A Post Supervised By Daddy

I think Mommy's been feeling a little under-appreciated lately.  She does a lot.  She feeds me, she talks to me, she plays with me, she calms me when I'm upset, she sings to me, she puts me to bed and gets up with me in the morning, she figures out what to feed me and when, she changes my diaper, she tells Daddy when to change my diaper.  And then she has this activity she calls her "day job", which I know nothing about because she doesn't take me there.  But that sounds like a lot of work too, whatever it is.  I'm exhausted just thinking about it.  But nobody ever thanks her, or helps her much.

Let me be clear: This is clearly not my fault.  It's Daddy's fault.  Surely Mommy doesn't expect me to say "Thank you" when I can't even say "mama" and "papa".  (Words ending in consonants are very difficult for children.)  She can't expect me to rub her back after a hard day, when I can't even sit up, let alone crawl.  Surely, not!!  And she can't expect me to change my own diaper.  Revolting!  Anathema!  Scourge!

Surely, it's Daddy's fault.  Daddy spends way too much time at his own "day job" outside the home.  Day job?  More like night job!  And then he comes home, and he wants to feed himself, rather than me.  How selfish!  Then he spends time doing this thing he calls "taxes" which he apparently had to do before April 15, for some business that doesn't even exist.  Sometimes I just don't understand Daddy.  Maybe he's playing make believe.

Sure, Daddy does fun things with me like roughhousing (my favorite is when he turns me upside down, after giving me "rock star" hair by pulling me across the couch so that my hair stands up on end.  This behavior is strictly forbidden by Mommy, but Daddy and I do it anyway, when Mommy's not looking.  Ssshhh!!), reading Walt Whitman to me (he's promised me Faulkner, but Mommy may not approve of that either, so we may have to do that when she's not looking, too), and Dr. Seuss, my other favorite.  That Dr. Seuss is so clever.

But Daddy doesn't always do things like remember when I need to sleep and eat.  (Sometimes even I forget!) And he asks a lot of questions.  That really gets Mommy.  "Which bottle do I use?  What's this orange stuff in the Tupperware?  Which one is our child?  (Just kidding.  Daddy could pick me out of a million because I look just like he did when he was a baby.)  And Daddy's not as good as Mommy at feeding me or dressing me for chilly weather (and we live in Chiberia!) or knowing when I want to eat something different.

I digress.  Bottom line, Mommy deserves some more help and appreciation.  So Daddy and I have decided to start helping more.  And appreciating more.  Consider Exhibit A.  I am sporting a body suit that amuses while at the same time conveying appreciation and recognition.  What better way to say, thank you, Mommy?  But that's not all.  Daddy and I have a whole month planned for Mommy, culminating in Mother's Day, where we'll truly show Mommy how much she's loved and appreciated.  Daddy calls it the "Month of Roxy" but I call it "Mommy Month".  I think my version is catchier, not to mention more alliterative.  Whatever you choose to call it, I can't wait!  I am sure there will be more pictures, so stay tuned.

A Riddle For You

Hello again, my friends. I have a riddle for you: Who has two legs he can't yet stand on, a soft, protruding, rotund belly, the cutest little butt you've ever seen, a double chin, pinch-able cheeks (which, unfortunately for him, always get pinched), piercing bright blue eyes, a button nose, and two bottom front teeth? Also, mommy is insisting that I add "man boobs" to the list, although I find this attribute to be crass, demeaning and completely inappropriate, and I'm only mentioning it to garner goodwill with mommy (I still rely on her for everything after all).

So have you guessed who I'm talking about? If you don't know the answer, you've officially lost the privilege to continue reading my blog. Kindly close out of this window and never return here again.

For all those remaining, you've guessed correctly. It's me. And yes, you read the part about the two front teeth correctly. I sprouted my first two teeth last week (April 1 and April 4 to be exact). You'll notice I'm embracing the shift in parlance from the use of the verb "cut" to the use of the verb "sprout" when referring to babies growing teeth. The former connotes darkness and pain while the latter connotes brightness and new beginnings. I prefer brightness to darkness any day. Teething wasn't a very arduous process for me. I let out a few cries in my sleep for a couple of nights (according to mommy), and then the first tooth appeared. After the first tooth, the second was no big deal.

And it's only fitting that my teeth "sprouted" just as spring has arrived in Chicago. The last bits of snow have finally melted, the city has thawed, the sun has again decided to grace us with its presence and the people have awoken from hibernation.

The strollers are once again out on the city sidewalks, and my stroller is no exception. Mommy and daddy have taken me on a couple of nice expeditions about town lately. Last weekend, they took me to the park near our home and put me in the bucket swings. See video below (and please excuse mommy's shrill voice speaking rudimentary nonesense to me in the background; she often forgets that I am a mature, intelligent human being). I must say, it was a curious sensation, flying through the air in that tiny and seemingly precarious contraption. I was half-amused, half-terrified. The jury is still out on the appeal of the bucket swings, but it was an interesting experience all the same.

Until next time,

WFT