You know what they say. Time is on my side. Time waits for no man. Time is money. Life is short, time is swift. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Time heals all wounds.
Einstein said in his theory of special relativity time was relative. He claimed that time and distance were not absolute. The movement of a clock was dependant upon the movement of the observer. Time could move slower for one observer and faster for another. He was fond of saying that “you spend an hour with a pretty girl and it feels like a minute; spend a minute with your hand on a hot stove and it feels like an hour.”
Though not a perfect analogy, this is appropriate. An hour in a meeting with your boss discussing your performance evaluation feels like it will never end, especially if your performance was subpar. An hour eating a good meal with a good friend who will be leaving and not returning at the end of the meal seems to melt away quickly.
Time, though measured in easy to digest increments, is not a rigid structure in your mind. Though you can reasonably count off a minute in your head, with decent accuracy, that does not mean that your mind distills each minute as the same increment of time. It is relative, in the sense that to you time marks itself off in a different manner than it may for your friends and colleagues. The same horrible hour you spend with your boss, the one that seems to drag on forever, may be gone in an instant for your younger brother and his new lover lying in bed for the first time. It may go even slower for the hospital patient waiting for the results of a biopsy. Though the hour is comprised of the same sixty minutes, the same 3600 seconds, the span of time may differ depending upon who is doing the measure. In the rigid sense, the same amount of time has passed. In the personal sense time has differed.
This sense of time becomes more and more evident as you grow older. Time seems to speed up with each passing year. The time between one Christmas to the next when you are eight seems like millennia. When you’re 25 and struggling to pay the bills, Christmas is suddenly upon you, beckoning and causing dread within you as you wonder how you’re going to float gifts when you’re already over your head. When you’re 85, one Christmas seems to bleed into another.
Time becomes a wholly different dimension as soon as you have children. While you have a sense of time growing up, it is relative only to yourself. You don’t notice your parents getting older, your brother getting taller or your dog slowing down. You look in the mirror every day and see that you look the same, to yourself, as you did yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that. At the end of the school year, you look at your school picture from September and don’t notice that your hair has grown markedly darker, your cheeks thinned out.
But to the parent, each day goes by in a minute. You look at your child in the morning and she is an infant. Helpless, hungry, in need of constant care. By lunchtime she is speaking fluently, walking, and grasping concepts that just a short time ago would have confounded her. At dinner, she is ten; smart, funny and just beginning her journey into selfish discovery. By 7 p.m. she is a teen, wrapped up in her own world. By bedtime she’s married with children of her own.
The child has moved through 24 years of her life in the span of what seems like a day to you. “It seems like only yesterday . . .” you are fond of saying. Just yesterday you were changing her diapers. Just yesterday she was starting kindergarten. Just yesterday she graduated from High School. Time melts away.
But for her, the time between school letting out and dinner is an endless desert. Once her homework is done, there is nothing to do. She’s played with her toys, has no interest in television. She sits and stares at you. You see her as a blur of light, moving from one thing to another. She sees you almost as a statue, moving with the speed of mud.
Do you remember the first time you looked at your mother and thought, “My God, she’s getting old.” It rarely happens. Because in your mind, you have unconsciously decided to make your mother an eternal 32. She will always be young, the way she was when she put the jelly on your toast for you because it tasted better when she did it. She is an unchanging constant in your mind.
You look at your children and you get a daily reminder of how quickly, how mercilessly time marches. Your chubby little baby is suddenly a mischievous little toddler, full of curiosity and questions. How did this happen?
You remember every single moment of her life. From birth until this very moment. Yet, the math doesn’t seem to work. Two years? How could it be? We just brought her home from the hospital yesterday! How can she be going off to an advanced placement test for third graders? Didn’t we just wean her from her bedtime bottle a few nights ago?
Time waits for no one. Not you, not me, not our kids. Time is all about how you use it. Sixty minutes may contain 3600 seconds. But a lifetime contains an unquantifiable measure of time.
How well do you use it?
Discuss
Monday, November 24, 2003
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Dad Eye for the Single Guy
There needs to be a new reality show. Not one that makes people more glamorous than they were before, but one that makes people more real than they were before.
You take one care-free single guy, who stays out all night on Friday, parties all day Saturday and sits and drinks beer and watches football on Sundays until he stumbles into bed late Sunday night. During the week he wears clean, crisp, hip clothing and drives a cool, clean car listening to the latest, coolest tracks.
You pair that guy up with five dads who have kids ranging in age from 3 months to 15 years.
When they first meet the single guy welcomes the dads. He’s looking forward to getting a lesson in responsibility. He feels that he’s been partying too much and spending too much time carousing, watching TV and trolling for skanky girls in smoky bars. He wants to straighten out his life, focus on his career and maybe settle down, find a wife and start a family.
Meet our five dads:
Kyle—Home design and improvement
Dan—Hair and grooming
Mike—Fashion
Jeff—Culture
Jim—Food
The five dads arrive at our single’s apartment at 5:30 a.m. Two hours before they were scheduled to arrive. They don’t knock, but rather just run into his bedroom and jump on his bed until he wakes up.
They introduce themselves and ask him if he’s ready to have his life made over into a dad’s life. Why yes he is!
They throw him into the shower.
“This water is cold” he complains.
Dan laughs at him. “Listen, I have a wife and three kids at home. I’m always the last one to get in the shower. I haven’t taken a warm shower in twelve years.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” our single says, “It’s getting warmer.”
Just then the toilet flushes, and Jim makes a relieved sound.
“Auuuuuuuggggh,” screams our single. “Why’d you have to flush the toilet while I’m in the shower?”
“I really had to go,” answers Jim. “I mean, I really had to go.”
“Can I have a towel,” our single asks.
“We’re out,” answers Dan. “I haven’t had a towel in twelve years either. I have a wife and three kids at home, did I mention that? Yeah, well all the kids are girls. They each use an average of seven towels apiece in their shower.”
“But I’m wet,” the single complains.
“Use some toilet paper.”
In the bedroom Mike, our fashion guy, is going through all of our single’s clothes.
“Are these all new,” he asks.
“Yeah,” says the single. “I actually like to shop. I like to look good.”
“Well,” says Mike, “They all have to go.”
“What?”
“That’s part of your make over. I’ve brought you a new wardrobe that I picked up at Good Will. It’s all at least six years old. What size pants are you? 34? These are 32. You’ll have to squeeze into them.”
“But they’re too small!”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to give them up,” Mike says. “You swear you’ll get your weight down one of these days to fit in them.”
“But there are two pairs of jeans, one has paint on them and the other has holes. And what are those? Three pairs of wrinkled and worn out Dockers? That’s all I get for work clothes?”
“Hey, you make do man. Kids grow like baseball players on steroids. Their clothes take precedence.”
Our single puts on a new shirt, a very outdated Rugby shirt with threadbare elbows. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t mind what he sees.
“Actually, I kind of look like my dad.” Just at that moment Mike wipes his nose on the shirt.
“What the hell did you do that for? There’s Kleenex right there!”
“Sorry. Let it dry.”
Out in the living room of our single’s apartment Kyle has removed a light fixture and it is hanging down by the wires. Jim is pouring a variety of juices on the rug and couch.
“What are you doing” the single screams.
“Well,” Kyle answers, “I was going to change out that fixture there but I don’t have the right tools. And besides, I’m not sure if I’m comfortable working with electric.”
”So you’re just going to leave it there?”
“Jesus,” screams Kyle, “do I look like Bob Frickin’ Villa? Stop being such a bitch!” And with that Kyle walks to the door, leaving the light hanging and the wires sparking. He punches the wall and puts a huge hole in the wall on his way out the door.
“Aren’t you going to fix that,” our single asks. “I have a security deposit that I want back when I move out.”
“Stop riding my ass,” yells Kyle. “Hag!” And with that he slams the door, leaving our single standing with his mouth agape.
“Well,” Jeff says, “Kyle’s going through a divorce. Give him a break. So, you have a nice CD collection and a lot of DVDs too! Wow, Bladerunner, The Searchers. The entire Beatles collection, nice.”
“Thanks. I’ve been collecting them for years.”
“We’ll you’ve done a nice job,” Jeff answers. “Very impressive. Okay, box ‘em up boys.”
”WHAT?”
“ We have a surprise for you! You’ve had a whole new video and CD collection donated. You now have every Raffi and Barney CD ever recorded. And for videos, you have all the Wiggles, Baby Mozart and all the Disney Sing Alongs.”
“But,” our single protests, “half of the videos don’t even have cases!”
“Yeah,” answers Jeff. “That’s always the first thing to go. Check under the couch.”
Dan looks at our single’s hair. “Nice coif.”
“Thanks! I go to a really expensive salon and I spend a lot of time styling it every morning.”
“Nice,” Dan answers. He then takes a wet cloth and messes up our single’s hair, making it look like he just got out of bed.
“Okay,” yells Jim, “time for shopping!”
So everyone loads into a minivan.
“Hang on,” Jim says. “Let me move that car seat. You can put the soccer ball in the back. What the hell is that? Is it moving? Okay, just step over it.”
Jamming to the feel-good songs of the Wiggles they head out on the open road, a bunch of guys. Happy guys. Bonding together. A good old fashioned road trip.
Three minutes later they’re pulling into a Walgreen’s parking lot.
“Wait,” our single says. “I thought we were going shopping. Don’t I get to pick out clothes and get a hair cut and new furniture?”
The four remaining dads laugh.
“Yes, we are shopping,” Dan laughs. “But not for that stuff! Our first stop is Walgreen’s. You need to pick up a package of panty liners for my wife.”
“Oh God help me.”
“Go on. Make sure you get the right ones. Something about absorbent thin wings or something.”
Our single, crying, goes into the store. 30 minutes later, he walks out still crying.
“That was terrible.”
“You get used to it,” Dan says.
“No you don’t,” Jim answers. “Okay, let’s get to the supermarket.”
“So am I going to learn how to make Foie Gras?”
All the dads laugh.
They emerge from the supermarket loaded down with groceries.
“Did we actually get anything that I want to eat,” the single guy asks.
“Well, let’s see, you have fruit snacks, Nilla Wafers, waffles, a variety of oatmeals, seven gallons of apple juice and Flintstone’s vitamins. You should be fine.”
Upon arriving back at our single’s apartment he is shocked to see what seems like a million people in his living room. Kids swinging from the chandeliers, one is throwing a ball against the window and there’s one on top of the refrigerator.
“What the hell is this,” our single asks.
“Our families,” Jeff answers.
Suddenly a thirteen-year-old girl walks up to the single and says, “I hate you!” She bursts into tears and runs into his bedroom, locking the door.
“What the hell just happened? What is that smell?”
“Oh,” answers Jeff’s wife, “That’s junior. He just filled his diaper. Or he may just have gas. You might want to do the dip test.”
“The what?”
“The dip test. That’s where you stick your fingers in the diaper to see if it’s messy.”
“There’s no way in hell . . .”
“Okay, just pick him up and smell his butt.”
“Well,” says Dan, “I think this was a success!”
“Me too,” says Jim.
“But my apartment is a mess, I look like hell, the carpet is stained, everything smells funny and there’s nothing here for an adult to eat,” complains the single.
“Like I said, a success,” answers Dan.
“Well, let’s go,” says Mike. And with that all the wives pair up with their respective husband and start to leave.
“Where are you going,” asks the single. “You’re forgetting your kids.”
“No we’re not,” answers Mike. “Check the contract you signed. You’re keeping them overnight. We’re all going to stay at a luxury hotel tonight and have a fancy dinner. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve spent an evening alone with our wives?”
“But . . .”
“See you tomorrow morning!”
Breaking down into tears, our single watches the door close as he is enveloped by a gaggle of children asking him for something.
“I hate you,” screams the thirteen-year-old girl from the bedroom.
Discuss Announcing The Triuphant Return of Comments!
You take one care-free single guy, who stays out all night on Friday, parties all day Saturday and sits and drinks beer and watches football on Sundays until he stumbles into bed late Sunday night. During the week he wears clean, crisp, hip clothing and drives a cool, clean car listening to the latest, coolest tracks.
You pair that guy up with five dads who have kids ranging in age from 3 months to 15 years.
When they first meet the single guy welcomes the dads. He’s looking forward to getting a lesson in responsibility. He feels that he’s been partying too much and spending too much time carousing, watching TV and trolling for skanky girls in smoky bars. He wants to straighten out his life, focus on his career and maybe settle down, find a wife and start a family.
Meet our five dads:
Kyle—Home design and improvement
Dan—Hair and grooming
Mike—Fashion
Jeff—Culture
Jim—Food
The five dads arrive at our single’s apartment at 5:30 a.m. Two hours before they were scheduled to arrive. They don’t knock, but rather just run into his bedroom and jump on his bed until he wakes up.
They introduce themselves and ask him if he’s ready to have his life made over into a dad’s life. Why yes he is!
They throw him into the shower.
“This water is cold” he complains.
Dan laughs at him. “Listen, I have a wife and three kids at home. I’m always the last one to get in the shower. I haven’t taken a warm shower in twelve years.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” our single says, “It’s getting warmer.”
Just then the toilet flushes, and Jim makes a relieved sound.
“Auuuuuuuggggh,” screams our single. “Why’d you have to flush the toilet while I’m in the shower?”
“I really had to go,” answers Jim. “I mean, I really had to go.”
“Can I have a towel,” our single asks.
“We’re out,” answers Dan. “I haven’t had a towel in twelve years either. I have a wife and three kids at home, did I mention that? Yeah, well all the kids are girls. They each use an average of seven towels apiece in their shower.”
“But I’m wet,” the single complains.
“Use some toilet paper.”
In the bedroom Mike, our fashion guy, is going through all of our single’s clothes.
“Are these all new,” he asks.
“Yeah,” says the single. “I actually like to shop. I like to look good.”
“Well,” says Mike, “They all have to go.”
“What?”
“That’s part of your make over. I’ve brought you a new wardrobe that I picked up at Good Will. It’s all at least six years old. What size pants are you? 34? These are 32. You’ll have to squeeze into them.”
“But they’re too small!”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to give them up,” Mike says. “You swear you’ll get your weight down one of these days to fit in them.”
“But there are two pairs of jeans, one has paint on them and the other has holes. And what are those? Three pairs of wrinkled and worn out Dockers? That’s all I get for work clothes?”
“Hey, you make do man. Kids grow like baseball players on steroids. Their clothes take precedence.”
Our single puts on a new shirt, a very outdated Rugby shirt with threadbare elbows. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t mind what he sees.
“Actually, I kind of look like my dad.” Just at that moment Mike wipes his nose on the shirt.
“What the hell did you do that for? There’s Kleenex right there!”
“Sorry. Let it dry.”
Out in the living room of our single’s apartment Kyle has removed a light fixture and it is hanging down by the wires. Jim is pouring a variety of juices on the rug and couch.
“What are you doing” the single screams.
“Well,” Kyle answers, “I was going to change out that fixture there but I don’t have the right tools. And besides, I’m not sure if I’m comfortable working with electric.”
”So you’re just going to leave it there?”
“Jesus,” screams Kyle, “do I look like Bob Frickin’ Villa? Stop being such a bitch!” And with that Kyle walks to the door, leaving the light hanging and the wires sparking. He punches the wall and puts a huge hole in the wall on his way out the door.
“Aren’t you going to fix that,” our single asks. “I have a security deposit that I want back when I move out.”
“Stop riding my ass,” yells Kyle. “Hag!” And with that he slams the door, leaving our single standing with his mouth agape.
“Well,” Jeff says, “Kyle’s going through a divorce. Give him a break. So, you have a nice CD collection and a lot of DVDs too! Wow, Bladerunner, The Searchers. The entire Beatles collection, nice.”
“Thanks. I’ve been collecting them for years.”
“We’ll you’ve done a nice job,” Jeff answers. “Very impressive. Okay, box ‘em up boys.”
”WHAT?”
“ We have a surprise for you! You’ve had a whole new video and CD collection donated. You now have every Raffi and Barney CD ever recorded. And for videos, you have all the Wiggles, Baby Mozart and all the Disney Sing Alongs.”
“But,” our single protests, “half of the videos don’t even have cases!”
“Yeah,” answers Jeff. “That’s always the first thing to go. Check under the couch.”
Dan looks at our single’s hair. “Nice coif.”
“Thanks! I go to a really expensive salon and I spend a lot of time styling it every morning.”
“Nice,” Dan answers. He then takes a wet cloth and messes up our single’s hair, making it look like he just got out of bed.
“Okay,” yells Jim, “time for shopping!”
So everyone loads into a minivan.
“Hang on,” Jim says. “Let me move that car seat. You can put the soccer ball in the back. What the hell is that? Is it moving? Okay, just step over it.”
Jamming to the feel-good songs of the Wiggles they head out on the open road, a bunch of guys. Happy guys. Bonding together. A good old fashioned road trip.
Three minutes later they’re pulling into a Walgreen’s parking lot.
“Wait,” our single says. “I thought we were going shopping. Don’t I get to pick out clothes and get a hair cut and new furniture?”
The four remaining dads laugh.
“Yes, we are shopping,” Dan laughs. “But not for that stuff! Our first stop is Walgreen’s. You need to pick up a package of panty liners for my wife.”
“Oh God help me.”
“Go on. Make sure you get the right ones. Something about absorbent thin wings or something.”
Our single, crying, goes into the store. 30 minutes later, he walks out still crying.
“That was terrible.”
“You get used to it,” Dan says.
“No you don’t,” Jim answers. “Okay, let’s get to the supermarket.”
“So am I going to learn how to make Foie Gras?”
All the dads laugh.
They emerge from the supermarket loaded down with groceries.
“Did we actually get anything that I want to eat,” the single guy asks.
“Well, let’s see, you have fruit snacks, Nilla Wafers, waffles, a variety of oatmeals, seven gallons of apple juice and Flintstone’s vitamins. You should be fine.”
Upon arriving back at our single’s apartment he is shocked to see what seems like a million people in his living room. Kids swinging from the chandeliers, one is throwing a ball against the window and there’s one on top of the refrigerator.
“What the hell is this,” our single asks.
“Our families,” Jeff answers.
Suddenly a thirteen-year-old girl walks up to the single and says, “I hate you!” She bursts into tears and runs into his bedroom, locking the door.
“What the hell just happened? What is that smell?”
“Oh,” answers Jeff’s wife, “That’s junior. He just filled his diaper. Or he may just have gas. You might want to do the dip test.”
“The what?”
“The dip test. That’s where you stick your fingers in the diaper to see if it’s messy.”
“There’s no way in hell . . .”
“Okay, just pick him up and smell his butt.”
“Well,” says Dan, “I think this was a success!”
“Me too,” says Jim.
“But my apartment is a mess, I look like hell, the carpet is stained, everything smells funny and there’s nothing here for an adult to eat,” complains the single.
“Like I said, a success,” answers Dan.
“Well, let’s go,” says Mike. And with that all the wives pair up with their respective husband and start to leave.
“Where are you going,” asks the single. “You’re forgetting your kids.”
“No we’re not,” answers Mike. “Check the contract you signed. You’re keeping them overnight. We’re all going to stay at a luxury hotel tonight and have a fancy dinner. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve spent an evening alone with our wives?”
“But . . .”
“See you tomorrow morning!”
Breaking down into tears, our single watches the door close as he is enveloped by a gaggle of children asking him for something.
“I hate you,” screams the thirteen-year-old girl from the bedroom.
Discuss Announcing The Triuphant Return of Comments!
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Happy Birthday!
So, it was roughly twenty some-odd years ago that two people biologically conspired to create one perfect being. That being is my lovely wife.
Happy Birthday lovely wife!
Thanks for putting up with me.
And not hitting me too hard.
Happy Birthday lovely wife!
Thanks for putting up with me.
And not hitting me too hard.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Song of the Day
"Thank You Jack White (For the Fiber-Optic Jesus That You Gave Me) by the Flaming Lips. I picked up two of their EPs today and, they are fantastic. For some reason they managed to bump out the Beatles' Let it Be: Naked. Don't know why.
But this song is brilliant.
I picked up some DVD that came out today. What was the name of that movie again? Something about Twins? Twos? Tower Records? I don't know. Some Fanboy movie.
But this song is brilliant.
I picked up some DVD that came out today. What was the name of that movie again? Something about Twins? Twos? Tower Records? I don't know. Some Fanboy movie.
Family Physics
I don't have a lot of time today, so I've decided to post something I wrote earlier this year. I recently rediscovered it and have found out that it is something I'm rather proud of. All hail my happiness, or something.
I've change some names to protect the seemingly innocent (i.e. the Sci Fi author who probably doesn't want me talking about him on this crappy blog). Here it is:
Yesterday, while being chided for my skills with the alphabet by a successful Sci Fi author, I realized that my life is merely a series of illustrations of physics theories.
Let me explain. I complimented this author's book and told him that I’d place it on my shelf somewhere between John Varley and Richard Feynman. He appreciated the compliment, but wondered how exactly I was able to alphabetize his last name, which begins with "D", between Feynman and Varley.
Very easily. I have kids. We threw out the alphabet years ago and replaced it with Chaos Theory. Chaos Theory is where everything has a place and that place happens to be wherever it fits. For example, you have seven thousand toys strewn about the room and three plastic bins in pretty primary colors in which to place them. How do you get those seven thousand toys into those containers? Answer: You don’t. It is impossible. Nature has taught us that toys grow in volume from the time they leave the floor to the time they are placed within the bin. A bin that should hold, say, three cubic feet of toys that are strewn on the floor can, in reality, only hold two toys. How do you fix this? Quite simple. Put the smallest toys in the bin and shove the rest under the couch, table, rug, neighbor’s yard, etc.
The same thing has happened with our bookshelves. Where there once was an order, there is now chaos. It only takes the baby clearing the shelf one time to realize that you have no desire to replace all of your Vonnegut books in the order of publication. It’s no fun when you just have to do it every few days.
Chaos Theory leads to Entropy. Which, in parental terms, means that you say, “Aw screw it. I could organize this crap, but the kids will just do it again tomorrow.” You give in to the disorder and reorganize your life around it. I now walk through my house as if it were a minefield. Careful. Don’t step on that doll! Watch out for the Lincoln Log!
The second theory is String Theory. This theory states that any given toy’s interesting qualities increase exponentially when string is tied around it. A simple block becomes a toy that demonstrates the scientific qualities of centripetal forces. And a sailing missile of death. Kids are drawn to string (and tape for that matter). How many times have I walked into the house to find Barbie bound like Laura Palmer? Someday I fully expect to see poor Barbie in the bathtub wrapped in plastic. As a good parent, you ignore this because you secretly fear that your child is acting on sociopathic behavior. Better to pretend that it doesn’t exist.
The Negative Charge is related to Chaos Theory. Any given room in the house emits a positive charge. Children emit a negative charge. As they pass through a room, all objects are attracted to the child, but the force of attraction diminishes as the child moves from the center of the room to the edge. Therefore, the Theory of Negative Charge states that all objects in a room that is, or was, occupied by a child will fall to the ground as the child leaves.
Ohm’s Law states that when a parent sees the mess left by the Theory of the Negative Charge he or she will say “ohm-ygod.”
Of course, one of the basic laws of physics states, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion”. This applies to parenting as well. Have you ever seen a one-year-old? However, the inertia changes conversely when you tell the child it is time to go somewhere. At that point, “an object at rest tends to stay at rest.”
Now, at the end of the day we have the Grand Unification Theory. This theory states that a mother just wants her family to be able to enjoy dinner together as, well, a family. However, with opposite forces pulling each family member in opposite directions, the theory turns out to be bogus. For example, child #1 just wants to watch TV while she eats. Child #2 simply wants to spread her food on the table. Dad wants to sit quietly and read the paper (damn it!). But mom, undeterred, acts under the rules of the Theory of Everything which states that one must answer her questions with every possible detail, lest you wish to discover how electrons can travel backwards in time.
Illustration: “Honey, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? What did you do?”
“Work. Not much exciting stuff.”
“What did you work on?”
“What I always work on.”
“Maybe the kids will like to hear about it.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Can I please just read the paper?”
“NO. I just wanted to know about your day! Is that so much to ask?”
Mom then illustrates the theory of Fluid Dynamics as she runs from the table crying.
Finally, we deal with the most important familial physics concepts. The theories of General Relativity and Special Relativity. General Relativity states that your children are undeniably yours. They look like you. They act like you. The administrators of the school recognize you as your child’s parent. When she excels at school, she is under the influence of General Relativity. When she scores the winning goal at the soccer game she is under the influence of General Relativity.
However, sometimes outside forces act upon the family nuclear unit and cause odd reactions, which result in Special Relativity.
Example: you go to pick up your daughter at school and you see her walking down the hallway with her teacher. Your daughter’s clothes are soaking wet. You can hear the soft squish of water expelling itself from the foam insoles of her tennis shoes as she steps down. Her wet hair is wrapped around her head in a circular swirl. The teacher looks angry.
When the teacher says, “I just found your daughter with her head stuck down a flushing toilet because she was curious to see where the water went” the Theory of Special Relativity states that you must respond:
“I’ve never seen that child before in my life.”
I've change some names to protect the seemingly innocent (i.e. the Sci Fi author who probably doesn't want me talking about him on this crappy blog). Here it is:
Yesterday, while being chided for my skills with the alphabet by a successful Sci Fi author, I realized that my life is merely a series of illustrations of physics theories.
Let me explain. I complimented this author's book and told him that I’d place it on my shelf somewhere between John Varley and Richard Feynman. He appreciated the compliment, but wondered how exactly I was able to alphabetize his last name, which begins with "D", between Feynman and Varley.
Very easily. I have kids. We threw out the alphabet years ago and replaced it with Chaos Theory. Chaos Theory is where everything has a place and that place happens to be wherever it fits. For example, you have seven thousand toys strewn about the room and three plastic bins in pretty primary colors in which to place them. How do you get those seven thousand toys into those containers? Answer: You don’t. It is impossible. Nature has taught us that toys grow in volume from the time they leave the floor to the time they are placed within the bin. A bin that should hold, say, three cubic feet of toys that are strewn on the floor can, in reality, only hold two toys. How do you fix this? Quite simple. Put the smallest toys in the bin and shove the rest under the couch, table, rug, neighbor’s yard, etc.
The same thing has happened with our bookshelves. Where there once was an order, there is now chaos. It only takes the baby clearing the shelf one time to realize that you have no desire to replace all of your Vonnegut books in the order of publication. It’s no fun when you just have to do it every few days.
Chaos Theory leads to Entropy. Which, in parental terms, means that you say, “Aw screw it. I could organize this crap, but the kids will just do it again tomorrow.” You give in to the disorder and reorganize your life around it. I now walk through my house as if it were a minefield. Careful. Don’t step on that doll! Watch out for the Lincoln Log!
The second theory is String Theory. This theory states that any given toy’s interesting qualities increase exponentially when string is tied around it. A simple block becomes a toy that demonstrates the scientific qualities of centripetal forces. And a sailing missile of death. Kids are drawn to string (and tape for that matter). How many times have I walked into the house to find Barbie bound like Laura Palmer? Someday I fully expect to see poor Barbie in the bathtub wrapped in plastic. As a good parent, you ignore this because you secretly fear that your child is acting on sociopathic behavior. Better to pretend that it doesn’t exist.
The Negative Charge is related to Chaos Theory. Any given room in the house emits a positive charge. Children emit a negative charge. As they pass through a room, all objects are attracted to the child, but the force of attraction diminishes as the child moves from the center of the room to the edge. Therefore, the Theory of Negative Charge states that all objects in a room that is, or was, occupied by a child will fall to the ground as the child leaves.
Ohm’s Law states that when a parent sees the mess left by the Theory of the Negative Charge he or she will say “ohm-ygod.”
Of course, one of the basic laws of physics states, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion”. This applies to parenting as well. Have you ever seen a one-year-old? However, the inertia changes conversely when you tell the child it is time to go somewhere. At that point, “an object at rest tends to stay at rest.”
Now, at the end of the day we have the Grand Unification Theory. This theory states that a mother just wants her family to be able to enjoy dinner together as, well, a family. However, with opposite forces pulling each family member in opposite directions, the theory turns out to be bogus. For example, child #1 just wants to watch TV while she eats. Child #2 simply wants to spread her food on the table. Dad wants to sit quietly and read the paper (damn it!). But mom, undeterred, acts under the rules of the Theory of Everything which states that one must answer her questions with every possible detail, lest you wish to discover how electrons can travel backwards in time.
Illustration: “Honey, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? What did you do?”
“Work. Not much exciting stuff.”
“What did you work on?”
“What I always work on.”
“Maybe the kids will like to hear about it.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Can I please just read the paper?”
“NO. I just wanted to know about your day! Is that so much to ask?”
Mom then illustrates the theory of Fluid Dynamics as she runs from the table crying.
Finally, we deal with the most important familial physics concepts. The theories of General Relativity and Special Relativity. General Relativity states that your children are undeniably yours. They look like you. They act like you. The administrators of the school recognize you as your child’s parent. When she excels at school, she is under the influence of General Relativity. When she scores the winning goal at the soccer game she is under the influence of General Relativity.
However, sometimes outside forces act upon the family nuclear unit and cause odd reactions, which result in Special Relativity.
Example: you go to pick up your daughter at school and you see her walking down the hallway with her teacher. Your daughter’s clothes are soaking wet. You can hear the soft squish of water expelling itself from the foam insoles of her tennis shoes as she steps down. Her wet hair is wrapped around her head in a circular swirl. The teacher looks angry.
When the teacher says, “I just found your daughter with her head stuck down a flushing toilet because she was curious to see where the water went” the Theory of Special Relativity states that you must respond:
“I’ve never seen that child before in my life.”
Monday, November 17, 2003
We All Have Our Limits
Saturday morning we were preparing to go out to the mall to do mall things. We had to tear Matilda away from the computer and Gertrude away from her Wiggles guitar. Both objected to the change in momentum. Matilda walked off to her room to sullenly put on her shoes.
Gertrude, however, put up a protest about the Wiggles guitar.
“MY guitar.”
“I know honey,” mommy said quietly. “But we can’t bring it everywhere we go.”
“MINE!” At this point she presses the button that plays, at sound levels higher than the last concert I went to, “Dance the Oobey Doo With Dorothy The Dinosaur.”
“Okay, Mommy’s turning off the guitar and putting it away.”
“Nooooooo!”
“Gertrude, we’re putting this away. Now. Mommy has her limits.”
“Mommy has limits?”
Suppressing a laugh mommy responds, “Yes sweetie. I have limits.”
“I see them?”
“Keep pressing the button and you will.”
The idea that mommy has limits, whatever those things may be, intrigued Gertrude. She wanted to see the limits. Touch them. Feel them. Take them apart and examine them. But mommy would not yield.
Instead, we loaded in the car and went off to the mall. We stopped off at a store and Gertrude proudly announced, “Mommy has limits!”
We went to the T-Mobile stores to look at cases for my communications device. The sales girl asked if we needed help, to which Gertrude explained, “Mommy has limits!” When we were looking at the puppies in their cages, Gertrude told the Golden Retriever, Beagle, Malamute, Husky and Bischon Frise that “Mommy has limits!”
Matilda stopped by her favorite store that houses gaudy home decorations for girls, products that range from pink lamps covered in fur and strange dangly things that protect your room, all in pink, of course. Matilda asked for a few things. But Gertrude set her straight. “Mommy has limits.”
So we went home. Later that day we had “Family Fun Night” in which we watched the surprisingly groovy family movie “Holes” (which contained no less than two Eels songs). We didn’t expect Gert to pay attention, since she’s only two and the movie was for Matilda. Yet, she sat there throughout the whole movie, rapt with attention. It was amazing. I was proud. Though, to my horror, as soon as the credits rolled Gertrude stood up and said, “Okay. Turn off TV.”
“No honey, we watch the credits.”
“No. Off TV!” She was adamant, but I wouldn’t budge.
Matilda saved the day by starting to sing along with the ending credits song. It went something like, “Diggin up up holes (dig it), diggin’ up up holes (dig it).” Suddenly, Gertrude stops. And she starts singing along in her closest approximation of a bass voice. “Diggin’ up up howes. Diggin’ up up howes.” She sang herself to sleep Saturday, by digging up up holes. I tried to get her to dig up up weeds in the backyard on Sunday, but to no avail. She saw through my ruse.
Instead, we had to make a trek back to the mall. To appease Gert, who demanded copious amounts of food after her nap (she routinely eats four breakfasts in the morning, one of which is mine) I gave her a package of Dragon Tales fruit snacks. Dragon Tales fruit snacks are purported fruit that has been melted into a waxy substance and flavored to taste like All Fruit. They take that muck and put it into molds of licensed characters. The results of which look something like what would happen if you took a Dragon and dropped it off the Empire State Building. (I’ve watched the show. After five minutes, I have an urge to do exactly that to each and every dragon. Especially the freakish genetic mutation with two heads and the IQ of a vegetable.)
It was getting to be about that time, so we were discussing dinner. None of us really had any deep desires for any specific food, so the menu was up for grabs.
“Gertrude, what would you like for dinner?”
“No want dinner. I have dragons in my tummy.”
“What if we made pizza?”
“I have dragons in my tummy.”
That settled it. She didn’t care. Her meal of waxy fantasy animals had sated her appetite. Clearly she didn’t need to eat. After all, having a group of dragons in your tummy must be quite filling.
So Mom and I decided and cooked dinner. We were making her a plate, but she was still insisting that the dragons in her tummy were quite happy and didn’t need company.
Then I started eating a yummy, golden-brown, fried concoction.
“Wuzzat?”
“It’s a hushpuppy.”
“I want to eat a puppy!”
“What about the dragons?”
“I want puppies in my tummy!”
We better not let the ASPCA find out about this. I hear they have their limits.
Gertrude, however, put up a protest about the Wiggles guitar.
“MY guitar.”
“I know honey,” mommy said quietly. “But we can’t bring it everywhere we go.”
“MINE!” At this point she presses the button that plays, at sound levels higher than the last concert I went to, “Dance the Oobey Doo With Dorothy The Dinosaur.”
“Okay, Mommy’s turning off the guitar and putting it away.”
“Nooooooo!”
“Gertrude, we’re putting this away. Now. Mommy has her limits.”
“Mommy has limits?”
Suppressing a laugh mommy responds, “Yes sweetie. I have limits.”
“I see them?”
“Keep pressing the button and you will.”
The idea that mommy has limits, whatever those things may be, intrigued Gertrude. She wanted to see the limits. Touch them. Feel them. Take them apart and examine them. But mommy would not yield.
Instead, we loaded in the car and went off to the mall. We stopped off at a store and Gertrude proudly announced, “Mommy has limits!”
We went to the T-Mobile stores to look at cases for my communications device. The sales girl asked if we needed help, to which Gertrude explained, “Mommy has limits!” When we were looking at the puppies in their cages, Gertrude told the Golden Retriever, Beagle, Malamute, Husky and Bischon Frise that “Mommy has limits!”
Matilda stopped by her favorite store that houses gaudy home decorations for girls, products that range from pink lamps covered in fur and strange dangly things that protect your room, all in pink, of course. Matilda asked for a few things. But Gertrude set her straight. “Mommy has limits.”
So we went home. Later that day we had “Family Fun Night” in which we watched the surprisingly groovy family movie “Holes” (which contained no less than two Eels songs). We didn’t expect Gert to pay attention, since she’s only two and the movie was for Matilda. Yet, she sat there throughout the whole movie, rapt with attention. It was amazing. I was proud. Though, to my horror, as soon as the credits rolled Gertrude stood up and said, “Okay. Turn off TV.”
“No honey, we watch the credits.”
“No. Off TV!” She was adamant, but I wouldn’t budge.
Matilda saved the day by starting to sing along with the ending credits song. It went something like, “Diggin up up holes (dig it), diggin’ up up holes (dig it).” Suddenly, Gertrude stops. And she starts singing along in her closest approximation of a bass voice. “Diggin’ up up howes. Diggin’ up up howes.” She sang herself to sleep Saturday, by digging up up holes. I tried to get her to dig up up weeds in the backyard on Sunday, but to no avail. She saw through my ruse.
Instead, we had to make a trek back to the mall. To appease Gert, who demanded copious amounts of food after her nap (she routinely eats four breakfasts in the morning, one of which is mine) I gave her a package of Dragon Tales fruit snacks. Dragon Tales fruit snacks are purported fruit that has been melted into a waxy substance and flavored to taste like All Fruit. They take that muck and put it into molds of licensed characters. The results of which look something like what would happen if you took a Dragon and dropped it off the Empire State Building. (I’ve watched the show. After five minutes, I have an urge to do exactly that to each and every dragon. Especially the freakish genetic mutation with two heads and the IQ of a vegetable.)
It was getting to be about that time, so we were discussing dinner. None of us really had any deep desires for any specific food, so the menu was up for grabs.
“Gertrude, what would you like for dinner?”
“No want dinner. I have dragons in my tummy.”
“What if we made pizza?”
“I have dragons in my tummy.”
That settled it. She didn’t care. Her meal of waxy fantasy animals had sated her appetite. Clearly she didn’t need to eat. After all, having a group of dragons in your tummy must be quite filling.
So Mom and I decided and cooked dinner. We were making her a plate, but she was still insisting that the dragons in her tummy were quite happy and didn’t need company.
Then I started eating a yummy, golden-brown, fried concoction.
“Wuzzat?”
“It’s a hushpuppy.”
“I want to eat a puppy!”
“What about the dragons?”
“I want puppies in my tummy!”
We better not let the ASPCA find out about this. I hear they have their limits.
Friday, November 14, 2003
I God Da Pwesents!
Meemee brought the baby home early. Grumpa had been up since 2 a.m. and he needed to get home to sleep, so the birthday activities would start earlier than planned.
As soon as she walked through the door, she started asking about the “pwesents”. She wanted them. Now. But mommy wouldn’t be home for another thirty minutes and I had to go pick up Matilda from an after school event.
We made dinner, picked up the older sister and keep Meemee and Grumpa happy. All the while Gertrude moved around the room like she had taken speed. She was blurry around the edges, frantic, babbling. Much like I am on the opening day of the Lord of the Rings movies.
We were finally done with dinner, which Gert barely touched in between asking about “pwesents”. We prepared the cake.
“Gasp! Choo choo trains!”
“Yes Gertrude. There are choo choo trains on the cake.”
“I eat them?”
“No, they’re plastic. But you can play with them later.”
So we light the candle and sing Happy Birthday to her, with blatant disregard for the royalties owed to the two little old ladies who wrote the song. She blows out her candle with the minimum amount of spit. We’re all very proud.
“I EAT IT!”
I take the trains off the cake. “Want to lick the icing off Gertrude?”
“Ewww. I not eat them. Plastic!” Duh, Daddy. What’s wrong with you.
She devours a huge piece of cake. Or, to be more exact, she reduces the piece of cake to a mixture of crumbs and icing that become imbedded in her ears and hair. We think some may have landed in her mouth.
And now . . . the presents.
She leaps down off of her booster chair and begins to run around in excitement. She makes random patterns in the kitchen while I go get the wrapped goodies.
She opens her first. A stuffed Dora. Seems decent. Plastic tools? Very cool. Wood puzzle with locks and latches? Also excellent, and stolen by her sister. Wiggles poster? Nice.
We get to one of the bigger presents. He sister begins to help her open it. She sees red. Her eyes widen and she claps. Then the Wiggles logo is revealed. Her clapping intensifies. Then, it is clear. It’s the Wiggles guitar. If you slow down the tape you can see her smile melt into a look of surprise and disbelief. And then her face explodes in joy, she squeals and her arms raise up in the air like her football team just scored the winning touchdown. “Yes,” she seemed to say, “it’s the present I’ve always wanted!”
For the next two hours she pressed buttons, strummed, bopped, danced, sang and pressed the Captain Feathersword button repeatedly so that his song on the guitar sounded as if it were recorded by Beck.
Finally, she wound down. We bathed her and then rocked her for bed. She wouldn’t let go of the guitar.
“It’s time for bed honey. We need to put the guitar away.”
“Noooooo.”
“I’m sorry. We have to put it away.” And I take the guitar.
Then it happened. This moment will never leave my memory. It is burned there forever.
Her face turned from sweet, to something that has been touched by evil. She went from being angelic to looking like a troll who had seen the dark side.
“Nooooo,” she cried. “I wants it! My precious. You’ve stolen my precious. Filthy parentses!”
As soon as she walked through the door, she started asking about the “pwesents”. She wanted them. Now. But mommy wouldn’t be home for another thirty minutes and I had to go pick up Matilda from an after school event.
We made dinner, picked up the older sister and keep Meemee and Grumpa happy. All the while Gertrude moved around the room like she had taken speed. She was blurry around the edges, frantic, babbling. Much like I am on the opening day of the Lord of the Rings movies.
We were finally done with dinner, which Gert barely touched in between asking about “pwesents”. We prepared the cake.
“Gasp! Choo choo trains!”
“Yes Gertrude. There are choo choo trains on the cake.”
“I eat them?”
“No, they’re plastic. But you can play with them later.”
So we light the candle and sing Happy Birthday to her, with blatant disregard for the royalties owed to the two little old ladies who wrote the song. She blows out her candle with the minimum amount of spit. We’re all very proud.
“I EAT IT!”
I take the trains off the cake. “Want to lick the icing off Gertrude?”
“Ewww. I not eat them. Plastic!” Duh, Daddy. What’s wrong with you.
She devours a huge piece of cake. Or, to be more exact, she reduces the piece of cake to a mixture of crumbs and icing that become imbedded in her ears and hair. We think some may have landed in her mouth.
And now . . . the presents.
She leaps down off of her booster chair and begins to run around in excitement. She makes random patterns in the kitchen while I go get the wrapped goodies.
She opens her first. A stuffed Dora. Seems decent. Plastic tools? Very cool. Wood puzzle with locks and latches? Also excellent, and stolen by her sister. Wiggles poster? Nice.
We get to one of the bigger presents. He sister begins to help her open it. She sees red. Her eyes widen and she claps. Then the Wiggles logo is revealed. Her clapping intensifies. Then, it is clear. It’s the Wiggles guitar. If you slow down the tape you can see her smile melt into a look of surprise and disbelief. And then her face explodes in joy, she squeals and her arms raise up in the air like her football team just scored the winning touchdown. “Yes,” she seemed to say, “it’s the present I’ve always wanted!”
For the next two hours she pressed buttons, strummed, bopped, danced, sang and pressed the Captain Feathersword button repeatedly so that his song on the guitar sounded as if it were recorded by Beck.
Finally, she wound down. We bathed her and then rocked her for bed. She wouldn’t let go of the guitar.
“It’s time for bed honey. We need to put the guitar away.”
“Noooooo.”
“I’m sorry. We have to put it away.” And I take the guitar.
Then it happened. This moment will never leave my memory. It is burned there forever.
Her face turned from sweet, to something that has been touched by evil. She went from being angelic to looking like a troll who had seen the dark side.
“Nooooo,” she cried. “I wants it! My precious. You’ve stolen my precious. Filthy parentses!”
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