Reading, writing, and reusing

I spend time reading blogs about everything from fly fishing to throw pillows. Now that I have started writing again, I am realizing that all of the blogs I read offer more ways to spend money than save money. Screw that.

My goal of reducing our possessions by 25% by the end of the year will not happen. In fact, there is actually another consumer in our midst. So, in an effort to make some changes, I set out to reduce the disposables that Mads consumes. Our landlord was kind enough to gift us a great wreath that used cotton rags as its primary material. My cousin sold us what I thought was just another gadget/machine/thing for the nursery: a wiper heater. What the heck did we need that thing for? I'll tell ya. Hot rags on your bum probably feel pretty decent after you literally poop your pants. In a moment of obvious genius, or really just obviousness, I cut up the rags from the wreath and voila, Mads has a spa treatment every time she defecates.

Project of the day

Wreaths are ridiculously expensive when you consider that they are excess trimmings from trees. They cost upwards of $50 on high-end websites. Today, I was charged with decorating the house for Christmas while Kelly dealt with a cluster feeding. I am learning new terms every day. Cluster feeding means that baby Mads needs food every hour. Kelly's exhausted after these feelings, and I have the good fortune to clean out several dirty diapers in a row. Back to my Christmas project.

Boxwood costs $4.98 at the local Despot's place. Our landlord's generous gift of a wreath covered in cotton rags left us with a foam circle. I channeled the many years of watching HGTV while watching the baby.

Angles betray the exposed white foam. I might need a second shot at the Despot for some more materials.

A fine dinner, a relaxing evening with a sleeping baby, and more complex directions

I am ten days into this father thing and cannot handle the number of packages coming to our house. I like to pepper the Amazon deliveries with books from Half.com so that I feel like I am involved. Today, we received more, well stuff.

So, I relied on a typical way of calming myself. I fixed some food.
The sweet cream goat cheese, prosciutto, and fresh pasta all came from Cheesetique. I prepared for today during last night's sojourn.

I little tip, when cooking fresh pasta, cut the boil time by 50%. I read a great article in some men's magazine many yeas ago about simple pasta recipes. Easier is often better. Boil the pasta and set aside two tablespoons of the pasta water. Sauté shallots and garlic in some butter and fry the pasta for about a minute. Make your wife love you again by topping it with fresh Parmesan. I don't have any pictures of the pasta. We devoured it too quickly.

Done and done. Now, I don't care how many packages come in the mail. I'll just cook my way through this pain.

A drunk baby, much like many Redskins fans last night

The sad thing about becoming a parent is that I relish earlier bedtimes more so than I ever have. I would like to be asleep by 8 or 9 p.m. Except last night, when Eli and his Football Giants came to town (actually Maryland, and I disliked the MNF broadcast that focused on the monuments when the stadium is in RalJohn or Landover or whatever in Maryland). I almost made it to midnight. I did see the final scoring play from RG to Pierre Garcon, and I received a text from my friend Hans congratulating me after all of my diligent efforts in helping the Skins win. I did not celebrate with keg stands or anything outrageously raucous, but from Mads' look today, she did.

We are trying to wake her up, but I think that she had too much of the white stuff. Yes, I realize how that last sentence sounded. No, you do not need to call CPS. Yet.

Hail to them

There will be no pictures for this post. My daughter just pooped Redskins' colors. Make whatever jokes you want, I know her passion is in the game.

On another note, I bet my friend Hans a burger, preferably from Five Guys, that the Skins would defeat these New York Football Giants. Anyone wanna pile on that bet?

And let it begin

Today, we held our first photo shoot. Barie, my mother-in-law, shot some great pics of my baby child and wife. I might need to keep doing projects as I think I am holding contraband in my cheeks. Mads behaved a bit, but I think that her frustration has more to do with that outfit than anything else.

Now, we have the distinct pleasure of meeting Santa Claus, the real man. Yeah, fatherhood. She is cute, but that outfit would make anyone cry.

Deciding what is and is not appropriate

I am still unsure of what is and is not appropriate to do as a father. I had a great time canoeing this morning, even if I did not catch any fish. Appropriate.

I have been supporting Kelly by laundering the clothes, maintaining the house, supporting Kelly's mom as she cooks for us, committing to projects to ameliorate our house, and generally picking up the crap that continues to accumulate post-birth. Appropriate.

Last night, I baked Jim Leahey's Sullivan Street Bakery recipe for no-knead bread. We used my mother-in-law's early Christmas present, the Staub enameled cast iron dutch oven. Great bread, even if a little doughy. Appropriate.

Right now, I am watching "Seal Team Six" while Mads wakes up. I am unsure of whether the background noise and the subject matter. Inappropriate? Mads is a bit taken aback. She is plugging her ears, even during the backstory. Whatever. Still exciting.

Dress up is not her bag. Sweet.

I realize that my daughter will be different from many young ladies. I want her role models to be April Vokey, Misty May-Treanor, Helen Vendler, Chuck Norris, Sandra Day O'Connor, Sacajawea, Hiawatha, and Margo Figgins.

I already know that she marched differently. She doesn't even need a drummer for her best. So, with pride, I see that she is not interested in fashion or dress up. Yet. She can leave that to her father, who spent part of the morning looking for Frye boots for his wife. Wow. Pricey. After a nice sponge bath, which I might add is her second in seven days (i.e. she'll make a fine outdoors woman), she cried while Kelly and I tried to pretty her up.

Wait, this might be the Norwegian in her. Maybe she thinks clothes are restrictive. Great, I have either a hippie or a nudist on my hands.

For my family

I'd like to appease my mother. She demands less banter about being a father and more pictures of Madeline. Therefore, I resurrected a Tumblr account. Everyday, I'm Tumbling.

http://hbooz.tumblr.com/

My daughter is a bit embarrassed.

Do birthdays count at only a week old?

My mother-in-law sent out an email reminding us that Madeline is a week old. So she is.

Scared of poop

I am unsure of how I will continue. This concern is not existential. It is far less principled. I am now afraid of poop. The meconium out if her system, my once lovely daughter now exudes a material that I can only explain as toxic.

Yesterday, my sister adoringly cradled Mads when a sound not unlike the sound an empty mustard bottle makes when trying to make a sandwich. Kristin cooed. Cooed, I tell you. She asked if she could change the baby. I assented. Quickly. Kristin then began the process of changing Madeline. While removing the dirty diaper, Madeline decided to exude the final contents if her stomach. I saw that happen. I am scared.

So, later last night, when Madeline defecated again, I took on the task of changing her. With reluctance. So, I armed myself. Medical gloves in hand, pun intended, I donned my kayak helmet, complete with nose plugs.

I win.