There’s been a lot of drool around the house lately. For weeks now, Mrs. Blackwell and I have been told that our little guy is teething, or preparing to teethe and the drool is a byproduct.
|Knuckles. AKA pacifiers and, now, chew toys.|
To that end, he has worked diligently to prepare for the arrival of his new chompers.
Whenever he’s being held he’ll often attempt to divert a knuckle from the hand that’s holding him into his mouth. Once he’s captured his prey, he’ll gnaw, suck and lick the digit into submission.
This is pretty common when a baby is set to grow teeth so Mrs. Blackwell and I have been ready for the first appearance of enamel. And well, today it happened.
His lower jaw now, officially, sports the beginnings of a tooth.
Mrs. Blackwell called me at work to let me know of this “cool” development and naturally I was not impressed.
Like my father before me, I hope to somehow to be the first man in history to bend the whims and certainties of nature to my will.
First it was the weather. Perhaps by being angry about it we could change it? Then it was the impulses and failures of our fellow man. Again, if we complain enough about it, perhaps people might be nicer in traffic.
Now, it’s the growth of my son that’s got me ticked. In this case I want his growth to slow the hell down. And until I find a way to accomplish this feat, it’s my intention, my duty even, to bemoan these changes.
If his teeth weren’t enough to draw my scorn his fast-growing blond mop is. Each and every day there is more and more hair on what was once a perfectly soft, bald noggin.
For months, he looked like a cute, pudgy and frequently surly old man. Now, more and more, he’s looking like a cute but unmistakably growing baby boy. And, like the weather, there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.