I was listening to my iPod recently and, as always, I had it on shuffle. A song off of Liz Phair’s third album, whitechocolatespaceegg, came on, and I remembered that the album is primarily about the birth of her new kid. It pales in comparison to Exile in Guyville and even Whip-Smart, but there are some decent songs on there – she hadn’t gone the pop sell-out route just yet.
But that’s neither-here-nor-there because as I pressed skip to get to the next song on my iPod, I started thinking about songs that are about babies and kids. There really aren’t that many. Strike that – there are probably tons, but most of them don’t rate in my book (they’re country, or by Harry Chapin or Jim Croce or Phish).
So I’ve compiled a very short list of some of the best and worst songs about babies-slash-kids that ARE worth talking about, complete with streams! Please note that I’ve found many, many more than the few listed below, but I cannot in good conscience promote songs like “Butterfly Kisses” or anything by Amy Grant.
After the jump.
With my first child due this September, it seems that almost every day I learn something new and terrifying about babies and their care. Having grown up with two childless older brothers and no cousins in my life, I have had extremely limited exposure to infants. The depth of my ignorance is astounding – so astounding, in fact, I thought I’d post a list about it.
Be aware that this list contains only a small sample of the things I don’t know about how to care for my offspring, and that even a list of the things I don’t know I don’t know would likely dwarf it.
Enjoy after the jump.
This looks perfectly reasonable to me.
Apparently you’re not supposed to take a baby on the subway for a solid two months after they’re born. Not because their fragile heads might bounce off from all the herky-jerky movement, although to these eyes that seems like a real possibility; but because they’re are too many germs on the subway.
Come on. The kid’s growing up in New York City, at least at first. Plus, he lives on the planet earth. Germs are unavoidable.
I don’t expect to be the most protective dad in the world. I’m not one to police my pregnant wife’s intake of soft cheeses, deli meats, mercury-laden shark filets or Grey Goose martinis. It’s her life, it’s her body, and let’s be honest, having a baby is like a box of chocolates. At some point you’re gonna get sticky brown goo all over your hands and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I’m not about to feed my baby to the wolves, but all this hysteria over what’s bad for baby has got to stop. Jesus was born in a barn surrounded by filthy, dirty livestock. And that’s just the three wise men! (BOOM!) I haven’t even mentioned all the camels and sheep and whatever the hell else made up the figurine manger I used to put out at Christmas and thus amounts to the entirety of my awareness of what was actually going on during the Immaculate Expulsion.
Baby’s gonna get dirty, baby’s gonna get sick, baby’s gonna get hurt. It’s the facts of life. Unless you plan to quarantine your kid until he hits puberty, it’s for the benefit of everyone if you just relax a little bit.
So I saw Toy Story 3 this weekend. I was psyched to see it; Pixar is always reliable (Cars being the exception to the rule), so I had no fear of going.
In retrospect, with a lifetime of kid-dominated movie choices awaiting me, I probably should have opted for something more gratuitously violent or naked. Too late for that I guess. Continue reading
When my wife and I acquired a cat at the start of our relationship, the arrival of said cat nearly ended said relationship.
It wasn’t the cat’s fault – by now she’s been a constant companion for almost 5 years; it was the naming of said cat that nearly derailed what is now a healthy 5 year-old relationship, complete with marriage, emasculation and pregnancy.
It took us weeks to name the stupid thing. And it was never going to matter much. Cat’s might – MIGHT – recognize their names, but odds are even if they do, they don’t care when you call it. So the cat’s name is more for our benefit than the pet’s.
A child’s name, on the other hand, is significant. And we have two months left to come up with one. It is much harder than naming a cat.
We’ve gone through at least 5 baby books, browsed nearly every baby name website there is, ruled out names of friends’ babies, decided against any family names, considered creative spellings of common names (Aleksander, anyone?) and even blurted out the names of inanimate objects, just to, ya know, see how it feels. I’m partial to Gravel. Or Headlight.
When my wife got pregnant, the need to prepare took over our lives.
Well, not for the first 6 months. But now, we’re in overdrive.
For the past few weeks I’ve been in baby stores galore. Looking for chairs and cribs and clothes and more. And those things adds up.
When my wife told me she was pregnant, I had visions of a financial windfall: She won’t be able to drink! We’ll go out a lot less often! The money will pour in!
And that wasn’t entirely untrue. Our bar tabs shrank considerably, and foregoing alcohol at brunch, lunch, dinner and midnight is definitely a money saver. But those savings were ultimately nothing compared to the amount of money that needs to be spent on the incoming child.
Furniture I get. Clothing I get. Room decals? Fine. The baby has no idea what a tree is, nevermind why there’s a huge sticker of one looming over his crib, but sure, honey. Go for it. Paint, though? Really? Paint? Won’t that stunt the kid’s growth or something? It certainly stunts my weekend.
But I’d better get used to that I guess. Because if I think a pregnant wife is going to save me money by keeping us out of bars and restaurants, then a newborn baby is going to be like hitting the lottery!
Wait. I feel like I’m already forgetting what I’ve learned.
In about 2 months, I will be dead.
That should read: I will be a dad.
Same difference either way, right?
This fall, a mini-me, or a mini-my-wife, will descend upon the earth like a scourge, devouring everything in its path, from my free time to my bank account to my self-respect. Seriously. The thing’s not even born yet and I already hate myself. Not too fond of my baby either. Especially since it’s set to emerge – or land or explode or whatever they do – on my birthday!
I’m already sharing the week with my wife’s wedding anniversary, not to mention sharing the month with her birthday (which is actually in November but requires at least 2 months of planning). Now I’ve got another mouth to feed, another present to buy, another reason for my big day to be overlooked.
In short: Boo.
But at least he will look like me!
He had better effing look like me.