The tyke is doing great, the wife not so much.
I'm getting off easy, since I don't have to feed him- I've been getting most of a full night's rest, then getting up early to spell the wife after the morning feed.
The biggest issue is he doesn't sleep much at night.
He fusses and he eats and then fusses some more.
He sleeps more during the day, but during the day the wife has things she'd like to do extending beyond feeding a bottomless pit and changing a succession of diapers and clothes.
This morning I was roused at 4am today to play cavalry for the beleaguered wife and rode to the rescue pennants streaming in the pre-dawn breeze.
A spell on the glider resulted in a series of worrisome volcanic sounds from deep within his soft mantle of blankies. A quick change, a re-swaddle, some more gliding and voila, I was free to watch House of Flying Daggers while he snoozed on my chest.
I wasn't exactly sure why we got a 5 dvd changer when we upgraded years ago, but it's a handy arrow in the quiver when dealing with a restless infant who squalls if you so much as think about putting him down.
I kept him placated until 6, when he roused from his slumber to root around for breakfast. My Moobs are resplendent but purely decorative and so I awoke the mobile buffet.
A quick nap before work and here I am, no worse for wear after a couple of mugs of coffee.
8.05.2008
Saunders on expiermental fiction
Experimental fiction is the art of telling a story in which certain aspects of reality have been exaggerated or distorted in such a way as to put the reader off the story and make him go watch a television show.
Full scoop.
Big co-sign from the BAXBLOG.
8.04.2008
barbaric
The cd player at work has expired of heat prostration.
I've been driven to the open if somewhat musty arms of our ancient tape deck to drown out the too-loud chatter of the open bar inside my head.
Does anyone remember the misery of cassette tapes?
I hated them even when they were au courant.
Time and the digital revolution have done nothing to improve their standing.
Albums maintain nostalgic cache with warm analog sound and a huge canvas for graphic artists to play around with. There is something archaic, noble and lasting about a ranked mass of record albums, like a ruined castle overlooking the sea.
A bunch of cassettes is redolent of a dusty corner in a not particularly good thrift store, or Grandmas station wagon.
Cassettes don't even get shine for the crowning achievement of the mix tape because digital does them 10000 times better.
I feel like I've been exiled to a rest home AV room.
I've been driven to the open if somewhat musty arms of our ancient tape deck to drown out the too-loud chatter of the open bar inside my head.
Does anyone remember the misery of cassette tapes?
I hated them even when they were au courant.
Time and the digital revolution have done nothing to improve their standing.
Albums maintain nostalgic cache with warm analog sound and a huge canvas for graphic artists to play around with. There is something archaic, noble and lasting about a ranked mass of record albums, like a ruined castle overlooking the sea.
A bunch of cassettes is redolent of a dusty corner in a not particularly good thrift store, or Grandmas station wagon.
Cassettes don't even get shine for the crowning achievement of the mix tape because digital does them 10000 times better.
I feel like I've been exiled to a rest home AV room.
8.03.2008
today's pet peeves
* borderline types who ask where to find a book and use your answer as a springboard to power a lecture about where it SHOULD be filed.
* freaks who lapse into dialect for no reason.
A long haired renfaire refugee regaled me in a terrible fake Irish accent for the crime of showing him where to find Joseph Campbell.
WELL ACTUALLY ALICE IN WONDERLAND IS HARDLY A CHILDRENS' BOOK! IT HAS MATHEMATICS, PHILOSOPHY...YOU NEED TO UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING BEFORE YOU UNDERSTAND ALICE IN WONDERLAND!
CHILDRENS...HAR HAR HAR!
* freaks who lapse into dialect for no reason.
A long haired renfaire refugee regaled me in a terrible fake Irish accent for the crime of showing him where to find Joseph Campbell.
Ach, sure and begorrah, you'll be wanting some hair of the dog after this long trip!
housecleaning
I'm lavishing a surplus of care on the excavation of my mom's house.
I proceed meticulously, an archaeologist excavating an army of terra cotta warriors entombed along with their god-emperor, teasing them from the ancient soil with a selection of small trowels, scoops and brushes, sending the debris through a sifting screen and taking calipers to the likelier bits lest some telling detail be lost.
In the real world I'm filling up 30 gallon plastic bags with crap nobody wants and stacking donations in the garage for pickup.
Understanding this has not so far changed my behavior.
But it is a tomb I'm working in.
Empty, occupant a cypher, nothing left but a lattice of intentional debris collected over a lifetime. Every stack of magazines I haul to the garage, every container of spoiling food I throw away, every photo album carried off in the trunk of the car is another tiny stone pried from the mosaic of her life, the only testament she left.
Trying to understand the picture as I disassemble the thing and cart it away in pieces seems the least tribute I can offer.
Or it could be I'm not an archaeologist at all.
Things going missing, floating through the air, an unseen force loose between the four walls trailing anarchy in its wake.
Maybe I'm a poltergeist.
Then which one of us is doing the haunting?
Wolf Parade
I proceed meticulously, an archaeologist excavating an army of terra cotta warriors entombed along with their god-emperor, teasing them from the ancient soil with a selection of small trowels, scoops and brushes, sending the debris through a sifting screen and taking calipers to the likelier bits lest some telling detail be lost.
In the real world I'm filling up 30 gallon plastic bags with crap nobody wants and stacking donations in the garage for pickup.
Understanding this has not so far changed my behavior.
But it is a tomb I'm working in.
Empty, occupant a cypher, nothing left but a lattice of intentional debris collected over a lifetime. Every stack of magazines I haul to the garage, every container of spoiling food I throw away, every photo album carried off in the trunk of the car is another tiny stone pried from the mosaic of her life, the only testament she left.
Trying to understand the picture as I disassemble the thing and cart it away in pieces seems the least tribute I can offer.
Or it could be I'm not an archaeologist at all.
Things going missing, floating through the air, an unseen force loose between the four walls trailing anarchy in its wake.
Maybe I'm a poltergeist.
Then which one of us is doing the haunting?
Give me your eyes
I need sunshine
Give me your eyes
I need sunshine
Your blood, your bones, your voice, and your ghost
Wolf Parade
8.02.2008
8.01.2008
outing
Today was our first excursion beyond the front door as a family (I don't count visiting mom since we hadn't been home yet) and I can see why family life turns you into a homebody. The production was reminiscent of a safari and really demanded native porters and a mounted column- loading everything into the trunk of a car was a profound anticlimax.
Another let-down: instead of crossing the sun-blasted savanna searching for dangerous wild game, we were crossing the sun-blasted asphalt of the hospital parking lot in search of a gynecologist.
Happily the wife is healing nicely. The allergic rash from the surgical tape looks worse than the gash they dragged our boy out of. Also, she lost 20 pounds in 7 days.
I doubt even the most wild eyed body dysmorphic would sign up for that particular crash diet.
On the practical front, we need some kind of sun screening device for the baby seat. The wife may beg to differ, but me hunkered in the back seat holding up a blankie isn't a viable long term solution.
We swung by the DMV on the way home to wrangle some stuff with my mom's car, but a tiny, officious gal with a giant clipboard informed us they close at 3:30, or rather they don't exactly close, but you can't get in without an appointment.
After weighing the relative merits of several threatening quotes from our Governator I settled on I'LL BE BACK as least likely to get me arrested.
Another let-down: instead of crossing the sun-blasted savanna searching for dangerous wild game, we were crossing the sun-blasted asphalt of the hospital parking lot in search of a gynecologist.
Happily the wife is healing nicely. The allergic rash from the surgical tape looks worse than the gash they dragged our boy out of. Also, she lost 20 pounds in 7 days.
I doubt even the most wild eyed body dysmorphic would sign up for that particular crash diet.
On the practical front, we need some kind of sun screening device for the baby seat. The wife may beg to differ, but me hunkered in the back seat holding up a blankie isn't a viable long term solution.
We swung by the DMV on the way home to wrangle some stuff with my mom's car, but a tiny, officious gal with a giant clipboard informed us they close at 3:30, or rather they don't exactly close, but you can't get in without an appointment.
After weighing the relative merits of several threatening quotes from our Governator I settled on I'LL BE BACK as least likely to get me arrested.
things they do
Yesterday our doula Carrie checked up on the fella and brought us a quiche.
His Aunt Helen delivered a bag of goodies from Trader Joe's then cleaned our bathroom.
Aunt Teresa delivered our car which we'd left in her driveway during all the drama.
The Fiend wove a cozy nest for her cousin from hand-picked quilts and blankies.
"Oh, this one is just right!"
"Everyone is being so great!" noted the wife.
His Aunt Helen delivered a bag of goodies from Trader Joe's then cleaned our bathroom.
Aunt Teresa delivered our car which we'd left in her driveway during all the drama.
The Fiend wove a cozy nest for her cousin from hand-picked quilts and blankies.
"Oh, this one is just right!"
"Everyone is being so great!" noted the wife.
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