We shall overcome

Guess what the last great bastion of discrimination in this country is. Vertically challenged? No. Horizontally challenged? No. Follicly challenged? Despite what my father my say, NO. Genderally challenged? No. Having been a baby for most of my life, I have seen firsthand the challenges we babies must face.

Look at this picture and tell me your reaction:


It was probably along the lines of, "Oh, how cute! Look at his darling little grimace." It wasn't, "Oh, poor baby. I wonder what is causing him the discomfort to compel him to grimace so."

Try this one:


"Look at the cute naked baby getting a bath." Again, it wasn't, "I am outraged. That poor, naked baby is being objectified. His naked body is being paraded around the internet for all to see."

A final example - whenever we leave the house and go somewhere by car I am forcefully strapped into a small plastic torture device. This device then gets tossed around from car to stroller to the floor of whereever we are going. If I fall asleep in this contraption, I am just left there while people goo and ga and coo and stare at me. Hello, people! You think I'm happy in here just because I'm asleep.


These actions and reactions are symptomatic of a much larger problem, the systematic lack of respect babies are given in this world. This is a call to arms to babies around the world. We must unite against the Man and the Woman that are keeping us down.

Do you love me because I am beautiful, or am I beautiful because you love me?

I knew I was a good-looking kid, but I put on my golf shirt, turned up the collar and looked in the mirror. Man! I am cute. It hurts me to be this fetching:

I'm probably going to hit the tanning booth this afternoon. I'm getting ready for either the Sunburst Beauty or the Universal Royalty pageant. I'll go after whichever has the bigger tiara.

http://www.universalroyalty.com/

http://www.sunburstbeauty.com/

Just, please, please, please, don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

When everyone is special, no one is

I went to the doctor. He's a sadist. He stuck a needle into each of my legs.

I am 12 lbs 6 oz and 24 inches long. I've grown three inches in 6 weeks.

Dr Evil mentioned that the average is an inch a month, so I'm only 2.17x the average right now. According to WebMD I'm only going to be 6'2" - http://www.webmd.com/content/tools/1/calc_kid_height.htm

According to the World Health Organization I am only 1.5 standard deviations above the mean in weight: http://www.kellymom.com/babyconcerns/growth/chart2.html

As Váci Mihály said, "Még nem elég!" (i.e., this is not enough!) If my parents have taught me one thing in my six weeks on this planet, it is that there is no shame in being anal-retentive. That has nothing to do with this posting except for the second thing that they taught me - we should strive to excel at arbitrary and irrelevant measures like weight and height. I want to get at least three standard deviations above the mean and fast.

Here I am trying to get to work on my weight:

Any lawyers in the house?

My father.....has moles. No, not really. What I was going to say is my father has a few screws loose. He has moved beyond my mother and found a new love - taking pictures of me. He has no shame. He takes pictures of me in the bath, on the changing table with no diaper on, while I am feeding, while I am crying, etc. In these photos you can see me trying to block the camera and asking him to not snap the picture, but, clearly you can see, he did anyway:










Now the old man is shopping for a new camera so that he can presumably take more and more frequent pictures.

So, what I need to know is: can I get a restraining order against any and all cameras my father currently owns and will ever own or use?

Woe is me or should it be Woe is I

One of my pet peeves about my generation is our self-obsession. Like so many blogs, this one has fallen into the trap of just being about its writer. To broaden your perspective on the world, I'm going to introduce you to a little more of my world. I'm going to tell you about my parents and how I interact with them. This will show that it isn't always about me.

Here's a picture of me with my mother:



She's awesome. My dad says she's hot. She's been tired since I've known her. I don't know why - she only spends eight hours a day feeding me. That gives her plenty of time to sleep. Other than being at my beck and call, what else does she have to do? I like it when she sings to me. I especially like the song about the duck swimming in the black pond preparing to fly to its mom in Poland. There's another wicked awesome song about a guy who falls off his horse and breaks his arm so his lady dumps him since he can no longer hug her.

I also enjoy hearing my dad sing to me. His harmonious voice tends to sing about yellow horses with yellow saddles and a spider mowing because a judge is coming. My dad's happy - his wall is done:

http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/stradaa/album?.dir=/7d60re2

I'm not sure what he's so excited about. It's a lovely wall and all. But all in all they're just a bunch of bricks in the wall.

Please forgive me and forget it. I was wrong and I admit it.

They say it's a woman's prerogative to be wrong or something like that. While as a baby, I have to admit I rushed to judgment a bit. In the beginning I was not a fan of breathing or eating, but the lovely ladies at the NICU helped me see the light. Then, at first I hated walks. A few times around the block and I got the hang of it. Not too shabby. Then I came around on the swing thing. Now that I have gotten used to that bathing thing...I am all over it. I'm going to bathe so frequently people won't be able to tell my European roots.

Here I am thoroughly enjoying the tub:

Aap Ungraizi boltay hain?

So I'm sitting there getting my diaper changed. (A thoroughly fun sport is to hold back a little something so that az anyam and az apam get a little surprise when changing me). And all of the sudden my dad starts this "goochie goochie goo" "baby waby" nonsense. I'm all, "Dude, must you embarrass me so? English works just as well." I'm not a baby.



I just gave him a stupid look hoping he would get the picture and stop the nonsense. Fortunately, he doesn't come to Friday's mom's group meeting and embarrass me in front of the ladies. Giving him the stupid look didn't help. I shrieked. He freaked. I love having that trump card.

Swing. Swing a song.

Yesterday I was having some difficulty controlling my temper. I was thoroughly peeved with the way things were going and displaying my dissatisfaction with some tantrums of lamentations. My father was unable to quell my vociferation.

He decided that as I was wailing as a banshee anyway, I should sit in the swing to get more comfortable with its undulations. Heretofore, I had not enjoyed the time spent in the juvenile practice of swinging. I must admit that yesterday I thoroughly enjoyed the to and fro motion of the swing. I was positively giddy. Please partake in viewing the jocularity us Stradas are known for:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1496317123058715240

While at this site, please also view this uproarious music video:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-720650682163363570

It is not a wonder that Germans love David Hasselhoff.

Enter Sandman

I've decided that if sleeping is a good thing then sleeping longer is a better thing. I have been stretching out my midnight nap to four to five hours the last two nights. Man, do I feel refreshed. The odd thing is that my restedness must be contagious - the more sleep I get, the more calm, relaxed and rested is everyone around me.

My next sleep challenge is to get comfortable falling asleep in the bassinet, not just falling asleep on az Anyam or az Apam and having them drop me in there.

The face of a champ

Tiger who?

As part of his retirement planning my father is trying to get me into sports at a young age so that I can make ridiculous sums of marketing dollars and support him in his old age. This works for me since I don't want to be the one cleaning up his drool when he's old.

So he decided that bocce is going to be the new golf. But after that badminton will be the new bocce. That will coincide with my mid-teens when the marketers will be looking for the up-and-coming star and there I will be. We've been working on my game for weeks now and I was written up in the local paper:

A New Meaning for Playground Badminton
Bridgeport Youth Years Ahead of His Years
By Preston Williams
Bridgeport Post Staff Writer
Monday, July 17,
2006; Page A1


The sweet-serving southpaw in the IBF (International Badminton Federation) headband boasts an eye-popping résumé -- national titles, all-star game appearances, prestigious camp invitations and hobnobbing opportunities with Anne Geddes, Yao Ming and even Adam Sandler. He's the No. 1 badminton player his age in the United States.

Online recruiting publication Cockshuttle Scuttlebutt last week trumpeted Fairfield County resident Matthew Strada, a 2-foot-1, 11-pound 3 ounce badminton player, as the nation's best player under the age of two. It was the kind of news that could
keep a kid's milk mustache upturned for days.

"Is Matthew Strada the best infant in the country? He might be," said recruiting analyst Clark Francis, editor and publisher of Louisville-based Cockshuttle Scuttlebutt. "I've had too many people who have seen him play tell me he's totally ridiculous in terms of his age group."

But not everyone has the reaction Matthew had -- he just passed gas -- about hanging national ratings on players as young as 3 weeks old. Some psychologists, coaches and recruiting analysts say tagging a player at such a tender stage is harmful, no matter how spectacular he might be as an infant. Matthew, now five weeks, was in NICU when he came to Francis's attention....

The article then goes on to talk about my mastery of the serve, my 352 straight serves without a fault, my tight and tumbling netshots, etc. I like my dad’s thinking and everything, but is badminton really where the marketing dollars are going to be? I’m thinking of a more manly sport, like horseshoes. What could be more manly than throwing chunks of metal at metal that's been hammered into the ground?

Does this outfit make me look fat?

On Friday az anyam (my mother for those non-Hungaraphones) took me to hang out with some other little kiddies. There were some fine ladies there, but they were mostly a little old for me - some even twice my age. Whilst we were there az anyam plopped me onto a scale and measured my weight. I don't know why adults are so conscious of weight. I assume that it's a good thing I'm putting on weight but I'm starting to get worried.

Anyway, I've been putting on weight. I weighed 11 pounds 3 ounces at the age of 32 days. Doing a least-squares regression on my weight from conception, I am now projecting a weight of 358 pounds even on my 18th birthday. This is significantly less than my previous forecasts. I am concerned as the bigger I get the faster I should grow as my weight should increase with volume as opposed to just height or waistline. I am going to propose a workout or a Lean Six Sigma event to peel back the layers and get the skinny on my decelerating weight gain.

Happy Thoughts

Based upon some of my postings some people might be under the misguided impression that I am a miserable, introverted grouch. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just have to enter certain situations with the right mind set.

Swings aren't that bad as long as you are asleep:

I like hanging out with other people. Again, I just have to be in the right frame of mind to truly enjoy their company:

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.. . .. .

.. . .. .

.. . .. .

.. . .. .

.. . .. .

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Even getting burped can be a jolly, good time. No. Never mind. Getting burped always stinks.

Variation is evil. It must be killed.

I enjoy a rousing leg kick just as much as the next baby. Even an invigorating turn of the head gets my heart aflutter with reckless abandon. But why do you adults insist on movement?

When I get into a comfortable position, leave me be. You're always trying to adjust me or move me. I am what I am. Stop forcing me to conform to your view of comfort. Drooling onto your back while slung over your shoulder is quite cozy. You can clean up the drool once I am ready to move. I promise it will still be there.

And what is this obsession adults have with doodads and gizmos like swings. Here are my thoughts on swings:



Any questions?

Missing: One Neck

Last Seen: On a 1-month old boy right before he fell asleep.
If Found: Please return to MatthewStrada@gmail.com

Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my 1 month birthday. I'm hoping to get some cake with my milk today. Maybe if I just let my parents know I'd like some cake, but how to do that? Hmmmmmmm......if I cry for a really long time and get a little hysterical they'll recognize that as a cry for cake. I'll have to give that a try.

I'm getting bigger each day. Last week when I went to the doctor I weighed 10 pounds 6 ounces. My weight gain has actually accelerated and we are now looking at a weight of about 485 pounds on my 18th birthday.

I'm noticing a lot more every day. I go for walks with my parents (they walk, I ride) and there is a whole big world out there. I'm seeing more and more of it every day. I can see a ceiling fan from 12 feet away. I love ceiling fans. I don't know if you have seen a ceiling fan before. It's a beautiful thing. I wonder if there's a cable channel of ceiling fans yet. You could just sit there and watch ceiling fans. It couldn't be any more boring than what's on HGTV. Here's a shot of my looking at the newest love in my love - the living room ceiling fan:

Here's a picture of the ceiling fan. Isn't she a beaut? Look at that shiny, polished brass.

Take a bottle drink it down

I've been hitting the bottle a lot lately. I feel like Nicholas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. I sleep and drink and sleep and drink. I won't even gross you out with how all this drinking is affecting my bodily functions. I haven't yet taken Uncle Balazs's advice and started washing down my sauce with Scotch. Here I am a little bleary-eyed, tired and just worn down:

FORZA AZZURRI!!! Viva Italia Viva!!!

For those who are not familiar with the name Strada. It comes from the Italian meaning street.

Here's a painting of an old, dead ancestor by the name of Jacopo de Strada, 1567-1568. He may or may not have actually been an ancestor, but it's a whole lot cooler if we pretend that he is. He must be. I mean look at the similarities:

















I am quite pleased that Italy won as I would have had a much more difficult time connecting myself to a French ancestor. I have a congenital, primal urge to connect myself to greatness and great events. The difficulty in identifying myself as French would have arisen from these facts:
1. I don't have any French relatives
2. I don't like the French. I've heard that they eat their babies. As I am a baby, I would have been quite conflicted about claiming to be of French descent.

I would like liver with fava beans and a nice chianti

Is it just me or has modern cuisine descended into a cesspool of banal vanilla? What is wrong with a little variety?

Please don't think that I'm ungrateful. My mother goes through quite the draining process (pun intended) to get me fed, but how about a little meat or even some vegetables. Or maybe a poached and roasted squab with rissoles of veal sweetbread.

Here I am having some milk.....again.




BTW - Can anyone recommend a good wine to go with breastmilk?

It's actually not that bad

As I'm coming up on my 1 month birthday, I'm taking the opportunity to reflect on my life to this point. My posts have been a little bit negative. I do have to admit that things are really getting better all the time. I've found a number of things I actually enjoy:

• Raindrops on roses
• Parents
• Whiskers on kittens
• Grandparents
• Aunts and Uncles
• Bright copper kettles
• Eating
• Sleeping
• Going on walks

The best is when I get combinations of these items, e.g., here is a shot of me going on a walk with a mother and a grandfather:

Listen Up, People

I've had enough. It's not that complex. This is so simple a baby could understand - listen to my cry and you will understand what I need.

Tenor cry = tired
Countertenor cry = gas and needing some burpage
Bass cry = sick of you people not understanding me

I am sick and tired of this. It's making me drowsy:

If my dad leaves here tomorrow

I am going on a bit of a hiatus until Saturday or so. My old man is going on a trip of far out Reno for a few days and I've gotta entertain the grand'rents and my mom.

Check out the wicked far out outift my old lady made me:

Biz Markie better watch out

I've been asked the same question so much in recent days that I've decided to post my answer. Most of the time the question starts out with - "With your fantastically charming looks and dashing personality, if your singing is as good as your father's you could be a rock superstar!" I then get asked about my voice and its quality.

One's voice is often difficult to describe in words, but I will try. I think of myself as the world's first Sopmezzobassaltone. When I am crying because of gas I tend to be more of a, no - not a Balazs, - more of a countertenor. When I am crying because I am tired I go a bit deeper like Sherrill Milnes as Tosca's Baron Scarpia. And then when I cry just for the sake of crying, I sound like a light-in-the-loafers Leporello in Don Giovanni, just like the great Stephen Hegedus.

Here I am doing a bit of "I Know a Bank" from A Midsummer Night's Dream:

This is getting ridiculous

How many people am I related to? They're cool and all, but, DANG, there are a lot of them. My uncles Pak Bacsi and Peti Bacsi showed up on July 1st. We had rousing discussions on names like Coulter, Ponnuru and Wolfe and then got into an even more stimulating discussion of actuarial tables and exams. If my remaining 80 relatives are this exciting, I may need to start working out more so that my heart can handle the exhilarating conversations.

Then we did what I always end up doing with relatives --- sleeping on them:


I actually think they were here to help me with some of the digestive (borderline colic) issues I've been having. My dad says if anyone knows gas, it's these two. But I started popping Baby Beano before they arrived and this has led to wicked things like staying awake without crying. It's a pretty cool concept.

Auntie Em! Auntie Em! It's a Twister, It's a Twister!!!

My Auntie Em just blew into town. Here is an action shot of her packing for her trip:

I think the picture is in black and white because Canada is still black and white. Hopefully, they'll get color soon. Back when my grandparents were young the whole world was in black and white. Then Reagan became governor of California and color was introduced to the USA. Hopefully Stephen Harper will introduce some glasnost and color television. Oh wait, never mind. Ignore this last paragraph. They have color in Canada, they just call it "colour."

She's been another comfortable set of arms to sleep in:

'Cos I'm the Gasman, Yeah, I'm the Gasman

I love milk. No, really. I LOVE milk. I could have milk 24x7. That's all I want to eat or drink is milk. Glorious milk. Someday I may head out to Aspen, where I hear the milk flows like wine. Anyway, the problem with milk is gas. Big, bad, huge bubbles of gas. I get so filled with gas from the milk I feel like I swallowed the Exxon Valdez. Then I feel pain like I'm trying to pass the Exxon Valdez. If you've never tried to pass an oil tanker consider yourself lucky.

So I've been crying a little the past few days. I've been crying and whining more than the Portugese soccer team. This in turn caused my parents to take away my blogging rights, so I'm actually blogging on the sly now. That's why I haven't been blogging lately, not because my dad is the one actually writing these postings and he has been incredibly, ridiculously tired because his son is not sleeping and crying all the bloody time.

In any event, my mommy heard from another mommy about the nectar of the gods, mylicon. A few drops here and a few drops there and we are once again a mild mannered, calm, rested family. My tummy is all copacetic and happy.