It appears that our son, at three and a half weeks of age, is outgrowing his quiet phase and entering his scream bloody murder for no apparent reason phase. It’s as if Jiminy Cricket dropped in and turned him into a real baby. So far, I have discovered two things that seem to soothe him, each of which veer into pretty bizarre territory.
One method of calming him is to talk in a voice that can only be described as sounding like Don Pardo swallowed Ed McMahon swallowed Casey Kasem swallowed a used car commercial announcer.
The other method is to dance around, or in my case, flail arhythmically, in front of him. Earlier tonight, I did that for over twenty minutes. I believe it may be the best way for me to get workouts in at this point. No music is needed; simply flapping about in the most awkward manner possible keeps him happy. My wife described the look of it best:
“You look like an ape in heat,” she said.
“What, you don’t find this sexy like Patrick Swayze’s bit at the end of Dirty Dancing?”
“No. Definitely not.”
This kid, however, eats it up. He is turning out weird already, and we should have seen it coming. As that line in “Kooks” by David Bowie goes, “’cause if you stay with us you’re gonna be pretty kooky too.”