These Are the Days of Miracle and Wonder

In the words of Paul Simon, these are indeed the days of miracle and wonder. Each day I find myself in utter awe, just floored by the exponental explosion of awareness and intelligence I see in him. He walks. He tells us when he's thirsty. He understands Spanish. He uses sign language. He tries to lock the door with our keys. He feeds himself and is quite the avacado fan. He puts my hat on his head. He picks up paper and throws in the trash can.

He even cons us, using every word he knows in a desperate gambit to avoid bed: "...mama?" No, mama is making dinner. "...baba?" No, you've already had your bottle. "...agua?" *sigh* OK, OK, you can have some water, but after this are going to bed. "...woof?" No, you HAVE your dog! We play tag, we play catch, we play hide and seek. He can tell us what he is looking at on TV.

My God, he's only 14 months old! He knew nothing three months ago and now this? If he's designing a computer or rebuilding my transmission in a few weeks, I won't be a bit surprised.

He waves bye-bye. Will it seem like just a moment before he's off to college and waves bye-bye for good?

One Year!

All right! Wee man has made it through his first year without finding a way to kill himself. Remarkable really, given his love for charging toward stairs, climbing on cabinets, slamming doors, scrambling to crawl off the bed, putting random crap from the floor in his mouth and his favorite, pulling open the refrigerator door and hopping in. Good times.

Still despite his hair-raising escapades, it's been a remarkable few months. He's on the verge; the verge of talking, the verge of walking, the verge of becoming a little boy. His personality is emerging in a big way. He let's us know what he likes (baths, having us chase him around as he crawls like a madman, doggies) and doesn't (pretty much everything else). He's not much of a talker at this point, but he's happy to ask for his bottle (ba-ba)or some "agua" (gwa-gwa)or even me(da-dee).

It's fun, but also a bit anxiety producing. There's the constant nagging feeling that I should be doing more, that I'm missing things, that I should be filming more, taking more pictures, blogging more (well, on that front it's pretty obvious that I should be), spending more time playing bonding, playing... Basically I should be trying to make sure he doesn't hate me later.

Well, I do what I can, I suppose. And every time his mom brings him home from the nanny, I'm as excited to see him as he is me. It's the best part of my day. And I guess in the long run, that's what matters most.

Toys? I don't need no stinkin' toys!

Well, after spending approximately $187,526 on diversions for the little man and lugging home suitcases full of crap from well-intentioned relatives, I have too late made a very crucial discovery: babies don't like toys.

Although the good folks at Fisher-Price and (shudder) Leapfrog would have us believe otherwise, experience tells a far different story. As of today, here are my nine-month-old's favorite diversions:

* A plastic Thai food take-out container
* One of my wife's $1.99 flip-flops
* An empty Calistoga water bottle
* A bowl scraper
* An orange Lucite napkin ring

Toys, not so much. Which I can understand. Leapfrog: possible motto "We HATE parents!" Seriously guys, WTF? The blinding colors, the shrill vocals, wretched songs, eardrum-shattering volume... just stop.

So word to the wise. Skip Toys R' Us and hit the Tupperware drawer. You're baby will love you for it.

OK, this might be harder than I thought.

I really thought I had this down. We had a baby. We fed him, clothed him and got him to sleep at a reasonable hour. Eight months later, he's still alive. Say, this isn't so tough, is it?

Then he start crawling. He may as well have turned, stared me in the eye and said, "It's ON, muthafucka."

Suddenly what appeared to be a cozy apartment has been revealed to be a hellish deathtrap of skull-smashing table corners, strangling blinds, high-voltage cords and horrible toxins of all descriptions. Not a second goes by when I'm not making a diving save just a Junior is about to pull over a 500-pound bookcase or chomp into a lamp cord.

This, my friends, adds a whole new dimension to things.

See, the problem is that "crawling" implies that he moves a rather leisurely pace. Not true; the minute he figured out how to do it, he began scrambling around the house like a feral cat trapped in a cage.

Secondly, it's not correct to say that he can crawl, because that implies that he does it occasionally, and for a certain period of time. Uh-uh. No, he simply crawls; the moment you place him on the ground, he is in a constant state of motion until you dash over to where he is about to kill himself and pick him up.

I can't emphasize enough the gravity of this situation. What it means is this: I can never relax again. If he crawls, he is in a contant state of mortal peril. If you prevent him from crawling in some way, he squirms and screams like a banshee. And he can't sleep forever.

So in short, it is indeed on. And I am indeed scared.

OK, I suck.

Well, there hasn't been a day that's gone by that I haven't thought about getting back into this. And up to now, there hasn't been a day that I actually have.

But I can't let this get by me. I think my moment of clarity came to me where most of us go to think deep thoughts -- Pottery Barn. As we moved from Tuscan to Farmhouse to the next example of Chinese mass-manufactured Old World charm, I glanced down to see my little guy staring back at me with the most misty, trusting, doe-eyed look of bliss and paternal love imaginable; it almost knocked me into the Milano smoking chair. If it hadn't happened before, we had that Special Bonding Moment.

Of course, he was 15 seconds from falling asleep and more than a bit loopy -- I'm sure he would have offered a paper towel that same beautific stare of adoration. But would I remember this five years from now? Five days from now?

So I'm back to blogging. I picked a good week to start. Because after months of baby steps, Junior brought his A-game. He's learned to crawl, sit up, pull himself up and can even pick up, rotate and pop in his pacifier -- not bad! (Although he often bends himself in half to suck it off the floor rather than simply reaching down to grab it, but, hey, he's trying.)

OK, so that leaves about six months in the Dark Ages. So let's see. Well, he's gone from a pooping loaf of bread to a good-natured little guy with a hearty chuckle and a profound love of pat-a-cake and "Row, Row, Row, Your Boat" to an energetic little hellcat who enjoys nothing more than a good workout in the bouncy chair, followed by rolling wildly toward the edge of the bed toward certain head trauma the minute his diaper comes off. (Speaking of diaper off, he's also discovered "little Jamie" in a big way and seems quite disappointed that he can't twist him off for a closer look. Trust me kid, you'll be glad you didn't.)

He's mastered parrot sqawks, dolphin squeals, "fa" noises and the occasional string of faux words. He loves to pound on the floors. Neighbor loves this not so much. And the highlight of his day is bathtime with mom. Taking swim lessons as well -- maybe he's found his calling early? Although given his current jumbo size -- he easily fits into 12-month+ clothes at seven months -- basketball may be more his thing.

But above all else, he's happy. He smiles, he laughs, he claps -- he seems to be having an OK time. Which means maybe we don't totally suck as parents. And that's good.

One month today. Well, yesterday.

And therein lies the problem with my blog so far -- I'm not bloggin'. My 'round-to-it mindset threatens to scuttle the whole affair, so after much consideration and procrastination, I have concluded that the best way to start is... to start.

So here we go. For the one person who will chance across this blog looking for porn related to either "Junior" or "Landing" -- and shame on you -- let me explain what this blog is about: Junior.

Or more specifically, My Junior, i.e., my little boy who is a month old today. (Today-ish, alright?)In other words, it's yet another in the vast world of Ain't Babies Great? blogs, which, combined with the My Very Important Musings Which Will Someday Be Regarded as Genius blogs, the Vote My Way, you Commie Bastard! blogs and The Music I Like is Great Unlike the Music You Like, Which Sucks blogs, make up most of the Blogosphere.

So be aware that, as such, it will be long-winded, unfocused, self-indulgent, wildly off-topic and generally torturous for you -- and me -- to read. And you will live with it.

That said, it begins. Next installment: My pre-baby angst in all its splendid angstiness.