Wild Hogs

Sometimes the boys just have to hit the open road. Cooper and I saddled up Saturday on our new bike rig and rode around town. We started at the coffee shop at 7am, where I introduced Cooper to the nectar of espresso. This picture was taken as he was taunting a two-year-old wearing striped pajamas. Dudes don't wear striped PJs outside the house. They wear rocketships.


After a trip home for a brief nap, we hit the asphault again. Here's Cooper on the back of the rig. I'm pretty sure the helmet doesn't fit, but it keeps us from getting disapproving looks from yuppie parents in their SUVs.


After lunch, we headed a few blocks away to the park. Cooper loves the park. Not because he can play on the equipment, but because there are older women there. It makes me feel old when he refers to 8 year olds as "cougars." While on the swings, we saw someone roll up in a similar rig as ours so we headed over to check out their setup. That's when this guy got off his bike, unloaded his kid from the back and proceeded to hang out at the kids park on Saturday afternoon. If they don't let sex offenders near the park, they shouldn't let men in bike outfits, either.


I made the executive decision to get away from "Mandex" so we headed over to the soccer fields. There's something about morning soccer games and coffee, and afternoon soccer games and Bloody Marys that I'm distinctly looking forward to. Here's a couple shots from the fields. Please pay special attention to his cankles.




After a few hours, Cooper needed to be downwind from me due to the giant log in his diaper and I needed a beer, so we headed back toward the bike. But not before I realized that the yuppy moms were giving me weird looks. I think they thought I spent all afternoon at the park with my kid while flipping through my Blackberry, when I was just taking pictures.

One down, 17 to go

Cooper got a little surprise this morning when he woke up. Instead of coffee breath and eye boogers he got a cupcake and a present. Yes, we've all survived 365 days. As I post this (at around 8:15), a year ago Michelle was moaning like a pig on the way to slaughter and I was waking up from a few hours nap. Around 9am we were joined by the Greek birth giver, who managed to assuage Michelle's pain ... well, zero actually, because four hours later Michelle agreed to finally have pain medication shot in her spine. Minutes later, she shot out Cooper. People say birth makes you believe in a higher spirit. Those people have never gone through a 38 hour labor with their wives.

Here's a video from this morning. After months of organic yogurt and fruit I figured it was fine to shove a cupcake in his gut. Bonus footage: me signing the first few bars of Happy Birthday .... acappella. Cooper refused to blow out his candles, which I fear is the first of innumerable times he will do the exact opposite of what I say, and then poop in his pants.



Some other photos of the cupcake carnage. I think this was the first time he ever ate sugar, and he spent the ensuing 30 minutes barking at the dog across the street while laughing like a comic book criminal.
He employed a double-fisted squeeze and chomp method, which I believe was developed by the French in the early 1500s. This scared me, except Cooper has not developed insufferable body odor, which made me feel better.
There was a brief moment here where his hands began shaking and he looked up at me as if to say, "Is it possible to boil this in a spoon and inject it into my toes?" I decided it was time to wrap things up.

I turned away and for a brief moment Cooper began chewing on his fingers. Not playful gnawing like most kids ... he was trying to eat the sugary crust around his hands. I thought about giving him another cupcake tonight when I get home, but decided against it. After all, Michelle had to leave on a three day trip tonight and we're all alone.

Cooper was born around 3:30ish -- having the common sense to pop out 30 minutes before the Red Sox playoff game so the doctor could polish everything off. I think these were the first pictures take of him.

The Greek birth giver (I think they're actually called Dulas, or something like that) finally left and promised to return in a few weeks to teach Michelle how to perform infant massage. Cooper might be a toddler before she ever comes back. Michelle fell asleep shortly after and Cooper and I spent our first 30 minutes together watching baseball. The Red Sox lost that game, and the one after it, and also got swept this year, so I fear I may have reintroduced the Curse of the Bambino. But really, what are the odds they go another lifetime without winning a World Series?


I digress. Happy Birthday buddy.