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As promised, an update proper. God knows when I'll finish this and have it ready for uploading—got the boy right down here in the dungeon beside me (his first visit with the Macintosh!) and Mommy's upstairs catching up on her sleepytime. So my attention is a bit divided right now and I hereby attribute all idiocies, misspellings, non sequiturs, and any other solecisms, blasphemies, misplaced modifiers, controversial political statements, insults, dalliances with younger White House interns, gastric accidents (mine and the boy's), etc., now, in the future...and, O, what the hey, the past, too...to the fact that the boy is distracting me.
Tough life, huh? I've got a beautiful, happy, content, smiling, cooing little boy distracting me all the time, drawing my attention away from things like bills, work, other people (whom the existentialists say are Hell, anyway), the Dow, the Tao, the dowel, the (Roald) Dahl, the Dow (Chemicals), the Mao, and Elsie (aka "L.C.") the library of congress cow. Pity poor me!
m: I want you to know that Ian just typed that "m" at the beginning of this sentence. Actually, he typed it in the middle of the paragraph I was writing above, maybe as a protest against my prolixity, maybe because he thought I was done, who knows? So I cut and pasted it at the beginning of this paragraph. But I assure you, it is the same "m". I felt it worked better at the start of a new paragraph, and they pay me to make these decisions and no prima donna poobert-come-lately is gonna override my editorial authority!
When I showed it to him, he loved it and agreed it worked better where I put it. I know my authors.
Hey, he's not even 4 months old—what? you're disappointed he couldn't do it all without a little editorial assistance?
I think he was about to write "my name is ian" but I noticed a perpending string of drool that was threatening to fall on my keyboard, so I stopped him after the "m" and said, "Hey! That's brilliant! But that's enough for today. Don't wanna burn yourself out."
Gotta know how to stroke the authors. They have such egos....It is brilliant, though. Where does he get these story ideas?
Soooooo...back to my own far less creative story.
(Yes, the source of the drool above was Ian's mouth, you wiseguys. I know what you were thinking.)
Ian arrived, on schedule, at Newark airport on Friday March 10th. There was another couple, whose name I can't remember (see Notar-dame story above, from January), who were there to pick up their little girl, who arrived on the same flight as Ian. A simply beautiful little girl, by the way. Both OC (that's the Other Couple, which is what I'll call them for short till I get a chance to ask the resident People Person what their names were) and Adrienne and I were overcome with emotion when we saw our babies.
Ian was wide-awake, alert, and a bit non-plused-looking: with his little Mohawk-looking hair, he looked for all the world like a little Brit punk-rocker who was about to say, "Right! Wot's all this, then?!" Since Adrienne and I were cagey enough to make the executive decision to go to the airport alone (we'd have needed a bus if we allowed everyone who wanted to go to accompany us), the only people we had to share Our Boy with was each other. OC brought a posse of at least 10 and, consequently, they were obliged to give up their beautiful little girl more often than I would have been willing to.
Everything went without a hitch. The greeters from Holt were extremely friendly people whose—say it with me, now—names I can't remember. They made the half hour or so wait for the plane very easy. They even offered to take our camera and get pix of all three of us (Ian, Adrienne and myself) so we could all be in the first pictures together. Very sweet, very kind souls.
Ian slept like a little darling in his car seat the whole time on the drive back to Bridgewater to the reception at Bob & Irene's house. (Adrienne drove. I got to sit in the back seat with the Boy and stare at him. Adrienne did a great job driving. I recommend her limo service heartily.)
He woke up for the reception the way (we were subsequently to find) he always wakes up: happy and ready for love.
Inside the house the cameras were goin', the flashbulbs were poppin', the people were talkin'—it wasn't even aimed at me and even I almost wanted to pull a Sean Penn on the paparazzi.
But everyone who wanted to had a chance to hold him and coo over him, and give him the love THAT IS HIS DUE!!
For someone who just got off a 22-hour flight and whose internal clock had to adjust to a 14-hour time-change, Ian was remarkably placid. Very late into the party, he had his only meltdown. When he started wailing, everyone at the party had advice:
"He's tired!"
"He's hungry!"
"He needs to burp!"
"He's lactose-intolerant!"
"He's upset over McCain's performance on Super Tuesday!"
"HE HATES BEING SURROUNDED BY ALL THESE LIBERALS!!!"
Turns out it was the McCain thing.
The transition to this new world prevented him from getting to sleep till 5am the next day. (Of course, he napped a few times at the party.) Adrienne was up with him from 1:30am on, till he fell asleep in her lap on the sofa at 5.
Since then, his sleep patterns have been very regular. He especially loves rides in the car, which, I understand, has been an inspirer of baby-somnolence from time immemorial. Which finally explains why Fred Flinstone even bothered with that car of his that ran on foot-power: he used it to get Pebbles to sleep—then he was just sucked in by the life-style. An age-old story; another mystery solved.
Of course, on Sunday both Adrienne & I got violently ill, as recounted above. Our main concern was always the Boy, though, and we look back on that ordeal now just happy to know Ian was spared. It's Thursday now, and Ian's been to the pediatrician (yesterday), and there are no signs of this flu in him, and we are pretty sure we weathered that particular threat without involving the Boy. (Got just about everyone else, though. Irene got it the day after saving us, but a far less virulent strain of it. As you can see, we no longer think it was food poisoning.)
All of this is about us, you say. What about the boy? OK, OK, then I will give you this:
I can't think of a more tender, somehow meaningful—ineffably so—moment than the 5 or so minutes during which your little boy struggles manfully to fight off sleep while you are holding him in your arms feeding him his bottle. The eyes droop; they get to half-mast; the sucking on the bottle slows, stops, starts again, stops again; the eyes pop open fully for a second or two as the struggle to remain conscious begins, but then they inevitably begin to droop again; they close to little slits; the sucking stops again; you try to remove the bottle, which only serves to remind him it's there and he sucks at it furiously, sucks it right back into his mouth, in fact—"Hey! I wasn't finished with that!"—then he stops again almost immediately. Eventually sleep wins, and his breathing becomes regular; he even makes little snoring noises; and this time there's no protest as you remove the nipple from his mouth. He's asleep, looking, somehow, impossibly, even more beautiful than he had before. I hope everyone gets to experience the feelings that accompany this routine at least once in his or her life. Adrienne & I get to experience it numerous times a day.
Here are a few photos. More to come as I scan 'em in.
People stop me on the street and say, "Tom, you've been parenting successfully now for nearly two weeks—how do you do it? What's your secret?"* Well, there is no secret and the answer is simple. The source of the answer is, of course, the same one that is the source of answers for all of life's more vexing questions: The Simpsons.
There is an episode in which Homer decides that his own Dad did not encourage him enough and was not there for him as a child. He determines not to make that same mistake with Bart, Lisa and Maggie and proceeds to get on their nerves royally by lavishing unwanted attention on them, until Bart is moved to remark:
"Dad, I preferred your half-assed under-parenting to your half-assed over-parenting."
To which Homer responds: "Ooooooooh!! But I was using my whole ass!
Let it never be said of Tom Gardner that he did not parent with his whole ass. And that's key. Use your whole ass. Don't skimp on the butt-grease.
It really is as simple as that. Sure, I coulda tried to spin this parenting philosophy out to book length and sold it to all you clueless parents out there; I coulda made tens—nay, twentys—of dollars (Canadian); I coulda hit the lecture circuit, pressed the flesh (no starch, please) of my adoring fans, enjoyed the ministrations of the many parenting-book-author groupies, but instead ...
Um...
...what was my point? More important, what was I thinking, giving this stuff, this gold, away?!
Contributions (e-cash only, please) can be sent to the Tom Gardner Whole-Earth, Whole-Ass Parenting Foundation.** Motto: "If Yer Not Bringin' Yer WHOLE Ass, Don't Bother Comin'."
**Contributions are tax-deductible if you get away with it.
Note: Adrienne uses her whole ass too, and when that happens, man, you got some serious parenting going on! I mean, come on! Take a look at what she gots to work with!
That is not actually Ian talking there. That is Adrienne's favorite Simpsons character, Ralph Wiggum, whom Adrienne loves because he has that great Diane-Keaton-hair thing going on. Of course, he doesn't wear his thin stringy hair as well as Diane Keaton does hers, but wannabes never quite attain the same level of greatness as those who inspire them (especially when the wannabe is a cartoon character).
I mean, the Monkees were great and everything, no one denies that—they changed the world and even got Pat Paulsen elected (his was the unacknowledged presidency between Johnson and Nixon)—but they were no Herman's Hermits. Who is? "Mrs. Brown, you've got a loverly daw-tah"—those words are truer today than they were back in the sixties. (And the Hermits've stayed true to 'em, too...which is more than you can say for the Monkees (when was the last time you saw Mickey Dolenz take the last train to Clarksville? Like, never, maybe?).)
In any case, you're probably asking yourself right now, why the ruse, Tom? Why imply that the "first words" are Ian's? (Note, I never actually say the advertised first words are Ian's (lie-to-word ratio, 1-to-3...well, actually, they aren't Ralph Wiggums' first words, either: lie-to-word ratio: 2-to-3).) To answer your (to be frank, pretty snotty) question (where do you get off, askin' me such a thing?): Well, I noted that the traffic to the web site has been slacking off a bit, so I thought you foax out there needed a bit of a goose to get the numbers up. (Every day, Ian's like "So what were the numbers today? Who's coming to read about me, and see how cute I am—and how often? Are we getting repeat business? Brand loyalty's what this is all about! When did you last update the site, ya lazy git?! You're not irreplaceable ya know, Gardner—there are plenty of hacks of your caliber out there in cyberia who'd be glad ta have this cushy gig, so get on the stick! We gotta EXPAND!! I WANT NUMBERS, DAMN YOU!!!" (these were his actual first words, not caught on tape though—what a slave-driver! But he looks so cute when he's chewing daddy out!))
So I resorted to lying...er, technically, misleading, a lesser crime, a venial as opposed to a mortal sin. But it's only because all of you have abandoned the BOY!! So, if you think about it (but not too hard, because what follows is a fallacy), it's really your fault, and, soft-touch, check-book liberals that you all are, I will here, once again, pitch you the non-profit group (it truly is non-profit: I have not made a dime from this scam yet), the Tom Gardner Whole-Earth, Whole-Ass Parenting Foundation., to which money can be sent in vast quantities to assuage your whimpy liberal guilt. (Motto: "We take coupons, too (because in Adrienne's hands, dey are better'n cash.)"
First trauma: The boy was given three shots yesterday; an assault team of two registered nurses grabbed him while we were at the doctor's, each taking one chunky thigh, and jabbed him simultaneously and injected him with health-giving fluids of some sort. The boy began to scream, so, to calm him, they gave him the third shot. (Memo to self: If jabbing Boy twice with sharp object causes him distress, remember: jabbing him third time will not, repeat: not, calm him. Who knew.) He screamed for maybe a minute total, then was good as gold (the Tom Gardner Whole-Earth, Whole-Ass Parenting Foundation accepts donations of gold, frankensense (and horse-sense)...but not myrrh. Who brings myrrh to a baby shower? The Wisemans, that's who—they give terrible gifts (apologies to Carol Ladman (I think)). They (the nurses, not the Wisemans) gave him a tetanus shot, to prevent lock-jaw so he wouldn't grow up to be William F. Buckley; a Rubella shot so he wouldn't grow up to own Studio 54; and a Diptheria shot, which I think (extrapolating from the name, here) prevents growing up to be a Dips**t (and/or William F. Buckley—apparently, the chances of growing up to be WFB are frighteningly high—why isn't there a foundation for this? In lieu of which, donations can be sent to the Tom Gardner...etc. Flogging a dead horse, here. ).
By this point, you've probably figgered out that when I refer to the "first trauma" above, I'm not referring to the Boy's—he was his usual happy self after a minute or two—I'm referring to my own—I'm still plotting a way to get back at those Navy Seal nurses for ganging up on my Boy!
Now some truth: Ian's weight, as of 3/29/00: 15lbs 15oz. We have started to add rice cereal to his formula because we want him to be known as Ian "The Kitchen Appliance" Gardner by the time he next goes to the doctor. Then...it'll be PAYBACK TIME for a couple of nurses we could name....(This time, it's PERSONAL!)
