Tag Archives: infant

Milk Man: The Human Moo Cow

Since Zuli’s birth, my life has become one of many things: the sterilizing of bottles, the installation of Chicco Key Fit car seats, the covering of bills. And yet the most pressing issue is one that doesn’t really involve me directly at all: lactation, with Maria on the delivering end and Zuli on the receiving one. Indeed, though I play no direct role in that equation, I do find myself acutely attentive to all matters of the boob, and not in the same way I was during my teenage years. This recent re-focus on, um, mammalian life (get it?) has been a virtual flux capacitor – a time machine, if you will – transporting me way back to a story of the lactating variety, but not like you’d expect.

While residing in Kaneohe, Hawaii from 1989-1992 as a secondary school student, I had the explicit displeasure of knowing a kid my same age named Hank (real name changed to protect the innocent). Of the angular and chatty variety, this Napoleonic cuss was a trash talker of the highest caliber even at 13 years of age. Verily did Hank possess a talent for invective-spewing loquacity that even Dave Mustaine might envy. So tall his tales, so weighty the Marlin he’d snared! And though none of us swallowed it, he insisted that his personal Rolodex contained oodles of famous rappers with whom he was intimately associated.

Though I’m not sure Hank realized it himself, his false claims of association with temporary pop icons typically foresaged their downfall. No sooner would he whisper a rapper’s name, and the weather vane would point toward that rapper’s impending departure from the Billboard Top 200. Fortunately for us all, Hank was a youth possessed of despicably poor taste, only claiming association with stars upon whom the rest of us wished rueful deaths in the first place. He never lied about knowing NWA, MC Hammer, De La Soul, or Biz Markee. But boy, did Hank love him some Vanilla Ice. He told us one day, his tongue polishing the lie as it rolled crisp as a fallen autumn leaf from his lips, “Yeah, me and Dave Van Winkle – that’s Vanilla’s REAL name – used to go on drive-by shootings to kill the Bloods in Dallas, since we were both Crips…” While it’s true that we all stopped believing in the Easter Bunny only a brief handful of years earlier, and the fairy dust of Dumbo-styled suspended disbelief hadn’t fully cleared from our pre-pubescent minds, Hank’s b.s. was a bridge too far. Unbelievable by any standard. He even pumped up the street creds of innocuous non-gangsta wanna-be boy bands like Color Me Badd, and guess what? When he mentioned having done drive-bys with them, CMB’s irridescent stage lights fell similarly dim.

When we left Hawaii in mid-1992 and returned to Virginia for my dad’s next military assignment, it was therefore a time of rejoice. I’d finally been rid of Hank. But like Brokeback Mountain, we simply couldn’t quit him, though we’d have loved nothing more than to relegate him in the dust bin of history. Thus one can appreciate the trauma I was caused a month later, at the tail end of the summer and just before the first day of 10th grade, my brother Ben came home with Hank on his tail. And my bro was not pleased to shuffle in the door with this specific straggler. Turns out Hank’s dad had also been reassigned to our same Marine base. Hank showed himself into our kitchen, popped a Coke, and told us he’d just saved all our lives when squashing a black widow spider near our front door. A smart-ass by nature, I asked him if he’d been on any drive-bys with third-rate rappers lately. Hank stared back at me blankly, then pulled the ultimate trump card and did something I’ll never forget: he pulled up his tee-shirt, locked index finger and thumb around his right nipple, and began to squeeze. We waited uncomfortably, not entirely sure where lay the punchline in Hank’s bizarre non-sequitor. But he hit payday a few pregnant seconds later when a single drop of milk trickled down his scrawny chest. Hank had milked himself, contradicting everything we’d learned in bio class ’til that point.

We stood aghast. And then we recovered and attempted to replicate the feat, which to a bunch of teenage boys was admittedly the most singularly astounding act we’d witnessed. And I’d seen MOTLEY CRUE on the Dr. Feelgood tour, mind you. Not that any of us really wanted to milk ourselves, but how could we let Hank have a monopoly on something this cool? None of us were able to do it, though. Our manly mammilla were barren and destitute landscapes, arid as the Sahara. And so we had to give some respect to the little joker, for he achieved the un-achievable as a manly human moo cow.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Turds and Tea Leaves: Zuli’s On Solid Ground

…whereupon a gushing progenitor sounds a trumpet in proclamation of his newborn daughter’s impending inclusion in the next X-Men film based on the hue, shape, odor, and consistency of her poo. And wherein you, dear reader, shall learn of the proud family history baby Zuli has inherited. All of this and more in what has grown to be an unanticipated, but heartily welcomed, break from living Brazlishly now that your scribe is on paternity leave in northern Mexico.

Zuli’s legal birth name is Azul Eileen Straight Vega, but for our purposes here only the first name counts. Azul is Spanish for “blue” (her artist mother’s favorite color on the palate), so despite the felicity she’s indisputably felt to her baby core since daddy launched her alluring likeness into the digi-age milliseconds after birth, you might say she’s a blue, or indigo, child. Wikipedia describes indigo children as ones that, “according to a pseudoscientific New Age concept, are are believed to possess special, unusual and sometimes supernatural traits or abilities. The idea is based on concepts developed in the 1970s by Nancy Ann Tappe and further developed by Jan Tober and Lee Carroll. The concept of indigo children gained popular interest with the publication of a series of books in the late 1990s and the release of several films in the following decade. The interpretations of indigo children range from their being the next stage in human evolution, in some cases possessing paranormal abilities such as telepathy, to the belief that they are more empathetic and creative than their peers.”

With this definition, the pickle morphs into how, precisely, might we distinguish an indigo child like Zuli from her peers, those snot-nosed sucklings of the sniveling masses? While assuredly no expert in these matters, I’m inclined to believe you can predict greatness in the consistency of an toddler’s poop, uncannily similar to Babe Ruth calling his left field homer, a shaman interpreting tea leaves, or a santeria practitioner tossing chicken bones.

Bowel movements being a predictive mechanism for future performance is hardly a novel barometer to the Straight family. Truth be told, our gatherings normally devolve into scatological sideshows, particularly once my father and Aunt Jo lock into one of their staple reminisces about a random toilet clogged yesteryear. All specimen of chortle and guffaw perennially supplant decency at such times, but we’re a of blue collar background and don’t purport to uphold the heightened standards of a finishing school grad, so whatever. The lightness and blessing of these comedic commode communions has trailed me my whole life, even into the bloom of adulthood, hence I am gleefully attentive to the occurrences of my lower intestine. Sometimes, though, it is a curse, like the time I messed my drawers twice in a day my freshman year of college, or losing 40 pounds during my first six months of Peace Corps in El Salvador due to an unbroken chain of parasitic infestations.

Lest you, dear reader, find thyself getting high n’ mighty about the standards of public decency you believe I’m defiling here, keep something in mind: it ain’t just me. As one particular best-selling illustrated children’s book is titled, Everybody Poops. I am oft warmed at the recollection of a RIP Magazine interview with Motley Crue in 1990, released at the zenith the LA bad boys’ commercial conquest while eating hearty at the trough of their Dr. Feelgood album. The interview revealed that newfound sobriety hadn’t dissuaded Motley from their core distasteful principles, nor had pregnant bank accounts after selling millions of records rendered them upstanding young men to you could intro mom. Before every gig, as the interview detailed, they’d gather in a circle while bassist Nikki Sixx shat into a Kleenex. And if it was chunks, they’d rock.

And so all of the foregoing – the strew now brought to a steady boil – brings me to my point. Last night, I awoke to find Maria changing Zuli’s diaper at 4 AM. By the dim light of a street lamp slithering through a crack in our curtains, Maria’s eyes scarcely hovered open and alert while executing what have already become muscle-memory motions. I intervened, assuming charge of the scenario, judging the culprit to be a pissy Pamper. The velocity with which I was dispossessed of this spurious conceit was prompt: without realizing ’twas a literal shit-show into which I marched, poop was suddenly smooched between the chubby digits of my fingers. Still lingering half slumbered myself, I had a fleeting itch on my chin and reactively lifted a feces-filled finger to scratch, besmirching my goatee with a goodly poo. But was I disgusted? Hellz no, amigos. For my daughter’s log was brown and solid. I say: BROWN and SOLID! A harbinger, an omen, heralding grandeur itself foretold.

Of what will presumably be a multitude of majestic moments in my daughter’s life, this may be my eminently proudest one, after her actual birth. For in just five days of life, Zuli’s already abandoned the incipient green purges of her accumulated pre-natal waste, repositioning herself atop the plateau of The Real Human Dump. I know nothing of children, but this doesn’t seem the normal course of events; I’m inclined to believe that, indeed, Zuli is a true-to-form Indigo Child. I won’t be shocked when the begins communing with defunct relatives, bending forks thru mind power, and telepathically warning her mother and I about traffic jams on highways yet unseen as we travel on family vacations. Someone call Professor X; I’ll be sending her to the academy, that he might assist my daughter in honing this mutant-like power.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sonoran Hot Dogs and the Mogwai Chicken Titty

…wherein we discover Briancito’s deftness at steering his fiancé to another brand of hot dogs, lament how this did not translate into a concurrent capacity for guiding his newborn daughter’s alimentary schedule, and address a quandary: why do babies, like Gremlins, always seem to feed after midnight?

Mexicans from the state of Sonora fashion themselves hot dog experts. Have you ever eaten one from there? It’s hardly an unpleasant experience, and their preparation certainly rivals, or exceeds, the quality of franks served at other “mega-doggo” establishments throughout northern Mexico. A decent folk, the Sonorans will be the first to admit that history has treated their state wretchedly, and perhaps this compels their tenacious belief in the superiority of their state’s hot dogs, a ready fidelity to hold alight the weenie torch in both word and deed.

Maria, my Mexican fiancé hailing from Ciudad Obregon in Sonora, is no exception to that belief system. Standing at just over five feet in height and of delicate corporeal constitution, she speaks softly in a voice that sends a thousand purring kittens scampering through my heart. A humble and polite woman by nature, she keeps her accomplishments mum (at 28 she’s finishing a doctorate and is already a tenured art professor at a major university in Ciudad Juarez). These attributes favoring humility, combined with her general humane and warm treatment of others regardless of station in life, she gives the truthful impression of a woman who loathes competition and avoids conflict at all cost. However, when hot dogs are at stake, she is unequivocal regarding Sonora’s dominance. It’s damn near a petty nationalism, though fortunately for humanity one over which no blood has spilt, save that of the swine perishing for this noble cause.

In the days before our daughter’s birth, I flew into Ciudad Juarez, where Maria lives. We crossed the border into El Paso, Texas, to purchase groceries and supplies before holing up in a temporary apartment back in Juarez for two months. In the meat section of the Target supermarket, Maria asked if I’d like hot dogs for dinner that night. A resounding yes, of course, being a gringo with fond memories of franks consumed at family barbeques and block parties all throughout childhood and adolescence. I’m predisposed and will greedily suckle at a tightly-skinned and condimented frank any time, any place.

Yet despite green-lighting the purchase and merely awaiting her selection, Maria remained static and dumbfounded, scrutinizing the available hot dog variety. I’m no expert in micro-expressions, but I know my woman well and spotted the desperation hegemonically creeping over her countenance. I asked what was wrong. As it turns out, came Maria’s apply in a nearly catatonic disbelief, Target did not offer hot dogs from FUD, the Aztec nation’s largest packaged meats purveyor and, given the fact that Sigma Alimentos (FUD’s parent company) wields a monopoly on franks sold south of the border and is consequently the only hot dog to which Mexicans of most stripes are ever exposed, Maria’s preferred brand. It took some doing, but I ultimately convinced her that this was not, in fact, the end of days as foretold in the Maya Codex, and that another variety of frank might still do the trick. Oscar Meyer, Hebrew National, and Ball Park Franks could all deliver the goods this very night. But baby, I reasoned with every iota of charisma I could conjure, you gotta let it happen. Similar to every man, my relational influence will wane severely once hitched. It is the unfortunate nature of things that I’ll go from Mighty Baby Maker to being the stiff knocking out rent and paying for cable. But on this single occasion, it pleased me greatly to wield such influence over Maria’s alimentary habits. To convince a Sonoran to consume a hot dog that is not FUD is, indeed, no dismal feat.

So foolish of me to assume that same influence would translate into guiding my daughter’s feeding schedule. As a first-time father at nearly 38 years of age, I’ve labored for years under the theorist’s assumption: babies are solely a matter of conditioning, and their eating habits may be controlled rather rapidly with the proper parental firmness, resolve, and consistency. I put this theory to the Pepsi Challenge last night once I got both Maria and Zuli discharged from the hospital and back to our apartment. At precisely midnight, Zuli’s baby lungs demonstrated fortuity unexpected by her Papi Briancito when she tore the bedroom asunder with a rapturous spate of shrill sobbing. For the next six hours, she brought shocked parents to heel, exhibiting that the proverbial new sheriff has arrived in town.

Since these sleepless nights will doubtless be my nemesis for at least the next 12 calendar months, I tore a quick page from Michael Corleone’s playbook: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Thus enthralled was I to learn the innermost mechanics of this terrible phenomenon, the slumber-less eve. I paid careful attention to how Zuli attacked Maria’s jugs with gums, grit, and determination. The sole image that popped to mind was the evil mogwai, of Gremlins fame, tearing up chicken wings. Just like my daughter on her first night at home, the mogwai were irrepressible, seeking fortification as they readied to launch themselves into the world. It seemed to me at that moment, indeed, that Zuli had been duly possessed by Maria’s mogwai chicken titty.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,