Cheeky's Hideaway

It's Pronounced "Big Boo-tay!"

Good medical news from Casa de Cheeky:  Oodgie has been cleared to walk without her moon-boot.  Despite her repeated attempts to re-injure it ("see, if I twist it like this it doesn't hurt") and a maniacal dedication to pushing strollers up and down stairs--whatever the cost--her foot has apparently healed enough to remove the time-chamber and return to it's normal, massage-demanding self. 

Cheeky also had a check-up today.  We learned that:

• It's more painful to remove your clothes than to get a shot
• She's in the 92nd percentile in height
• She's only in the 69th percentile in weight (eat shit, doubters)
• Just because every other kid is using words like "septuagenarian" and "mitosis," we shouldn't be worried that Cheeky still calls dogs "ga!" and Elmo "eh!"

Me?  I haven't been to the dentist in three years and my worst medical emergency is bad posture.  I feel left out.

Sadly, I'm off to L.A. again tomorrow (which, apparently, just blew up...the hell?) so I'll be unable to play basketball with Cheeky or watch her mommy hit her foot with a shovel.  "Yeah, it's definitely feeling much better!"

What's the Buzz, Tell Me Whatsa Happenin'

I've been staring at the screen for an hour writing and rewriting this post.  I had this whole theme on grades and scoring and such stuff worked up in my head that was going to be brilliant and insightful and induce fits of euphoria in my readers, but when it came to execution my tired, deluded mind could not muster enough cleverness to pull it together.  Since it's been a few days, and the only thing I've talked about is the stupid Butterfinger, maybe I'll toss the theme and recap the week's highlights.

Dr. Rosenrosen and the Needle of Doom

Cheeky went in for her six-month shots on Tuesday.  I have an irrational fear of watching my daughter's leg-fat punctured, or, more accurately, a fear of watching her melt down in shock and pain with no hope of consolation for child or parent.  If  I can claim any benefit to my job, it's the ready excuse that I cannot attend the proceedings (not the first time I've avoided it), and Oodgie's report confirmed my fears.  By the time I got home Oodgie looked like JoBeth Williams at the end of Poltergeist.  They need anesthesiologists on staff at pediatrician offices, and a bartender for the parents.  Based on the grading system curves we had in high school, she's getting an A- in length, a B in weight, and a D in head-size, which despite the grade gets a "most improved" for body parts.  She no longer looks a neck with a light bulb screwed into it...

The Law of Averages

As expected, I got the standard "successful performance" rating in my year-end review.  I've also heard it referred to as "meets expectations" and "average."  All the ratings are on a curve, and I am actually ranked on the same curve as my boss, who also submits my rating (that's fair, isn't it?)  Anyway, it reinforces my long-held belief that you can have the most amazingly successful year and get an average rating, or you can be completely unmotivated and inconsistent and get an average rating.  I've been both...guess which one I was this year...

Today's secret ingredient is...chicken

You're supposed to order food in New York, not cook it.  The pots and pans we got for our wedding should be gathering dust in storage, next to the soiled mattresses and panther-sized rats.  But Oodgie has been practicing in Kitchen Stadium, and cooked up a tasty parmesan chicken dish the other night that would make Chairman Kaga drool on his sequined cape.  I knew when I married her that she could make a mean gin and tonic, but who knew she'd go all Nigella Lawson on me.  She'd better start practicing the chicken fingers and hot dog recipes...that's right around the corner...

I Should Take My Own Advice

I was just over on DadCentric an hour ago, writing about how I'm a night person, and how Cheeky's recondite desire to wake up at the most ungodly hours in the morning is spoiling my nocturnal lifestyle.  The only solution I can think of is to just start going to bed earlier.  It's currently 1:56 AM.  I don't listen very well...

Update: How the kid stacks up

Chloe just reached 10 weeks, so it was time to go back to Dr. Manfrengensen for a check-up yesterday.  It was time for her to get her shots so she wouldn't get typhoid or plague or anything, and I'm REALLY glad I wasn't there.  I guess there was about a one second pause after the first needle went into her leg, followed by 12 hours of misery.  I honestly couldn't have dealt with it, not because she was crying but because I'm getting to the point where if anyone tries to inflict pain on her I'm likely to go all kung-fu on them.  I can see myself, in slow-mo, throwing myself between the needle and her..."Nooooooooooooooooooooo"

She's all good today--no recollection of the worst day of her life to date--but we do have some nice stats to share with y'all:

• She's 23 inches tall, which puts her in the 65th percentile
• She's 12lbs, 3oz, which puts her in the 75th percentile
• Her head size is apparently in the 35th percentile

We've got a bigger than average baby with a smaller than average head.  Hopefully she won't grow up to be a Far Side character.  At least she doesn't look like a candy apple, so there's that. 

Using the whole fist, Doc?

It's been a quiet week so far at Casa de Cheeky.  Yesterday was my birthday, having surpassed such luminaries as John Keats, Alexander the Great, and River Phoenix to reach the ripe old age of 35.   Chloe, employing the same logic I once employed buying gifts for my dad, got me Old Spice.  Next year I expect to get a tie with golf balls on it.  As a side note I did get a 60 GB iPod, which is a wicked-awesome gift for when I want to listen to a month's worth of music non-stop without repeats (which I do).  The whole family went out for a sushi dinner to celebrate, and we were all in bed by 10:30.  Not quite the all-nighter my birthday used to be, although I felt much better the next day...

The only other news to report is Chloe's most recent check-up.  Dr. Rosenrosen said she's 10.4 pounds and 22 inches, which puts her in the 70th percentile (not quite WNBA material, but good enough for the swim team).  We also got some questions answered, such as:

• Ignore the rash
• Don't allow her to cry herself to sleep.  That doesn't mean we can't, though
• Start putting in her crib at a regular time each night.  No more falling asleep on the bean bag chair after the bowl is cashed
• We can't overfeed her.  (I'll bet we can)
• Oh, and she's the cutest, most well-behaved child in the world, so stop your whining.

Generally a glowing report.  Mommy is next up for a check-up.  Me, maybe I'll get a haircut in a couple weeks.

Mommy's all right. Daddy's all right. They just seem a little weird....

Another sultry night in the city.  Did I say sultry?  I meant repulsively nasty.  The city feels like a garbageman's armpit on summer days like today.  Fortunately, our awesome contractor (how often do you hear those two words together?) came by to finish the last details of our construction project (Cheeky's Fortress of Solitude) and fixed our A/C so it doesn't knock out our power every time it turns on.  It's like living in a crisper, which ROCKS after losing 3 lbs of water weight walking the block from the subway.

The kid was starting to smell like a blend of hot sick and high school gym-socks, so we hosed her down after dinner.  We also managed to clip her talons of death, so she can no longer snatch fish and other small prey to feed on.  Dr. Hfuhruhurr gave Chloe two thumbs up, while simultaneously giving Claudia a guilt trip over breast-feeding.  Thanks Doc!  Now how about some Paxil while you're at it?

Tomorrow's big plans include the long-awaited car swap, where we trade in Swedish comfort and under-sized cup-holders for German engineering and trunk-space.  Very exciting.  The legendary BMW handling should be invaluable as we accumulate miles moving it across the street whenever alternate-side parking rules are in effect.  Maybe we'll circle the block a couple times to celebrate before parking it next to a dumpster.

Start 'em early

So Chloe has really taken to drinking.  Although it's just a matter of time before she squanders our hard-earned college savings on booze sucked through a tube, she has at least mastered the art of consuming mass quantities.  Her current feeding technique is a little rough, so we're using bottles instead, but as long as she gets that same dazed look look I get around 3 AM on New Years then we're happy.

Despite absolutely miserable weather (View this photo), I managed to motivate for my first day back to work.  While I was on the way to Queens, Claudia and Grandma took Chloe to the pediatrician, who was kind enough to (a) validate that Claudia was not in fact going crazy, and (b) offered some vegetable-based home remedies to help with some of the lingering pain she's feeling.  It's best I go into no further detail on this.  And Chloe seems to be mellowing out somewhat, perhaps practicing for her first Phish concert.  It's wonderfully quiet right now, which hopefully is a sign that life may finally be returning to something resembling normal.

Go to the light, young Cheeky, go to the light!

It's now been three days since the official due date, and this morning we went to the doctor for a routine check-up.  I went along for "moral support", which turned out to be sitting in a waiting room for 30 minutes reading Outdoor magazine while the A/C blew air piped in from Greenland directly on me at 20 knots.  After being felt and poked for a few minutes, Claudia reported that nothing is happening.  With the cervical opening the size of a single Grape Nut, there's no risk of us having a baby just yet.

So we get to wait a while longer.  Next week they'll start talking about options that aren't "natural", but in the meantime the summation of the doctor's advice is "don't fall".  I'm considering phoning Dr. Nick Riviera for an alternate diagnosis.

Wish Claudia luck, since she LOVES being pregnant SO MUCH and REALLY wants it to last AS LONG AS POSSIBLE.