If plastics are to be the future, we've made the decision that Charlotte should learn about them now. It seemed like the simplest way to introduce the concept of plastics was through the pacifier.

However, the pacifier -- depending on who you to talk to -- is either another in the line of great innovations or ways in which parents willfully neglect their children. And both camps have the literature to convince you of their point. As such, for the first month of her existence, the baby operated sans pacifier as indecision on the part of her parents meant that the baby corks stayed in the closet.

We've decided to take the same approach to pacifier advice as that offered in "Destructive Doggies: Solving Chewing & Digging Problems," a pamphlet that came with the doggie training of Charlie:

Provide your dog with stimulating chew toys, increased play and exercise, and perhaps even a second pet. Of course, give some extra thought to the solution of a second pet, since you could end up with two diggers instead of one.

When questioning decisions, Kate and I try to decide if it's going to result in a second digger. In other words, some solutions just create more problems.* But in this case, a pacifier was just a pacifier. Below you can see our daughter ruminating on our decision.

So far Charlie has been unable to convince Charlotte to help her dig holes in the backyard. But we've got our eye on the baby because once she starts crawling, the last thing we want is two diggers.

*For the record, I recognize that in order to come to grips with a decision of pacifiers, I considered our family policy on dog chew toys.

Since we can't wear pajamas all our life, Kate and I decided to crack out the formal wear in honor of Charlotte's first month. While it's not quite Blue Steel, I believe our daughter has found her first modeling face in the picture above -- we're calling it, "Confused Monkey."

The universe appears to be moving closer to our regularly scheduled broadcast.

Yesterday was Charlotte's four-week doctor's appointment and despite coming out of the gates in the 75 percentile for height and weight, genetics suggested she was a sprinter, not a marathon runner. At 10 pounds, 4 ounces, and 21 1/4 inches, she's now in the 85th percentile for weight and 50th percentile for height. Since Benders are naturally eaters, this is not surprising news to have a daughter in double digits.

She is well-fed. Perhaps not as well fed as the baby in our pediatrician's anecdote that he referred to as Godzilla. But she might be a Godzuki. Houdini (pictured above); however, is is still in the running to be Godzilla.

The doctor's office also featured her first shot outside the hospital -- meaning the first time that she was really aware of what was happening.

"Next time will be the tough one. Everybody will be crying," said the nurse.

"Daddy's tough. I don't cry," I told Charlotte, as the nurse used an alcohol swab to clean the baby's thigh. And I thought I was, right until the nurse said, "just a little pinch."

And then my heart broke a little. Charlotte first looked surprised and went very still. And then she exploded with a wail that made the room cold despite it being temperature-controlled. I felt a hitch in the back of my throat and suddenly crying at the next appointment didn't seem outside the realm of possibility.

In a few minutes, she was happy in Kate's arms (as we all would be) and losing the fight with sleep. But let's end this one on a happy note with the conclusion of the adventures of Godzilla and Godzuki.

The bottled was introduced this week to mixed success. We're going to chalk that up more to operator error than any difficulty on the part of the baby.

I've determined that giving a baby a bottle is a bit like trying to disarm a bomb, if that bomb was leaking breast milk rapidly all over your shirt and the shirt it was wearing. In addition, that bomb may issue tiny cries that break your heart and also attempt to knock your hands away frantically with it's own tiny hands. Meanwhile I, like Keanu Reeves, just sit there looking beautiful and helpless.

It's never a good thing to break one's wedding vows. Unless, it happens to be the earnest joke you slipped in between the vows that count.

The blog's name draws itself from one of my wedding vows to Kate. We stand a combined 10 feet, 4 inches. So, it's safe to assume that our expectations for under-sized children were gargantuan. Therefore, I promised that "our children would be small...but plucky." Kate, in turn, promised, "not to grow an inch."

She has held up her part of the bargain, but so far, through the incredible combination of our genetics, I have broken my vow. While certainly plucky, the baby is by no means small.

Sleep, that's where I'm a viking. -Ralph Wiggum, The Simpsons.

At times it can seem like the entire point of our existence is an attempt to get everybody in the house to sleep at once. The baby typically only needs to be held and rocked or changed or walked or burped or fed in order to sleep. The dog needs to burn off excess energy, via greeting guests, running in circles around the yard, or walking alongside the stroller, which has made its debut this week.

The cat sleeps with impunity. I believe this is because her weight is slowing the beat of her heart, leaving her in a semi-catatonic (no pun intended) state. As for Kate and I, there is the rub. I'm working when she's first sleeping. She's feeding the baby when I come to bed and then thereafter we usually steal a few hours when both of us are asleep.

In the early morning before the dog whines in her crate, the baby fusses in her crib, the cat emits an asthmatic wheeze, or Kate bumps into the edge of the bed on the way to the bathroom -- there is a still quiet. I would have never thought we would have spent so much of our waking day striving to get back to that moment.

I have never been a patient person, while my wife is someone who understands the joy of delaying gratification. But yet both of us are like children on Christmas morning, every morning, hoping to discover that our daughter has lost the last bit of her umbilical cord to reveal the most important news of the day -- whether she will go through life with an innie or outie belly button (the cord will not be featured in pictures as it resembles a piece of shriveled dry, bowtie pasta).

The other excitement around the cord falling off is that then Charlotte can be bathed. For right now, it is only sponge baths and cups of water over her head. While her default smell is that of new baby, she occasionally emits a bit of funk around the neck folds and armpits. Having lived with boys for many years, it is a funk that I know all too well.

Bath time is for both mom and dad according to the 1980's era baby care instructional video we watched as part of our pre-delivery classes at the hospital.

"It's good to wait to give your child a bath until at night when your husband can be home. This can be a good way for all of you to bond," suggested the video.

Until we can bathe her, I'll try to avoid bonding when I see my daughter in the office each morning.

At just over the two week mark of Charlotte's life, I believe this means we are officially qualified to take the next step -- offering up unsolicited parental advice. Now, considering the number of tips we've received both before and after her birth, you would think that I have little to share in the way of new or groundbreaking ideas. And you were probably right until this morning.

So, here is a simple piece of advice -- as always, the first one is free. Don't wash a dirty disposable diaper. Do not dry said diaper after it has been through the wash. Let's start with the first half of this new axiom. In fact, it might be good to take a step back and say that placing an open laundry basket next to the Diaper Champ was perhaps a bit overconfident. Particularly when diapers are being changed between the hours of 2 and 6 a.m.

However, the errant toss, much more costly than missing the waste basket, or simple survival-like quality of the velcro on the newborn diapers means that a disposable diaper went in with this morning's load. The scent free detergent and cold water was apparently enough to mask the smell; but the poop hit the dryer fan shortly thereafter.

Apparently the heat of both machines managed to bake in the smell and turn the dryer lint caustic. Now, when a disposable diaper sheds, it turns into the foul-smelling equivalent of a sticker that refuses to come off the bottom of a glass. So there I squatted in our basement, attempting to remove the flecks of soiled diaper from our dryer shield and failing. These are the moments we'll never get back.

*The diaper pictured above is one of about two dozen suspects. This case will go in the books as unsolved.

Everybody needs inspiration when they work. Some choose kitten posters, I opted for a daughter in a reclining chair at the foot of my desk.

The past few mornings have seen my tiny baby assistant asleep at the job. She tilts back happily, all open-mouthed and chuffling noises, as I bang away at the keyboard in my office.

This is a lamb-shaped chair that is furry and soft -- Charlie the dog still needs some convincing that is not a delightfully oversized toy. But for now, Charlie seems content to sniff Charlotte, wag her tail, and then slump against my leg. These are all good things.

Houdini the cat, having been informed that her services are no longer needed as my assistant, has landed on her ample side (her feet hidden beneath said weight). In addition to the two weeks severance, she still retains her part-time job laying on Kate's head while she naps in the morning.

Charlotte has taken my suggestion that my office is business casual to the extreme, often choosing to forgo pants in the workplace. I suggested that she at least follow her father's example and put on pjs. A note has been placed in her file. It is a reminder to her father to put on her pants in the morning.

Charlotte had a portrait session with her aunt. We've always been happy to have Katy in the family -- this is just an added bonus.