The boy’s first haircut.  No tears, no screaming–but then, barbers no longer let blood and saw bones, so I suppose he got off lucky.

This time.

Not much to say today, but here’s a Big Damn Picture of Auggy’s first time on the swing:

He's either going to be a knight...

Or a jester...

Or, a mermaid.

You can see why I’m rooting for one of the first two.

Rosey Grier, unfortunate, disillusioned man, was wrong about his most famous song, but that’s okay.  A lot of people are wrong about many things; and me, I’m right about most everything.  That’s okay, too.  But, despite Rosey’s misunderstanding, I have to admit that although my desktop (computer-wise and plain ol’) is adorned with photos of Auggy smiling and laughing, my favorite pictures are the ones where we catch him scrunching his cute face up for a monster of a wail.

Sorry, buddy.  Love ya’ lots and all, but right now your baby-sized frustrations make me chuckle.  And who wouldn’t laugh with delight at the following?

Poor kiddo.  You’re stuck with me.

… if you miss the muses of Softee this Friday.

Plus, buy a CD while you’re there.  Or two.  Or, three hundred. (A true fan of art will buy three hundred because he–or she–knows it’s the right thing to do.  Should you actually have a life-ending experience (say, being eaten by an alligator) and go to meet your maker, he–or she–will stare at you with those accusing eyes of holiness and demand whether you supported the ladies of Softee three hundred times.  And if you answer in the negative, you will be cast down.  Down!  So, I guess what I’m saying is that Softee is a religious experience.  Except, without the touching of the altar boys.)

My last post indicated my recent seduction into the addictive world of Apple games.  First, it was an innocent, nostalgic game of Oregon Trail.  But then, soon after, I was sucked into the crime-filled world of Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? (Turns out she was hiding along the Oregon Trail.  The bitch died of a snake bite.)  Now I’m stuck playing Fraction Munchers–quite possibly the first Apple IIe/gs game I can remember playing.  For those of you who don’t know the game, it’s exactly like Pac-Man.  Only, you don’t collect any dots, there are no power-ups, you don’t get chased by ghosts, there are fractions (lots of ’em–but don’t get them confused with whole numbers), and you’re not a little, yellow, half-eaten pizza pie.

So, while I’m busy doing that, here’s a couple of photos.  One of me, and the other of Auggy.  People say he looks more like me than he does his Ma, but I think they’re saying that only because we’re both white and we’re both the cutest people, evah.

Next post: The Harrowing World of  Fraction Munchers.

Kaiser, get it? Its etymology traces back to Cæsar (not his entomology, which just bugs people), the greatest of whom was Imperator Caesar Augustus (to his friends, “Bob”; to his enemies, slaves, traitors and to whomever he lost his weekly Scrabble game, “Ohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrap, is that a writ of execution? Seriously? Fine, you get a triple word score on that last one!”). He was also declared a god by the Roman Senate, which is a nice job if you can get it. But there you go: our son, Auggy, is one step closer to his life on top of Mount Olympus.

Because now he’s semi-mobile:

By SKIPFITZ, Staff Writer

KANSAS CITY – In a surprise development–happening between the hours of 9:00 Sunday evening, and 5:00 Monday morning–Lil’ Auggy Doggy found his feet.

“It’s such a relief,” his feet said. “We thought we’d be lost for his entire life, but he came through for us even though we doubted.”

The Insta-Princess was equally happy. “He was making noises throughout the night, so I knew he was awake. But I had no idea when I walked in that he’d be holding his feet. His feet. There they were. Poof! Like magic.” Like magic, indeed. Although Mr. Doggy has been in possession of his feet for three months, he had been unaware of them the entire time. He’d occasionally curl his toes and look annoyed when SkipFitz tickled his feet, but Mr. Doggy refused to look in their direction, a sure sign of what many leading psychologists call “Not Knowing What The Hell Is Going On”.

“I was terrified,” admitted Mr. Feet. “We saw him, but he didn’t seem to notice us. Did he hate us? Did we smell? I’ve heard we’re supposed to smell, but that bastard, Mr. Nose, wouldn’t share any information. How are we supposed to know if the nasal passages don’t communicate? HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Feet after he calmed down. “I’m just so sensitive.”

When asked for comment, SkipFitz responded with a shrug. “I don’t see what’s so special about finding feet. I never found mine, and here I am.”

The Insta-Princess rolled her eyes. “Yes, but he couldn’t find his own… my, I shouldn’t say that, should I? That’s naughty.”

“Listen,” said Mr. Feet, “We’re just thrilled to have been found. Have you ever seen feet that haven’t been found?” Using a toe, he pointed at SkipFitz’s feet. “They’re cracked and dried and alone. So alone. No one wants feet to be like that, least of all the feet.”

Mr. Doggy was no available to comment as he spit up and went back to sleep, but his feet are confident that a celebration is in the works. “Now that we’re part of the family, I think a party is in order. All the body parts will be invited.”

“Except for that asshole, Mr. Nose.”

I’m not sure I ever really planned to turn this blog into a repository of baby photos and videos, but I realized something last night about the old saw of inviting people over to your house for dinner and boring them with slides of your vacation: With the Internet and whatnot, the power to bore has been increased a billionfold as your audience has grown to limitless numbers.

It’d be irresponsible to not use that power.  And me, you know me, I’m anything but irresponsible. I mean, I couldn’t tell you where my son is at this exact moment, no, but I do know where his latest YouTube video is:

Alright, I admit it. He’s a keeper:

And only two months, too. Imagine the wattage his cuteness will generate when he’s old enough to date.

He was asleep, I was bored, and he was hanging out in my arms. Perfect time for a camera shot, right, because what spells “fatherhood” better than trying to juggle your infant child in one hand, and attempting to turn on, maneuver and focus the camera with the other? Fortunately, I failed to kill my kid.

Or, so I thought.

I was going through the photos afterward when I discovered that Auggy was already a goner. The undead. (Not, say, the undead as in black tux, sweeping cape, pointy teeth and an aversion to drinking… wine undead. The other kind. Duh.) See?

At first I wasn’t sure. I mean, cute kid (looks like me), red hair’s still there, and so far no teeth–not even rotted ones. But, I have to admit, the the eyes concerned me and, well… most non-zombie kids don’t have such creepy speech balloons.

“Oh, c’mon, Skippy, you added that in!”

No, I didn’t. Honest. Zombies are mysterious and powerful like that. Or, is that wizards? (Did Dumbledore ever eat anyone? Are you sure? How could you ever truly know?)

So, now the question on my mind* is whether I can love a zombie child and give him a nourishing, happy childhood. Happy, maybe; nourishing, possibly. After all, if we invite over all his friends for a sleepover, CRUNCH!, nourishing. And he”ll probably even be happy that night. But what about the next morning? Sure, sure, he can eat the other kids’ parents when they come over to pick up little Johnny and Sally Three Course, and that’ll help delay the police being notified for a little bit, but I don’t want him to overeat because, well, I want an active, athletic kid. If he gets chubby, all he’ll do is sit on the couch and munch on the dogs. You can only grab so many strays from the pound before the SPCA starts getting suspicious (they’re worse than the cops).

Plus, what about adolescence? He hits 13 and all of a sudden it’s “Brains! Braaaaains! Braaaains–waaaa! All I ever eat is brains! How come we can’t get a bucket of kidneys? Or a small intestine? Have you seen one of those things? It’s just. Like. Spaghetti.” The ungrateful wretch.

Will he fit in with high school? Will he eat his first girlfriend? (Stop that.) Will he get into college, or will he have to take night classes? Oh, oh, and there’s such a bias against zombies. Have you seen the movies? They’re all so… negative. Frankly, that bastard George Romero owes my son an apology and maybe a nice, fat settlement.

Well, I’ll try. Love you, kiddo. Now, go play with the cat. He’s old. No one will miss him.

*Just mine. Not hers. He ate her.