At what point do I shove a toothbrush down my son’s throat?

The dude is HUGE.

Let me level-set a bit: I’m not talking Maury Povich huge; I live above the Mason-Dixon line, people. But he’s got rolls. At 9 months-old he’s got rolls! My friends jokingly say he must have something stuffed in those huge cheeks of his but it’s not a joke to me: I am COMPLETELY CONVINCED he has something in there. It’s the only explanation. It’s not like we’re feeding him french fries and milkshakes.

But he looks like that guy from Big Trouble in Little China. And I don’t mean Kim Cattrall. Something must be done!

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Last year at this time, as New York was entering what would prove to be a sweltering, relentless summer of 90 degree days and off-the-charts humidity, my wife was bracing herself. Despite our plans to a) not have a Fall baby (Fall is already overloaded with holidays for us) and b) not be pregnant during the summer, both of those things were well past the point of no return. She was six months in and it was about to get unbearably hot.

Window units offer little respite from the heat in a NYC apartment building, especially one on the top floor. Summer was no picnic for totally un-pregnant, occasionally drunk me, I can only imagine how miserable it was for my totally super-pregnant, never-eve-close-to-drunk, constantly achy wife.

Thankfully, one year later and 8 months into parenthood, that’s all over. Except now we have a kid to worry about, with another hot summer on the horizon. Sigh.

Can babies melt?

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