Look, it says it right there on the side of the webpage. Tucker Blogs is, “a collection of lies, broken promises and unfulfilled potential… Some topics may be repeated ad nauseum and some questions raised may never get answered.” 

Well, I got a lot of good tips and notes regarding our flight with a newborn. I had decided to hold off on writing about it until Mom and Baby had returned from their unscheduled extension to the trip, feeling the Redhead’s experiences alone on the plane may change the overall impression. Then I just forgot.

(Impressive.)

The fact of the matter is that the flight(s) went wonderfully. As one person told me, we really had nothing major to worry about when it came to flying with an 8 week old. It’s an 8monthold that will give you problems. You see, a flight is kind of paradise for an 8 week old: she gets to be held the whole time, there’s womb-esque air sounds all around, and she can have a boob whenever she pleases. On the other hand, an 8 month old is semi-mobile. They’ll want to explore, climb, grab, scream, and challenge whenever possible. Fyona did well.

Thanks again to everybody who offered advice and reassurances. We may have to do it again soon as the family scenario in Florida is worsening, so maybe Round 2 will be a lot more painful, like a juice cleanse.

Perhaps I’ll do another follow up. Don’t hold your breath, though.

The Mom is in the shower, and Fyona and I are chilling on the couch. Well, I’m chilling. She’s thrashing, scratching, biting and kicking me. I’m experiencing the fallout of our 6 days apart from each other. It’s not that she doesn’t recognize me, it’s that The Mom has become her end all, be all. Baby girl wont sleep unless she’s on Mom’s chest now, and she won’t sit still if Mom isn’t within 5 feet. Who would have thought that babies were so high maintenance?

(It’s like owning a Lambo, but cheaper.)

I can’t decide if Fee’s diapers smell like McDonalds Sausage and Egg Biscuits, or if McDonalds Sausage and Egg Biscuits smell like my daughter’s diapers. Either way, I won’t be eating any of them for a long time (McDonalds, not… oh, man.)

Let’s not kid ourselves about who’s in charge around here. The little Duchess gets what she wants, when she wants it. Well, that’s coming to an end. On-Demand feeding is now over. Sleep training is upon us. I pity my neighbors (but not the one who RANG THE DOORBELL and pounded on our door only to complain that our kid was being loud. Thanks, asshole. Loud bells and angry pounding work wonders toward calming a baby).

Things are only going to get noisier, but most of it will be my wails of frustration. 

…and others… well, they’re just great.”

When I was knee high to a grasshopper, I loved sitting on the porch in the summer watching baseball with my grandfather. He was born a Reds fan and became a Cubs fan, but the thing he liked most about the WGN broadcasts was making fun of Harry Caray. My grandpa called him, “Liver Lips.” One day during a game my grandfather reached down and put his Cubs hat on my head. I was an extremely cognitive kid, and I understood the Hallmark-esque moment we were sharing. For 35 minutes, I joined him in rooting for the Cubs. Then my father walked in.

“Art, you take that thing off my son’s head, NOW.” He pulled me aside and in a tone so as not to alarm me but still convey the seriousness, said, “Tuck, we’re White Sox fans. I understand you want to sit with your grandfather, but try not to pick up any of his bad habits.”

The point is, my daughter was born into this. Baseball is coming.

My mom is here. Here in Los Angeles. Here, as in sleeping on my couch a few feet from my daughter. My sister arrives in a few hours.

Let’s sum up: I, Tucker Blogs, Ruler of Australia, will be spending the next week in a one bedroom apartment with my mother, my wife, my sister, and my daughter.

Suddenly, the hammock on the patio looks beautiful. I opened the fridge to grab a beer, and accidentally clanked another bottle. The ripple effect caused by that sound not only woke up the baby, but alerted my mom and my baby mamma that I was drinking (and not including them). I quickly adjourned to the roof. Sometimes a man needs to get away… and given the crowd, I dare you to blame me.

The biggest issue we’re facing however, is what to call my mom. She has gone on record as hating the title, “Grandma.” My dad is ready to go as “Papa,” leaving the obvious partner title of “Nana” to my mom, but she won’t have that either. My dad’s parents were always “Nana and Papa” and my mom’s parents were always “Grandma and Grandpa,” but we pronounced it Nana (Nə-na, as in about). My mom decided after careful thought, that she would prefer Nana (Nă-na, as in and), stating that Peter Pan had a Năna, to which my sister (at a different time) immediately retorted, “yeah, the dog.” Mom later rescinded.

We don’t know what to call her. Dad is Papa, Sister is Aunty Itty (as in itty bitty Liddy), Brother is Nuncle Ned (too much to go into now), but what is to be the title of her father’s mother? Sure, Fyona’s about 18 days old, but we can’t wait for her to sound out some “mee maw goo ma” bunk, as is my mom’s plan. That’s at least 2 years away. I’m pushing Năna, since it seemed to last for awhile, and as of now, anything’s better than the current title, “Cheryl.”

Suggestions?

At any given time, the bell can ring and I will be up and off to the hospital with my about to pop pregnant wife. This isn’t like waiting for the cable guy or the mail. There isn’t a time of day when I’m eventually off the hook, as I sometimes catch myself thinking. I can’t relax at 10:30 at night, figuring today’s chances have expired. I must be ready at all times.

(Just killing time.)

Last night we had a false alarm. Turns out our daughter was just rehearsing her Stomp routine in my wife’s belly again. That was fun. The interesting thing about all of this is that it reveals once again that I Love Lucy lied to us. There was no race for the door in my pajamas and top coat comically holding a candelabra and our bag while forgetting a pregnant redhead in the living room. Despite the feeling of panic and urgency, the doctor told us this morning that even if it was the real thing, we would still want to wait at home for a few hours before coming into the hospital.

Well, that’s just wonderful. Man, I’m over all of this baby stuff. My next post will be totally un-baby related.

To those who know me (but does anybody REALLY know anybody?), I have a message to convey: It’s been a blast, but I’ve got to go now. You won’t be seeing me in person for quite some time. 

It’s time for hibernation mode. The work schedule is as packed as can be, and in the remaining 8 hours of the day I’m not at work, I plan to sleep and/or hang butterflies on the wall for little Amelia Bedelia Blogs. Going out, visiting, and general activity in the civilized world is right out.

That being said, I can continue to live it up on the united circuit. I’ll be tweeting, blogging, vlogging, clogging, and podcasting. I’ll be emailing. I’ll be on the stupid Facebook (no, probably not that last one). I’ll be reaching out for camaraderie and companionship through a keyboard until the baby is born, and then probably for a while afterward. No more than 2 years after, though. A guy’s gotta get to a ballgame every now and then.

So if you saw me at Thanksgiving, hope you enjoyed it. That was the last you’ll see of this mug before I’m fully grey haired and bouncing the kid on my knee, approximately 3 weeks from now. Be sure to drop me a digital line, won’t you? Just understand that while they’re appreciated, I can’t do the quick stops at bars or honor the invites for face to face time for a bit. Rest assured, I’m drinking anyway wherever I may be, it just won’t be with you.

This weekend will be the Redhead and my third Baby Shower. We’re only expecting one kid. It’s pretty awesome that we know so many people we demand buy us diapers that they can’t be contained in one mere shower. Then again, we had the same situation with our wedding. One was on a boat!

(We had over 150 guests!)

This weekend is the wild one. This is the shower to end all showers, not only because it chronologically comes at the end of the others, but because it’s the drinking crowd shower. This is the kind of shower we’ll all feel dirty after. There’s gonna be games, booze, betting pools, booze, poker, cocktails and booze. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, we’ll get some rattles or something.

Prepare yourselves.

In the spirit of preparation for my impending fatherhood, last night I put together my daughter’s crib. I did this while running a fever, doing laundry, eating dinner, and watching a movie. I considered it a light load in comparison to how busy we’ll be when Baby Blogs gets here.

I’m a pretty good fix it guy. While I know next to nothing about car engines or building a back porch, I excel at the tasks of wiring surround sound, moving furniture, and assembling Ikea/Target quality-level merchandise.

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With the plane about to take off and return my In-Laws from whence they came, the Redhead and I are now done with visitors and travels until baby time. That’s it, folks. No more road trips or outdoor adventures until our household numbers 3.

Sure, we’ll go to the store, or perhaps a park, but nobody will be coming here and nobody will be getting out. We’re soon to enter “The Vacuum,” that lock down state of existence where our world reflects around trying to sleep, trying to stay calm, and trying to wrap our brains around the changes due to arrive on Christmas Day (or thereabouts). The Redhead will soon be home from work, experiencing an even stricter form of sequestration than me. I at least will get to escape to a desk for 12 to 14 hours a day. (Lucky me!)

So goes the final trimester of procreation. We’ll welcome visitors in the new year after the guest of honor arrives. Until then, it’s me and her, and her.

Saddle up.

As the only member of the unofficial Building Safety Patrol, I will sometimes walk the halls of my shared community habitat making sure things aren’t askew. Loose bottles of booze will be confiscated, and hallway doors will be slammed to make sure they’re latching.

(Hey, free chairs!)

Lately I’ve been noticing a lot of boxes being delivered to different doors, and nearly all of them are baby related. There are one of two possibilities: A lot of my neighbors have been buying us a bunch of baby stuff for some sort of surprise “Baby Shower Rooftop Jam,” or a lot of my neighbors are also having babies at the exact same time.

The Redhead and I have always been trendsetters. People totally envy the shit out of us, so it’s natural they would want to emulate everything we do. What’s most amazing is the lengths people will go to in order to obtain our level of awesome. Take my neighbors: they wanted to be pregnant like us so bad, they figured out a way to manipulate time and space, getting pregnant before us. If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is. There are by my count, 6 expecting women in this building, with kids a poppin’ in the next 2-5 months.

In 5 months, this building is going to be louder than a frat house. Same levels of screaming and vomit, anyway.

I’ve been silent on this issue for a few days, because it’s been difficult to process. I’m very uncomfortable with the subject matter in the media lately. The debate about whether or not television can go too far in its language and imagery to push a concept or sell an idea has been painstakingly discussed this week. Well, it does, and I can no longer remain silent. I mean, have you seen this commercial with cartoon babies pooping?!

It’s freaking disgusting! It shows a bunch of kids filling their diapers, on public display mind you, and getting graded on the size of the poof they put in their pants. It’s repulsive. This is what we’ve come to?

The diaper and toilet paper rhetoric has taken a major swing into volatile waters lately, depicting bears’ asses covered in toilet paper fragments to full out naked babies running around threatening to ruin the carpet. We as a society have to take a stand, and demand that the language and images used to sell shit wipes be more classy. It’s irresponsible of television. They should have known that pushing the envelope of taste and logic (bears with toilet paper? Give me a break!) could incite copycats and crazies to act on these notions. No data is currently available on how many people have died trying to wipe a bear’s ass, but by the time it is, we may already be too late.

It’s important to remember that correlation does not imply causation. Grand Theft Auto isn’t to blame for kids shooting each other, and this commercial may not be responsible if underground diaper pooping competitions start to appear in our cities.

Still, let’s not give the crazies any more ideas, okay? Let’s clean it up and return to open discourse and respectful debate where an opinion that differs from your own isn’t immediately met with a torch and a pitchfork. And no more pooping babies on television. It’s disgusting.