After all, from their perspective they already have a relatively effective means of conveying their plight, falling back upon the singular universal sign of “somethin’ ain’t right,” the infant wail. This piercing cry lasts for many a year, and still serves as an effective means of dragging me out of bed in dazed slumber to hand my 16 month-old daughter the pacifier from the pile she was sleeping next to.

I sometimes think it’s pretty arrogant of us adults to expect our children to adapt their standard modes of communication to our complicated and occasionally nonsensical spoken language system. It seems to me that our kids have a very good system working for them – just think, if rather than threatening speeches and insinuated nuclear buildups, upset nations simply took the airwaves and just wailed and wailed. Wouldn’t the world eventually come to their aid just to bring back some damn silence so I could get back to sleep because I have a very long day tomorrow? Or rather than making humanitarian appeals through the Red Cross or other charitable agencies in an attempt to gain world sympathy, ailing nations could just crap their diapers so the world would have to clean it up just to avoid the smell?

And this isn’t to suggest that children don’t attempt to meet us halfway and provide different ways to communicate non-verbally. At first we are delighted when they begin to point at things, only to discover that our initial enthusiasm at their newfound ability to dictate what they want wanes considerably when they fall back on the wail when we don’t retrieve whatever it was they were pointing at. And in some rare cases, I’ve heard this leads also led to a different sort of hand gesture.

In any case, our daughter was a firm believer in the infant communi-cause, a freedom fighter as it were, standing resolutely on the battlefield as her comrades around her slowly but surely succumbed to our adult language assault. Oh sure, she gave some false indications of surrender, uttering a “da-da” here and “bitty-bat” there, but I knew she was just manipulating us. And yet, with a single two-letter word hurriedly unleashed in moment of brilliant recognition a few weeks ago, my daughter took her first step across the dividing line and planted her size 4 foot firmly on the soil of adult communication.

“Up.”

And for us, it was a the first triumph in what will be our ultimate victory, her assimilation into the ranks of the verbal communicators. One day, I hope, she too will wage this battle with her children, a war all of us have fought and lost to to adulthood.

Except Fallout Boy – I still have no idea what they are saying most of the time.

View the birthday photo gallery…

It’s hard to believe that it was nearly three weeks ago that we held our daughter’s first birthday/Tupperware extravaganza in our backyard.  Our house is still littered with the remnants of the affair, with decorations gathering dust where they were hastily tossed, balloons hanging lazily as their nitrous slowly dissipates, and the pony still occasionally pawing at the garage door in hopes we might feed it after we locked it in there those many weeks ago.  But, I’m happy to report that the fiesta was a huge success, bringing together friends and family alike to share in the celebration of Justine’s happy milestone.

I’ve previously discussed the thought process behind our party planning, especially in light of the fact that our little one will have zero recollection of the day.  Consequently, preparations for the big day weren’t overly hectic or dramatic as we have experienced with other planned affairs. (the wedding, for example, or my annual Arbor Day Bonfire and Kegfest)  Most of the work involved the guillotining of a garden’s worth of veggies, and of course frantically jamming our daily life into closets to give the appearance that we don’t live in a cluttered nightmare of useless junk. But  I have to say that the highlight for me was getting the opportunity to take apart one of those human leg-sized pork loins from Sam’s Club and jamming the pieces into 3 crockpots full of the cheapest barbecue sauce we could find.  Incidentally, the house still reeks like a Louisiana smokehouse.

The day dawned and we were up early getting everything set.  All of our parents came from far and wide to help us with everything, from managing the food, to helping decorate, and above all entertaining the guest of honor who clearly had no conception of the whirlwind going on around her as everything was being situated.  Guests began arriving soon after, and we had a wonderful turnout of friends who dropped by to mooch off our free food, comb through our medicine cabinet, and at least toss a ‘happy birthday’ in Justine’s general direction while dropping off most likely wrapped but empty cardboard boxes.  We had the usual party elements, with a decent spread of food, coolers full of soda, an array of toys available for the kids (including a water table and a kiddie pool full of plastic balls which we had to keep shooing the parents out of) and of course cougar vs. jaguar cage matches.

The highlight of the entire affair (for me at least) was the cake.  A family friend (Jennifer) , with some “help” from my wife, crafted an amazing “Ace of Cakes-esque” birthday cake that matched our “baby block” theme.  Before everyone could dig into it, we presented to our little Justine (firmly strapped into her decorated high chair) her own tiny block shaped cake.  It took some prodding, but she eventually tore into it, shoving gobs of the sticky cake/fondant into her hair, down her dress, up her nose, and occasionally in her mouth.  This was her first real taste of anything cake-like, and as expected, she was bouncing off the walls for hours afterward.

Thankfully, the shaky weather forecast held, and only as the last guests were leaving, pilfered rolls of toilet paper shoved down their pant legs and expired amoxycillin prescriptions tucked away in purses, did the expected downpour begin.  We were left to drain the crockpots, attempt to stuff the fridge with the leftovers, and perform the ritual ‘gift-assembly’ that always seems to follow the large-scale baby/infant gift-giving bonanzas.

All in all, it was an amazing day and one that we will treasure for years to come.  Except for Justine of course, who will someday look at the pictures and more than likely accuse us of stealing some other kids party pictures and photoshopping her into them.  Actually, that is not a terrible idea…

- MWF -

Thus for the past three months, my wife has been mired in developing every detail of Justine’s first major celebration, trying to pin down everything from the date and guest list to the desired ripeness of the cantaloupe in the fruit salad.  All decisions stem from the theme though, and most of the admittedly one-sided conversations about the party over the weeks were trying to figure out what it would be.  The original thought was Baby Einstein, but then swung wildly to a Swine Flu Pig Roast, then a Cutco Knives Party, before finally landing on the baby block theme that we ended up going with.  With that decided, all efforts went full bore into picking up anything cubed, from balloons with blocks on them, a cake made of fondant blocks, and my contribution, hundreds of pounds of cubed beef.

It’s astonishing to me that newly minted parents (myself included) spend such inordinate amounts of time and energy crafting memories for children whose age is expressed in months and not years. I must admit there were times of the past few weeks where I pondered whether we were going way overboard, or whether the whole festive nightmare was even necessary, considering her only memories of it will be through pictures, video, and mental images retrieved through intensive hypnotherapy.

To be fair to my wife though, after some surreptitious research in the dark corners of the Internet where Moms congregate to discuss motherhood, TLC, and fatherly ineptitude, our shindig falls on the milder side of first birthday parties.  After all, we  only ordered a single bust of Justine’s head carved in ice, rather than the 3 or 4 that some of these crazies get.  And no over-the-top pony rides for us – we’re just putting a saddle on a neighbors Mastiff and letting the kids take turns herding our cats around the backyard.

The party is tomorrow and is the culmination of several weeks of shopping, baking, arc welding and arts and crafts.  My wife and I are beyond exhausted, and there is still much to do before the big event.  But it will all be worth it for the smile on her face as she excitedly tears open her gifts and tosses them aside to play with the wrapping paper, grabs handfuls of the elaborate cake and smears them all over her expensive dress without tasting it, and then finally passes out in a fit of over-tiredness after throwing a magnitude 7 temper tantrum in front of our horrified guests.

Honestly though, we can’t wait.  It’s going to be memorable.  For us at least.

- MWF -

I started this blog over a year and a half ago to serve as a way to help me chronicle our first pregnancy and to provide my wife with material evidence for the judge should our marriage ever go awry.  I invited some of you along for the ride from the very beginning, in some ways to allow for a quick answer to the omnipresent “how’s pregnant life” but also to let you share in such an amazing and bizarre time in our lives. Others came on board as I tried to spin my tales out to a wider audience, and the latest crop of you probably found me through my connections and column over at Dad Blogs.

Regardless of who you are and where you came from, a big THANK YOU for following along.  It’s always nice to know that someone appreciates the time and effort I put into taking the random and nonsensical thoughts in my brain and trying to convey them in a way that is at best humorous, and at least coherent.  The blog has gone in ebbs and flows, but I think I’ve finally found some firm footing and it’s become a great source of amusement as well as a creative outlet for me.

In honor of this small milestone, and as the equivalent of  a classic sit-com “clip show,” I’ve compiled a short list of my favorite posts over the last 20 months.  If you are relatively new to my blog, these are a great place to start…

I Want To Be a Part of It, Newark, Newark? – Just a few months into the pregnancy and we get to discover the night life at the Newark Airport, and the “interesting” overnight bag they supply you with.

A Baby Story: Part One -  The day everything changed.

Under the Boardwalk, Down By The Sea – The classic family vacation, suddenly beset by rampant and bountiful children.

Beware the Finger of Destiny – Some wives knit, some play paintball.  My wife spends her days with a finger up my kid’s nose.

I Think She Has My Nose? – How often can you compare your kid’s appearance to a long extinct reptile and be kinda right?

A Ride on the Comet -  My wife will tell you this was one of the funniest moments of our first year of parenthood.  I was less enthused.

Upon the Bedpost She Watches – A poignant look inside the mind of a cat displaced by a fussy baby.

Curious George and the Trip Home – How those familiar characters really interact, at least in my mind.

I keep a running tally of my best work under “Featured Posts” over there on the right – if you have any favorites that you think I should add, please don’t be shy…

—-

Again, a big thanks to everyone that has graced these pages with their eyeballs, if only to determine that I am still alive and therefore still on the hook for the money that I owe.  (For those folks, I seriously did send the check.  Seriously)  If you have any suggestions, requests, demands, or just regular old comments for the blog, please don’t hesitate to let me know – I can only guess what all of you are thinking, and I usually guess wrong.  Ask my wife.

Check back soon for the continuing adventures of me, my wife, and our little Justine.  And cats.  And rabbit.  And all  the inanimate objects that always have a voice here…

Here I sit, suddenly finding myself relegated  to the basement, spilling my tale of woe to any that will listen.  I used to be one of the most vital tools in this family’s arsenal of infant management, a paragon of safety and comfort that provided joy and security to everyone involved.  Now instead, I’m perched atop a forgotten futon, a relic of a bygone era.  For you see, I was once an irreplaceable and mighty infant car seat.

I was unboxed and assembled with great excitement by expectant parents anxiously awaiting their offspring.  I remember fondly the day I was installed, the taller one jamming his knee into my stomach to strap me tightly into the car.  I also recall with less fondness when the uniformed fellow unlatched me, and then crushed my soul with his body to secure me to the seat. How I endlessly practiced for my approaching duties, suffering through a deluge of sleeping cats, folded wash, and Heineken mini-kegs perched in my rugged seat.

And then my personal Superbowl arrived, and I was brought into the hospital room, which reeked of c-section bandages and new parent sweat.  I was treated with the same high respect as the mighty crib, or the magical Diaper Genie (who eats the foul droppings of the child) as I was prepped for duty.  Then I embraced the trembling bag of flesh that was laid into me, and felt for the first time my purpose in life.  I was the Secret Service of baby care, willing to sacrifice my molded plastic to protect the life of this small bundle of life.

The months flew by as my Justine grew steadily, filling up more and more of my ample space, straining my five point harness to it’s Consumer Reports tested limits.  I endured long trips, fierce temper tantrums, drool soakings, and the occasional spit up without complaint.  I served as carrier in the car, and often mobile sleeping platform in the house.  It was a purposeful existence, and with all the downtime I was able to pursue my interest in fruit conveyance – I recently received my University of Phoenix Online degree and am now also certified as a fruit basket.

But alas it was with horror that I was ripped from my seat of honor this past weekend, set aside and forced to watch as my successor was put in place.  Oh, they’ll tell you, I was getting too small for their darling child, wasn’t as comfortable, didn’t let her see out the window while they were driving.  How I seethed as the snooty Britax Marathon was brought out, who sneered in my general direction as they belted it in, adjusted its “fancy pants” reclining seat and easy to snap LATCH connectors.  He gave a final snort in my direction as I was roughly taken inside and thrown here, in the basement, swept to the dustbin of antiquated baby stuff, lodged between the Snap and Go and the bassinet.

They’ll be back for me, someday.  Until then I’ll wait, and try to ignore the bassinet who is endlessly prattling on about how important he used to be, and instead try to make friends with the old blanket from college that doesn’t get used anymore but is too nostalgic to throw away.  That guy knows how to party.

- MWF -

When you first bring home your newly minted tax deduction from the hospital, there is generally only one predominant noise that emanates from them, which academics probably refer to as “infant oral status notifications” but the rest of us refer to as “baby screeches.”  As time goes on however,   they begin to unleash a variety of noises, including adorable coos, occasional laughs, and the omnipresent poop grunt.  Eventually they start to realize that these hilarious sounds are coming from them, and that they can deliver them at will, much to everyone’s initial delight and later chagrin.

We are currently in the midst of the babble stage, in which our daughter, often for hours on end, delivers various diatribes about her life in mono-syllables, usually accompanied with wide eyes and arm flailing.  It’s not unlike some of the people that stand on street corners loudly shouting to no one in particular about their various causes, such as the world’s imminent end, the war in Iraq, or the devastating price of Black Diamond Aged Cheddar at Wegman’s.  The only difference in this case being that I attempt to understand and react to her rants instead of trying to run her down with my car (except the cheese guy – he’s good for America).

I always wonder if “the babbles” is actually not random utterances of Justine testing out her vocal cords with no particular message in mind, but rather complicated statements that are stuck in her brain but her mouth can’t figure out how to get out in the same way that we non-diaper wearing folks can.  After all, I assume with 10 months under her belt, she’d have a number of cogent opinions about topics of the house – optimal height settings for the activity table, whether cats as a species are really planning a massive overthrow of their human captors, whether the stated capacity of her diaper was clinically tested or just a “best guess,” etc.

Maybe those random “words” that come out of her mouth  do have some meaning – even something as simple as “Babababa,” which she is always drolling on about.   Some have suggested to me that this is her way of articulating “bottle.”   I suppose – but that’s a reasonably shallow conclusion.  After all, couldn’t she also be referring to famed Avatar of the Age Mehar Baba?  Or Babar the elephant?  I mean, what if she’s actually just issuing an esoteric warning, referring to the Who’s Baba O’Reilly which is used as the theme song for CSI:NY starring Gary Sinise who was in Forrest Gump which spent a good deal of time on shrimp, a shellfish that a good number of folks, babies included, are deathly allergic to?  Can we say for certain that is not the case?

Regardless of present circumstances, I assume the march forward of time will see her slowly begin to coalesce the random word fragments into coherent thoughts, then sentences, then lengthy soliloquies and finally “Monk” style summations. By then she’ll not only be able to TALK, but have the capacity and mental fitness to TALK BACK.

And I’m not looking forward for what went around with me as a kid to come back around to me as a parent.

- MWF -

In any case, those words seem apropos because our little Justine, seemingly out of the clear blue sky, delighted us with some sporadic hand to hand combat.  It was Easter morning, and Kim was preparing a monstrous feast, while I was once again whittling away my youth and intelligence trolling the Internet looking for clues on the Smoke Monster and why exactly New Kids on the Block thought a reunion tour was a good idea.  Justine was wandering about, picking up things, tasting them, and then throwing them aside.  Kim came out of the kitchen briefly, declaring that we needed “tunes” and turned on some Dave Matthews Band. Shortly after we watched as Justine suddenly started clapping her hands together.

Now I don’t want to suggest here that Dave Matthews may have “magical powers,” (magical plants is another matter entirely) but if he can cause children to spontaneously make developmental leaps, I bet his album sales would double.  Will this lead to a spate of newborns rocking out to “Crash into Me” or falling asleep to “Satellite?”  I would stake my reputation on it.

Honestly thought, in the days that have followed, Justine has gotten a little more regular with her clapping, and a pattern has emerged that actually throws the DMB theory into doubt.  For a long time now, one of the games we try to play with her is the classic “Catch,” which in normal human terms involves two people tossing a ball back and forth in the air, but in our variety involves her picking up the ball, raising it over her head and letting it fall to floor.  We respond by grabbing the ball (“catching” in the parlance) and reacting with the standard parental uber-excitement of shouting “yaaaay” and clapping our hands.  In watching her play by herself in the last couple of days, she’s followed a similar pattern (sans us of course).  she picks up a ball, brings it over her head, drops it, then shouts and claps her hands.

There you have it folks, the gentle beginnings of parental mimicry.  Frankly, this is as exciting as when the monkey touched the Monolith and then picked up the bone in 2001…