I REGISTERED MY DOMAIN! THINGS ARE GOING TO START HAPPENING TO ME NOW!
Man, that feels great! My very own piece of the Internet! No blogging site name tagged onto the end of the address making me look all bush league! No third-rate imposters or spam sites co-opting my blog name! I still can’t think of a fucking thing to write about! YEAH!
Boy, this is horrible! I feel like I really have to come through now that typing “vaguelyunpleasant” with a .com after it brings up something I type into for everybody to potentially see and evaluate. Brad Pitt could be looking at this right now. How embarrassing is that?! He’d be like, “What’s this garbage?” and then go back to monitoring his stocks or maybe working on his Farmville. God, that would kill me! My big chance to get in good with Brad Pitt, and I blow it by forgetting how to be interesting thanks to one little spontaneous late-night domain registration.
All right, well, let me tell you about my day. Our friends Joel and Kate have four children, and all six of these people had yet to meet our child, so we all figured that was something that should change. I got up at 5:15 because Freddy had urinated in his undergarment and was bleating monosyllabically about it. It usually takes a minute or so upon awakening in this fashion for me to remember that A) I have a child and B) He doesn’t know how to use the toilet or make breakfast. Given that I’ve only recently “mastered” these procedures myself, it can often prove something of a challenge to perform them in a satisfactory matter for another human being, particularly one as loud and uncooperative as my son. But I get up and I do the things I gotta do, though not before resting my nose atop his groin (a handy olfactory test that probably won’t fly once he’s in school; I suppose I’ll just have to take him at his word at that point) and inhaling deeply to verify the presence of urine and/or feces. Cause if it doesn’t smell like anything, it’s snooze button city. But it always smells like something. My child has a smelly groin, Mr. Pitt; what can I tell you?
I hoist Freddy out of bed, and he responds per usual by throwing his head back and jutting his bottom out in a small and weird but mighty and effective-seeming stretch. He usually stops crying when you pick him up, which is nice because his crying is ear-splitting and mood-dampening, complexly so. It surprises you (well, I guess “startles” would really be a more accurate term…), then angers you, then makes you feel bad for getting angry, then makes you sad because you remember he can’t do anything and really needs your help, and you’re a dick, what the hell is the matter with you anyway, he’s just a baby, though I suppose in a way you’re not much more than a baby yourself, other than being able to take care of basic needs you’re every bit as helpless as he is, and why are you still sitting here giving yourself a complete psychiatric evaluation when your child needs food, what kind of selfish asshole puts their own mental wellness ahead of their baby’s hunger, you must really have a problem, maybe you should actually go to a doctor, oh yay my wife is taking care of the baby, back to Xbox! So in summation, yes, picking up the baby will stop the crying most of the time.
I take my soiled, ravenous son into “his” room, which is basically the room where we keep his changing table, my collection of RCA Selectavision videodiscs, and the printer/scanner that I don’t remember how to hook back up to the computer. I plop him down on the changing table, where he begins to make cute, spitty/grunty noises while kicking my arms and the wipes container. My son has enjoyed kicking me and things for as long as I can remember, which is to say last Thursday. He does not, however, enjoy having his clothing changed, although in the past couple weeks he’s gotten better about it, or maybe I’m just being more conscientious about not wrenching his head and limbs into the surprisingly unforgiving onesie holes. He doesn’t cry every time we change him now, and that’s good, because lately he’s been throwing up on himself with alarming frequency, so we’re spending more than our fair share of time at the changing table these days. But we’ve tried to make it comfy for him with blankets and a welcoming array of small stuffed animals, of which a frog is his clear favorite. Unfortunately said frog also makes a tinny “boy-oy-oy-yoing” noise that is no more pleasing to the ear than crying, but you have to punch it pretty hard in the ass to activate this sound effect, so it’s not really a prob.
The changing of the diaper is not a very difficult affair. Once the load in question has been sufficiently grimaced at and commented upon, you can typically wipe everything up as slick as you please and then go about your merry, newly shitless way. Certainly when you’re dealing with a male infant you’re constantly aware of the very real possibility of taking a searing shot of stinging, stinking liquid waste directly in the eye or mouth, but this heightened awareness mainly serves to speed the entire process up, so you’re done before you know it. Baby is clean and happy, and you look like a good daddy even though you’re an incompetent idiot who shouldn’t be entrusted with the well-being of a hamster. As it happens, I find that Frederick and myself enjoy each other’s company more during the diaper/clothing changing process than at most any other part of the day. He’s fresh and frisky, and I have a captive and reasonably receptive audience for my amateur beatboxing side-career. It’s symbiosis, and it’s all right in my book.
Then I grab a bottle, which my wife has been kind enough to prepare and place on the kitchen table before face-planting back into bed, and manage to make my way to the couch without dropping anything or anyone. I then negotiate a Boppy around my ever-increasing girth, nestle Freddy into the cushion, and present him with the nipple of his bottle, which he wastes no time in muckling onto. Suckling ensues. I try to remain awake during the feeding, but unfortunately a baby sucking a bottle is both uninteresting and lulling, not ideal qualities for events that take place before six AM. I fall asleep and he finishes his bottle, letting it drop into my lap or onto the floor before falling back asleep himself, where we remain until his mother wakes us up by crossly taking me to task for falling asleep mid-feed, an action I defend valiantly by immediately falling asleep again.
Mama showers. This would ordinarily be my cue to fire up the Netflix instant viewing on the aforementioned Xbox and queue up an episode of “Buck Rogers”, but due to a problem involving wires and God hating me the modem and the Xbox are not communicating. Prior to bathing, Mama has saved us by sticking a Futurama DVD into the player at my groggy behest, so we have something colorful and fun to keep us awake while I await my turn to have my morning toilet. Though like so many things it suffers from a lack of Erin Gray, “Futurama” is an excellent substitute for “Buck Rogers” as it essentially shares the same plot, the difference being that one laughs with “Futurama” and at “Buck Rogers”. But I don’t come here to malign Buck and his crew. Theirs is a very comforting hour of entertainment and I will be very sad when I have finished watching the few episodes that exist, even the ones with the retarded bird guy.
All right, here’s another picture of Erin Gray without Mr. Bird. Let’s cleanse our palettes.
Jeez, that picture is huge. I am going to have to wrap up this post for tonight, and I never even got past 6 AM in describing our day today! In the space taken up by that massive picture of Erin Gray, I could have easily fit three detailed paragraphs dedicated to Freddy’s car seat. Man, I gotta learn how to get to the point. This is just sad.
I promise to do a better job tomorrow! To be continued!