And The Official New Solid Food Of The Week Is...

Banana! Sofi seems to prefer it to rice cereal. Unfortunately, after we give Sofi her mashed-up small portion, neither of us particularly want to eat the rest of the banana, which just goes to waste.

Looking forward to introducing avocado.

Rockstar, Dream

Sometimes being a parent is like having your own personal groupie. The squeals of delight and paroxysms of joy - sometimes when I sing to her - transfer immediate rockstar status. I'm going to miss that when she grows up and realizes I'm not cool.

I dreamed she started walking and talking, all on the same day. And it wasn't just 'mama' and 'dada', it was a bunch of words and the ability to put some of them together to create additional meaning. I guess this means I'm impatient to get on to the next stage, which is weird, because I'm really enjoying having this ticklish groupie.

Time Marches

We tried giving Sofi her first solid food today and she seemed to take to it nicely. Rice cereal. Cathy tasted it later and said, "It's good! It's sweet." Yes, that means she tasted her own breast milk.

Since Sofi's solar powered, I'm much more aware that the days are getting longer than I used to be. "Isn't it dark yet?" and "She's awake already?"

I better go to bed now. She'll probably be up at five. Just have to finish the Blitzkrieg level of Freedom Force vs. The Third Reich.

What's that sound?

Sometimes, when Sofi's been crying for a couple of minutes, and we haven't gone to check on her, Cathy will ask, "What's that sound?"

Funny every time.

Spaghetti, Dream, Angsty Music

Sofi was complaining about being in the Evil Chair so mom picked her up and continued eating dinner. Something we do a lot without even thinking about it. Then Sofi grabbed a handful of mom's spaghetti. Mom gasped in startlement. I started laughing - the image of Sofi with her hand in mom's spaghetti was pretty funny, trust me. Then Sofi started crying. Not clear if it was because mom gasped, I laughed, or the spaghetti sauce was too hot. Her hand looks ok.

Last night I dreamed that a friend who lived in the same hotel as me had a sick baby: the back of the baby's head was this orange cottage-cheesy gunk and the baby had bloodshot eyes. The pediatrician made a house call, and turned out to be none other than Frank Miller, the comic book author who reinvented Daredevil and Batman and created Sin City. Later, after curing the baby, Frank Miller turned into Harlan Ellison and we went out looking for an arcade so we could play the arctic level of Halo 2. Astute readers will note that in real life I don't live in a hotel, Frank Miller is not a pediatrician (nor is he Harlan Ellison), and that there is no arctic level in Halo 2. Dreams. Huh. Interesting to us, boring to everyone else. [Correction: there really is an arctic level in Halo 2. I forgot. Maybe Frank Miller is Harlan Ellison...]

All my music is angsty, and it's been a while since I've listened to any. I gave Nine Inch Nails a whirl yesterday and found that I was having trouble relating to Trent now that I'm a happy family man. Marilyn Manson, on the other hand...who doesn't get a lift out of listening to the rousing choruses of Antichrist Superstar or Irresponsible Hate Anthem? "I wasn't born with enough middle fingers!" Rock.

Scrubs

Dr. Cox's wife: Isn't he an angel?

Dr. Cox (reaching into crib): Yeah.

Kid stirs.

Dr. Cox's wife: He's waking up!

They both duck and hide under crib.

You probably have to be a parent to get it. Cathy and I laughed a long, long time.

Other than that, Scrubs is getting kind of weak? The last two episodes weren't all that.

In other news, Sofi is showing mimetic desire. I'm reading *Mindful Parenting*, and she's grabbing at the pages. I try to give her another book (*Brave New World*, if anybody cares), and at first she's happy with that (although the pages are less resilient - *Mindful Parenting* just crumple, but *Brave New World* tears) but then she wants *Mindful Parenting* again.

Fuck

I should stop swearing in front of Sofi:

a) now

b) before six months

c) before twelve months

d) before two years

e) after two years

f) never

Discuss.

Heritage

I just discovered that swedish pancakes are easier to make than pancake-pancakes. No buttermilk (and no lemon in regular milk for fake buttermilk), no baking soda, no baking powder. My latent swedishness surfaces.

Theory of Slut Clothes

While out walking with Sofi, Cathy and I passed a teenage girl dressed somewhat provocatively.

"Sofi's going to dress like that, you know," Cathy said.

I actually think we're covered, historically:

60s: miniskirt.

70s: Bell-bottoms.

80s: the Madonna look. Underwear outside the clothes.

90s: Nirvana. Flannel. Layers.

00s: Spears, Aguilera. Underwear outside the clothes again, only more so.

So I'm pretty sure slut clothes are an even-numbered decade phenomenon. Sofi will turn 13 in 2017, so she'll be wearing grunge plus plus.

Coming soon: more half-baked theories.

Poison, Smart, Bedtime

A couple days ago I left Sofi on the couch for a moment and when I returned discovered she had somehow gotten ahold of mommy's bottle of Proactive, cap off, and was mouthing the side of the bottle. Some of the Proactive had spurted on the couch. I thought we didn't have to worry about that kind of thing until she was crawling.

Stupid theory for the week: maybe our society becomes so body conscious because we keep telling our babies how cute they are. At a very young age they learn to place an inordinate value on cuteness. No more! I've started telling Sofi she's smart...with very little evidence so far to support that claim. "Who's a smart little baby? Who's a smart little baby?"

I'm the official put-to-bed person in the family. I enjoy this role. I read a story, then cuddle her in the glider chair in the dark while a wind-up stuffed Eeyore plays Brahm's lullaby. Getting her from the chair to the crib is the tricky part. The last two nights I managed to do it without any crying at all. Rock.

New Stuff

Day before yesterday Sofi made a few kissing noises. I was the only witness. Cathy doesn't believe me.

Yesterday she discovered a new, more penetrating cry-squeal thing. A hint of chalkboard, a hint of tires on pavement, a hint of Harvey Keitel acting upset. Ouch. Maybe she's teething? It's getting to be about that time.

Cathy discovered a new way to keep her happy without actually having to carry her around the apartment: strap her into the evil chair, looking out the window. She'll sit like that, content, for at least 20 minutes. Beats putting her in front of the TV.