Dressing
Friday November 21, 2025
Desmond turned two months old this week, and he’s still as difficult to get dressed now as he was on day one. At one of his first doctor appointments, the pediatrician remarked how impressed she was with our willingness to manhandle him.
“So many new parents think the baby’s so delicate, they get bossed around,” she said.
I really don’t remember, but I think we probably were pretty gentle with him the first time we put clothes on him, only for him to resolutely tell us he would go naked if that’s the sort of lily-livered fight we put up.
They tell you lots of things, the parents and content creators, but they never mention how friggin’ strong babies are. It’s like their bodies have been coiled up for so long in the womb that they are one concentrated mass of pure tension. You want to bend their legs or arms into human-made clothing, but their limbs are primordial inertia. They’re tight-fisted little dicks. We learned quickly there could be no pussy-footing on the changing table.
There are certainly levels to this:
Footsies: There’s enough fabric that you really just need to get it started, and Desmond will eventually punch or kick his way into it. He grips sleeves like Homer Simpson grips Bart’s neck, but you can usually move onto other limbs, and he’ll release it by the time you’re back. The zipper’s always a pain because he loves doing reverse crunches when you start pulling the zipper, so his knees get in the way.
Onesies: You’d think they’d be easier than footsies, and in a sense, they are. But I hate having to pull clothes over his head. He hates it more. You can get his limbs into them a lot easier, but I cannot for the life of me figure out the best way to take him out of them without making him scream.
Pants: They’re hard to pull up. Like, annoyingly hard. You ever tried to put someone else’s pants on while they’re lying on their back? Give it a shot today. Then, remove the pants, give that person a line of cocaine, and try to put them back on. It’s not easy.
Mittens: Probably a lower level of difficulty for most, but my fingers are so fat, I find it so difficult to squeeze his little hands into mittens.
Socks: Same thing, but feet. It’s sealing the gaps — you think you’ve covered all the skin and then he moves a fraction of an inch and his bare ankle or wrist is exposed.
Jackets: We take Des and Goose on walks basically every day, and I hate putting on his jacket. He’s already dressed, so you have an even finer needle to thread with his arms, and the most feasible way to put it on him is in the bassinet, so you can keep him laid down and pull the jacket up like a floating hammock before zipping it up. His little bear outfit is an exception to this rule, since it’s really more of a footsie.
Hats: We’ve established that Des doesn’t like things going over his head or face. Well. He hates hats. Unfortunately, he was born in September in Massachusetts, so tough shit, dude, you’re wearing a hat. You’ll pull them on over his screaming head, and 20 seconds later, he’s pushed them off his ears. They require regular reapplication.
Goose is easier to dress.
youtube.com/watch?v=b0lDMHAGDnU
One Hollywood: The Chair Company, Max
I can’t tell if The Chair Company is brilliant or insanely stupid. I’m not sure if it’s funny or played out. I don’t even know if I like it or hate it. I continue to be surprised that Tim Robinson screaming is still funny to me, but the cast of caricatured weirdos he surrounds himself with don’t always click. That’s kind of what’s going on with The Chair Company, I think. While it is genuinely hilarious that a guy trying to contact some nebulous corporate customer support to lodge a complaint turns into a rabbit hole of criminal conspiracy, Lindsay and I are 5 episodes in, and it just doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. I know it is, but I think it would have been a better movie. It just doesn’t need to be almost 5 hours or whatever it’s going to end up being. Still, the first couple of episodes are hysterical, and maybe you’ll like it more than me.
One Book: My Absolute Darling by Gabriel Tallent
My work book club met this week and, to my delight and relief, everybody hates the book. Someone did us all a favor the day before the meeting by gently stating how much they hated it in our Teams chat and everybody piled on. When we met on Wednesday, ten of us just shit on this book and its characters for an hour of work time. It was great, but it made me wonder about the last good work of popular fiction I’ve read.
Well, that’s James, which I’ve covered here. And… actually, I’ve read some okay popular books recently.
Whatever, My Absolute Darling was the last book I read that made me wonder why I bother writing anything at all when there are people like Gabriel Tallent. After reading some Goodreads reviews, I do agree with some of the broader criticisms, but my God, the imagery. It’s not for the light of heart, but if you want to sink into a book, My Absolute Darling is a pit.
One Recipe: Taco Pasta
I can’t remember if I’ve shared this recipe or not. (We’re getting to the point with this thing that I struggle to remember what I have and haven’t done!) I think I have. Whatever, this is a great pasta for this time of year.
One Restaurant: 311 Omakase
Boston’s Tourism Board finally ponied up for the Michelin Guide. 311 Omakase was Boston’s first and only restaurant awarded a Michelin Star this year, but 26 restaurants were recognized, and I think 13 won Bib Gourmands (high-quality food at a reasonable price). I saw some social media crashouts about this being some kind of catastrophe for Boston’s food scene. But if you’ve dined out in Boston, you know it’s really not a Michelin kind of place. Even the high-end places are fairly casual, not particularly service-forward, and aren’t really trying to sell an experience so much as let you eat in peace.
This is the reason why somewhere like Neptune Oyster, which regularly ranks among the best restaurants in the country on non-Michelin guides, or Sarma, which any food person will tell you is the best restaurant in the area, will probably never win a Star. One’s basically a raw bar in the North End operated by fishermen in trucker hats, and the other is a hipster Mediterranean tapas place where Tufts’ smelliest students take your order. (Update: Somerville and Cambridge restaurants were not reviewed this year.)
We don’t live in Boston anymore, so it probably shouldn’t matter to me, but I hope the higher-end places don’t start selling out for Stars by crafting gastro-obnoxiousness. 311 Omakase has been on our list for a while, but it’s going to be even harder to get a reservation now. Maybe O Ya — the other $300/person omakase place in town — will be an easier ticket now.