Gums Hurt, Slathered in Slobber

I’ve learned a lot in my many, many (okay, just many) months of life, but nothing has prepared me for the changes and growing pains I’ve got now. Pain in the neck? Nope, it’s coming along fine. I’ve got pain in the mouth and I haven’t even had habenero chilis. It’s teething I’m told and it’s both hurty and sloppy.

Can you see how connected I am to mama, specifically by spittle.
Can you see how connected I am to mama, specifically by spittle.

I haven’t done anything wrong yet my poor mouth aches. I’ve said no bad words I’m sure (since I’ve said no words at all) and I’ve got no tattoos nor piercings yet something is piercing my gums. I’m told it’s teeth but I didn’t ask for those either so I’m at a lost.

What’s this “teeth” business? Milk, formula, cereal, I’ve eaten a very wide variety of three things ever, yet I’ve never needed teeth before. I surely didn’t order them, not even off eBay who swears not to sell “human parts,” so where are they coming from?

With three whole taste sensations under my budding belt I think it’s safe to say I’ve had almost everything there is under the sun and the shirt (Mama’s of course) and I’ve never needed a tooth so what’s the story? Three Little Pigs? Goldilocks? Little Red Riding Hood? Feels more like a big bad wolf to me.

The pain is one thing, I’m a strong man despite my clear lack of chest hair, but what’s the deal with this slobber? Seriously, I’m sloppy down the front with it and I just can’t keep it in no matter how hard I try. Clearly I don’t suck as much as teething, otherwise I could contain it.

To whom-it-is I don’t know, but please count this as my written request to stop my crysome slobbery tooth breaking-in. You can keep the toothies, I don’t care, it doesn’t offend me, I’m not mad or jealouos.

Man, my shirt is soaked with someone’s slobber. I’m not sure but i think it might be mine and I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it. Between the soiled diapers, the adorable shirt soaked in spit and the general cluelessness, I can’t tell you how ready I am to grow up. Man, my life is a mess and messy to boot.


I May Be Vampire Baby

Uh oh, something tells me I may have been tainted by vampires . I don’t crave blood, I know, but anytime somebody gives me soft, squishy human flesh I can’t help but sink my non-dog canines into it. story417

Okay, no, I don’t have canine teeth (yet), so drawing blood is (fortunately) out of the question, but salty skin is yummy to me and my aching gums hunger for a taste of peoples. It gives me what I want, what I need, and it’s the only thing that gives me pacification when I’m not hungry nor tired.

Oh no, not a wrist, please, not a wrist. Put that in front of me and I swear I’ll gum it alive… or at least slobber it to a pruny mockery of what it once was.

Please, I beg, drive no wooden stakes through nary a part of my adorable me. I’m a good baby. It’s my teething that demands I bite thee in the bared and fleshy parts. Don’t put me down, I’m sure there’s a vaccine. Maybe it will pass when I sprout pearly’s?

Go look for it, search ye for the vaccine. Search ye high and low for a shot to fix me. Meantime, I suggest you don’t put anything warm, salty nor meaty in front of me… no, wait, do. no, it’s fine, I won’t gobble thee alive, I sweareth. Rest ye easy. I’ll not smite thee with my vampirical virus whilst ye sleepeth.

So young I am, yet still so olde and English.

“Hush little parents don’t you cry, Dominny gonna sing you a lullaby,** and if Domini-me don’t cry a storm, your skin prolly been all gummed a ton.” No remorse, I’m a vampire now, I ‘spose.

*Nor wake in justified cold sweats.
** Me crying.

Elders Getting Harder to Impress

Almost every day I’ve got a new trick up my sleeve, yet still it just isn’t enough. Babbling, wiggling, smiling, and figuring out what these limb-type things are all about was just the beginning but further it seems for the parent types it is just the beginning. story419

When my footies took to the air it was smiles all around, but three days later it’s just ho-hum humdrum. I made noises that weren’t cries, within a week it’s just plain blah. I taught myself to hold a bottle without any classes nor tutelage and mere seconds later the mama passed out on the couch, only later to claim “three-boy exhaustion.” Still, it’s tough to impress these folks.

As a third boy I’ve got an uphill battle as hard as my third boy baby book is thin. My efforts, accomplishments, and victories are all overshadowed by the two other boys who’ve done it all before me.

I’m barely over four months old and I know my peers are all still living as dependants with few hobbies or interests, so it would seem inpressing the elders would be nearly effortless, but it just ain’t so. Do I have to tap dance, write a book, or teach myself to tap dance while writing a book just to earn an ongoing grin from this terribly tough crowd?

Fine, I’m done. I’m not going to pretend I can impress them with my on-pace progress any longer. I’ll study the fiddle, highwire acts or maybe some ventriloquism. I swear there’s got to be a way to make these jaded jokers smile again. I don’t know what it is but I’m ready to learn it, even if I must do it on my own.


TV Not Interesting, Rather Enveloping

I‘m a fan of felt markers, toys, non-toys and pretty much everything else. What I’m not a fan or is television. Just like any self-respecting American, I deny even watching it, though I’m enraptured whenever it’s even on.

Shhh, no talking now.
Shhh, no talking now.

In all honesty I can tell you I don’t find the boob tube interesting, not even a bit. Whit I do find it is unexplainably entrancing. I can go in to tell my assistants/parents something very sad about an empty tippy cup or bonked head situation, but if Mr. NTSC is interlacing lines of the Simpsons, my tracks stop, my tears dry and my coma begins. Ten minutes later when I come to again I have no idea what I was going to say, nor even why I’m in that room.

It doesn’t even have to be good TV to draw me in. Infomercials and political speeches are as good of tractor beams as the Futurama spin off Hypno Toad (which was good the first couple seasons.)

animated-televisionWhen I was little the colors were enticing. As I matured the noisy flashing images really unlocked something primal in me. Now as an elderly toddler I’m all about commercials with geckos, mentally retarded purple dinosaurs and anything designed to sell new or used cars, especially if it’s going to be on Sunday, Sunday SUNDAY! Man, my tastes have really come into their own

I’m not the only one either. That brother guy of mine, the older one I think, Patrick, he’s as taken by the clues of Blue as I am. When Bullwinkle commands, we both obey. When the Country Bears sing, we howl along like hound dogs. It’s just what’s done.

I’m not sure what I’ve just said over the past twenty minutes, as I’m absurdly distracted by the end-of-tape static I hear blaring from the other room. TV’s been so good to me I have got to go put something back on. A race of black ants is no way to leave a TV. Heck, I should really watch it too, as not to let it go to waste. Have to go now, flicker box commands.



Im Not Zero Anymore

We`ve come a long, long way together, dear readers, through hard times and soft ones too. Its hard to accept that Im really a year old now. This year has been a lifetime to me, and now its past. So many realizations to look back on and so many questions to look forward to.

So for his birthday, my brother’s big wish was to receive a massive hand augmentation, as popularized by the Ang Lee film, Hulk. He did get his wish. Our family supported and eventually even sponsored it.

As the picture here would indicate, each of his hands are now larger than his head. While spammers would suggest that “everyone wants to be bigger,” I have to say that this is just plain silly. Due to the extreme nature of the change, he’s been unable to open his hands, walking around with huge fists all the time. How he gets his shirt on in the morning is beyond me. And when it comes to buttering his toast, well let’s just say it ain’t pretty.

My guidelines for augmentation;


  • Look for well established providers,
  • Make sure it’s something you really want and can live with,
  • Try to make it match the rest of you, (his hands aren’t even the right color, they’re green!)
  • Remember there is a limit to how far you can go and still be happy in the long run,
  • More than a handful is a waste, though if you’re hands are gigantic and green, divide the sum by four,
  • Don’t get augmentations that make noise. I know it sounds crazy, but his hands growl. If you get breast enhancements, opt for the kind that doesn’t make growly noises when you bonk into stuff.


Potty Doable Diapers Preferable

I don’t know who’s idea this stupid article was but I’m a professional so here it is.You investors can’t black- nor yellow mail me with your intimidation tactics. I know you’d save money if I made a (literally) clean break from the diaper, but that’s not my gig. story379

With the help of bro-Patrick you guys witnessed me make a successful run at potty training. That wasn’t supposed to mean that I’m ready to make a total crossover to toiletry, it’s just a game for me. Brother does it, I do it, it’s a matter of us girls all powdering our noses together, isn’t it?

Our office diaper budget would fall if I could “train” completely, I know, but that’s your budget not mine. Will I get a raise or my college fund get a boost? Of course not. In the meantime I’m wrapped in cutting-edge techno diapers that leech so much moisture from me I’m hard-pressed to even feel the most robust of a sweat. Properly hydrated there’s no dicomfort so where’s my incentive? In my trousers? Shucks no, that motivation has been pulled away from me and locked away in panty crystals.

I resisted writing this article, as clearly it’s intended to be a huge embarrassment to me but, as sure as I can put a dog bone in my mouth, I can swallow my pride. I know when my peers come online this will be potentially embarrassing, but I don’t care. You guys want me on the can and I want to play right through the inconvenience. If you guys had someone to trade your dry, though heavy diaper for the complicated to-do of pausing for the bathroom, you know you would.

I’m sure I’ll break from my size b’s eventually and go right to the underpants, but for now I’m an underpants amateur with very little incentive to make a change. If you want me out of these ammonia-rich pounder pants you have to switch me to cloth, reward me with chocolate, or find some other motivator to get me out of the Luvvy-Huggie-Pampers.* Until then I’ve got far better things to do.

* No diaper company has given us even a single free sample yet they all gladly take our money. Whatever, none of ‘em get any preferential treatment. Bleh!

Parents Duped By Faux Talking

I got wiggles, functions and noises a-plenty. I dont know who controls this body of mine but I know it aint me. I move limbs, I squeeze out sounds and solids from each end and I make noises. I made some Ma-ma/Da-da noises today and the rents went bananas.

This may have been combined from 2 pictures, it`s just so hard to squeeze us all in.
This may have been combined from 2 pictures, it`s just so hard to squeeze us all in.

I’ve got the older brother (bro Patrick) who’s constantly leading in speech skills and stick figure interpretation. I can’t keep up with his scribbling in notebooks of clues of the Blue’s fashion. He makes hideously ugly Play-Doh dudes and the best I can do is eat the Play-Doh. Why not, though hardly fortified with vitamins and minerals it is indeed non toxic.

Then you got the junior brother (mini-man Dominic) who’s currently killin’ ‘em in the polls for cuteness (though in his bald wiggling I cannot understand how). People — specifically chicks — dig the dudes young, so barring an age regression I really can’t compete with him.

So as a middle (and typically “lost”) child, how am I supposed to compete with this bweeznass? Should I take up skateboarding, 3-point chucking or Evel Kneiveling? I could, but it’s not my thing.

Against my wishing I’m going to step up my cuting, you know, like the hugs, the kisses, and “with stuff” smiling.** I don’t know what’d further to be done and busy stuff.

I’m going to keep up the cuting. I’ll keep up the ante up-stepping and I’m gonna further over, over bring my game. If your a brother of mine (of whom I have many) be on your guard to the max. If you’re an outsider, be on the lookout for outrageous me-maximizing.

No matter. I have to go. It’s time for the B-man to refine his game. I’ve got all sorts of reinventing to do. Brothers beware… did I say that already? Doesn’t matter, I’m ready to impress.

Cool? (I’m still the favorite, right?)

* “About” bespake for our Quebequa readers.
**If I make killer photo ops with stuffed animals, pets, or the elderly, wouldn’t that help?

Toys Cool; Spoon, Spatula Far Cooler

I know what you’re saying, “don’t you have some nice toys to play with?” The simple answer is yes, but toys get old. It’s the forbidden fruits of the kitchen-esque vine that tempts this Adam to do the unthinkable. story398

The colors are drab, they make no sounds, lack moving parts and can’t take a battery. No less I get more giggly than Bennifer when I swipe the spaghetti-sporkin’ ladle and take it for a toddle. I hold them, smack stuff, whatever. And what about my regular toys? They’re not forgotten. I smack them around as too. This is noisy stuff, man, super cool.

I can’t say for sure yet, but I suspect I’ll be shifting my Christmas wish list from toys & games over to kitchen & bath. There’s a lot of shiny stuff in there, you know. Gadgets and gizmos and whizbang doo-dads a plenty. Stuff that plugs in, makes noise, Julian cuts my fries and raises my spirits a light, flaky crust. If I’ve got all this joy in a mere cheese sammich over-flipper, just think how I could blossom with a cuisinart or Foreman grill.

I’m off to raid the cupboards again. I think there’s a waffle iron in there I need to hood up with. My waffles are all bumpy and really need to be ironed flat. In any case I know there’s pots and pans, and I just can’t wait to raise me a li’l bit o’ ruckus. Wish me well.


Poppicles Defeat Heat, Redefine Sugar Consumption

I wanted to get out but mama wanted to tow me rickshaw-style over the sweltering heat of our suburban sidewalks. Despite her passionate dragging and consolatory words all I could think was “it’s too hot” and “my voice sounds funny vibrating like this.” story397

I was cool with our trail-trot for maybe ten minutes until the heat of that vicious nearby sun got me steaming at the gills It’s especially uncomfy on account of me not having any gills to speak of. Fortunately I have skin instead of scales, so I’ve been successful at dropping off 10-12% of my body mass in sweat, storing it sloppily down the back of my shirt for later use.

Mom grabbed some stuff, bought it, whatever. I wasn’t impressed. Then we got outside and she handed me a cool delicious slab of stick-borne arctic delight. Okay, now I’m impressed.

My blood sugar is still soaring and my body temps dropped a good two percent. Think of it like an amazing medical treatment, like kiddies Tylenol, but with even more punchy fruity goodness and less of that acetaminopheny after-gag.

The whole ride back was a jiggly blur of me sloppy-slurping down the fruity delights of the newfound munchalicious implement of dessert commonly known as the “poppicle”, though mom calls it a “popsicle” and I aspirately annunciate it “puh-puh”.

If summers unbearable balminess becomes too much for you to take, tempt you taste buds with a fruity, chocolately or choco-fruity slab of sub-sub-scaldery. It will please your senses, chill you to a reasonable temperature and maybe bring you a new level of contentment and satisfaction like it has for me. Poppicles have made summer bearable, and if this is how we cope, count me as just the bear to suffer it.