This weekend, during a 40th birthday celebration for my sister-in-law, I did something similar.

My stunt didn’t involve a swaddle; considering I was out at a bar with my wife’s sisters and their respective mates that would have been awkward. Instead, the escapade revolved around a sippy cup—L’s preferred method of drinking milk these days.

Earlier in the evening, during dinner, my mother-in-law had given us a sippy cup we inadvertently left with her during a visit on Friday. Because we went straight from dinner to grab our nightcaps, neither I nor Powergirl had a chance to stash the cup with our stuff. So we brought it with us. To a tiki bar.

You can imagine what transpired from there. On top of all the wine from dinner, that first mai-tai was (relatively) uneventful. By the second one, yours truly was pouring drink into the sippy cup and slurping it like L herself.

The verdicts: Sucking from those little buggers takes some work! No wonder L usually seems so labored after a long drink. Also, it’s very calming to clutch the cup and slurp away.

Perhaps there’s a new invention in my future. Yard-long beer cups, consider yourselves warned.

In a nutshell, new-mom Bundchen sounded off with her opinions on breastfeeding, stating something stupid about an international law requiring all moms to breastfeed their newborns for at least six months.

Understandably, a whole lot of women got super pissed.

One of these women—a college classmate who now writes (amazing stuff) for the New York Post—wrote a scathing article about the whole thing. Check it out (and be sure not to be drinking any hot beverages when you do so, because the author, Mandy Stadtmiller, is almost insanely hilarious).

If you think it’s odd for me—a dad—to be weighing in on the whole breastfeeding debate, think again. While we fathers don’t have breasts, the best of us (should) have a say in most decisions during those first few months. That means we need to educate ourselves as best we can.

Considering how emotionally and biologically charged the issue of nursing is, informed opinions on the subject are a good idea. Too bad Gisele didn’t heed this advice before she opened her stupid mouth.

First, she demanded to share my bran muffin (the muffin, this nugget of goodness from our local bakery technically is dubbed “Berry Beneficial,” and has blueberries and blackberries inside). Then, after I complimented her for the way she finished all of her yogurt, she repeated my kudos perfectly, pointing to herself as she said, “Good girl,” again and again.

Talk about instilling self-confidence; following this initial mimicry, the baby must have deemed herself a good girl 40 times in all. Then, after her meal, she just crawled around the living room chanting it like a mantra.

I’m not sure I’ve laughed as hard in weeks.

Powergirl and I welcome this kind of parroting; most of our friends (and Web sites like this one) say it starts around 13 months, so we’ve been waiting for it for a while.

The only major downside? Now we really have to watch our mouths; as two California transplants from New York (I’m from Long Island; she’s from Queens), that may be more challenging than it seems.

Sure, she’s given me hickeys before. But tonight—probably because she’s teething something fierce—she bit down on my shoulder so hard, she actually drew blood.

To say the encounter took me aback would be an understatement. On one hand, I found it hysterically funny, and wanted to laugh at how crazy/freaky/weird our child is. On the other hand, I knew I couldn’t show her any sort of reaction that might encourage her to do it again, lest she take a chunk out of her mother or one of her grandparents.

So I ignored the bite completely. Until she tried to do it again. Then I said, “No” in a stern voice.

I’m not the best (read: most resolved) disciplinarian, but my response somehow managed to deter her from sucking my blood for the rest of the night. Let’s hope there are no repeat performances any time soon; I’d rather not raise an honorary Salvatore in this house.

Apparently, she had other plans.

She made her intentions clear last weekend. We were out and about with some of my friends, lunching and wine-tasting at some of my town’s finest establishments. At our final stop of the day—a cult winery just off the square—our host gave us grownups brownie bites to accompany our 1-oz taste of port.

L, the stubborn little trickster that she is, intercepted the chocolaty goody between my hand and my mouth, and chomped off a chunk of her own.

Reactions washed over me like the crashing surf. The first wave: “Ohmygod, she’s going to choke.” When she didn’t choke, the next wave hit: “Can babies eat chocolate?” Finally, the third (and perhaps most neurotic) wave came: “What’s the chance those brownies are organic?”

Needless to say, the brownies were NOT organic. After a minor freak-out over this fact, I’ve come to terms with the reality that—gasp!—I’m not going to be able to control what L eats for the rest of her life. She’ll probably drink soda at some point. She might eat McDonald’s. Hell, somebody may even introduce her to Fun-Dip.

My epiphany: All I can do is provide my daughter with a foundation in healthy eating and the knowledge to make good choices. The rest, at least most of the time, is up to her.

While we grownups downed wine at a variety of spots (if you’re visiting the area, the new cave at Deerfield Ranch is amazing), the baby imbibed what has become her favorite elixir: the 2009 vintage of Enfamil PREMIUM Lipil (for those of you with no sense of humor, this is formula).

Considering the amount of car time (lots), coupled with the amount of time spent standing around at various wineries and restaurants (even more), the baby did great—she didn’t cry once.

Of course the day was made easier by a product that has become my best friend: single-serve packets of the baby’s formula. When I’m out and about, I spend far too much time thinking about how easy these sleeves make my days. To me, at least from my current perspective as a new dad, they are one of the greatest inventions of all time.

I voiced this opinion out loud tonight at dinner—a meal that L and I shared in a nearby restaurant with Powergirl, my friend from L.A., his wife, and another couple.

The husband of the third couple laughed at my sentiment and put things into a broader context. “We don’t have kids,” he said, “but that sounds like the moment in college when you thought it was the best thing ever that you could pay for pizza with personal checks.”

The comparison was especially apt. I remember that moment in college, and it was pretty frieking awesome.

But this guy’s observation captured another sentiment: How you don’t need kids to appreciate the way perspectives change over time. Did I ever think I’d publicly extol the virtues of single-serve formula sleeves? No way in hell. Will I find something else about which to wax poetic once L has moved off formula but onto or into something else? Absolutely.

Parenthood can be daunting, but after mental exercises like this one, the whole experience of being a Dad (or Mom, I’m sure) also can be quite a hoot. I’m no expert on the subject, but after ten months, my advice is simple: Don’t fight changing perspectives, appreciate the poetry and never be afraid to have a good laugh (especially at yourself).

Thank you for all of the great suggestions you have given my wife and me in the ten months since our daughter was born. We loved your idea of changing her while she’s standing in her crib. The whole dissolve-in-their-mouths cereal thing? Genius! And, though I vowed to hate it, I admit that the Diaper Genie really was a good investment.

That said, those cookie-like teething biscuits you all recommend so highly might just be the work of Satan.

Yes, our baby loves them. And yes, it appears that they do, in fact, alleviate some of the pain she is experiencing due to new teeth. But, docs, it may not be possible for these cookies to create more of a mess.

Every time L has one, it’s like she becomes Pig-Pen from the Peanuts cartoons. A gooey, grainy gook from the biscuit gets all over everything—her onesie, her hands, her face and sometimes even her hair. This slobber also finds its way down the high chair, and eventually onto our kitchen floor.

Put simply, the stuff is gets everywhere.

And so, it is with great regret that I write to inform you that unless you want to pay for a daily cleaning service, we will no longer be using teething biscuits in this house. When the kid’s teeth hurt, we’ll give her a teething ring. When she wants a cookie, we’ll give her something else. And when she wonders what happened to her beloved biscuits, we’ll blame everything on you.

Sincerely,
MJV and Powergirl

In our family, the equation is simple: Powergirl and I like to dine out, and we generally don’t let the baby stop us from heading out for a night (or a lunch) at our favorite eateries in and around California’s Wine Country.

This weekend, for instance, we dragged the kid to a lunch at the Norman Rose Tavern in downtown Napa. Thursday, we’ll bring her with us to dinner at Sonoma County’s famous Farmhouse Restaurant (this is for a story; there is no way on Earth we could afford to go to the Farmhouse on a random Thursday night).

Whenever we bring L, we are hyper-sensitive to the baby disrupting those around us, we order her something (even if it’s just a side) and we tip excessively. Still, according to San Francisco Chronicle restaurant critic Michael Bauer, local restaurateurs hate us.

In a recent article, Bauer laid out the financial considerations behind how children affect restaurants’ bottom lines.

The column was brought about by an email from T.J. Jacobberger, managing partner of the Tavern at Lark Creek in nearby Marin County. In the email, Jacobberger runs the numbers on why it doesn’t pay for restaurants to welcome kids. Bauer shares the note verbatim, even including some rudimentary math that the restaurant partner conveyed.

Naturally, the email pissed off a lot of people—at last check, the online version of the column had registered 690 comments (trust me, this is a ton for the Chronicle). Still, as a business owner myself, it has gotten me thinking: Is it disrepectful to bring the kid when we head out to eat?

My daughter, however, makes me look downright co-dependent. Already. After nine months.

She has been demonstrating her fierce independence most prominently during meal times. First she’d only eat if she could use the spoon herself. Then she’d only eat if you interspersed every spoonful with pieces of her favorite cereal.

Her latest move is to abandon the spoon all together, opting instead for nothing but foods she can feed herself.

On one hand, this development is a welcome step forward—we’d much rather be giving her peas, pieces of banana and steamed fruits and vegetables than blobby puree. On the other hand, L’s insistence on finger foods has opened up an entirely new can of whoop-ass on my (well-documented) neuroses.

My primary concern is the whole choking hazard.

When she ate nothing but pureed stuff, the risk of her choking was practically non-existent. Now, however, every bite brings with it a formidable threat to her health; every time she puts the food in her mouth, I hold my breath and prepare to jump into action to save her life.

A secondary concern is the mess.

One might think pureed fruits and veggies are messier than little chunks. On the contrary, chunks take the cake because, well, because L can toss them pretty much anywhere she sees fit.

Tonight, for instance, after the baby finished eating, I cleaned peas off of the floor, the couch, the kitchen table and—oddly—the ceiling fan (don’t ask; I have absolutely no bleeping idea how she managed to get some up there). The other morning, there was banana on the television.

Granted, this second issue isn’t nearly as big of a deal as the first. Still, when you’re a neurotic man who expresses his own independence by keeping stuff clean and orderly, dealing with the chaotic manifestations of Villano independence 3.0 is a patience-trying endeavor that will require significant amounts of getting used-to.

Powergirl and I were reminded of this fact this morning, when, while eating one of those “melt-in-your-mouth” cereal snacks, L, for a brief moment, choked.

Thankfully, the cereal wasn’t lodged too far back in her esophagus, and I could see it when she opened her mouth. Even more thankfully, I had taken one of those CPR classes at the local Red Cross, and knew exactly what to do the moment it became clear the baby had not swallowed the sweet-potato flavored treat successfully.

(As an aside, I cannot recommend these classes strongly enough, even if you don’t have kids.)

All in all, the crisis started, climaxed and concluded uneventfully within ten seconds. Still, to be blunt, it scared the living shit out of us.

It happened so quickly! There was no warning! Perhaps more disturbingly, L was completely silent quiet when it happened—no coughing, no gagging, no noise at all. I had stepped away to wash a few dishes; if Powergirl weren’t watching the baby’s every move, there’s no telling when we would have caught her (and, therefore, no telling what might have happened).

Like I mentioned earlier, it was scary to say the least.

Something tells me this won’t be the only time little L gets food stuck in her little throat. Call me neurotic but I know that as she gets more and more adventuresome with food, the risks of choking increase exponentially.

We weathered the first episode masterfully; let’s hope all subsequent choking dramas conclude in similar fashion.