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  • On Recidivist Procreation

    Brian Braiker | May 5, 2008 03:02 PM
    We have a few friends whom we know because they had their first kid around the same time we had our first kid. We met through a neighborhood "new mommy" list that my normally misanthropic bride signed up for about three years ago. Turns out to have been a good move—the people we met are fantastically wonderful and, now, three years into parenthood, our only social acquaintances. It's amazing how one's social life reorganizes itself around one's proclivity to spawn. The frequency with which I carouse with single friends has greatly diminished over the past 36 months. So, too, has the frequency with which I drink to excess (somewhere other than my kitchen/office/crawlspace), pass out and urinate on friends' couches, fornicate with dudes/goats, and generally ever see single friends other than over lunch or because they're my colleagues whose mere existence mocks my life.

    Well! Now, just like us, our baby-friends are beginning to spawn anew. In fact. we're not even the first! We have one friend who had baby numero dos just two months ago (on Valentine's Day! awwww, sweetness!). Another good friend delivered her second boy just after that. We have a third friend whose first child was born within a couple months of our first child, late spring 2005. They had child number two ... a year ago. Meaning they had a baby when their first unable-to-rationalize/cope child was barely (not even?!) two.

    We, as you may know, are expecting Child 2.0 sometime between five minutes and eight weeks from now. I, being journalistically inclined, did some cursory interviewing of these fascinating Recidivist Procreators. Here are some of the pearls of wisdom I have recently picked up:

    1) "I always thought having a second baby would make life marginally harder. I mean, we've done this before, right? Yeah, well, it doesn't make just a little bit harder. It makes them exponentially harder. It makes life freakishly more difficult."

    2) "Will you please fake my death so I can come live in your crawlspace? All I want is sleep."

    3) "I couldn't find the baby's shoes this week and my wife was at work but she wasn't answering her phone and so I got really pissed ... and I sort of kicked my bedroom door down."

    4) "Well. It's been a year now and I feel like I am just becoming human again. Sorry for falling asleep in the middle of that sentence."

    5) "You know how, ever since you had your baby, you look at people with no kids and you hate them? You hate them because they can go out to dinner at any time; you hate them because they get to see movies; you hate them because they stay up past 11 and they still complain about their meaningless little lives. Right? Well when you have two kids, you hate people who have only one kid. You despise them. They have no idea how easy they've got it."

    And so in conclusion: dear readers ... please fake my death so I can come live in your crawlspace. I promise the sound of my weeping won't disturb you too much.
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  • What's in a Name? I am Glad You Asked!

    Brian Braiker | Apr 16, 2008 02:53 PM

     

    We've mentioned 'round these parts before: the bride, she is all gestational once again. As usually happens when the womenfolk start makin' babies, the conversation has been known to turn toward the topic of names. As in: What in Tarnation are We Gonna Call the Unborn? Now, more or less, we have come to an agreement (thank goodness we aren't having a boy because there was No Agreeing on the topic of appellations for the phallically endowed). We have chosen a name. I should amend that: my babymama has strongly recommended that I accept her preferred choice of name. As she reminded me, with serrated blades shooting from her fiery eyeballs, the child will be getting my last name, after all. Indeed. And so, we have chosen a name. It is a good name. 

    I am not going to tell you what it is. But I have it on good authority that in some regional Tlingit dialects it translates roughly to "Daughter of the Great One. And His Wife."

    For those of you in the position of having to come up with a name, let me please be of assistance. I live to help. I am here for you, body and soul, but mostly body. This site is waaay better than the baby name voyager in that it trolls the 1990 census. It randomly selects first names and pairs them with randomly selected last names. Just keep hitting refresh. I found some girls' names that I really liked, and I e-mailed them to my lady:

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  • I Comfort Myself in the Knowledge that I am Raising a Strong-Willed Woman. So at Least There's That.

    Brian Braiker | Apr 12, 2008 12:44 PM

     
    Chris Collins / Corbis

    What do you do with an almost-three-year-old who fights with you? And when I say "fights with you" I mean "goes all Mike Tyson and bites an ear off your head" kind of fighting. 'Cause I've got a serious fighter on my hands here. She is not, let's be clear, a hitter or a scratcher or anything violent like that. But when she adopts a cause, she digs in. Like a steamshovel. Relentless. Unwavering. Much like when, say, Mother Teresa set up shop in Calcutta and never once considered buckling under the oppressive weight of her deeply-felt mission to bring succour to the impoverished ... once my child decides she wants a lollipop, it's all over until she gets her lollipop. Or at the very least she digs in until someone's daddy dies in a steaming puddle of his own urine. Whichever needs to come first.

    Take this morning, for example. And when I say "take this morning," I mean "remove it from my prefrontal cortex so I need never remember it again." Ma Breeder went into the office bright and early, leaving me in my still-slumbering state of blissful non-awakehood. Of course, my schizophrenic brain was only capable of half-delighting in the luxurious decadence of a big empty bed. The other half was anxiety-struck in anticipation of the yelling that was guaranteed to emerge from the Chamber of the Spawn. And then it came: MOOOOMMMMMYYYYY!!!

    Me, stumbling in: Hi baby. Gooooodmorning!
    Her: I said "MOMMY!"
    Me: I know, banana. But Mommy's at work.
    Her: I want Mommy.
    Me: She's at work.
    Her: But I want Mommy. Because I need my Mommy.
    Me: I know, babyducks. But she's at work.
    Her: I want Mommy.
    Me: She's at work. Let's have breakfast!
    Her: NO I CAN'T HAVE BREAKFAST BECAUSE I want Mommy.
    Me: OK, well she's not here and I am. Or should I leave?
    Her, whining in a frequency that has been known to paralyze elephants: Nooooooooo. Don't leave me!
    Me: OK then! Let's change that diaper!
    Her: I want mommy.
    Me: I swear to you, if I could give you mommy right now, I would. I'd give you eight mommies. On steroids and estrogen. But she's at work.
    Her: I want Mommy.
    Me: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY AND JUST AND GOOD WHY DON'T YOU BELIEVE ME?!!! She's at work.
    Her: I want some gum.
    Me: She's at wo-- oh. Gum? You can't have gum until you have breakfast. [This is how rules get made up: on the fly. -- ed.]
    Her: GIVE ME SOME GUM. Where's Mommy?

    It's hard to know how to react here. It's very easy to escalate and start yelling, like for real.

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  • "They're young. They heal fast."

    Brian Braiker | Apr 9, 2008 02:14 PM

    As founder of the Tinkering School, Gever Tulley fully admits to the fact that he puts "power tools in the hands of second graders." He also delivered an excellent talk at the TED conference last year: 5 dangerous things you should let your kid do. What, pray tell, are these five things? I'm so glad you asked:

    1. Play with fire
    2. Own a pocket knife
    3. Throw a spear
    4. Deconstruct appliances
    4.5 Break the Digital Millennium Copyright Act
    5. Drive a car

    "trust me, they're going to learn things that you can't get out of playing with Dora the Explorer toys." Watch and learn.

     

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  • Breaking: Bonaduce

    Brian Braiker | Mar 26, 2008 05:41 PM
    As if an entire reality show devoted to the travails of an utterly charmless Danny Bonaduce wasn't enough, now VH1 has created it's own special brand of network-endorsed child abuse. Hosted by the erstwhile Partridge, I Know My Kid's a Star pits a gaggle of tweens against each other—and their own parents—to determine who's got enough "it factor" to become the next child star.

    Best part of the show's debut: an unfortunate lass is so nervous upon meeting Bonaduce and the other contestants in the beginning of the show that she pukes into the bushes. Your heart breaks for the girl. And while some might argue this is only a natural reaction to meeting Bonaduce in the fleshy-flesh, clearly it's the most accurate review the show will ever get.

    Instead of delighting in the ridiculous behavior of the parents—like the pressuring, porny stage mom Rocky who is clearly showboating vicariously through her nervous wreck of a daughter—you find yourself fighting the impulse to call child protective services. There is good cringe-inducing TV and very, very bad cringe-inducing TV. Guess which one this is. While Bonaduce, of all people, says he wants to help kids avoid the dangerous emotional and chemical pitfalls of child stardom, here he seems determined to drive these tykes straight to Lohan-ville. Only, you know, without the stardom part. Stay classy, VH1!

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  • Dan Zizzie in the Hizzie

    Brian Braiker | Feb 25, 2008 11:41 PM
    Sunday we met up with some friends and took the kids to see Dan Zanes, who is of course the reigning Pied Piper of family music (without, I'm hoping, that whole leading-children-off-to-their-deaths motif). Sometimes, as much as I'd like to deny it, it's hard to be a young parent in Park Slope and not endure the creeping suspicion that I am a craven yuppie scumbag hipster-lite stereotype. Thankfully I am not self-aware enough to be plagued too painfully. So, with due cheer, the fam hopped on the 5th Avenue bus yesterday after breakfast and headed north to the Brooklyn Academy of Music. In no time it turned into the Dan Zanes express: every person who would board the bus was either a parent or a toddler. Or horrified to discover themselves on some bourgeois nightmare re-imagining of Ken Kesey's Further schoolbus packed with midget Merry Pranksters.

    The opera hall at BAM is gorgeous—DZ called it the Carnegie Hall of Brooklyn, and so it is. When we got to our seats we were astonished to find that $22 placed us third row center. The Man Himself was a little jarringly onstage doing last minute sound-checky things. He smiled and waved at folks as they walked in. It felt like he was welcoming us into his living room—the performer/audience wall thus shattered, it never fully reconfigured for the duration of the show.

    But, I mean really, check the proximity:


    Ah, I am getting ahead of myself.

    Now, I am on record as having certain, well, grown-up feelings for one Ms. Laurie Berkner. But I have to say, in recent months one of Zanes's bandmates has been catching my eye on the concert DVD (and late-night Google Image searches). Barbara Brousal is raven haired, slinky, sophisticated and mysteriously sultry—a deeply compelling contrast to Laurie's bouncy, sproingy, cutesy colorful playfulness. Now, don't get me wrong: I still love me some Berkner. But I was verrrrry much libinously looking forward to seeing BB in action yesterday.

    You can imagine my dismay upon a pre-performance perusing of the program that included no mention whatsoever of Barbara Brousal! O, heartbreak! Mrs. Breeder took, I thought, a bit too much delight in my obvious deflation.

    But! Then the show started. Zanes had previously vacated the stage to change into one of his top-drawer suits. Collin Brooks, his usual dapper drummer, was the first to bound onto the stage. Then came Saskia Lane on upright bass, followed by John Foti on accordion and Elena Moon Park on fiddle. Who, I wondered angrily, would dare to take the place of my dearly departed Brousal? Barbara! Even though you share a Christian name with a woman who drove my first grade carpool, I hardly knew ye. Agh. Fine. Let us get a good look at the person that doth claim to replace you ...

    Oh.

    My.

    Oh my. My oh my. It is, it seems, a lady named Sonia De Los Santos, who hails from Mexico. She may have some pretty mighty shoes to fill, people. But, let me tell you, I learned yesterday that there is no such thing as global warming. The reason the polar ice caps are melting is because of Sonia's smile:

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  • Hello Baby

    Brian Braiker | Feb 22, 2008 12:57 PM


    What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
    What water lapping the bow
    And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
    What images return
    O my daughter.

    -- T.S. Eliot, "Marina" 1930
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  • What the World's Two Biggest Toy Makers Want Your Children to Play With This Year

    Brian Braiker | Feb 17, 2008 11:09 PM

    So Saturday I spent the day touring the Toy Fair showrooms of both Mattel (which owns Fisher-Price, among others) and Hasbro (which owns Playskool, among others). The two companies are the first and second largest toy manufacturers in the world, respectively. In the interest of deflecting the full-frontal assault of the PR pit bulls from both companies, I tagged along with Claire Green (president of the Parents Choice Foundation) and Wendy Smolen (a consultant and Nick Jr. and Parenting magazine alumna, among others).

    I'll begin by saying that—forgive me—I view the $22 billion toy industry with some cynicism. Not always, my thinking goes, do they approach our children with the noblest of intent. Call me crazy, I know. I'm not naive—I know that companies need to make money. But the movie tie-ins and licensing proliferation seem to be reaching unprecedented levels of madness, often at the expense of design and ingenuity. Does every toy that our kids play with need to come with some backstory? Do our kids need toys to come with prewritten scripts that all but dictate to them how they're supposed to play with their toys? Am I wrong, or are we shortchanging their imaginations?

    Ugh. And grr. Bearing that in mind, here are the high- and low-lights, roughly in order of toy seen:

    HASBRO

    Kota the Triceratops is an astonishing piece of technology—one that's already getting its share of publicity. The 40-inch long "life-sized" baby dino is big enough for your 3-year-old to sit on. It has 11 sensors located throughout its body—when you pet its head or tickle its horns, Kota snorts and snuffles affectionately. The thing is astonishingly cool but ... once your child has played with it for 20 minutes, what's the second act? It makes adorable noises and facial expressions, sure, but after a few vigorous workouts, the kid will have seen it all. It's a $300 piece of furniture. What 5-year-old is going to keep playing with it once the novelty is gone?

    They're also unveiling a similarly-pointless animatronic dog, Biscuit. The $180 life-sized Golden Retriever obeys six voice commands, moves his head and ears, blinks his eyes, wags his tail and barks. Again: cute, but another piece of furniture—no real room that I can see for your child's imagination to take over.  

    The Glide 2 Ride bike is a $100 bicycle without pedals—perfect for the not-quite-ready-for-training-wheels set. I've seen kids darting around on very expensive wooden variations of these in Brooklyn, pushing off the ground to propel their two-wheelers along. But the Glide 2 Ride allows parents to screw on pedals when the child has got the balance thing down and is ready to get those feet off the ground.

    The $75 U-Dance gaming system will teach your unfunky kid how to get up for the downstroke. A sensor plugged into your TV reads the receivers strapped onto your feet. The movements of your child's feet are replicated as footprints on the television—no dance mats required. The system comes equipped with 12 songs—a bit paltry—and three difficulty levels, so when your child has nailed the Motown-moves of the Jackson 5, she can graduate to a full-speed C+C Music Factory hip hop workout. U-Dance is probably the first viable threat to Dance Dance Revolution. Unfortunately, that means the C+C Music Factory will feature in your life.

    The perennially cool Easy Bake Oven (maybe we should say "cool again," now that it isn't giving kids burns any more) is turning 45 this year. Happy birthday, Easy Bake ... here's a cake I made with, well, you. I tarted it up with one of your decorating pens.

    The $20  'Jive Pod' plugs into your portable MP3 player. Its touchpad lights up and, like the U-Dance system, your child follows the beat ... only with her thumbs. It's like Simon Says with a backbeat. Multiple friends can plug in and play along too. Hasbro is pitching it as "snack gaming" for your tween (8-12)—a cute sound-byte, sure, but one that fairly accurately describes the toy it's applied to.

    What's cooler than Nerf? The new Nerf-N-Strike for the Nintendo Wii and DS systems. The toy doubles as a dart gun and a functional Wii controller—simply pop out the Nerf gun's barrel and replace it with the Wiimote and you go from real-life shooting to virtual dartgun.

    MATTEL

    We saw fewer toys that we liked at Mattel, frankly. It was rather dispiriting. You don't need us to tell you about Barbie. Mattel is incorporating—with mixed success—technology across its Barbie line. Fine. At Toy Fair, I found myself more impressed by the Polly Pocket Pop N Swap. Polly Pocket is a miniature doll (that recently had its own recall problems). The new model Mattel unveiled at Toy Fair allows girls to pop off Polly's head and swap it onto a new torso—or swap new legs onto a given Polly body. Seeing a trough of Polly heads and legless trunks was unsettling, but the doll clearly invites your child to use her imagination in mixing and matching doll-parts. Where Mattel's imagination utterly failed was on the diversity front—all of the Polly dolls are white. Boxes of the new swappable Polly will run from $10 to $20.

    Hot Wheels are rad. They were rad when I was growing up and they're rad today. The new Trick Tracks let kids build Hot Wheels stunts. For $10 to $40 a Trick Tracks set comes with one elaborate Hot Wheels stunt (a loop, a teeter-totter or a catapult). Where it gets cool is when you attach sets to each other to create elaborate Rube Goldbergian stunt car contraptions.

    The $30 Pictionary Man brings the 2-D boardgame into the 3-D world with a dry-erase humanoid figure. Instead of drawing on (and wasting) paper, players draw their clues directly onto the Pilsbury Doughboy-looking figure. It comes with a couple of other props as well, so if you're supposed to draw, say, a surfer, give him board-shorts and draw a surfboard onto one of the other dry-erase pieces.

    Mattel is also upping its animatronic ante with both the D-REX Dinosaur and Elmo Live. I don't know about your gastrointestinal fortitude when it comes to all things Elmo, but the new doll certainly appears to be as useless as it is annoying. Sure, it'll be a huge, monster "Mommy-I-need-it" hit. The semi-lifelike doll talks, tells "jokes" and stories, all while gesticulating wildly. It barely invites active play—sure, sensors on its body will react to your child's touch. But in the end there's little for your kid to do other than turn it on and watch. This isn't something you play with, it's a living room extension of a television character. Same goes for the D-Rex, a dinosaur that is almost nifty enough replace your household pet. It does do cool stuff, but barely provides your child with opportunities to play in return. He can pet it and play tug of war with it, but after an hour I'd be willing to bet he's bored.

    The Computer Cool School seems like a potentially fun way for preschoolers to prepare for class: plug the tot-friendly keyboard into your computer and let your child play fun learning games. The coolest feature is a touch pad that lets your child trace letters and watch them appear on the screen. It seems like a decent starter-desktop for your little Bill Gates.

    The Laugh & Learn Smart Bounce & Spin Pony plugs into the TV via a wireless device. Your 1-3 year old is placed in the saddle and encouraged to bounce up and down, spin and roll the handle bars. The more baby interacts, the more happens on the TV screen. It's gaming for your 1-year-old, and frankly the graphics kind of stink. The American Academy of Pediatrics would prefer it if you didn't stick your child in front of a screen of any sort before he or she turns 2. And this toy is hardly impressive enough to warrant ignoring that sound advice.

     

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  • How to Parent Like a God

    Brian Braiker | Feb 12, 2008 05:41 PM


    I'm reading the Aeneid. (that's right, the Aeneid. je ne mess around pas, people.) Anyway, I'm only like three pages into it and I feel like i've already read 24 books.

    Here's where I'm at: the Trojan fleet, still reeling from defeat at the hands of Achilles, is sailing the high seas, lead by Aeneas (our hero, seen above, getting the hell out of town). The "Queen of the Gods" Juno (total, total jerk) bribes the Lord of the Winds to start a storm and drown Aeneas's fleet. This, naturally pisses off Neptune, who totally pimp-slaps the wind god for stepping on his turf. Neptune calms the seas and Aeneas, sans crew, lands safely in Carthage, where he mourns his lost comrades for all of 10 hours. Then his mom (Venus was her name), disguised as a young huntress, tells him the history of the city. She envelops him in a magical cloak of invisibility mist, where he ends up in the company of queen Dido--in the (irony alert) temple of Juno--where he learns that most of his fleet actually survived! The mist dissolves and Dido touchingly serenades Aeneas with "I want to thank you / for giving me the best day of my life." Then he starts to tell the story of Troy's fall (spoiler alert: it involves a big wooden horse, "the monster's womb is packed with soldiers bristling weapons.") Here he is chillaxing with Dido:



    So all of that happens in like three pages, which means I may feel compelled to blog about it again in the future--mostly because I get to gloat about the fact that I'm reading the Aeneid and you just read parenting blogs. More importantly, some priceless pearls of parenting occur in these opening verses. I am deeply considering using only ancient texts for parenting advice from now on. If this is how the gods (and half-gods) did it, then it's got to be good enough for me. Check it out:


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  • I, Breeder's Super Tuesday Analysis

    Brian Braiker | Feb 5, 2008 12:51 PM

    I'm sitting here at work, past midnight, my eyes are blazing red burning balls of fiery fireballs. The primary results are slowly trickling in. California--or as MSNBC's resident gourmand pundit Chris Matthews calls it, "the big enchilada"--is still a week or so away from being tallied. Good thing I have packed a change of clothes, toothpaste and plenty of whiskey. I am prepared for history. I am toggling between Newsweek's live Webcast (which you are surely watching, no?), CNN, various blogs and a VH1 special about celebrity sex toys.

    I was unable to vote in today's primary because I am an independent voter (YOU CAN'T PUT ME IN A BOX, PEOPLE!) and we are not allowed to vote in primaries for some reason which mystifies and enrages me. I had wanted to take my daughter to vote with me. We've voted together before, but that was for 'Make Me a Supermodel,' so that doesn't quite count.

    To my editors' credit, I was told to report to duty at 5 pm, since I was expected to stay until the bitter end. So I slept in. HAHAH! Sorry, no. That was hilarious. No. I woke with the kid at 6:50 and, when my babymama went to work, I took the kid to her music class.Normally our sitter takes her, since she's usually on duty Tuesdays. But today I took the opportunity to check out what kind of filth the degenerate music teacher was filling my child's brain with.

    So, fine, there's nothing cuter than 20 hyperactive 3-year-olds not following their music teacher's instructions (I will note, though, that the grown up parents dutifully busted every dance move and belted every TRA-LA-LA requested of them. Oh, Dignity, will we ever meet again?) 

    The sitter took over, I went to work. When mommy came home, she took the child to our neighborhood polling place. It turns out I was fortunate to not have been eligible to vote today. I wanted to give her a lesson in civic duty! I wanted her to learn the solemn importance of our democratic social contract. I wanted her to touch the grimy voting machine so I didn't have to. But these tasks fell to my wife. Who took F to the local public school. When mom tried to take her into the booth, she proceeded to melt down with a vehemence that would make Britney stop and take notice. I wasn't there but I imagine it went a little like this: NO I CAN'T GO IN THERE NOOOOOOOOOO!!! I DON'T WANT TO VOTE!! Only, you know, times 20 to the power of skull-crushing.

    And this is who we are trying to save the planet for? Some gratitude, kid.

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  • The Secret Lives of My Fetus

    Brian Braiker | Jan 29, 2008 06:13 PM

     

    Vo Trung Dung/Corbis

    So my wee bride has reached the 19-week mark in her pregnancy--almost halfway there! We've scheduled our 20-week sonogram for later in February, you know, just in time for week 23. See the image above? That's a 3D ultrasound of someone else's 19/20-week old fetus. Bless its sleeping little face. Let us take great care not to wake the slumbering albino lizardfish, for once angered it will shed its shell of protective poison mucus so it may RISE UP AND EAT YOUR FACE WITH ITS SERRATED FANGS!!!!

    This officially being the second trimester--the pregnancy's golden age--my wife is finally feeling much better. Gone are the days of power puking eight, nine times. Gone is the weight loss. Gone is the scary cancer-ward vibe of our conjugal chamber. Better yet: gone are the disgusting chewable meds. No more drugs. Don't get me wrong, the nausea is still there. She does barf, sometimes daily. She'll wake up with an empty stomach, ralph and get on with the morning. It's impressive how thoroughly she's insinuated reverse peristalsis into her daily routine: wake, boot, rally, break fast. Feels like college again! Even our daughter has gotten into the groove: every time mama goes to the bathroom she asks "she gonna throw up? I wanna see!" Little angel! More worrisome: I was giving said angel a bath the other night. As the water was draining down the tub she leaned over its edge and said "now you have to dry me off. AND NOW I HAVE TO THROW UP! BLLOOUURRGH!!!" Then she spat and wiped her mouth with her forearm! It's so adorable the way they imitate us, isn't it?

    Anyway. Nineteen weeks. Twenty-one (or so) to go. Here are some things I've learned about week 19 of pregnancy. From pregnancy.org:

    Your baby has the same awake and sleep patterns of a newborn. So, basically, mama has an albino lizardfish in her belly that's waking up every two hours and screaming its head off. I'd be a little queasy too.
    Scalp hair becomes apparent this week. No word on back hair. Or, more importantly if it's a boy: moustache-ability.
    The milk teeth buds have already developed. Apparently babies have two rows of teeth: there are milk teeth and, behind them, the permanent teeth grow in. So mama's actually carrying a little shark. A hairy little albino lizardshark with two rows of teeth. You know, like in "Alien." I know I'll sleep well tonight!
    Your baby is swallowing amniotic fluid and his or her kidneys are making urine. Let's take this to the next logical step, shall we: it's swallowing amniotic fluid. It's urinating. Presumably it's urinating into its amniotic sac. Which means its swallowing its urine. Which means my fuzzy little sleep-shrieking albino lizardshark Alien spawn, not even born yet, has a bizarre urine-drinking ritual it practices before ... oh I don't know, it goes on its cannibalistic murdering sprees.
    It's around 6.02 inches (15.3cm) and 8.47 ounces (240gm). That's 6 inches and 8.5 ounces of PURE MAYHEM!


    So pregnancy.org is creeping me out a little. Let's see what the parenting channel at ivillage has to say (aside, of course, from the pop-up congratulating me on being the first-ever male to visit the parenting channel at ivillage).

    At 15 centimeters crown to rump, and weighing eight ounces, your baby is getting big! "Crown to rump?" Is this a baby or a pony? I can't wait to send out our birth announcement: "Meet our new child. Sixteen inches from whithers to brisket!"
    Organs of reproduction are developing rapidly, getting ready to sustain future generations.
     Not even born and already you're giving him a massive guilt trip for not yet giving us grandchildren! That's just great, ivillage.
    If your baby is positioned just right on an ultrasound scan, the tiny penis is easily identifiable. Awesome. I hope it is a boy, so his whole life I can be all "hey, son, why don't you and your tiny penis get ready for dinner?" "Yo, junior, don't you and your tiny penis have homework to do?" "Son, on this your wedding day, you have made me very proud of you. Now go forth and sustain future generations with your tiny penis."


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  • The Perils of Potty Training

    Brian Braiker | Jan 22, 2008 05:38 PM

    WHEREAS this is a parenting blog about, among other things, parenting; and

    WHEREAS I am the parent of a child (or so I am told) who is nearly three, and

    WHEREAS said child is currently undergoing an exceedingly lax course of potty training, and

    WHEREAS it is written into my parent-blogging contract that I mention poop (in an endearingly-cute-yet-raffishly-ironic manner) a bare minimum of once a month, and

    WHEREAS, let's face it, poop is funny,

    BE IT SO ENACTED that I tell you, dear readers, that my child has pooped into her potty!! For the first time! She said "I need to poop" and so we plopped her on the potty and she pooped!! This happened twice over the weekend! I have never before used so many exclamation points on the topic of poop!!! Even when I had the stomach flu in Vegas!

    Generally it has gone more like this: child goes from playing manically to sulking in the corner. Parent asks child "are you pooping?" Child says "no." Parent says "if you need to poop, just say so and you can sit on the potty!" Child says "I'M NOT POOPING. OK?" Parent says "OK, well, come back and join us." Child comes back, plays for three seconds and announces "I can't sit on the potty because I have a dirty diaper." Parent smacks self on forehead.

    But there it was: From "I have to poop" to solid potty action. Boom! The second time went less smoothly. F announced her need to cop a squat yesterday morning as we were getting dressed. ("I'm listening to my body! You hear it?") She sat on the toilet for 15 minutes. "It's not coming out," she'd announce and then climb off her throne. Then flush anyway. Then two seconds later: "Oh yeah, I have to poop." Back into the saddle. Then mommy had to go to work. Daddy (that would be me) had to get dressed. So I let her sit on the potty, wait, climb off, remount. Every time I poked my head in to check her progress she would shout "NO DADDY, I NEED PRIVACY" and then get off. And then get back on. Flush. Repeat.

    As I was choosing a shirt I heard a little voice announce "I did it, Daddy! I pooped in the potty!" I jogged in to congratulate her/hose her down but before I reached the bathroom she added: "And the floor!" I quickened my pace.

    It was all true: the potty, the floor. But there was one other thing. In her pride and excitement she neglected to mention that she had also stepped in it. And walked around. In my house.

    Barefoot.


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  • 2008: The New Hotness

    Brian Braiker | Jan 1, 2008 03:23 PM
    Behold the new life that I have unleashed upon ye! Verily, as with the gods high atop Olympus, I possess the power to forge flesh and blood and bone from mere dust! I am One with the eternal truth! Not unlike mighty Prometheus himself, I am a giver of incalculable gifts: instead of bequeathing fire unto the mortals, I breathe new life into the world through my increasingly-rotund mate's fertile crescent! BOW UNTO MY AWESOME POWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BEHOLD MY GLORY:
     
     
    So that's my new kid. Feet up and cold lampin' in utero. Can you see the resemblance? We got our preliminary test results back and everything checks out OK—a huge relief, not that there was anything specific worrying us. But we definitely slept a tad easier last night. The fetus doesn't even have eyelashes and already it has aced its first report card. Witness the power of my parenting!
     
    Our little Soup Dumpling is cooking away in there at a rapid pace, and lo, it's a modest little bugger. Kept its legs closed and haunches tilted at a jaunty-yet-demure angle. In short: we didn't get to see its junk. So we don't know the sex yet. It's a bit early anyway (the 20 week sonogram will probably put an end to that mystery) but we have indeed decided to find out this time around. We just don't have the patience to wait anymore and we'd really like to tell Big Sister what flavor of prisoner she's going to have the pleasure of abusing for the next 18 years or so.
     
    Mama is convinced she's having a boy. Not that she has a preference really. (Me, I'll just say that I wouldn't complain too loudly about having a household of ladeez to come home to every day, if only to be able to saunter through the door each night and announce "Hellllllllo Ladies! Daddy's home. Give him some sugar!") You can't tell from the picture above—because for some reason the sonogram technician decided to give us the worst printout of the batch—but our wee sea turtle has a ginormous schnoz. We're talking, to paraphrase my mother-in-law, a proboscis that would make Jimmy Durante jealous. Adrien Brody called and is threatening to sue us for copynose infringement! So my bride is convinced that she's packing dude. In this snapshot I am pretty sure all you're seeing is the back of the head. You can just trace the outline of a hand palming the kid's cranium. S/he is looking away and sucking s/his thumb on s/his other hand. (Gender neutrality is hard!)
     
    Either way, we'll know in a matter of weeks. In the meantime, Happy New Year y'all. Now that the holidays are behind us (even though they still linger in the dastardly form of agonizing alcohol withdrawal symptoms), I resolve to update this here internetly blogjigger at a more respectable pace. That grainy faceless sonogram image atop this post is my own personal symbol of the baby year, this freshly-hatched annus mirabilis. In with the new hotness, I say! Out with the old and busted 2007. (Although my first born, for the time being anyway, can stay). Should old acquaintances be forgotten ... make new ones.
     
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  • Gettin' Our First View of Person Two

    Brian Braiker | Dec 21, 2007 08:28 AM

    Sorry for the lag between posts, folks. Been slammed at work, wrapping up all the tasty year-end goodness that Newsweek serves up so deliciously piping hot.

    Ahem, yes. Well, it's already here: the end of the first trimester. Amazing. If the last pregnancy is anything to go on, my bride should be finished with the round-the-clock barfage in about ... oh .... two more months.

    Today we go in for the first sonogram of Spawn Deux. Very exciting. Lots of suspense. Like: will El Preggo puke on the subway? Or at the doctor's office? Or both? Last time around we didn't find out the sex of our child. We just wanted her to be human, healthy and strong, with all her fingers and toes. She didn't need to be as sassy and willful as she turned out, but then we all know where she gets that. (For those of you keeping score at home, she gets her beauty and brains from me). Not knowing what we were having, I figured, was to invite some element of surprise in an experience that had become hyper-managed and medicalized. Mama ended up ditching her OBGYN on week 34 (insanity!) because the practice, to use the medical term, sucked like an open chest wound. We went with a lovely midwife who was lovely and wonderful and also lovely. And my bride went all-natural. Which is amazing to me.

    Not knowing the sex was a thrill and, it turned out, resulted in an excellent birth story: when mama was in labor, which was mercifully straightforward following months of sickness, the midwife told us "I want you to be the first person to see the baby and to know if it's a boy or a girl. All you need is one more push and then I want you to tell us what it is." Mama was sitting in my lap, essentially, and she pushed one last push. The midwife took the baby and handed it to us. We both grabbed the wailing lizard-monkey and hoisted it up in the air and shouted in unison "it's a girl!" The midwife didn't hear us because as we were busy hoisting the babe up in the air, the umbilical cord snapped, spraying blood all over the delivery room. All over the midwife. All over everywhere. Blood. It was as if someone had filmed the most gruesome scene from "Saw XVIII" in there. The cord was tied while we were busy marveling over the beautiful strangeness of our new little person. And the mess, I imagine, was eventually cleaned up.

    So that was fun. This time around, I don't feel as strongly about not knowing the sex. For one thing, we'd only have to choose one name--which is a huge bonus for us, a couple who has only agreed on one name ever and that's the name we already named our first born. Which means, unless we turn into George Foreman, it's taken. And speaking of the First Born, the benefit to knowing the sex of Version 2.0 is that we'd be able to tell her "hey you're going to have a baby brother (or sister). Fun!" As it is we've all taken to calling it Brothersister. Very creative, I know. We had all sorts of groovy nicknames for our daughter when she was a fetus: Guppy, Squidkid, Fishbaby--sort of a marine theme. So far all we've got for this one is Brothersister and New Person. Already getting shafted, Second Born is. Would finding out the sex mean we cared more the first time around? Then again, everything worked out so well the first time; would we be jinxing ourselves? Or would it be this person's special story, just like First Born has her own special blood-soaked gory story? Hard to know!

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  • A Very Special I, Breeder Thanksgiving

    Brian Braiker | Nov 26, 2007 07:58 AM
     
     
    Welcome back to the work week, peoplefriends. How was your turkey (or tofurkey and gluten-free stuffing, if that is your proclivity, you filthy hippy)? Any wine-soaked tryptophan-and-football induced hallucinations involving giant inflatable muppets floating down the Broadway of your dreams? I would expect nothing less. Did you shop until you dropped, pull yourself up, rub some dirt in it and head back out to the mall, bloodied but unbowed, your maxed-out credit card mere swipes away from bursting into flames? God bless America!

    I'm afraid I'll just have to live vicariously through you guys this year. We here at I, Breeder headquarters had quite possibly the most-grim Thanksgiving of our lives. Downright depressing, it was. You see, the past couple years, we've packed up and headed West to engorge ourselves with my fambly. And each of those trips took, oh, about 3 years off of our lives:

    * Three tickets to LA? $1000.
    * A rental car for a three-day weekend? Another $300 or more.
    * Flying on Thanksgiving day and having the airline lose your luggage which is particularly unfortunate because your nap-boycotting child spent the past 5 hours screaming, until, upon landing, she gagged herself and vomited all over you? Priceless.

    So we decided, much to the chagrin of Nana Breeder, to stay home this year and cook up a feast for other New York orphans. Thank goodness we did this because, as it turns out, my bride fell ill. Thursday she was far too sick to host, much less assemble a turkey feast, even with my semi-capable assistance. She's actually been quite unwell for the past month. There is a reason for this, dear readers, and verily it is a reason for which we are Very Thankful Indeed: she is heavy with child.

    Actually, she's not heavy with child. She's too busy ralphing to get heavy. Unfortunately, this is a road we've been down before. When she was pregnant the first time around, she morphed into Sir Barfsalot for about five months. Five. Months. You've heard of, I am sure, morning sickness, yes? Well replace "morning" with "every freakin' minute of your life" and sickness with "hurling until you turn yourself inside-out and you see the bottoms of your feet pop out of your own mouth" and you have a general idea of the pit of despair that our home has become.

    There is a name for this condition. It is called hyperemesis gravidarum, which is Latin for "Oh God, BlooorrrhuMAKEITSTOPuugghhhh!!!!," and 100 years ago it was a leading cause of death among pregnant women (including, apparently, Charlotte Bronte). Because they couldn't get hydrated. Because they were barfing all the time. Anyway, she doesn't quite have it as bad as some women get it--some women spend the bulk of their pregnancies in the hospital. Others need to go to the emergency room to get an IV drip hooked up to their arms. (We've already had one emergency room close-call ourselves). She's been prescribed a very powerful anti-emetic called Zofran, which is what chemo patients are given to stave off the up-chuckery. This helps her keep food down, but it doesn't quell the nausea. It's also an incredibly strong drug which, despite being routinely given to pregnant women with no proven side effects yet, has never really been tested on pregnant women. Fabulous!

    So anyway, imagine being hungry all the time, because you're pregnant, and also being nauseous all the time, because you're pregnant. I believe this is a level of hell that proved too great for even Dante to fully fathom. So you see, for Thanksgiving, we stayed in and did nothing. I had a disgusting cold turkey-bacon club. I made her some chicken stock (from scratch, because that's how I roll). She had a big day, actually, she made it all the way from her sick bed to the living room couch. She ate her broth and sobbed quietly, muttering something about my "poison seed." Which seemed a little harsh to me. Poison? I like to think of it as just very, very powerful. Freakishly strong. Certainly too much for SOME PEOPLE to handle, it would seem.

    There you have it. I'd like to tell you that I was contractually obligated to procreate again because Newsweek wasn't convinced that having just one kid was enough to consider me a "breeder" -- but then I'd be lying. In any event, I'll certainly have lots more material to work with in the coming year(s). A whole 'nother kid to exploit! So stay tuned and come on back now, y'hear?
     

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