Wallet Rash

So I bought my first box of diapers today. Allow me to set the scene.

It was a warm Wednesday. Actually, it was pretty dang hot. So much for the amazing alliteration. The sun beat down on the asphalt as I approached the finest diaper retailing establishment in all of Orange County - Wal-Mart. As I walked, I unrolled the parchment given to me by my wife containing the list of our shopping necessities, stumbling as the other end hit my feet and rolled along ahead of me. I bent down and scooped it up in my arms, as portions of it cascaded over my arms like waterfalls. I peered over the top of the papery mound, found a shopping cart, and threw it in.

I looked at the first item on the list - milk, and went to the food aisles. Two aisles and just as many minutes later, I had already found 75% of what was on the list, and I wondered to myself how much time I've wasted in my life walking through endless aisles in other supermarkets, when Wal-Mart has everything I could possibly need condensed down to a handful of conveniently placed aisles. Where else can you find hot dogs, cheese, cheerios, butter, yogurt, turkey, and milk all within five feet of each other? Nowhere! I'd have to traverse half a mile through twenty different aisles to find all of those items in a normal supermarket. But I also get lost easily, so you might have an easier time of it.

Fortunately, I knew exactly where the baby section was at Wal-Mart, so after surreptitiously ditching the list ("clean-up in aisles six, seven, and eight!"), I sped over to the far end of the store. I say sped, because people in Wal-Mart drive their carts like chickens with their heads cut off. So I Mosey my way through the store as if the other shoppers are the Red Sea, parting dawdling geriatrics ("I spilled my pills!") and hesitant Asian onlookers ("That not very rice!") all the same, while moving faster than either the former or the latter drive their automobiles. I am a non-discriminatory cart driver. I will mow down anyone in my way, regardless of race, gender, weight, handicap, lack of acceptable velocity, personal scent, or inability to be aware of one's surroundings.

I arrived at the baby section, fanning my face as the clouds of burning tile dispersed. I found the shelves of diapers, and peered at the price tags. Now, I've heard what people say about how expensive diapers are, what with the diamond studded eyes of Grover and the gold lined feathers of Big Bird. But I had never physically stood in a diaper aisle and basked in its depressing reality. I nearly had a Fred Sanford heart attack! $19 for 84 diapers? I'm comin', Elizabeth!

I wondered to myself how much that costs per diaper, so I did the mental math, and came up with the answer on the spot: it's freaking expensive! Then I came home and did the actual math on a calculator: nearly 23 cents a diaper! You've heard of the expression being eaten out of house and home? Well, our daughter (aka the Diaper Defiler) could quite possibly cause us to be the first people able to claim the honor of being peed and pooped out of house and home.

Of course, knowing her, 23 cents a diaper is a small price to pay for...security.

This Daddy Business is Getting Interesting

So I thought that yesterday's blog post would be a fun look at an isolated and unique event that happened twice and would by no means ever be repeated again, especially not later in the day yesterday or today.

How naive of me. Emily proceeded to test the limits of her internal plumbing even further, uncorking two more diaper-filling toots yesterday. And then today, she just kept going! This isn't supposed to happen, is it?!?! For the first few days, diaper changes were not something I approached in fear of what I would uncover. A pee-kissed diaper is a joy to change. A poop-smothered diaper is another story.

So when Emily was lying on my chest this morning, and I felt the jacuzzi jets being turned on and heard the F-18 jet engines rumbling, I knew what awaited me at the ceremonial changing table. I would perform the ritualistic rites of removing the only barrier between me and a delayed backfiring.

Emily has been tipping her hand so to speak lately. She will occasionally put both of her hands together and rub them as if plotting some sinister plan. She started doing that shortly before the first of her monster poops yesterday, and she did it earlier this morning too, so as you might imagine, my mental guard was up. Too bad that doesn't actually protect me from anything...

So I set her on the changing table, still fully clothed. I looked her in the eye, and tried to read her. And what did she do? She gave me the old squinty eye, and then rubbed her hands together.

"Oh crap," I think, literally.

I began to weigh my options. I could let her lie there for a couple minutes and see how long she could hold in her bluff, or just charge in and get it over with as soon as possible. I chose to stare at her for a couple of minutes - something Erica and I have turned into a legitimate hobby. Eventually, my wife gently coaxed me into changing her diaper ("hurry up and do it or I'll rub your nose in it"). I was fortunate in hindsight, because Emily didn't have any ammo with which to reload, so I was able to change her safely without being treated to any additional impressions of Kermit the Frog with bad indigestion, or a duck trying to gargle salt water.

As I finish writing this, one week ago at this time, Erica was just going into serious labor. I can't believe time has passed this quickly. It's funny how I'm doing practically nothing by my usual standards - just sitting around the house, eating, sleeping, etc... - and normally this would make me feel unproductive and antsy, like I'm wasting my time. But now I just watch my baby girl sleep, or kiss her cheek, or hold her and let her head rest on my shoulder, and I feel like I've made the most of my time that I possibly could. There isn't anything more important or productive or beneficial that I could be doing.

It's amazing how things change.

Being stared at...


Snoozin' with Emily


The turtles just make it that much cuter

Little Emily Ruth Is Here!

Five days old, and already she's bested her dad in cuteness, sociability, and sheer farting prowess, with many more categories to follow, I'm sure.

Her birth was amazing. All three of us couldn't have prayed for a better one. Erica went into serious labor (contractions 1 minute apart) at 10:20 pm Saturday night. Her water broke at 12:30 am Sunday morning. Intense labor followed - I'll leave it up to the imagination save for the fact that it's very hard for a husband to see his wife go through that kind of pain. Fortunately Cybil our doula was instrumental in helping us both through the labor.

She labored at home until 6:10 am, when we went to get in the car. Erica practically ran down the stairs, she couldn't wait to get to the tub. We arrived at the birth center; she was 10 cm and ready to push, so she hopped in the tub and started pushing at 6:35 am. Two hours later, I helped catch our little girl's body as she left mommy's womb and placed her in her mommy's waiting arms. Everyone was healthy, happy, and alert for our first moment as a family together.

Later, I cut the cord - after being reassured that this wouldn't hurt her at all. They gave me this tiny area to cut, right between two clamps. I felt a little like a mayor at the grand opening of a supermarket.

Emily weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces, measured 20.5 inches, and looked like a doll. Yes, she was cute too, but a few times she was lying down and I came in from another room and saw her, and it took me a moment to realize I was looking at my daughter and not a plastic doll. Man, are they tiny!

Fast forward five days, and here we are now. We've been adjusting to her schedule of sleeping, eating, crying, and being utterly fascinated with the world. And yes, she just started to make some big girl poops today. The first one took us by surprise at the diaper change. Until this point, her poops had been very proper - runny yet well contained within her diaper, and appearing as a mild yellowish-brown color. In fact, most of the time we couldn't tell the difference between her pee and her poops save for the location inside the diaper.

However, we smelled something malodorous this morning, and mentally prepared ourselves to receive our daughter's first generous gift for us upon opening her diaper. It looked like ground beef that had been finely whipped into a paste form, something you might get if Cheez-Whiz was in the can-dispensed beefery business. Several baby wipes later, we laid a new diaper down for her, and started to put it on her, only to have her show us first hand that all facets of her plumbing did indeed work.

Another wipe and dry diaper later, and she was all fixed up. A few hours later, all three of us were in the living room. Emily was lying on Erica's lap on one couch, and I was on the other couch. Suddenly, we heard the 2 o' clock train toot its horn, announcing its arrival in town. It took me a second to realize, however, that the nearest train tracks were miles away. I looked at what could have been the only possible source for that caliber of noise. Of course, she denied it and blamed it on the baby, but I still had my doubts, not knowing whether a five day old body could be capable of such violent flatulence.

We took her into the changing room, and sure enough, the bomb had been dropped. I tell you, Japan had it easy. The effect was reminiscent of placing a can of brown paint into a cannon, placing the cannon inches away from a wall, and firing. Of course, with that example, you lose the clarity of texture and consistency, but hopefully you get the picture.

Yeah, she's an amazing baby. I'm sure many parents wonder if their kids will follow in their footsteps. Five days old, and mine already has. And I couldn't be prouder.

Watching closely, taking her notes...


Who, me?


Go ahead, make a crack, I'll clobber ya'


Here's the happy family