Wasn't bad. I enjoyed the whole lack of consciousness thing.
Recovery? ****in' hurts. When you're looking over your discharge papers and a note says about your procedure, "unusually difficult" you know you're going to be eating water for the next few days.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Saturday, June 12, 2004
We're Back
Rolled in late last night. I'll post something about the trip later.
Good?
Yes.
Fun?
Yes.
Right now I'm sitting here on the couch with melted marshmallow on my shirt (made smores on the grill . . . we weren't willing to give up the whole living in the cabin thing so easily) and the girls are fighting in the next room after a nice afternoon at the neighborhood pool.
Life's back to normal, sadly.
Slicing my gums open Monday. Can't eat or drink anything after midnight tomorrow.
Better start loading up now.
Good?
Yes.
Fun?
Yes.
Right now I'm sitting here on the couch with melted marshmallow on my shirt (made smores on the grill . . . we weren't willing to give up the whole living in the cabin thing so easily) and the girls are fighting in the next room after a nice afternoon at the neighborhood pool.
Life's back to normal, sadly.
Slicing my gums open Monday. Can't eat or drink anything after midnight tomorrow.
Better start loading up now.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Hiatus
This blog will be on hiatus for one to two weeks. My family is on vacation this week and, based on all that implies, we will be too busy having fun to bother writing anything here. I mean, there are funnel cakes out there with my name written all over them. (Not literally, though I suppose it's possible.)
Then, next week, I'm having tooth separated from bone. That will keep me down two to four days.
But I get pain killers.
Interesting . . .
Anyway, be nice to each other and, while I'm away, post your favorite cheese in the comments.
Me? I'm partial to Gruyere.
Then, next week, I'm having tooth separated from bone. That will keep me down two to four days.
But I get pain killers.
Interesting . . .
Anyway, be nice to each other and, while I'm away, post your favorite cheese in the comments.
Me? I'm partial to Gruyere.
Saturday, June 05, 2004
Wasted
The potential here was great, the execution is lame.
Sigh. At least there are three more books in the series.
Behold, Hollywood's idea of Lemony Snicket.
Directed by the man who gave us such luminary films as Casper and City of Angels, that shitty remake of Wings of Desire (best movie ever, by the way).
Why didn't they call me? I could have done this right. Rat bastards.
Sigh. At least there are three more books in the series.
Behold, Hollywood's idea of Lemony Snicket.
Directed by the man who gave us such luminary films as Casper and City of Angels, that shitty remake of Wings of Desire (best movie ever, by the way).
Why didn't they call me? I could have done this right. Rat bastards.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Sleep My Little Friend
First off, Matilda received her report card yesterday. She was off the scale. Better grades than I ever got. Naturally we’re very proud of her. Proud. And cautious. Because, we want to make sure that when she rules the world she doesn’t send us to the cornfield. (Oblique Twilight Zone reference, to anyone who didn’t get it.)
Back to sleep . . .
Gertrude is finally getting her circadian rhythms in sync with the rest of the world. After some rough and angry nights, she’s beginning to make it through the night comfortably in her new big girl bed. Granted, she may wake up with her head where her feet were when she fell asleep, but she’s getting the hang of it. When we were getting dressed this morning she wandered into our room rubbing the sleep out of eyes.
“Hey, you slept all night,” I said.
“Yeah,” she replied blithely, “I know.”
“I know” is now her favorite phrase. Because, in her two-year-old mind, we’re all idiots.
This smoothness wasn’t evident a few nights ago. She went to bed under protest, of course. (As with every night . . . Last night when she told me she didn’t want to go to bed I asked why she responded, “Because I hate it.” Now, if you really know this kid, you’d know that hate isn’t something she’s capable. She loves EVERYTHING. In fact, when she discovered the surprise CD of her favorite song that I put in her CD player yesterday she squealed with excitement, ran across the house and leapt into my arms in gratitude.)
That night she slept well until about 1 a.m. Mom got up, soothed, and got her back to sleep. Rinse, later and repeat every 30 minutes. Finally, mom gave up and dumped the kid in our bed, I guess under the theory that if she didn’t get to sleep, no one did. Gert fell right to sleep.
Half an hour later I awaken with seizing cramps in my back. Not sure why, I look at my sleeping situation. Mom and I are sleeping parallel to one another. Gertrude, however, has made a perpendicular line between the two of us so that we look like an “H”. Except, rather than being equidistant between the two of us, she’s crammed solidly up against my body with her head in my armpit. Meanwhile, the cat is diagonally across from Gert on the other side of my body, down by my feet. In order to sleep, I have to do so in an “S” shape. And it hurt.
At roughly 4 a.m. I squeezed out of bed to use the bathroom. On my way I hear a piercing wail from Gert, with Mom reassuring her that I’ll be right back. When I crawl back in bed, Gert stops crying and snuggles right up against me (but forcing me to sleep on about ¼ of an inch of the bed . . . in fact, it was more hovering than laying). She hugs my arm and falls right to sleep.
And at that point my frustration with the sleeping situation melted away. I was being well-loved by this little goober. Who am I to complain about my lot in life?
Last night, as with any other night, it was just me versus the cat. She won too.
Sigh. I live in a house of all females. I step in puddles of estrogen when I walk down the hall. I am doomed.
Back to sleep . . .
Gertrude is finally getting her circadian rhythms in sync with the rest of the world. After some rough and angry nights, she’s beginning to make it through the night comfortably in her new big girl bed. Granted, she may wake up with her head where her feet were when she fell asleep, but she’s getting the hang of it. When we were getting dressed this morning she wandered into our room rubbing the sleep out of eyes.
“Hey, you slept all night,” I said.
“Yeah,” she replied blithely, “I know.”
“I know” is now her favorite phrase. Because, in her two-year-old mind, we’re all idiots.
This smoothness wasn’t evident a few nights ago. She went to bed under protest, of course. (As with every night . . . Last night when she told me she didn’t want to go to bed I asked why she responded, “Because I hate it.” Now, if you really know this kid, you’d know that hate isn’t something she’s capable. She loves EVERYTHING. In fact, when she discovered the surprise CD of her favorite song that I put in her CD player yesterday she squealed with excitement, ran across the house and leapt into my arms in gratitude.)
That night she slept well until about 1 a.m. Mom got up, soothed, and got her back to sleep. Rinse, later and repeat every 30 minutes. Finally, mom gave up and dumped the kid in our bed, I guess under the theory that if she didn’t get to sleep, no one did. Gert fell right to sleep.
Half an hour later I awaken with seizing cramps in my back. Not sure why, I look at my sleeping situation. Mom and I are sleeping parallel to one another. Gertrude, however, has made a perpendicular line between the two of us so that we look like an “H”. Except, rather than being equidistant between the two of us, she’s crammed solidly up against my body with her head in my armpit. Meanwhile, the cat is diagonally across from Gert on the other side of my body, down by my feet. In order to sleep, I have to do so in an “S” shape. And it hurt.
At roughly 4 a.m. I squeezed out of bed to use the bathroom. On my way I hear a piercing wail from Gert, with Mom reassuring her that I’ll be right back. When I crawl back in bed, Gert stops crying and snuggles right up against me (but forcing me to sleep on about ¼ of an inch of the bed . . . in fact, it was more hovering than laying). She hugs my arm and falls right to sleep.
And at that point my frustration with the sleeping situation melted away. I was being well-loved by this little goober. Who am I to complain about my lot in life?
Last night, as with any other night, it was just me versus the cat. She won too.
Sigh. I live in a house of all females. I step in puddles of estrogen when I walk down the hall. I am doomed.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Every Cloud . . .
We made the switch to the big girl bed. One night next to the crib, next night completely on its own. All is well in Gertrudetown.
Smooth sailing? Well sure, if you count two sleepless nights, one casualty and a completely rearranged room where the kid still sleeps backwards on the bed (Head to foot, my friend . . . it’s the only way.)
We prepared everything for the first night and it was great. She was excited about the whole thing. New bed, she’s a big girl, yay and such. When it was time for good night everything changed. Drastically.
“Daddy, don’t leave.”
Well, I am a strong man and I know what needs to be done. I stood up, looked stern and authoritative and said, “Let me go get a pillow and I’ll lie on the floor next to you.”
With my resolve in tact, I laid on the floor while she fidgeted in her bed.
“Daddy,” she asked.
“Yes honey.”
“You’re my best friend.” When she turns sixteen she’ll get a completely restored 1968 cherry red GTO convertible with a V8. No questions asked.
“Thank you honey. You’re my friend too. Let’s settle down and go to sleep.”
And. Eventually. She went to sleep. I tucked her in, kissed her on the forehead and went out to see what goodies Tivo had prepared for me. Eventually I went to bed.
At 2 a.m. I heard a scream. Or, perhaps it was jut a vocalization, a murmur maybe, but she made a noise. Within exactly 1/32 of a second I was out of bed and heading to her room. I reacted so quickly that I think I actually became semi-permeable and passed through the covers.
Fidget, tuck, kiss, back to bed. I skim sleep. At 4 a.m. and plaintive wail. This time she’s awake. I reassure her, I stroke her worried brow, I kiss her. She says, “Daddy, don’t leave.” This time I knew what to do. I had learned my lesson last time. I stood up, looked authoritative and threw a blanket on the floor because the carpet is uncomfortable.
And there I slept for the next two hours. When I woke up her hand was on my cheek, as if to reassure me. Kiss, tuck, back to bed. She had survived the night. Whew.
Then on Sunday we rearranged her room totally and all hell broke loose. Her bump bumps, a white noise generator that emitted the reassuring sounds of a mother’s heartbeat, had a myocardial infarction and passed away. With no white noise for her, there was no sleep. I knew it. She knew it. Even Donald Rumsfeld knew it.
Matilda was spending the night at Grandma’s, so I grabbed her CD player and put it in Gert’s room. I slapped in a CD I made for Matilda years ago, filled with songs and sweet lullabies. Not only did this work, it electrified Gertrude. She was so grateful and happy for the music that she gushed gratitude.
“My songs help me sleep,” she said. “I love my songs.”
And she went to sleep a little easier, even though I went into the next room instead of lying next to her. I say a little easier . . .
Five minutes into her new set up she yells, “DADDY! DADDY!”
I come running in, expecting to see snakes coming out of the walls and Beelzebub himself standing over her ready to suck out her soul. What????
“This is the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY,” she shrieked excitedly.
“Huh?”
“It’s the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY!” Ah. Yes, it was. “God Only Knows” was playing quietly on her CD player.
“Yes it is sweetie. It’s one of my favorites.” And I began to sing along.
“Shhh,” she said, “No singing. Only listen.” Oops. Sorry.
The song began to wind down, and so did Gertrude. As I began to leave, she looked at me with questioning eyes.
“Daddy,” she asked.
“Yes, sweetie.”
“Why do they sing ‘ba ba ba’?”
“In the bridge? Because dit dit dit would have sounded silly.”
“Yeah,” she said.
What happened next? Well, read here to find out the half truth.
Smooth sailing? Well sure, if you count two sleepless nights, one casualty and a completely rearranged room where the kid still sleeps backwards on the bed (Head to foot, my friend . . . it’s the only way.)
We prepared everything for the first night and it was great. She was excited about the whole thing. New bed, she’s a big girl, yay and such. When it was time for good night everything changed. Drastically.
“Daddy, don’t leave.”
Well, I am a strong man and I know what needs to be done. I stood up, looked stern and authoritative and said, “Let me go get a pillow and I’ll lie on the floor next to you.”
With my resolve in tact, I laid on the floor while she fidgeted in her bed.
“Daddy,” she asked.
“Yes honey.”
“You’re my best friend.” When she turns sixteen she’ll get a completely restored 1968 cherry red GTO convertible with a V8. No questions asked.
“Thank you honey. You’re my friend too. Let’s settle down and go to sleep.”
And. Eventually. She went to sleep. I tucked her in, kissed her on the forehead and went out to see what goodies Tivo had prepared for me. Eventually I went to bed.
At 2 a.m. I heard a scream. Or, perhaps it was jut a vocalization, a murmur maybe, but she made a noise. Within exactly 1/32 of a second I was out of bed and heading to her room. I reacted so quickly that I think I actually became semi-permeable and passed through the covers.
Fidget, tuck, kiss, back to bed. I skim sleep. At 4 a.m. and plaintive wail. This time she’s awake. I reassure her, I stroke her worried brow, I kiss her. She says, “Daddy, don’t leave.” This time I knew what to do. I had learned my lesson last time. I stood up, looked authoritative and threw a blanket on the floor because the carpet is uncomfortable.
And there I slept for the next two hours. When I woke up her hand was on my cheek, as if to reassure me. Kiss, tuck, back to bed. She had survived the night. Whew.
Then on Sunday we rearranged her room totally and all hell broke loose. Her bump bumps, a white noise generator that emitted the reassuring sounds of a mother’s heartbeat, had a myocardial infarction and passed away. With no white noise for her, there was no sleep. I knew it. She knew it. Even Donald Rumsfeld knew it.
Matilda was spending the night at Grandma’s, so I grabbed her CD player and put it in Gert’s room. I slapped in a CD I made for Matilda years ago, filled with songs and sweet lullabies. Not only did this work, it electrified Gertrude. She was so grateful and happy for the music that she gushed gratitude.
“My songs help me sleep,” she said. “I love my songs.”
And she went to sleep a little easier, even though I went into the next room instead of lying next to her. I say a little easier . . .
Five minutes into her new set up she yells, “DADDY! DADDY!”
I come running in, expecting to see snakes coming out of the walls and Beelzebub himself standing over her ready to suck out her soul. What????
“This is the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY,” she shrieked excitedly.
“Huh?”
“It’s the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY!” Ah. Yes, it was. “God Only Knows” was playing quietly on her CD player.
“Yes it is sweetie. It’s one of my favorites.” And I began to sing along.
“Shhh,” she said, “No singing. Only listen.” Oops. Sorry.
The song began to wind down, and so did Gertrude. As I began to leave, she looked at me with questioning eyes.
“Daddy,” she asked.
“Yes, sweetie.”
“Why do they sing ‘ba ba ba’?”
“In the bridge? Because dit dit dit would have sounded silly.”
“Yeah,” she said.
What happened next? Well, read here to find out the half truth.
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