Gitmo Chicago

And that is why I can stand here tonight and say without exception or equivocation that the United States of America does not torture. -- President Barack Obama

And yet, to look at this photo of Oliver you might call me a traitor, un-American, in direct defiance of the leader of the free world.

What was I doing to him, you ask? Well, the same thing I do to him every day. Changing his diaper and/or changing his clothes.

When he was a little thing, he freaking LOVED the changing table. It was the go-to spot for whenever he was fussy. Even when he wasn't in need of a change, it brought smiles and laughs as he engaged with his lion mobile above head. But, no, not now. No way!

I've truly come to dread the whole endeavor. I'd leave him in the same outfit day in and day out if I didn't think the daycare would report me. I don't know what his problem is.

I guess I should be thankful that he's not any squirmier than he is. It's only the rare occasion that he tries to turn over and gets up on all fours up there. But really, I can't wait til he outgrows this phase. And for some reason it doesn't make a difference if I try to change him on the floor instead. And it doesn't make a difference if it's the strip-down or the cover-up part of the exchange. He's simply inconsolable.

More...

Oh my gosh, I just witnessed Oliver eat a breakfast of all breakfasts. Man, that kid can eat:

First Course: Bananas
Second Course: Waffles
Third Course: Ham
Fourth Course: Blueberries
Fifth Course: Toast with Jam

Thank goodness it's the most important meal of the day! And thank goodness it should wait until he's safely at daycare to come out the other end. Pretty common feedback from the teachers at daycare: "Man, Oliver can eat. He loves to eat. It's his favorite part of the day."

Portrait of an Artist

It is so cool that at Oliver's daycare, they do real art activities. I got to witness it in action on his birthday this year. I posted some photos to The Oliver Chronicles, but they had also taken these shots at school, where they laminated them, added captions, and hung them on the wall for a period.


He just had his quarterly "parent/teacher-conference" and "progress report" last week, so they sent home everything that he's created in his mere 6 weeks there along with these action shots. It's already quite a collection of original works, not including the valentine he adorned with his cute little footprints.

Of course, being as unsentimental as I am, I feel the conflicting sentiments brewing already. "Clear the clutter." vs. "Aw... my babies first fingerpainting". "If you don't use it, lose it" vs. "I wonder if I should use an acid free mat when I frame this crayon drawing".

And then my love for technology entered the picture and I thanked the heavens for the inventor of the affordable All-In-One printer/scanner/fax/copier that allows me to preserve his greatness in a format where it will actually get seen with relative ease. No, I'm not going to just pitch everything as soon as Windows tells me it's captured. We'll keep the hardcopy as backup, as I'm sure they will be worth something someday -- plus the scanner seems to be cutting off the edges a bit. But I do like the idea of scanning them in to create more of a catalog of work. Much more palatable for my organizing sensibilities. Plus, then I get to share them more easily with all of you. Please feel free to open the bidding at a level commensurate with Renoir.

With that, let me unveil The Winter Blues: A Frigid January by Oliver James Weinstein -- and for other great art, please see his Daddy's website (oh, wait, he doesn't have one -- Eric, get busy!):

Winning Numbers: 02-30-04-12-05-03

Maybe it's worth trying to win the lottery with those numbers. Maybe they're cursed. Certainly feels that way as I am beginning to crash this afternoon after a long night of multiple wake-ups with The Monk -- 2:30, 4:12, 5:03. I mean, WTH?!

I suppose we can't really trust the numbers anyway since they're all based on my foggy half-asleep memory. I don't know what's up with the kid. We had him into the pediatrician again on Saturday, who said we are the winners of the Mega Millions Virus Lottery. He's getting one on top of the other from daycare, it seems, and just can't seem to catch a break. Poor kid!

Actually, he was much better on Sunday, when we had brunch at Jim and Dawn's with Sharon and Milos -- nice time. No crying or barfing or anything of the sort. And we learned that he really likes chocolate donut holes (I mean, who doesn't?)

Anyway, I digress... just wanted to moan and groan a bit about my desire to get a full night's sleep sometime soon. I actually have some sort of plan assembled in my head that involves early-morning workouts at a nearby gym. Of course, when I ran that hypothetical against this morning's circumstance, it didn't look too promising. A 5:00 baby-soothing session does not bode well for a 6:00 treadmill session. Oh well... maybe next week.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I had thought of many titles for this post and many ways to frame it, but really wanted to showcase Oliver's awesome valentine he made at school, so I thought I'd tell you about Oliver's second-ever Valentine's Day last Saturday -- and let's just preface it by saying it wasn't all roses and chocolate.

Friday night involved pizza and beer (both in the "lots of" form) and a late night, so Eric and I woke up a little peaked as my Grandma Carnes would have said -- that's phonetically pee-kid (oh, the irony continues). But none-the-less we trekked up to Bubbie's house in Riverwoods for a Valentine's Day lunch with the whole family. It was great, actually -- a spread of comfort foods from cottage cheese and peaches to grilled cheese and tomato soup. Problem was, Oliver wasn't comforted by any of it. He just wasn't having any of it. Not interested and crabby as hell. So I take him out of the high chair and am sitting on the couch in the next room when it begins. The vomit. The hurl. The milky, parmesan-smelling, chunk of cracker barf.

Keep in mind that this is our first adventure in throw-up. Spit-up, as any parent will tell you, is a much milder and completely acceptable beast comparatively.

Let's just say thank goodness Bubbie and Poppa have hardwood floors because carpet would have been a disaster. He seemed to improve after that and by some grace of god, I had thrown in an extra set of clothes for the trip. But, no sooner did our original clothes come out of the dryer than he was up for a repeat performance -- this time on Daddy and in the kitchen. Poor kid. It really is horrible. Long story short, we get home, he does it twice more over the course of a few hours and finally goes to bed. We worry all night that he's going to choke on it and die in his sleep, but he makes it and we go about our business.

The weekend and into the week were pretty spotty with more incidents of lost lunches -- oh, and the all-night heaving session I had on Sunday and Eric on Monday. Details are unwanted. I understand. TMI, you say? I understand. I wish I could have skipped it, as well.

Overall it's been a rough week, but we got through it. He's feeling much better. Not eating as much and Er and I are about the same (don't you just hate it when NOTHING sounds good?). I handled it all much better than I thought I would, to be honest. I didn't completely freak out. And I didn't run away and leave Eric to clean it up. In fact, I found myself rushing to help because my baby wasn't feeling well, and well, I hate that.

This does not mean that when I see the following (a not-uncommon occurence in our house) that I rush quite as fast or at all for that matter. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

Photo released with permission from Cub and Junior (origination unknown):