In a show of solidarity, Dad has taken on the lion’s share of my germs.

I’m guessing that I passed my cold onto him whilst playing tug-of-war with the remote control. I wanted to watch Wolf Blitzer, he wanted to watch Dukes of Hazzard.

Or perhaps the virus was exchanged by him drinking my baby tears. (He thinks that prevents aging.)

Either way, he now looks like my favorite subject.

A malevolent virus of some sort has come into my life and robbed my young immune system of its innocence. No flowers. No flirty looks from across the room. No courtship whatsoever. Just bang! Watery eyes and a never-ending supply of nostril slime.

I’m also having a hard time keeping formula down. I’ll be hittin’ the bottle and all of the sudden be like “Hey Dad, I love you man. Hold my hair back while I boot.”

Does this first have anything to do with my last first mentioned below?

I don’t know and I suppose it doesn’t matter. I still feel like my favorite subject. And if you don’t know what that is, you’re just not paying attention.

This pic was snapped yesterday. I didn’t know at the time, but I was getting ready for my first day of school. Every time I get strapped into this contraption, I think I’m either going on a roller coaster, or on a rocket ship to space. Needless to say, I usually feel a bit let down when I end up in a car on the way to Bed, Bath & Beyond.

But yesterday, I ended up at some sort of school/daycare/detainment center.

OK, this is new. A couple of things are going through my head:

1. Where are the cute lady babies?
2. Where are the older kids who will tell me what to do when I’m alone with a cute lady baby?
3. When’s lunch?

None of those questions were answered, so I went to sleep and dreamt about solid food and dune buggies.

Here’s what I know about them:

#1 is a liquid.
#2 is a solid. But sometimes an explosive liquid.

Based on these facts, I’ve hypothesized a mathematical theory which states that the higher the number, the more severe the ramification. Which makes me look forward with trepidation to the day when Mom congratulates me on filling a diaper with #3.

Why am I talking all mathy? Because this morning, the thermometer outside read -20. That’s 20 with a minus in front of it.

I have no idea what this means, but it totally freaks me out.

That “F” on the bottom stands for a word that Dad is not allowed to use in front of me.

Dad just showed me these shirts he was making to adorn my torso. I quite like them.

(If you’re not a heavy metal fan, then you probably don’t get it. You probably don’t understand the shirts either.)

To my chagrin, the Diet Sprite seems to have worked.

Yesterday, I decided to see how long and hard I could scream. Much to my surprise, I was able to carry on for several hours. Well into the night.

At one point, Dad started throwing holy water on me.

Later on, Mom told me it was just Diet Sprite.

Note to Grandfather A: I think Dad is going to ask that you include a gallon or two of the real stuff when you make the next shipment of Duke’s mayonnaise to Vermont.

The polls are closed. The people have spoken. All five of you.

On the topic of pants and whether or not I should wear them, 80% of the electorate said “nay” and for this I thank you. Because naked time is my favorite time.

You’ve helped me realize my dream. The one I had yesterday.

When I saw the calendar marking today as a federal holiday to celebrate MILK, I was like “Seriously? Banks are closed to celebrate bovine secretion? My postal carrier is at home today celebrating friggin’ cow juice?”

After a morning of feeling like I had an enormous lack of cultural understanding and a defective tongue, I realized that I had read the calendar incorrectly. My bad.

Dad gets to go skiing and I’m stuck in the house. Soiling my drawers.

It is both literally and figuratively, a buncha crap.

That’s the title of Chapter 6 in my “How to Confuse Mom & Dad” manual that was issued to me shortly after my umbilical cord was snipped.

The chapter basically states that within the first 8 weeks (or 86,400 minutes) of oxygen-breathing life, I should have established a random hour during the day for which to be an absolute nudnik.

The manual doesn’t give any reason as to why I should have an Hour of Darkness, I presume it’s merely to break the monotony of my house arrest.

Whatever the reason, I have selected the time between 5pm and 6pm to just go ballistic for no reason. That way, I’m nice and calm by the time Dad gets home.

Why is this important? The answer lies in Chapter 11, entitled: “When it Comes to Playing Favorites, Ask Yourself This: Which Parent is More Likely to Buy You A Dune Buggy?”

My young physique could be accurately recreated with a variety pack of sausages.

Take my arm, for instance. Either one. It’s basically a bratwurst connected to a link of Spanish chorizo. My hand is a Jimmy Dean breakfast patty with Vienna Sausages serving as my extremities.

My torso is a boule of haggis complete with knotted navel to seal the pluck and suet within.

My legs are kielbasas.

And my head is a giant biscuit.

I sound delicious.

Still trying to figure out how to get my thumb into my cry hole for purposes of self-pacification. Almost there. Need more practice.

Father and I are sitting in our underwear watching CNN when I notice a couple things…

1. My underwear are puffy and feature cartoonish prints of monkeys. Spectacled Langur monkeys, I believe.
2. Dad’s undies aren’t so puffy, and completely monkey-free. Stains, yes. Monkeys, no.
3. I have extremely fat feet.

I also have cankles. Google it. Where Dad has a bony bump at the joint where shank meets hoof, I have a dimple.

That’s right, cankle dimples. Dimples. On my cankles.

How in the wide world of wombats did this happen? And more importantly, can it be fixed?

As you may have noticed in the fiddlehead photo below, I’m beginning to lose my hair. I’m going to refrain from using the verb “bald” because that would imply that the hair is not coming back. And sweet nectar of Northern newt, that would totally suck.

It’s quite normal for a human baby to shed its fur in the first few months of life. The hair will come back with purpose and vengeance. When an adult sheds, it’s another story. A more tragic tale.

My father is bald. I am losing my hair.

Dad would be lucky to work up enough mane for a bad comb-over. I, on the other hand, have many years of mullet growing ahead of me. Which will look absolutely debonair with the prepubescent mustache I plan to grow. I look forward to this.

Take a number, ladies. Take a number.