Otto at three weeks

Otto is good. Big Brother is good. And first, before anything else, I should say I'm very proud of Quin. He's such a good kid. He was born, we did lots of new parent bungling, and at 22 months he brings his dinner plate to the sink. I didn't teach him that. I wouldn't know how. To be honest, I don't think he's our kid. If Quin were truly our child he'd stress out about not exercising but never do anything about it. He'd watch TV and wonder aloud if the world is really that dumb. He probably wouldn't take his dishes to the sink.

Quin eats broccoli. He loves peppers, olives and apples. He sleeps all night. He says thank you, often when he doesn't need to, and he hugs and kisses everything and everybody. The other morning I was leaning across the couch to close the blinds and I could feel something on my leg. I looked down to see my oldest son hugging and kissing my knee. Perhaps too much time at the dog park, but it's better than punching and kicking.

And Q is the cutest creature on the planet. Bar none. Bring it. Bring your precious cherubs and we'll line them up. We'll measure them by the cute things they do and they'll be crushed. And then they'll all be thanked, hugged and kissed.

Finally, he's been a great big brother. He loves to moisten the baby's head with affection. And that's a good idea because--and this is where I talk about Otto--he's big. Quin was in 0-3 months clothes until he was six months old. Otto has already grown out of them. There must be some kind of hard-wired genetic thing in the second born that says you need to grow ASAP or someone will sit on your head and fart. As a little brother I grew, but unfortunately not fast enough.

Otto's already got a one-up on the three-week-old Q in that he's been sleeping most of the night. He has stayed up late making strange gurgling noises, which had Sarah wonder if we had a Guinea pig, and me reprising my role of household idiot by waking the peaceful infant as I try to feel his tiny breaths with my trembling finger.

Otto has gotten louder. At three weeks he's working on focusing his eyes. And his furrowed brow has him looking caught between wonderment and consternation. It says "Ooooh, I get to pass gas! But how?" He gets mad and really wails, but it's hard to take him seriously with his eyes crossed.

But this morning at 3am, right before I swaddled him in the loving snuggle of a psychiatric ward, I got a chance to talk to the new guy. He looked up and with big blinks tried to figure out what in the hell I was. So there might have been some communication problems, but at least it was nice telling him everything's going to be all right.