My son, the Jalopy
You read books. You see movies. You know going in: babies cry.
I was prepared for this, and yet, it seems to take a lot for our son to get to the point of tears. A lot of this is certainly due to the fact that he is doted on and extremely well taken care of and has lots of shiny objects (read: pet tags) to keep him occupied.
But even in the middle of the night, if he wakes up in his cradle, he doesn't get us up with a blood-curdling scream -- rather, he sputters. And spits. And coos. And revs. Like he's cranking up a 1914 Ford Model T. It's the baby equivalent of "ahem."
I'm glad that he is comfortable enough with me that I can soothe him from time to time and not automatically have to hand him over to She With Bosom. Sunday, while my wife was in the shower before bed, Ryan started to Spitfire himself back awake again, legs kicking, arms flailing, trying to get that engine started. I threw my legs over the side of the bed, ready to lean over and pick him up, but as soon as he saw me, he immediately stopped gyrating, his eyes fluttered, and he fell to sleep. I have NO idea what I did, but it was a great feeling.
Which was the exact opposite of the feeling I had when I was carrying him around the living room during the Redskins-Seahawks game and our defense let an easy tackle on 3rd and 5 slip through their hands. I didn't exactly yell, but let forth a sudden, low-pitched exclamation that scared the beehaysoos out of my son. Arms and legs kicked out like a starfish, and a low, slow cry began...followed by that deadly silence that signals that he'd just ran out of breath and boy, wait until he gets his next one and...yes...there it is...
"What happened?" calls my wife from upstairs.
"The Seahawks just got a first down and Ryan's very upset about it."
I was prepared for this, and yet, it seems to take a lot for our son to get to the point of tears. A lot of this is certainly due to the fact that he is doted on and extremely well taken care of and has lots of shiny objects (read: pet tags) to keep him occupied.
But even in the middle of the night, if he wakes up in his cradle, he doesn't get us up with a blood-curdling scream -- rather, he sputters. And spits. And coos. And revs. Like he's cranking up a 1914 Ford Model T. It's the baby equivalent of "ahem."
I'm glad that he is comfortable enough with me that I can soothe him from time to time and not automatically have to hand him over to She With Bosom. Sunday, while my wife was in the shower before bed, Ryan started to Spitfire himself back awake again, legs kicking, arms flailing, trying to get that engine started. I threw my legs over the side of the bed, ready to lean over and pick him up, but as soon as he saw me, he immediately stopped gyrating, his eyes fluttered, and he fell to sleep. I have NO idea what I did, but it was a great feeling.
Which was the exact opposite of the feeling I had when I was carrying him around the living room during the Redskins-Seahawks game and our defense let an easy tackle on 3rd and 5 slip through their hands. I didn't exactly yell, but let forth a sudden, low-pitched exclamation that scared the beehaysoos out of my son. Arms and legs kicked out like a starfish, and a low, slow cry began...followed by that deadly silence that signals that he'd just ran out of breath and boy, wait until he gets his next one and...yes...there it is...
"What happened?" calls my wife from upstairs.
"The Seahawks just got a first down and Ryan's very upset about it."
posted by Dan at 10:12 PM
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