Archive for the ‘Life of a Dad’ Category
From time to time I receive weird looks when I whip out Gavin’s bottle while we are our running errands. At first, I thought it might be because people don’t see Dad’s feeding their children all the time, but I quickly realized it was due to the fact that my boy is sporting his pretty pink bottle. Like any good baby situation, this one has a good story behind it:
When my wife gave birth to Gavin 11 months ago, as rookie parents you could say we were a bit in over our heads. I will never forget the first night home, when we were expecting to put Gavin in his bassinet, kiss him good night and see him 12 hours later. Boy were we wrong! It’s actually funny to look back at things now that we are 11 month ‘veterans’.
One of the first challenges to overcome was nursing. Like most babies, Gavin wasn’t so sure this was for him to begin with. So, one early morning Danielle was attempting to feed him and he wasn’t cooperating. Anyone who knows me can attest to the the fact that I am a ‘fixer’; I try to make bad situations better. In this case, I had the visions of Gavin not eating for days and crying for even longer. My solution was a late night trip to the store to get feeding supplies. Needless to say, there are not many stores open that sell baby supplies at this time of night. When I did find a store that was open and asked the nice gentleman who was waxing the floors what isle the baby food was in, it was a mad dash to buy anything I could get my hands on. Who knew there were so many different types of bottles, nipples, inserts, food, etc.!
As I should have known, by the time I got home, the situation was much better and Gavin had a full belly. The next morning Danielle and I had a good laugh when we looked at all the stuff I had purchased, including the 8 oz (it was almost as big as he was) pink bottle!
Let’s talk about sex.
Now that I have your attention, let’s actually talk about sex. Today is Valentine’s Day, a holiday I never fully appreciated until Finn Gunn was born. Most men—me included—tend to not think about Valentine’s Day until sometime between the final moments of the Super Bowl and, well, today. But ever since I was blessed with a beautiful baby boy, I’ve loved Valentine’s Day—I look forward to it for weeks in advance. Why? Because on Valentine’s Day there’s about an 85 percent chance I’m going to have some sex.
Don’t get me wrong, I have a pretty good sex life. But I’ll admit that I get nowhere near the same “action” that I used to. I’m a dad. My lover is my wife, and she’s a mom. ‘Nuff said.
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It was exactly 52 weeks ago—shortly after dinnertime on a chilly Sunday night in late December—that Penelope began to show signs that the birth of wee Finn Gunn was imminent.
I don’t subscribe to the notion that certain foods have magical, labor-inducing properties but if you’re really ready to pop, a big bucket of extra-crispy fried chicken with all the “fixins” did the trick for us. Of course, that was incredibly coincidental and entirely accidental.
Oh, and totally delectable, but I digress…
With a week still to go until our official “due date”—for me, that phrase should only apply to library books, not little babies—Penelope called out the words that will forever be cemented in my memory: “Ah, uh, honey… I, um… I think my water broke.”
I’m not sure how I did it, but I remained calm, walking (not running) into the room.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
I’m not sure how she did it, but Penelope also remained calm. “Fine, actually.”
After talking with the nurse assigned to our baby-catcher’s after-hours line, we came to the mutual conclusion that the very top of her bag had broken, but no contractions had begun. “Stay home,” she said. “Wait it out there,” she said.
Okay, cool… that’s easy for you to say, but we’ll do it.
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This time of year, the assignment foisted upon parents, grandparents, and all manner of friends is to find—and usually buy—gifts for the little ones. In the Wyllie household, it’s a little different.
For Penelope and me, occasions like Chanukah and Christmas have about the same emotional and spiritual gravitas as President’s Day. Sure, we’ll nod to the tradition of the giving season—after all, it’s become a force of nature in the American cultural consciousness—but we’re really gearing up to celebrate the day wee Finn Gunn was born.
For us, Chrismukkah will forever be prelude to the big event on December 29th.
While I have no interest in ending naked consumerism or object-based happiness, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the name of this website: “What every baby needs.”
More accurately, I’ve been thinking about the stuff that no baby needs.
For me, the thing that tops the list is pockets—especially pockets that have velcro, buttons, snaps, and zippers. I don’t know about your baby, but my son does not yet carry a wallet, keys, or a mobile phone. He doesn’t need 5.11 tactical pants for all his “gear.”
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What I don’t know could fill every seat in every stadium in the National Football League. Sorry for the sports analogy, but it’s a Sunday afternoon in late September (if you haven’t yet noticed, I write these posts on Sundays), so there’s a football game on my television at present.
Aside from a few little tidbits I’ve retained from the parenting magazines and books I’ve read in the past couple of years, I really don’t know much of anything—much less anything medical.
I know I don’t know much about children’s immunizations and vaccinations. In the “to-vaccinate or not to vaccinate” question lie terrifying terms like neuro-inflammation. Quite frankly, I haven’t a clue what that means, but it sounds pretty ominous.
What I do know is that a rather rancorous debate remains ongoing over whether certain vaccinations given to children can cause autism. You know it’s a “big deal” when the discussion on a subject involves a cadre of talking heads from the pharmaceuticals industry and a handful of Hollywood celebrities.
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Finn Gunn has been on his first airplane ride—actually, now he’s been on two. Our little family went on a weekend getaway and although we’d had some trepidation about being “those people” with the crying infant on board, he traveled like a seasoned road warrior in the million mile club.
We boarded early—this little perk was the first pleasant surprise of our trip—and sat in our seats immediately behind the bulkhead separating us from the rich people. 
Soon a parade of passengers passed. Side note: my son loves women (he gets this from his father, of course), so he flirted with every single woman who strode by, each one cooing and smiling back at him as he giggled and gurgled.
When the engines roared and the jet lurched forward, he had absolutely no anxiety. Who could be anxious after about three dozen pretty women have just smiled and blown kisses at you? But that’s not the reason he did so well.
I think he was so good during our flights because this wasn’t exactly our son’s first time flying.
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The Web site you’re presently on has some very cool things. I realize that statement might sound terribly commercial but I get to write about all sorts of poop on this blog, and well, this is what’s on my mind. 
You see, Penelope and I are going to Seattle to see some of our closest—well, obviously not geographically closest—friends to help celebrate their son’s first birthday. In advance of our trip, we recently spent some time in a big discount store trying to find a gift for little Jonah Bear.
Two words: terribly frustrating.
These stores serve a respectable purpose—various cleaning supplies, paper products, and other such staples are cheap and plentiful there—but if you’re looking for something special, you’re fishing the wrong river.
We arrived home empty-handed, so while my wife and son took an afternoon nap, I turned to the Internet and found the perfect gift. In about two minutes. About two clicks from the cyberspace on which you’re cyber-standing.
Because my friends might read this post, and because I want this little gift to remain a surprise for the remainder of the week, I won’t reveal the specifics of my selection. Suffice it to say it’s a toy.
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I’m moving at more than 550 miles per hour. According to the very cool touch-screen display integrated into the seat in front off me, I’m also 32,913 feet above the California-Nevada border. You see, I’m writing this blog post while en route to a law enforcement technology conference and trade show I’m attending for work.
I used to be a big fan of business travel—I’ve long had the goal of seeing all 50 states by the time I’m 50, and business travel is one of the ways I’ve been able to see so much of this great country.
But this is my first business trip since Finn Gunn was born and tonight will be the very first night that I will not kiss him goodnight. The mere contemplation of that reality is giving me a lump in my throat the size of a cantaloupe. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon and I just woke up. No, I’m not nursing an epic hangover—I’m smart.
I can tell you without equivocation that one of the most commonly discussed topics among new parents is sleep. Yes, we talk about poop, and yes, we talk about those little behavioral quirks.
“He gets that from you,” I say, when he makes his upside-down face and starts to cry.
“He gets that from you,” she replies, when he poops his pants.
Ha, ha, ha… pretty funny, honey. I love you though!
But every day—I’m not kidding, EVERY SINGLE DAY—we talk about sleep. More accurately, we talk about the lack of it. Example:
“Morning honey.”
“Morning.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Horrible. You?”
“Same.”
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A couple of weeks ago, Penelope and I added something new to the mix at the dinner table. We began to give Finn Gunn his first solid foods. This was no small event in our household—it was something for which we had a carefully-crafted plan.
Back when we were planning what to feed Finn (other than boob), we attended a class appropriately called, “Introducing Solids.” I’m a big fan of classes like this—we’re practically full-time students we’ve taken so many classes. When Penelope was pregnant, I took a class specifically for dads taught by Armin Brott, author of The Expectant Father, The New Father, and several other excellent books. I jokingly called it “Don’t Drop Your Baby 101” but the class was full of serious learning.
I don’t know why this surprised me, but for the entire duration of that half-day class about baby food I was the only new dad in a roomful of new moms. I make no judgment about this fact, but pass along to new dads this small piece of advice: when you’re asked to accompany your wife to a class like this, do it. You’ll learn a lot. As a bonus, you’ll be surrounded by women. I’m married—not stupid—and when given an opportunity to be surrounded by women, I try to take it.
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“I think he’s teething.”
The first time I heard my wife make that statement—she’s said it many, many times since—I was incredulous. Our son was not yet six weeks old.
Although I’m hopeful Finn Gunn will be an incredibly precocious young man—reading at a twelfth-grade level before he enters preschool, for example—I was not looking forward to the prospect of having a teething six-week-old baby. My wife was a little panicked. Okay, maybe more than a little panicked.
He couldn’t be teething so soon, could he? No, we agreed, not possible.
Sleepless and dubious, we turned to the Internet for answers and were horrified—according to some of the resources we found, our boy was definitely teething.
Low-grade fever? Check. Excessive drooling? Also check. Irritability, fussiness, and crying? Check, check, and check. Gads.
As it turns out, all that crying, irritability, interrupted sleep and what-have-you was due to the fact that he’s a baby. The more technical explanation—offered to us by our pediatrician about a week’s worth of Mondays later—is the so-called fourth trimester. According to her, this is a period of development that used to take place in the womb. Yes, apparently a yearlong gestation period was the norm before humans stood on two legs. Fascinating what you learn when you listen to an expert.
We learned that during the fourth trimester, it’s a good idea to do things that emulate the womb. Shushing, pulsing, and knocking sounds have a magical effect. Hair driers, fans, and other such machines are wonderful. Doesn’t necessarily keep him asleep, but those sounds sure do get him there. Movement is also important—this explains why every nursery I’ve ever seen has a rocking chair, and why I’ve heard (dozens of times) from my own parents that I was a sucker for a late-night care ride.
So over the course of the next few months we did a lot of experimenting; learning some of the best ways to soothe him. Sure, I had to deal with two months of waking up in the middle of the night, plopping our beautiful little man into his stroller, and carving ruts in the sidewalks of our neighborhood, but at least I knew what the heck was happening—the fourth trimester. At least it wasn’t the dreaded teething…
Well, now Finn Gunn is a little more than six months old, drooling, crying, and gnawing on everything he touches.
I think he’s teething.
In December 2008, Doug Wyllie became a first-time dad. A veteran of more than ten years in corporate communications and journalism, Doug was writing about streaming video before YouTube, digital music before Napster, and wireless technology since the original Palm Pilot debuted. Doug presently serves as the editor of PoliceOne writing on a broad range of topics and trends that affect public safety professionals. Here, Doug writes about all sorts of poop.
