Me: It’s an old wive’s tale.
Her: So?
Me: I expected you to know that.
Her: Why?
Me: Well, you being an old wife and everything.
A sound not unlike all wildlife being slaughtered is heard.
Me (screaming for my life): It was a joke! It was a joke! It was a joke!
Things go black after that. All I know is that my testicles hurt. How she did that, I don’t know. We were on the phone.
In my defense, she's not even close to thirty yet. I thought she'd see the humor.
I was wrong. Very wrong.
That won't happen again.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Speechless
That’s what I am. I have nothing to report, nothing to discuss and nothing with which to even amuse myself.
I am bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored.
If you have ever processed manuscript for a textbook, you know the boredom of which I speak. Colon crushing boredom. You sit there with the fruits of your year-long labor in front of you and think, “wow, I have to go through that and do really boring things to it. Yay.”
So, what’s going on with you? Nothing? Good. Keep it that way.
The only thing I have to report is that I’m looking forward to this album.
That and a Flaming Lips EP that’s due out soon. It has a new Christmas song, so I’ll definitely need that for “A Very Gary Christmas 2003.” I have a ton of new songs for this year’s version, but nothing I’m terribly excited about.
Wow. How bored am I? I just brought up Christmas in October. I’ve become one of those people.
I could tell you about the squirrels I’ve seen in my back yard. They seem to be having a good time lately. Either that or they’ve turned murderous. I can’t really tell.
I can confess that I suddenly desperately miss reviewing movies. It’s been about three years since I’ve done it. Recently I’ve gotten the twinge to make snarky comments about bad movies. Not that I have the time to go to screenings like I did when I worked at the failed dot com. (Though those mid-day press screenings were fun. I’d sit with a variety of local radio guys and make fun of movies with them, in the hopes that they’d start sharing free CDs with me. They never did. Jerks.)
I’ve been trying to figure out how I can sit at home and review DVDs and make snarky comments. Thing is, I want to get paid for it. I’ve had the opportunity to do it for online people, but I don’t want to. That’s a time donation thing. Somehow when I get paid, and am told not to be snarky, I get better results. Plus, a great teacher once asked me if I considered myself a writer. I told him yes. “Are you getting paid?” Nope. “Then you’re not a writer. You just happen to be writing.”
I wonder what happened to him. He used to write theater reviews for the RFT before it sucked. He’s disappeared.
Oh well. I’m going to be bored now. And explain to John why I hate Chicago (the band, not the town).
Oh look. Something shiny!
I am bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored.
If you have ever processed manuscript for a textbook, you know the boredom of which I speak. Colon crushing boredom. You sit there with the fruits of your year-long labor in front of you and think, “wow, I have to go through that and do really boring things to it. Yay.”
So, what’s going on with you? Nothing? Good. Keep it that way.
The only thing I have to report is that I’m looking forward to this album.
That and a Flaming Lips EP that’s due out soon. It has a new Christmas song, so I’ll definitely need that for “A Very Gary Christmas 2003.” I have a ton of new songs for this year’s version, but nothing I’m terribly excited about.
Wow. How bored am I? I just brought up Christmas in October. I’ve become one of those people.
I could tell you about the squirrels I’ve seen in my back yard. They seem to be having a good time lately. Either that or they’ve turned murderous. I can’t really tell.
I can confess that I suddenly desperately miss reviewing movies. It’s been about three years since I’ve done it. Recently I’ve gotten the twinge to make snarky comments about bad movies. Not that I have the time to go to screenings like I did when I worked at the failed dot com. (Though those mid-day press screenings were fun. I’d sit with a variety of local radio guys and make fun of movies with them, in the hopes that they’d start sharing free CDs with me. They never did. Jerks.)
I’ve been trying to figure out how I can sit at home and review DVDs and make snarky comments. Thing is, I want to get paid for it. I’ve had the opportunity to do it for online people, but I don’t want to. That’s a time donation thing. Somehow when I get paid, and am told not to be snarky, I get better results. Plus, a great teacher once asked me if I considered myself a writer. I told him yes. “Are you getting paid?” Nope. “Then you’re not a writer. You just happen to be writing.”
I wonder what happened to him. He used to write theater reviews for the RFT before it sucked. He’s disappeared.
Oh well. I’m going to be bored now. And explain to John why I hate Chicago (the band, not the town).
Oh look. Something shiny!
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Skeeze Alert
Why is this news? Courtney Love had drugs? NO! Get out of here.
It seems to me that a newsworthy item about Courtney Love would be, "Courtney Love found with only a pack of Beeman's and some Tic Tacs. Sources also indicate that she may have actually showered. Film at 11."
It seems to me that a newsworthy item about Courtney Love would be, "Courtney Love found with only a pack of Beeman's and some Tic Tacs. Sources also indicate that she may have actually showered. Film at 11."
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Spam! Spamity Spam!
I apparently have to act now. Quickly. The decision needs to be made now. While supplies last. My penis is too small, my house payment too big and I need prescription pain killers. Jessica is a 24 year old who saw my profile online and would like to meet me. I’m not sure if she wants to meet me because of my new, bigger penis or because of my connection with the online pharmacy that will hook me up with Vicodin. Maybe she’s impressed with my house payment. That I’m married doesn’t seem to bother her.
But I can learn how to please my lover and make her (or him) beg for more! I can make her scream and moan all night long!
Actually, I don’t need help with that. When I put my ice cold feet on her back while she’s sleeping she usually screams and moans. Hits too.
But I can also get Viagra, which my new bigger penis will probably need. Or, if my bigger penis still doesn’t satisfy my lover I can get Xanax or Valium from a reputable online pharmacy to help me deal with my depression. I can medicate myself into a large and unhappy mass of fat and hair.
With an unusually large erection. And out of debt, thanks to the debt experts. (Because of historically low interest rates, of course.)
The one I haven’t figured out is from Woodrow Orozco, who makes this offer: “aiza hisporiography og c addaqphfqvj n.”
Don Corleone couldn’t make such an unrefusable offer.
“David R.” is offering me “racing stuff” while Taylor Tapia is offering to show me how to “crack into pr0n sites.” (Spelling changed to keep out Googlers.)
Herman David claims, “discounted Rx Valium husbandmen”. I don’t know if the Valium is discounted or if it’s the husbandmen. I’m not sure if I’m even in the market for husbandmen. Am I? Maybe with my bigger penis I’ll need one. Or maybe my wife will need one because even with the Viagra in my blood, I’ll be doped out from the Xanax, Vicodin and Valium.
Louie Weber offers “cheery gravvn”, which I may actually check out because my last load of gravvn was anything but cheery.
Effie Rudolph asks me a very valid question, “Why waist your time at doctors office!attica” Or maybe Effie exclaims that. I think “attica” is where she works and lives. I think I’m going to go with Effie because she offers me a wide variety of drugs that I need no prior prescription for! Here’s what she offers:
“Trim your waistline, eliminate arthritic pain, relax all your muscles, improve your sex life, eliminate your depression, get birth control, skin care, enhancements & more, quit smoking, prevent hare loss, impotence & more, sleeping aids, allergy protection, heartburn relief and MORE!”
Thank GOD. I was so worried about “hare loss”. Fluffy ran off yesterday with the squirrel and weasel, but we found her. If I had lost my beloved hare, I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe relax all of my muscles. Except my penis, of course.
I don’t know where I’m going to get the money to pay for all of these things. The refinancing, the prescription drugs that I don’t have a prescription for, the penis enlargement, my 24 year old girlfriend named Jessica and all of my sex enhancements.
Maybe I’ll take up Mjube Inbote on his offer to transfer $13 million to my bank account. It’s all perfectly legal! His dictatorial government just won’t let keep it. He needs my offshore account to legally transfer his money out of the country. It’s pretty sad because his father was assassinated in 1997 in a government plot. He just wants to get his family and their fortune out of their oppressive country so they can live a safe and happy life. And he’ll share 10%! I could use that money to keep my 24 year old girlfriend Jessica drugged up on Vicodin. And my erection going in my house, with low monthly payments. It’ll certainly protect my hare.
You know, I can see you thinking that all of this is not a good idea. But I wouldn’t mess with me. Because Courtney Swanson is selling a banned CD that will help me ruin you, if you piss me off. According to Courtney, “you will be able to investigate your friends, enemies and lovers in just minutes using the Internet. You can track down old flames from college, or you can dig up some dirt on your boss to make sure you get that next promotion! Why are they so upset? Because this C D gives you freedom. And you can't buy freedom at your local Walmart. You will have the freedom to avoid c reditors, judgments, lawsuits, IRS taxcollectors, criminal indictments, your greedy ex-wife or ex-husband, and much more!”
It’s true. You can’t buy freedom at Walmart. All they have is oppression, repression and two drafts of the Patriot Act in aisle 11.
So when you see me coming down the street, with my ten percent of $13 million, Jessica on my arm and a huge bulge in my pants, don’t say anything. Because I can destroy you with a banned CD.
Not that I’ll care. With the Vicodin/Xanax/Valium mix I’ll be taking I’ll probably be babbling like Elvis at his last Vegas concert.
Thank you! Thank you vermy munch! Gimme a popsicle.
But I can learn how to please my lover and make her (or him) beg for more! I can make her scream and moan all night long!
Actually, I don’t need help with that. When I put my ice cold feet on her back while she’s sleeping she usually screams and moans. Hits too.
But I can also get Viagra, which my new bigger penis will probably need. Or, if my bigger penis still doesn’t satisfy my lover I can get Xanax or Valium from a reputable online pharmacy to help me deal with my depression. I can medicate myself into a large and unhappy mass of fat and hair.
With an unusually large erection. And out of debt, thanks to the debt experts. (Because of historically low interest rates, of course.)
The one I haven’t figured out is from Woodrow Orozco, who makes this offer: “aiza hisporiography og c addaqphfqvj n.”
Don Corleone couldn’t make such an unrefusable offer.
“David R.” is offering me “racing stuff” while Taylor Tapia is offering to show me how to “crack into pr0n sites.” (Spelling changed to keep out Googlers.)
Herman David claims, “discounted Rx Valium husbandmen”. I don’t know if the Valium is discounted or if it’s the husbandmen. I’m not sure if I’m even in the market for husbandmen. Am I? Maybe with my bigger penis I’ll need one. Or maybe my wife will need one because even with the Viagra in my blood, I’ll be doped out from the Xanax, Vicodin and Valium.
Louie Weber offers “cheery gravvn”, which I may actually check out because my last load of gravvn was anything but cheery.
Effie Rudolph asks me a very valid question, “Why waist your time at doctors office!attica” Or maybe Effie exclaims that. I think “attica” is where she works and lives. I think I’m going to go with Effie because she offers me a wide variety of drugs that I need no prior prescription for! Here’s what she offers:
“Trim your waistline, eliminate arthritic pain, relax all your muscles, improve your sex life, eliminate your depression, get birth control, skin care, enhancements & more, quit smoking, prevent hare loss, impotence & more, sleeping aids, allergy protection, heartburn relief and MORE!”
Thank GOD. I was so worried about “hare loss”. Fluffy ran off yesterday with the squirrel and weasel, but we found her. If I had lost my beloved hare, I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe relax all of my muscles. Except my penis, of course.
I don’t know where I’m going to get the money to pay for all of these things. The refinancing, the prescription drugs that I don’t have a prescription for, the penis enlargement, my 24 year old girlfriend named Jessica and all of my sex enhancements.
Maybe I’ll take up Mjube Inbote on his offer to transfer $13 million to my bank account. It’s all perfectly legal! His dictatorial government just won’t let keep it. He needs my offshore account to legally transfer his money out of the country. It’s pretty sad because his father was assassinated in 1997 in a government plot. He just wants to get his family and their fortune out of their oppressive country so they can live a safe and happy life. And he’ll share 10%! I could use that money to keep my 24 year old girlfriend Jessica drugged up on Vicodin. And my erection going in my house, with low monthly payments. It’ll certainly protect my hare.
You know, I can see you thinking that all of this is not a good idea. But I wouldn’t mess with me. Because Courtney Swanson is selling a banned CD that will help me ruin you, if you piss me off. According to Courtney, “you will be able to investigate your friends, enemies and lovers in just minutes using the Internet. You can track down old flames from college, or you can dig up some dirt on your boss to make sure you get that next promotion! Why are they so upset? Because this C D gives you freedom. And you can't buy freedom at your local Walmart. You will have the freedom to avoid c reditors, judgments, lawsuits, IRS taxcollectors, criminal indictments, your greedy ex-wife or ex-husband, and much more!”
It’s true. You can’t buy freedom at Walmart. All they have is oppression, repression and two drafts of the Patriot Act in aisle 11.
So when you see me coming down the street, with my ten percent of $13 million, Jessica on my arm and a huge bulge in my pants, don’t say anything. Because I can destroy you with a banned CD.
Not that I’ll care. With the Vicodin/Xanax/Valium mix I’ll be taking I’ll probably be babbling like Elvis at his last Vegas concert.
Thank you! Thank you vermy munch! Gimme a popsicle.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Is That My Spleen?
What a strange weekend. I had Friday off, so the girls and I spent the day at the zoo. Matilda had a very important set of specifics that we had to accomplish by the time we left. Monkeys. Lions. Bears. Penguins. Train. Apes. Not necessarily in that order. I’m happy to say we accomplished them all.
We arrived at the zoo shortly after it opened. We would have been the first people through the gates, but they decided to rip up every road leading to the place and not tell anyone that there is only one possible way to get to the zoo. So I tried every route I knew. Naturally, the fourth one was successful. Then the line for parking (it’s free because we’re members) was insane. It would take the attendant five minutes to check in each car. Moron.
Finally we were able to get into the zoo. It was deserted. We immediately went into the Monkey House. Almost every species was in its habitat sleeping. When we came upon the Ring-Tailed Lemurs, they were all huddled together in one sleeping mass. Matilda nearly exploded because of the cuteness. She sat down in front of their habitat and started cooing and stroking the glass. The words “Aw how cute” were used at least 372 times in less than one minute. Within seconds Gertrude was out of her stroller at her sister’s side cooing at the lemurs.
The last time we went to the zoo with Gertrude, she was somewhat uninterested. This time, with an intense interest in all animals, she was going nuts with excitement over everything. As we passed the giraffes, one came up within two feet of us to eat leaves. Again, she nearly passed out with excitement. “Jiaf eating leaves,” she said. “I eat them?” I couldn’t figure out if “them” was referring to leaves or the giraffes. Figuring we’d get in trouble if my two-year-old hopped the fence and was trying to bite a giant-necked mammal that is quite possibly endangered, we decided to move on.
The girls fell in love with the penguins, so much so that I ended up spending $20 on stuffed penguins. They stroked and loved them for the rest of the day, until Gertrude lost hers and tried to steal Matilda’s.
One of our last tasks was to ride the train. Gertrude had seen many trains on her way to Meemee’s house, but had never ridden one. As we waited in line, the two girls stood there holding their penguins, cute as can be. Gertrude kept asking, “Train comin’?” I picked her up and was showing her where the train would come from and she watched intently, patting the back of my head. The mom in front of us gave me that “Oh how cute an incompetent daddy is trying to care for his children and I bet he cried when his wife left him alone with them” look. I resisted the urge to tell her how huge her ass looked in those running pants. It was probably for the best.
Once the train arrived, Gertrude crammed herself between Matilda and me and waited patiently for the train to go. The entire time, with other kids screaming and getting out of their seats, little Gertrude sat quietly with her hands in her lap and a giant grin on her face. As we went through tunnels the grin grew wider. Better yet, she would wave at passing pedestrians.
Only one bad thing happened the entire time. Matilda managed to get her sister hooked on “poptorn”. Now, if you ask Gert what she wants for dinner she’ll say “poptorn” (if she doesn’t ask for her old staples eggs or bacon.)
Saturday was spent tying up loose ends and getting ready to go to a massive family dinner. The dinner was great and I ate so much Italian food that I probably wouldn’t have had to eat for a month. I said probably.
I woke up at three in the morning not feeling well. I wasn’t nauseous. Just feeling strange. I went into the bathroom and violently puked my guts up. When I say violently, I mean with a medieval force heretofore unknown to man. Each retch woke up another neighbor. Each time Captain Vomit reported for duty, we’d get calls from surrounding counties asking if I was okay. This repeated itself every ten minutes for 90 minutes.
I didn’t drink that much, so I knew it wasn’t the beer. I doubt it was food poisoning, unless the seven pounds of prosciutto that I ate was drizzled in e. coli. The next morning my wife noticed I had a rash on my face and chest. Must have been allergic to something I ate.
I feel better now, especially after laying on the couch all day watching every Planet of the Apes movie in order.
Now I will forever associate puking with Cornelius’ life story.
Get your filthy paws off me you damn, dirty prosciutto ham!
We arrived at the zoo shortly after it opened. We would have been the first people through the gates, but they decided to rip up every road leading to the place and not tell anyone that there is only one possible way to get to the zoo. So I tried every route I knew. Naturally, the fourth one was successful. Then the line for parking (it’s free because we’re members) was insane. It would take the attendant five minutes to check in each car. Moron.
Finally we were able to get into the zoo. It was deserted. We immediately went into the Monkey House. Almost every species was in its habitat sleeping. When we came upon the Ring-Tailed Lemurs, they were all huddled together in one sleeping mass. Matilda nearly exploded because of the cuteness. She sat down in front of their habitat and started cooing and stroking the glass. The words “Aw how cute” were used at least 372 times in less than one minute. Within seconds Gertrude was out of her stroller at her sister’s side cooing at the lemurs.
The last time we went to the zoo with Gertrude, she was somewhat uninterested. This time, with an intense interest in all animals, she was going nuts with excitement over everything. As we passed the giraffes, one came up within two feet of us to eat leaves. Again, she nearly passed out with excitement. “Jiaf eating leaves,” she said. “I eat them?” I couldn’t figure out if “them” was referring to leaves or the giraffes. Figuring we’d get in trouble if my two-year-old hopped the fence and was trying to bite a giant-necked mammal that is quite possibly endangered, we decided to move on.
The girls fell in love with the penguins, so much so that I ended up spending $20 on stuffed penguins. They stroked and loved them for the rest of the day, until Gertrude lost hers and tried to steal Matilda’s.
One of our last tasks was to ride the train. Gertrude had seen many trains on her way to Meemee’s house, but had never ridden one. As we waited in line, the two girls stood there holding their penguins, cute as can be. Gertrude kept asking, “Train comin’?” I picked her up and was showing her where the train would come from and she watched intently, patting the back of my head. The mom in front of us gave me that “Oh how cute an incompetent daddy is trying to care for his children and I bet he cried when his wife left him alone with them” look. I resisted the urge to tell her how huge her ass looked in those running pants. It was probably for the best.
Once the train arrived, Gertrude crammed herself between Matilda and me and waited patiently for the train to go. The entire time, with other kids screaming and getting out of their seats, little Gertrude sat quietly with her hands in her lap and a giant grin on her face. As we went through tunnels the grin grew wider. Better yet, she would wave at passing pedestrians.
Only one bad thing happened the entire time. Matilda managed to get her sister hooked on “poptorn”. Now, if you ask Gert what she wants for dinner she’ll say “poptorn” (if she doesn’t ask for her old staples eggs or bacon.)
Saturday was spent tying up loose ends and getting ready to go to a massive family dinner. The dinner was great and I ate so much Italian food that I probably wouldn’t have had to eat for a month. I said probably.
I woke up at three in the morning not feeling well. I wasn’t nauseous. Just feeling strange. I went into the bathroom and violently puked my guts up. When I say violently, I mean with a medieval force heretofore unknown to man. Each retch woke up another neighbor. Each time Captain Vomit reported for duty, we’d get calls from surrounding counties asking if I was okay. This repeated itself every ten minutes for 90 minutes.
I didn’t drink that much, so I knew it wasn’t the beer. I doubt it was food poisoning, unless the seven pounds of prosciutto that I ate was drizzled in e. coli. The next morning my wife noticed I had a rash on my face and chest. Must have been allergic to something I ate.
I feel better now, especially after laying on the couch all day watching every Planet of the Apes movie in order.
Now I will forever associate puking with Cornelius’ life story.
Get your filthy paws off me you damn, dirty prosciutto ham!
Thursday, October 23, 2003
I Forgot to Mention . . .
Matilda won an award for an essay she wrote on why she won’t use drugs. We read it last night and it was very nice. But it was eclipsed by the brilliance and insightfulness of one of her classmates’ essays. I swear I am not making this up:
“I don’t use drugs because using drugs makes you have a thing on your credit. When you have a thing on your credit you can’t buy no things. If you use drugs you can’t find no work. I don’t want no thing on my credit.”
Now there’s a winning example of just the type of man I want my girls to marry. A man who can’t find no work because he’s a lazy bum, not a crackhead.
“I don’t use drugs because using drugs makes you have a thing on your credit. When you have a thing on your credit you can’t buy no things. If you use drugs you can’t find no work. I don’t want no thing on my credit.”
Now there’s a winning example of just the type of man I want my girls to marry. A man who can’t find no work because he’s a lazy bum, not a crackhead.
Hi Kids
I’m in deadline time again, so daily ramblings will probably be a pipe-dream at this point.
Tomorrow I’ll have both kids home. I think we’re going to the zoo. Might leave Gertrude in the monkey cage. Haven’t decided yet.
Kids are doing great. They’re both adorable and increasingly brilliant. Last night was Matilda’s parent teacher conference. She’s getting the highest grades she’s ever gotten and is quite an accomplished reader and writer. I was quite pleased to find out that she’s also excelling in math and shaming the other students with her work in science.
A powerful argument could be made her on nature versus nurture because, biologically speaking, Matilda’s mother is the only one who could have genetically passed along any intelligence. Since I’m not her bio-dad, that’s all I have to say about that.
So, yay nurture!
Gertrude woke up at 4:30 with a bad dream and requested daddy cuddling. I was so sound asleep that I wasn’t aware of this. All I know is that I was being patted on the shoulder to the refrain of:
“Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Puppies nip. I go poopie on the potty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I eat Wiggle nocks. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Want bacon? Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I have a bad dream. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Look! Kitty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad.”
I recall patting her, saying something about sleepy time and falling back asleep to have a dream about a monkey who bowled a perfect 300. I was his manager. We lived in Utah and we became very rich on the PBA circuit. But it all fell apart so we started a Monkey/Man wallpaper hanging business.
No more garlicky dinners.
Tomorrow I’ll have both kids home. I think we’re going to the zoo. Might leave Gertrude in the monkey cage. Haven’t decided yet.
Kids are doing great. They’re both adorable and increasingly brilliant. Last night was Matilda’s parent teacher conference. She’s getting the highest grades she’s ever gotten and is quite an accomplished reader and writer. I was quite pleased to find out that she’s also excelling in math and shaming the other students with her work in science.
A powerful argument could be made her on nature versus nurture because, biologically speaking, Matilda’s mother is the only one who could have genetically passed along any intelligence. Since I’m not her bio-dad, that’s all I have to say about that.
So, yay nurture!
Gertrude woke up at 4:30 with a bad dream and requested daddy cuddling. I was so sound asleep that I wasn’t aware of this. All I know is that I was being patted on the shoulder to the refrain of:
“Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Puppies nip. I go poopie on the potty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I eat Wiggle nocks. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Want bacon? Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I have a bad dream. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Look! Kitty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad.”
I recall patting her, saying something about sleepy time and falling back asleep to have a dream about a monkey who bowled a perfect 300. I was his manager. We lived in Utah and we became very rich on the PBA circuit. But it all fell apart so we started a Monkey/Man wallpaper hanging business.
No more garlicky dinners.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Potty Training Shcmotty Training
There are many difficult parts of the machine involved in potty training the child. There are several integral bits you need to gather in order to simply begin. First there is the potty itself, special diapers, find a location, and start gearing up the child for the change between diapers and potties.
We have never actively tried to potty train Gertrude because she’s still rather young. When we moved into the new house, we dusted off the training potty and put it in the bathroom so she could become familiar with it. The way it is designed, it doubles as a stool (no pun intended) so she could use it to wash her hands at the sink as well.
Within a month of the potty’s display, Gertrude wanted to try it out. She asked what it was, we explained and she decided to give it a try before bath time. Right out of the gate she scored. She emptied her bladder into the receptacle. There was much cheering and brouhaha. At this point she was maybe 18 months old. We were pretty darn impressed.
Now, just short of two years old, she has her own set of pull-ups, which we use rarely, and she has begun holding “it”. She has successfully deposited all appropriate materials into the potty successfully at least twice a piece (no pun intended). We’re all very proud.
Keep in mind, though, we never set out to potty train her. She has undertaken this endeavor on her own.
When she is at “MeeMee’s” (grandma) she goes on the big potty twice a day. On Sunday, while we were playing, she suddenly jumped up and ran to the bathroom, took off her pants and diaper and climbed up on the potty and gave it the old school try.
I don’t know what it means when your child is potty training herself. I’m sure it’s just another step in her greater goal of emulating her sister.
She even puts herself to bed and demands fresh sheets every three days (thankfully she hasn’t started asking for a specific thread count).
I’m really rather proud of her for her ambition and desire to conquer her body, but I’m also saddened that she’s moving so quickly to become an older kid.
When I ask her “who’s Daddy’s baby” she answers, “I not a baby, I a kid!” We’re working on verbs, by the way.
She learns and grows from her experiences unlike any other kid I’ve ever met. The other day we were hanging lights in our window for Halloween. We were checking the string and she touched one of the bare light bulbs. It was hot and it hurt her finger. We were worried that if we hung the lights she would touch them again.
“Gertrude, are you going to touch these lights?”
“No,” she answered aghast, “they hot. They hurt!”
This kid is so full of life and excitement. She goes headlong into every adventure that life throws at her, whether it’s potty training or helping daddy fix things. And she’s so damn smart for a nearly two year old. I’m constantly amazed. Sigh.
But she seems to constantly want to be older than she is. She speaks with more clarity and with better diction than some four year olds. Her motor development is dwarfing other kids her age. And she’s so sensitive and compassionate towards other people. It’s frightening. If you cough, she asks you if you’re okay. And she pats you on your back and pats your cheek until you answer.
As I sit and look at her sleeping in her bed at night (which she can climb in and out of, but never does . . . she knows she is capable, but she knows she isn’t supposed to), I see her as a toddler, pre-pubescent, teenager, adult and gone from the house and out on her own.
It’s amazing how after barely two years with her, and a good 18 to 20 to go with her, I’m already bracing myself for my sweet little baby to leave me. Someday she won’t be Daddy’s Little Girl any more. I’ll be the old man and she’ll be out there forging her own life. And judging by her personality and her sense of adventure at this point, there will be no slowing down that train.
Gertrude is a force to be reckoned with. She has an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and experience. And though she’s only almost two, I’m already beginning to miss the baby she is right now. Because with each and every day I see that she’s a different child than the day before.
I’m constantly amazed by her growth. And constantly mourning another day that has passed me by. Another day that has become but a memory. True, they are fantastic and wonderful days and I log each and every moment in my head. But I’ll never get them back. She’s one day closer to starting school, going to college, getting married and taking over the world.
One of the things about parenting that they forget to tell you in every book is how hard the unspoken things are. Wiping butts, noses, and vomit are easy. I can catch up on sleep some other time and the beets in the baby’s ear came out pretty easily. And the carpet can always be replaced.
But the job is bittersweet. Your entire job as a parent is to do exactly what you don’t want to do. You are charged with raising the child, training her to be a contributing member of society and a good human being. Your job is to push her out when the time comes.
Parenting is knowing when you pull the child close to your chest and when you let them wander a few steps away from you.
You revel in their successes, you brag about them. But somewhere in your heart, you dread the next success because you know what it means. That your baby is slowly growing up and moving toward an independent state. Everything that you want for your child is what you secretly don’t want.
I’m seeing it at an advanced stage with Matilda and am preparing myself for the next stage with Gertrude. I’m thrilled with every successful thing they do. I brag about them constantly. (For example, Matilda is the best reader in the entire third grade. Light years ahead of every other kid in her Advanced Reading program.)
But there’s that part in my heart that knows I’m going to have to let go. Ten, fifteen, twenty years to go seems like a short time.
But you blink and your diapered little girl is suddenly the best reader in third grade. You blink again and she’s crying because her boyfriend broke up with her. Blink again and she’s holding your first grand child.
Someone once said that the “secret of life is enjoying the passage of time”. That no matter what you do, you should enjoy the ride.
And I do, I really do. The dips are scary, but they are fun.
But what do you do when you suddenly look around you and realize that the people who got on the ride with you are all changing and moving on to their own rides? Be they fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, spouses or children, there comes a point when you realize that everyone is getting on their own roller coaster.
And you have to choose. Either you can stay on your own coaster or you hop into the back car of someone else’s coaster and see where it takes you.
Gert and Matilda are in the front car. I guess I’m just along for the ride.
We have never actively tried to potty train Gertrude because she’s still rather young. When we moved into the new house, we dusted off the training potty and put it in the bathroom so she could become familiar with it. The way it is designed, it doubles as a stool (no pun intended) so she could use it to wash her hands at the sink as well.
Within a month of the potty’s display, Gertrude wanted to try it out. She asked what it was, we explained and she decided to give it a try before bath time. Right out of the gate she scored. She emptied her bladder into the receptacle. There was much cheering and brouhaha. At this point she was maybe 18 months old. We were pretty darn impressed.
Now, just short of two years old, she has her own set of pull-ups, which we use rarely, and she has begun holding “it”. She has successfully deposited all appropriate materials into the potty successfully at least twice a piece (no pun intended). We’re all very proud.
Keep in mind, though, we never set out to potty train her. She has undertaken this endeavor on her own.
When she is at “MeeMee’s” (grandma) she goes on the big potty twice a day. On Sunday, while we were playing, she suddenly jumped up and ran to the bathroom, took off her pants and diaper and climbed up on the potty and gave it the old school try.
I don’t know what it means when your child is potty training herself. I’m sure it’s just another step in her greater goal of emulating her sister.
She even puts herself to bed and demands fresh sheets every three days (thankfully she hasn’t started asking for a specific thread count).
I’m really rather proud of her for her ambition and desire to conquer her body, but I’m also saddened that she’s moving so quickly to become an older kid.
When I ask her “who’s Daddy’s baby” she answers, “I not a baby, I a kid!” We’re working on verbs, by the way.
She learns and grows from her experiences unlike any other kid I’ve ever met. The other day we were hanging lights in our window for Halloween. We were checking the string and she touched one of the bare light bulbs. It was hot and it hurt her finger. We were worried that if we hung the lights she would touch them again.
“Gertrude, are you going to touch these lights?”
“No,” she answered aghast, “they hot. They hurt!”
This kid is so full of life and excitement. She goes headlong into every adventure that life throws at her, whether it’s potty training or helping daddy fix things. And she’s so damn smart for a nearly two year old. I’m constantly amazed. Sigh.
But she seems to constantly want to be older than she is. She speaks with more clarity and with better diction than some four year olds. Her motor development is dwarfing other kids her age. And she’s so sensitive and compassionate towards other people. It’s frightening. If you cough, she asks you if you’re okay. And she pats you on your back and pats your cheek until you answer.
As I sit and look at her sleeping in her bed at night (which she can climb in and out of, but never does . . . she knows she is capable, but she knows she isn’t supposed to), I see her as a toddler, pre-pubescent, teenager, adult and gone from the house and out on her own.
It’s amazing how after barely two years with her, and a good 18 to 20 to go with her, I’m already bracing myself for my sweet little baby to leave me. Someday she won’t be Daddy’s Little Girl any more. I’ll be the old man and she’ll be out there forging her own life. And judging by her personality and her sense of adventure at this point, there will be no slowing down that train.
Gertrude is a force to be reckoned with. She has an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and experience. And though she’s only almost two, I’m already beginning to miss the baby she is right now. Because with each and every day I see that she’s a different child than the day before.
I’m constantly amazed by her growth. And constantly mourning another day that has passed me by. Another day that has become but a memory. True, they are fantastic and wonderful days and I log each and every moment in my head. But I’ll never get them back. She’s one day closer to starting school, going to college, getting married and taking over the world.
One of the things about parenting that they forget to tell you in every book is how hard the unspoken things are. Wiping butts, noses, and vomit are easy. I can catch up on sleep some other time and the beets in the baby’s ear came out pretty easily. And the carpet can always be replaced.
But the job is bittersweet. Your entire job as a parent is to do exactly what you don’t want to do. You are charged with raising the child, training her to be a contributing member of society and a good human being. Your job is to push her out when the time comes.
Parenting is knowing when you pull the child close to your chest and when you let them wander a few steps away from you.
You revel in their successes, you brag about them. But somewhere in your heart, you dread the next success because you know what it means. That your baby is slowly growing up and moving toward an independent state. Everything that you want for your child is what you secretly don’t want.
I’m seeing it at an advanced stage with Matilda and am preparing myself for the next stage with Gertrude. I’m thrilled with every successful thing they do. I brag about them constantly. (For example, Matilda is the best reader in the entire third grade. Light years ahead of every other kid in her Advanced Reading program.)
But there’s that part in my heart that knows I’m going to have to let go. Ten, fifteen, twenty years to go seems like a short time.
But you blink and your diapered little girl is suddenly the best reader in third grade. You blink again and she’s crying because her boyfriend broke up with her. Blink again and she’s holding your first grand child.
Someone once said that the “secret of life is enjoying the passage of time”. That no matter what you do, you should enjoy the ride.
And I do, I really do. The dips are scary, but they are fun.
But what do you do when you suddenly look around you and realize that the people who got on the ride with you are all changing and moving on to their own rides? Be they fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, spouses or children, there comes a point when you realize that everyone is getting on their own roller coaster.
And you have to choose. Either you can stay on your own coaster or you hop into the back car of someone else’s coaster and see where it takes you.
Gert and Matilda are in the front car. I guess I’m just along for the ride.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Monday, Monday
Another weekend has come and gone and I find myself wondering what the hell happened. I woke up on Friday, knowing I had the day off to spend with the kids and suddenly it was Sunday night. I was tired, sore and had no recollection of how I got there. I’ve been able to piece some things together.
Friday night I took my friend out for his birthday. We had decided to go to the Wolf Sanctuary for a wolf howl. We’ve both been avid conservationists for many years and have supported the Wolf Sanctuary for the past decade. And, somehow, we had never made it out for the howl.
What is a wolf howl?
Well . . . here’s how it works. You go out to the sanctuary and meet at the guard house after sun down. As it gets darker and darker, a volunteer gets you together as a group and brings you down to an old army bunker somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. It’s a five minute drive from the guard house to the bunker. And you have to watch out for deer on the road. Gripping the wheel, white knuckled, I was searching the darkness for deer, knowing what happens to a car when it meets a deer. The deer dies, but so does the car.
At the bunker we went through a program that detailed the history of the sanctuary, how the wolves are raised and are reintroduced into the wild, their role in staving off extinction because of stupidity, etc.
We then watched a video that explained wolf howls, what each species sounds like and what they mean. Bundling up to go out in the cold, we marched a half mile out to the wolf enclosures. Only the people running the program had flashlights. So, it was dark. I mean, really dark. And out in the distance you could feel the presence of the animals. Something would rustle behind you. You’d hear breathing. At one point we heard the maned wolf making noise that can only be described as a “growf”. It was pretty amazing knowing that these beautiful and powerful animals were only a few yards away.
We shut off all the lights and the volunteers howled out to the wolves to see if they would answer. They had no luck. They tried a recording of wolf howls. Nothing. They weren’t singing tonight. So it was our turn. First the kids, then the women and then the men.
After the men howled, one wolf answered. It was a lonely sound. Mournful and distant. We think it was the alpha male from their Red Wolf pack. Recently he had lost a cub in a storm and ever since, they say, his howl has had a dark and sad note to it. You could hear it. As he howled, his mate would punctuate his mournful notes with a short burst that seemed to confirm his sadness.
It was amazing. Standing out in the dark, surrounded by roughly seventy wolves that you couldn’t see, listening to their main man telling you a story. It was a moving experience. As the group was walking back to the bunker, I wished I could just sit there for a little while longer. Silent and unmoving, just listening and feeling the animals just beyond me.
After the howl, we went out for a beer. In honor of my Jack London style experience, I drank beer called “Rogue Dead Guy Ale”. It tasted much better than it sounds.
While we were at the howl, Matilda was out with mom at a Girl Scout bonfire. They froze. Because of local fire laws, Mom said it was more like a match that stared at you threateningly. But they had fun.
Gertrude went out with Aunt “Maneen” for dinner and shopping. From what she told me the next day, she had an absolute blast. Good food, Wiggles jammies, stuffed animals, you name it. Aunt Maneen really knows how to party with the girls.
Saturday Aunt Maneen came back to take Matilda out to the pumpkin patch. Gertrude watched through the window as Matilda got in aunt Maneen’s car and she cried mournfully, “I come with! I come with!”
When Matilda returned, we were in the back yard raking leaves so that I could mow the lawn. She said she had a really good time, got some food, got pumpkins, and drank soda. A perfect kid day.
“What did you have for lunch,” I asked.
“I didn’t really have lunch,” she answered. “I just had corn on the cob, chicken kabobs and a funnel cake.”
Wow. I wonder what she considers lunch. I’d kill for a meal like that.
Matilda got Gertrude up from her nap and taught her how to jump into the pile of leaves.
I have never seen a look of such joy on Gertrude’s face. She looked like she was having more fun than she has ever had in her life. She would take off running and leap into the leaves head first. She’d leap and frolic to her heart’s content.
The girls never looked happier. They both had spent time with the coveted Aunt Maneen and now they were frolicking in the best that nature had to offer.
You can buy your kids all the toys in the world. You can get them new clothes, videos, expensive bikes and more. But, all they need is a pile of dried leaves, a good sibling and a nice day. That is what childhood is all about.
Friday night I took my friend out for his birthday. We had decided to go to the Wolf Sanctuary for a wolf howl. We’ve both been avid conservationists for many years and have supported the Wolf Sanctuary for the past decade. And, somehow, we had never made it out for the howl.
What is a wolf howl?
Well . . . here’s how it works. You go out to the sanctuary and meet at the guard house after sun down. As it gets darker and darker, a volunteer gets you together as a group and brings you down to an old army bunker somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. It’s a five minute drive from the guard house to the bunker. And you have to watch out for deer on the road. Gripping the wheel, white knuckled, I was searching the darkness for deer, knowing what happens to a car when it meets a deer. The deer dies, but so does the car.
At the bunker we went through a program that detailed the history of the sanctuary, how the wolves are raised and are reintroduced into the wild, their role in staving off extinction because of stupidity, etc.
We then watched a video that explained wolf howls, what each species sounds like and what they mean. Bundling up to go out in the cold, we marched a half mile out to the wolf enclosures. Only the people running the program had flashlights. So, it was dark. I mean, really dark. And out in the distance you could feel the presence of the animals. Something would rustle behind you. You’d hear breathing. At one point we heard the maned wolf making noise that can only be described as a “growf”. It was pretty amazing knowing that these beautiful and powerful animals were only a few yards away.
We shut off all the lights and the volunteers howled out to the wolves to see if they would answer. They had no luck. They tried a recording of wolf howls. Nothing. They weren’t singing tonight. So it was our turn. First the kids, then the women and then the men.
After the men howled, one wolf answered. It was a lonely sound. Mournful and distant. We think it was the alpha male from their Red Wolf pack. Recently he had lost a cub in a storm and ever since, they say, his howl has had a dark and sad note to it. You could hear it. As he howled, his mate would punctuate his mournful notes with a short burst that seemed to confirm his sadness.
It was amazing. Standing out in the dark, surrounded by roughly seventy wolves that you couldn’t see, listening to their main man telling you a story. It was a moving experience. As the group was walking back to the bunker, I wished I could just sit there for a little while longer. Silent and unmoving, just listening and feeling the animals just beyond me.
After the howl, we went out for a beer. In honor of my Jack London style experience, I drank beer called “Rogue Dead Guy Ale”. It tasted much better than it sounds.
While we were at the howl, Matilda was out with mom at a Girl Scout bonfire. They froze. Because of local fire laws, Mom said it was more like a match that stared at you threateningly. But they had fun.
Gertrude went out with Aunt “Maneen” for dinner and shopping. From what she told me the next day, she had an absolute blast. Good food, Wiggles jammies, stuffed animals, you name it. Aunt Maneen really knows how to party with the girls.
Saturday Aunt Maneen came back to take Matilda out to the pumpkin patch. Gertrude watched through the window as Matilda got in aunt Maneen’s car and she cried mournfully, “I come with! I come with!”
When Matilda returned, we were in the back yard raking leaves so that I could mow the lawn. She said she had a really good time, got some food, got pumpkins, and drank soda. A perfect kid day.
“What did you have for lunch,” I asked.
“I didn’t really have lunch,” she answered. “I just had corn on the cob, chicken kabobs and a funnel cake.”
Wow. I wonder what she considers lunch. I’d kill for a meal like that.
Matilda got Gertrude up from her nap and taught her how to jump into the pile of leaves.
I have never seen a look of such joy on Gertrude’s face. She looked like she was having more fun than she has ever had in her life. She would take off running and leap into the leaves head first. She’d leap and frolic to her heart’s content.
The girls never looked happier. They both had spent time with the coveted Aunt Maneen and now they were frolicking in the best that nature had to offer.
You can buy your kids all the toys in the world. You can get them new clothes, videos, expensive bikes and more. But, all they need is a pile of dried leaves, a good sibling and a nice day. That is what childhood is all about.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Weekend
It's starting early for me! Tomorrow I have the baby home all day and the eight-year-old only has a half day of school.
So instead of flogging the keyboard and charging hours, I'll be watching the Wiggles and collecting acorns.
Don't cry. It's okay. Just because I'll be having more fun than you is no reason to be upset.
Okay, it is.
Neener!
So instead of flogging the keyboard and charging hours, I'll be watching the Wiggles and collecting acorns.
Don't cry. It's okay. Just because I'll be having more fun than you is no reason to be upset.
Okay, it is.
Neener!
Ad Nauseum
Still listening to the Wondermints, by the way. Damn fine music. Damn fine pop. Right now it’s “Fleur-de-Lis” from the Japanese import of their first album (I got it about two weeks before it was re-released in the US . . . would love to read the English liner notes . . . My Kanji isn’t exactly up to snuff.)
So, anyway I have an important question for all of you experienced parents out there. Is there a stage that starts, say at the age of eight, where a child feels the need to tell you everything in excruciating detail? And I mean excruciating detail.
Matilda seems to be going through this stage. It started innocently enough. We’d hear an inventory of her sock drawer. “I have a red pair, a blue pair, some with flowers and two mismatched. If I sort them by size . . .” But it has gotten increasingly worse in the last few weeks.
Yesterday, for example, I was finishing my dinner while she sat at the computer looking at the American Girl website on our new Kitchen computer. They’ve been running a contest where they give away a trip to Chicago every day. She’s been entering obsessively. At this time she has not won. This is painfully obvious to her. So painful, in fact, that she read me the name and location of each winner thus far.
“Rachael from Battle Creek, Minerva from Walnut Grove, Christina from Grover’s Corner, Edna from Winesburg, Ohio . . .” She read me a list of twenty names. And I listened like a good dad.
“Well honey, if we’re lucky maybe you’ll win too.”
“Sure,” she answered. “This is the order in which they won. Christina, Jennifer . . .”
And we went back through every excruciating name on the list.
This morning she not only read me the ingredients on the cereal box, but also her entire school lunch calendar for the month of October, our family calendar for the month of October and the five day weather forecast, broken down into daily segments, “And at drive time it will be partly cloudy and 58 . . .”
Mom finally came back into the room and saved me from the brain melting boredom. Matilda saw the fresh meat and started reciting the contents of her Halloween bag from the previous five years and catalogued every single costume she’s ever worn.
In recent days she’s recited the plot of every book she’s read, television shows she’s watched, the fantasy games she plays at lunch with her friends, each note on the piano, the songs she’s played on the piano in the past and the songs she wants to play on the piano, each item in the American Girl catalogue that she would like to save for (including a complex rubric for shipping costs based on a wide variety of possible combinations of items that all add up to the amount of money she has saved), what she ate for lunch, including a critique of the taste, the entire contents of her art box, how many pins it took her mom to pin up her Halloween costume, the friends she has that have the same name (“I know two Claires. One is Claire at my old school and the other is Clare at my new school. Claire at my old school spells her name C-L-A-I-R-E and Clare at my new school spells her name C-L-A-R-E. The new Clare has no “I” in her name and the old Claire does. That’s funny. What’s really weird is that Clare’s real name is Mary Clare, but she goes by Clare. Isn’t that funny? I know a Jessica from our old neighborhood . . .”)
My question is this: Does this phase end? How long does it last? Because, as much as I love this kid, it’s DRIVING ME NUTS. I don’t want to tell her that I don’t need to hear all these details because it may encourage her not to talk to me at all.
How do I handle this? My wife tells me she had this problem as a child and her mother gave her a tape recorder to talk to. That seemed to make everyone happy. But with my kid, I know that she’ll record all of her thoughts and then make us listen to them, rewinding periodically so we can hear the good parts over and over.
What should I do? Is this a case where I grin and bear it? Or do I explain to her, as Steve Martin did in Planes, Trains and Automobiles that,” Here's an idea: when you tell these little stories, have a point! It makes it SO much easier for the listener!"
I can’t do that. But I also fear that I’ve gone from having a smart little daughter to having Rain Daughter. “Yeah, definitely 250 toothpicks. Not my underwear. Whopner’s on at 4.”
I don’t know. But with her newfound interest in spewing out minutiae I think it may be time to get her a Blog.
So, anyway I have an important question for all of you experienced parents out there. Is there a stage that starts, say at the age of eight, where a child feels the need to tell you everything in excruciating detail? And I mean excruciating detail.
Matilda seems to be going through this stage. It started innocently enough. We’d hear an inventory of her sock drawer. “I have a red pair, a blue pair, some with flowers and two mismatched. If I sort them by size . . .” But it has gotten increasingly worse in the last few weeks.
Yesterday, for example, I was finishing my dinner while she sat at the computer looking at the American Girl website on our new Kitchen computer. They’ve been running a contest where they give away a trip to Chicago every day. She’s been entering obsessively. At this time she has not won. This is painfully obvious to her. So painful, in fact, that she read me the name and location of each winner thus far.
“Rachael from Battle Creek, Minerva from Walnut Grove, Christina from Grover’s Corner, Edna from Winesburg, Ohio . . .” She read me a list of twenty names. And I listened like a good dad.
“Well honey, if we’re lucky maybe you’ll win too.”
“Sure,” she answered. “This is the order in which they won. Christina, Jennifer . . .”
And we went back through every excruciating name on the list.
This morning she not only read me the ingredients on the cereal box, but also her entire school lunch calendar for the month of October, our family calendar for the month of October and the five day weather forecast, broken down into daily segments, “And at drive time it will be partly cloudy and 58 . . .”
Mom finally came back into the room and saved me from the brain melting boredom. Matilda saw the fresh meat and started reciting the contents of her Halloween bag from the previous five years and catalogued every single costume she’s ever worn.
In recent days she’s recited the plot of every book she’s read, television shows she’s watched, the fantasy games she plays at lunch with her friends, each note on the piano, the songs she’s played on the piano in the past and the songs she wants to play on the piano, each item in the American Girl catalogue that she would like to save for (including a complex rubric for shipping costs based on a wide variety of possible combinations of items that all add up to the amount of money she has saved), what she ate for lunch, including a critique of the taste, the entire contents of her art box, how many pins it took her mom to pin up her Halloween costume, the friends she has that have the same name (“I know two Claires. One is Claire at my old school and the other is Clare at my new school. Claire at my old school spells her name C-L-A-I-R-E and Clare at my new school spells her name C-L-A-R-E. The new Clare has no “I” in her name and the old Claire does. That’s funny. What’s really weird is that Clare’s real name is Mary Clare, but she goes by Clare. Isn’t that funny? I know a Jessica from our old neighborhood . . .”)
My question is this: Does this phase end? How long does it last? Because, as much as I love this kid, it’s DRIVING ME NUTS. I don’t want to tell her that I don’t need to hear all these details because it may encourage her not to talk to me at all.
How do I handle this? My wife tells me she had this problem as a child and her mother gave her a tape recorder to talk to. That seemed to make everyone happy. But with my kid, I know that she’ll record all of her thoughts and then make us listen to them, rewinding periodically so we can hear the good parts over and over.
What should I do? Is this a case where I grin and bear it? Or do I explain to her, as Steve Martin did in Planes, Trains and Automobiles that,” Here's an idea: when you tell these little stories, have a point! It makes it SO much easier for the listener!"
I can’t do that. But I also fear that I’ve gone from having a smart little daughter to having Rain Daughter. “Yeah, definitely 250 toothpicks. Not my underwear. Whopner’s on at 4.”
I don’t know. But with her newfound interest in spewing out minutiae I think it may be time to get her a Blog.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Ahh . . .
Sometimes all a day needs is a little bit o' the Wondermints. Extra Minty today!
Besides, how many bands can sing the phrase "Lycanthrope Buffet" and make it cool?
Besides, how many bands can sing the phrase "Lycanthrope Buffet" and make it cool?
I’m a Dad
Not a freak.
There seems to be a disturbing trend with regards to how other people view dads who are, well, dads.
Once upon a time, there was a stereotypical dad. He wore a shirt and tie. He went off to a job in the morning, came home at night and you didn’t bother him while he read the paper and drank his Manhattan. He was an enigma. His sole role was to earn money and mow the grass. Additionally, he was the guy who doled out the discipline.
“Wait until your father gets home.” That’s what you heard. Your father was someone whom you regarded with a mixture of fear and wonder. He was a hero and an authority figure. Periodically he gave you a steely hug or a nod of appreciation, but he certainly wasn’t what you considered a nurturing figure.
He didn’t give baths, or change diapers, or stroke your fevered brow. He never made you dinner, and if he did, he managed to burn the cold cereal. As a breadwinner he was the greatest, but as a parent he was a complete buffoon. The way your mind and body worked stymied him, even if he was the owner of a multi-million dollar company.
He was gruff, but loving. When the time came, he’d give you a life-altering lecture about how the world worked as you sat on your bed crying because you’ve made a mistake or because your Dukes of Hazard T-Shirt was an embarrassment to school fashion.
At least, this is what I can gather out of watching old television shows.
And, this myth seems to be perpetuated by what I call the “Mommy Nazis”.
A Mommy Nazi is a woman who somehow thinks that men are sperm donors and are incapable of taking part in the care, nurturing and raising of his own children. However, and herein lays the rub, they also bitch and moan over the lack of men who are willing to take care of their children.
Go out at any given time and look at your local churches, community centers, book stores, or daycares. They organize “Mommy’s Day Out”. A day dedicated to hard working moms who are so committed and loving that they forget to take time for themselves.
No one seems interested in a Dad who is involved and works his ass off to raise happy, well-adjusted kids. A dad who puts his blood, sweat and tears into his children.
I am not knocking mothers. I am not saying that there are not committed, loving mommies out there who give their all to their children. I’m married to one.
All Mommies are not Mommy Nazis. And all Mommy Nazis are not Mommies. And, for the record, all Daddies are not involved. But it pisses me off when you look at me like a freak of nature because I like my children.
But I am standing up and saying this:
I am not a buffoon. I am not a freak of nature. I am not someone with the IQ of American Cheese.
I do not scream and cry as my wife walks out the door. I do not dread time alone with my children. I am capable of getting kids off to school, feeding them, clothing them and caring for their general health.
I am an expert at butt sniffing to see if there is a package I need to remove. I visually check diapers for loads. I can tell by the clumping in the front if they are soiled.
I can fix a variety of foods to feed my child. Foods that are not ordered and delivered. I am capable of choosing an outfit for my daughters that does not make them look like a Punky Brewster reject. I am capable of triaging a wound, cleaning a cut, and comforting a crying child.
My idea of child care is not plopping a kid in front of a television set. I am willing to work on art projects, help complete homework and plan slumber parties. I can apply diaper rash medication. I can hold a bottle, heat it up and empty it in its intended receptacle. I am a proponent of breast feeding, not because I am lazy, but because I feel it is the greatest benefit for the child.
I wipe runny noses with my thumb, if a proper Kleenex is not available. I can deliver juice and healthy foods. I can be trusted to pick up child A and drop off child B. I do not require notes reminding me that child A returns home at 4 and child B is in daycare.
I know that the Matrix is not appropriate viewing for an eight year old. I’d rather play with the kids than watch sports. I do not drink on the job. I wouldn’t rather go out with the boys than play Polly Pocket.
I like it that when I fix the sink, there’s a baby sitting on my stomach with her plastic tools proclaiming, “I help daddy fix!” I like having a shadow who parrots me. I like picking up a child so they can see something better. I like answering questions. I like finding the answers to questions I can’t answer.
I pick up and drop off from school. I make sure homework is done. I make sure there is a hot meal on the table when my hard-working wife returns home from work. I like to do the dishes so she can have some valuable one on one time with the kids.
I talk to my children. I know what their favorite colors are. I know their favorite songs, foods and clothes. I can wash those clothes. I can take out the trash as well as I can comb hair.
I am not afraid to take the girls shopping. I am not afraid of bodily fluids. I will clean up bodily spills.
I give out hugs and kisses. I also receive them.
I love my kids more than I love my lawn and my car. I share my interests with them and they, in turn, share theirs.
I am not afraid to cry with my children. Or because of them. I take immense joy in their growth and development.
I am not a freak. I am not cute when I change a diaper. I am not cute when I take the baby for a walk. I am not creepy when I change the baby’s diaper in the back seat of the car.
I am a Dad. This is what I do. I am not trying to steal my wife’s role. I am not trying to make up for lost time.
I am trying to give my girls the best life possible by being involved with their lives. By loving them at every turn. By being there when they fall down and knowing when to pick them up and when to allow them to pick themselves up.
I am a Dad. I am not a part-time parent. It’s what I do.
I will not accept concessions when it comes to my family. I will fight to the end for their happiness, security and well-being. I will attend family films without feeling like I’m giving up my testicles. I will even enjoy the family film. The pumpkin patch. The children’s concert. Not secretly, but outwardly and certainly not begrudgingly.
I’m sorry if it bothers you that my wife and I work as a team. I’m sorry that you think I should be an assistant manager. That you think I should be a bumbling idiot. I’m sorry if you think I should be out mowing the lawn and tinkering in the garage instead of reading “I Love You Forever” or powdering bottoms to avoid chafing.
My wife doesn’t think that. And I don’t think she shouldn’t be able to fix the sink, mow the lawn. She is not weak, fragile or docile. She is not a robot who believes what I tell her to believe. She is capable of taking me down in less than two moves and that doesn’t intimidate me. In fact, she inspires me.
I am not a sperm donor. I am not a moron. I am a dad.
And I’m good at it.
The fact is my oldest daughter already has one asshole dad and I’m not going to give her a second. I will not fix his mistakes, but I certainly will not repeat them. Both of my daughters will know that I care. That I am involved. That I my love for them is unquestioning, unending, uncompromising and non-negotiable for fifty-yard line seats.
So if you don’t want me at your Brownie meeting or your parents’ meeting or your Mommy’s Day Out I suggest you grit your teeth and bear it. That’s my park bench too. And my aisle at Target.
If you are bothered by me picking out dresses and frilly socks for my little girl, I suggest you look around at your own parenting relationship and start judging that rather than judging mine.
So put down your copy of Working Mom and grant me the opportunity to read Parents. Give me my own magazine called “Stay at Home Dad”. Grant me equal status as the nurturer. Quit looking at me funny when I appear at the park at 11 a.m. giggling and playing with my kids. It’s not cute. It’s what I do.
To those dads who can’t or won’t do what I do I am not trying to make you look bad. I’m not a wuss, pussy, pussy-whipped, girly man or wimp because the perfection of my daughter’s pony tail takes precedence over the Kentucky Blue Grass in my front yard and the cleanliness of my mower’s oil or because I know all the words to the Lizzie McGuire theme and each Wiggles track.
I don’t care that you have an SUV. I don’t care if you can kick my ass. And I won’t humiliate my kid on the front lawn in front of the neighbors, or in private for that matter, for any reason. Ever.
And it’s not an act to get “husband points” any more than my wife’s innate ability to balance the budget is an act to get a manicure.
I’m not a freak. I’m not a metro-sexual. I’m not uncool because I’m wearing a sticker my little-girl made me that says “Papaya”. I probably won’t even notice if you think so.
I’m a Dad.
It’s what I do. I’m good at it. I enjoy it.
I’m here. I’m a parent. And that’s apparent.
Get used to it.
Send all your hate mail about this how this missive is unedited and misguided to someone who agrees with you or has time to read it.
Personally, I don’t have time. Matilda and I have ten more chapters in the latest Lemony Snicket book to read together and Gertrude and I have a date to find really intersting leaves, sticks and acorns.
By the way . . . Nice shoes. No. Really. I’m sure you like them.
/rant
There seems to be a disturbing trend with regards to how other people view dads who are, well, dads.
Once upon a time, there was a stereotypical dad. He wore a shirt and tie. He went off to a job in the morning, came home at night and you didn’t bother him while he read the paper and drank his Manhattan. He was an enigma. His sole role was to earn money and mow the grass. Additionally, he was the guy who doled out the discipline.
“Wait until your father gets home.” That’s what you heard. Your father was someone whom you regarded with a mixture of fear and wonder. He was a hero and an authority figure. Periodically he gave you a steely hug or a nod of appreciation, but he certainly wasn’t what you considered a nurturing figure.
He didn’t give baths, or change diapers, or stroke your fevered brow. He never made you dinner, and if he did, he managed to burn the cold cereal. As a breadwinner he was the greatest, but as a parent he was a complete buffoon. The way your mind and body worked stymied him, even if he was the owner of a multi-million dollar company.
He was gruff, but loving. When the time came, he’d give you a life-altering lecture about how the world worked as you sat on your bed crying because you’ve made a mistake or because your Dukes of Hazard T-Shirt was an embarrassment to school fashion.
At least, this is what I can gather out of watching old television shows.
And, this myth seems to be perpetuated by what I call the “Mommy Nazis”.
A Mommy Nazi is a woman who somehow thinks that men are sperm donors and are incapable of taking part in the care, nurturing and raising of his own children. However, and herein lays the rub, they also bitch and moan over the lack of men who are willing to take care of their children.
Go out at any given time and look at your local churches, community centers, book stores, or daycares. They organize “Mommy’s Day Out”. A day dedicated to hard working moms who are so committed and loving that they forget to take time for themselves.
No one seems interested in a Dad who is involved and works his ass off to raise happy, well-adjusted kids. A dad who puts his blood, sweat and tears into his children.
I am not knocking mothers. I am not saying that there are not committed, loving mommies out there who give their all to their children. I’m married to one.
All Mommies are not Mommy Nazis. And all Mommy Nazis are not Mommies. And, for the record, all Daddies are not involved. But it pisses me off when you look at me like a freak of nature because I like my children.
But I am standing up and saying this:
I am not a buffoon. I am not a freak of nature. I am not someone with the IQ of American Cheese.
I do not scream and cry as my wife walks out the door. I do not dread time alone with my children. I am capable of getting kids off to school, feeding them, clothing them and caring for their general health.
I am an expert at butt sniffing to see if there is a package I need to remove. I visually check diapers for loads. I can tell by the clumping in the front if they are soiled.
I can fix a variety of foods to feed my child. Foods that are not ordered and delivered. I am capable of choosing an outfit for my daughters that does not make them look like a Punky Brewster reject. I am capable of triaging a wound, cleaning a cut, and comforting a crying child.
My idea of child care is not plopping a kid in front of a television set. I am willing to work on art projects, help complete homework and plan slumber parties. I can apply diaper rash medication. I can hold a bottle, heat it up and empty it in its intended receptacle. I am a proponent of breast feeding, not because I am lazy, but because I feel it is the greatest benefit for the child.
I wipe runny noses with my thumb, if a proper Kleenex is not available. I can deliver juice and healthy foods. I can be trusted to pick up child A and drop off child B. I do not require notes reminding me that child A returns home at 4 and child B is in daycare.
I know that the Matrix is not appropriate viewing for an eight year old. I’d rather play with the kids than watch sports. I do not drink on the job. I wouldn’t rather go out with the boys than play Polly Pocket.
I like it that when I fix the sink, there’s a baby sitting on my stomach with her plastic tools proclaiming, “I help daddy fix!” I like having a shadow who parrots me. I like picking up a child so they can see something better. I like answering questions. I like finding the answers to questions I can’t answer.
I pick up and drop off from school. I make sure homework is done. I make sure there is a hot meal on the table when my hard-working wife returns home from work. I like to do the dishes so she can have some valuable one on one time with the kids.
I talk to my children. I know what their favorite colors are. I know their favorite songs, foods and clothes. I can wash those clothes. I can take out the trash as well as I can comb hair.
I am not afraid to take the girls shopping. I am not afraid of bodily fluids. I will clean up bodily spills.
I give out hugs and kisses. I also receive them.
I love my kids more than I love my lawn and my car. I share my interests with them and they, in turn, share theirs.
I am not afraid to cry with my children. Or because of them. I take immense joy in their growth and development.
I am not a freak. I am not cute when I change a diaper. I am not cute when I take the baby for a walk. I am not creepy when I change the baby’s diaper in the back seat of the car.
I am a Dad. This is what I do. I am not trying to steal my wife’s role. I am not trying to make up for lost time.
I am trying to give my girls the best life possible by being involved with their lives. By loving them at every turn. By being there when they fall down and knowing when to pick them up and when to allow them to pick themselves up.
I am a Dad. I am not a part-time parent. It’s what I do.
I will not accept concessions when it comes to my family. I will fight to the end for their happiness, security and well-being. I will attend family films without feeling like I’m giving up my testicles. I will even enjoy the family film. The pumpkin patch. The children’s concert. Not secretly, but outwardly and certainly not begrudgingly.
I’m sorry if it bothers you that my wife and I work as a team. I’m sorry that you think I should be an assistant manager. That you think I should be a bumbling idiot. I’m sorry if you think I should be out mowing the lawn and tinkering in the garage instead of reading “I Love You Forever” or powdering bottoms to avoid chafing.
My wife doesn’t think that. And I don’t think she shouldn’t be able to fix the sink, mow the lawn. She is not weak, fragile or docile. She is not a robot who believes what I tell her to believe. She is capable of taking me down in less than two moves and that doesn’t intimidate me. In fact, she inspires me.
I am not a sperm donor. I am not a moron. I am a dad.
And I’m good at it.
The fact is my oldest daughter already has one asshole dad and I’m not going to give her a second. I will not fix his mistakes, but I certainly will not repeat them. Both of my daughters will know that I care. That I am involved. That I my love for them is unquestioning, unending, uncompromising and non-negotiable for fifty-yard line seats.
So if you don’t want me at your Brownie meeting or your parents’ meeting or your Mommy’s Day Out I suggest you grit your teeth and bear it. That’s my park bench too. And my aisle at Target.
If you are bothered by me picking out dresses and frilly socks for my little girl, I suggest you look around at your own parenting relationship and start judging that rather than judging mine.
So put down your copy of Working Mom and grant me the opportunity to read Parents. Give me my own magazine called “Stay at Home Dad”. Grant me equal status as the nurturer. Quit looking at me funny when I appear at the park at 11 a.m. giggling and playing with my kids. It’s not cute. It’s what I do.
To those dads who can’t or won’t do what I do I am not trying to make you look bad. I’m not a wuss, pussy, pussy-whipped, girly man or wimp because the perfection of my daughter’s pony tail takes precedence over the Kentucky Blue Grass in my front yard and the cleanliness of my mower’s oil or because I know all the words to the Lizzie McGuire theme and each Wiggles track.
I don’t care that you have an SUV. I don’t care if you can kick my ass. And I won’t humiliate my kid on the front lawn in front of the neighbors, or in private for that matter, for any reason. Ever.
And it’s not an act to get “husband points” any more than my wife’s innate ability to balance the budget is an act to get a manicure.
I’m not a freak. I’m not a metro-sexual. I’m not uncool because I’m wearing a sticker my little-girl made me that says “Papaya”. I probably won’t even notice if you think so.
I’m a Dad.
It’s what I do. I’m good at it. I enjoy it.
I’m here. I’m a parent. And that’s apparent.
Get used to it.
Send all your hate mail about this how this missive is unedited and misguided to someone who agrees with you or has time to read it.
Personally, I don’t have time. Matilda and I have ten more chapters in the latest Lemony Snicket book to read together and Gertrude and I have a date to find really intersting leaves, sticks and acorns.
By the way . . . Nice shoes. No. Really. I’m sure you like them.
/rant
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
This Will Come as No Surprise . . .
But people really get under my skin. Irritate me to no end.
So, let’s say you do some work for someone and they pay you a lot of money. Let’s say that the person who paid for the work was not happy and he wanted you to come out and look it over again and fix the problems that cropped up after you left.
Would you a) ask what the problems are, b) work with the customer to resolve the issue or c) intimate that somehow it was their fault and they’ve done nothing wrong, despite the fact that you haven’t come out and looked at the problem. Or, how about d) you promise to look at it, never do, and act like it’s the customer’s fault and your customer is stupid.
Apparently, in my case, you would choose “d”. And, in my case, I would just cut you loose and look for someone else to do the work.
But let it be known that I no longer like you. You are bad, bad people.
Neener.
So, let’s say you do some work for someone and they pay you a lot of money. Let’s say that the person who paid for the work was not happy and he wanted you to come out and look it over again and fix the problems that cropped up after you left.
Would you a) ask what the problems are, b) work with the customer to resolve the issue or c) intimate that somehow it was their fault and they’ve done nothing wrong, despite the fact that you haven’t come out and looked at the problem. Or, how about d) you promise to look at it, never do, and act like it’s the customer’s fault and your customer is stupid.
Apparently, in my case, you would choose “d”. And, in my case, I would just cut you loose and look for someone else to do the work.
But let it be known that I no longer like you. You are bad, bad people.
Neener.
Monday, October 13, 2003
Goofy
What a weekend. I spent most of it down with Strep Throat in a fevered and painful reverie in which I communicated with aliens who looked much like Abe Lincoln. They were nice enough to emancipate me from my fever just in time to get back to work today. God love those little green bastards in their stove-pipe hats! When they left I told them to stay away from the theater unless it happened to be a really good revival of a Sondheim musical, like “Assassins”. They agreed, but felt that since they were fever induced hallucinations of mine that, no matter what play it may be, they wouldn’t be able to get tickets being as they had no corporeal form.
The bad news is that I think my stomach has developed sensitivity to anti-biotics. Or, more likely, I have created super germs that are right now developing sentience and will soon exit my body in order to begin to take over the world. If you see a little germ with a sign that says, “Germ Solidarity Now!” run away fast. Seriously.
When I called my doctor, they seemed to be prepared for some sort of paranoid reaction that all patients are expected to have.
“Hello, this is Doctor X’s office. It is highly doubtful that you have SARS. If you are short of breath, are coughing and are running a fever, please consider the more rational explanation that you probably have a cold. If, however, you are convinced that you have this highly contagious disease, please go immediately to a hospital far away from us.”
I told them that I didn’t feel particularly SARSy today. They believed me. I told them that a radical group of germs had taken up residence in my throat and have commenced to build a small civilization. “Please hurry,” I pleaded, “I think they are about to discover fire.”
So, that’s pretty much how my weekend went. Delusions, fever and a feeling of being left out. I had to cancel plans and confine myself to the homestead whilst my family went out and did things. Any time I would move toward the door to even look outside to see what the real world was like; my youngest daughter would block my exit.
“You sick,” she would say to me accusingly. “You stay.”
I just want to look outside.
“You sick! Go to bed!” And she’d wag her little index finger at me accusingly as if I were the epicenter of some sort of biologic contagion and it was my aim to infect the entire neighborhood.
The good news is I was allowed out yesterday. I went for a walk with Mommy and baby. At one point baby said, “I walk in circles!” And she did, until she fell down. I laughed.
Earlier in the day I had gone down in my office/cave to do some (wholly legal) searching for music. I was interrupted quickly by a young child’s voice. “Daddy! Coffee! Daddy! Coffee!”
I had left my coffee cup upstairs. Bad me. So I went and retrieved it.
She was almost repressive in her regime of cuteness. To the point where I told her she had website dedicated to her.
“It’s www.cutebaby.com,” I said.
“Dubby dubby dubby com?”
“Exactly.”
I credit most of my recovery to her cuteness, actually. She was very concerned for my well being and tried to take care of me. She’d come and stroke my fevered brow, leave gifts of coffee beans and acorns in my lap while I slept. At first I thought I had been abducted by aliens and this was a sign. Turned out I was wrong. However, I don’t know where she found these acorns. They were huge. Like the size of a bull elephant’s testicle (not that I’ve seen one). I’m quite frightened. I’m relatively convinced that Gertrude and Matilda believe that there are a group of Totoro living in the tree in our back yard and that by creating a trail of acorns we’ll be able to befriend them. A magical adventure would then ensue.
The baby’s cuteness extended into this morning. We were sitting and eating breakfast when she said, “C’mere and give me a kiss.” How could I refuse? My check was left with a fine film of milk and half chewed Apple Jacks. But, I got a baby kiss and that’s all that matters.
Shortly there after she turned into a tiger and started growling at her cereal. At that point we all left her alone in fear that she may think one of us was Roy.
The bad news is that I think my stomach has developed sensitivity to anti-biotics. Or, more likely, I have created super germs that are right now developing sentience and will soon exit my body in order to begin to take over the world. If you see a little germ with a sign that says, “Germ Solidarity Now!” run away fast. Seriously.
When I called my doctor, they seemed to be prepared for some sort of paranoid reaction that all patients are expected to have.
“Hello, this is Doctor X’s office. It is highly doubtful that you have SARS. If you are short of breath, are coughing and are running a fever, please consider the more rational explanation that you probably have a cold. If, however, you are convinced that you have this highly contagious disease, please go immediately to a hospital far away from us.”
I told them that I didn’t feel particularly SARSy today. They believed me. I told them that a radical group of germs had taken up residence in my throat and have commenced to build a small civilization. “Please hurry,” I pleaded, “I think they are about to discover fire.”
So, that’s pretty much how my weekend went. Delusions, fever and a feeling of being left out. I had to cancel plans and confine myself to the homestead whilst my family went out and did things. Any time I would move toward the door to even look outside to see what the real world was like; my youngest daughter would block my exit.
“You sick,” she would say to me accusingly. “You stay.”
I just want to look outside.
“You sick! Go to bed!” And she’d wag her little index finger at me accusingly as if I were the epicenter of some sort of biologic contagion and it was my aim to infect the entire neighborhood.
The good news is I was allowed out yesterday. I went for a walk with Mommy and baby. At one point baby said, “I walk in circles!” And she did, until she fell down. I laughed.
Earlier in the day I had gone down in my office/cave to do some (wholly legal) searching for music. I was interrupted quickly by a young child’s voice. “Daddy! Coffee! Daddy! Coffee!”
I had left my coffee cup upstairs. Bad me. So I went and retrieved it.
She was almost repressive in her regime of cuteness. To the point where I told her she had website dedicated to her.
“It’s www.cutebaby.com,” I said.
“Dubby dubby dubby com?”
“Exactly.”
I credit most of my recovery to her cuteness, actually. She was very concerned for my well being and tried to take care of me. She’d come and stroke my fevered brow, leave gifts of coffee beans and acorns in my lap while I slept. At first I thought I had been abducted by aliens and this was a sign. Turned out I was wrong. However, I don’t know where she found these acorns. They were huge. Like the size of a bull elephant’s testicle (not that I’ve seen one). I’m quite frightened. I’m relatively convinced that Gertrude and Matilda believe that there are a group of Totoro living in the tree in our back yard and that by creating a trail of acorns we’ll be able to befriend them. A magical adventure would then ensue.
The baby’s cuteness extended into this morning. We were sitting and eating breakfast when she said, “C’mere and give me a kiss.” How could I refuse? My check was left with a fine film of milk and half chewed Apple Jacks. But, I got a baby kiss and that’s all that matters.
Shortly there after she turned into a tiger and started growling at her cereal. At that point we all left her alone in fear that she may think one of us was Roy.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
A Moving Experience
I kept ignoring her pleas that she had a puppy. Every two minutes she would walk up to me and say, “I have a puppy.” I assumed that she was merely playing a game whereby there was an imaginary puppy in our house and Gertrude was its imaginary caretaker. Stranger things have happened.
Turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong.
A puppy, by conventional definition, is a warm-blooded animal with a wet nose, gangly legs and teeth that are used to make wood pockmarked and shaven.
To Gertrude a puppy happens to be a bodily excretion that polite people call a “poopie”.
She did not have a dirty diaper, it turns out. She wanted to make a deposit in our plastic baby potty.
This was a momentous occasion. When your baby suddenly realizes she has control over some of her bodily functions, there is much rejoicing. It means that within a year you will no longer be sedating her on the floor in order to convince her that she needs to have the foul odorous mass in her pants removed and a new sterile paper and plastic catching device attached to her nether regions. You try to explain that if we do not do this that there will be no more dividing her from a simian than her lack of hair. She does not care.
Once she is potty trained you don’t have to worry about changing the diapers. Instead, you end up changing the sheets and airing out her bedroom when she lets the flood gates loose in the middle of the night and she cries in shame. Years of therapy follow and when she eventually becomes an artist you notice that her paintings depict you in a diaper eating a hot dog.
So there she was sitting naked on the potty with Mom watching her cautiously. I was in Matilda’s room changing her sheets and trying to figure out how the hell that stupid little quilty thing that goes between the mattress and the fitted sheets exactly works. Instead of being rectangular it seemed to be more oval or oblong. But that’s another story.
Just as I was becoming successful we hear a loud cry of triumph and joy from the bathroom. “Daddy, come quick and see what Gertrude did!”
Okay, I must stop here and ask a cultural question. Why is it that when we potty train children we are required to inspect their work? As if we don’t trust them that they’ve succeeded? That we have to rate their refuse on a scale of one to ten? “I’m proud of you honey, but next time I think your effluvium could be a lot more impressive . . .”
I came running and found the naked baby standing over the potty with a look of glee and accomplishment. She had, indeed, made a deposit.
We cheered. We jumped up and down and told her how proud of her we were.
And that’s all I remember. Shortly afterwards I passed out from the fumes.
Turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong.
A puppy, by conventional definition, is a warm-blooded animal with a wet nose, gangly legs and teeth that are used to make wood pockmarked and shaven.
To Gertrude a puppy happens to be a bodily excretion that polite people call a “poopie”.
She did not have a dirty diaper, it turns out. She wanted to make a deposit in our plastic baby potty.
This was a momentous occasion. When your baby suddenly realizes she has control over some of her bodily functions, there is much rejoicing. It means that within a year you will no longer be sedating her on the floor in order to convince her that she needs to have the foul odorous mass in her pants removed and a new sterile paper and plastic catching device attached to her nether regions. You try to explain that if we do not do this that there will be no more dividing her from a simian than her lack of hair. She does not care.
Once she is potty trained you don’t have to worry about changing the diapers. Instead, you end up changing the sheets and airing out her bedroom when she lets the flood gates loose in the middle of the night and she cries in shame. Years of therapy follow and when she eventually becomes an artist you notice that her paintings depict you in a diaper eating a hot dog.
So there she was sitting naked on the potty with Mom watching her cautiously. I was in Matilda’s room changing her sheets and trying to figure out how the hell that stupid little quilty thing that goes between the mattress and the fitted sheets exactly works. Instead of being rectangular it seemed to be more oval or oblong. But that’s another story.
Just as I was becoming successful we hear a loud cry of triumph and joy from the bathroom. “Daddy, come quick and see what Gertrude did!”
Okay, I must stop here and ask a cultural question. Why is it that when we potty train children we are required to inspect their work? As if we don’t trust them that they’ve succeeded? That we have to rate their refuse on a scale of one to ten? “I’m proud of you honey, but next time I think your effluvium could be a lot more impressive . . .”
I came running and found the naked baby standing over the potty with a look of glee and accomplishment. She had, indeed, made a deposit.
We cheered. We jumped up and down and told her how proud of her we were.
And that’s all I remember. Shortly afterwards I passed out from the fumes.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Time Isn’t On My Side
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, whatever free time my family had has now been washed away like a smoky memory. We used to come together and work on projects or watch television or even read an odd book or two together.
But that, seemingly, is no more. We have no more time. Time has turned against us.
It all started innocently enough. We left our regular sitter in order to let Grandma take care of the baby during the day. But, she can only do so until 4 p.m. Which, conversely, only gives me seven hours a day to get work done. So the baby is home by four, but grandma hangs around until between 4:30 and 5. Rather than being able to accomplish anything as a family, Grandma needs to be talked to and entertained and have tea made.
So five rolls around and I start making dinner. Then Mom comes home. We eat, do the dishes, bathe the children and suddenly it’s bedtime.
And that’s just a normal day.
On Mondays Mom has a class from six until nine. Every other Monday, Matilda has Brownies. Tuesdays Matilda has a class that I have to drive her to straight from the bus stop. That ends at 5:45, and one of us has to pick her up. Matilda’s class, conversely, starts at exactly the same time that Grandma usually shows up and she also has a class on Tuesday nights. Wednesdays are clear, but Thursdays Matilda will be starting a class directly after school.
Add to that the fact that in my “free” time I’m starting up a business, try to find time to write and also help out on some websites (though I’ve been rather slack on that) and you have the recipe for stomach acid bubbling through my throat as I spit up the remnants of my sanity.
I can’t remember the last time the four of us were together and coherent.
As a result Gertrude and I have been spending a lot of time alone. Usually we spend it waiting outside of strange doors waiting for other people. But we have time to chat. It’s nice.
“We have to pick up Matilda from brownies,” I say.
“I eat them! Num num num num,” she says.
“No, honey. Not that kind of brownie.”
“Not that kind of brownie,” she asks.
“No. These brownies are people.”
“Brownies are people,” she asks, horrified.
Crap. I just made the baby think that brownies are Soylent Green.
So we’re standing there in the school waiting for Brownies to end and Gert is pouring on the cuteness in extra sticky, gooey increments.
I coughed.
“You okay,” she asked.
“I’m fine.” Meanwhile every parent is laughing at the fact that my nearly two-year-old was checking on my health. Admittedly, it’s sweet.
Out of boredom we ran through all of the basic animal sounds. Cow says moo. Dog says arf. That kind of thing.
“What sound does a daddy make,” I ask.
“Damn it!” she answers.
Mental note: Either watch my language or make sure she attributes it to mommy.
I noticed that every time I’m out with one of the girls the mothers in the group always look at me with wonder and amazement. Like I’m a museum freak. Why? Because there’s a Daddy actively participating in the care of his child.
I’ll wait until the collective gasp stops.
Okay. Yes, in 2003, there is still some sick belief that men are incapable of taking care of a family. That some how my wife should come home to Lord of the Flies where the children are standing around naked with war paint on their face debating who they should kill next. Underwear would be stuck to the ceiling and the kids will have survived by eating bugs, dirt or each other. She should find me in the basement curled up in a ball crying and unable to communicate the extent of the chaos that reigned in her twenty minute absence.
Instead she comes home to clean children, a clean house and a nice dinner of pan seared chicken in a garlic and Balsamic vinegar red wine sauce and pasta tossed in fresh roasted garlic, olive oil, herbs and grated parmesan cheese.
I’m not going to get into the fact that all men are not complete morons when it comes to taking care of children. I know many men who don’t freak out over changing a diaper or wiping a nose.
What I will get into is the fact that these Moms seem to be completely freaked out by the way I communicate with my daughter. True, she is only two-years-old. But she does have a very good vocabulary. Example?
“Want pepper,” she asks Mommy.
“No thanks,” says Mommmy.
“How ‘bout this one,” asks Gertrude as she picks up the salt.
Even if she didn’t have the ability to speak this well, I’d still have conversations with her. I did that even when she was an infant. It’s called modeling. And if people can give chimps that benefit of the doubt I think we can at least extend it to children.
My child’s mental acuity may not be to the level of Einstein yet. She may walk a little crooked and have a penchant for looking behind her as she walks head first into a wall. She may only be (nearly) two, but she’s not a fargin’ idiot. Why should I treat her as such?
Besides, most of the idiots I know are full-grown adults.
They’re the ones that scare me. But it's not on the daily schedule today, so I'll put up with it.
But that, seemingly, is no more. We have no more time. Time has turned against us.
It all started innocently enough. We left our regular sitter in order to let Grandma take care of the baby during the day. But, she can only do so until 4 p.m. Which, conversely, only gives me seven hours a day to get work done. So the baby is home by four, but grandma hangs around until between 4:30 and 5. Rather than being able to accomplish anything as a family, Grandma needs to be talked to and entertained and have tea made.
So five rolls around and I start making dinner. Then Mom comes home. We eat, do the dishes, bathe the children and suddenly it’s bedtime.
And that’s just a normal day.
On Mondays Mom has a class from six until nine. Every other Monday, Matilda has Brownies. Tuesdays Matilda has a class that I have to drive her to straight from the bus stop. That ends at 5:45, and one of us has to pick her up. Matilda’s class, conversely, starts at exactly the same time that Grandma usually shows up and she also has a class on Tuesday nights. Wednesdays are clear, but Thursdays Matilda will be starting a class directly after school.
Add to that the fact that in my “free” time I’m starting up a business, try to find time to write and also help out on some websites (though I’ve been rather slack on that) and you have the recipe for stomach acid bubbling through my throat as I spit up the remnants of my sanity.
I can’t remember the last time the four of us were together and coherent.
As a result Gertrude and I have been spending a lot of time alone. Usually we spend it waiting outside of strange doors waiting for other people. But we have time to chat. It’s nice.
“We have to pick up Matilda from brownies,” I say.
“I eat them! Num num num num,” she says.
“No, honey. Not that kind of brownie.”
“Not that kind of brownie,” she asks.
“No. These brownies are people.”
“Brownies are people,” she asks, horrified.
Crap. I just made the baby think that brownies are Soylent Green.
So we’re standing there in the school waiting for Brownies to end and Gert is pouring on the cuteness in extra sticky, gooey increments.
I coughed.
“You okay,” she asked.
“I’m fine.” Meanwhile every parent is laughing at the fact that my nearly two-year-old was checking on my health. Admittedly, it’s sweet.
Out of boredom we ran through all of the basic animal sounds. Cow says moo. Dog says arf. That kind of thing.
“What sound does a daddy make,” I ask.
“Damn it!” she answers.
Mental note: Either watch my language or make sure she attributes it to mommy.
I noticed that every time I’m out with one of the girls the mothers in the group always look at me with wonder and amazement. Like I’m a museum freak. Why? Because there’s a Daddy actively participating in the care of his child.
I’ll wait until the collective gasp stops.
Okay. Yes, in 2003, there is still some sick belief that men are incapable of taking care of a family. That some how my wife should come home to Lord of the Flies where the children are standing around naked with war paint on their face debating who they should kill next. Underwear would be stuck to the ceiling and the kids will have survived by eating bugs, dirt or each other. She should find me in the basement curled up in a ball crying and unable to communicate the extent of the chaos that reigned in her twenty minute absence.
Instead she comes home to clean children, a clean house and a nice dinner of pan seared chicken in a garlic and Balsamic vinegar red wine sauce and pasta tossed in fresh roasted garlic, olive oil, herbs and grated parmesan cheese.
I’m not going to get into the fact that all men are not complete morons when it comes to taking care of children. I know many men who don’t freak out over changing a diaper or wiping a nose.
What I will get into is the fact that these Moms seem to be completely freaked out by the way I communicate with my daughter. True, she is only two-years-old. But she does have a very good vocabulary. Example?
“Want pepper,” she asks Mommy.
“No thanks,” says Mommmy.
“How ‘bout this one,” asks Gertrude as she picks up the salt.
Even if she didn’t have the ability to speak this well, I’d still have conversations with her. I did that even when she was an infant. It’s called modeling. And if people can give chimps that benefit of the doubt I think we can at least extend it to children.
My child’s mental acuity may not be to the level of Einstein yet. She may walk a little crooked and have a penchant for looking behind her as she walks head first into a wall. She may only be (nearly) two, but she’s not a fargin’ idiot. Why should I treat her as such?
Besides, most of the idiots I know are full-grown adults.
They’re the ones that scare me. But it's not on the daily schedule today, so I'll put up with it.
Monday, October 06, 2003
Hey!
I feel craptastic today! Like a badger is doing the hula in my stomach.
So, feel free to talk amongst yourselves. You can even talk about me. I don't mind.
Much.
Move along. Nothing to see here.
Except the contents of my stomach.
So, feel free to talk amongst yourselves. You can even talk about me. I don't mind.
Much.
Move along. Nothing to see here.
Except the contents of my stomach.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Is It Real?
Recently, while I was upstairs installing a Carbon Monoxide detector, my wife was in the basement having a conversation with the eldest daughter. I was unaware of this as I was drilling holes to insert things in walls. Very manly work. Also dusty. I wouldn’t recommend it. That’s why I’m building my own robot.
Anyway, Matilda was talking to her mom about things. Emotional things.
“Gertrude’s closer to daddy than me,” Matilda said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s his real daughter and I’m just his step-daughter.”
Imagine taking off all of your clothes, flying down to the South Pole and jumping naked into a hole drilled into the ice shelf filled with water that is barely above the freezing point.
I imagine that it would feel very much like getting hit by a bus.
That’s how hearing about this conversation felt.
Now, I’m sure it has nothing with how our relationship is actually developing. I’m sure that there isn’t anything that I’ve done wrong, or for that matter, right in the last several months. Perhaps she picked up the idea that she is “just” my step daughter from her bio-dad or someone in his family. We certainly never note that she and I don’t share DNA. There’s no question in my head that she’s my daughter. But she’s afraid that I’m just going to forget about her and choose her sister as my favorite.
Of course, this isn’t true. In fact, the only thing that I do differently is laugh at the baby when she runs around naked and tell Matilda to have some humility when she runs around naked. But that’s an age thing.
The concept of a parent loving you less than your younger sibling is a foreign concept to me. I’ve never had a younger sibling. Instead I have seven older siblings. So instead of worrying about how much my parents loved me, I worried about getting as much food as possible on my first serving because if I didn’t, the food would be gone and I’d have to subsist on eating my brother’s discarded pudding skin.
So this sort of worry is new to me. How do I quell her fears? I have no idea.
If I change my behavior that will seem to be confirming her fears. If I do nothing it’ll be like I didn’t hear her concern.
Is this a natural concern of children of “mixed” families? I’ve been acting as her father since she was two years old. That’s a long time. Sure, we fight sometimes, but I’ve always tried to make sure that she has the life she deserves and have worked as hard as I could to provide her with every opportunity in life. That’s my job. I’m a dad.
We read Harry Potter together, watch movies together, read Lemony Snicket, I make her CDs, we see movies and go to museums. We hatch evil plans together and don’t tell Mom. We run out in the dark of night to go see the mysterious fire works display off in the distance. We look up at the sky at Mars.
It’s not like I lock her in her room and only play with the baby. So what brought on the fear?
My personal thought is her obsession with books about orphans. She loves books about orphans. The Little Princess (though she’s a pseudo-orphan), Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket, Heidi, The Box Car Children, one of the American Girls . . . She’s obsessed with orphans.
Maybe she’s wishing I’ll be an evil step-father because that means that she’ll be revealed to be a rich princess who is the rightful air to the crystal castle in the sky.
Probably not. Most likely it’s just the typical fears of an eight-year-old.
Until I figure it out, I’ll be out buying her a pony.
Anyway, Matilda was talking to her mom about things. Emotional things.
“Gertrude’s closer to daddy than me,” Matilda said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s his real daughter and I’m just his step-daughter.”
Imagine taking off all of your clothes, flying down to the South Pole and jumping naked into a hole drilled into the ice shelf filled with water that is barely above the freezing point.
I imagine that it would feel very much like getting hit by a bus.
That’s how hearing about this conversation felt.
Now, I’m sure it has nothing with how our relationship is actually developing. I’m sure that there isn’t anything that I’ve done wrong, or for that matter, right in the last several months. Perhaps she picked up the idea that she is “just” my step daughter from her bio-dad or someone in his family. We certainly never note that she and I don’t share DNA. There’s no question in my head that she’s my daughter. But she’s afraid that I’m just going to forget about her and choose her sister as my favorite.
Of course, this isn’t true. In fact, the only thing that I do differently is laugh at the baby when she runs around naked and tell Matilda to have some humility when she runs around naked. But that’s an age thing.
The concept of a parent loving you less than your younger sibling is a foreign concept to me. I’ve never had a younger sibling. Instead I have seven older siblings. So instead of worrying about how much my parents loved me, I worried about getting as much food as possible on my first serving because if I didn’t, the food would be gone and I’d have to subsist on eating my brother’s discarded pudding skin.
So this sort of worry is new to me. How do I quell her fears? I have no idea.
If I change my behavior that will seem to be confirming her fears. If I do nothing it’ll be like I didn’t hear her concern.
Is this a natural concern of children of “mixed” families? I’ve been acting as her father since she was two years old. That’s a long time. Sure, we fight sometimes, but I’ve always tried to make sure that she has the life she deserves and have worked as hard as I could to provide her with every opportunity in life. That’s my job. I’m a dad.
We read Harry Potter together, watch movies together, read Lemony Snicket, I make her CDs, we see movies and go to museums. We hatch evil plans together and don’t tell Mom. We run out in the dark of night to go see the mysterious fire works display off in the distance. We look up at the sky at Mars.
It’s not like I lock her in her room and only play with the baby. So what brought on the fear?
My personal thought is her obsession with books about orphans. She loves books about orphans. The Little Princess (though she’s a pseudo-orphan), Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket, Heidi, The Box Car Children, one of the American Girls . . . She’s obsessed with orphans.
Maybe she’s wishing I’ll be an evil step-father because that means that she’ll be revealed to be a rich princess who is the rightful air to the crystal castle in the sky.
Probably not. Most likely it’s just the typical fears of an eight-year-old.
Until I figure it out, I’ll be out buying her a pony.
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