ADMIRATION

I think our boy is courageous. 

Of course there are challenges, and failures, and growing relationships with the unknown, but there have already been so many instances when I can say I’ve flat out admired him.

 

In utero, there was an Amniocentesis.  I capitalize because the concept is large; is this human fetus healthy, and if not so, would we terminate its existence.  WHAT?

But it had to be done.  So there we are: my wife on the table, a smart, experienced, pregnant doctor determined to be great, a sweet foot-rubbing nurse whose husband is named Ruben, and a grizzled but delightful sono-tech perfectly suited to guide the way.

Oh, and there is our Rubin, impossibly small at 20 weeks, and about to have his world invaded with something epically foreign.  It’s a big needle, and on the screen as we watched, it stretched from top to nearly bottom.

On that screen is our son, lower left corner, clearly living, pulsating; is that twitching?  And as the needle suddenly inhabits his sensory radius he lunges for it.  And again, reaches for it aggressively, directly.  We do something between squeal and shriek.  “It’s fine” says Dr. McDonald.  It happens a lot, and even if it pricked him and cut his skin, she’s seen it before to no ill effect.

My boy doesn’t cower in the corner.  He doesn’t freeze with concern.  He swings his arm for that enormous needle.  He looks like a bear swiping at salmon a foot below the surface.  He is dominant, and determined.

 His pure instinct has progressively been interpolated by me to read as “Hey! What are you!? Can I use you? What can you teach me? What are you doing here?”

Be that unafraid of strange interlopers my son.  You are strong, and sweet, and kind, and worthy of trust.  You will not be trifled with.

#################################

 

And he continues to be courageous.  We swim together every week.  Saturday mornings are ours.  There is adoration for my wonderful wife for making it happen, and now for staying away.  She is of course welcome, but knows the value in what it is.

We swim, him and me.  We swim along with 14 or 15 other parents and their young.  He is currently the littlest, undoubtedly among the cutest, and he is remarkably unafraid.  We sit on the edge, and sing Humpty Dumpty, then take off for the other end of the pool, and he kicks with delight most of the way.  We walk in a circle together, Rubin submerged to his shoulders as often as he can take it. 

He likes it.  He trusts me.  It is the highlight of my week.

I knew I’d love him, and knew I could and would be proud of him.  What I didn’t see coming is that admiration.  I think our son is cool.

 

 

Smiles and Material Possessions

I find myself incredibly grateful for the demeanor of our son.  He is a happy, almost unerringly calm little man.  He can often soothe himself to sleep if placed in the crib at bed time.  He will most days happily just hang out and coo to himself when he wakes up in the morning there.

The difficult times come, absolutely.  There can be a 60 minute crying, inconsolable jag that leaves us feeling helpless and irritable.  But man, are those times forgotten quickly as soon as he's back to his baseline level of awesome.

He's fascinating, ever-developing, snuggly, sweet, and curious.  What an incredibly healthy person to be around.  Several times in recent weeks he has served as a perspective renewer for me in times of stress.  The docs call it "cognitive restructuring."  How can I possibly worry about insignificant neuroses while hanging out with him?

Nature does not arm you with a smile. Not for the first 6-10 weeks anyway.  Evolution has decided that infants don't need to express joy in order to achieve their survival demands.

Rubin did not have happiness in his arsenal.  He had disdain, fear, discomfort, side-eyed doubt, anger, distress, and myriad other variations on trouble...but no joy.  He had contentment, and a hilarious food coma that seemed like drunkenness, but no charm.

I couldn't stop thinking about how we best elicit activity and involvement from those around us.  I've always been a pretty happy person, and have lived by the mantra that Fun Is King.  If you have fun, in any professional or social endeavor, people will work harder with you and the product will be better.  So that smile, that charm...elemental to my being.  I have often willed myself to smile, knowing that others would probably smile back and help me actually get to the happy place if need be.
 

I guess nature figures you're going to give that infant what he needs, in hopes of avoiding the aforementioned variations on trouble.  I mean, we love him and feel beholden after all.

But that smile, when it comes.  Wow.

He makes us work for it...mirroring our faces.  But they're coming easier and easier.

And now they've been joined by giggles.

They melt me.





 I live to make him giggle....just want to come home and make him as happy as his little body will allow.  Someday I'll want to make him laugh until he pees.

 
 Another recent development, an addition to the magic act of "THE GREAT RUBINO" is his ability to hold stuff.  It began with a simple little blue ring (far right), and that was a trick worth savoring.

He had something of his own!  Mine!  Then he wouldn't want it...would throw it away.  Then hold it again!  Thus began a lifelong relationship with material possessions. 

He has learned how to wear hats.


This one shows him either ready for big pimping on Miami Beach, or perhaps lunch at the Bada Bing.





He is a flirty little man sometimes.



Tonya says this is the onesie he wears to go out macking on the ladies. 



"Hey baby...I have some great Japanese import CD's back at my place."


"You know, I loved the Dap Kings more when they were backing up Amy Winehouse."

 A chilly morning in May meant we had a final chance to break out the Bear Suit for a family walk.

Note the pads on the feet...you know, for those walks across the forest floor.

On our walk, ten unfortunate citizens died of cuteness.  They will be missed.



He's the most interesting person we know.

Can't wait to hang out with him for another 40 or 50 years.

 

9 weeks, and a story in pictures.

Our boy smiles on the changing table. He has learned that it's a place on which he will be taken care of. Wetness, discomfort, and stink all go away at the hands of his gentle parents.



And the smiles...oh man, the smiles. They're like a gift after weeks of finding reward often in his simple functionality.





You know all that stuff people do all day? Rubin has to learn how to do all of it.

All of it. The volume of impending information staggers me. Walking. Talking. Doing his taxes. How to pay for the bus. How to set the DVR. Poaching an egg. You name it, Rubin has to learn how to do it. And we're the ones, well, the first ones, to teach him anything.

He's learning to eat without throwing up. A major step. And, he's got pooping down. Not controlling the when and the where so much, but the pooping itself he has mastered. Take this photo essay as proof.

Sleeping. All is well.


There is a troubling disturbance in the force.




I DO NOT FEEL AS I SHOULD.








I WILL EXCISE THIS DEMON.



Once again all is fine.



There's nothing to see here; please disperse.






The other day, while trying to exit the kitchen with Rubin in left arm, stroller (mobile crib) remote control, phone, bottle and glass of water somehow in other arms, I hurt him. I banged his head against the door of the refrigerator. Terrifying, and a guilt I'd never felt. Mommy came running at the sound of his obvious anguish. He had an immediate lump on his head, and there was redness. Abject terror.

As she nursed him back to health and calm with a warm washcloth, I called the pediatrician. With no excessive vomiting, fussiness, irritability, or crying, we soon realized he was fine. The doctor calmed us, and Rubin recovered nicely, quickly. We joked to ease the tension: Well, that rules out the Ivy League. Some day he'll be in a job interview and the person will say "Rubin, I want to make you our executive, but that dent in your head just won't let me."

But good ole "Denty" is ok. Daddy is the one who can't shake the feeling of putting him in harm's way. Lessons learned: 1) Move him lower into the elbow and out of the free space. 2) Watch the multitasking while on duty. 3) Mistakes are gonna happen, just be ready to recover and deal with them.



He loves his mommy, and she loves him.














I really like the cartoon motion blurriness around him as he is thrust upward.

And the fear in mommy's face as she wonders whether this was a good idea.





He's a good baby. He accepts his innumerable kisses like a champ.



He looks fabulous in overalls.

Daddy said humbly.








See, you can still go out to dinner! With only 4-5 hours of planning and maintenance.

We're lucky, happy, tired, sometimes frustrated, parents.

Onward.

Grampa and the Slump-Buster

Our baby is enormous. It felt like he'd grown ten pounds in 2 days.

Then we weighed him and he's seemingly 11.6 pounds total, but the point is his relative massive girth, as compared to say, last week.


He gets this way because he eats CONSTANTLY. Sustenance is the best thing ever, and his endorphins kick in hardcore for a post-feeding pass-out. My own food issues somehow clarify just a wee bit more.
(Rubin in his handsome Green Apples sleep sack)






Tonya calls this "Rubin's World."


He spends some time mildly sneering at whatever discomfort is the current issue.


There are intermittent smiles (not gas we think), and myriad other moods/faces. But the sneering and sideways eye kill me. It's amazing how natural and ingrown our facial expressions are.





A work trip to New York meant an opportunity to see family too, so a wife and a 4-week old get on a plane. You know that jamoke whose infant won't stop screaming on the plane? I didn't want that to be me. So we strove to feed him on takeoff and landing to relieve the air pressure, and figured we'd ad lib the rest.

I hate when people brag about their kids, I really do...find it annoying, arrogant and unseemly.
That said, I have the most perfect baby in the history of babies. This is different than you and how you feel about your children. You see, my opinion is objective here; I feel I can be emotionally detached, and from a distance simply report on Rubin's brilliance and superiority.

He flew like a champ, quiet, calm, and mostly sleeping. Upon a routine landing, inherently abrupt and violent, there was an intensified version of the side-eye above for about 5 seconds. And then resignation and resumed calm. For us, all the baby travel accoutrements procured in recent weeks or months performed pretty well. His existence getting us through security and first to board was excellent; way to make a contribution to the group, kid.

Rubin's first sporting event, out of the womb anyway, was Blackhawks-Rangers at Madison Square Garden. That'll be a fun game to rattle off conversationally later in life...not even sure what my first was.

He's digging it. At least the air and sounds of it.

I request this feeling for the next 30 years please.

It was joy in him, but also pride that Tonya and I decided to do it, and made it work. Normal everyday functioning is challenging enough as it is. The audacity of the whole trip made my chest puff out.



The Blackhawks had lost 9 games in a row going in, while the Rangers were the best team in hockey, coming off a 3-0 road shutout of the defending champion Bruins. But Rubin proved to be the slumpbuster, as the Hawks scored 4 goals in the first ten minutes. There was much talk of finding a way for us to go on the rest of the road trip.



East coast Spiegels, represent. Aunt Mary, and cousin Rogan check Rubin out.
Cousins Sam and Saran smile to camera well, don't they?

Rogan fought with Mary for holding time.

Grandma Joan kissed some noggin.

Sometimes you wait your whole life for a picture.

Grampa Herb meets his 7th grandchild.

Here's to decades more of these two checking each other out.

Onward.

Week 3; Divide and Conquer.

On Monday, the first day back at work for me, the first day of my wife being alone with the needy shorty for a work day, I felt unbelievably guilty to leave. And I didn’t want to leave. My now deeply ingrained mission is to be with him and her…the family unit. I have roles to play you see, hands to utilize as needed.

But I had to leave the cave, go kill a wild boar, and drag it back home. I have to do that most days, in efforts to maintain high cave quality.

Upon returning after a mostly excellent, if mildly distracted, day at work, Tonya looks at me, smiles wanly, and hands me the baby. She washes her hands and face, and gets the hell out of the apartment. Smart girl. A long walk to a park near Chinatown (a hidden Chicago jewel) head-clearing alone time, a market errand that may or may not have had to happen just then. Tasks. Adult autonomy exercised. She returned happier, calmer, refreshed. And I in turn was able to feel useful, caring for him and allowing her to get back in touch with self.

I’m realizing how essential things like that are going to be. Divide and conquer. Give each other a break, ‘cause that dude is NEEDY. And growing fussier. We started keeping a log of eating times and amounts, sleeping times and amounts, and diaper changes. We’ve given up on logging the diaper changes…they’re just too plentiful. That man craps his pants better than anyone I’ve ever met, including my Uncle Sully. I mean, really skilled. And oh the varietals. Details spared.

Sleep in increments of 2 or 2.5 hours max is quite something, huh? We'll give each other a break and get 5 sometimes...and that feels other worldly. Friends tell me it gets better. Honest friends tell me it doesn't, and that you just..get used to it. It's amazing, our human ability to assimilate to absolutely anything. We're really well built organisms.

On Wednesday I had a Tributosaurus sound check, and then we did 2 gigs as Stevie Wonder.

This is C-Mo, not on stage.

This is Jon Paul, similarly not on stage.

Rubin knows people.

Need to get Danny over here, and then the whole core will have held shorty.

Tonya miraculously came to the first show, with the trusted first babysitter being Aunt Adrienne. It had to be family first, or it wouldn't have even happened at all. Pretty amazing that my wife came out sans child at 18 days old, but again..must feed the self, and the relationship. Grab that oxygen mask from the top of the plane for yourself before giving one to your child.

So, she came, looked gorgeous, hung out, then went home. Successful journey into the world.

I was gone for a total of 11 hours, got home at 3, and couldn't stop looking at this little man. He looked completely different than when I'd left earlier in the day. His head is rounder, fuller. His face is evolving, looking less Chinese and a bit more mature. I missed serious development. He was potty trained, and skilled at Algebra.

I mean my god, is that going to happen every time? Cue the damn Harry Chapin music if it's going to feel like that.

Still much to learn. Feel like we're kind of just winging it, keeping homeboy alive, giving him love, and trying to survive. But maybe that's the way these first three months feel no matter what. We've got the books and resources to guide us, and will dive in more as we sleep better.

Pretty content right now to stare into his face as much as possible.

The best times are when he's just been changed, just eaten, and doesn't feel sleepy just yet. Needs are met, so he might as well hang out and look around. (Video below) He makes a million faces, and they're all really big. A bit over the top truthfully, like Jim Carrey on In Living Color. Tone it down kid, learn some subtlety.

Due time.

Enjoyable madness, a Bris-esque day, and a parent's message sent.

This is madness, taking care of an infant. He needs constant help of course; love, new unda-pants, food, comfort, more new unda-pants, and more food. But we're embracing and enjoying the madness. After all, we chose this, and knew it was coming. No mystery there. Maybe it's because our partnership is so strong, or our feeling of gratitude is so large, or because our make-ups fit this challenge right now, but even the hard stuff feels fun.

Here's the deal: there are now 2 times in my life that this sometimes conflicted man knew with certainty that he was in exactly the right place, doing exactly the right things. One was sitting shiva after my mother's death, a stretch of 8 days in which she was honored as deserved. And the second has been this 13 day run of parenthood. There's no place in the universe, with no social or professional opportunity, that merits my time and attention more. I find that extremely comforting.

The 8th day of Rubin's life saw him the guest of honor at a ceremony in our home.

It was a Brit Shalom, mixed with a naming ceremony. There was a rabbi, some family, some close friends, some bagels and lox. I like that the lox was one platter away from the prosciutto and fresh mozzarella sandwiches. Yours is a fused modern world, little man, get used to it. Just wait until your folks open the Irish-Jewish fusion pub they've long discussed, "McShuggenah's." (or "Guinneshevitz?") That's where we'd make the perfect Reuben, and probably blog about it a lot.



Cousin Finn finally gets to hold him and hang out.

Rabbi Jodi offered calming spiritual words, shared some lovely readings, quoted Bob Dylan's "Forever Young" in a manner that did not annoy me, and in general embodied a humanistic, hippie spirituality that fits us and him well.

During the ceremony, Uncle Jon sang the Hebrew version of the benediction often sung by our late mother, and 3 Spiegel siblings sang the English, "Lord Bless You and Keep You." Used mom's old pitch pipe to find our notes, and left the soprano absent, as it has been for 13 years.

The first song played post-ceremony was 'Highway 61 Revisited.' "God said to Abraham give me a son, Abe said God you must be puttin; me on..." And thus ends my relevant rock and roll Bris playlist, at 1. Suggestions welcome.

The purpose of having this ceremony, and the importance grew within me as the day approached, was large. I love being Jewish. I'm not the strictest, most kosher, most observant Jew, and I'm seriously dubious about the whole god thing, but I adore the customs and traditions. They make me cozy, like a warm overcoat handed down centuries but somehow left intact. Wars and genocides and dilution via marriage (guilty) can not and will not destroy the overcoat.

The rabbi asked us to write a message to young Rubin. So we did. I handled the importance of the day, and Tonya laid down some straight up wisdom. Both of those writings are below. My wife is a genius.

FROM MATT, ON THE MEANING OF TODAY.

Rubin. My boy. Today is meant to be 2 things: 1) a symbolic, and emphatic connection to your namesake Regina, and her family. She bought the outfit you’re wearing for your Uncle Jon’s bris, and it was worn at the bris of both your Uncle Bob, and myself. She is kvelling right now at the sight of you. And 2) it’s meant to show the value and connection of Judaism to your parents and to you. This faith has been a great comfort to me, and with its room for discussion, room for ritualistic evolution, we hope it can be a comfort to you in your life.


FROM TONYA: Matt wanted me to write down my hopes and dreams for our son. Unfortunately, the short and long answer is: I want him to have everything in the entire world. That would make for a very short or a very long speech. Instead, here’s five things I want him to know, most of which Matt and I wish we’d learned much earlier in life.

1. Figure out who you are, and be that person. Nurture, embrace, and protect yourself, and love yourself fiercely. Be proud, even a little vain. Know that perfection is not required for happiness.
2. Happiness is not what they show on Pepsi commercials. Happiness comes from a deep feeling of self-worth and satisfaction. It is not euphoric, or loud, or involve acting crazy. That’s euphoria, and you’ll have that on occasion, too. But happiness isn’t an emotion so much as it’s a way of living. Do things with meaning to you, and those things will make you happy.
3. Don’t put off what needs to be done. Life is going to be full of boring chores, errands, emails, work, responsibilities, dog-walking, returning phone calls, and laundry. Complaining and putting things off only annoys those around you and makes stuff pile up. Everyone has stuff to do, just get it done and then you can watch TV.
4. The situation is what the situation is. Base your decisions off the circumstances at hand, not off what you wish they could be, or what they used to be, or some stylized notion of what you would like them to be. Be brutally honest with yourself about what’s going on around you, and usually your way will be clear.
5. Your family loves you very much. “Family” will cover all kinds of people in your life. It will start with your father and I and our families, moving on to include friends you make along the way, hopefully someday a life partner and their family, and maybe children of your own. We will all love you imperfectly. Sometimes even awkwardly. We will often fail to love you in the exact way you would want to be loved. We’ll make mistakes. Your father and I stand here on the eighth day of your life, already able to count so many things we wish we’d done differently. But we love you, we love you, we love you. We love every bit of you with all of our hearts and souls. No matter what you do, go out there knowing we will be here for you, loving you and supporting you, and, no matter what, we always will.


I neither have nor need words to augment or amplify that.

I guess these are among the benefits of parenting late. We've had time to get a little smarter.

I do wish she had told me about the Pepsi mention.

We could have made back catering costs via product placement.

The Rubin Blog; It was inevitable.

Boy, it's been a while. The Reuben Sandwich Blog has been dormant for far too long. But I have not stopped Reubening; there have been many Reubens since last I wrote. Reubens in Chicago, where Manny’s underwhelmed and Eleven City Diner grabbed the top local spot. Reubens on Highway 1 in Big Sur overlooking the ocean, Reubens emailed to me in gorgeous pictorial detail by loyal Reubenites. But life, she got busy, and the Reuben blog faded lower on the priority list.

Now I have a Rubin to write about. A son....a glorious, non-sandwich son. Rubin Ford Spiegel is him.

His first name truly is a miraculous happenstance, despite the understandable connection to the world's most perfect lunch item. Regina Isabelle Rubin Spiegel was my late, wonderful mother. We just didn't love Reginald for a boy, no matter how often we tried to infuse it into our brains. Isadore is too...I don't know...Vaudeville? Tin Pan Alley? Hidden in the attic?

But Rubin. It honors queen Regina, but also implies her father Manny, her Uncle Harold, her mother Shirley, and an entire side of my family that seems to be filled with women mostly logistically challenged to pass the name on. (Shout-out to cousin Tina and her awesome son Joshua). Rubin Spiegel also unites my parents in a lovely way, carrying Trenton lore into this century and hopefully beyond. So, Rubin it is, and Rubin Ford to be complete. Ford is for Byford, my beautiful Tonya's late grandfather. There are pictures of Regina and Byford side by side in the nursery.

By the way, we know the name of our son's first band: The Rubin Ford Effect. The t-shirts will be stellar.

So Friday night the 13th, we'd decided I would go play poker. Hadn't in months, and I should and would squeeze one last bout of juvenile, mostly care free hedonism into the wait-for-baby days. Now we know: poker late in the third trimester is the equivalent of lighting a cigarette on the El tracks. The train comes. Tonya texted me at 10:07. "Matty, you won’t believe this, but you need to call me and start coming home. Now." I jumped up, called her from the table, and heard tell of step 1. I thought of Cat Stevens. "Water has Bro-ken..." The scraggly fellow degenerate to my right said "Dude, are you having a baby right now?" Why yes, shiftless punk, yes I am. As I walked/ran to the car, I told anyone who asked what this moment was.

The hospital and birth experience was incredibly comfortable, truthfully, and the process was manageable in a way we are shy to admit to couples who have struggled. My wife, she has an amazing body. It has been gorgeous for decades, healthy her whole existence, enduring through substance travails, prompt in efforts to incubate, supportive in the gestation, and efficient in delivery. Hers is a worthy, impressive vessel.

Of the 4 obstetricians in the group we've been seeing, we ended up with Dr. Blumenthal for delivery. Fitting and fated to get the well-aged 29 year delivery vet, replete with stern but helpful coaching tips for my eager-to-please girl, and Borchst Belt caliber Yiddish schtick to pass the time between pushes. “You’re not shvitzing Tonya.” “Push, push push! We’re gonna see that punim!” I added a reference to our impending naches, giving our delivery a record 3 Yiddish terms in a 90 minute period.

I began the push portion ready to help, but detached, in a chair a few feet away as 3 qualified personnel guided the wife. “You can do it baby,” offered hopefully but worthlessly from the stands. When she expressed difficulty in breathing between pushes while also arching her head properly, Dr. Blumenthal politely suggested dad get his ass in the game. I did, and by the end, I had my arm across T’s shoulders supporting her upwards, the other arm hooking a knee to pull it back, counting to ten and urging instruction in her face. It’s exhilarating to be a birthing helper monkey. I saw his head emerge, as the plates of the skull finally fit the lock of her channel enough to squeeze through, and watched his body being pulled to full freedom. I cut the cord, and cried with my wife as our spawn was strewn across her chest.

There he was. We made him…from…nothing. From pre-existing parts. From stuff we just had floating around, genetics we’ve traveled with for decades. We made a human. It’s so naturally bizarre.

This is the world's most perfect post-birth shot. Notice the immaculate hair.

This is a little, grumptastic Yoda looking man who did not enjoy his trip.

Can you blame him?

The look says "Oy...I would NOT do that again."

We spent two amazing days in the hospital, getting gentle help and instruction on how to keep this thing alive.

His face changes every time I look at him. Emotions in the post-partum room flow freely, massively, among all who enter. His skin is unlike all textures imaginable. This fatherhood thing is better than any drug I can conceive of. A friend called it “the ultimate human trip.” Perfect.

Visitors included a proud Aunt Adrienne, a curious just Bar Mitzvahed nephew Jack, and the proper bringer of the kid's first bagel, Uncle Jon. Notice the unmistakable presence of "the man in the bagel."

I’ll forever remember the moment when Matt LeBlanc won a Golden Globe award for his acting on the cable series “Episodes.” Because at that specific instance, I was changing the first black tar meconium diaper of young Rubin’s life. The shiny, thick substance just kept oozing as I cycled through somewhere between 5-8 baby wipes, and Tonya laughed wildly from the bed. It was like the Exxon Valdez disaster, but grosser. I’m pretty sure the same amount of wildlife was damaged in the process. Seagulls drowned, seals gasped for air, and the news media shook their heads disapprovingly. But eventually, there was anal relief.

And now we’re home, with this impossibly perfect little being in tow. Tonya says this is what people are like, before they get ruined. It’s so true. He has no callouses, physical or emotional. His toes, those tasty little toes, have never emitted sweat. He has worn socks twice. The first time he wore them, his third day on the planet, he shot us a look as if to say “where have these been all my life?” There’s more Rubin, there’s so much more.

Tonya’s mom is here, and Grandma is remarkably helpful. Having multiple generations in this home feels so right, so unavoidably necessary.

Just now, she ironed an outfit for Rubin to wear tomorrow, on his 8^th day of life, for a ceremony in our home. It’s the Bris outfit worn first by big brother Jon nearly 52 years ago, by brother Bob, and by me. It came with a handwritten note from Regina, my son’s namesake, and will serve to symbolically, emphatically bind them together.

And now of course the real job begins. After having read so much about, and gotten so skilled at being pregnant, I find myself feeling horribly unprepared for these first few months. What are my tasks, my missions, my prime directives? Thankfully, there is another week off of work, and wonderful resources to consult in efforts to enable. Homeboy sleeps in 2-3 hour increments, and I’ll try to use my time wisely.

I found the perfect Rubin.

I, we, are ridiculously fortunate to get this chance at this point in our lives. He is a choice we made, and the gratitude for his healthy, gorgeous presence is enormous.

The love is so great, I wish I could indeed just gobble him up.

I think I'll start with the toes.