outside, and say things like "we'll teach you how to FLY!" But even that doesn't seem to be working... the little one just stirs in the womb, showing us that he's very comfortable in there.

If coaxing doesn't do the trick, perhaps other means will. We've heard that riding over bumpy roads can spark labor, so whenever Jennifer and I go driving, I aim for every pothole we pass, even if it means going into oncoming traffic. We've also heard that spicy and hot food works, so this is our dinner menu this week:

MONDAY: Spicy Mexican

TUESDAY: Spicy Curry

WEDNESDAY: General Tso's Chicken

THURSDAY: Fire Wings

FRIDAY: Fire

Our final option has been bribery. As of now, if Kyle decides to come out in the next couple of days, he'll get extra desserts for a week when he's seven years old. He will also be awarded a trip to Disney World, and he'll be allowed to name his younger sister or brother. We might even throw in a car. Granted, if he goes beyond the due date, those prizes disappear, and we'll start taking away things. If we don't celebrate his ninth birthday, this will be the reason why.

So I'm asking all of you to think about Kyle being born, and maybe your collective thoughts will make it happen. But, please, don't think of Jennifer going into labor during rush hour traffic, or in the middle of the NBA finals, and certainly not when we're just about to go to bed. Let's think 10 am, after a good night's sleep. 10 am this Thursday. Does that sound good to you? It certainly sounds good to us. Gooooooo, Kyle!

Lil' Papi

I'm a few days late writing a post this week because I've been busy working on the nursery (painting, cleaning, installing a hot tub, etc.). It's been a bit more difficult to do anything in that room since the shower last weekend. The little one received many gifts from our extremely generous family and friends. We now have a stroller, a playpen, and a "diaper genie" (he's the smelliest of the genie clan, and I've already learned he doesn't grant you 3 wishes... though I'm not sure I'd want him to, anyway). We also received clothes, baby monitors, books, blankets, and... more importantly...

LOTS OF RED SOX STUFF!!!

Red Sox onesies, Red Sox warm-up suit, Red Sox plush ball, Red Sox sippy cups, Red Sox welding kit (we might wait 'til he's older to give him that), Red Sox blanket, Red Sox bibs, Red Sox socks - it may be enough to make him the most hated baby in New York. I get teary-eyed just thinking about it.

On Sunday, our little one got his first true taste of the Sox-Yankees rivalry: we brought him to a game at Fenway, and sat in the bleachers.

Jennifer could feel the little one "boo" Johnny Damon and shout "Yooouk" for Kevin Youkilis (it's actually the same feeling). The little one cheered when the Sox hammered the Yankees' pitching, and then openly questioned whether Dice-K is worth $100 million. All in all, it was a very good night - and we think the little one had a great time. It was especially comforting to know that he can't make out the words slurred by the drunken fans.

I'm looking forward to taking him to a Sox game after he's born. It's a good thing he already has all that team gear, though... we ended up spending all our savings on a couple Fenway Franks and a cup of coffee, so we can't afford to buy any more.