It Had To Be Mexican Food

"Man, she sure is fussy today. What a moody little girl."

"No kidding! Let's finish up and get home. What do you want to do about lunch?"

"Burgers on the way? There's nothing to eat at home."

"OK. Hey, what's this? A new Mexican restaurant? Want to try it?"

"What about NJ?"

"She's not crying right at this moment. We can eat fast and get out of there."

"Hmm. Our choices are to take the fussy child home and get take-out on the way, or take the child into a restaurant and hope she can keep her cool for an hour or so, even though her mood is shifting from one extreme to the other and then back again in a matter of seconds."

"This menu looks pretty good."

"OK, let's go in!"

20 minutes later

"I dunno what's up. She acts like she's teething, but I can't feel any new teeth sprouting. You eat and I'll take her outside for a bit."

10 minutes later

"Here, let me try. We'll be right back."

8 minutes later

"Oh well. I'll take her to the car. You finish up and get mine to go."

2 minutes later

"Was everything OK?"

"Yes. We just gambled on the kid and lost."

"You never can tell with little ones."

"Oh, we had a pretty good idea."

4 hours, 2 bottles and 1 nap later, at the Arboretum's Japanese Garden:

Crying? Fussing? What the heck are you two talking about? I'm living la vida loca and loving every minute of it!

Day Care Confidential

A recap of NJ's first week of day care:

Day 1: The Wife checked everything out thoroughly at the center and, reluctantly, left for work. She told the teachers that NJ's proposed breakfast snack of Frosted Mini-Wheats was a tricky endeavor for a kid with only two teeth, so NJ ate cheese instead. NJ then made a beeline to a set of blocks in a corner and immediately took an interest in a new friend, barely noticing The Wife's departure. When The Wife returned to pick her up, though, NJ cried when she saw her ("Oh yeah, that's right -- my parents! I was so excited about the toys and children I completely forgot that they abandoned me!"). She only slept for 30 minutes that day, approximately one-fourth of her usual naptime.

Day 2: Just like the day before, NJ got her hands washed first thing. Unlike the day before, though, this made NJ cry. Raw broccoli and Wheat Thins for breakfast snack: Again, not good for the tooth-deprived, so some soft bread was procured. Play time wasn't as good, either. Two older girls -- awful, selfish, mean girls -- were grabby and wouldn't let her have any blocks. NJ waved goodbye to The Wife when she left, then crawled off to find some nicer friends. There were no tears at the afternoon pick-up. NJ slept an hour this time. And like the first day, she wouldn't take a bottle and was very hungry when she got home.

Day 3: There was no Day 3. The Wife stayed home with NJ. They went to a park and to the beach in Ballard while I slaved away here in the basement office.

The notes the day care folks send home with NJ were glowing both days, but they were so happy-happy-joy-joy I semi-question their accuracy. Still, no worries. NJ has a little bruise on her leg that probably came from getting jostled or falling onto a toy or something. By the time she's old enough to read she'll have forgotten all about her first day care experiences, I'm sure. But if she could read this now, and talk, she'd no doubt say something along the lines of "Why were you two so anxious about this? It's cake."

Cross-Country Kid

NJ's first cross-country trip was a rousing success. I've put this off for a couple of days because I was laid low by a nasty cold (thanks, mother-in-law!) that I brought back to Seattle (you're welcome, Alaska Flight 15!). I've tried to keep out of NJ's face since then, but that's been pretty hard to do. On the other hand, she's been a regular Super Baby when it comes to ailments, so maybe this illness will bounce dully off of her like a bullet hitting Superman in the chest. Anyway, on to the trip:

Flight to Boston: The worst moment. After checking three bags, we headed to the plane with two carry-ons, the lightweight stroller and the car seat. The car seat is the most ridiculously shaped thing in the world to have to carry around for long periods of time. We checked the stroller at the gate and put the car seat in NJ's seat, where it listed forward slightly. She didn't seem to experience any of the take-off (and landing) ear pressure problems I've seen spark screaming jags in other kids. NJ was restless, though, and The Wife spent some time walking in the aisle with her. Finally NJ fell asleep in her mother's lap and we put her in the car seat, where she continued to sleep (dangling at a precarious angle). After a half-hour, though, the woman behind us yelled at her kid and startled NJ awake -- and she never went back to sleep. So: More whiny crying. The Wife and I each walked her around some, and finally NJ settled down for the last 30 minutes or so of the flight. And she wasn't even the worst-behaved baby on the flight, there was no need to invoke the It's My Turn rule. After landing, rounding up luggage and getting our rental car, we finally hit the hotel before 7 p.m.

Boston: We stayed in a nice place downtown and had a spectacular view of the Statehouse's golden dome, the Charles River, Cambridge and the Back Bay. NJ fussed mightily for about ten minutes after we put her down, then slept like a log -- a very, very tired log that had a big, long day. The next morning we spent at the Common and the Public Garden, where Norah charmed passers-by with a big smile and her adeptness at sitting on bronze ducks. Even though it's been almost 15 years since I left Boston and political reporting, when the Park Street Church bells tolled 9 a.m. I instinctively took a couple of steps toward the Statehouse, figuring I'd better grab a coffee and get to work in the Press Gallery. Instead, though, we returned to the hotel to have breakfast with old friends Mark and Mer before driving off to The Wife's parents' house in Connecticut.

A sad NJ turns away after being informed that the duck would not start moving.

Drive to Connecticut: Uneventful.

Connecticut: Eventful. The Wife's parents are a delight and love their newest granddaughter. Their spread in Northwest Connecticut is nice, too -- NJ loved looking at the goldfish in their backyard pond, and her Grandpa bought her a wading pool that was probably NJ's favorite part of the week. To wit:

O ...

... M ...

... G!

She also visited a nearby house to look at a couple of steers, hit a nearby park for some swing time, and played a lot in her grandparents' living room with all the new toys she collected from family.

Family: NJ met lots of new folks. My brother, his wife and their son and daughter came up from D.C. The Wife's sister and her five-year-old daughter drove over from New Jersey. The Wife's other sister lives about ten minutes away in Connecticut, and we hung out a lot with her, her husband and their two boys. Also, The Wife's best friend drove over for dinner one night with her son. All these folks were properly impressed and quite taken with NJ. (Well, maybe not the grade school- and middle school-aged boys, but who can blame them? After all, there was a hot tub.) NJ slept really well, except for one nap when her five-year-old cousin just couldn't wait to play with her and crept into her room.

Look, guys, I'm crawling. Quick, laugh and smile and clap and shower me with gifts! That how this works, right?

Mystic: One day we drove to Mystic, Conn., to see the aquarium. NJ loves the aquarium in Seattle, and Mystic didn't disappoint, either. Her favorite exhibit was the jellyfish tank. I was partial to the trained seals and sea lions. Then we ate at a restaurant where I consumed fresh lobster (a sandwich) for the first time in years, and the waitress didn't keep the water glasses filled to my nephew's liking.

Back to the jellyfish, Aunt D. Let's go!

Food: The Wife's parents spoiled us with big, delicious meals. A big hot dog/hamburger blowout, lobsters and a delicious fish chowder were the highlights. NJ ate the fish chowder and all the vegetables put in front of her, to the delight and amusement of her relatives. She, The Wife and I also stopped in a Willington, Conn., restaurant where NJ feasted on bits of turkey sandwich and some of my pepperoni-and-anchovies calzone (no anchovies for her, though). We also made a stop at the UConn Dairy Bar, where The Wife and I ate ice cream while a smiling NJ charmed a couple of bikers who were waiting in line. It was semi-surreal.

Animals: NJ met her grandparents' dogs, Winston and Jake (seen here crashing a photo op). They're getting up there in years, and one of them is deaf now, but they were incredibly tolerant of the crawling little minx and her tiny, curious hands. I think she still prefers The Two Idiots, though. There was also a cat that peaked NJ's curiosity greatly (and she wasn't even aware of the cat's most outstanding feature: 25 toes). She doesn't remember Elmore -- a.k.a. the Magnificent Bastard, who was 15 years old when she was born and had to be laid to rest just a couple of weeks after she came home from the hospital -- so the idea of a sleek, aloof, not-at-all-clumsy-and-loud animal prowling the house intrigued her.

Drive to Boston: Uneventful. Although, after listening to Beantown sports talk radio all week, let me say this: Red Sox fans, get over yourselves. Seriously.

Flight home: Much, much, much smoother than the trip out. Now a seasoned air travel veteran, NJ was an angel in the Boston airport. The car seat fit better this time around, and NJ slept for three solid hours on the flight. I would have enjoyed that a lot more if I wasn't sitting there feeling my cold coming on. We got home at almost 11 p.m. and NJ went right back to sleep.

Overall: The Wife and I were extremely glad and grateful that NJ got to spend a week with her New England grandparents (they came out to Seattle last fall, too), and that her extended family members flocked to Connecticut for an audience with her. It wasn't easy for everyone -- my brother's family had to juggle four jobs and his daughter's fast-approaching college debut, for example, to make a week-long trip to southern New England. We appreciate it very much. NJ in particular.

Thanks, guys! Right back atcha!

Oh, The Places She Went

Oregon, in particular. Portland, Black Butte Ranch, then Portland again. it was the first time NJ had ventured farther away from home than SeaTac and Bellevue. And it was the first excursion-with-a-baby for me and The Wife. All in all it was a good trip -- we saw beautiful scenery, a fun and beautiful wedding, scoped out a couple of potential future vacation spots, and spent some time in one of our favorite cities. Oh, but it wasn't all balloons and sea shells, though. Let's recap, shall we?

We put the good car seat and the lightweight stroller in the SUV, along with a billion other items, and set off Friday morning, right at NJ's naptime. It was all pretty uneventful. Extremely uneventful, in fact. There's not a lot a couple of foodie/wine lover urbanites can do in a city with a ten-month-old. The main reason we stopped off in Portland was to break up the six-plus-hour drive from Seattle to Black Butte, but we naively thought we might have a little old-school (read: pre-baby) fun in Portland as well. But: no. After NJ's afternoon nap (and mine) at the hotel, we ate room service and watched an in-room movie (the exceptional comic abilities of Carell and Fey overcome a pedestrian plot).

All this for a three-day weekend, and not a single baby wipe in any of those bags.

Saturday morning we headed for beautiful Central Oregon, driving through the Detroit Lake area and almost to Bend until we hit Black Butte Ranch (warning: automatic audio track when you click the website). We arrived in time for lunch, but NJ didn't sleep much on the drive and needed her afternoon nap in a big way. The ranch is a beautiful place, but its fatal flaw was the lack of air conditioning in our room (since we were only staying one night, I booked cheap). No windows, only a sliding door to the small porch -- which was surrounded by a six-foot wooden fence, perfect for keeping cool breezes out of the room. We pointed the fan at NJ's crib, and her nap lasted until 3.30 p.m., when we rushed to get ready for the 4 p.m. wedding. Once there there ceremony was about, oh, forty seconds old when NJ decided to yammer loudly about whatever was on her mind (the couple exchanged vows in a spot by a lake with the view in the first photo above), so The Wife spirited her away to the back of the field where they played -- joined by our friends and their kids, one who was ring-bearer and the other flower girl -- while our buddies Jill and Ray got hitched. After wowing everyone at the reception with her off-the-charts cuteness, NJ was hauled off to the sweat box-room by The Wife and put down. Dad Solo remained for a while longer, at one point breaking out his world-famous Mick Jagger funky-chicken dance moves when the band played "Honky Tonk Women."

Sunday's drive back to Portland marked the first time NJ rejected her bottle of formula, a situation that lasted until we got home last night. No obvious explanation -- she was hungry, but wouldn't take the bottle. In Portland again, we toured a street festival and the riverfront -- NJ got a cute little tie-dyed dress out of it -- before returning to the hotel. At lunch The Wife had given her some solid food, but without the formula supplement it wasn't enough and by dinnertime the kid was famished. Dad Solo's decision to eat in the excellent restaurant attached to the hotel proved to be a controversial one: NJ fussed and squawked to the point that The Wife thinks one couple decided to leave rather than listen to her. This was when I defiantly steeled myself, sipped my cocktail, and tucked in to my Kobe brisket. For the first 44 years of my life I weathered countless crying babies on trains, subways and airplanes and in restaurants and other public venues, never once complaining to a parent, sighing dramatically or otherwise expressing my feelings. Now, world, It's My Turn. I will do my best to limit baby-related noise and activity, and you will keep your big yap shut if it doesn't always work out. Oh, and the brisket was ridiculously excellent. NJ devoured four grilled chicken strips and a handful of french fries, which had been cut up into little pieces and piled in front of her. We ordered desert to go. I looked at the mess under NJ's high chair and promptly overtipped. The last night of our vacation? I read, The Wife watched The Food Channel, and NJ fussed for a good, long time before finally drifting off.

NJ did some reading at the hotel, too.

We got home yesterday afternoon. NJ took a two-hour nap on the drive (missing out on a lot of Mariners trade talk on the radio). She's back on the bottle, and a slight fever she had in Portland is gone, too. So all's well and her first vacation is in the books. We've learned valuable lessons about packing and planning around naps, hopefully, because our next trip is in a couple of weeks and we're flying across the country for a week. And the It's My Turn rule will be in effect then, too. I hope I don't have to invoke it. But listen up, New England: I will if I have to.

Sometimes, But Not Often, It Comes To This

Nap time.

The World's Most Underrated Baby Milestone 3: Return Of The Baby Milestone

This morning, as NJ was playing and I was guzzling coffee here at the desk, she looked up from her pile of toys and gave me a half cry. I started talking to her and she did it again, a little louder and a little whinier. Then she raised her arms. I picked her up and she let loose a yawn that lasted about twenty minutes. I took her upstairs and she was asleep in her crib before I could get out of the room.

It beats the last time she outwardly indicated she was ready for her nap, when she just fell over asleep.

Movement On Movement

NJ turns 9 months old this weekend, and she's marking the occasion with a multi-day Wrigglepalooza leading up to the big day. Until recently she hadn't shown any interest in crawling, something that's both perplexed me ("Crawl to the toy! You'll never make the Supreme Court at age 30 if you don't step it up!") and relieved me ("Let's avoid childproofing and chasing her around as long as possible.").

Her peers are figuratively all over the place -- one 10-month-old we know has been crawling for months now, and a couple of other 10-month-olds still haven't bothered with it. The crawler can really book, too; she's crawled rings around NJ a couple of times, leaving NJ grabbing air as she moves past.

Over the past few days, though, NJ has become a lot more mobile. And a lot more interested in being mobile, which may be a distinction without a difference, but still. Three weeks ago, let's say, when NJ found herself on her belly she'd fuss for a moment, then look around, then decide to lay there with her thumb in her mouth before rolling over onto her back. Two weeks ago, for some reason she decided that rolling over immediately was the way to go. A week ago, there some leg action and, instead of immediate thumb-sucking, she's lift her torso up off the floor for a few seconds with her chubby baby arms. And the last couple of days, there's been an obvious escalation in the progression. Now the legs are churning, she lifts herself higher, and when she's laying flat she turns herself around using her arms. She does 360s on her tummy, basically, and occasionally inches forward a little bit before sliding back to her original position. It's fun to watch.

Pretty soon, that knee is going to dig into the carpet and she will pull herself forward until the other knee sticks. Then, Katie had better bar that door we're always hearing about. Or, maybe tomorrow she'll just crawl across the basement floor and stand up at the washing machine, out of the blue. Her most recent milestone is clapping, which she did for the first time yesterday. And it came completely out of nowhere. We clap with her a lot, and she had held our hands when we clapped, but she never showed an interest. Then, yesterday morning The Wife came to drag my butt out of bed and she sat NJ down next to me. NJ sat up and slowly, surely, and very happily clapped her hands together several times. Ever since, we've clapped our hands red trying to get her to do it some more (because it's beyond adorable to watch), but she does it on her own time, when she feels like it. Which is as it should be. (I hate it when the "CLAP!" message comes up on the baseball park scoreboard.) This evening when The Wife walked into the house, NJ smiled big and clapped and, well, it was so sweet and touching it should be an insurance commercial.

Now, even when I sit her at her play tunnel (photo above), she's interested in the toys that are far away from her, not the ones within arm's reach. And sleeping? I have no idea what this kid is doing when she sleeps. We put her smack in the middle of her crib, and for a long time we'd find her in the morning or after a nap in almost exactly the same position. For the past couple of weeks, though, when we go in for her we see a lot of this sideways stuff:

Seriously, who's that cheery when they wake up? Don't worry, kid, life will beat that happiness and childlike wonder out of you eventually.

And yesterday, I went to get her after an afternoon nap and came upon this:

I thought I saw a quarter over here.

Now, she obviously rolled over onto her stomach, and then rolled over again up against the railing there. But how did she get from the middle of the mattress to the corner? If it was a trick -- sorry, NJ, an illusion -- surely I would have heard The Final Countdown.

When Dad's Head Weighs Forty Pounds

I've been sick all week. It started last Saturday with a very sore throat, which ebbed a bit the following day before hitting again on Monday with full force, along with a stuffed head and all the other bells and whistles that accompany a cold. It was so bad that The Wife worked from home yesterday so she could look after NJ and, to a lesser extent, me. I even had to skip going out to watch the NFL Draft with The Guys, something I've only been looking forward to since last April. (Longer, actually -- Dallas didn't have a first-round pick last year, so I was already anticipating this year's draft two years ago. But I digress.) After about 18 hours on the couch yesterday (the Draft, 'Blade Runner' on blu-ray, etc.), I seemed to have turned the corner and hopefully will be right again by the time the weekend starts this evening.

So with me lugging around what felt like a giant concrete head, hocking and nose-blowing and spitting all day, and slipping into the occasional Nyquil-induced funk, you may ask: How did things go with the kid? Things went fine. Monday and Tuesday went as per usual, and we even went for very long walk on Tuesday -- to the drugstore for throat lozenges. The bad day was Wednesday, when I was laid too low to do anything other than sit around. And NJ was a champ. She played with her bazillion toys and napped like a pro and didn't complain about anything, ever. Which leads me to the buried lead of this post:

At eight-plus months, NJ is a very happy baby.

Yesterday she started fussing and crying at about 5 p.m., and after a few minutes deliberation The Wife and I realized she didn't get a meal after her afternoon nap and was hungry. So she got a bottle, and I tried to think back to the last time she'd cried like that. And I couldn't remember. I can count on one hand the number of times she's woken up in the night crying. Putting her down for a nap, or at bedtime, used to mean enduring a five- or ten-minute temper-tantrum cry; now she hits the mattress and either goes to sleep or jibbers and jabbers to herself for a while until she's out. (The Thumb helps, too.) No crying on wake-up, either -- oh, perhaps a couple of baby shrieks, but once you're in the room you're greeted by a smile that'll melt your heart and put a cartoon bluebird on your shoulder. And yesterday, I was laying on the couch when I realized that I'd been hearing NJ laughing hard for a couple of minutes straight. I got up to find she and The Wife having a laugh-off at the high chair. The Wife was damned if she could tell me what started it. Organic laugh-offs are the best.

I could go on forever about this stuff, but if you want more Internet cheese I suggest you go here. I need to keep in mind the unwritten rule that hangs over this blog, which is that while all these things are new and wonderful to me, I'm late to the game and all parents have been there and done that. But mostly, I feel like I'm jinxing the whole thing by typing it out like this. So I'll end it here and go blow my nose.

NJ's David Lynch to My Warren Zevon

The Wife was out of town Tuesday night, and my second round of Super Soloing with NJ went well, up to a point -- that point being mid-afternoon Wednesday. That's when things turned a little bit David Lynchian. Odd, steady whimpering. Angry eating. Refusal to eat. Wild mood swings. Sweeping, seemingly arbitrary rejection of previously established norms. It only lasted about four hours, but it seemed like an eternity.

The face of cruel, unyielding defiance

Sure, there was a delightful moment in the midst of the Meltdown that involved fart noises, stomach-poking and infectious baby laughter (see: Wild mood swings, above), but overall it was like running clean for the first two-thirds of a NASCAR race before getting rammed and sliding around the oval for the rest of the race. By the end of it all I was happy to drive into a wall just to end it. That wall was The Wife, finally coming through the door. NJ was so happy to see her that I had a hard time convincing The Wife how bad it all was. Their reunion was sweet enough under normal circumstances; to me, The Wife's arrival was akin to that of a Marine kicking in the door and releasing the hostages.

A lot of it is her missing her mom, of course, and there's also a gradual weaning process in progress. ('Process in progress' -- say it five times, fast!) I think NJ's not too happy with gradual dominance of formula over breast milk, and I'm not sure I blame her because this formula stinks something terrible. Her formula burps are almost as bad as our dog's.

The other thing at play is NJ's recent realization that sometimes, when she's being put in her crib or on the floor mat on her own, she can elicit the beginnings of a crying jag and one of her parents will swoop in to her rescue, picking her back up and lavishing her with love and attention. I'm wise to this and have started to ignore it, so now there's the initial bleat of crying at being put down, then another as she realizes that the first bleat isn't bending me to her will. Then (I imagine) she sighs and shrugs her shoulders, because almost instantly she's shaking a rattle or batting a squeaky bird around. But I still think there's resentment there. It'll probably finally boil over when she's 35.

The weaning and the manipulation ("The Weaning and the Manipulation" -- isn't that an old Truffaut film?) have me a little worried about next week, when The Wife goes to New York City (the town so nice they named it twice -- the other name is "Manhattan") for four days. Call it Super Solo: Armageddon. If I haven't blogged my guts out after two days, pray to your god and send lawyers, guns and money.

Don't Oppose The Opposable

Sometime in the past couple of weeks, NJ discovered her thumb and its almost perfect fit in her mouth. And it's been an absolute delight. It's been at least a week since she woke up from a nap and cried; now, when I check on her, if I see her head is raised off the swing I walk around and find her happily sucking on her hand's fifth digit. Same with crib naps -- I'll hear her stirring on the monitor and get ready to burst into her room and save the day, but the crying doesn't come. Instead of bawling, she jibbers and jabbers and works the thumb. This can go on for quite a while, buying Dad Solo precious time to finish an episode of quality television programming or browse the online iPhone app store.

NJ's got the open-hand, fanned-fingers thumb suck down pat, choosing that over the traditional fist. Also, in something I hope is a harbinger of things to come, she uses her left hand. Hendrix, the Babe, McCartney, Ben Franklin, Obama, Koufax, Judy Garland, Robert Plant, Eudora Welty, Dad Solo, da Vinci, Letterman -- the list of great Lefties goes on and on. Even Wink Martindale!

I originally wanted a boy, as The Wife will tell you, but the instant I found out that wasn't happening, the idea of having a daughter became the most beautiful thing I could imagine and I haven't even thought about looking back. But left-handed, like her dad? Yeah. I want this.

Crib Notes

Three months ago we began the transition from the Moses basket in our bedroom to the crib in her room. Even with a highly sensitive baby monitor, it wasn't easy psychologically on The Wife. It went well, though -- the first two nights we visited her in the grand tradition of Dr. Richard Ferber, and after that she's slept like a ... hold on, wait for it ... like a baby. Since that first week, NJ has awakened and cried only three times (ironically, last night was one of them). We've heard tales of kids waking every two hours during their teething and growth spurts, but NJ hasn't sprouted a tooth yet and, while she's definitely growing, there hasn't been a spurt uncomfortable enough to set her wailing. The vast majority of the time, NJ"s sleeping from about 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. or later now.

A couple of weeks after that transition began, we decided to move her naps to the crib, too, and out of the basement, home of the swing and soothing rock music lullabies. How'd that go? Thanks for asking -- not too good. NJ pitched fits that would have made Dr. Ferber reach for the whiskey, cigarettes and Xanax after a few minutes. We felt like we were lucky that she was sleeping through the night, so we decided to cut our losses and return to the basement for naps for a while.

"A while" ended this week.

Her afternoon naps in her crib have been short -- half as long as a typical basement swing nap -- but she has, indeed, slept. The room has blackout shades that darken the room to the appropriate level, and I shut the door so no dog wanders into her room to see what's in her waste basket. I zip her up in her sleep sack, borrowing part of the evening routine in hopes of making it more soothing and familiar. On the monitor, I can hear her yammering softly to herself for a few minutes, then ... silence. Sleep. Sleep good. But when she wakes up, she screams and cries like it's the end of the world. It's excruciating -- the kind of crying that makes your shoulders involuntarily hunch and your eyes get as big as saucers. The room is plenty dark and there's no extra noise; I don't understand the difference between sleeping in there at night and during the day. Apparently, though, there is one. As soon as NJ learns to talk, I'm going to ask her what it is.

Once we nail this crib nap thing, we'll expand it and NJ will take her morning nap there as well. (The Wife could, theoretically, put her down right before she leaves for work, letting Dad Solo slumber peacefully until NJ wakes up again. In reality, this will never happen.) But it's going to be a long, loud road.

Does This Mean I'm Winning?

NJ turns six months old in a week, so I'm going to use this artificial, round-number milestone to assess my and The Wife's parenting skills. Half a year in, after all. So, after an exhaustive, painstaking review, the objective pronouncement is:

We're doing anywhere from Great to Adequate.

On one hand, we haven't had to rush to the emergency room or call a shopping mall security office to ask if anyone found a child in a car seat at the food court. Still, though, NJ has yet to win a MacArthur Grant or grace the cover of a major magazine. So it's a wash, I guess. Now, on to the individual categories ...

The Wife is a great, great Mom. I always knew she would be. She loves NJ to death, misses her all day long, and when she walks through the door in the evening the kid's face lights up and her arms start flailing in "hug me, pick me up, Mommy" semaphore. I've never, ever seen anyone so eager to get up at 4.30 a.m. as The Wife is when NJ wakes up hungry. Also, she's taken the lead on solid food feeding and has it down pat.

I'm getting better. The Wife's overnight trip last week was the last big test for Dad Solo, at least until the teeth start coming in an the growth spurts hit (any minute now!). The daily routines are set, solid enough that now I can tinker with them some without blowing the entire day. I'm doing my best to watch The Wife and learn from her, too, although when it's me wielding a spoonful of solid food, NJ isn't as interested.

However, there's one area where I've surpassed The Wife: Naps.

The Wife has lost her touch there. The past couple of weekends NJ has missed at least one nap per day, and that's on The Wife's watch. A couple of times she's come up from the basement, frustrated because NJ has cried nonstop for a half hour, and sent me down to take over. On the other hand, I almost always get NJ to sleep in five or ten minutes, and there rarely has been any crying. Her swing is next to the basement bed, and I'll lay there reading my iPhone until I see that the kid has nodded off before getting up and going to the office or sneaking back upstairs.

I don't really know why this is. The only theory that makes any sense is that when The Wife is overseeing the nap, NJ would rather be awake and in her arms. When it's me there in front of her, NJ thinks "Eh, him again? I might as well get some shuteye." Whatever the reason, I'm the reining Sandman around here and if you want that title you'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands. Or take it up with the kid.

Turns Out, Five-and-a-Half Months Is "The Age of Aquarium"*

*Oh: It's Age of Aquarius? OK, whatever ... I've got half a pun there and I'm sticking with it.

NJ had a delightful time today at the Seattle Aquarium. She laughed a bit and cooed a lot, smiled a bunch and drooled a gallon. She loved the indoor exhibits -- exotic fish swimming in front of wildly colorful coral reefs, and there was a column of bubbles lit by fluorescent light that she absolutely adored.



(Trust me -- the digital flash does not do this column of lit bubbles justice. It was pink with hot-pink bubbles.)

(And, seriously: Look at her in that hat and pea coat! Who's cuter than that? No one! Who could even be cuter than that? Maybe two, three people, ever, in all of human history -- tops. Perhaps Cleopatra as a child; there's no photographic evidence, but ... maybe. Bottom line: Cute as all get-out.)

NJ also enjoyed the outdoor exhibits, the seals and otters. Slightly less, though, because the bright lighting of the indoor aquariums are more engaging (to an almost six-month-0ld, I assume) than the outdoor venues that house the mammals and birds. Also, she sees Willie the Lab at home, and he is a dead ringer for a seal and/or an otter. So: Been there, done that.

NJ was in good shape after checking out the entire aquarium, so we went across the street to a big antique store. Dad Solo was hoping he might find something the last time he was there, four years ago -- a portrait of Franklin D. Roosevelt that would look awesome on his office wall, next to portraits of Babe Ruth, T-Bone Walker, Thelonious Monk, Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio, Muddy Waters and several other great Americans. Of course, FDR -- our greatest president -- would have made a fine, worthy addition. Sadly, the portrait was gone; I just hope a patriotic American bought it instead of some loony Teabagger hell-bent on using it to make some sort of sick, twisted, misguided fascist/socialist/communist comparison. After all, FDR saved our bacon in the 20th century more than any other American, even Elvis Presley. It's a shame how some people are trashing his memory: NJ will know him as a hero, not as anything resembling the dishonest caricature that a small, uninformed minority are portraying him now. (Our Lab, Willie, is a fan,too -- "I think I have a right to resent, to object, to libelous statements about my dog" rings true to any self-respecting canine.)

NJ was an angel throughout our antique store prowl, but once we got home she was extremely reluctant to take her afternoon nap. The Wife has had trouble putting her down for naps lately, but I think there might have been something else going on: All the talk of aquatic life got her riled up. Lately she's developed a crush on a completely different fish than the sort you'll find at your more respectable aquariums. I think she was pining away for Fred, who hangs over our kitchen doorway. Whenever NJ is in the kitchen, she can't take her eyes off this guy. He's something of a Svengali. Or Fishgali. Whatever. All I know is, when I'm in the kitchen busting my butt to entertain this kid, all she can do is stare up at this ceramic fish. I mean, really: All that thing does is hang there, looking exactly the same, 24/7.

Oh, not that I'm bitter. Any friend of NJ's is a friend of mine.

Super Solo Dad Diary, Day Two

12.30 a.m.-ish: I finally drop off to sleep. NJ went to bed at 8 p.m. and only stirred once -- when I shut the dishwasher door too hard. Three minutes of half-hearted warbling and she was back sawing logs.

4 a.m.: I wake up and lock eyes on the baby monitor. Why isn't that kid freaking out? It's quiet. Too quiet.

5.45 a.m.: Willie shifts position on the bed -- I never get the entire bed when The Wife is gone because he takes her place -- and wakes me up. I could get back in bed, but surely she'll be awake any minute, so I get dressed.

6 a.m.: The dogs are fed and in the back yard. NJ is smiling sleepily at me from her crib. She slept, or at least was content in her crib, for ten hours. I didn't think I could love her any more, but this cranks the dial to eleven.

8 a.m.: The Wife got some early-morning photos, NJ slammed down eight ounces (today's feeding movie: The Last Picture Show), and we played on the quilt for quite a while. Now, though, she's nodding off in her bouncy chair on the dining room table. An e-mail dings my cell phone awake: "She looks sleepy," The Wife replies to the last photo. We head downstairs to the napping swing.

10.30 a.m.: For the entire time NJ napped, almost two and a half hours, I was on the phone with tech support. Finally, with the computer healthy again, I turn on a basement light. By the time I get to the swing there's another sleepy smile waiting for me.

12 p.m.: It's too cold and drizzly to leave the house for no reason, so we don't. Dad Solo smokes up the kitchen frying bacon for a sandwich. NJ coughs a lot, but I think she accepted my apology.

12.30 p.m.: More play time. NJ is in a particularly flirty mood, which is awesome. Later, just as I'm thinking that my t-shirt is a little gamey, NJ yaks all over it. I get the hint, kid.

2 p.m.: Afternoon nap time. Dad Solo had three and a half cups of coffee in the morning, but nonetheless takes a nap, too.

3.50 p.m.: In the office, I hear cooing from NJ's swing. I smile.

4.45 p.m.: The sun is out now. NJ and I leave for the supermarket. Not only is The Wife going to come home to a happy baby and husband, but she's going to get a big bowl of delicious -- delicious! -- pork chili when she sits down. NJ is an adorable, smiling hit with both customers and the cashier.

6.30 p.m.: I tell NJ that her mother is going to walk through that door any minute now. She seems to perk up -- a very serious look crosses her face. Might be the aroma of sauteing garlic and jalapenos, might be her weighing the gravity of the situation. Who's to say? I put her in the Baby Bjorn.

6.38 p.m.: The Wife walks through the door. I can't see NJ's face, but her flailing arms and legs tell me she's happy to see her mom. The Wife beams, pulls her out of the harness and hugs her tight.

7.15 p.m.: Dinner is served. The Wife expertly eats a bowl of piping hot chili over NJ, who's delighted to be supping on real milk instead of formula.

All in all, Super Solo was a smashing success. Not a single bad moment and lots of good ones. My game plan of nervous anxiety seems to have worked again. I never celebrate a Texas Longhorns victory until the final gun sounds, and likewise I never declare a Super Solo victory until time has expired. Now, knowing this went well, I can look to future Super Solos without fear. Hopefully NJ has an inkling that if one of her parents disappears for an extended period of time, she's still in good hands with the other one. After all, they're both nuts about her.

Super Solo Daily Diary

Here's the day, as best as my creaky memory can relate:

11 p.m. (Monday night): NJ's cries come through the baby monitor on The Wife's nightstand. Twenty-five minutes later, after a steady escalation, I go down to check on her. After a few moments cribside, I leave and the cries intensify. Fifteen minutes after that, The Wife trudges downstairs to feed her. We haven't had a problem with NJ waking up in the night in months. The Wife gets back in bed at about 1.30 a.m.

4 a.m.: NJ begins crying lustily again. There's no point in trying to wait her out, so The Wife climbs out of bed and heads downstairs to feed her. NJ woke up at roughly three-hour intervals, something that hasn't happened since her first month. This does not bode well for Dad Solo's Super Solo evening, I think as I stretch diagonally across the bed and drift back to sleep. Willie rests his chin on my leg.

7 a.m.: The Wife wakes me up, saying that NJ's ready for her morning nap. That's what happens when you don't get enough sleep during the night: You're napping again shortly after 7 a.m. I take NJ to the basement and strap her in the swing. After puttering around a few moments and saying my goodbyes to The Wife, it's almost 7.30 a.m. I lay down on the bed next to the swing. NJ is already out like a light. In a matter of minutes, I am too.

9.30 a.m.: NJ stirs and coos. I'm pretty sure I mumbled something.

10 a.m.: The coos escalate to that sort of irritable crying babies sometimes do -- not flat-out bawling, but the I'm-tired-and-vaguely-unhappy-about-something-I-can't-put-my-finger-on whine. I sit up and she smiles, knowing that Dad Solo is dragging his butt out of bed. Finally, Old Man. Finally. I e-mail the first of the day's batch of NJ photos to The Wife.

10.30 a.m.: NJ is having her first Dad Solo bottle of the day. I'm trying to make sure she doesn't turn her head toward A Clockwork Orange on the TV.

11.30 a.m.: Needing to get out of the house on a surprisingly sunny day, I dress NJ in her tiny Mom jeans and "Born to Love" t-shirt and we head out to run a couple of errands. In our neighborhood, I pull over to talk to someone on my phone and, after a five-minute conversation, I look in the rear-view mirror to see the child out cold. The car used to have no effect on NJ, but now it's an automatic sleep-maker. It's like me on an airplane. Ten or fifteen minutes in, and it's "Who's snoring?"

12 p.m.: I've decided against the supermarket run, because NJ had a rough night and she is pooped. However, I realize, this early nap is going to throw her (us) off for the rest of the day. I grind my teeth and go on a long drive that includes a drive-through coffee and a stop at Burgermaster for lunch.

1 p.m.: I'm eating my burger on the coffee table and NJ is in her car seat on the floor, staring at me so sleepily that she is as still as a statue for least ten minutes. Maybe I was really wolfing down the chow and she was too horrified to move.

2 p.m.: NJ is eating again, while on the TV Alex is getting his first taste of experimental aversion therapy. His appreciation of Ludwig Van will never be the same again.

3 p.m.: The Wife receives another batch of photos. NJ and Dad Solo are having a grand old time playing in his office.

4.30 p..m.: We've sailed through NJ's usual naptime, because of the car nap she had early in the afternoon. I finish up the movie as she slurps on her bottle, occasionally trying to rub the tired out of her eyes.

5.10 p.m.: NJ collapses in my lap, and I move her to the crib. This late nap is not good, not good at all. I get on the phone -- software customer support -- and after thirty minutes on hold I hang up, go upstairs and make a lot of noise in the hallway in hopes that she'll wake up naturally and easily. She does, at about 5.50 p.m.

6 p.m.: Determined to keep NJ occupied until a 7 p.m. bath, I plant her next to me on the couch with her music box, which she frantically punches in hoping of hearing some tunes. (It plays Mozart, not Beethoven, so I won't have any Clockwork Orange flashbacks.) She's happy up until the second the sound stops, or the second her rattle is out of range of her mouth, and then it's fussing time.

6.20 p.m.: I strap on the Baby Bjorn and wear NJ as I do a little laundry and other housework.

6.40 p.m.: Not wanting to do too much housework, of course, I switch to kitchen dancing as I get her bath ready. NJ in particular likes "Twisting By the Pool" by Dire Straits and "Happy" by the Stones. At one point she cranes her head back to get a look up at me. She does it again, smiling big, and this time I lean down and kiss her forehead and then bow my head down to sort of hug her. She continues to smile and mashes her face into my cheek, holding it there for several moments. I am convinced she's kissing her dad and the room starts to get a little dusty. I am, indeed, "Happy."

7 p.m.: Bath time goes off without a hitch. The Wife receives a batch of (tasteful) nude photos of her daughter splashing and smiling in the tub.

8 p.m.: Dried and fluffed, NJ finishes off every bit of her evening bottle and tries to keep her eyes open as I burp her. She gets into her sleep sack and goes down in the crib without a peep. It's an hour later, and as far as the baby monitor knows, she's out like a light. I've already got a pot of coffee ready to be brewed, all I'll have to do is stumble downstairs and switch the coffeemaker on as I get her. I hope she's going to sleep through the night, but if she doesn't -- eh, no biggie. I'll get up whenever, try to nap when she does, drink lots of java. It's not like I have anywhere else I'd rather be.

Awakenings

I was awakened at a quarter to eight this morning by the sound of cheering and clapping. Downstairs, The Wife was beaming and informed me that NJ had rolled over, completely, for the first time. Tummy to back. I got up, quickly dressed, and rushed down to see for myself. NJ obliged, and It. Was. Adorable.

I was awakened at a quarter to three this afternoon by the sound of stomping footsteps on the stairs. Frowning, The Wife informed me that NJ would not take her afternoon nap, she'd sat bawling in her swing for thirty minutes. I got up and rushed down to see why my question "So my nap had to end, too?" was so out of line.

Anatomy of an Unexpected Noontime Nap

Daddy, you are so gosh-darned funny! Why doesn't NBC give YOU a show? Because you're too funny for those clowns, that's why! Ha ha ha ha!

Seriously -- why don't you get a show or something? Are you going to be hanging around the house all the time? Oh, hey: Be a love and hand me that giraffe, 'k?

Whoa ... what the what? ... hold on here a second ...

So sleepy ... mmmmm ... so very sleepy ...

Hold my calls.

Look for Me on the Cover of People

NJ is closing in on hour No. 3 of a stupendous afternoon nap. I crashed on the floor next to her swing and just roused myself awake. The day is almost over and I am groggy, part of my beard is damp from sleep drool, I have a headache and a back ache, and -- as the dog-turd-in-my-mouth taste confirms -- I just realized that I never brushed my teeth this morning.

This is getting to be pretty darn glamorous.

Nap Judgment

I love NJ's naps. She's been asleep for almost 90 minutes now and I've paid a stack of bills, categorized some photographs, added an app to my iPhone, cleaned out my inbox, answered a couple of e-mails, read a couple of sports blogs (your favorite blogger just won a 161-person NFL pool! Huzzah and hooray!), started writing this item, and poured my third cup of coffee.

The key to keeping NJ sleeping is 1) the warm basement, 2) the rocking swing (which we will have to wean her off of soon, I'm afraid), and 3) keeping the lullaby music going. I can hear it from the office, and when 'Radio Ga Ga' is about halfway through I go in and start the "Rockabye Baby! Lullaby Renditions of Queen" CD over again. (I've always been lukewarm on Queen, but this is probably our favorite of the rock lullaby CDs we have. The irritating, overrated "Bohemian Rhapsody" was positively MADE for the xylophone-and-glockenspiel bedtime treatment.)

Last night I didn't have high hopes for NJ's sleepy time today. She absolutely refused to nap Saturday and Sunday, and that makes for a cranky, squeaky, eye-rubbing kid at the end of the day. And the morning nap is, to me, a mystery. Why would she be ready to sleep if she has only been up for three hours? I put her in the swing, darkened the basement and turned on the CD thinking that we'd make it through all the songs, she'd be wide awake at the end of it, and I'd carry her back upstairs, defeated. But after about ten seconds of fuss, her head listed to one side and she was Out. Cold.

Ah, NJ just started crying. She slept for 100 minutes total, and now she's hungry. The best part of her nap is when she wakes up: She cries, I show up in her line of vision, and the crying turns to a stretch and a sleepy smile.

Five O'Clock and I'm Starting to Sag

By the time The Wife walked through the door yesterday, I was exhausted. As I sit here this morning, I’m trying to figure out why, exactly. It was a fairly typical day … simple errands, playing with NJ, stealing minutes for household chores and the like while she played with one of her bazillion Christmas toys or napped in the basement. When I got home from dropping a lithograph off at the frame shop and exchanging a baby shirt, NJ was sawing logs in the car seat. I left her in it to snooze while I ate lunch, and this ended up being her afternoon nap. It was too early, and by 3 p.m. or so she was tired, cranky, and not going to sleep. Finally I gave her two ounces of formula and she dropped off in my lap, at 5 p.m. When The Wife got home I was delighted to hand NJ off to her, even if it meant eating leftovers for dinner because I didn’t feel like cooking and The Wife couldn’t cook unless I took NJ back. Which wasn’t going to happen. So I laid on the sofa for a solid hour watching TV and goofing around on my iPhone.

So: Why so beat? Nothing out of the ordinary going on, really. Did the cranky, tired baby make me cranky and tired? Osmosis? Is full-time infant parenting really this tiring? There was a tense moment late in the afternoon when I was holding NJ up to look out the window—a sure-fire calming trick, usually, but not when her socks slip on the sill and she bumps her forehead on the window. I watched the slow build-up to a full-throated cry and thought, “Brace yourself,” but she got over it very quickly and by the time we’d rocked out to “Vertigo” in the kitchen it was forgotten.

Part of it is that I’m thinking I have to be On all the time. Which I do, at least until some natural rhythms develop and take root. At various times of the day I looked at the clock and thought either “Holy cow, it’s already so late” or “Are those hands moving backward?” Like I said to a friend once under different circumstances: "Wow, that (looks at watch) certainly was an amount of time, wasn’t it?"

Another factor is taking stock at the end of the day. At my job I could drive home and think "OK, I edited three articles, built five Web pages and created a bunch of search keywords today. Nice job." The accomplishments now are a hell of a lot better -- NJ's smiles and laughs, a giant burp after a meal (her, not me), an angelic face as she naps -- but a little harder (or just weirder) to neatly catalog. I'm going to make more of an effort to notice these things, to see them in real time, to drink them in. They're the reason I'm here.