12 Weeks: The Sweetest Cheeks

A few things I did not see coming:

1. Getting pee and poo all over my hands (and sometimes later discovered crusted in my hair) doesn't bother me in the least little bit--and can even be funny. Like HaHa Funny. I swear.
2. I spend more time considering Cass' bowel movements than I do reading the newspaper each day.
3. I would rather dote on his itsy-bitsy, insanely adorable baby rump than go out for a beer any night of any week.
4. I can't stop taking photos of Cass' feet. I do not know why. But they sure are cute.

11 Weeks: Portrait of a Young Man as a Blogger

If Cass could spell and type (not to say that he can't), he might have his very own blog--a tell-all account of babyhood, as seen through the eyes of a real baby. It would be pensive, engaging, erudite and wrought with intelligent baby humor. And with every blog, comes the obligatory, expressive digital self-portrait.


This is the common artsy approach. The one that says: I'm not trying to be creative, I just am. See how I'm not centered? That's not on purpose. Because I see things differently than the rest of you.







In this regularly imitated shot, the blogger shows off his (often feigned) fine taste in literature, as if to say: I don't want you to like me because I'm good looking, I want you to realize you're dealing with a keen scholar type. Cass is quite the bookworm.





A common ploy to mislead readers, the blogger often photographs himself in a way that makes him look like something he's not (29 years old instead of 40 or "built" instead of fat). From the back, Cass looks shockingly like a five-year-old boy, making his critical thinking skills that much more believable.




This is a smug approach to vanity. The blogger uses reverse psychology to make you feel superficial about wondering what he looks like. When, in reality, he's either too modest or too ugly to post his photo. Cass is neither--he just thought he'd try to trick you. Gotcha!




If this was Cass's self-portrait, his blog would be called something self-depreciating like "The Yawn," so he wouldn't seem arrogant--like he was trying to make other, less advanced babies (who can't spell yet) feel inferior.

Week Ten: Baby's First Boat Ride

While getting Cass ready for his first big outing on the open waters, we quickly identified his latest bete noir: the pint-sized flotation device we strapped onto his indignant infant body. Physically repulsed by the very contraption designed to protect him, Cass threatened to make us all pay for his discomfort by sounding his own foghorn.













Light-as-a-feather-straight-as-a-board. Can it come off now?






I prefer this type of flotation device.


















Don't worry--I'm under a canopy, so my little moobs (man boobs) don't get burned.

Week Nine: The Shots Heard 'Round the World

Cass had his two-month shots Thursday--four of them, right n his chubby little legs. Saying it was unpleasant is a grotesque understatement. Ryan stayed in the room with Cass, while I cried outside in the hallway. He said the little guy was a champ though. Just one heart-piercing, high-pitched shriek sharp enough to cut glass, a series of air-gasping sobs, and his first real crocodile tears.

But the fun didn't stop there. By Sunday morning, his side effects were weird enough to merit a panicked visit to ER. He refused to eat and had clammy palms and feet. After a battery of tests and a failed attempt at a bottle full of pedialite, they sent him home with a tag around his ankle reading "fussy," and chalked it up to still feeling "icky" from his shots. The fun part: watching him develop an insatiable appetite for baby tylenol. He wouldn't eat for bumpkes, but give him a squirt of the cherry stuff, and he became instantly ravenous--in that creepy, wild-eyed kind of way.





Hey people, relax. I'm just trying to maintain my slim physique. You think chubby babies can pull of this mod, retro pattern? Um...no.





















Just try to take away my sweet cherry syrup. I will punch you in the face.

Week 8: Two Months Already

In honor of the dual birthdays--America, 230 years; Cass Spencer, 2 months--we dressed the lil' captain in his spiffy sailor's ensemble for the World Cup/4th of July Party at Slows. Now that I'm over the fear pulling clothing over his head, one of my favorite things about having a newborn is dressing him--and color-coordinating our outfits on special occasions. He wasn't exactly thrilled with my selection at first, but he was far more enthusiastic once he was "covered" (navy slang for wearing his cap).



Ahoy, Matey! I know it's supposed to be palm-down, but gimme a break, I'm just a pogy bait (inexperienced sailor).




























Forget the pimp suit. I wanna be a sailor rapper, 'cuz these blue breeches are fly.















I'm one tired Old Salt...ready to lay down my swabby and get some shut-eye below deck.

Week Eight: The Future's So Bright...Or Is It?

If accessories make the man, then Cass is a veritable "dude" with an early aptitude for '90s white-guy dance moves, like the one he's practicing here. Much to my dismay, there's no denying he busted out the seated version of the Cabbage Patch--and is clearly enjoying it. [Note: he did not learn this at home.] Cass was just hanging out in his pastel loungewear, when I decided to give his new sunglasses a whirl. It was as if he took on the persona of the sunglasses--and to be frank, it kind of freaked me out. He looks like he could grow up to be the kind of guy who drives a crappy speedboat wearing no shirt and aqua socks, listens to Jimmy Buffet, and has a killer collection of beer cozies.

I think we'll be seeing more of the floppy hat, less of the plastic imitation baby Oakleys this summer. I blame two things: a) the flourescent green color, and b) the stretchy elastic lanyard, also known as Croakies in some circles.