Aye Yam Cahming Fahr You, Rickee Bobbee
New word for Ian the other day: google!
If we'd had him seven years ago, it would've been yahoo, I have no doubt.
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Back in May I attended the local hospital's edition of "Boot Camp for Dads." A requirement was to promise to come back with your baby and share your wisdom with other future dads. Thursday I got the call, asking me to come on Saturday. So I did.
Went pretty well, I think. There's nothing more amusing than bringing a baby into a room full of guys who are all about to become dads. They watch the babies like they're small bombs, or deadly cobras. Or possibly both: cobra bombs that explode into crying, vomiting fits. Fortunately, that didn't happen, for the most part. There was some fussing, but once I opened my bottle of Coke and had a few swigs, I was fine.
I think I even did well enough that they'll ask me back. They don't with everyone. The class moderator told the story of one new dad who was not asked to return. He told how he "put the baby on the sofa and went and got a beer. When I came back, the baby was on the floor. So I put him back on the sofa and got another beer. And wouldn't you know it, when I came back, the baby was back on the floor!"
To him, the moral of his story was get two beers the first time.
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Today the grandparents (my folks) came over and watched Ian while Lisa and I went to the movies. Ah, babysitting. Went and saw Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, a movie recommended for fans of Will Ferrell, NASCAR, old Burt Reynolds car chase movies, comedy, and Sacha Cohen. Who, incidentally, steals the movie from Mr. Ferrell, I think. His Ali G. routine never worked for me, but he was friggin' hilarious. I'm now very interested in seeing his new movie, Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.
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Finally: do the treadmill dance!
Reading: You're All Alone, by Fritz Leiber. I am?