Crayons Go Up One Drawer Higher

It has been at least fourteen seconds since I last mentioned Jim The Baby Nephew, for which I apologize, as I am well aware that all humanity is wondering what he has pooped on lately.

He’s crawling now, which we’ve all been encouraging, because the last thing we yelled at him to do—sitting up—is old now, and we need a new excuse to forward the theory he is the most intelligent child in the history of the universe.

So Julie and Country The Brother In Law plopped him on one side of the living room, and they held some of his toys hostage on the other, and he figured “Screw it, I'm not going to get one frickin' second to myself until I give the people what they want” and made his way over. And everybody clapped very hard, and gave him kisses, and then we all went: $*(@. Because now he can move around and throw up on things.

I can’t believe he’s still all about the throwing up. You’d think he’d be over this form of self-expression by now. (He’s not reading yet, either, or cooking for himself, or even getting his own beer. We need to get him checked out.)

It’s embarrassing. Sometimes I try to expand Jim’s social circle, and the same thing happens every time:

ME: Jim, can you say hi to Josh The Pilot? Look, Josh, look how cute he is. Isn’t he amazing? Isn’t he a beautiful miracle fashioned directly by God?

JIM: (throws up on the whole entire world)

These are tense moments, introducing a nephew to a potential uncle. The initial pleasantries still went better than when Josh The Pilot tried to hold the child. I admit to administering an awkward handoff; I fumbled the baby when I snapped him, and Josh couldn’t quite get a grip, so I claim full responsibility for the trio-screeching that followed.

Then I obeyed my maternal instincts and ran out of the room to mix a screwdriver, and when I came back Jim was sitting quietly on his play mat, consolidating his bank loans, while Josh sat a safe distance behind him, watching ESPN and gingerly patting the baby’s back as though he were some sort of nuclear device. Unlike me, who tends to solve most childcare emergencies via fiat (“I told him that if he didn’t stop with the crying he’d be hearing from my lawyer. What am I doing wrong here?”)

Pampers melt in a Maytag dryer at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com