We found Mads' favorite aunt

Madeline has received family very well these part few days. Actually, the number of visitors she has received is inversely proportionate to the days she has been on earth. Today, she visited with one of her cousins, Caroline, and my sister, Kristin, someone who might one day be her favorite aunt. She might also have her father's patience. Or, she is embarrassed by my running commentary on the visit.

The doctor's office scares me and my daughter

I understand that society needs doctors. I just wish that preventative medicine precluded the need for visits in the first week of life. Apparently, we need the poking and the prodding most especially in this first week of life. How fortunate that Mads has a hypochondriac for a mother and an obstinate contrarian for a father. Apparently, she neither complained as the family prepared for the visit, nor did she complain while in the office. Then, as we left, she complained.



Like father, like daughter.

The irony of parenthood

Barie, my mother-in-law, shared the irony of parenthood with me. We lose control when we become fathers and mothers. She's correct. As soon as we take on this responsibility, we grow as role models and leaders and decision-makers: but for someone else not always for ourselves. I am sure that all of the parents who have ever existed have made similar comments to themselves: I will not do what my parents did, I will be different, I will never offer because as a reason. We make these statements because we think that we are in control. We are never in control. We are the plebeian masses who attempt to exert control exactly because we do not know everything. Give it up.

Eventually, we all do what we do in order to put our children first. Listen to me: my child is only five days old. I am sure that once I learn that I am a father, I will put Mads first. She clearly controls our house right now. I mean, look what she is wearing.

Christopher Robin to Winnie-the-Pooh

I never really got into Winnie-the-Pooh as a child. Later in life, when I was sponsoring the Class of 2004 at a local high school, my students chose Winnie-the-Pooh as their theme. While my co-sponsor Hans and I played with power tools and assisted in preparing hallways and floats, the students demonstrated their familiarity and love of Christopher Robin and Tigger and Eeyore.

So, today, while reading from the interweb, I came across a quote that makes me feel a bit more whole and certainly exemplifies my lovely wife: "You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think." Let me show you the reason why Chris nails Kelly's newfound power.

The quickest way to a woman's heart

Do you also melt when watching commercials for Zale's and Jared's? I know that we here in Alexandria absolutely love the love that the actors obviously share for each other. The way that these clearly family-run businesses reach out to the consumer make Kelly and me feel so warm and fuzzy.

Bull. They are crap. The best way to make Kelly and me feel warm and fuzzy is to feed us. We might not be skinny Mads' parents. While our landlord's decoration of the door warmed our hearts, food has made us so much more energetic - no lie, a Jared's commercial just came on during my Pandora session. Kelly's cousin was the first to offer us the hook up by ordering sushi on our first night home from the hospital. There is a coincidence here, Chris and his wife Sara, Kelly's cousins and now mine, ordered from Ichiban, meaning number one in Japanese. Score. I might have started eating before we even left the kitchen. Sorry.

Yesterday, Barie, Mads' maternal grandmother, rolled in from the Northern Neck to assist in our joy and pain. She brought some chicken with her. We matched that with some roasted asparagus a la Mary Ann and a side of caesar salad to match Kelly's scar. Barie kicked out a parmesan chicken with lemon caper sauce. Needless to say, no one over the age of five days is losing weight in this house.

She also brought the fixings for a real Thanksgiving dinner since we ate out on the actual day. Kelly is excited. I am stoked. The house smells like last week should have. I cannot tell you how much I love food.

Dinner was amazing. So good, in fact, that seconds were par for the course. Thirds were not a stretch.

Pee tests

First of all, let me start with some soccer-mom type comments, some we-are-better-than-the-Jones comments: my daughter has passed her hearing test, her bilirubin screening, and now, yes, her pee tests. There is no governing body trying to make sure that she is legally allowed to compete. With several highly qualified athletes in our, well, extended family, Mads will be a champion regardless of whether the USADA interferes with her life or not (do a search, I do not want to deal with an explanation). That said, I never thought that many words would come from my lips before Kelly produced such a gorgeous creature, my daughter. One phrase? My daughter did pass the pee test.

Mads has lost 13.68% (approximately) of her body weight since her birth on Saturday. She is the only member of the VA Booz family that has been instructed to gain weight. At least someone is a skinny Minnie. Perhaps she and I should not have attended Cross Fit together last night. Oh well.

A message from the world of social media

Kelly and I have made a deal to maintain some semblance of presentability during our FMLA time. I take my advice from a great post from An Affordable Wardrobe. When leaving the house, why do people wear workout clothes? I know that I have more outdoor clothing than your average consumer, but I will not wear sweatpants outside of the house unless I intend to work out or coach. I also know that I love jeans. I might not drop the Barracuda jacket and a Donegal tweed cap on the other parents when visiting a playground, but I will make an effort.

With these ideas in mind, I freaked out when social media, something I am gradually learning to use, offered me an admonition through Twitter this morning. I know what Gillette is. I have no clue who Hailey is, and I know that @yaz something is a person, but her handle does offer me pause.

I will shave this morning and every morning now. I will not care about Hailey. I will also talk to Kelly about having a second kid in the next few months. Maybe we can wait.

A world with too many rules

Are any of you upset by the nature of mechanics? I mean, what is the worth of capitalization, spelling, and punctuation? Tons, people, tons. I know that I am in withdrawal from teaching when I freak out while sitting in Mads' first doctor's appointment. Not because she has lost 13% of her body weight since birth (which, by the way, was only three days and change ago) or that she is a girl. Or that the doctor uses terms like vaginal discharge as if we were speaking about Robert Griffin's passing percentage in the Skins' domination of the Cowboys. No, I freaked out because the office posts signs that do not adhere to the rules of grammar.

Ben Franklin randomly capitalized words. Modern society should not. Let's hope this girl does not become too sick over the course of my life. I might flip if I have to endure more of this poor grammar.

Project of the day

First, someone help me think of a better title for this type of post.

So, Kelly decided that our grey nursery, one decorated with more elephants than exist in parts of Africa right now, might be lacking in color. My mother gave us a stool that was ripe for a project. That stool would become my project today.

I decided to be a man and grab some candy apply red glossy spray paint from Home Depot. If that is not manly, then you might as well, well, well you should do something more manly (that would be really anything on earth).

I also spent time looking for a lint cleaner and some sort of jute rope for our other project of the day. After I took a sip of my Diet Coke and looked at my basket, I immediately headed to the tool section and looked at hammers and axes. Then, I grabbed some air freshener and sauntered to the checkout. Wow. I am such a man.

I know that you cannot wait to see this project finished.

A promise to the masses

I have recently realized that the title of this here blog might draw some witty people to make connections that I do not wish to be make myself. I hereby promise never to make the eventually inappropriate connections between AMC's very popular show and my daughter. There will certainly be a crew of dudes clamoring for Madeline, but not without my dear friend Hans and me in the living room cleaning our shotguns with dribbled Texas Pete on our tank tops. Those of you with daughters know what I am talking about.

A Southern tradition: random aunts and uncles

My brother-in-law, LPD, commented that "in the South, people have aunts and uncles who are not family." If this ever were I regional tradition, I am sure that it has since migrated and spread. We will hold true to her birth as a true Commonwealth queen, and introduce one of these crazy aunts today.

One of Kelly's bet friends is abroad with her husband. She rocks toasts and weddings and can bang out a pretty good email too. She made all of us laugh aloud, even while she recovers from malaria:

WOOOOOOOOOW! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYY. So, she takes after her mom and is on time or early, lol. ;) CAN'T WAIT TO MEET HER! Can you tell I'm excited? WOW, YAY, I have tears! Please tell her -- Aunty [J] loves you, Madeline!!!!!! I can't wait to give her a little african dress to wear. A GIRL! OH MY -- I have so much to teach her about spas and dance parties.

The Mad Room

Kelly and I heard from myriad people that we would be spending oodles of time in the nursery. I hate that word, so I call it the Den or the Mad Room.  Dang was that crew of people correct. I spent at least two hours there between 1 a.m. and something like a 3 a.m. but looking more like a 4 a.m. Both of our parents offered us gifts to end all gifts: an upholstered glider chair and diaper service. First, the glider chair.

That glider chair has already saved my life. I can almost unconsciously work out my calves and rock little Mads during one of her fits. We found out last night that Mads has the worst of both Kelly and me. She eats every hour, and at one point, ate twice in a span of 90 minutes. She does have a test today (weight), and I know that she is preparing for the IB Diploma Programme, so I applaud her efforts.

While we have not yet begun the diaper service, I am excited to learn about the smells and tactile fun of dealing with poop. No, seriously. No facetiousness intended (B.S. I do not want to touch poop.). I thank my mom for helping me avoid the poop and Kelly's mom for making the decision to purchase a chair that both ties the room together and offers sanity. HGTV has also taught me that design decisions make for a better life. This chair proves it.

She's shy now, but I'd better watch out

Damn this girl is cool. She is sick of the camera now, but I bet she and her mom start posing soon.

The fresh smell of clean

Let me begin by explaining that I hated the night before cleaning day when I was younger. There was a requisite period of time on Tuesday evenings when we all rushed around the house picking up the random piles of crap that somehow accumulated over the course of the previous days and weeks. We ensured that the floor was clear of obstructions and that the house was in good order. In my juvenile mind, I wondered why we cleaned before someone came to clean our house. I did not question the legitimacy or fairness of having someone come to our house and clean it. I associated the cleaning day with chores for me. What a twat I was.

In college, I serendipitously lived alone in a former janitorial closet for my first year. The walls were six feet wide. I know because I could spread my arms and palm both walls. Later, I had the  had the fortune of living with fastidious roommates. One of my older roommates, PhD student who we affectionately called Grandpa because he was eight years our senior and clocked in at a whopping 28 years old, cleaned the house so well that I never knew it to be unkempt or dirty.

Over the past decade, I have come to enjoy a clean house myself. I have learned from Chez Larsson to enter the house and immediately take care of mail by "binning it" or filing it. Years of reading Apartment Therapy have taught me more than the value of modular and moveable furniture. I have learned to wash the dishes and place a load of laundry in the wash before hitting the sack. In the morning, I often take a moment to swap the laundry out. I corral messes in the room, much to Kelly's chagrin, with boxes and cabinets. My own homegrown fastidiousness does not come without compromise, though. I rarely take the time to clean the windows. Kelly's purview is the ritual cleansing of the floors. Early in our marriage, I realized that my mother's genes go beyond the Norwegian good lucks and stubborn demand for the very best. I, too, enjoy the smell of a home filled with the aroma of Pine Sol and bleach.

So, Kelly and I made a promise to ourselves. We are both headed back to work after a little time with Mads: in January for me and in March for Kelly. We will need help and cannot demand that our parents roll up to assist. I now realize that cleaning might be a bit ritualistic for me, but paying someone else a bit of our hard-earned cash to clean our home is not bourgeois or frivolous or wasteful. It is a valid expense, liberating in that I will spend less time demanding that we clean and more time enjoying my time with Mads and Kelly. For that reason, let me show you a picture that made me smile with glee and perhaps dance a bit. When we returned home from FCPS central, Gatehouse to be exact, I witnessed a cleanliness that I have not heretofore (come one, who uses that word anymore?) experienced.

I, too, now have the pleasure of arriving home and experiencing that moment of bliss that my mother did. Pure, unadulterated olfactory and opportunity cost joy.

That was a good one

Typically a response from a friend, a prankster-type pal, who plays a trick on you before you share a few laughs, correct? No. Three days in, and these are the words that indicate that Mads has pooped. I even commented as I ran down the stairs: "I cannot believe that I am hurrying to come see this poop." Let me be clear; we are not passed the meconium stage yet (look it up; I ain't posting or taking those images). I do have the face of a young lady who has spent the past 24 hours in a rather constipated state.

No longer constipated, she is going in for more as I create a man-style diaper bag. I cannot stand the lady-like look of Kelly's Christmas present (although it is nice and hand made in France).
Thanks to a few colleagues and friends, I have the makings of a fully stocked bag for my first sojourn with Mads. I do not, however, know when that will happen again (stay tuned for our trip to FCPS central on the third day of Mads' life).

When she finished eating, she returned to her fetal position. It is, after all, the position in which she has spent the past eight-and-half months.

An a-door-able return home

Update: Tuesday, 26 November, 2012
Kelly and I just found out that our lovely landlord was the culprit behind our coming-home gift. Thanks so much to our neighbors and landlords.

Original:
I am trying to be witty. Four days in a hospital and one at home have already driven me stir crazy. I have watched all four episodes of BBC's The Story of Math, for IB Theory of Knowledge. No lie. They were interesting. No lie. I did not understand all of the content. I digress.

What I am fast learning, though, is that the kindness of those around us will keep me warm until Mads starts dating. We arrived home at 3 p.m. on Monday (remember, after the quick trip to CVS) to find a pink door and a rather useful wreath made of swaddling material. Holy crud, people are nice.

We still have no clue who would offer us such an artistic and thrifty return home. So, to whomever, thanks, kind soul(s).

Gear, and certainly of a different kind

Today, I awoke to my own home for the first time since last Friday. The only difference is that now I need to find all of the directions to the various machines that baby Booz, now Madeline, or Mads, as I have taken to calling her, needs: breast pump (more Kelly than me), steam sanitizer (you may laugh, but we do not have a dishwasher), feeding pillow, digital monitors, rock-n-play rocker, car seat and base, etc. Today, I set up the steamer. I am amazed that I ever lived without one. For one, I will be steaming all of the tops to my water bottles. Yeah, crap that I did not think that I needed but now like.

The other contraption that I cleaned and prepared today was the Medela Breast Pump On-the-Go Tote (reserved). I used the First Years Steam Sterilizer, and earned a two-fer: learned how easy the steamer is (think rice cooker without the starchy finish) and the strangeness of setting up a breast pump for my wife. You will agree once you see the picture of the actual pump, hidden away inside a stylish black bag for obvious reasons.

Does anyone else see the strange, paradoxically alien-like and yet familiar shape of the pump itself?

I keep reminding myself that I am here for Kelly and the new greatness of our house, Mads. These contraptions scare me, but nothing scared and scarred me like our ride home from FCPS central today (more on that later). I started singing Taylor Swift to my daughter. I realize that this whole kid thing comes with amazing perks: more patience, her smiling face, a bit more maturity, a newfound respect for life. What I did not consider were the future trips to Forever 21 and singing along to pop icons. I immediately came home and listened to Clif Rodriguez's soundtrack from Drive. I figured that move would balance out my world.

Seriously, Taylor Swift. What happened to me over the weekend?

Kelly's First Attempt

For the record, I was terrified of changing diapers only one week ago tomorrow. Matt, a friend at work, told me that the nurses taught him in the hospital. So they did for me. I have now changed half of the diapers that my daughter has ever soiled: 5 of 10. Kelly has not changed the other half. Today, she attempted to make her presence known on the diaper front. No luck. Kelly has yet to change a diaper. Let's wait for updates on this one.

I will try not to ruin food or childbirth for you, but...

...all doctors and nurses and nutritionists and housekeeping staff and internists and residents who have rolled through the room (and at last count we had crested 30 people who have given us some help while we have been here) has tried their best to make us happy and comfortable. The best comments, though, seem to surround the subject of food. I made mention that Madeline's freshly clipped umbilical cord looked and felt like raw squid. In fact, I called it calamari in the operating room. That was the first nurse to openly laugh at my nervous attempts at jokes while I watched people slicing and then sewing my wife up on a brightly lit table.

Since that night, I have heard comparisons of everything I have seen to something that used to be appetizing. I can only offer you a list of the food items and will refrain from offering you the items to which they were compared: mustard (both Dijon and yellow), wet oatmeal, rotten tomatoes, steak (don't even ask), tomato juice, and even Marmite (many of you parents can guess this one). I will tell you one perk of this hospital, though. It has room service. After four days, I found our welcome packet and two coupons for free meals for guests. I just ordered lunch: country fried steak with mushroom gravy. In a hospital. I might not want to be discharged with Kelly, oh and Madeline.

Sagacity from the elders and second breakfast

Kelly looks great, even after sleeping nary a wink last night. Well, we are ready to be discharged from the hospital, and I have only had one argument with anyone while I have been here: Kaiser. The entire peds team just rolled past and offered some sagacious advice: buy Dove as it less expensive and better for the baby's skin, Costco sets its standards so high that its baby formula and diapers are better than most national brands, and most baby books are so poor that parents should ditch them. Maybe we should not ask to be discharged today. I like the attention and the frugality.

Madeline just went in for a second breakfast. Kelly tells me that "[s]he is a Booz." Ha.

Hendrick Booz

The first read for Madeline

Madeline seemed in awe as we read her her first book on her birthday night. She was a day old last night, so, well, we partied. I had a chocolate milkshake and a sub from Lost Dog. Kelly had pizza and some mashed taters. First full solid meal in more than 48 hours. What a trooper. Anyway, back to the book. My lovely brother-in-law, sister, and nieces rolled in from Lynchburg yesterday and dropped off joy and some booty. In a book inscribed with beautiful expressions of love, I read Mads a book about love. It was cheesy, but great.

Hendrick

My niece's post. Can you hear Lew?

Today, we have a guest blogger: my niece Anna Katherine Dabney. Let's allow her to ramble away, in Madeline's words.

Why aren't my ears pierced?  My daddy promised me I would get a good present when I was born and all I know is that it is way colder out here than inside mom.

No one seems to be able to tell me the status of my college savings fund.

Is my mom actually going to leave me alone with my dad.   I guess I'll learn how to fish and hunt this month...

Why am I being passed around so much?

And what is this thing on my belly button anyway?

Alas,  time for a nap...

And a new draught of Booz was drawn

After more than 36 hours in the hospital, Dr. Jean-Gilles Tchabo made the final decision to cut Kelly open and bring a new Booz into the world. At 9:13 p.m.. I sneaked a look over the curtain and saw Madeline Carmichael Booz for the first time. Holy crap, she is long. She also smells great, especially after the bath that Nurse Megan gave her. I have now cleaned 50% of the diapers that she has soiled. The meconium, or the "earliest stool from a mammalian infant" as Wikipedia explains, looks like the epic tar of La Brea. Holy s**t was there ever a time for that expression.

Kelly sleeps while people ogle. Including me.