Adventures in Babysitting!

Wesley gazes at my Mom while--"WAIT! Is that a camera?!"

My parents gave Shanon and me a night out on the town last weekend, volunteering for an evening of Wesley-tainment. While we went for Italian food and Carribean pirates, they stayed behind for American baby (insta-review of Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest = spectacular visual effects in the first six hours -- then it dragged...).

Wesley loves hanging out with Poppy (aka Mike)!

If You're Happy and You Know It...

...be patient, Wesley. Someday soon your neurodevelopment and your motor skills will team up to enable much hand clapping, signaling much happiness.

And in the meantime? The smiles are totally working.

Wesley now sees the camera and starts grinning. This learned response probably developed because of the goofy parental antics that accompany the appearance of our camera (e.g. the over-the-top excited voices usually associated with Santa sightings, the animated smiles of Powerball lottery winners, etc.).

And what Pavlovian response would be complete without a little drool?

Look, Down on the Floor Up in the Sky!

Kryptonite, teething -- neither one's a picnic, you know.

Our weekend? Great, actually. Having picked me up by my finger ("Ouch!"), Wes took us up, up, and away!

This was, of course, after he helped the neighbors get their new Steinway home from International Piano Supply in Granada Hills. (You'd think after dropping nearly $70,000 on a used Grand Hamburg Model B-211 -- Ebony, Hi-Polish -- they wouldn't flinch at a measly $75 delivery charge...Then again, these are the neighbors who reward trick-or-treaters with mints that look suspiciously like those found in the little bowl next to the cash register at Casa Vega.)

"Ham it up" vs. "Glam it up"

"Different people employ different strategies for successfully navigating a party with many guests. Allow your strategy to be a comfortable reflection of your natural personality."

-page 146, "Letitia Baldridge's New Manners for New Times:
A Complete Guide to Etiquette"

House of Blues

Blue Boy

Blue Man Group

The Blues Brothers

Little Boy Blue

Regarding this last photo and the leftover Fourth of July balloon...

1. Who is that handsome blue boy staring out from the mylar?
2. So, yeah, there's a little drool flowing (click on the photo to enlarge).
3. But isn't it great that a big bouncing balloon is every bit as pleasing to the palate as strained apple sauce mixed with whole grain rice cereal?

Up in Arms

Patsy Cline recorded "Back in Baby's Arms" in 1963 and it sold a bajillion and a half copies and ended up on all her "Greatest Hits" compilations.

Four years prior to this, she recorded a song called "Love, Love, Love Me, Honey Do" (which, because of the excessive punctuation in the title, did not sell a bajillion and a half copies). Nonetheless, part of that song's chorus goes:

Love me, honey, squeeze me tight,
Hug me, honey, with alla your might...

Below, Mer-Mer and Grandpa Dude live out these Patsy Cline lyrics with loved ones.

Celebrating a successful burp (by Wesley, not Mer-Mer).

Hoodie (L) and friend.

Independence Daze...

Wesley celebrated his inaugural 4th of July down in Solana Beach with Shanon's parents, Michael (aka "Grandpa Dude") and Mary (aka "Mer-Mer"). Wes invited us along, of course.

In addition to great food, family, and friends, there were two other f-words: firecrackers and fireworks.

They are definitely not the same.

Yes, Wesley h-a-t-e-d the loud noisy firecrackers gleefully tossed around like grenades by the adolescent thugs in the neighborhood. The explosions startled him, causing him to jump, then whimper, then clutch hold of me tightly. He was, to quote my Mom, "Sad Bear."

firecrackers = noisy/sad

We escaped upstairs into a darkened bedroom and did our very best to smile and laugh and generally distract ourselves with a manic stuffed lion named "Lion" (catchy name, eh?).

The second night, Wes could actually see the fireworks (waaaaay off in the safe distance, and they only made a gentle "pop" sound) -- and he l-o-v-e-d them. As we all "ooooh'd" and "aaaaah'd," Wesley squealed and shook his arms with approval.

fireworks = beautiful/happy

Among the other many highlights: Wesley's first trip to the beach. After slathering on gobs of sunscreen (SPF-2,000, per Shanon's orders), we walked across the street to the Pacific early Wednesday morning.

Despite the noise of the crashing waves, the chilly water temp, and the likely presence of many great white sharks [Nice to see you're sharing your phobias with your son. -- Ed.], Wes stared, rapt at the floating bubbles, the seaweed, and the little Wes-sized waves.

Pacific Ocean? This is Wesley. Wesley? This is the Pacific Ocean.

Despite my ridiculous shark phobia Because of my keen shark-spotting ability, Wes had a great time and will enjoy many future visits (with many applications of sunscreen) before Grandpa Dude starts the surf lessons.

Good name for a band? "Mer-Mer and Her Surfers"

When the Son Rises...

Wesley overflows with smiles early in the morning.

The first person he sees after he wakes up is treated to a burst of giddiness and giggles. He squeals with delight and clenches his hands together and "bicycles" his legs like he just won the "Showcase Showdown" on The Price is Right.

Of course, we're pretty excited to see him in the morning, too.

Sixteen years from now Wesley won't have the same early-morning demeanor, and we'll look back on these priceless moments with nostalgia.

For now, though, his joy is contagious and his flurry of smiles jumpstarts the day better than a buzz-inducing double cappuccino.

"CH-CH-CH-CH-Changes!"

Who's the crazy man taking pictures in the men's room? Daddy-o!

Four years ago I started noticing the presence of changing tables in men's rooms. The first one I remember seeing was on the third floor of the Century City Bloomingdales, when Shanon and I were wasting enjoying hours 1,703 through 1,709 of the process known as "filling out the bridal registry."

(Three points I'd like to make about this: 1) Eisenhower and his staff reportedly spent a mere 1,648 man-hours planning D-Day, 2) it's not called the "groomal" registry, and 3) this registry activity coincided with the final round of the 2002 British Open at Muirfield, when 13 players finished within three shots of the lead, and there was a four-way playoff that gave Ernie Els the famed claret jug. I know all this because I read about it the next day. But I've gotten over it -- can't you tell?).

So there was this changing station in a fancy Bloomingdales restroom. I remember seeing it way back when, but it didn't really register (that verb was taking place -- ever so slowly -- over in the china/crystal/silver part of the store). It was like noticing that Bloomingdales had installed a special sink for people to clean their dentures with. Who cares, right?

That was the summer of 2002. Fast forward almost exactly four years and guess what? That changing station was now very relevant to me. Wes appreciated it, too.

Don't worry -- Wes is on his very own hygenic changing pad (out of view)

And as I walked out of this place, zig-zagging through acres of kitchen gadgets, linens and flatware, on my way to finding Shanon (down in the first-floor archipelago of cosmetics counters), I encountered another beleaguered father. He was carrying a fussy infant in one hand, was dragging a tired-looking 4-year-old with his other, and had the telltale diaper bag strapped across his shoulder. He looked at Wes, looked at me, and nodded towards the men's room: "Changing table?"

"That-a-way!"

Then Wes and I split. 'Cause the third floor of Bloomingdales still isn't much fun for a couple of wild and crazy guys like us.

The Wes Wing

(And for those of you wondering and worrying about whether or not each post will start with a painful pun, I'll quote the German-accented poet and tell you "It could be verse!")

I was going to write about Wesley's bedroom, but as he sits here next to me he has turned into a screech owl. He's laughing uproariously -- and noisily -- and the cats are terrified.


My ears are ringing a bit, I must confess. I'm going to put cotton in my ears (or in his mouth?).