And THEN our life changed

Forget it all: the kid, the resultant lack of sleep and other bed-based recreation, the toys all over the house and the smell...yesterday, I saw as clear as day that nothing is as life changing as what my wife has just entered into.

A simple request. "Can you put the pictures of P8N on a memory stick or e-mail them to me?" Later followed by, "Can you send me our wedding picture? And do you know where my Africa images are, I need them for Facebook." HUH? "Yeah, I need to post pictures and stuff so that I look cool."

I should have known. I'd heard horror stories from others and when Little Miss Reno convinced my wife to set up an account so she could see her profile and pictures I should have known the slippery slope had been stepped upon.

The addiction has taken hold. Mrs. Suburbia now spends copious amounts of time doing her best Carol Anne impression while I yell, "don't look into the light"... I can only hope this is a phase.

Heavy Mettle or Heavy Metal

As I make my way through the early months of fatherhood and tonight as I wade through another daily pile of breast-milk-spit-up-saturated burp cloths and once-cute-but-now-soiled-by-an-overactive-bladder baby clothes that make up the signposts of the road to hell our little angel has put my wife through while I was safely at work, I have found my newest hero. No, not my wife, she's already at the head of my list for so many reasons. It's anyone who has or had the mettle to raise a child with out some serious metal.

The captain salutes all apartment inhabitants and urban dwellers who overcome all the other challenges in parenthood and do so without a captive washer and dryer. Of all the "baby gear" we own, this is, by far, proving to be the best investment we've made. That the Bay Area is worrying about an extended drought is no coincidence either...

Somebody's Daughter

Every cute little girl in pigtails you see on the playground, every female parishioner in her Sunday best kneeling and praying for others above herself, every spinster in whatever she could find that fits at the Red Cross panhandling to get a hot meal or a cold beer, every single enhanced artist you see in porn or on stage at the gentleman's club. Everyone of them have something in common. Each and everyone is somebody's daughter.

When I was growing up, we had a loud, boisterous and hilarious friend of the family. I've modeled myself after him a bit save the volume and the irreverence. One 4th of July he'd had his share of Rainiers when we happened across a teenage girl with a purple mohawk, more piercings than apparent brain cells wearing a Skinny Puppy t-shirt. His response, in his best hick, closed-minded, slightly inebriated drawl, "that's somebody's daughter". I thought she was cute. But I was in my wannabe-goth/punk-but-have-no-black-clothes phase. I digress.

Anyway, it has always stuck with me as a smartass thing to say. Until I found out I was having a girl. Then, it was etched into my mind that all these images I see of females in today's world are possible "after pictures" of my little girl. My wife and I would marvel at an outfit of a too-young girl and I'd say, "that's somebody's daughter". At once funny and sobering...

In hopes that I always remember that all girls are to be cherished but with an eye for how to guide my daughter, here is the first in a to-become series of "somebody's daughter" posts.

Of course we start with the classic...the complex and ever evolving, revolving and devolving Ms. Spears who is not only somebody's daughter but also somebody's mother.

The first rule of Baby Fight Club

Is that we do not talk about Baby Fight Club.

Baby acne. Nails that grow faster than we can keep them clipped. Spastic hands when fussy.

I've had wrestling seasons where I had less mat burns on my face than this.

Bad parenting Captain. I'm sure people look at her and wonder what the hell are you doing to that girl.

TIME!

A crucial milestone for any father was hit today. MommaSuburbia was lounging in her pre-pregnancy jeans when I got home from work today. Unless you've lived through the changes to your own or your wife's body, you have no idea how big this is!

Baby Gear Review: Boppy vs. My Breast Friend

Lennon or McCartney. Coke or Pepsi. Brenda or Kelly. Ginger or Mary Anne. Chrissy or Cindy. Life's most important choices and debates that will never get solved... And then came the nursing pillows. The Boppy vs. The Breast Friend. Kind of the Hatfields and McCoys of baby gear.

We, unfortunately, were swayed by the Boppy crowd. This is fine horse shoe shaped pillow with a wide array of fashion covers. That's where it ends. This thing, for us anyway, has proved useless as a feeding aid. The concept is simple and thus the Boppy is the simplest solution. Wrap the pillow around your waist, lay child on pillow, attach child to boob and you have suckling bliss. Not.so.much.

The faults are many--the pillow is rounded on all sides, thus there is no platform to lay the child on. There is nothing that holds the pillow to mother thus there is nothing preventing it from detaching nor any ability for mother to shift in concert with the device.

I'm quite certain that in an idealized situation, where mother is in the exact right position, with ideal posture the pillow provides the requisite cushioning for between mother's lap and the child as that's all that you'd need. Such and idealized environment might be a glider chair which the nice folks at Target have delayed yet again from shipping to us--but that's a whole 'nother post. The limited support, stability and positions limit feeding options and flexibility and have rendered this device useless to us. It would make a very nice travel head rest pillow thing for a very large-headed individual though. Turns out the folks at Boppy seem to agree...the image to the left is a "product shot" from the Boppy home page. No mother, no breastfeeding but boy the cute baby looks happy in a cute little chair/pillow.

At the apex of our hatred for the Boppy we were at a loss when Zeke'sMom dropped by for a visit and offered up her used but no-longer-used My Breast Friend. The alternative to the Boppy in this holy war of breastfeeding furniture. A day later, Zeke'sMom came back with unit and life changed. The goal is identical to the Boppy, to provide a place for child to rest while enjoying what daddy no longer has access to--mommy's mammaries. However everything the Boppy is not, My Breast Friend is. First, it straps on with a simple buckle and adjustable belt. Second it has a firm AND flat surface conducive to holding the child stable. With these tow, we end up with a surface that moves as mother moves. Finally, the unit wraps completely around the torso with an added unit for back support. The result is that mom can feed in ideal surfaces, in bed, even standing up.

Like the Boppy, the unit features interchangeable fashion covers that are machine washable. Unlike the Boppy, there's a whole heck of a lot more to it than that.

I'm sure there are others out there who love the Boppy. We heard from a number of them and they convinced us that it was the best. I'm not calling them wrong, just different. I've laid out the reasons the Breast Friend is our new best friend (come on! I had to pay some homage to a terribly kitchy name) and why it gets the the Captain Suburbia Seal of Approval.

Breast over Brest

In what will likely be one of the first of many disappointments for Payton, there is no Versus Network on the channel line-up at Lucille Packard Children's Hospital. Thus, the roll out of this year's Tour de France from Brest will be missed. It's a shame. I'd been prepping her for some time to get here early, which she did, so that she could see Stage 1. You see, instead of the typical Prolouge time trial that normally starts the race, the wacky French decided to make the maiden stage a road race with no time bonuses. First man over the line get the Yellow Jersey. But, no Vs. at the hospital. They have six channels of closed circuit TV which detail how to change diapers, etc. but no Tour. Come on! We've got nurses to change the diapers, we can figure it out later.

Oh well, for today and for her first tour, I'm sure Payton will be happy with breast instead of Brest. Daddy set it to record and would watch it later.

Right on Time

Like her mom, it's clear that my daughter believes, "if it's worth doing, it's worth doing on time". Right on her due date, our daughter ensured we'd have "fireworks" this year even if we were in the hospital.

Welcome to the world our little miracle. I love you already.

Payton Alexandra Jones
July 4, 2008 6:51pm
7 pounds, 8 ounces
20 inches long

Conception

It seems fitting to begin a blog about fatherhood with an entry named conception. I'll spare you the graphic and moderately steamy details of the evening that is most likely the literal conception of my yet-to-be-born daughter. Instead, this beginning is a nod to the conception of captainsuburbia.com and what I hope to do with it.

Timing is everything. For the past few years I've been missing opportunities to see "my favorite band that you've never heard" of play one of their reportedly rip snorting, tequila-fueled live shows. It always seemed something came up. One time they came through I was too tired and missed my girlfriend, who was away in Africa for three weeks, too much to drag myself up to the City. Then there was the time they came to town while I was away on my honeymoon with that very same girl who'd just become my wife. A third miss came when that girl/wife was deep in the throes of chemotherapy. Eventually, it just became a selfish pursuit and I shelved the idea. Then in early May, the wife was out of town on a quick trip back East and a light went off. The boys just put out a new album, perhaps they're on the road. Sure enough, the weekend my wife had left me alone for the last time before we became parents, Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers were playing Slims. It was to be the closing of my "youth". Albeit a lot less beer-infused than I might have planned for such a watershed event as I'd have to roll myself home after the show. What's that got to do with any of this? Turns out that the band had included the tune "Captain Suburbia" on their latest album. Somewhere the smoke, the lights, the $2 Pabst Blue Ribbon and the lyrics to this song just kind of brought things to a very crisp crescendo. It didn't immediately hit me but stuck with me for a few days.

Jump ahead to the shower a couple days ago. With the coming new addition and the fact that our house had no roof insulation, we'd just finished putting in a new roof and an air conditioner. Along with the AC, the electrician put in an un-asked-for-but-not-unwelcome outside outlet. When I told my wife about the outlet she said, "will we ever use it"? At the time I thought not but standing in the shower, it hit me. The outlet will come in handy for the bouncy houses to be set up in the backyard… In that moment I was now, in my mind at least, Captain Suburbia. While I've always eschewed the City for the suburbs of the greater Palo Alto area, I'd never felt it defined me. But since the home purchase, the coming of the baby and likely a million other little things, my transformation is complete.

My name is Matt, and I'm having a daughter. I'm scared to death, I'm happy as hell, I'm not even near having a clue of what life or this blog might bring. I'm not sure I'll ever tell anyone about this. I may, I may not. However you have found me, welcome.

"Captain Suburbia"
Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers

Come a birth, come a funeral, come a wedding bell

I can walk a straight line in a dizzy spell

I’m screening my calls, I’m whitening my teeth

Now I got a smile for every stranger I meet

And I can leap the tallest mortgage in a single bound
Hey Now…
Look at me…I’m Captain Suburbia

I’m lightin’ all the birthday candles in Utopia

It’s a bird, It’s a plane, it’s Captain Suburbia

The weeds will grow, the grey will show, and my garage will overflow now

Lucky me!

I’m Captain Suburbia!

I’m not too young for anything, anymore

I see all my friends and neighbors at the liquor store

I’m mechanically inclined, I’m blissfully insane
I’m rescuing the sacred from the jaws of the mundane

I’m livin’ the dream now…I can sleep through anything
Hey now…Hey now…Look at me…I’m Captain Suburbia

I’m lightin’ all the birthday candles in Utopia

It’s a bird, It’s a plane, it’s Captain Suburbia

The weeds will grow, the grey will show, and my garage will overflow now

Lucky me!

I’m Captain Suburbia!
I’m tucking in the kids

We’re running out of beer

And, “Honey, we need to talk…” are the only words I fear…
Hey now…Hey now…Hey now…
Look at me…I’m Captain Suburbia

I’m lightin’ all the birthday candles in Utopia

It’s a bird, It’s a plane, it’s Captain Suburbia

The weeds will grow, the grey will show, and my garage will overflow now

Lucky me!

I’m Captain Suburbia!