the underwear drawer

the photographic equivalent of glucagon

I had the best Sunday call yesterday. One big case during the day (my standard crani for aneurysm--every time I have a Sunday call, I end up doing a crani for aneurysm) that kept my busy during the daylight hours and helped the time pass faster. But then after that, the sweet, sweet sound of silence. I think one of my co-residents got called to do some 20-minute gyn crap (these weekend gyn cases inevitably involve sucking blood clots out of something) but seriously, it was quiet the entire rest of the night. We all got to eat our dinner (out of emesis basins, scooped with tongue blades, because this time there were no plates or plastic forks) and we all got to sleep. And best of all, I got to come home this morning and be a non-zombie parent for Cal. Truly awesome. Can I tell you how cute Cal is getting? I mean, he was always cute, but people, COME ON NOW. It's not fair to the ladies.




He's not quite walking yet, but standing and cruising quite nicely. I think he considers walking, but at the last second, he chickens out, either reaching out to hold on to something, or plopping back down onto the safety of his well-padded butt. Which, actually, is the same strategy I use when I go skiing.




The funniest thing he does--well, one of the funniest things--is that he crows like a rooster. Seriously, that's exactly what it's like. When he does something new and notable, or he gets really excited about something, he sticks out his chest, clenches his fists, and starts crowing in triumph. Maybe this is one of those things that falls under the category of "Only Cute To The Parents, While Everyone Else Wants To Shut That Damn Kid Up Already," but being the parent, I am blind so such sadly unbiased points of view. Because to me, nothing is funnier than a ten month-old baby vocalizing the equivalent of, "By the power of Grayskull, I am He-Man!"




Joe's mom was in town for the past week, and I worry that she thinks we're nuts. Given that she has three kids and two other grandchildren, she's from more of a relaxed, "let it be, it'll all be OK" school of parenting, whereas we as first-timers are coming more from the obsessive-compulsive and guilt-laden school of parenting. She feels (I think) that we dote on Cal too much, whereas my feeling is that if I only get to see my kid awake for three hours a day during the work week, I sure as hell am going to be picking him up and cuddling and playing with him at least two hours and forty-five minutes of those three waking hours. (The other fifteen minutes are for showering.) So yes, we hug and kiss and snuggle him a lot. But what of it? Soon he'll be a pimply teenager and hate us and everything we stand for, so we have to get all this cuddling in while we can.




But whatever, I guess that's such a typical grandparent-parent scenario that it's its own stereotype. It was great having her around for the week, and Cal certainly loved all the extra attention and home-cooking. As, I suspect from the drool puddle next to the dining room table, did Cooper. Either that, or Cooper has finally decided that she is, indeed, going to eat the baby at last.




Currently reading: About Barbaro and his broken ankle. I don't know why I'm so obsessed with this story--I couldn't care less about horse racing, obviously, and it barely even registered on my current events radar when he won the Kentucky Derby, because what? The Kentucky what? But something about the accident is so sad, and, I think, appeals to anyone who was ever a little kid who drew pictures of horses and spent many hours combing the manes of her assorted My Little Ponies. Also, there is something terrible and horrifying about this picture, which shows him running all-out on his broken ankle.



(Barbaro is the fifth from the left, with the jockey wearing blue with green sleeves. Look at how his right back leg is going out all sideways at the ankle joint. Gah! Picture courtesy of Matt Houston/AP)