Dear Squirmy, It's been just over three weeks, but already, your mother and I can tell you a couple of things about your personality. A) You're loud and B) You like boobies. Ok, I'm down with the latter, my friend. But we've really got to talk about the first one. Seriously. I don't remember your big sister ever being this vocal at your age. That might be because I hadn't started writing about things yet and I've blocked those memories. Or it could be just that I'm getting older and more crotchety, and my tolerance for noise is going down commiserately. But, dude, I've been looking for your volume control for the last week without much success. Don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining about your crying. You don't actually do all that much of the wailing-gasping-sobbing thing. And when you do, you normally have a reason, like crap in your diaper, or desiring to renew your friendly aquaintance with a boob. But, son, I feel that someone needs to tell you the bare truth of the matter. And if it's not me, then I'm not sure who will. You're a grunter. Seriously. Last night you came along with us to parent's night at the Queen's School for Girls. And you decided that you wanted a snack. I whipped out a bottle one handed to top you up, and you had at it. And the whole time, you made noise like it was your first meal since being retrieved from the wolf family that had been raising you before you came to us. suck *grunt* suck *groan* suck *grunt* suck *sigh* suck *grunt* They're "quite fussy" at Queen's, my boy, and we've got to keep our public grunting to a minimum. But I'll gladly trade you a public grunting session if we can compromise on the 4 AM wake-up grunts. I've been happy enough when you fall asleep in the crook of my arm at night, and have wired my brain to preternatural stillness to avoid dropping you off the side of the bed. However, I can rely on you to start wriggling and grunting several times a night, sometimes in a signal that you are feeling a bit peckish. Or hot. Or cold. Or would like one of us Tall People to wipe your down-below. But about half the time, it's apparently because you felt like a good twenty minute grunting session was just what the hour called for. Trust me. It's not. Love, Daddy

Our adventures with the NHS continue this week. My bride was less successful with breastfeeding the Critter than she might have liked. (See, I feel comfortable sharing this with you, the Internet. Because I trust you.) The midwife visiting us to check up on Squirmy suggested she might try pumping to stimulate the whole process of dairy production. And in the meantime, we can supplement with some formula, which is cool, because that means I get to participate in the feeding process as well. That's important to me, but not because of the reasons you might think. My Bride's go-to excuse for allowing me to handle every diaper change was my inability to contribute to the boy's food supply. Now I get to skip every third or fourth change, at least, because I'm Doing My Part (read: "propping up the bottle on a blanket within general reach of the kid's mouth while I try and catch a little more nap time") The midwife started to suggest where we could get a sterilizer. We both kind of chuckled and said we don't do that. Sterilization, that is. At least, we never did with the first kid, and hey, she turned out ok. At this revelation of how we choose to live in filth, the midwife turned six shades of grey, and stammered before asking why? Well, you see, my Bride is a scientist by trade, and has a pretty good grasp on the whole notion of sterilization. And the fact that you stick your dirty fingers on the bottle to open it, and fill it, and expose it to the decidedly unsterile air in your average living room or what have you, makes the whole thing pretty pointless. Or at least, no better than washing it with plain old soap and hot water (like a dishwasher). "And," I pointed out, "it's not like you're sterilizing your boob before you jam that down the kid's throat. Your nipple has got to be a veritable cornucopia of dirty bacteria". Because I'm helpful like that. No doubt our midwife is calling the British equivalent of Social Services as we speak.

I realize I haven't been posting much of late. Yeah well, we've been a little bit distracted. And then there's the lack of sleep. My Bride and I occasionally remind each other that we chose to do this again on purpose, knowing full well what it would be like. Except you don't really. Something in your brain has been wired through evolutionary selection to forget how disgusting a baby is. In one changing table-event, Squirmy managed to crap, piss and vomit. Linda Blair made less mess in The Exorcist It seems obvious to say that there are some differences between having a girl baby and a boy baby, but really, it goes beyond the plumbing apparatus. Or maybe it's just the differences between the two little people that the Critter was and Squirmy is, but friends who have stopped by to admire our latest handiwork have nodded knowingly and blamed the Y chromosone. He eats more frequently, sleeps a little bit more erratically, is constantly losing his car keys and frequently forgets to put the toilet seat down after use. On top of that whole getting-used-to-boys thing, we're trying to navigate the American and British systems in tandem. Because, yeah, Squirmy's an American by virtue of our citizenship, but we have to cart his little monkey butt down to the Embassy at some point to prove we have scored another victory for the survival of the species. By appointment only. First available appointment is the day before Thankgiving. Until then, he's officially a citizen of Nowhere. But he's got a British National Health Service number, which entitles him to home healthcare visits, a double fistful of vaccinations and long waiting lists for any kind of interesting medical care. I've got to admit, I'm impressed by the whole housecall thing. The midwife has already made three visits out to our house to check on things, and stick him with needles, and make sure we're still sane and things are generally kosher. Or not. We had decided early on that we'd have Squirmy circumcised. On Day 2, I asked the first pediatrician I saw where we signed the boy up for that special little procedure. The doctor was Greek, and gave me the third degree. Why? What makes you want to circumcise? Are you sure you've thought it through?. Hey. Don't judge me. Just tell me where to go to get the boy snipped, eh? Turns out Dr. Turtleneck didn't know what the procedure was. He was just there to run some bloodwork. OK, fine. Except none of the mid-wives on the maternity ward knew either. And all made the same face. It was like we were asking to have the boy ritually branded in some barbaric ritual. "Um... Talk to your GP" they said. My Bride's parents have been here the past week, and once we brought Squirmy home, we were sitting around talking about this apparent British revulsion to our strange American practices. My Bride's father then told us about how it was done in the Philippines. Where they wait until you're twelve. And then your cousins or friends walk you down to this guy in the village who does the deed for the price of a couple of cigar, and he asks you to prop up the member on this board. And since you're twelve, you get to, you know, hold it out yourself, ready for a straight razor wielded by Senor Cigar. And then there is much shouting by your cousins or friends who never wandered very far away. And then you have to waddle home on your own accord. (Note, my Bride and her mother were laughing through this whole story. I was crawling under the table in sympathetic pain). So I went down today and made an appointment to talk to the GP about the process. And the people at the office were like "huh? Hmm. Circumcision. I've heard of that. Isn't that like Magellen sailing all the way around the world?" I'm getting the feeling that if we're going to get this done while we're still in the UK, I'm going to have to buy a couple of cigars and find a guy with a straight razor.