My Son is an Alien
Hey, I'm Scott.
I'm married to Amber, the owner of Sugar Free/Naturally Newborn. I'm a director, editor, videographer and motion graphics artists in Orange County. I've been asked to add some thoughts about fatherhood on this blog on a semi regular basis. So, here it goes...
There is no way around it. I've tried to deny the truth of the situation for a long time, but it's becoming clearer and clearer by the day. I'll just go ahead and say it:
My son is an alien.
Perhaps it's my own fault. I've probably done something to deserve this. I should have expected it for one reason or another. After all, the Alien film franchise is probably my favorite series of movies (minus a couple of the later ones). But, I didn't expect my obsession to pan out in this particular way.
I don't want you to get the wrong idea. It's not like he was born by bursting out of my wife's chest. Nor, has he killed and eaten anyone (that I'm aware of). He does not lurk in dark corners, he has no resemblance to the designs of H.R. Giger, he can't even crawl yet, and last time I checked he had only one mouth.
But he does drool.
A lot.
I've seen it before, but not like this. When your wife is one of the top newborn photographers in Orange County you tend to see a lot of babies. Over the years I've, of course, noticed that many of them drool. And many of them drool a lot. It's just how they work. But, my boy makes them all look like they have balls of cotton in their mouths.
And there doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to it. Hanging out in his bouncy: he's going to leave it soaking with spit. Laying on the floor and playing with his toys: there's going to be a puddle of drool. Posing for a picture: you're going to have to wipe his face between each shot.
But it's the kisses. All the wet, spit soaked, drooly and sticky kisses that get me. I love my son. I kiss him all the time. He has such kissable cheeks (when they aren't drenched in his own saliva). And he is finally getting to the age where he is starting to kiss back. However, because he has a baby brain and baby control over his movements, he hasn't mastered the kiss. I eagerly await the day that he has a handle on this exceptionally simple skill. Because as of now, whenever he dives in to give me a kiss, I brace myself for the inevitable, reaching for towel before it's even begun and pretend that I enjoy it, always thinking about this:
Like I said: my son is an Alien.
I have yet to find a way to fully protect myself. We do have a rather wonderful set of bibs, which I highly recommend. They are both exceptionally cute and fully functional. But they are no match to the spiddle like terror which my son bestows upon them on a regular basis.
The horror. The soaky, wet and stringy horror.
After some study, I'm beginning to think that this may be the best, most practical protection against all future attacks:
Until next time,
Scott