When I started this blog all of two months ago, Jake couldn’t walk or say “Yeah.” Now he does both, and everyone in my family thinks he’s some kind of genius.

He comprehends so much now!!!!
He can tell you what he wants!!!!
He’s such a person!!!!

Basically, he’s receiving high praise for existing. Only do we fuss like this over babies. When’s the last time you gave a speed bump kudos for slowing traffic or shedding its yellow paint? I like watching my son grow, don’t get me wrong. But I fully expected him not to remain a newborn forever. And I hate to play spoiler, but pretty soon he’ll run, and one day he’ll even go to school.

Jake’s ability to communicate better, Amy says, means he gets less frustrated. Oh good. I forgot how frustrating it is to get everything you want, not to work, to experience total innocence and shit yourself because you can.

It is rewarding though, being able to talk to your son. Yesterday, I was crashed on the couch, and Jake wanted me to feed him. “Yaam, yaam,” he said. The problem is that I needed five more minutes to relax, so I decided to practice his words with him in an effort to distract him from his hunger.

“Hey Jake. Do you want me to read you a book?”

“Book, yah.”

“Okay, go get a book. Go get a book.” Jake did his baby balancing arm walk to his toy area. I figured the roundtrip plus choosing a book would take one minute. He returned with his firetruck book.

“Tuck.”

“Yeah, it’s a firetruck.” I read one page and remembered that Elmo lay on the floor by the laundry room. “Hey Jake, go get Elmo. Go get Elmo.”

“Yah,” and Jake did as he was told. I sent him on three more one-minute errands then fed him.

By now Jake knows that “Yah” and “Yes” mean the same thing. He also knows “No” and that “Yah” and “No” are opposites. I think Amy, being a proud mom, might get a little carried away with Jake’s comprehension. The same night I was a deadbeat on the couch, Amy conversed with Jake a lot, marveling at his development. Then Jake crapped, and Amy said, “Okay, Daddy will change you.” But it was Amy’s turn for I had changed him last.

“It’s your turn,” I said. “He sha…pooped before you got home, and I changed him.”

“You’ve just been lying on the couch all night.”

“So.”

“So I think you should change him.”

I sighed. Amy turned to Jake.

“Let’s ask Jake. Jake, do you think Daddy should change you?”

“Yah.”

“Okay, change him,” Amy said.

“He doesn’t understand that.”

“Yes he does. He understands a lot more than you think.”

“He just knows how to react.”

Amy set out to prove me wrong. She asked Jake if he wanted his milk. “Yah,” and he drank his milk. She asked if he wanted to listen to music. “Yah,” and the two danced. And for insurance Amy asked, “Do you want Daddy to change your diaper?”

“Yah.”

It was my turn. “Jake,” I said. “Do you hate the Jews?”

“Yah.”

I smirked at Amy. Rather than gloat, I changed Jake anyway, finally getting off my ass to do something.

Parenting Under the Influence is not uncommon, and more moms and dads need to try it.

I spent Amy’s pregnancy mulling over the things I’d need to sacrifice when my son was born. I thought they were obvious: sleep; spending; socializing; privacy; my dreams and drinking. I had this notion that no responsible parent would drink in front of their child or even in the same house. But then my clever wife reminded me that our friends with children hosted dinners in which they served cocktails, beer and wine. “We can still have fun, you know.” She said. “We’re not alcoholics.” True, and hell, one of the most significant Jewish prayers is the blessing of the wine, uttered often in front of children. And God. With that, I was over my drinking-as-a-dad bugaboo*. In fact, I’ve become quite good at being over it. It’s pretty logical. Parenting is stressful. You alleviate stress by drinking (not working out or meditating). Stress turns into joy. Parenting is now joyful. Circle complete. When a future daddy asks me for advice, I highly recommend parenting once in a while with a buzz.

*If you don’t drink, please refer to the items on the left, which I hear are fine substitutes.
Please note: We (yes, Amy joins in the fun, too) do this:
– in the controlled environment of our home,
– during an un-corruptible stage of Jake’s life,
– usually with non-sissy red wine,
– because we fucking deserve it.

Last Thursday Amy was overwhelmed, Jake was fussing, and I was annoyed that Jake was fussing. At first, Jake and I had gotten off to a good start. I made Jake dinner, and he demonstrated good manners, eating with his fork and identifying his food. “Khees!”, or cheese and “Badata,” which is obviously apple. Then Amy walked in the door from work, and Jake reminded everyone that he is a mamma’s boy, and he knows how to scream. Amy greeted him and went upstairs to change, fully intending on returning , as she has for all 18 months of Jake’s life. Still, Jake turned on the waterworks and his chainsaw scream. When Amy returned–like I bet Jake she would–Jake ceased crying and poof, smiled and yapped excitedly. Now tending to him, if Amy turned from Jake, Jake turned into a bucket of fuss. But a mound of raspberries soothed him.

I was impatiently hungry that night and wanted to start dinner even if it meant Jake would be up and begging for table scraps like a dog. He finished eating and mushing spinach in his hair and busied himself with his toys and Sesame Street. Amy and I sat down to dinner and discussed what bothered us most about the day. I went first, complaining about health care. Amy answered with the gross woman sitting next to her on the Metra who coughed without covering her mouth. Then I opened a bottle of a highly recommended Zinfandel from Trader Joe’s. I poured us each a glass, we took a sip, and liked what we tasted—full bodied purple with strong character.

An empty bottle later

“Our son is so Goddamned cute!” Amy said.
“Look at him. Look at him!” said I.

Jake approached me with his plastic pumpkin and offered his Elmo slipper. “Dadeee! Ahhhyeeahh!” I dropped to the carpet, clutched him and rolled with him across the room. Amy joined us and tickled Jake until he was cracking up. Jake caught his breath then I went in with my fingers already tickling the air, and he laughed his infectious baby laugh. Amy rolled on her back. I whispered in Jake’s ear “Jake, can you tickle Mommy.” Obediently and softly, Jake said, “Yeah,” and tickled Amy’s side. Jake emptied his straw book basket and tried climbing in. I jumped up, fought a fast dizzy spell and did the next sensible thing. I fit him inside, his arms and legs sticking straight out, and slid him on a book basket ride around the kitchen, back into the living room, circling the carpet until the dizziness knocked me down. Jake squeeled from inside the basket. “Mo! Mo!” “Your turn,” I told Amy. Jake rode The Amazing Book Basket again. And again and again.

We rested and put our wound-up boy to bed. We cleaned up, and I admired the wine bottle before tossing it in the recycling drum. After washing up and still buzzing, we tiptoed into Jake’s room and stared at him sleeping, out cold in his crib. Amy was right.

We still can have fun.

Think of the best sound you’ve ever heard—the one that melts your heart. Now, the worst one. The one that angers you most, that boils your blood. Got them? More on them in a minute.

A few Fridays ago, Amy and I had a date night while my in-laws babysat. Date nights are important because of the R&R and quality time. When we go to dinner on a date night, we…I choose to spend our quality time laughing at couples eating with their children. And there were plenty of them at the grand reopening of the Claim Company in Northbrook.

As we took our time to order, enjoying aperitifs, I spotted a harried couple and their fussy toddler, doing what half-resembled dining out. “Look at those people,” I said. “What dopes.” Then there was the schmuck father, who had to pace with his crying infant while his wife sat alone, spaced out, dribbling in a sad spoonful of cold soup. I ordered another drink, ate bread and read the description of each and every menu item. I moved onto the families with two or more children, or as I like to call them, The Damned. A mother at the salad bar, who looked 45 but is probably 33, fixed her plate between her two daughters. Just as she dropped the last peapod on her plate, the daughter in front yanked her forward and down went her salad, some landing on her foot. If that weren’t bad enough, the plate circled and took its sweet-ass time, making quite a ruckus, before spinning to a stop. And it that weren’t bad enough, the daughter was the one who cried.

Silly parents I thought. Silly, silly parents.

After our long, indulgent, relaxing dinner, we drove to Grandma and Grandpa’s to pick up our only child. We walked into his room, he sat up with adorable bedhead and a smile, pulled his passy out and said, “Mama, Daddy.” Now, back to your best sound. I can only hope the best sound you’ve ever heard is close to that.

We drove off, and Jake was in his sleepy-silly state, cooing and giving passy smiles, which is utterly angelic. Then he threw his pacifier on the floor, where of course, neither of us could reach it. In a blink he started fussing light moans. I feared the worst and hoped dearly for the best. The moans quickly escalated to chainsaw cries. We had a good 15 minutes in front of us, and I had a sinking feeling that Jake was about to go from zero to bat shit in seconds. Now, back to your worst sound. I can only hope it’s not even close to the things that came out of Jake next.

Moans begat chainsaw cries, which begat screams, which begat BRAIN SPLITTING SCREAMS. I, for one, do not think these are necessary. Jake had been well-fed, he was not being beaten and we had not picked up a hitchhiking B.T.K Killer. I think by now he should’ve known that we had his best interest in mind and that we had every intention of getting home as fast as fucking humanly possible. But his screams—those awful, intolerable screams—kept coming out, closer together.

Amy, bless her heart, can remain calm in these situations and speak soothingly and lovingly to Jake. I go in the other direction. To quote the great Samuel L. Jackson, I become a mushroom cloud-laying motherfucker. Motherfucker. I’m superfly TNT.

I yelled “Stop!” at Jake. “Give us a chance!” Did this help? No. Jake just kicked it up a notch, and Amy did not support my approach.

“He doesn’t understand,” Amy said.
“But he has to know by now that we’re doing the best we can.”
“He’s 17-months-old.”

I turned up the radio, and at least “Who Are You” was on. But that didn’t matter to Jake. He screamed more, ruining the classic, which angered me even more. I had to do something, so I ran over a dead skunk.

We got home, mercifully, and Amy didn’t need to ask if I wanted to put Jake to bed or bring in our things from the car. I stayed in the car and exhaled to gather myself. How could he change from so good to so rotten in minutes? So loving to so miserable? How could he fall asleep comfortably in one environment, be abruptly woken, strapped to a seat and taken away to another? How could a growing, fast-developing baby not peep about thirsting for sleep? I stared in the rearview mirror at my scowl and got a really good look at Mr. Hyde.

Bubbles. Water. Washcloth. Elmo shampoo. Wind-up turtle toy. Coos. Giggling baby. Bath time, the stuff of parent-baby bonding wonder.

Oh but it’s not. Bathing your child is filthy torture.

Recently I bathed Jake by myself for the first time. It took me this long because I’m lazy. Plus, Amy does a really great job. I do help out on the back end, though. After Amy does all the work bathing Jake and drying him, I’ll come upstairs and tell him how clean he smells.

When my time came, we got off to a great start. I undressed Jake, carried him to his bathroom, catching a gander at his tushy cellulite in the mirror. I turned on the water, spilled his toys in the tub, and we got to talking.

“Eesh mmch’n ah bah ah,” Jake said.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I replied.

“Ah ah eh mchshn de.”

“We’ll reschedule for next Tuesday then.”

The water reached Jake’s belly button, and he was squeezing his red fish that spits water. I wasn’t sure how much water to fill. As long as it doesn’t go above his mouth, I told myself. I stopped the water, and Jake couldn’t have been happier. Engulfed in warm water, he splashed, talked to himself in his penguin mirror, and took an occasional drink of bath water (and probably his urine). I wondered if it was even necessary to clean him. He was having fun, and I was comfortable. I didn’t see the point. But I knew I couldn’t get away with it. I can’t get away with anything. I looked at the baby body wash, shampoo and washcloths, sighed and cursed my wife. I lathered up a washcloth and cleaned Jake’s face, arms, legs, feet, back and tummy. And you know what? It was fun. But the rest I wish I could take back.

Numbskulls like to muse about having a time machine to correct their actions. Well, I guess there’s something to that. Because I wish I could climb into mine, and rather than saying “Yeah, okay” when Amy reminded me from downstairs to wash Jake’s hair, butt and penis, I’d have replied, “No fucking way.” I poured a cup of water over Jake’s head and it promptly flushed his eyes and choked him a little. I felt terrible. He looked at me with red, scared eyes and followed me suspiciously, as I spread shampoo on his head. I would learn a little later that it’s best to wash his hair at the beginning of the bath and to do so quickly. And that it’s helpful to tell him what you’re doing beforehand. I filled the cup with water and told Jake I was sorry. I poured it on his head and more water filled his eyes and mouth. I froze because at this point he was coughing and crying, but his hair was still soapy. I doused him again, and this time he screamed, his eyes redder. There were still suds in his hair. I waited for him to calm down, which he didn’t, so I did what I had to do and drowned him again.

When I was eight, we went to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico for my uncle’s wedding. Puerto Vallarta’s beautiful, but the Pacific Ocean is a leviathan. I remember one minute feeling so free and excited, running into the water with my toys. And the next, terrified as the Pacific waves pummeled and overwhelmed me.

Back to the “safety” of Jake’s bathroom, I was the Pacific Ocean, and he was me. His hair was done, but bath time was ruined, and we weren’t finished yet. I had waterboarded my own son, and now I had the gall to go even further.

When I change Jake’s diaper, I sometimes make contact with his privates, but it’s indirect because I use a wipe. I’m his parent, so it’s appropriate. Nothing felt appropriate about what I did next. Amy instructed me to fully clean him, so I soaped my hand and slid it under my son between his butt checks. Then I gently scrubbed his soft, baby genitals. Then I wanted to turn myself in. I felt utterly diabolical. It didn’t help that Jake was still a wreck from the waterboarding. This week, self-proclaimed prophet Brian David Mitchell stood trial for kidnapping Elizabeth Smart in 2002 from her Utah home and jailing and violating her for nine months. I felt that the only thing Prophet Mitchell and I didn’t have in common was Mormonism. As the water drained and my child cried, I looked at myself in the penguin mirror, disgusted.

Just when I thought the cruelty was over, I did my best Dr. Mengele, allowing my Jewish baby to freeze in the open air, while I looked for the towel I was supposed to have laid out for him beforehand.

It could have been worse, right? Wrong. Personifying Dick Cheney, 2002′s worst pedophile and the Angel of Death all in one go is about as bad as it gets.

Which is why I am forever off the hook from bath time.