Discussion.Boards

Hey! Geeks of the world unite! Come join the discussion at Windowstuff. Problems with software? Need help tweaking Windows? Unsure if you should upgrade? Like gaming? Visit Windowstuff and get everything you need!

At no extra cost to you!

Brought to you by the fine folks at Levelbest, the makers of Intercot, WebDisney and many other fine Web establishments.

Power vomit. That’s the central element in my lives these days. A child that power vomits. (The other child likes to lick. Long story. Not the vomit! Eew. No, she licks people's cheeks. She has an odd dog thing going for her.) I don’t own a shirt that has been vomited upon.

Of course, this is normal for any parent of a newborn. It’s not like I’m surprised. However, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Soldiers know they are going to be shot at, but that doesn’t mean they’ll like it.

I’m also not supposed to call it vomit either. It’s “spit up.” Next time I drink a six-pack of beer while eating a cheese ball, I’m going to call it “spit up” when I spend an hour in the bathroom puking my guts up.

But, babies are afforded that cutification (I invented that word) of their bodily necessities. They “dirty their diaper,” or are “wet.” They “spit up” or have “gas.” They are too small and defenseless to have such base acts as puking and defecating associated with them.

Just try it one time. Hold a baby and say to the mother, “Hey, the kid just sh** himself.” See what sort of reaction you get. (See if you can still walk at all.)

Babies are also “fussy.” Which is merely a nicer way of saying “screaming at the tops of their lungs.” Babies are never annoying, either. They may be demanding or clingy, but never annoying. They never irritate you either. You get “frustrated” or “frazzled” but you are never allowed to say, “This baby is pissing me off!” No matter how much you want to. Babies are too small and defenseless to piss you off.

Babies are too small and defenseless to elicit any reaction other than awe and love. They have chubby little cheeks and cute little eyes. They have little arms and legs that kick and do cute little things, like poke themselves in the eyes.

But then they grow up, and parents find them fair game. While babies can get away with anything, including masterminding the domination of the universe, school-age children are totally screwed.

They forget to put their cereal bowl in the sink. They leave their toys on the floor. They put their homework off until the last minute. They don’t flush the toilet. They complain about dinner.

This is the age of “because I said so.” Quite often parents don’t have a tangible reason for asking kids to do certain things. You can’t answer, “Why do I have to pick up my clothes” with “Because I don’t want to!” Nor can you say, “Because I’m trying to teach you take personal responsibility for your life and property so that you don’t grow up to be a selfish little brat like the girl next door.

Babies can eat and sleep on demand. Kids have to wait until you say it’s okay. Are they tired at 7 p.m.? NOOOOO! They can’t fall asleep then! They’ll wake up too early! What will I do then?
All the things we expect of kids. Everything we ask them to do. How often we compare them to ourselves. How often we try to make them ourselves. No wonder kids these days are stressed out.

But what a ride. For every one of those moments I mentioned above, there’s a totally mystifying moment.

A baby’s smile. Proudly displaying a report card. Realization of self. Goofy dances. Made up words. Excitement over mail sent to “resident.”

It doesn’t matter. Children are a wonder. They have powers beyond comprehension. One little coo or “I love you daddy” and the day’s problems don’t just melt away . . . it’s as if they never existed. Those simple words, or the clasped hands on the back of your neck put everything in perspective.

If the events of the last few months have made us feel small and worthless . . . insignificant, I seem to have forgotten.

For in the moment of that coo or “I love you” I feel like the world’s most colossal man.

Yeah, I know. The ending of this one is gooey . . . kind of makes you want to spit up, doesn’t it?

I’m back again! I’m in such a chipper holiday mood! I have many feelings I need to get off my chest.

Here’s a sticky situation, let’s see how you handle it.

I hate my job and love my family. One impedes my ability to commit myself to the other.

I’ll provide you background. Why do I hate my job? Well . . . I don’t feel as though I fit in. That’s one. It’s not a supportive environment. The work is mind numbing. The office is much too far from home. And more.

Why do I love my family? Well . . . that should be obvious.

Here’s where the disconnect comes in. Each day I wake up and trudge into a job that I find so emotionally draining that by the time I get home, I don’t want to do anything.

As it stands now, I get home right when dinner is ready. Gertrude is either asleep or hysterical. Kaitlyn is done with her homework Her friends have all gone home and she’s already sick of telling about her day. After dinner, we have about an hour before bath/bed time.

I feel like I’m missing out on something here. I feel gypped. Perhaps if I were in an industry that mattered to me, I’d feel differently. But, I don’t think I would.

Why? I see my full family for three hours a day. The rest of the time I’m either a work or one or more of us is asleep.

I want to be a dad. That’s all I want to be. I want to be a supportive father who is devoted to raising his children. I don’t want to be a ghost who brings home a paycheck every week. Granted, I want to be able to support my family financially, but at what cost? Missing their growth? Having to be told about their achievements over the phone?

It’s not worth it.

This isn’t a new problem. I’ve struggled with it for years. At one job I made it patently clear that I would not be out of town on Kaitlyn’s birthday. At another, I almost walked out because they, inexplicably, scheduled a meeting (that turned out to be pointless) for a Saturday (which is the only day of the weekend I get to see Kaitlyn. Sunday she’s at her dad’s.).

I’ve always made it clear that, for me, family comes first. If that means being stuck in a position for years then, so be it. I’m not much of a career guy. That’s not where I get my personal satisfaction.

Some people do. I respect them. However, I have yet to find a job that makes me feel good about myself. A job that I’m a proud to have. StreamSearch offered a little of that sensation. Though the company was tanking, I felt I was doing something exciting and useful. I also enjoyed it.

I worked a lot of hours at StreamSearch. But, you know what? I rarely felt that it impeded on my family. There were always balances. My co-workers understood. We balanced things out. They were happy that I wanted to be a committed dad.

Tell me, why is it a crime these days to want to be a committed parent? When did life’s importance shift from family to career? Why? What could possibly be more important than your family?

You can feed me a line of crap about society and the need for wealth or even Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. But it won’t change my mind. From the moment I wake up in the morning, to the moment I go to bed, everything I do is for the benefit of my family. Each keystroke at work, each minute spent in traffic.

But it’s not enough. I want to be there when the kids get off the bus. I don’t want to transfer that excitement to a daycare worker. I want to be there the second my child walks. I want to be there for each heartbreak, each achievement. I want to experience every up and down.

Most of all I never want to say, “Not now honey, daddy has work to do.”

I’ll never be that parent. Never.

All in all, I’m not sure what I’m rambling about. Sorry. I guess, in the end, I feel like I miss out on some of the best moments of the day in order to work on products that no one buys. My time at work is spent merely for money. It provides no emotional benefits.

Go ahead and tell me I’m selfhish, especially with troops overseas, far away from their home and families. Go ahead. It won’t change what I feel.

No, everything that is dear to me . . . everything that makes life matter for me is away from me right now. And you know what? I don’t like it. I’m selfish, perhaps. But, I know where my priorities lay. And those priorities are the three girls I’ve left behind each day in order to be here at my desk.

And I miss them.

Oh yeah . . . minor geek moment here. The first installment of Lord of the Rings opens tomororw. Are you going to see it? May I live vicariously through you? I'm going to try to see it this weekend, but with an infant in the house . . . it's not easy to get away for three hours our so. My wife's a huge fan of the books and is dying to go. So am I.

I suppose it was bad planning to have a baby a month before an eagerly anticipated film opens. Perhaps we shouldn't have done that. Damn. What was I thinking?

But she's so cute. And she doesn't have hairy hobbit feet.

So here we are. It’s Christmas time. The shopping malls are filled to capacity with the rude and inconsiderate. Santa is everywhere, spreading is suspicious benevolent good cheer. Stockings are hung by the chimney with care. Sugarplums are flying off the shelf in an effort to populate children’s dreams, replacing the new terrors they’ve been introduced to. The Salvation Army is out in force, ringing bells and collecting for the less fortunate.

Hold on. I want to talk about that. “The Less Fortunate.” Let us consider this for a moment. To say that one is “less fortunate” is to imply that they simply are missing a few key elements that would make their lives whole again. For example, if you compare someone like Bill Gates to myself, I am less fortunate. If you then compare my family to that of a single mom who works two jobs in some industry, then she is less fortunate than I am.

And yet I think of a man a co-worker of mine met recently. A member of her church encountered a man at the cemetery while she was visiting her mother’s grave. He was at the grave of his wife sobbing uncontrollably. He’s about eighty years old. This summer his house was broken into. The intruders killed his wife of over fifty years. He has no friends or family in St. Louis, no one to spend the holidays with him. This is a man who is truly alone. He doesn’t feel safe at home anymore. He’s terrified to leave his home. He has no one to share his stories with. Even if he were wealthy, as I sit and look at my healthy and large family, I can’t help but think he’s less fortunate. He may be able to put food on his table but he seems to have lost his reason to do so. It tears out my heart.

I can’t imagine a loss of that sort. To lose your entire world. No, not to lose it . . . to have it forcibly removed from you in a violent fashion. To look at your fading years and know that you will be alone. That the one person whom you dedicated your life to has been taken from you. To wake up in the morning and realize there is nothing holding you here anymore. To know that everything you held dear . . . is gone.

So, why am I writing this instead of my usual self-serving goofiness? Because it’s Christmas. And I think we tend to get lost in the excitement over gifts and lights and trees and freakish reindeer with nasal issues. Sometimes we forget that there’s more to being “less fortunate” than not being able to pay a heating bill (not to diminish the severity of the problems that many low-income families have, nor how difficult their lives are).

I guess what I’m saying is that many people suffer in silence, alone. They have no recourse for their needs. They’ve lost their faith in the world. They don’t feel safe.

So, this year, in addition to helping out with your money, or just volunteering your time at a soup kitchen, take a look around your own neighborhood. See who is suffering around you. Bake some brownies for the elderly neighbor across the street. Don’t just drop them off; spend a few hours with her. Find out when she got married. Where is she from? What are her interests?

You’ll be amazed. Many of these poor, lonely souls have better stories to tell than any John Grisham novel or episode of Touched By An Angel. And these stories are just waiting to be told. Don’t let them become a forgotten past on an anonymous face. Just listen. It may just be the best Christmas gift you give all year.

And who knows? Maybe you’ll make a friend.

After a long hiatus . . . he returns . . .

In the course of human events, certain things happen that amuse you. Then there are things that touch you and you feel all gooey and excited. As a parent, most of the time, these two feelings intersect on a daily basis. You look at your kids and think, “What a beautiful, wonderful, insane little creature this is!”

It’s true. Kids are insane. That’s part of their charm. Be they six years old or six days old, a child is insane.

Case in point: Last night we had pizza for dinner (a.k.a. “Like hell I’m going to dirty a dish, this baby won’t let me put her down.”) So, we’re all enjoying our pizza, listening to our arteries slam shut with a mighty THWUMP and we’re listening to music. I don’t know how it happened. I may be responsible, but I’ll deny it in a court of law. Matilda decides to start dancing in her chair like a maniac. Pizza is flying; garlic sauce is coming out of our noses. Pepperoni is stuck to the ceiling after being flung in a fit of hysterical laughter. Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. And she went back to eating her pizza.

It’s not like this is the only time this ever happens. Turn on “Shake Senora” and the kid will come running from miles away just to dance for us. It looks like some sort of bizarre tribal ritual passed on from generation to generation of people with no rhythm. And it’s damn funny. Matilda knows this. She knows its funny and she milks it for all it’s worth.

Further examples, but this is my fault. We decorated the Christmas tree this weekend. Not a small feat, considering we’re all exhausted and still haven’t done any Christmas shopping. Looks like 7-11 Gift Certificates for everyone this year! Woo hoo!

Anyway, Matilda and I are gingerly adding ornaments to the tree while Gertrude stares at the blinking lights like a raver strung out on Ecstasy. At one point, I go get a soda and sit down to eat a cookie while Kait continues her jolly work. Two minutes later she sits down in protest. “I’m doing all the WORK here. I’m not doing anything until you put up some ornaments.” My daughter is Tom Joad. Great. The next thing we know she’ll by trying to set up an egalitarian society in our house and I’ll lose what little power I ever had. I swear.

So, we finally get every ornament on the tree (excluding the lead ornament my company gave me . . . I was afraid it would topple the tree). We have a zillion ornaments. Why? Who knows? Perhaps we fear that the natural beauty of a tree might shine through and that would scare us, so we cover it with glitz and glitter and Winnie the Pooh.

We’re a young family. We need our traditions. So, for some reason Matilda and I put in a Chieftains Christmas CD and start dancing around the tree like a bunch of drunken Christmas leprechauns. Again, why? Who knows? But it was exhausting. I’m sure at one time I could have pranced around the tree like the Lord of the Lame for hours. But, for some reason, after two laps I was too tired to continue. Probably all the plaque in my arteries from ignoring the concept of health these days.

Then Matilda insists that I carry her upstairs to take a bath. Why not? Gertrude’s being carried. Why not carry the other kid up two flights of stairs after performing in the Tour de Tannenbaum? So I did. Then the paramedics came and revived me. Not really. The wife just poured coffee on me and said, “YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT TIRED? TRY FEEDING AN INFANT EVERY TWO MINUTES WITH YOUR OWN BODY FLUIDS. I’M THIRSTY, I’M TIRED AND I’M FAT. DON’T MESS WITH ME.”

And here I thought the baby would be the one I would have to calm down. Try to dig your way out of that one fellas.

Gertrude's going through her “Colic” period. This is where she cries for hours on end for no apparent reason. The cries escalate in desperation as you frantically try to calm the child by every possible means. And none of it works. Your frustration rises. You wonder if the baby is about to die. What have you done wrong? Did you break the baby? Does an infant come with an error log? Can I try a hard reboot?

Then she stops and either stares at you contently or drifts off to sleep. She just stops. That’s it. She’s done. I know she’s thinking, “I have you just where I want you, sucker.”

Why do they call it “Colic” anyway? Where did that term come from? It sounds like a spice. “Would you like a Watercress and Colic sandwich?” I guess it sounds better than “Inexplicably Pissed Off Baby Syndrome.”

Last night Gertrude was performing one of her crying jags. She was putting all she could into it. Arms, legs, blood pressure. Meryl Streep couldn’t pull off such a brilliant performance. Wife and I were at wits’ end. “What can we do? She’s miserable! She hates us! We’re terrible parents!” So, I decide to rock and sing to her. I sing one of the few songs I can remember the full lyrics to. “California Girls.”

By the time we hit “I dig a French bikini” she was dozing. Go figure. I think she particularly enjoyed my “Ombedoobydooby girls, girls.” It was rather inspired, I must admit. Mom comes in and tries to feed her. Somewhere in the transfer Gertrude goes back into Streep mode and can’t stop crying.

At this point I lie down in a corner, curl up into a fetal position and start speaking in tongues.

Later in the evening, I have Gertrude duty again. She’s still inconsolable. Nothing can be done. So, for the hell of it, I put in the Beach Boys, select a few calming songs and . . . she goes to sleep! Nods right off. I suppose I could take it as a criticism of the music but . . . I think it made her feel comfortable for a change. What a great kid. I suppose her support of Brian Wilson’s genius is a sort of paternity test.

Tonight I’m going to try the first side of Pet Sounds. Boy, if that baby thinks “In My Room” was good . . . wait until she hears “God Only Knows!” Ha ha!

Just think, when her musical genius manifests itself and I take control over her career like any self-respecting domineering show biz dad should, I’ll be able to stop her in the middle of recording a song and announce over the booth’s intercom, “Honey, you’re flatting.”

Shhh. Gertrude’s asleep and Matilda is upstairs building a fort in her room. Mom is in the shower. I’m alone! It’s just me for three blissful minutes until Matilda comes downstairs or Gertrude discovers that’s she’s lost consciousness.

There are many things you discover when your kids multiply. One thing is the moment of solitude that you used to take for granted. These days, I think we all feel we’re always on top of each other. Matilda and I are actually fighting over the television, which is funny because we never used to watch TV.

But when you place a baby in the equation, everything changes. Even if my wife has the baby, I feel like I shouldn’t be more than a floor away, in case she needs to be relieved of duty. So, when everyone is content and happy, it’s an odd feeling now. So, I’m sitting here with an unconscious infant on the floor, and two uninterested people elsewhere.

I have a few minutes! So . . . what do I do with those few minutes? I talk about the people from whom I’ve escaped. It’s a disease. I’m obsessed with them. It’s a good thing they’re my family, otherwise the restraining order would be difficult.

This week Matilda and Gertrude were in a photo shoot for an ad brochure for a textbook. The theme was “Big Things Come in Little Packages.” So, they put the girls in boxes. Poor Gertrude, being so small, had to be propped up in the box. She did really well, though, until the flashing lights pissed her off. Matilda, on the other hand, acted as though she was born to be in front of the camera. Flipping her hair this way and that. Smiling, posing.

She doesn’t realize that Gertrude has an advantage on her in the modeling biz. Gertrude has the whole eat, barf, eat, barf cycle down pat. Matilda would have to pick that up again. The learning curve may be too great.

That’s okay. I don’t want Matilda to be a model. She’s going to be a singer/songwriter/teacher/scientist/dancer. It’s her chosen career and I, for one, support it fully. I feel there aren’t enough multi-tasking professionals with post-graduate degrees and an artistic side. Besides, she can teach everyone about the cure for cancer she discovered by writing a musical in which she stars. Beat that Jonas Salk!

There have been some major discoveries in the house in recent memory.

First, Matilda has discovered comedy somehow. I suppose it’s some sort of a defense mechanism to counter the inherent cuteness of a squishy baby. Still, the kid’s talent for performance and comedic timing is amazing. I’m considering changing her name to Shecky. What amazes me about Matilda is the fact that she’s still resisting the influence of her friends. They all love the teenage crud that’s floating around on the radio. I understand this. At her age my favorite song was “Lovin’ Touchin’ and Squeezin’” by Journey (though at that age I would also cite “City of the Angels” as that bled into “LT&S”, for those in the know). All of her friends love Brittany, ‘Nsync and BSB (see? I’m hip.) Matilda, however, has no time for such trivialities. I think she enjoys the more eclectic music we have playing in the house constantly. When our friend comes over, there’s European Pop playing. When I’m in charge it’s either Power Pop or sixties pop. She’d prefer that. Oddly, right now I think she likes Calypso over all other music. She’s so cool.

Gertrude has discovered sight. Granted, we can’t quite figure out what she’s looking at. But it’s clear in her face that she is looking at something but it’s not clear what. Still, there is a look of curiosity on the little face. Or is it more stunned wonder? “What the hell is that thing? AAAHHHHHH!”

Here’s the one thing I don’t understand yet. Whenever Gertrude is awake and looking at me she stares at me with a look of suspicion. I feel the need to apologize for being her dad. It’s as if she’s fully aware of all the weird things she’ll be doing over the next few years, before she can say no. Granted, most kids don’t memorize Pet Sounds by the age of two, but I feel that doing so will give her a good grounding in the traditional pop sensibility. Right?

Sigh. Maybe my friend is right. Gertrude has absolutely no chance of growing up normal. But, that’s a good thing, right? Who wants a normal child? Not me. I think I was able to get a pretty good model, though.

I still wish she could fly.

Random notes:

Well, we survived Gertrude’s first Thanksgiving. It sounds monumental, but it isn’t. We stayed home to avoid submitting the child’s immature immune system to deadly germs. Or something like that. It just didn’t seem right toting a one-week-old baby around to family events and passing her around like an artifact from the now defunct nation of Neonatia.

It was nice staying home, for the most part. I’ve been so down recently that spending time with just my family was something I desperately needed. I only wish it could have lasted longer before I had to head back to my internment in corporate America.

Look, it’s not that I don’t like working. And it’s not that I don’t enjoy writing email (official company spelling . . . no hypen. They also don't know the difference between an em dash and an en dash. Incorrect usage all around. Oy!) campaigns.

Ah . . . the good things in life.

Enough of that. I was supposed to be talking about fun stuff like cute babies and technology. The things I love.

It’s been unseasonably warm these last few weeks. By unseasonably I mean that I’m checking the skies for the telltale fiery streak of the Earth-shattering meteor, which will surely rain fiery death upon us.

Wow! My underlying happy demeanor keeps creeping in here, doesn’t it? I’ll stop, I promise.

ANYWAY, it was suddenly very hot in the house so we decided to free Gertrude of her requisite clothes and let her lounge about on a blanket with nothing on but her diapers.

Talk about a happy kid. She kicked her legs, stretched her arms and made a contented little face that said, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. Nature state!” It’s at these moments when you see how small these little babies are. Their tiny little toes scrunching up, fingers stretching in every direction, chubby little thighs and those little baby folds of skin. You must resist the urge to scoop them up and just hold them. You must allow them the freedom to discover their own movement. It’s amazing to watch. I take my ability to control my body for granted. Poor Gertrude seems to be aware of these things attached to her, but unable to control where they go next. It’s pretty cool. Kind of like watching Jell-O discover it can wiggle itself.

Makes you wonder . . . how self aware is an infant? Not too much, I hope. Otherwise Gertrude thinks I’m an idiot.

We were able to watch a few movies this weekend too. That was nice. Being a movie addict and not having time to watch anything is a killer. But, little Miss Gertrude slept straight through them. Good kid.

We never had any problem with her big sister. Matilda sleeps like the dead. Always has. Makes watching a DVD in Dolby Digital 5.1 rather nice. I get complaints from neighbors, but my daughter sleeps like a log. What a good kid.

Last night, while Chris administered Matilda’s bath, Gertrude and I watched the end of The Phantom Menace. I had to explain to her why this is such a bad movie. As fate would have it, Turner Classic Movies was playing selections from the National Film Archive (job #31 on my list of dream jobs). Made me realize how blasé we are about movies and technology. In 1894, when some of the Kinescope films were made, people were truly amazed at the simple movement. Just watching pictures move fascinated them. The closest thing to this I’ve seen in my life was visiting a mall, watching people try to figure out those old 3D posters. Thank God that trend ended.

But, this is what life is like for Gertrude. Everything is new. In a way I envy her. I wish I could go back and experience that again . . . and remember it. To be lost in the wonder of how the world works again . . . bliss.

Hello and Welcome Home

Well here it is over a week later and I’m finally sitting down to write about my experience with the birth of my daughter. I’m here to say that there are no words to describe the experience. How could there be? After all Chris and I only donated two cells to the mix and nature did the rest. Imagine that, this beautiful little creature is the result of two cells.

It’s impossible to describe, because in those moments you’re in touch with emotions you didn’t even know you had. Here you’ve created a life. A living, breathing being who is dependent upon you for food, love, shelter, and an education of life. This little fragile being, so new to the concepts of light and breathing is looking at me with eyes glittering with wonder. Mostly, “I wonder what the hell that big thing is staring at me.”

Think about it. Babies spend nine months in their mother’s womb. It’s a nice little waterbed for most of the time. Muffled sounds, a nice orangish glow. What sort of awareness do they have of themselves? Of what they are, what they look like? Sure, upon birth they will actually recognize mom by smell, heartbeat. Babies know dad and siblings by voice. But they have no clue what we look like. For that matter, they have no clue what they look like! For all Cally knows, she and the cat are related.

Sorry. Back to the story at hand.

Chris went into labor about noonish on Monday, November 12th. At one point we went to the hospital, then came back. (Some nurses are really mean.) We labored at home until the contractions came on hard and close. We went back to the hospital and checked in around 11:30 p.m.

We sat up all night watching contractions, drinking juice and water. The contractions came consistently. It was a strange, but short night. I suppose hour-wise it was the same as any other night. But it blew by in the blink of an eye. Here we were in the final moments of the life we’ve always known.

These moments will be truly special because we sat there waiting for our world to explode into something new, exciting and beautiful. It was as if we sat at the edge of a cliff watching the most beautiful cloud in the distance slowly moving toward us. We chatted and wondered. Guessed at who this new little being would be. Boy or girl? Whose nose would it have? Will it be smart? Funny? A dancer? A singer? An artist? A poet? It was so much worse than waiting for any present. And many of this little gift’s mysteries will be answered slowly over time, like a finely written novel. A novel in which I am merely a supporting character. I wonder what my arc will be?

We stayed up all night long. Chris teased me because I refused to go to sleep. How could I? The woman I love was in the process of expelling a being from her body. I didn’t want to miss a moment!

Finally at 6:30 a.m. I went to get some breakfast, which consisted of a gooey bagel that appeared to have been baked based on instructions written in a language the baker didn’t understand. In theory, it was a bagel. It looked like a bagel. It smelled like a bagel. And yet, it tasted like white bread that was compacted into a ball. (Come on, you made bread balls as a kid. Quit pretending you didn’t.) I also had this diabetic shake thing and some coffee that tasted as though it had been sitting in the pot since World War II. Perhaps it was even digested a few times too. Ugh.

After nearly 24 hours of labor, nearly 12 in the hospital, we had the water broken. Never ask me about that process. An hour later, hard labor set in.

Now, I say it was hard labor as if what Chris had been experiencing all night long was a piece of cake. Earlier, it was something she could deal with. Not after the water was broken. These contractions came upon her in a sneak attack. They’d hit hard, stay for a long time, squeezing her uterus with a primal power that no human has control over. Then, after a miniscule break, the muscles would repeat their exercise.

Chris, remembering her Bradley training, went away mentally. She let her mind wander, her body relax and let nature do its job. Only one time did she doubt her commitment to the natural birth.

“I can’t do this,” she told me, with a sound of exhaustion, fear and pain that brought tears to my eyes.

“You already are! You have been all night!” I told her.

“Oh yeah, I have” was her only answer. And that was the last I heard of not being able to do it. This woman has a strength and resolve that few people possess, including myself. Her triumph of strength and commitment should be admired and applauded. She knew what she felt was best for her body, and the baby. She didn’t want to be numb through the birth of her child. And she wasn’t. She felt every blissful, excruciating moment. But born out of that pain was a child that was conceived out of love and will be raised to treat others with respect, love and mercy. I think, in her mind, the pain was a small trade off.

Okay. This is the portion where we had the baby. Suffice it to say that she was born and all sorts of biological stuff happened along the way and then we were happy! There she was. Cally.

We were happy. We are happy. Rumor has it that after the baby was born I was holding Cally and thanked my wife for marrying me. I don't remember if I did or not. But, if I didn't . . . I should have!

For the rest of my life, I will remember the moment that I saw my child take her first breath. The moment she entered into this world. I was present at the beginning of a life. A life that has yet to be lived. All the hopes, dreams and stories she has yet to live. All the new sensations, emotions and feelings she’ll encounter.

She has yet to walk or talk or discover the beauty of music, she has never seen snow or felt rain fall on her, she doesn’t know what it is to run barefoot across hot pavement to the swimming pool on a hot summer day. She has never tasted pizza or read Dr. Seuss. Nor has she ever seen a Picasso, Van Gough or Rodin. She doesn't know the Beatles, Beach Boys, Elvis Costello, Beethoven, Bach. She has no concept of yellow, blue. She doesn’t understand the sweetness of a new love or the pain of a lost love. She’s never cut herself and seen her own blood, the fluid that supports her life. She has yet to see a movie or read a book. She's never been to Disney World. There is so much that she doesn’t know, that I can’t wait for her to experience.

But she’s learning every day. Every minute. Each new experience, be it hunger or fatigue or wetness is being logged. Every moment offers her a new sensation. Wind. Where does it come from? Where did Mom come from? What am I?

She learns each moment. And in her long and joyous, but difficult, journey through life she learn things we never imagined were possible. In the end, she’ll know more than any of us. But, most of all she'll know she was loved.

I’m off now to sit at my desk after lunch wondering what my girls will be like in a year or five or ten. It boggles the mind!

Gertrude Grace O'Brien* was born on Tuesday, November 13th at 1:33 p.m. She's a looker, ain't she?

I'll post the story as soon as I get a chance. No words could ever describe the emotions surrounding the day, but I'll try. Truly, truly amazing.

Oh, and for all you Bradley Method fans out there . . . My wife delivered the baby without so much as an aspirin. She was, to say the least, amazing.

*Not her real name. What, do you think I'm nuts?

test

Publishing issues.

I must apologize for the lack of updates lately. I could come up with a whole bevy of excuses. In fact, I will come up with a whole bevy of excuses. However, none of them can be believed.

I was abducted by aliens. My wife is pregnant. I’ve been working on solar sails for NASA. I’ve been learning how to fly. Levitating is hard work.

Truth is . . . I’m lazy. I’ve been busy at work, which, I’m not happy about. (Not happy about being busy or work, that is). Therefore, when I get home, I want to unwind and hang out. So, no labored thinking and writing for me. Instead, I play games with the flies that are still trapped in the house. They think they’ll survive the winter. I can hear them talking, trying to keep their hopes up. But I know better.

So, I’ll give quick updates and then I’ll get back to allowing my soul to slowly rot and decompose while I toil away at a job that will eventually turn me into a mass of jelly with no self-esteem or drive.

But, hey, that’s Corporate America! (A subsidiary of America & Sons, Inc.)

So, update:
Baby: Still inside mom. Names chosen. Still not sure if it will be able to fly upon birth. We’re working on it.

Mom: Ready for baby to come. Tired of having feet in her lungs.

Daughter: Excited about being a big sister. Obsessed with the phrase, “Silence in the Po!”

Gary: Treading very carefully, trying not to get killed by woman nearing labor. Wondering what the hell a Po is.

Quote of the Day: “It looked like a giant Ice Cream Cone.”

Oh yeah . . . I took off the Blog Back thing. It kept breaking down and wasn't much fun to fix.

I’m currently trying to write something for a work function. The words just ain’t a coming. I’m staring at the notes I have and I stare at the computer screen thinking, “Can’t these damn notes just jump on the screen?” That technology doesn’t exist yet.

But I’m working on it. You can bet your sweet bippee. What the hell is a bippee?

So, why haven’t I been adding anything to this wonderful free website I’ve set up for my amusement (and dissemination of my lunatic ramblings)? Well, I’ve been busy. Working my butt off for ‘da man.

Life at home is fantastic. Wife and daughter are fantastic. Better than fantastic.

Hell, next month I get to watch a child begin its journey towards knowledge. Tasting, seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling. All of that will be a new experience. Hell, the kid doesn’t even know what his feet look like. Life is an enormous discovery. Imagine if you suddenly discovered you could feel music. Every day in a baby’s life is like that.

Anyhow, I’ll go back to my proposal. The words still won’t come. Ugh.

I think I’ll go get more Biscotti and throw it at people as they walk by. Biscotti is dangerous. Right? What the hell is Biscotti anyway? It tastes like petrified cake. Which, if you think of it, explains why they expect you to dip it in coffee. To kill the mold.

Of course they are much like those cookies you give babies when they are teething. Maybe I’m teething, which would explain why I’m so cranky.

Don’t believe me? *$#* you then.

Monday nights are our Bradley classes. Bradley, by the way, is the concept of completely natural childbirth, where the parents are in charge and the doctor is there to assist. The further I get in the process, the more understanding I gain, I realize, "This really does make sense." Granted, it will be difficult for me to keep Chris' wishes in mind, instead of slamming a doctor against the wall demanding that he make her pain stop.

But, last night, I realized that I really think we can do this. Yes, it will hurt. But it stops. There is a purpose for the pain and understanding the messages your body is sending you can control the pain. I realized that Chris could do it. She can focus on this and really get this little one born safe and healthy. And, for the record, I will not be dumb enough to tell Chris that I understand what she’s feeling. If I’m that stupid then I deserve what I get in return.

So anyway, we were watching the infamous birth movies. Being a veteran of the Discovery Channel, I’ve seen plenty on television, including a C-Section. So, I wasn’t as phased by our classmates by what was going on. However, I did notice that because the mothers weren’t medicated unnecessarily they were completely lucid and able to ENJOY the birth. Amazing. When one of the mothers burst into tears of joy, exclaiming “My baby! Oh, my baby!” I almost lost it. How could I not? She was thrilled, not to be through with the pain, but with the little being she was the product of all her work over the last hours, and last nine months. Her joy was something that must be seen, but it may never be understood. Considering the bad reputation the pregnancy and birth entire process seems to garner from a wide majority of people (both men and women), I think humanity has managed to lose sight of the beautiful moments that are involved in the entire process.

It’s impossible to put into words. How do you describe the moment that you realize you and your partner have created life? LIFE. Not a plant from a seed, but a child that will grow. A child with an entire unwritten story ahead. A child who only asks that you treat it with respect and kindness, nothing more. How do you describe the moment when you first hear that heartbeat? The moment you realize that these random cells, equal parts you and the person you love, have found some sort of order in the chaos and created a beating heart. A HEART. What words could describe the ultrasound when you see your child. Fingers. Toes. A brain. A fully functional person, growing inside the body of a woman. The two working together on a process that has been virtually unchanged in millions of years to produce one perfect being with the mysterious ingredients that eventually form thoughts, ideas, and personality. To be there the moment that this life actually meets his or her parents face to face. Truly mind blowing in its grandeur. Forget Mark McGwire. My wife is growing a friggin human! Top that!

What will make it better for us, I now understand, is that we will be working together in the final stages of the process not to conquer the pain that nature uses to tell you that you should change positions or that your child’s progress to birth is coming to an end, but to understand it and work with it. Better yet, I know that my wife will not only be lucid during this time, but will be able to walk away from it on her own power.

Hard to understand, I know. It’s hard for me to understand. But suddenly, I do.

3-2-1 Penguins! Kids - Penguins Ship Lander

I've been sick for the last few days, hence no updating. Now I'm swampped with work, hence no update.

I have plenty to talk about, with the daugther learning to ride a bike and the fact that Elvis is barely a month away from revealing whether or not he's an alien. I'll get to it, I promise.

Of course, if you know anybody who's willing to pay me to write about silly stuff like this . . . let me know and I'll worship them as needed.

Meanwhile, play this groovy little game. You can't beat a game that involves parabolas and gravity fields.

This is the first in our new weekly feature "Matilda in Famous Scenes from Famous Movies."

Today, Matilda plays Heather Donahue from "The Blair Witch Project."

Oh man am I in trouble. I’ve been warned in the past that living with a pregnant woman (aside: as if anything else in my house would be pregnant . . . except for pauses, of course) was a dangerous endeavor but, they never really told me the extent of that danger. And boy, let me tell you . . . I’m scared.

There are two stories.

1. We tried to watch a movie last night. Our consumption of media has been steadily dropping, and I envision that trend continuing. We’ve been tired without the squirt. I can only imagine how tired we’ll be with an 8-pound baby exclaiming that it needs to be fed, changed or loved RIGHT NOW! He’ll understand that there’s something going on with his bowels but . . . he won’t know how to control it. “Hang on, I don’t know what’s gonna happen but it ain’t gonna be pretty!” That’s what baby cries mean, by the way.

So, we’re watching the movie. It’s an intense movie, dealing with dark issues that my wife probably shouldn’t have been thinking about during gestation, lest we raise the next Marquis De Sade . . . or Marv Albert. It’s a confusing film with many layers and a slow, deliberate pace. I’m watching intently, trying to uncover the mysteries that are far below the surface of the presentation. Don’t bug me now; I’m channeling Roger Ebert.

Meanwhile, my wife is doing back flips on the couch. One position, another. On the floor, in a chair. Standing. Sitting. Rolling. Attempting to levitate. All the while, she’s huffing and puffing, cursing the couch.

”What’s wrong,” I stupidly ask.

“I CAN’T GET COMFORTABLE. I HATE THIS STUPID COUCH AND I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE. REMOVE IT FROM MY SITE.” (She no longer has the ability to speak. It’s all force at this point. I mean, I would be too if my intestines had been moved up to my lungs to make room for a wiggly little baby.)

“Do you want me to move? Maybe you’ll be more comfortable if you sit on the whole couch.”

“NO. THAT WON’T HELP. DON’T YOU WANT TO SIT NEXT TO ME? WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?”

“I didn’t say that. I . . . “

”FIRST I CAN’T GET COMFORTABLE. NOW YOU HATE ME. JUST START THE MOVIE.”

I do this. 18 nanoseconds pass.

“I HAVE TO PEE.”

The fact that I have written this down, and am trying to make it funny means I will be eviscerated when I get home. Please understand this and pray for me.

2. We have a horrible habit of not developing film. A few weeks ago we picked up pictures from Halloween . . . 1999. I was Darth Maul. Looked kick ass too. Wifey did the make up.

Because of this inherent flaw in our systems, we’ve decided that we better get a digital camera before Baby Elvis comes along. That way we don’t have to develop the film. We can just load the pictures onto on the computer and ignore them there.

Normally I am the keeper of all electronic material. I may research and purchase on my own. This is my job. I do it well.

Not this time. Wifey joined me in the quest for the ultimate camera. I have endured the eighth level of hell.

Don’t get me wrong. My wife has wonderful taste. She understands electronics and knew exactly what she wanted in a digital camera. She just took all the fun out of it.

Sample conversation at an electronics store:

ME: This one has 3.1 megapixel resolution, plus night vision and it has a bunch of cool color modes.

Wife: For that price, we should be able to get a camera with a better ICES-003 rating.

ME: What?

Wife: It’s too expensive. It doesn’t have all the features we need.

ME: It has night vision!

Wife: Doesn’t matter.

ME: It can photograph people's souls.

Wife: Why would you want that?

ME: It will help with interviewing babysitters.

Wife: It’s not needed. (She waves it off as if it is of the lowest caste in India.)

Sales Guy: It also photographs magnetic fields not visible to the human eye.

Me: SOLD!!!!

Wife: NO!

And on and on. She thought we were actually buying the camera for the purpose of taking pictures. I never intend to take pictures with the damn thing. I just want to show it to my friends and say, “Yeah, well, my camera can take pictures of events that not only have already happened, but that I've long since forgotten and only now I want to remember! It's the regression mode.” That’s the fun in electronics! Functionality and practicality don’t matter. No. It’s the impression factor.

“Holy crap! That’s a cool camera!” That’s all I want to hear. Just as long as they don’t ask how it works. I only understand the camera in concept. I’m an electronics esoteric.

It doesn’t matter. We picked a reasonably priced, high-resolution camera. It’s quite nice and has some interesting, if not pedestrian, features. I’m sure it works wonderfully.

But I’ll have to peer into your soul the old fashioned way. With voodoo.

Amazon.com: buying info: Hyperspace : A Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps and the Tenth Dimension

Hm. Apparently the three dimensions we’ve been dealing with are only the tip of the iceberg. According to Michio Kaku, there may be as many as ten dimensions. That leaves seven we aren’t aware of. Seven dimensions in which other dimensional beings are doing things we may not approve of. You just think about that mister!

Kaku wrote a book (link above) with an insanely long title. Key words: Hyperspace, Scientific, Parallel Universes, Time Warps, Dimension. Therefore, he is a qualified scientist and we must consider what he has to say.

I don’t know what he has to say because I haven’t read his book.

However, that does not mean I cannot proselytize about the implications of ten dimensions. Being as I don’t understand the three that I’m supposedly aware of, I’m certainly qualified to discuss seven additional incomprehensible concepts. It’s the American way.

But really, what if there are several planes of existence we don’t understand? Suppose there are other beings, other layers, other ideas floating around out there. We can’t feel them, or see them, but they are there. Passing through us. Present when we type, walk, sleep, go to the bathroom. Eew.

So . . . what does this mean? It means we should consider getting a better cleaning service. Though I can vouch for my personal cleanliness, how do I know the Echinoids from the seventh dimension are showering daily? For all I know, they’ve been mistaking my cereal bowl for their toilet and I can’t see their waste because it’s done on a plane of existence I can’t understand! Eew.

But, more importantly, Mr. Kaku’s book contains an explanation of how to escape the collapse of the Universe. Yes! I knew this thing came with a fire escape! I now plan to devote my life to preparing for the collapse of the Universe. Make sure the batteries in your Universal Collapse Detector are fresh. I’ve survived the collapse of a Dot Com, so a collapsing Universe will be a breeze. And, probably better managed.

I suppose it’s bound to happen sometime. Children do grow up. You can’t stop nature.

Thinking back to when I met her (then just a potential mate’s daughter) I get a feeling of whimsical nostalgia. She was two, a few months away from turning three. She still had that wispy, spotty hair of a toddler. Though she was in advanced stages, she had a bizarre relationship with walking and talking.

The first time I met her was at Grandma’s house. The wife and I had been dating for a few weeks and, I suppose, my background check came through clean and I was given the go-ahead to come face to face with the kid. She looked at me strangely, perhaps a little suspiciously. Who’s this? What is he doing here? Why is he touching my stuff?

Though she could speak, she clammed up. She still regarded me with suspicion. I would pick up a toy and try to engage her in a game of some sort. The response was a look that I’m pretty sure we’ll give to aliens when they touch down on earth. “What they hell are you doing HERE?” Then we hit the magical common ground: Barnyard Bingo. Neither of us understood the rules, nor did we care. We laughed at the hearty “Sproing!” the game gave off when you selected a piece. We enjoyed playing using the animal pictures and just matching the colors.

And she laughed her ass off because I never won. I wish I could hide behind some sort of adult sacrifice that I let her win to build her confidence, but it would be a lie. To this day I still think she hustled me. Maybe she hid a game piece up her sleeve. I don’t know. Still, I have never won.

I further solidified my stature the first time she came over to my apartment with mom. We had come to an early decision that, while mom and I needed alone dating time, time with the little one was essential to finding out if the relationship would work. After all, I doubt mom would have moved forward at all if the kid couldn’t stand me. Luckily, we got along.

They’d come over every Saturday morning. Mom and I would sip coffee while playing with the toddler. Then we’d all decide on something to do for the day. You know, playgrounds, picnics, the zoo . . . the usual. Mom called me before they came over the first time to see if we had solidified any ideas. We hadn’t, of course. She said she would pack up some toys and be on over. I told her not to worry about the toys. She was dumbfounded.

They arrived and the little one decided that mom and I would get married. I had my own pile of stuffed animals for her to play with and shelves full of Disney movies. Not only that, but I had Green Eggs and Ham on the computer! I was a hero. I was the coolest person on Earth.

Mom was a little worried. But, I think she got over it. Though, sometimes when the girls leave, I wonder if I’m under surveillance. “Did you play Don’t Break The Ice while we were gone? Huh? DID YOU????” Answer: probably.

When we got married, it was me who insisted we subscribe to the Disney Channel. It’s my subscription to Disney Magazine. It was me who started the conspiracy with the little one to get a trip to Disney World (guess who won THAT one?). And, it’s me who has been banned from grocery shopping for bad behavior and conspiracy to throw rolls of toilet paper down aisle 9.

Now, though, I look at the daughter . . . I can’t even call her “the little one” anymore. I look at her and don’t see a child any more. She’s officially a “kid.” She plays outside with her friends. We can drop her off at parties and she doesn’t want us to stay. She has the vocabulary of a Rhodes scholar.

And I’m not cool any more.

It’s okay, I suppose. I still have all my toys to play with. Plus some new ones. And Baby Elvis is on the way. I still have time to corrupt him. But, the golden days with the daughter are coming to an end. Yesterday she made a parachute out of plastic, string and a Styrofoam cup. Next thing I know she’ll be sending the cat into geo-synchronous orbit. She even rolls her eyes at my jokes. She’s starting to assert her independence and is no longer following the stupidity of her stepfather blindly. Now she’s scolding me for it. “Gary, I’m not sure you should really put those action figures on the ceiling fan.”

I guess it should be expected. But it’s frightening when your pre-adolescent child exhibits more common sense than you do.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with her growth. I’m thrilled. I’m proud. It’s just . . . I feel left behind. I want to go running off down the block with her. I want to dig up rocks with her. But she has to do that with her friends now. She just doesn’t have as much time for me anymore. And she certainly doesn’t have patience for my silliness at times.

Oh well, it just gives me time to plan for the inquisition her first date. I probably only have ten more years to plan. I have to start stocking up on black socks and sandals.

SECRETS OF A SUCCESSFUL MARRIAGE REVEALED!

Okay, so maybe not. But today is my second wedding anniversary. I think that’s pretty significant. Upon reflecting on the two years thus far, I’ve realized that our relationship hasn’t changed. Sure, it’s become a better machine, as we’ve come to understand each other better. But, I still see us as the giggly newlyweds of September 18th, 1999. We’re just really happy being married. Why? Well, I guess we kind of like each other.

It’s a shame that so many married couples try to dissuade young couples from the union. Judging from conversations you hear from “veterans” you’d wonder why anyone would ever get married at all. “Might as well give up your freedom.” “Get to know your friends now, because she’ll make damn sure you’ll never see them again.” “Just don’t lose your independence.”

Newsflash: If you are truly worried about any of these issues, you aren’t prepared for marriage.

What I think my wife and I have been successful at is our ability to work as a team. We know what each of us is bringing to the table and we work it to our advantage. Sure, we have arguments over money or property or cleaning the house, but that’s natural for anyone who lives in close proximity to one another. At the end of each night, we’re still together as a unit. And we like it that way.

It’s hard to believe it’s been two years. It’s flown by, and I’ve been happier than hell. Granted, I could use a 65 inch HDTV ready Plasma Television (ahem), but aside from that (and the fact that I could also use a professional grade digital video camera) I think I’m pretty pleased with the relationship. (Could also use a combination DVD/CD/MP3 open region player.) We’re a good match.

One thing I’ve learned (Could use a G4 Mac to help edit those videos) about us is that we’re compatible. (Speaking of compatible, I wouldn’t mind Final Cut Pro for the G4. That would help with non-linear editing.) We gel on everything. Even when we disagree, we know that our combined experiences will get us through it.

I think we have an advantage too. When we started dating, she had a daughter. That put a pretty serious tone over the relationship. I couldn’t very well light-heartedly date a woman with a child. Essentially I would be dating both of them. Any decision I made regarding the relationship would also affect the little one. Their lives depended upon each other.

The point is, before we proceeded to any step in the relationship, we considered the impact. If we had a serious relationship and it didn’t work out, how would that affect the kid? Tough questions. Luckily, I fell pretty hard for both of them. Despite the fact that they both pile things, instead of putting them away. (Whack! OW!)

So what are those secrets that I alluded to? Well, if you want a successful marriage, consider what we do. No matter what sort of day we have, no matter how busy, we still convene to the couch for a little while. We sit close, often holding one another, and consider our day. We talk about our lives. And we talk about the future. But most of all, we hold each other. Sometimes you just need to shut up and let the love wash over you.

Honestly, I’ve never been happier (a custom build home theater would help me found out if I’m at the happiest state of my life). I’ve married a wonderful woman, and am thrilled about the next 80 years.

I look forward to our children growing, our retirement and the day, when I’m sitting in my wheelchair sucking down oxygen, that I get to chase my lovely wife around our retirement community while the nurses yell at me to consider my heart.

I guess they just don’t understand that it’s my heart that I’ll be chasing.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast.

Phrase your wife really doesn’t care to hear: “When you turn the stereo on in the basement, you get perfect sound in the upstairs bathroom!”

How do you plan for a birth? One would assume that you could assume one of two things. 1. No matter how much you plan, you cannot prepare for that actual moment, or 2. you’re an idiot.

We’re currently writing our Birth Plan for when my wife is in labor. Which is to say, we’re deluded. We’re under the assumption that the hospital will look at our plan and say, “Wonderful! You know, we get so many couples who walk in here off the street and just want us to do everything, but you! You even thought of nipple stimulation, thank god!”

No, they’ll probably just laugh at us and say; “We understand that you want a relaxed atmosphere with no interns, no yelling and no time constraints. We also understand that you want no drugs. You do realize that ‘no yelling’ and ‘no drugs’ contradict each other, right?”

Birth plans are part of the Bradley Method of childbirth. It is a document that we create, in conjunction with our OB, to state our wishes for every stage of our hospital stay. It’s helpful because we have a written proof of our wishes, and it won’t all fall on me at the moment of birth. “THIS ROOM SMELLS LIKE CHICKEN! WHY DOES THIS ROOM SMELL LIKE CHICKEN? I TOLD YOU THE ROOM SHOULD NEVER SMELL LIKE CHICKEN!??!?!?!?!”

But it also gets us talking about some very important issues, such as episiotomies, breastfeeding and more. However, I’m not sure how helpful I was in certain situations. Below is a transcript of the conversation my wife and I had about major points in the birth plan. I hope to move back into the house sometime this week.

Q: How long do you want to labor at home?
A: Do they have cable at the hospital? I think that would help me make the decision.
Q: If I have to have an episiotomy, I would prefer to do it without anesthesia.
A: You’re nuts.
Q: How do you feel about circumcision?
A: Well, what’s the trend? I don’t want the little guy to have a funny looking penis.
Q: Do you want to cut the cord?
A: Do you want to see the contents of my stomach?
Q: What should we do with the placenta?
A: Never speak of it again.
Q: I want a squatting bar in the delivery room.
A: I’ve wanted one of those for years.
Q: I don’t want the baby to have any rubber nipples, including a pacifier until its happy with breastfeeding.
A: Good. Accept no substitutes for real nipples.
Q: Do we want a mirror to be able to see the birth?
A: Sure. You can use it to see if I’m still breathing when I pass out.
Q: Are you bringing an extra pair of clothes in case you get hit when my water breaks?
A: Hit? You mean I could get hit with it? No one told me this in the beginning. If I had known this, I may have gone to bed earlier a certain night a few months ago. No one told me at it was projectile!
Q: What alternatives to drugs are we using?
A: Hey, you’re the one committed to this drugless birth. I’m going to be stoned out of my gourd.
Q: Is it too late to get a new coach?
A: Yes, if you want one as understanding as me.

You know I’m excited about this birth. I’m just terrified of the biological implications of this whole thing. There’s blood, fluids, stretching, sometime TEARING (no bodily process should involve tearing), and a whole host of complications that could complicate things for both mother and child (God forbid).

The further I get along in the birthing classes, the more I learn. The more I learn, the more I wonder, “Isn’t there an easier way than this?”

The answer is “no.” But if men were in charge of birth it would last around six minutes. And you could read the paper the whole time.

INTERCOT: National Day Of Prayer & Remembrance

A few updates today. Different thoughts about different issues written yesterday during a day of remembrance.

I still want to tell the story of Intercot and the community that encompasses. Proof that an online community can be a true community.

Above is John's new front page. It should be noted that John, the Intercot webmaster, has done an amazing job of keeping this online community together and focused. He stands head and shoulders above the rest of the Disney community and is a shining example of a compassionate human being.

After all the planes were grounded on Tuesday I suddenly realized how I viewed the sky. As a traveler I see it as small. An avenue to get me to where I want to go. But Tuesday, driving home from work, I did not see a single plane. There was no traffic in the sky. It was huge.

And it was quiet. I’ve never realized the ambient noise the planes that constantly flew overhead made, and how I had become accustomed to it.

But that’s not all that was quiet. Driving, with my window open, I never heard the thump of teen-aged bass. Drivers weren’t gunning their engines. There was no yelling, no kids screaming in the neighborhoods. There was a strange calmness. Most radios were tuned to talk radio. Sporting events were cancelled, Brownie meetings, malls were closed. People were staying inside to listen to the news. Would they find any hope? Glean any good?

No. There was little, and there remains to be little.

Wednesday night, after it seemed all hope was lost, I wearily trudged to bed. I had a lot on my mind, as does everyone else. It was a nice night, so the windows were open. I lay in bed, trying to calm down my mind so that I may relax and fall asleep.

I finally began to drift off. Then my heart was seized with an icy shock. There was a jet in the sky. The unaccustomed silence had been sliced with a familiar sound. But now it had a new context.

Our airport hadn’t been reopened yet, so I felt a moment of fear. The sounds I was hearing was clearly a jet with its flaps up, slowing its forward velocity in preparation to land. And it was big. It was a military jet, to be sure. But it sounded huge. I don’t know where it was going, or what it was doing, but I have an idea I’ll hear more in the coming weeks and months. And, I have a pretty good idea that I’ll know exactly what they’re preparing for.

Yes, it seems we are at war, though no enemy has been declared. No enemy is known right now. The biggest enemy is fear. And this war is nothing we’ve ever experienced. It may be long, protracted. How many countries will be involved? How many neighbors will be asked to risk their lives?

Will we ever recover? Will our lives ever be the same? No. But we must go on.

Because there is no nation to target, people seem to want to point fingers as a racial group. Arab-Americans. Muslims. Please, do NOT attack Arab-Americans. They are here to escape the terror that we are now experiencing. They too want to live a better life. They, too, are Americans.

These terrorists, bastards that they are, no more represent the religion of Islam than David Koresh represented Christianity. They no more represent Arabs as a whole than Hitler Milosovich represented the whole of the Slavic people.

Think straight. Look in the right direction. Please.

So what can you do? What can we do? Donate money of course, blood, time. Focus whatever spiritual feelings you have towards good will and a world of peace.

But the best thing I can say is raise your children to reject hate. Teach them tolerance, understanding. Teach them to be good human beings and not to embrace beliefs that preach pain, hurt and hate. Teach them that human life, above all, should be cherished.

Horrible people will always exist. We cannot get rid of them. But we can teach our children that the world doesn’t have to be a horrible place. That they don’t have to accept this sort of terror. That they can rise above horrible acts and show the world that peace can be achieved through understanding. That you can accomplish amazing things without the need to shed blood wantonly.

Grief. Anger. Fear. Disbelief. Shock. After the images, stories and information we’ve all learned over the last few days those words just don’t seem to have the power to convey the mixed emotions all of us are feeling these days. It feels as though the world we put to bed on Monday night will never awaken again. We now have a world that looks similar, though scarred, but it feels different.

No words can express how we all feel. Or what we don’t feel. The images we have seen over these last few days, the death, destruction, the fear, will never leave us. As our children grow, what we have seen will become a distant memory. Yet, we will never forget the moment we learned that an airplane hit the World Trade Center. And then another. Then the collapse. Then another. And the Pentagon.

It felt like a full-scale attack. One event after the other. It kept happening more destruction, more death. More pain.

There is no precedent for this attack on the American people. People have compared it to Pearl Harbor. To Oklahoma City. But those are only similarities. Those events were different. They had different circumstances.

The point here is that the people of America have been attacked. Not the government, not the Armed Forces, but the people. You. Me. Our children. Any one of us could have been in that building. The people who have died were doing no more than earning a living. Getting their morning coffee. They committed no crimes against the world. They made no contribution to America’s foreign policy. They did nothing more than hope they could make a living, feed a family, get home that evening to whatever sort of comfort they had.

The people on the planes were going home, on business trips or vacations. There were families on those planes. I’ve even heard that one plane had a group of elementary school students who had won a National Geographic trip. They were with their teachers. That morning their parents kissed them goodbye, felt the sharp tinge of pain thinking they were sending children off alone into the world. They were loosening the strings of protection. As those kids stepped onto the plane, that sadness was mixed with pride. “My child has achieved something. My child has done something good.” They are now mourning their children.

Why? For what reason?

The point is, the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon touches us all. Not because of the national significance, though there is that, but because of how close it comes.

How many people did you know? Did they get out? Even if you didn’t know someone, you know someone who does. Or someone who was close, or had a close call.

The sheer amount of human life that was lost may never dawn on us. One senseless death is difficult to deal with. Two, doubly so. 100? 600? 1000? 5000? It seems unfathomable.

But the dead and missing are beginning to get faces and stories. But they are only sketches, highlights, moments. Brief lists of accomplishments, family. It’s all we can handle. Only short stories, not full novels. Were we to know more, the complete destruction may be too much for us to handle.

But ask yourself this question. How many children are waking up without a parent? How many husbands and wives are going to bed alone? How many brothers and sisters out there are desperately searching the hospitals and crisis centers in New York and Washington for missing loved ones? How many are on their knees now, praying that there will be some miracle and those rescue workers will find their loved ones. How can they give up? They need to hope. Hope allows us all to survive.

There may be as many as 5000 dead. But there are millions wounded.

Not going to be much of an entry today, though I've got a big one for tomorrow. I've been watching the events around the attacks unfold and have been stewing over them. I was upset at my place of work as, I feel, they treated the events as a local event. Not a national, or global one. No information was shared. No comment was made, except late yesterday to let us know that only our colleagues were unaffected. And then today, there was some rhetoric.

Not that I can fully blame them. Nor can I say their reaction was wrong, per se. They did what they had to do as a business, and in a way, it's admirable in the face of the global circumstances. They didn't allow terror to infiltrate the way they worked. However, they could have allowed compasion to enter a little more than it did . . .

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to write about the amazing part the Internet played in this whole thing. Particularly my favorite site, Intercot. And, more importantly, how its webmaster and the community banded together. Virtual or not, a huge group of Internet users were together to share information, comfort one another and try to understand what had happened.

To be part of it was amazing.

Talk to you tomorrow, more or less. Tonight, reflect. And help me find the words to explain to those callous few who don't understand why I should be so affected by these events.

Why? Because I am human. New York, DC, America. Human. Families were torn asunder and lives were ended. That is enough. Enough.

Support freedom

In light of today's events, I'm not doing a real update. I'm too . . . sickened.

Rather, I encourage you to hug your loved ones. Be thankful for what you have and revel in the love you have around you.

Life is fragile, and can be shattered at any moment. Be thankful for it. Before you go to bed tonight, look at the stars or the moon. Watch your kids sleeping. Pet your dog. Find a bit of beauty and serenity in the world and hold on to it.

Warning: The below is boring and pointless. Just something that’s bugging me. No insight, commentary or comedy follows. In fact, nothing interesting follows.

Ah, the pain we put our parents through. We never understood, because we viewed them as a sort of indestructible force. Parents are intended to save us kids from the dangers of the world. Even though they could never possibly understand us, we knew that they could comfort us.

I bring this up because twice in the past week I have seen my daughter as this fragile being who must learn the ways of the world. I wish I could protect her from some of the pain I know she must be feeling but I can’t. Sometimes the best lesson in the world is that pain, and learning how to rise above it.

The first time she tugged at my heartstrings was when she was getting on the bus. At the bus stop we were discussing the previous day. She told me, forlornly, how the day before her two friends wouldn’t sit with her and she had to ride the bus alone. Her eyes were filled with the loneliness that no adult understands. A child’s loneliness is a complete, utter feeling of being alone. I could sit on a bus alone, without a care in the world. But a six-year-old? That moment is all she had. She was alone. Her family was elsewhere and her friends had chosen not to be with her. At six, she has no frame of reference to “count her blessings.” That moment was the painful present, with no escape until the future came bumping into it.

When she got on the bus that morning, those two friends again chose to sit elsewhere. As the bus pulled away, this little blonde face looked at me, hurt. Waving as if this bus would take her to an inevitable future where there would never be anyone to talk to. A future from which she would never return. The sadness on her face was complete. She knew she had to leave me behind, but without her friends by her side she wasn’t sure how she would cope with the moments ahead.

Turned out she survived. I, however, had this lingering feeling of desertion. I felt as though I cruelly sent her into an extended period of isolation. I should have held her back and said, “Forget school! Who needs those people when we can have fun and learn all by ourselves!” Sigh.

The second painful moment came when we were discussing the baby. She had told her mother that she was afraid that people would forget about her after the squirt is born. We tried to reassure her, and tell her that we’ll never, ever forget her. But, we had to face facts. The baby will certainly change life as we know it. We can’t lie about that. She knows it. How can you assure a child that a baby isn’t a replacement? That you can share love amongst everyone?

As I sit here I am looking at a yellow piece of paper that I found in my lunch today. It’s from my daughter. It says, “Have a good day. I love you.” You have no idea how it floored me to find it.

This morning she was inspecting her lunch box and found the love note her mother always leaves her. She’s gotten to the point where she can’t wait until she gets to school to see what Mom does. As soon as the car pulls away the daughter is tearing into her lunch box to see what it says. I remember that feeling of excitement about something. Knowing you have something special waiting just for you. And, the crushing feeling when it wasn’t there. I suppose the daughter needs to know that Mom still loves her before she even leaves the house. She can’t wait until lunch, she must know now.

So, this morning I was jokingly lamenting the fact that no one leaves me a note in my lunch box. Sniff. Wounded bear look, etc. As usual, I went back to sipping my coffee and reading the paper.

It’s normal for the daughter to draw or write in the morning. Most often she’s lost in some little project she’s working on and I’m an insignificant bit of white noise on the borders. She’s in the land of childhood focus. The focus so intense that, in her mind, I imagine she sees herself alone in the world while she works. It’s amazing.

When I got to work, I found the note. There was an audible sound of glass shattering. That was my heart breaking and melting. We view children as these little fragile beings who need to be protected from the world. For some reason we see them as easily corrupted or destroyed by any moment that might possibly shake their confidence.

Turns out, it's the other way around. My daughter saw that I was unhappy and feeling left out. She wanted to protect me from that pain. What better way to do it than to provide me with what I needed? Just a little note that reminds me that I’m loved.

And it worked. I made it through today, with no problem. In fact, I’ve had a big grin on my face and wanted to show everyone my little note.

“See? I’m loved. This proves it!”

When Monday rolls around and no one is looking, I’ll check my bag. Maybe I’ll have another note, and for another day I'll have proof that I'm loved.

My wife is sleeping with someone else. Someone who is more sensitive to her needs, more attentive to her physical discomfort, a more reliable partner. His name is Bob.

She’s doing this out in the open because . . . she doesn’t care. Sure, it hurts me. I feel pained, but I figure it’s best for her pregnancy and, perhaps, she’ll come back to me after the baby is born.

I doubt that.

Bob is a body pillow.

This is one of the subjects they don’t teach you in fathering school. (They don’t have one? Well, they should.) Pregnant women have an innate need to be surrounded by pillows at all times. It’s for their comfort. Or, in case a roving movie crew needs to film her jumping off our roof and they forgot their airbag.

Our bed currently looks like one of those Indian fantasies where the Raj is sitting in a room of pillows, surrounded by harem girls. He’s getting fanned, while exotic women dance around him in gauzy silk. He thinks, “Perhaps tonight I will take Maryanne over Ginger. Hmmmmm.”

In my house we have the pillows, but no fanning. No gauzy silk. No exotic dancers. Only my wife, Bob and the cat. Yes, the cat has her own space on the bed. Bob is in mine. Currently, if I’m allowed in the bed at all, I have to cram myself into the upper corner, because the other three inhabitants are hogging the rest of the bed.

I’ve tried to move the cat. This is a bad idea.

It wouldn’t be so bad if Bob stayed in the bedroom, but he doesn’t. When we watch TV at night, my wife is wrapped around Bob like Mary Lou Retton around a Chippendale. Again, I’m relegated to the upper corner of the couch. The upper corner seems to be my area. At least I still have an area.

One of these days, I’m expecting to go home and find Bob wearing my clothes, sitting in my chair, eating my dinner. The kids will be calling him daddy and he’ll just sit there, in his feather pillowed indifference. My wife will divorce me for the perfection that is Bob. He has no needs. He has no wants, he has no desires. He’s never asked for a plasma television 18 times in one day. He doesn’t require 18 DVD and CD purchases a month. He’s low maintenance.

Eventually, their relationship will falter. My (ex)wife will wonder why Bob no longer speaks to her. Why he seems so flat and distant. She’ll find that after a few years of use, he isn’t as supple as he once was. And he never helps with the kids or does the dishes. The bastard.

Then she’ll come back to me. After endless sleepless nights, she’ll need a new body pillow, and she’ll seek out the original. Me.

Perhaps I’ll take her back. Maybe I’ll find it in my heart to forgive her cuddling infidelity. Maybe. If I can get a plasma television.

DPAMac - Intro - Power Pop!! Members Page

Also added this to the world that is the web. I hear it's wide. Double wide.

Intercot: A Virtual Guide To Walt Disney World - Disney Studios

Updated this page this week, by the way. Everyone should look. And enjoy.

No update today. Except this, which is technically an update.

I had a rotten, rotten day. Horrible. Beyond words. Except, of course, those words that I just used.

Tomorrow will be better.

But probably not.

Maybe.

Ack.

Whatever you do, don’t tell my wife she’s tiny. Because she’s not. Of course, this doesn’t mean that you can call her huge either. It’s quite the conundrum.

You know she’s pregnant, so her size is the topic of daily discussion. Usually, she’s happy with it and she gestates away, content with her constantly changing shape. She’s good-natured and seems to have a bizarre relationship with the fetal invader that is currently occupying a good 80% of her abdominal area. It’s a cute little pouch that sticks out in front of her, making her look like the perfect pregnant woman. Compact, glowing and round in all the appropriate places.

Or so I thought.

My family had an innocent get-together this weekend where we all ate, drank (water for the wife) and mingled to our hearts’ content. Of course, wifey was a huge (oops! Sorry, constant) topic of discussion. How is she feeling? Is she excited? Is she having any problems? (Some offered advice . . . we won’t go there.) Everyone commented on how tiny she looked for being six months pregnant. One woman (who isn’t part of the family), when hearing Wifey say she felt bloated said, “Oh honey, you have so long to go! You’re just tiny. You don’t even know what bloated is!” (Husband’s interjection: We met this woman two hours prior to this comment. I guess she was comfortable saying whatever she felt to whomever was in earshot. I should have shot back, “With an ass like yours I’d feel bloated too. Honey.”) Despite my wife’s relative small size (she started small, so it only stands to reason that she remains small), I imagine that a huge portion of her internal organs have been shifted by the gargantuan, constantly shifting uterus and growing being inhabiting the small area. All things considered, if I had something the size of a cantaloupe in my stomach, I’d probably feel bloated too. (Okay, let’s face it. I’d feel bloated and uncomfortable if something the size of a neutron was there. I’d bitch and complain endlessly.) The point is, my wife looks amazing pregnant. Healthy and appropriately sized.

Still, in comparison to other women who have been pregnant in history, perhaps my wife’s stomach isn’t as large as others at the six-month mark. So? I figure that anyone who tells her she’s tiny spent the whole of their 9-month pregnancy camped out at McDonalds drinking cold, congealed fry grease while sucking on raw meat. When labor finally struck (which they thought was gas) these nameless women had to be hauled to the hospital via a forklift. To even get them out they had to remove an entire wall.

Yes, my wife is eating a healthy diet, which has resulted in a woman who has gained a good amount of weight. She looks pregnant and happy, rather than like Jabba the Hutt with a tumor on his stomach.

Still, a woman’s stomach size during pregnancy seems to be a strange sort of status symbol among other women. (Much like penis size in men, but women don’t have to lie.) The larger it is, the better job she’s doing. So, in saying that she’s tiny, she’s hearing that she’s not gestating well. All she has to do is grow a baby and she’s under performing! Of course, this isn’t remotely true, but you can’t tell a pregnant woman that she’s being irrational and survive. It just doesn’t happen.

This presents an interesting conundrum. Normally if my wife asked me if she looked fat, a simple “No honey, you look fantastic” would suffice. Now, I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t look fat at all, but she wants to in order to fulfill the fetal growing requirements impressed upon her by the unwritten code of women. It doesn’t matter, anyway. If I tell her she doesn’t look fat, she cries because she’s not pregnant enough. If I tell her that she looks amazingly fat, perfect for baby growin’ she cries because she is unattractive. It’s a no-win situation. So I have devised my own answer, which I think she will accept. I am trying it this evening; I’ll let you know how it goes.

Tell me what you think of it:

“Why honey, you look gestationally appropriate.”

We're having a baby. Stunning revelation, especially for everyone I've informed of the fact in the last six months. "Hi, I'm Gary. We're having a baby." It's not that I think you are stupid (which I do, but that's beside the point) it's that I'm excited. We're having a baby. And you're not. Blah.

Anyway, that's not my point. When you are a pregnant family, the entire world knows everything and you are but a pathetic rube.

"A baby huh? Well, you better get all your sleep now bucko! You're going to need it."

"I'm not really worried about it. It's kind of expected."

"Well, it's much worse than you'll ever imagine."

Right. Everything about a baby is much worse than I'll ever expect, according to the friendly bastards who want to offer you advice. It makes me wonder why they ever bothered having children in the first place. They focus on every negative aspect of the process, rather than the beauty. Yes, birth hurts. Yes, babies take a lot of work and sacrifice. I knew all of this before I decided to have a child.

"But it's different when they are there 24 hours a day."

I know this. I'm fully aware that the baby will not magically disappear in the middle of the night. I'm also fully aware that I will not be able to clock out and take a coffee break in a silent room. Look, I'm prepared for a life of green poo covering everything from those explosive bowel movements babies have. I'm friggin' prepared. I know what's coming.

It's called a baby. A baby that cries, poops, eats, sleeps, gets sick, grows and is fully dependent upon me for its care and safety. You know what? I know what a baby is. Thanks for your input.

Oh, but it's much worse. My wife and I have decided to have this baby naturally. Meaning: No drugs. Freaks people out. "But it HURTS" they say. "We know," we say. We are prepared. We are aware. There is nothing better than knowledge and preparation for any situation. We‘ve made this decision for the following reasons:
1. The baby's health. Drugging the shit out of a neonate doesn't seem like a good idea. (Drugs don't pass the placenta, you say? Well hell, then why can't women do heroin during the entire nine months?)
2. Mom's health. Yes, the epidural masks the pain. MASKS it. It also doesn't allow the woman to feel what her body is trying to tell her. Maybe she needs to move on her side to push. Maybe she needs to move her leg. How would she know if her muscles below her waist can't friggin' move? Besides, they put a needle in your SPINAL CORD. Last time I checked, this is a bad idea. Plus, have you ever had a spinal headache? Me neither, but it doesn’t sound good and I don't want my wife to have one.
3. Mom's state of mind. If mom is allowed to relax and work with her body to give birth (I'm pretty sure the birth process was invented before the epidural), she will be completely lucid for the birth of her child.
4. She is confident and comfortable with this process. She is not comfortable with the "medical" version. Which makes sense to you? We want the birth to be a positive experience. If you disagree, then don't come.

"She won't make it. She'll crack. Just make sure those drugs are close at hand!"

Right. Thanks for your vote of confidence. I have the highest amount of confidence in my wife that she can handle this. I've seen her handle much harder and painful situations. And you know what? It's positive pain. The pain will end. And you know what else? My wife is an amazing, strong woman. Next time you try to tell me anything different, be prepared to be asked to leave. No one speaks poorly of my wife.

And when we look back and are talking to Baby Elvis, mom and dad can look at him or her and say, "We remember CLEARLY the exact moment you were born. It was a wonderful, beautiful time. And every moment since has been wonderful and beautiful."

Because you know what? This baby is not a pain. This baby is not a pooping machine that will destroy my life, my sleep cycles and my ability to watch movies. No, this baby is my son or daughter. And this son or daughter is nothing short of a wonderful miracle. Infant or fetus, I love this child. So please, keep your opinions to yourself.

(To all our friends and family across the country, and Canada, who have been supportive and helpful, we offer our deepest, heartfelt gratitude. You know who you are, and you know how much your friendship is appreciated. To those who have been negative and came up with every reason why this experience will suck . . . Expect a nice package as soon as the baby starts eating solid food. Before you open it, make sure you go into a room with no ventilation.)

Right . . . so we went to my daugther's curriculum night, which is an evening devoted to a teacher explaining exactly how they will teach your child. All very interesting, to an extent. Sure, I'm very concerned about my child's education. Well I should be. I want her to learn as much as possible. But excrutiating detail was a little much for me. "At 8:19.9384758392848684 we begin self-directed reading. This exists for exactly one nanosecond in the space time continum before we move on to self-directed beatings. Humiliation of the child does not begin unilt 2 pm."

Seriously, our teacher seems to be fantastic. Very sweet young woman who has been teaching first grade for four years. In some countries that would mean her tour of duty would be over. She could go home now. Discharged. Soldiers in Macedonia have it easy compared to her. Yet, she seems to take it with an easy grace. But I wonder . . . is this how she is at home? Is she this agreeable all the time? Even keeled? I'm not sure I can wait in line for the drinking fountain without getting agitated, yet she handles 30 six-year-olds and their parents all day long. I envy her, in one sense. You know, shaping of young minds. But still, how does she treat her boyfriend? "Now Kevin, was going out with your friends and getting shit-faced really the best idea? Why don't you sit at your desk and think about it for a while." Come to think of it, how could any man date a teacher? Every act of affection would seem like a public debasement of a revered figure.

I'm sure I had a point at one time. But I don't think I do anymore. Right now the daugther is crying because grandma is going home for the evening. Somehow this moment always comes as a surpise. I'm not sure why. Though I have no doubt that I was the same way as a child. Still, does she not realize that the evening must come to an end at some point? What is a child's concept of time? As an adult, I don't have the same perspective anymore. I dread each morning and welcome each afternoon. I also realize that, at some point, I will be dead. Children don't see this. They can only see the moment and the unending future. Ah, to be a child again.

Rather, I live with the normal fears of an adult. Or maybe they are abnormal. I fear failure, death, pain, uncomfort, tupperware, invisible assasins and poverty. Still, there's a creeping fear every day that I may not have enough time with my family. That I'll miss out on the most important moments of their lives. There's that crushing fear at three a.m. that they'll be taken from me and I won't know what to do. Or, that I'll die suddenly and they'll have to live without me.

Of course, I'll be dead. What will I care? Maybe I'll have some sort of super powers then. I hope so. Otherwise being dead would really suck.

This is my first blog. More later.

Ack. Ack.