The Newborn Identity

I’ve Moved!

Mike — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 16:57:20 +0000

The Newborn Identity can now be found here: http://thespohrsaremultiplying.com/newborn-identity/

My Wife Is Da Bomb, Yo!!!!

Mike — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 07:07:17 +0000

Today is my wonderful wife’s 29th birthday. Her last year has been very hard as those of you who follow her blog know, and yet she always continues to be the beacon of sunshine in this pessimists’ life. I admire her so much for how she always chooses to love people no matter what. Even when I am like, “Babe, he/she is a moron!” she will scrunch up her nose and explain to me how that person has value, and you know what? She is always right.

In order to honor Heather upon entering her final year of youth (’cause yeah, it’s all down hill after thirty…I know from experience) I thought I’d make a list of but a few of the reasons why I love her. Feel free to add some in the comments section if you like, but here are mine:

After I feed Maddie in the middle of the night she always says, “I love you,” as I get back under the sheets.

She can do a funny dance that never fails to make me crack a smile.

She is the cutest woman I have ever seen…and other things too.

She is a really good singer.

Sometimes she will sing one of the songs I’ve written as she gets ready in the morning and it makes me really happy.

She changes her hair a lot, but I always think it looks awesome no matter what.

She was the prettiest bride of all time.

She checked out of the hospital against doctors orders to see Maddie when we were told our daughter wasn’t going to make it. Watching her come off the elevator and lead me into the NICU that day was the closest I have ever come to living within a “movie” scene.

She understands baseball.

She likes baseball!

When she comes home and I am watching a Giants’ game she never makes me turn it off until it is over. This may be two hours of waiting even, and when some random dude like Brian Horwitz hits a homer she will smile and say something factual like, “Wow. He just got called up, didn’t he?” even if she doesn’t give a schizzat. (NOTE: Ladies, take notice of this one! This one is very appreciated!)

If there is something I want to do that she REALLY doesn’t want to do, she will organize a day where I can go do this thing.

I am half Portuguese, and once when I visited her in New York (where she used to live) she took me to a Portuguese restaurant to eat the kind of food I hadn’t had for the twenty years since my grandparents passed.

She has truly beautiful eyes that I am so stoked she has passed on to Maddie.

She loves her friends so much she would do anything for them. This amazes me and impresses me. It’s like that Australian joke where a couple guys are out in the bush and one gets bit by a snake on his weiner while peeing. The other friend races to town where the doc tells him that the only way his friend will survive is if he sucks the venom out of his friend’s penis. Upon returning to his friend his friend asks, “What did the doctor say?” The first guy responds, “Sorry, mate. He says you’re going to die.” Dudes laugh at that joke. Heather, however, would suck out the venom. Heather is a great friend. Note to Heather…if it was one of your girfriends who got bit on the chaach you can save her and tell me about it later. If it was a dude…please let him die.

She always looks to me before making a decision…not in a creepy 1950s patriarchal way, but in a “I love my my husband and respect him so I will get his opinion” sort of way. This doesn’t mean she always does what I say, in fact she rarely does, but she does listen to my advice first no matter what which is appreciated.

She admires me (and I admire her.)

She has never said a direct insult to me. She will tell me she is disapointed in me, but never directly insult me. To some this may seem unimpressive, but to others this will seem VERY impressive.

She is funny (how did I not get to this earlier?)

There is a friend of a friend who always kept saying she wanted to meet a “good egg.” She’s now engaged, so I hope she has, but I must say, I am married to the definition of a “good egg.” Honestly, she is an amazing person, and I love her.

Happy Birthday, Smokey!

Proof You Aren’t The Worst Parent…

Mike — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 07:00:30 +0000

I promised a couple posts back that I would tell you some crazy ass stories about my mother’s obsessive worrying, so here comes one. When I was in the second grade sleep-over birthday parties were all the rage. Unfortunately for me, my mother wouldn’t let me attend any because she was worried about me being away from home overnight. This was very frustrating for the seventy pound version of myself to say the least.

I finally had enough one Monday at school when all anyone could talk about was Timmy Sullivan’s Ghostbusters themed sleep-over party. Over and over they re-hashed every glorious minute of the sleep-over, and all I could do was listen in silence, or go talk to the only other kid who hadn’t attended, “pee boy.” As opposed to “pee boy,” however, I was invited. I had gotten the invitation with the Stay Puffed Marshmellow Man on the front and everything!

On the drive home from school that day I gave my Mom the cold shoulder. When she questioned me about what was wrong I exploded with famous kid catchphrases including, but not limited to, “You’re ruining my life!” “I hate you!” and “I’m going to run away, and when I do you’ll wish you’d let me go to the sleep-over!”

Slowly but surely the thunderstorm of guilt I was throwing down got to my Mom until she yelled, “We’ll discuss this with your father over dinner!”

That night my father listened intently to both sides of the argument, then weaseled out and said, “There’s no point in arguing over this until there’s another sleep-over party. So let’s just drop it for now, okay?”

My mom was clearly pleased by this which only pissed me off even more. I wanted justice, damn it! If I had been a character in Amistad I would have stood up and chanted, “Give me free! Give me free!” but alas, I was not. Consequentially, I just sat there and refused to eat my vegetables as my mother fought a grin, totally thinking she had came out on top.

The next week, however, an envelope arrived in the mail with a ”Transformers” insignia on the front. My Mom darkened upon seeing it, then tried to slide it into a magazine. I snatched it away before she could, ripped it open, and… Oh, glorious day! Abe Rubenstein was having a Transformers‘ themed sleep-over party in just two weeks!

“I am going to this one,” I thought. “NO MATTER WHAT!”

That night at dinner I laid out my case once again, and my Dad admitted that maybe I should finally get to go to one of these things. The writing was on the wall…I was going to win this thing, but my mother, like poor Hillary Clinton, just wouldn’t accept that she had lost. For the next two weeks she made my life a living hell. She cried, laid guilt trips, even tried to bribe me with trips to Toys ‘R Us, but I wouldn’t give in. Finally, the night before the party, she conceded. I was going to my first sleep-over birthday party!

The next night my Dad parked in front of Abe’s house as my Mom rattled off a laundry list of things that could go wrong and how I was to be prepared for them. I kept nodding until she stopped talking, then gave her a kiss on the cheek and popped out of the car.

Soon I was having the time of my life. There was a dude in a Transformers’ suit walking around, more snacks and soda than a boy could ever dream of, and an awesome tent in the backyard. Abe’s Dad had even set up a TV and VCR in it, and in the middle of the night we were going to watch “Conan The Barbarian” on VHS. (In case you’re wondering, the answer is yes, I do find it weird we were going to watch “Conan the Barbarian” at a Transformers’ party.)

A few hours later I was sitting Indian style in the tent with my pals and cheering on Arnold as he kicked butt. I was having so much fun, in fact, that I didn’t even notice when Abe’s dad entered the tent with an ashen face and hit “pause” on the VCR. All the kids protested, then quieted when he shot them a look of intense seriousness. He cleared his throat and said, “Mike? Can I talk to you outside a minute?” I nodded and left the tent, frightened.

“I have some terrible news,” Abe’s father began after he had seated me on a lawn chair. “Your parents just called and said that your Grandfather has passed away.”

“What?” I gasped. “He…died?”

Abe’s father nodded, solemn. “You’re all driving down to San Diego tonight to be with your Grandmother, so pack up your things. Your parents will be here any minute.”

I nodded as tears welled in my eyes, then gathered my stuff and went outside with Abe’s Dad to wait. It seemed like an eternity before my parent’s car finally pulled up.

I got in the back seat and immediately started bawling as we pulled away. My mother was silent until Abe’s Dad was no longer in sight, then said, “Relax, honey. Grandpa isn’t dead. We were just worried about you!” She then turned around in her seat all smiles and raised a bag of Baskins & Robbins. “We got ice cream! Chocolate Chip! Your favorite!”

This is where my memory of the night ends. Did I eat ice cream with them? I don’t know. Did I tell the kids on Monday my grandfather was alive or keep up the lie? I don’t remember. What I do know is that after going through this kind of thing with my Mom as a child (and believe me, this is just the tip of the iceberg) I am lucky that the weirdest thing I can imagine is a scaily, puss filled monster stealing my baby.

The Other Woman

Mike — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 00:33:47 +0000

Dudes don’t go to the doctor and we like it that way. Sure, we may die 5-7 years earlier than women, but at least we don’t waste the best years of our lives sitting in a waiting room next to an old lady with a hacking cough while thumbing through a year old issue of ”Redbook.” There is one species of man who does go to the doctor regularly, however. This species is known as homo matrimonius, or the married man.

Before I swapped “I do’s” with Heather I wasn’t even aware doctors did anything other than put your arm in a sling after you injured it playing basketball. I soon learned differently. Here is one of our first exchanges as newlyweds:

Heather: “You need to go get a physical, Mike.”

Me (not really listening): “You want to get physical? All right!”

Heather: No, Mike. Turn off the baseball game. You need to get a physical at the doctor’s office.”

Me: “That’s not neccesary. I just had one.”

Heather: “Really? When?”

Me: “Before my last year of playing baseball. It was required to be on the team.”

Heather: “You mean your high school team?”

Me: “That’s the one.”

Heather: “You do realize that was like fifteen years ago, right?”

It was then it occurred to me that I had totally walked into having to get a physical. I briefly tried to explain that everything she knows about me isn’t true; that I’m in the Witness Protection Program and the former me, Dougie Blackman of Mississippi, had a physical mere days before witnessing that mob hit, but Heather didn’t buy it. She then said that even if what I was saying was true that would mean I hadn’t had a physical in over five years, and both me and Dougie Blackman of Mississippi were due for one. Game. Set. Match.

The day of my physical Heather told me not to worry as she had recently gone to the same doctor and things went swimmingly.

Heather: “Just don’t forget to have them check for testicular cancer. That’s probably the one thing that guys your age have to worry about the most.”

Me: “You mean besides being forced by their wife to do things they don’t want to?”

Heather: “Yes. Now be good and they might give you a lollipop afterward.”

Me (excited): “Really?”

Heather: “Wow. It really has been a while since you’ve gone to the doctor, hasn’t it?”

Before long I found myself sitting on a couch next to – you guessed it – an old lady with a hacking cough. I looked around for the “Redbook” to read, then winced upon seeing that the old lady with the hacking cough was already reading it. I had to settle for a scintillating brochure on how to avoid teenage acne.

Eventually I was called back and placed in a room to wait…and wait…and wait. After a while I began to read a children’s book to pass the time, but it wasn’t very interesting. I soon sighed and wondered how the brochure on teenage acne ended. Finally, the door started to open and I tossed the children’s book so as not to seem like some Forrest Gump-esque man/child who was in here reading about anthropomorphic bears.

It was then I was surprised to see the doctor wasn’t some balding, phlegmatic old man, but a pretty woman around my own age. My mouth opened in horror as Heather’s words rang in my head:

DON’T FORGET TO HAVE THEM CHECK FOR TESTICULAR CANCER!!!!

Now don’t get me wrong. I, like all men, normally would like the idea of having a pretty woman touch my testicles, but not in a cold doctor’s office with orders to “turn and cough.” In fact, a doctor’s office is pretty much the only place where a man actually prefers to have his testicles touched by an old dude with ear hair instead of a pretty woman.

Once the physical began my mind raced a mile a minute trying to figure out a way to get out of the testicular examination. “Well, doctor,” I thought about saying. “My real name is actually Dougie Blackman and…” Nah. That wouldn’t work. I was screwed.

“Would you like me to, uh, test you for testicular cancer?” the doctor asked in a tone that made it clear she was just as uncomfortable as me.

“My wife wants you too,” I blurted out. The Doctor looked at me strangely. “Great,” I thought. “I just told this lady my wife wants her to touch my balls.” I had to clear this up and fast, so I said, “I mean, yes, if you’ve ever done it before.” I then winced upon realizing that I had not only implied that she was an inexperienced doctor, but had never touched a man’s balls before. She forced a smile and said, “Please lower your pants.”

I awkwardly did as told and stared at the ceiling. I tried to imagine being tortured by the Viet Cong, or a bunch of fat, hairy guys showering, in order to avoid a certain something happening that would make this situation even more awkward.

“Turn your head and cough,” she soon said, and after a few seconds the whole trauma was over. Once home I turned on the shower, huddled in its corner, and clutched my knees while crying.

Later, after Maddie was born, doctors became an even bigger part of my life. I met them by the dozens, and these people, who I had avoided my whole life like the plague, suddenly held my little baby’s life in their hands. It became clear to me very fast that a good doctor was an invaluable thing, and Maddie, thankfully, had a number of good ones who saved her life. Another good doctor, the one who gave me my awkward physical, has since become our family’s physician and has done a great job of keeping Maddie healthy. (SIDE NOTE: Last week I teased Heather that our physician is the only other woman to touch my balls since we got married. Heather replied, “Yeah, like that’s such a treat.” Thanks, honey.)

After all of this I’m no longer so reticent to go to the doctor even if it is sometimes awkward and means I’ll have to read a few ancient “Redbook” magazines. After all, if it buys me 5-7 more years around Maddie, it will all have been worth it.

The Scaly, Puss Filled Monster Stole My Baby

Mike — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 06:35:32 +0000

In every parenting team there is a “worried one,” who is likely to flip out over stuff, and a “mellow one,” who tends to roll with the punches. These terms are fluid, of course, and on a bad day the “mellow one” can become the “worried one” and vice versa, but for the most part a parent picks a role the minute their little bundle of joy squirts out and sticks with it.

I, unfortunately, am the “worried one.”

I blame my mother for this. She was not just the “worried one” in her parenting team, but the “worried one” for the entire Western United States during the mid to late eighties. It’s true…they gave her a badge and everything, but she rarely wore it because she was too worried she’d lose it.

I could tell you many crazy stories about my mother’s obsessive worrying, and I will in a future post, but right now I’m more concerned with explaining how at some point in high school I uttered the phrase, “I will never be like my mother,” and, of course, doomed myself to becoming exactly like her. Before long I will not only worry about everything, but also have hot flashes and wear a girdle.

Sometimes my worrying really pisses Heather off. Take last night when we were getting ready for bed. We laid Maddie down in her crib in the baby room, then retreated to our bedroom and got under the covers. Before drifting off to sleep, however, the “worried one” in me had to check the baby monitor one last time. That’s when I saw Maddie staring back at me with those spooky baby monitor eyes. (Anyone who has a baby monitor knows what I’m talking about.) This unsettled me because I expected Maddie to be asleep, and suddenly an unsettling image popped into my mind of watching the monitor when two foreign hands appeared on-screen and snatched Maddie out of the crib. As if that wasn’t creepy enough, I then imagined the hands not to be human, but scaly, puss festering monster hands.

At that point, as only a man can, I turned to Heather and did something incredibly stupid. I said, “Wouldn’t it be horrifying if you were watching the monitor when two hands suddenly appeared on the screen and snatched up Maddie?”

Heather, who had almost been asleep, was now totally awake. “The fuck are you telling me that for?”

“It just dawned one me,” I stammered. ”And -”

”There’s a window in her room. Now I’m totally picturing someone smashing it and climbing inside to steal her.”

“That won’t happen,” I said, trying to reassure her.

“How do you know?!”

(NOTE: See how quickly the roles can switch?)

Heather: “Go get her. I won’t be able to sleep now unless she’s in bed with us.”

Me: “I can’t. She’s on her oxygen.” (for those of you not so familiar with our story, Maddie needs oxygen at night because of her lung issues).

Heather: “Well, I’m not going to be able to sleep now. Thanks!”

Me: “Me neither. It’s a disturbing image…and it only gets more disturbing when you imagine the hands belong to a monster.”

Heather: “A monster?”

Me: “Yeah, like a scaly, puss dripping, eight foot tall demon thing.”

Heather: “Who are you?”

Me: “It gets even more disturbing if you picture yourself trying to run in to save her, but can’t do it because your legs suddenly weigh a thousand pounds.”

Heather: “Do you want me to make you sleep on the floor next to her crib?”

Me: “No, I just… These are the things I think about.”

Heather let out a long, annoyed sigh that told me the conversation was over.

A minute or so later I looked at the baby monitor and saw that Maddie’s eyes were now closed. Heather, however, was wide awake and glaring at me with eyes far spookier than any seen in a baby monitor.

It’s hard to be the worried one. It’s also hard to be the crazy one.

Scary Breeders

Mike — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 04:59:06 +0000

A few years ago a musician I dig, Juliana Hatfield, wrote a song called “Scary Breeders.” At the time I first heard it I chuckled and was like, “Yeah! Aren’t people that have kids weird?” Of course I am now a scary breeder myself, and have even caught myself calling Heather “Mom” in a non-ironic way. What the hell has happened to me?

Don’t get me wrong, having a child is an amazing experience, but do you ever find yourself wondering how you became THIS person?

Anyway, take a look at song’s lyrics below. They are fairly simple, but might help trigger some thought in regards to the following questions:

”What the heck ever happened to me?”

“Was I someone different before kids?”

Did I have different dreams?

Did my friends see me differently/like me better?

Or have I always wanted to be a parent and only now feel whole?

Discuss!!!! And leave any comments about the lyrics you like as well you scary breeders, you!!!

SCARY BREEDERS

by Juliana Hatfield

Scary breeders
They have come
With their sons and daughters

One by one
Mean and dumb
Have another

They got cable
And AC
And cellular technology

Scary breeders
They run me out of town
Creepy breeders

When the baby feeds
And the implant leaks
It’s a screaming monster

Shut it up
Put some Pepsi
In the baby’s bottle

Or hit it harder
Scary breeders
They run me out of town
Creepy breeders

Those breeders
Strange breeders
Dog breeders
Those breeders

The World’s Worst “Dear Abby” Letter

Mike — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 06:48:22 +0000

Dear Abby,

Recently I took my daughter to the pharmacy to get some medication she needed. While we were there a woman came up to my stroller and looked in at, ahem, “Maggie,” and smiled from ear to ear. She then said, “Oh my Goodness! You’re baby is so, so…”

I nodded, smug, and thought about how how my baby is “so, so…perfect,” “so, so…beautiful,” even “so,so…transcendant.”

She then said, “so, so…tiny.”

I thought, “The fuck, bitch? That was totally rude! She was a preemie and still spits up a lot! And maybe there was a week I didn’t feed her enough!”

I’m sorry, Abby. I hope that language wasn’t too harsh. I simply wish to express to you how I wanted to kill the whore…bitch…whatever term you deem printable. (By the way, Abby, I love your work. I don’t know where you find these freaks who write in to you! Of course if you print this I guess I’m one of those freaks. Now I’m not so sure I want you to print this. I do want your advice though. Shit. This is also way too many sentences to put between parenthesis, isn’t it? Your editor probably won’t even print this on account of all the editing work he’d have to do. And if it is a woman editor she’s now likely offended by my chauvanistic assumption. Crap!)

Anyway…

The real reason I’m writing, Dear Abby, is because of what happened shortly after the incident with the thoughtless fucking whore or bitch. (Again please use whichever term you deem printable. If, however, the word ”cunt” is printable it is preferable to the other two, but somehow I doubt that it is. That’s what she was though if we really are going to get down to business here. Perhaps you could refer to her as that ”See You Next Tuesday” Lady. Your readers would likely find that amusing, and it would get across my feelings about that fucking whore/bitch…or cunt, if printable.)

So, to the issue at hand. I was told by the pharmacist that it would be a short wait, so I took a seat next to another woman who also took an interest in “Maggie.” By the way, Abby, how many words is your column? Because I’m at 318 already and haven’t even got to what I was writing about. You’re totally going to just throw this in the trash, aren’t you? Well, if that’s the case screw you, Abby! Where do you get off thinking you can tell everyone what to do anyway?!

Sorry, Abby. I really am a fan actually. In fact I read your colum every day and truly want your advice about this woman (not the fucking whore/bitch…or cunt if printable…but the other one. Again, please excuse my language if it offends, Abby.)

Anyway, as I was waiting for the medication to be ready (not mine, my daughter’s. You’re totally thinking I need meds though, aren’t you? I realize this letter may have gone off the rails and made me seem a little crazy, but I was there for Maddie’s meds, not mine. Shit! I mean ”Maggie’s” meds. Now you know my kid’s name! If you print her real name, so help you, Abby, I will hunt you down like the dog you are, you ”See You Next Tuesday,” and rip you to shreds! Of course, if you never intended to print her real name I feel really bad and have no intention to kill you. And shit, this is again way too many words to put between parenthesis.)

So on to the question. The lady next to me (you know which one, right?) looked at my daughter and asked if she could hold her. I peered at this woman, who actually looked like a nice old lady, but let’s face it, she was at the the pharmacy, so God knows what she may have…scurvy, herpes, polio….who knows? And when the best option is scurvy you know you’re in trouble, so I told her she could not hold my baby. (Here’s a suggestion: print this letter in two parts! I realize it is getting kind of long and I don’t take well to my writing being edited. I’m not saying I would hunt you and your editor down if you edit it, but, well, I guess I am. And I’m large. I could totally hurt an old lady like you. So don’t edit this. But do print it in full or risk my wrath. Thanks, Abby!) Anyway, the lady glared at me and walked away like I had totally insulted her. Was I wrong to not let her hold my baby? It seemed weird, and my baby isn’t so healthy to start with, but maybe I was being an ass.

Please help me, Abby!

Sincerely,

Confused in Los Angeles

NOTE: I sent this letter in to Abby but…as awesome as it is…I worry it might not be printed. So I’d really appreciate it if you out there in internet land could give me advice on this question on the off chance Abby doesn’t print this (though she totally will…won’t she?)

I Didn’t Burn My Baby…

Mike — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 05:25:17 +0000

The day is winding down on my first father’s day (or fourth…depending on who you ask) and it went pretty damn well. In our house, mainly because my wife is a whore for holidays, we actually celebrated a father’s weekend. Heather has, at times, even petitioned for things as outlandish as Birthday Months, but thus far I have managed to keep things down to relatively normal party weekends, or even somewhat extravagant weeks, but never party months or even her recent suggestion of party fortnights. I will say though, since this holdiay was about moi, I was happy to make it a weekend and not just one stinkin’ day.

Things really got down to business on Saturday when we went to this awesome Japanese barbecue restuarant where you cook meat on a grill in the center of your table. Heather was a little worried about eating there since Maddie was going to be there too, but I promised her that I wouldn’t drop the baby on the grill. This joke, for some reason, did not go over well with Heather.

Once at the restaurant, eveything was fine with Maddie…I totally didn’t drop her on the grill…although at one point she lost her shoe and I immediately looked to the grill in fear. I imagined Heather screaming in horror as Maddie’s shoe charred in a puddle of Teriyaki sauce, but thankfully it had just landed on the germ filled floor. The meal was awesome, and I am happy to report that by the end of it Heather enjoyed herself enough to even entertain going back there one day!

The rest of Saturday was spent lazily. I slept a lot – I needed it - and Heather took care of Maddie until three in the morning. At 5:30 a.m., when Maddie was crying, I got up to feed her since Heather had done such a great job with her. I’m not mentioning this to get Dad points, but….ahem…I did get up at 5:30 am to feed the baby on Father’s Day even though Heather would have totally done it had I asked her to.

Around nine a.m. Heather brought me breakfast in bed (always a culminating event of a celebratory week or weekend). It was toast, eggs, sausage, peppers, and onions, and very tasty. Lunch happened a few short hours later (our holidays always involve lots of food) at a place called Baby Blues Barbecue. It was awesome and served up Southern ribs along with regional faves like okra. The place was packed but we somehow got in with a party of 8 1/4th (Maddie, of course, was the 1/4th). Tia Leah and her boyfriend Ted were there bearing an awesome Best Buy gift card, Uncle Kyle was there with his boyfriend Michael, and Heather’s parents were there to pick up the tab (score!) and give me a Giants bobblehead present!

My last fun father’s weekend event was going to see The Incredible Hulk while Heather looked after Maddie. This may sound weird to you, but Heather had no interest in seeing the movie, and I had no interest in changing a diaper in the aisles while Bruce Banner did his thing, so I was more than happy to go alone. It was very entertaining, but I had a total dude thought midway through the movie that may offend some: “If Bruce Banner was getting it on with a chick, and suddenly got mad, would his thing grow to hulk like proportions? And if it did, what would happen to the chick?”

I asked Heather this question when I got home and she said, “A) It would split her into two pieces in a horrific display of screaming, blood, and vomit that you can’t even imagine, and B) You do realize you can’t ask me sicko questions like this anymore now that we have a kid, right?” I told Heather that I would keep these weird thoughts to myself in the future, to which Heather replied, “I’ve been waiting for you to say that since the first day I met you.”

Well, that is it, folks! I hope everyone – fathers, wives, and kids – had a great time like I did!

Shiloh Ain’t Got Nuthin’ On Maddie!

Mike — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 04:26:27 +0000

Heather and I started calling Madeline “The World Famous Maddie-Moo!” back when she was in the NICU because people from as far away as Japan were praying for her to get healthy. Now that she is home and relatively healthy there aren’t too many Japanese people thinking about her anymore (what’s up with that Japan?), but we still call Maddie world famous because in a lot of ways she acts just like a celebrity.

Sometimes Maddie pulls a Greta Garbo and goes days without leaving the house. To be fair this has less to do with Maddie’s wanting “to be left alone,” and more to do with Heather and I trying to limit her chances of picking up another virus that will send her to the hospital, but she’s pretty Garbo-esque nonetheless. Sometimes she even wears oversized sunglasses like Garbo. They’re meant for ages 2-4, but Maddie totally pulls them off.

When we do take Maddie out of the house all hell breaks loose like one of those papparazzi videos of Britney Spears leaving some Hollywood night spot. Instead of photographers, however, it’s usually fawning old ladies and squealing college girls who come running. (Side note: Why is it now that I’m married and off the market that I have something that attracts the opposite sex like moths to a flame? Man, what I would have given a few years ago to attract old ladies like this!)

Not everyone that passes Maddie comes running over to see her, but just about everyone smiles or does a double take. Maddie will look at me with a world weary expression that says, “I’ve been recognized again.” Or maybe, “Dad, I have gas.” Either way I prefer to think she means the former.

Another celebrity-esque thing Maddie does is frequently change her outfit. I will concede that this has to do with her tendency to spit up more than anything else, but you know what? A lot of celebrities – like Lindsay Lohan or Kirstin Dunst – do their share of spitting up as well. And I can guarantee you they don’t look nearly as cute doing it as my kid.

Okay. So maybe Maddie isn’t really a celebrity, but you know what? Even if the world is more interested in Shiloh, Suri, or the rest of those kids with weird ass names, Maddie, in my eyes, will always deserve to be known as “The World Famous Maddie Moo!”