Dancing Baby II - The Wrath of Dancing Baby

Third attempt. First time I tried the "Blog This" button in Picasa and it seemed to be uploading, but lo and behold it only uploaded one frame of the video. Second time I tried the "Add Video" button in Blogger and the upload took so long that eventually the laptop overheated and shut down (it does that).

A little research revealed that Blogger uploads are limited to a hundred megs and my video was 101! Bummer. So I trimmed it in Windows Movie Maker and tried again. Movie Maker converted the file from an .AVI to a .WMV, and I'm not sure if that's supported by Blogger.

Time to find out.

Publish!

Hottest Week Ever

Look closely at the dashboard. See the temperature reading? It's a bit exaggerated, as the car had been sitting in the sun on pavement for an hour or two. But we felt every degree of it.

And Pat is living in the basement, which is normally or refuge from the summer heat.

Ah, well. Elizabeth was stalwart. The heat didn't seem to bother her a bit. She and Barb had it worse than I did, as I, at least, got to spend 8+ hours per day in the air conditioned federal building.

After four or five days, the weather has returned to a reasonable low-90s.

Book baby, book baby!

Elizabeth is now officially confirmed as the fruit of my loins. For one thing, she has a huge head. For another thing, she loves books, as evidenced by this picture.

Also notable in this picture is that she's on her knees. E.R. has been crawling around commando-style for a while now, but hasn't yet mastered the hands-and-knees method. However, she is learning how to lever herself up onto her knees for such favorite activities as pulling every boardbook off the shelf.

She's a good baby.

This Sunday I fly to Baltimore for more VA training. This time it's "Introduction to Leadership," as I am now a manager (guess I did an okay job on my KSAs). I'll be there Sunday to Friday solo, then Barb and Baby E. will fly in. Hopefully Grandma Susy and Grandpa Grumps will come down from Long Island to visit and eat crabs.

As I write this, I can hear Barb reading Goodnight Moon to Elizabeth in the bedroom. We've read that book countless times. It's really an amazing piece of art, but I'll have to delve into the depths of that book later, when I'm sitting lonely in the Baltimore Inner Harbor Marriott with half of a sixpack still left to drink.

Soapbox

No, I'm not going to get up on a soapbox and rap at ya. I'm gonna talk about the 2008 Portland Adult Soapbox Derby, which happened today. This is the third I've attended, and for some reason the magic was missing. The first year I was knocked out of my socks and into a bubbling whirlpool of awesomeness -- how could I have lived in Portland so long and not been hip to this most cool event? People making incredible non-motorized cars and careening down Mt. Tabor, an inactive volcano, at top speed? Not only were the cars absolutely mindblowing (in both categories: Art and Science), the atmosphere was the epitome of southeast Portland greatness: cool families, scurvy hippies, blondes with dreadlocks, shirtless skaters, eight million bicylists of all stripes, the occasional square from the west side, and everyone clutching a sweating can of PBR and having a blast.

Last year I also had a good time but I was in the midst of a non-drinking period and that took a bit of the fun out of it -- but not much. Instead of pounding brewskis, I made a movie.

This year was the first that Barb could attend (as in past years she was working retail which means Saturdays) and, of course, Elizabeth Rose. It was fun, still, but not as magical as in the past. Maybe it was the weather: HOT. It's almost 6pm right now and it's 99 degrees out (90 inside). Plus, the baby was fussy and couldn't be calmed. We left after maybe an hour or so because she became inconsolable.

There's always next year.

The Missing

I'm away from my baby for the first time since her birth: in Cleveland for three and a half weeks to train newly hired service reps for the VA. Cleveland's pretty cool, the extra money is nice, the work is fine -- the only thing missing is my family; especially this beautiful baby!

It's notable how much the missing can really hurt. I saw a fellow traveller here at the hotel step off the elevator carrying a pair of little baby girl shoes and a dart of missing struck my heart. I saw a news story about a local man who allegedly murdered his 2-month-old namesake son and felt a pang of such sorrow... that little baby deserved so much more.

I love my baby girl so much.

Thankfully, we can afford to have Barb and Elizabeth fly out in a week, and stay for the remainder of the trip. Can't wait.

The bachelor thing was fun for a day or two, but the novelty is already wearing off. Frankly, I'm a pretty lame bachelor. I hunker down in my hotel room listening to Built To Spill, drinking beer, and either reading (Lonesome Dove, which is awesome), internetting, or playing video games (see Experiments in Otaku or I Think I'm Turning Japanese, above). Tonight I spent a minute or two looking at the fireworks over Jacobs Field (I'll never call it Progressive Field!), then went back to my beer and my DS.

Baby is My Co-Pilot

Today Barb went to church thence to Robin Burrow's baby shower, leaving me and Elizabeth Rose to fend for ourselves. She's almost four months old, now, but it's been the rare occasion that we spend time with just each other. As if that weren't enough to make Daddy apprehensive, Portland's in the middle of a heat wave (The Surfer's exterior thermometer showed 108 degrees yesterday!) and there were a ton of chores crying to be done (dishes, laundry, unpacking from camping, putting together a couple of Zombie Christ orders, etc.).

We ended up having a great time together. I played with and read to E.R., carried her around a lot on my shoulder (her new carry position), fed her twice, and still managed to get most of the chores done. I came away from the experience feeling that we should make it a regular thing: Daddy-Baby Day. Not only is it great for us, it's a much-needed break for Mommy, who spends so much time with the baby (and will be spending even more, with my upcoming 26-day trip to Cleveland).

History in the Making!

Today Barb put Elizabeth Rose in the Moby facing outward. It's a sign that she is officially a big baby.

In fact, her neck still isn't quite strong enough to make this position perfectly practical. While she was awake in the Moby, Barb sort of bracketed Elizabeth's head with her (Barb's) hands. Elizabeth is, perhaps, a little behind the curve in neck strength development. Regardless, she can hold her head up, just not for very long.

But the facing-forward-in-the-Moby worked. Elizabeth enjoyed looking at the world (rather than Mommy or Daddy's collarbone), and after 15 minutes conked out.

Which, as you can see, was pretty damn cute.

They Grow Up So Fast!

Supercliche, I know. But nine weeks into her life, Elizabeth Rose has decided that lying on her back is preferable to being held. Barb and I made a real effort to keep her close to us, either in arms or in the Moby, after she was born. At first, what soothed the baby girl was being held and walked. Then she graduated to being bounced on the physioball (see photo). Now, finally, she is a big girl and wants to lie on her back, wave her tiny limbs around, squeak and squawk, and generally be independent.

The Virtue of Imperfection

The first time I traveled to Barb's parents' house in Rocky Point, NY, I was stunned and seduced by the apparent perfection of the neighborhood in which they lived. It wasn't a rich neighborhood, just solidly middle class, but everything was perfect. The driveways were all stainless black, sealed every two years. The cars were clean and beautifully maintained, even if not new. The lawns were green, uniform, and mowed. It seemed so much less decrepit than salt-bitten Syracuse, or, God forbid, Binghamton, both exemplars of Rust Belt decay.

The same perfection that wowed me Barb saw as the epitome of the sort of decadent suburban conformity that drives kids (like Barb) to rebel and flee to college or the decaying cities that are so much richer in culture.

Now that I own a house that is somewhat decrepit (it was built in 1925), I struggle with my desire for a perfection that I cannot achieve. I shouldn't even try.

A couple of months ago we got our wood floors refinished. They were in terrible shape, and I knew that there was no way to perfect them -- too many patched areas, scars, and stains. When they were done, I was satisfied that we had made a big improvement in the aesthetics and preservation of our old house. As soon as the contractor told us we could, we started to move back in. The first big piece of furniture to go into the living room was the couch, which has a hide-a-bed and therefore weighs about the same as a Harley-Davidson Fatboy. Barb was eight months pregnant. We couldn't carry it to its place, so we put it on its steel casters and rolled it across the floor. Sure enough each caster cut a furrow in our floor's new finish.

I wanted to curse and rend my clothes and tear my hair out. I didn't because I knew that in a week I wouldn't care so much and two months down the road I wouldn't care at all. I was wrong; a couple of months later I'm not indifferent to the furrows in our floor -- I like them. Like a scar on your flesh, or laugh lines in your face, imperfections tell stories and establish landmarks to guide your memory on its journey into the past. Because of the flaw in our floor I will live with an everpresent reminder of a particular week in our life, one of the last weeks before Barb and I became parents.

The Swaddle, and Implications Thereof

Elizabeth likes to be swaddled; that is, wrapped tightly in a blanket so her limbs are prevented from flailing uncontrollably, as the limbs of newborns are wont to do. A swaddled baby is reminded of the tight confines of the womb in the last few weeks before birth. She is comforted by the restrictions on her movements. Lately, Elizabeth has been more difficult to swaddle. She's bigger than she was at two days old, when the picture above was taken. More importantly, she's stronger and she fights the swaddle more. Thing is, although she fights the swaddle, she is only disturbed if she can bust out of the swaddling blanket. Wrap her tight, let her struggle to get out, and she will quickly abandon her efforts and go to sleep a happy, peaceful baby. But should she overcome the restrictions and get an arm or two free, she starts fussing and crying.

I was thinking the other night that this may have implications for the future. Just as with swaddling, she is going to fight against whatever restrictions Barb and I lay down -- but she'll only be truly disturbed if it turns out that our restrictions are so weak that she can overcome them.

It's the nature of kids to struggle against order, but that doesn't mean they don't need it.

The Moby

In the picture of Baby Elizabeth below she's snuggled into a Moby wrap. It's a 15 foot long piece of fabric that can be wrapped around baby and parent in a variety of ways. We received it from Aaron and Wendy and it's fantastic. I urge all parents to use the Moby or some other method of holding baby close to the body, rather than dangling at the end of Dad's arm in the plastic bucket of a car seat. Baby wants to be close to her parents. That's a fact, Jack.

The Beauty, Pt. II

Renaissance Baby
Originally uploaded by andrew_larrison

Here is Elizabeth Rose Larrison at ten days old.

I have long thought that the driving force behind the rise of civilization was the desire by parents to keep their children alive, and now that I have my own, my belief is reinforced. There is an awe-inspiring wellspring of love that a baby reveals in its parent. It's unlike anything I've ever felt, and although it's been the subject of countless works of art, it's not understandable until you feel it yourself.

It's scary how vulnerable love makes you. But I think it makes you powerful, too.

Nursery

During the earlier months of our pregnancy people would ask us, "Have you done the nursery yet?" and Barb and I would scoff. "We're not 'doing' any goddamn nursery," I'd say. "The baby can sleep in our room." Or maybe, "We'll roll the crib into the office, but that's it. No painting, no decorating. It's a baby! What does it care if there's a mural of dancing clowns on the wall??"

Looking back, it seems so naive. After a trip to IKEA (I got a love/hate thing going with that company that may take years and thousands of dollars to resolve) we now have a nursery: cute area rug featuring a dragon, red dresser full of nappies and clothes, Klimt print; and of course the crib and rocker we already had. All in all, it looks like a nursery (albeit the nursery of the coolest newborn in SE Portland).

Can't wait to find out what belief is next to crumble before the inexorable power of the babychild.