"If He's Hungry"

"If Noah gets hungry, there's leftover spinach and yogurt from lunch in the fridge." This was Liz yesterday. There is a point when indomitable optimism turns into wanton folly, and she was blowing past it with enough speed to rip a windsock. If he gets hungry. What a euphemism! How about, "If he can be made to eat." Or better still, "If he can be made to eat without trying to make his head explode."


Apparently the little man thinks that with enough intracranial pressure, he'll be able to teleport right out of his high chair like Hiro Nakamura.

It is not that Noah will not eat. He loves to eat. Just not what you are feeding him. At first he figured out that if he held out long enough against turkey and squash, yogurt would eventually appear. Whereupon his mouth would pop open like a baby bird's. When the yogurt stopping showing up, he discovered a more advanced style of protest. He simply opted out of food, in favor of paper. Wrapping tissue sure turned out to be the gladdest tiding of this holiday season. Merry Christmas, suckers!

But as nine out of ten pediatricians fail to warn you, gift wrap is a stepping stone drug. First your infant is eating a teddy-bear pattern, and before you know it he's plundering the recycling for straight cardboard. Then plastic.

Which makes it all the more impressive that Noah has managed to stay true to his original protest. After declining most of an apparently subpar lunch the other day, he gnawed off the corner of a subscription offer for Gourmet magazine.

Everybody's a critic.

If you think all the craziness has done a number on his hair, you should see mine.

Coffee Jones

Though he isn't speaking yet, Noah has managed to communicate an admirably straightforward Christmas list. It does not involve toys. He wants coffee, wine, unfettered access to the stereo, the gigantic mallet I use to bang my cleaver through meat bones, and all our shelves emptied of their books. In the morning, though, it's mostly coffee.


He can be strenuous in his discontent.


I know what you're thinking. Just distract him with something else. He'll forget about your coffee. Duh, it's called "parenting." Okay, genius. Where are his eyes focused now? You know where.


NOAH: (...)

DAD: That? That's nothing.

NOAH: (...)

DAD: No, really. There's not even any coffee inside of there. Daddy's just hanging onto it.

NOAH: (...)

DAD: Because I don't want it to leave a ring on the furniture.

NOAH: (...)

DAD: Don't get smart with me, little man. I know what coasters are for. Now if you'll just avert your eyes while I have a little sip...

Drum Kit

Imagine the Thrill

Think about being a baby just discovering that you can go places, make choices, instigate actions that bring about a host of fascinating consequences. Like the simple act of tilting a sippy cup up to your lips and letting the water inside cascade down your chin. Or retrieving the cylindrical blue block that has escaped your grasp and rolled away; removing your own shoe and banging it Khrushchev-style on the floor; scrambling madly toward the tangle of wires under the shelves and watching Mama dive to divert your course.

Imagine being such a baby's mother and watching him approach the toy box, peek over its edge, climb onto knees to get a better view and pick out a book (wise boy). Imagine the good fortune to have the camera close at hand, and the wild luck to capture what happened next.

What a lot that mama has to be thankful for.