Our laundry room is in the basement of our building and becomes the landing place for all unwanted items from people's apartments: clothing, books, CD's, knick knacks, even the occasional small appliance. Well a new find was waiting on the table when we went down to do laundry the other day: a couple of boxes of Pop-Tarts.
Mmmm.... Pop-Tarts... blech.
Hey I like a Pop-Tart as much as the next guy, but really? You are going to leave Pop-Tarts in the laundry room? Like, While you're perusing the discarded books, have a snack! Well to my dismay, the culprit did appear to have a taker. Both boxes had been opened, and in one of the open boxes one of the individual wrappers had been opened and a pop tart had been removed. So one remained in the open wrapper. To which I say- REALLY? You're going to leave an open Pop-Tart in the laundry room, inviting ants and who knows what other vermin into- let me repeat- the LAUNDRY ROOM? It's bad enough you ate a random Pop-Tart from God knows where, but don't drag the rest of us into your poor snacking decisions.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 17: Throwing away money
Being a parent gives new meaning to the term disposable income. There's the clothes she wears once before pooping all over or growing out of them. And of course there's all the gear you need to buy that she'll soon to be too big for or have no use for. But I'm not even talking about that. I'm talking stuff you buy that's as good as garbage the second you bring it home.
Diapers. Man, diapers are expensive. We've even recently gone to the generic brand- they may not have recognizable characters from popular children's TV programs- but they work. And they're a lot cheaper. But they're not exactly what I'd call inexpensive, in the grand scheme of things. And think- they're designed to be used once, and tossed. Same could be said for wipes- which we just tried the generic, and the kibosh was put on that one by the wife. They just didn't feel right, or something... a price can be put on some things. But I digress- we buy the stuff, we throw it away. We by more of the stuff- we throw it away. With alarming frequency. She's a baby: she poops and pees a lot- she's supposed to, I get- but it really does feel like we're throwing away money. The alternative, of course, you may tell me is re-usable cloth diapers. To which I respond: show me two parents who also work full time, and don't own their own washer-dryer that have time to launder cloth diapers, and I will ask the them for the device they use that freezes time, because it would be really useful. But in all seriousness- I'd rather throw the away the money, and hold onto at least a shred of sanity- I'm being realistic here. I'm complaining, but I'm being realistic.
Baby formula. Forget diapers. Formula makers of the world... that's where the money is at!! And forget the name brand stuff- we started using the generic stuff as soon as we ran out of the free samples of the brand stuff. After all, the doctor told us the generic stuff is just as good- so, say no more. That said, the generic formula- like their diaper cousin- although cheaper than the alternative, is not inexpensive. But a baby's gotta eat right? Tell her that. Our little K doesn't always like to eat despite all signs pointing to the fact that she's hungry. And the formula label tells you when you must discard unused formula: If it's untouched, 2 hours at room temp or 24 hours in the fridge. But it's never untouched. And if she starts to drink it, thereby mixing her saliva in- it must be consumed in one hour or it needs to be tossed. Even if we don't stay hard and fast to exactly an hour (we try and stretch out a little) we wind up throwing away a good deal of formula. I mean, you want to believe that it's still good for two or three hours, but you also know it's your baby's well-being that's at stake, and you don't want to play around with that. It's just not always easy to tell just how hungry she is- so we'll try and make a little at a time- but of course if she wants more, you have to interrupt her feeding to make a little more, then a little more. Not the best course of action for anybody involved. So when you go on good faith that, yes, she'll polish off 6 oz. this time around- that's when she only feels like taking 2.5... and then falling asleep for just longer than window of time you feel comfortable saving the bottle for. Sigh.
There's no escaping the above expenses. And if you told me I had to throw away crisp $100 bills in order to maintain the well-being of our little girl, I would do it a heartbeat. No question. But it doesn't make it any easier to stomach, financially. And hey, all this is moot if we strike it rich- I'm looking at you, lottery gods (so what if we don't actually play). In the meanwhile we'll be knee-deep in diapers and formula for the foreseeable future; even if our pile of money doesn't reach quite that high.
Diapers. Man, diapers are expensive. We've even recently gone to the generic brand- they may not have recognizable characters from popular children's TV programs- but they work. And they're a lot cheaper. But they're not exactly what I'd call inexpensive, in the grand scheme of things. And think- they're designed to be used once, and tossed. Same could be said for wipes- which we just tried the generic, and the kibosh was put on that one by the wife. They just didn't feel right, or something... a price can be put on some things. But I digress- we buy the stuff, we throw it away. We by more of the stuff- we throw it away. With alarming frequency. She's a baby: she poops and pees a lot- she's supposed to, I get- but it really does feel like we're throwing away money. The alternative, of course, you may tell me is re-usable cloth diapers. To which I respond: show me two parents who also work full time, and don't own their own washer-dryer that have time to launder cloth diapers, and I will ask the them for the device they use that freezes time, because it would be really useful. But in all seriousness- I'd rather throw the away the money, and hold onto at least a shred of sanity- I'm being realistic here. I'm complaining, but I'm being realistic.
Baby formula. Forget diapers. Formula makers of the world... that's where the money is at!! And forget the name brand stuff- we started using the generic stuff as soon as we ran out of the free samples of the brand stuff. After all, the doctor told us the generic stuff is just as good- so, say no more. That said, the generic formula- like their diaper cousin- although cheaper than the alternative, is not inexpensive. But a baby's gotta eat right? Tell her that. Our little K doesn't always like to eat despite all signs pointing to the fact that she's hungry. And the formula label tells you when you must discard unused formula: If it's untouched, 2 hours at room temp or 24 hours in the fridge. But it's never untouched. And if she starts to drink it, thereby mixing her saliva in- it must be consumed in one hour or it needs to be tossed. Even if we don't stay hard and fast to exactly an hour (we try and stretch out a little) we wind up throwing away a good deal of formula. I mean, you want to believe that it's still good for two or three hours, but you also know it's your baby's well-being that's at stake, and you don't want to play around with that. It's just not always easy to tell just how hungry she is- so we'll try and make a little at a time- but of course if she wants more, you have to interrupt her feeding to make a little more, then a little more. Not the best course of action for anybody involved. So when you go on good faith that, yes, she'll polish off 6 oz. this time around- that's when she only feels like taking 2.5... and then falling asleep for just longer than window of time you feel comfortable saving the bottle for. Sigh.
There's no escaping the above expenses. And if you told me I had to throw away crisp $100 bills in order to maintain the well-being of our little girl, I would do it a heartbeat. No question. But it doesn't make it any easier to stomach, financially. And hey, all this is moot if we strike it rich- I'm looking at you, lottery gods (so what if we don't actually play). In the meanwhile we'll be knee-deep in diapers and formula for the foreseeable future; even if our pile of money doesn't reach quite that high.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 16: Conversation Starter
Living in New York, making small talk with strangers is not something you have to go out of your way to do. In the elevator, on the train- nothing earth-shattering, just small talk. Since becoming a parent, I feel I have become even more small-talkative, especially when I encounter other parents with their small children.
I've always liked seeing babies and small kids while I'm out and about. I'd even make the occasional funny face, or wave at them, or smile at the parent- so as to say your child is cute... Now that I'm a parent though, it's not just mindless talk-about-the-weather stuff, it's also about information gathering. How old? is the first question. Notice the lack of a pronoun attached to the question; often times one can't tell by look if the baby is a boy or girl. Then I offer the information that I have new baby girl at home myself, so as to show I am not just a creepy guy on the train asking questions about their baby. Sometimes the conversation ends there, and we wish each other luck and go on our merry way. But sometimes it goes deeper. Weight, length, developmental stages are all subjects that can be delved into within minutes of striking up this conversation with a complete stranger or strangers.
Nothing truly personal is usually exchanged. In fact- even though I usually walk away knowing the name of the child- nine times out of ten I will not have asked the parents' names. And it doesn't necessarily feel like I should have, either. It's enough that we we had this moment -on the train, in the deli, on the street- as if to remind ourselves we're not fumbling around alone in this new thing we call parenthood. A little small talk can go a long way.
I've always liked seeing babies and small kids while I'm out and about. I'd even make the occasional funny face, or wave at them, or smile at the parent- so as to say your child is cute... Now that I'm a parent though, it's not just mindless talk-about-the-weather stuff, it's also about information gathering. How old? is the first question. Notice the lack of a pronoun attached to the question; often times one can't tell by look if the baby is a boy or girl. Then I offer the information that I have new baby girl at home myself, so as to show I am not just a creepy guy on the train asking questions about their baby. Sometimes the conversation ends there, and we wish each other luck and go on our merry way. But sometimes it goes deeper. Weight, length, developmental stages are all subjects that can be delved into within minutes of striking up this conversation with a complete stranger or strangers.
Nothing truly personal is usually exchanged. In fact- even though I usually walk away knowing the name of the child- nine times out of ten I will not have asked the parents' names. And it doesn't necessarily feel like I should have, either. It's enough that we we had this moment -on the train, in the deli, on the street- as if to remind ourselves we're not fumbling around alone in this new thing we call parenthood. A little small talk can go a long way.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 15: Gift of grab
One of the great developmental milestones any child achieves early on is learning how to reach and grab things. It's tough not to be bowled over by my little one when she I see the look in her eyes as she reaches out for something and takes it into her tiny little hands. But the curiosity and wonderment that just weeks ago was so adorable and endearing, can turn decidedly not as much so when accompanied by gained dexterity.
Cute: When she reaches out to touch your face.
Not as cute: When she grabs your bottom lip, digs those little nails in, and pulls with all her might.
Cute: During feeding when she reaches out and holds onto the bottle.
Not as cute: During feeding when she reaches out and grabs a hold of the spoon and holds on with a death-grip, threatening to fling whatever it holds asunder.
Cute: When she notices the TV remote, and paws at it like a new toy.
Not as cute: When she grabs the remote off the couch and changes the channel with her mouth at the most inopportune time.
Oh, who am I kidding? That last one is friggin adorable. And really so are the others listed above under the "Not as cute" category for that matter. The one one thing she's always known how to grab is my heart. And I fear that her dexterity in that department will only get sharper and sharper in the months and years ahead.
Cute: When she reaches out to touch your face.
Not as cute: When she grabs your bottom lip, digs those little nails in, and pulls with all her might.
Cute: During feeding when she reaches out and holds onto the bottle.
Not as cute: During feeding when she reaches out and grabs a hold of the spoon and holds on with a death-grip, threatening to fling whatever it holds asunder.
Cute: When she notices the TV remote, and paws at it like a new toy.
Not as cute: When she grabs the remote off the couch and changes the channel with her mouth at the most inopportune time.
Oh, who am I kidding? That last one is friggin adorable. And really so are the others listed above under the "Not as cute" category for that matter. The one one thing she's always known how to grab is my heart. And I fear that her dexterity in that department will only get sharper and sharper in the months and years ahead.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 14: Feeding the baby... and the soul
I remember the weeks leading up to the delivery of our child. I was pretty sure I was going to be bawling my eyes out when she came out, the emotional climax of quite a journey. As it turns out, there was a lot going on at the moment her birth, and it wound up being more a whirlwind. The surreality of it all didn't really give me the opportunity to have that cathartic moment, lost in tears of joy.
It did, however, come a little more than 24 hours later. While my wife's breast milk was still coming in, we decided along with the nurses we'd supplement the little one's feeding with a some formula. That gave me my first opportunity to feed our little wonder. She opened her mouth, started sucking on the bottle and our eyes locked. Well, I completely lost it. Tears galore. There was just something so intimate about the fact I was literally providing our child- this little girl who had been inside my wife not hours ago. Whom I had not met before yesterday, but somehow knew my whole life. And although she probably didn't know what or who she was looking at, her gaze catching mine made it all the more special and momentous.
Now that the process has been repeated and repeated, and will be repeated and repeated, again and again- it's easy to lose that feeling of connectedness. There's nothing like feeding your child, but it's that aha moment where everything in world makes sense and nothing else matters that can be missing. But the other night, both of us fighting to stay awake- me to feed her, she to eat- she reached up and grabbed my finger and just held on for the rest of her feeding. While there weren't tears, I was certainly taken back to that night in the hospital. Her little fingers grasping mine, is all it takes to change what can come to feel like a chore at times into something I'd rather do above all else. And as we start her on solid foods- a whole new ballgame- moments like those are going to come fewer and farther between before I know it. I've got to hold onto to those gazes, and those little fingers for as long I can.
It did, however, come a little more than 24 hours later. While my wife's breast milk was still coming in, we decided along with the nurses we'd supplement the little one's feeding with a some formula. That gave me my first opportunity to feed our little wonder. She opened her mouth, started sucking on the bottle and our eyes locked. Well, I completely lost it. Tears galore. There was just something so intimate about the fact I was literally providing our child- this little girl who had been inside my wife not hours ago. Whom I had not met before yesterday, but somehow knew my whole life. And although she probably didn't know what or who she was looking at, her gaze catching mine made it all the more special and momentous.
Now that the process has been repeated and repeated, and will be repeated and repeated, again and again- it's easy to lose that feeling of connectedness. There's nothing like feeding your child, but it's that aha moment where everything in world makes sense and nothing else matters that can be missing. But the other night, both of us fighting to stay awake- me to feed her, she to eat- she reached up and grabbed my finger and just held on for the rest of her feeding. While there weren't tears, I was certainly taken back to that night in the hospital. Her little fingers grasping mine, is all it takes to change what can come to feel like a chore at times into something I'd rather do above all else. And as we start her on solid foods- a whole new ballgame- moments like those are going to come fewer and farther between before I know it. I've got to hold onto to those gazes, and those little fingers for as long I can.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 13: Walking the plank(s)
Growing up in the city, our little girl has grown accustomed to the sounds of garbage trucks passing, sirens blaring, dogs barking, or the crunch of an occasional fender-bender floating up into the windows of our apartment. More often than not, if she's sleeping none of these sounds cause her to stir. Even summer thunderstorms have passed without rousing her. But there's one sound that seems to disturb her with great regularity: the squeaking floor boards in our apartment.
We are blessed with a good deal of space for a New York apartment, and don't pay anywhere near market value thanks to rent-stabilization, and the fact that my wife has been residing in it for well over a decade. But as the case in a lot of New York apartments, she came in as sublet, and the people that were there before her were there for a while- so when she finally was added to the lease, it was just a continuation of the previous tenants' lease agreements. Good news? Rent-stabilization. Bad news? There hasn't been any serious work done in our apartment for who knows how long, and, short of moving all of our stuff out of the place, it's not going to happen anytime soon.
We're not just talking about a creaky spot here or there. A good deal of the floors in our place squeak and groan when stepped on- in pretty much every room. In our little one's room we laid down a nice thick area rug, not only for decorative purposes, but in the hopes that it would muffle the creakiness of the floors. Well, it was a nice thought, anyway.
When putting our little girl down for a nap, or for the night- we have to choose our path out wisely so as not to hit a loud spot and stir her. Even more dicey a situation is when she is already asleep and we are going in to check on her, because that involves both an entrance and exit. And don't fool yourself into thinking just because you found a reasonably creak-free route on the way in it's going to be the same on the way out. Tip-toeing doesn't really do the trick, either- that's good to mask a footfall, but once the weight of your foot goes into the floorboard, it's curtains... well, floorboards. I'm thinking maybe what we need is a simple zip-wire, or even a Tarzan rope which will allow entry into the room with having to put our feet on the floor... although that might pose a problem when putting her in the crib... I mean I suppose we could practice with a doll first... Okay, okay... maybe some sort of conveyor belt...
Until we have one of those devices installed , a very common conversation in our house will continue to be: "I'm going to go check on her." "Okay, don't wake her." We'll just have to count on the floorboard-gods to show us the us path as we enter the room to check on sleeping beauty... and then hope that a garbage truck smashes into a parked car outside when we do, so she won't be disturbed.
We are blessed with a good deal of space for a New York apartment, and don't pay anywhere near market value thanks to rent-stabilization, and the fact that my wife has been residing in it for well over a decade. But as the case in a lot of New York apartments, she came in as sublet, and the people that were there before her were there for a while- so when she finally was added to the lease, it was just a continuation of the previous tenants' lease agreements. Good news? Rent-stabilization. Bad news? There hasn't been any serious work done in our apartment for who knows how long, and, short of moving all of our stuff out of the place, it's not going to happen anytime soon.
We're not just talking about a creaky spot here or there. A good deal of the floors in our place squeak and groan when stepped on- in pretty much every room. In our little one's room we laid down a nice thick area rug, not only for decorative purposes, but in the hopes that it would muffle the creakiness of the floors. Well, it was a nice thought, anyway.
When putting our little girl down for a nap, or for the night- we have to choose our path out wisely so as not to hit a loud spot and stir her. Even more dicey a situation is when she is already asleep and we are going in to check on her, because that involves both an entrance and exit. And don't fool yourself into thinking just because you found a reasonably creak-free route on the way in it's going to be the same on the way out. Tip-toeing doesn't really do the trick, either- that's good to mask a footfall, but once the weight of your foot goes into the floorboard, it's curtains... well, floorboards. I'm thinking maybe what we need is a simple zip-wire, or even a Tarzan rope which will allow entry into the room with having to put our feet on the floor... although that might pose a problem when putting her in the crib... I mean I suppose we could practice with a doll first... Okay, okay... maybe some sort of conveyor belt...
Until we have one of those devices installed , a very common conversation in our house will continue to be: "I'm going to go check on her." "Okay, don't wake her." We'll just have to count on the floorboard-gods to show us the us path as we enter the room to check on sleeping beauty... and then hope that a garbage truck smashes into a parked car outside when we do, so she won't be disturbed.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 12: Other children's parents
Being a parent, one can't help but observe (and okay, maybe judge a little) the acts and practices of other parents. As a fellow parent, there is a level of sympathy and understanding when it comes to dealing with someone else's unruly or noisy child in a public situation- but there are limits. When I'm out in public trying to feed my little girl, or trying to calm her so as to avoid a melt down I'm not unrealistic in my desires. I understand that silence or even reasonable quiet is not going to happen, but when some reasonable facsimile of it is spoiled by the actions of another child- I have no patience. And while it's easy to find yourself annoyed at the offending party, the ire shouldn't directed at the child- who, let's face it, is only acting like a child- but at the parent, who can tend to be either encouraging the calamity or allowing it to take place by indifference.
I'm not talking about the parent with the crying baby. Or with the toddler who wants something and isn't getting his way. Those are situations where can be more or less out of the parents control and everyone around needs to just ride wave. No I'm talking about the parents oblivious to polite society- or at the very least oblivious to the presence of others in the world.
Like the parent who permits their child to ride around the store in perhaps the squeakiest- no, piercing-est sounding tricycle in the history of squeaky tricycles. Like really loud. And I'm across the store thinking- how is that not bothering you? How is is it you can continue to talk amongst yourselves as your child makes my ears bleed and disturbs my daughter's peacefulness. And maybe that's the only thing keeping their child from melting down, but you know what? It's not working for me. Don't "fix" your problem by potentially causing one for me. Not cool.
Same goes for the guy who's keeping his kid entertained to the point where it's annoying. He's either making too much noise himself, or getting his kid so riled up that the squeals and giggles start to resemble that tricycle. I mean, I applaud your attentiveness to your child- but remember you are in a public place, and not everyone in the world needs to be reminded of just what sound a piggy makes over and over again.
But worst of all is the parent whose child can do no wrong. Who celebrates their child's behavior when there's no cause for it. Like the older brother of one of my little girl's day-care mates. Old enough to know better (I'm guessing 8 or 9), this kid was constantly sticking his face right up to my little one's face, and tossing her stuffed bunny into her stroller at her as if she was expected to catch it. "Oh let's not do that," I'm saying trying to sound as playful and non-threatening possible, all the while hoping for a little assistance from his mother. And although she was talking to the day-care lady, she she was not far away and could plainly see what was happening. All I got though was a smile, as if we were all playing some fun game. And when her kid proceeded to stick his dirty hands (no exaggeration, there was dirt caked under his nails) into my daughters my mouth I said much louder and sterner, "All right no hands in the mouth please," when what I really wanted to do was smack the kid into next week. All the while I am trying to make my way by the kid in the narrow hallway so I can get to the elevator and home. But to my dismay I am delayed long enough so we all have to share the elevator ride together. Me, my little girl, her day-care mate and his oblivious mom, and Dirty McFilthyhands the older brother. In the elevator he continues to lean over and stick his face into my daughter's stroller thereby encouraging his little brother to do the same. Keeping one eye on them and trying to fend them off, I look to the mom for some sort of reprieve but all she says is "Oh, he loves little babies- he's such a good big brother!" I want to scream. Are we riding the same elevator?!! Are we on the same planet??!!
Now I am certainly not telling anyone how to parent their own children- just as it pertains to and affects my little one. Do whatever you want in your home and your lives, as long as I don't have to compensate for your seeming lack of social perception. I just hope that I can impart to my daughter that a little respect of your surroundings goes along way.
I'm not talking about the parent with the crying baby. Or with the toddler who wants something and isn't getting his way. Those are situations where can be more or less out of the parents control and everyone around needs to just ride wave. No I'm talking about the parents oblivious to polite society- or at the very least oblivious to the presence of others in the world.
Like the parent who permits their child to ride around the store in perhaps the squeakiest- no, piercing-est sounding tricycle in the history of squeaky tricycles. Like really loud. And I'm across the store thinking- how is that not bothering you? How is is it you can continue to talk amongst yourselves as your child makes my ears bleed and disturbs my daughter's peacefulness. And maybe that's the only thing keeping their child from melting down, but you know what? It's not working for me. Don't "fix" your problem by potentially causing one for me. Not cool.
Same goes for the guy who's keeping his kid entertained to the point where it's annoying. He's either making too much noise himself, or getting his kid so riled up that the squeals and giggles start to resemble that tricycle. I mean, I applaud your attentiveness to your child- but remember you are in a public place, and not everyone in the world needs to be reminded of just what sound a piggy makes over and over again.
But worst of all is the parent whose child can do no wrong. Who celebrates their child's behavior when there's no cause for it. Like the older brother of one of my little girl's day-care mates. Old enough to know better (I'm guessing 8 or 9), this kid was constantly sticking his face right up to my little one's face, and tossing her stuffed bunny into her stroller at her as if she was expected to catch it. "Oh let's not do that," I'm saying trying to sound as playful and non-threatening possible, all the while hoping for a little assistance from his mother. And although she was talking to the day-care lady, she she was not far away and could plainly see what was happening. All I got though was a smile, as if we were all playing some fun game. And when her kid proceeded to stick his dirty hands (no exaggeration, there was dirt caked under his nails) into my daughters my mouth I said much louder and sterner, "All right no hands in the mouth please," when what I really wanted to do was smack the kid into next week. All the while I am trying to make my way by the kid in the narrow hallway so I can get to the elevator and home. But to my dismay I am delayed long enough so we all have to share the elevator ride together. Me, my little girl, her day-care mate and his oblivious mom, and Dirty McFilthyhands the older brother. In the elevator he continues to lean over and stick his face into my daughter's stroller thereby encouraging his little brother to do the same. Keeping one eye on them and trying to fend them off, I look to the mom for some sort of reprieve but all she says is "Oh, he loves little babies- he's such a good big brother!" I want to scream. Are we riding the same elevator?!! Are we on the same planet??!!
Now I am certainly not telling anyone how to parent their own children- just as it pertains to and affects my little one. Do whatever you want in your home and your lives, as long as I don't have to compensate for your seeming lack of social perception. I just hope that I can impart to my daughter that a little respect of your surroundings goes along way.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 11: I just might snap
You know who should win the Nobel Prize for cruel and unusual punishment? The person who invented/ designed the snap up pajamas that our little one wears. They have little snaps up and down the legs,
sometimes all the way up the front. They're great and all- they keep her toasty and she looks cute as a button in them- and it makes it easy to get them off for a quick diaper change, getting them snapped back up and
fastened and situated can prove to be quite challenging. Especially when the baby is cranky- kicking and thrashing about, and especially when it's three o'clock in the morning and dark and you are just trying to get her buttoned up and back in the crib after you've changed her wet diaper, before she really wakes up.
Half the time I think I am sailing along great- snap snap snap- only to realize I've missed a snap in the beginning somewhere and have to pretty much start all over again. That's when the snaps and holders
fail to match up again as they just had- let's face it, mainly due to operator error. And by the time my motor skills return to somewhat full function, and she's all snapped and ready- she's peed again, and I'm left standing
there pondering just how good a parent am I? Do I just put her back to bed wet? How long til she probably wakes up, and... of course I'm not putting her to bed wet, and the process begins again.
At which point she's wide awake, I'm cranky, and Osama bin Pajama-maker has won. Defeated, I think to myself- there has to be a better way! But seeing as though they've been around for years, and I haven't really seen any other handy options out there- it looks like we're stuck, or, all snapped-in as the case may be. Until a crack-team of scientists unearths a new methodology of baby PJ's, I will just have to continue to pray to the patron saint of digital dexterity and hope for the best.
sometimes all the way up the front. They're great and all- they keep her toasty and she looks cute as a button in them- and it makes it easy to get them off for a quick diaper change, getting them snapped back up and
fastened and situated can prove to be quite challenging. Especially when the baby is cranky- kicking and thrashing about, and especially when it's three o'clock in the morning and dark and you are just trying to get her buttoned up and back in the crib after you've changed her wet diaper, before she really wakes up.
Half the time I think I am sailing along great- snap snap snap- only to realize I've missed a snap in the beginning somewhere and have to pretty much start all over again. That's when the snaps and holders
fail to match up again as they just had- let's face it, mainly due to operator error. And by the time my motor skills return to somewhat full function, and she's all snapped and ready- she's peed again, and I'm left standing
there pondering just how good a parent am I? Do I just put her back to bed wet? How long til she probably wakes up, and... of course I'm not putting her to bed wet, and the process begins again.
At which point she's wide awake, I'm cranky, and Osama bin Pajama-maker has won. Defeated, I think to myself- there has to be a better way! But seeing as though they've been around for years, and I haven't really seen any other handy options out there- it looks like we're stuck, or, all snapped-in as the case may be. Until a crack-team of scientists unearths a new methodology of baby PJ's, I will just have to continue to pray to the patron saint of digital dexterity and hope for the best.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Confessions of new dad, vol. 10: First born
Let's get one thing straight. There's always been a child living in our household, long before our little girl came into the picture. That child is me. And I am doing my darnedest to keep my inner-child on full display, despite the fact that fatherhood is now upon me. I say why let the awesome responsibility of parenting rob me of my childishness!
There always seems to be a bottle or two to wash. All the time we're washing bottles. Gotta keep it interesting, right? Well, I discovered that when cleaning the nipple, you can fill it half way with water then shove your thumb into it, thereby creating a pint-sized squirt gun, issuing a pretty impressive little stream of water. The cats are often the target of attack, but nothing beats when my wife unwittingly walks into the kitchen while I am on bottle duty. If it's a good one I can sometimes induce a little scream, although usually I get the sideways glance and a "Really?"
Even the in-ear thermometer has also surprisingly proved itself an excellent source of self-amusement. There's these little plastic covers that you place over the in-ear portion of the device, so as to keep things sterile, that then are released at the push of a button. Now, if you push the button quickly and with enough force- these little plastic covers become less sterile and more missile, bouncing off the arm or sometimes forehead of unsuspecting and decidedly less-amused wives. Even though the thermometer has barely been used so far, it's been used enough so that as soon as it comes out of the ear, my wife's reflex is to put her hand up and give a stern, "Don't." Yes, mother. (Then as soon as the hand goes down, it's fire away!)
Hmm. The above examples of my childishness seem to lend themselves to weaponry. Maybe it has to do with the fact my mom wouldn't let me play with gun-toys when I was younger. I don't know who to page, Sigmund Freud or Charlton Heston? In any case, my little girl's still too young for me to worrying about setting any sort of example- so my inner-child is living it up! I'd like to think that as soon is she is old enough to realize what goof her dad is, I'll have stopped doing childish things- but who are we kidding? Plus the toys and gadgets only get cooler as the kid gets older- so, who needs to grow up?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 9: Careful what you wish for
So much of the enjoyment having a newborn is the anticipation of what's to come. And while these next steps and milestones are to be celebrated, they also bring a certain amount of ruefulness- of innocence and freedom lost. But, as good parents, we encourage our children to take these steps- which invariably will make the process of caring for the child more challenging.
One of the nice things when babies are new is you can lay them on a blanket, and play with them and watch them kick and coo and look around for some time, seeing as though they pretty are much immobile. But you can't just leave them there, you're supposed to give them tummy-time, to build their strength in their arms and necks, eventually leading to rolling over onto their backs. Well, being as though our little lady never was a fan of tummy-time to begin with, she taught herself to roll over real quick. And that was exciting! Our little girl rolled over onto her back!! Well, in the weeks that followed my wife and I tried and tried to get her roll from her back to her tummy. Definitely a harder task for her to achieve- but we knew she could do it! And do it she did... three cheers! But, somewhere in the process though she forgot that she had the ability to roll from her tummy to her back-- but she remembers how much she dislikes tummy-time-- and now proceeds to lay on her tummy and moan and cry and face-plant into the blanket, until one of us finally gives in and helps her flip back over. At which point she rolls right back onto her tummy... screaming ensues. Rinse and repeat. It's not really a fun game, for her nor us.
Same will go for crawling. Doubly so. And then walking. Oh we'll egg her on, and then somewhere between chasing her across the living room and chasing her down a city street, we'll have that What were we thinking we should have just kept her strapped into the swing forever moment. But why fret about what's not yet happened?
There are things though, on a daily basis, where similar moments are experienced- on a smaller scale mind you, but still with the careful-what-you-wish-for bent to them. Such as: She hasn't pooped in a couple days... I wish she'd just poop so we know she's okay. And BOOM. She's okay. In fact she's gonna be okay three times on that day. Or even: Why she is making so much so much noise in her crib? Why won't she go to sleep? And then when it suddenly stops, it's- "We better go check on her." And it's a race down the hallway to check on her, only to find her sleeping peacefully- looking as though she's been asleep for hours.
I'm learning that one of the more challenging things about being a parent is staying in the moment. You want your kid to progress. To achieve. Why else do we hold a four month old over our laps saying, "Look at you standing! What a big girl!" Of course we can say- oh it's important to build her leg strength up... but really really we're picturing the day our little girl is standing on her own, walking, unintentionally pushing her to grow up. But the next second she's crying because she's hungry, or reacting to a new sound bringing us right back into the present. It's her unconscious way of reminding us there will be plenty of time for growing up- let's enjoy the simplicity while it lasts.
One of the nice things when babies are new is you can lay them on a blanket, and play with them and watch them kick and coo and look around for some time, seeing as though they pretty are much immobile. But you can't just leave them there, you're supposed to give them tummy-time, to build their strength in their arms and necks, eventually leading to rolling over onto their backs. Well, being as though our little lady never was a fan of tummy-time to begin with, she taught herself to roll over real quick. And that was exciting! Our little girl rolled over onto her back!! Well, in the weeks that followed my wife and I tried and tried to get her roll from her back to her tummy. Definitely a harder task for her to achieve- but we knew she could do it! And do it she did... three cheers! But, somewhere in the process though she forgot that she had the ability to roll from her tummy to her back-- but she remembers how much she dislikes tummy-time-- and now proceeds to lay on her tummy and moan and cry and face-plant into the blanket, until one of us finally gives in and helps her flip back over. At which point she rolls right back onto her tummy... screaming ensues. Rinse and repeat. It's not really a fun game, for her nor us.
Same will go for crawling. Doubly so. And then walking. Oh we'll egg her on, and then somewhere between chasing her across the living room and chasing her down a city street, we'll have that What were we thinking we should have just kept her strapped into the swing forever moment. But why fret about what's not yet happened?
There are things though, on a daily basis, where similar moments are experienced- on a smaller scale mind you, but still with the careful-what-you-wish-for bent to them. Such as: She hasn't pooped in a couple days... I wish she'd just poop so we know she's okay. And BOOM. She's okay. In fact she's gonna be okay three times on that day. Or even: Why she is making so much so much noise in her crib? Why won't she go to sleep? And then when it suddenly stops, it's- "We better go check on her." And it's a race down the hallway to check on her, only to find her sleeping peacefully- looking as though she's been asleep for hours.
I'm learning that one of the more challenging things about being a parent is staying in the moment. You want your kid to progress. To achieve. Why else do we hold a four month old over our laps saying, "Look at you standing! What a big girl!" Of course we can say- oh it's important to build her leg strength up... but really really we're picturing the day our little girl is standing on her own, walking, unintentionally pushing her to grow up. But the next second she's crying because she's hungry, or reacting to a new sound bringing us right back into the present. It's her unconscious way of reminding us there will be plenty of time for growing up- let's enjoy the simplicity while it lasts.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 8: Tardiness is next to...
My wife and I have always been a punctual couple. You tell us what time to show up, and we're there at the appointed time. Well, this all came to a crashing halt as soon as our little wonder showed up. It's almost comical.
The first time we had to make our way out the door for an outing with the little one, it was- Oh we forgot this, and don't forget that, and oooh we need to bring this too... So next time- we make a list! That way, we know exactly what we need ahead of time, thereby trimming get-out-the-door time significantly... well... it seems that no matter how organized we tried to be, something always came up. She decides to poop. Or decides she's hungry, despite out best efforts to get her fed in the hours leading up to our departure. Or she demands a little extra attention, which keeps one of us from getting ourselves ready. For one reason or another, we can't seem to make it out the door when we say we are going to. And we've tried the whole- let's say we're leaving at 11:30 so we'll really leave at 11:45- thing, and it doesn't fool us, or her for that matter.
And to hammer home the feeling of inadequacy our friends who have a baby themselves- 10 weeks older than ours- always seem able pull it together and show up on time. And when we pointed out our serial tardiness as of late, her (very kind) utterance of "Well, you have a baby now" didn't fly with us since they have one too. Great, even other people have to make excuses for us.
Maybe we've always been closet-latecomers, and our little girl has just brought this out in us- like our punctuality was just a front to build up goodwill with all the people we'll now keep waiting for our arrival. It's also very possible that the amount of energy we've expended lately rearing our first-born is causing us to just move a little slower.... it is possible... but it's neither here nor there, seeing as though this is clearly a "blame the baby" post. In fact even this post is late, seeing as though I planned to post it a couple of days ago.
The first time we had to make our way out the door for an outing with the little one, it was- Oh we forgot this, and don't forget that, and oooh we need to bring this too... So next time- we make a list! That way, we know exactly what we need ahead of time, thereby trimming get-out-the-door time significantly... well... it seems that no matter how organized we tried to be, something always came up. She decides to poop. Or decides she's hungry, despite out best efforts to get her fed in the hours leading up to our departure. Or she demands a little extra attention, which keeps one of us from getting ourselves ready. For one reason or another, we can't seem to make it out the door when we say we are going to. And we've tried the whole- let's say we're leaving at 11:30 so we'll really leave at 11:45- thing, and it doesn't fool us, or her for that matter.
And to hammer home the feeling of inadequacy our friends who have a baby themselves- 10 weeks older than ours- always seem able pull it together and show up on time. And when we pointed out our serial tardiness as of late, her (very kind) utterance of "Well, you have a baby now" didn't fly with us since they have one too. Great, even other people have to make excuses for us.
Maybe we've always been closet-latecomers, and our little girl has just brought this out in us- like our punctuality was just a front to build up goodwill with all the people we'll now keep waiting for our arrival. It's also very possible that the amount of energy we've expended lately rearing our first-born is causing us to just move a little slower.... it is possible... but it's neither here nor there, seeing as though this is clearly a "blame the baby" post. In fact even this post is late, seeing as though I planned to post it a couple of days ago.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Other people's baggage
Yesterday, I touched on the experience of air travel with a small child. And once we arrived safely back in Newark, I was reminded of a rather annoying rite of passage that takes place at baggage claims throughout the world.
Those people.
You know them- the ones who don't seem to remember what their luggage looks like, despite the fact they had it in their possession mere hours earlier. Sorting through each suitcase, regardless of color or shape, hoping for signs of identification that this is the bag containing their personal effects. Okay, maybe your black bag you looks similar to the one you are trying to pick up- but do you see the big red ribbon tied to the handle?? Do you remember tying a big red ribbon to the handle of your bag? No? Then it's probably not your bag.
One of these morons got me in trouble one time. A woman was struggling to get her bag off the carousel, so I assisted her in retrieving it. And she put it down next to her, and proceeded to wait for more bags to come out. A short time later a man came over to me and began to yell at me that I had his bag. "I don't have your bag," I replied. "I saw you take it off the carousel!" he said to me, at which point I realized the bag I had helped the lady with was sitting next to me, although the woman no longer was. I tried to explain that it was the woman's fault, that I didn't know it wasn't her bag, she hadn't said anything to me. He was stuck on the fact that it was his bag, and I had taken it, and I should really check to see who bag it is before pulling it out, yada yada yada. It gets cloudy here, but as I recall, I may have called him him an asshole and told him to take his friggin' bag and leave me the hell alone, or something of the sort. This could have been avoided had the lady I helped said to me- "Oh my, this isn't my bag." At which point we could have put it back on the carousel, and Jerky McJerkerson could retrieve when it came around to him, and we'd all head home much less elevated blood pressure levels.
So the other night, weary from travel with our baby, I am waiting at the baggage claim for our luggage- which as fortune would have it, I can identify without having to put my hands all over each article that passes. Not so much for the woman in front of me. And when she struggled to pull a suitcase off the carousel, I steered clear as other Samaritans helped shoulder the load. Once they got the bag on the ground for her, she proceeded to unzip the top of the bag, and look at its contents, so as to decipher whether or not this was her suitcase. Because looking the name tag hanging off of it wouldn't give her quicker, more accurate information. Leaving the bag sitting next to her, she continued to wait at the carousel, presumably for other pieces of luggage she had checked. You can see where this is going. As I wait- it's not too crowded- I see her starting to inch away from the bag. My wife returns from the restroom with our little one, and I apprise her of the situation. "I'm pretty sure that's not her bag," I say after relaying what I had been watching. Once the lady had moved about five feet from the suitcase, I approached her and asked if that was her bag. "No," she replied, as if she had never seen it before- and proceeded to walk away, leaving her douche-baggery in her wake. So as to avoid any further baggage claim altercations, I picked up the bag and put it back on it's it merry way. Now who's the good Samaritan??
Here's a suggestion to these treasures of the gene pool- get a suitcase that had your name emblazoned on it in foot-tall lettering. Get one that's magenta or chartreuse. One that has a speaker built into it that say's "I'm your bag. I'm your bag. I'm your bag." Because the whole name tag or ribbon on the handle- none of these tried and true methods of bag-recognition seem to be enough for you. Or pack lightly and carry-on. Or do us all a favor and take the bus. Nobody wants to deal with your baggage.
Those people.
You know them- the ones who don't seem to remember what their luggage looks like, despite the fact they had it in their possession mere hours earlier. Sorting through each suitcase, regardless of color or shape, hoping for signs of identification that this is the bag containing their personal effects. Okay, maybe your black bag you looks similar to the one you are trying to pick up- but do you see the big red ribbon tied to the handle?? Do you remember tying a big red ribbon to the handle of your bag? No? Then it's probably not your bag.
One of these morons got me in trouble one time. A woman was struggling to get her bag off the carousel, so I assisted her in retrieving it. And she put it down next to her, and proceeded to wait for more bags to come out. A short time later a man came over to me and began to yell at me that I had his bag. "I don't have your bag," I replied. "I saw you take it off the carousel!" he said to me, at which point I realized the bag I had helped the lady with was sitting next to me, although the woman no longer was. I tried to explain that it was the woman's fault, that I didn't know it wasn't her bag, she hadn't said anything to me. He was stuck on the fact that it was his bag, and I had taken it, and I should really check to see who bag it is before pulling it out, yada yada yada. It gets cloudy here, but as I recall, I may have called him him an asshole and told him to take his friggin' bag and leave me the hell alone, or something of the sort. This could have been avoided had the lady I helped said to me- "Oh my, this isn't my bag." At which point we could have put it back on the carousel, and Jerky McJerkerson could retrieve when it came around to him, and we'd all head home much less elevated blood pressure levels.
So the other night, weary from travel with our baby, I am waiting at the baggage claim for our luggage- which as fortune would have it, I can identify without having to put my hands all over each article that passes. Not so much for the woman in front of me. And when she struggled to pull a suitcase off the carousel, I steered clear as other Samaritans helped shoulder the load. Once they got the bag on the ground for her, she proceeded to unzip the top of the bag, and look at its contents, so as to decipher whether or not this was her suitcase. Because looking the name tag hanging off of it wouldn't give her quicker, more accurate information. Leaving the bag sitting next to her, she continued to wait at the carousel, presumably for other pieces of luggage she had checked. You can see where this is going. As I wait- it's not too crowded- I see her starting to inch away from the bag. My wife returns from the restroom with our little one, and I apprise her of the situation. "I'm pretty sure that's not her bag," I say after relaying what I had been watching. Once the lady had moved about five feet from the suitcase, I approached her and asked if that was her bag. "No," she replied, as if she had never seen it before- and proceeded to walk away, leaving her douche-baggery in her wake. So as to avoid any further baggage claim altercations, I picked up the bag and put it back on it's it merry way. Now who's the good Samaritan??
Here's a suggestion to these treasures of the gene pool- get a suitcase that had your name emblazoned on it in foot-tall lettering. Get one that's magenta or chartreuse. One that has a speaker built into it that say's "I'm your bag. I'm your bag. I'm your bag." Because the whole name tag or ribbon on the handle- none of these tried and true methods of bag-recognition seem to be enough for you. Or pack lightly and carry-on. Or do us all a favor and take the bus. Nobody wants to deal with your baggage.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 7: Traveling circus
Now, it's obvious that travel changes when you have a child. Anybody with any level of common sense can figure that one out. But just how much it changes you can't know until you've done it with a child of your own.
We made a trip down to Baltimore for Fourth of July weekend, when our little girl was just over two months. We made this trip by car. While there was extra time added to the trip to take care of feedings, changings and the like- it wasn't too out of the ordinary from a normal car trip. You see, you just load up all she needs for the weekend in the back of the car and there it stays for the duration of the trip. While this is mostly true for plane travel, the added romp from through the airport until you actually get on the plane proves to be the challenge.
Going through airport security is a hassle without a baby. Take your shoes off. Take your belt off. Empty the contents of your life in a plastic bin and motor through the metal detector and try to make sense of it all on the other side. Add a baby, and her accouterments, to the mix and it's like adding mass amounts of tequila to the hokey-pokey. "You put your left foot it in... wait, which is my left foot?...(drink)... wait, what's a foot?" It's now take your shoes off, take your belt off, empty the pockets (the wife does so as well)... Then it's do "We take her out of the car seat?" "Yes." Remove the baby from the car seat, detach said car seat from the stroller and separate it from its base, collapse stroller, make sure everything fits through the rubber curtain separating the rest of the world from x-ray land... breathe. Look back, realize that you're holding up a bunch of people who look thrilled with you- and let's face it if they were in that much of a hurry there's been ample time for the to have gone ahead of you- quickly slide the remaining bits of your inanimate entourage on the treadmill, race through the the metal detector hoping and praying you've taken everything beep-worthy off, and then start the whole process in the reverse on the other side.
And I realize they're probably doing the best they can- but can we get a little consistency with how this process goes? On the way back, thinking I've got it down pat this time, it's "That needs to be upside-down, that one needs to be wheels first, and please hold the baby by its ankles as you go through the metal detector." Okay, perhaps not that last one, but come on people, let's get it together.
I will say, the pre-board is nice. The "those of you traveling with small children" treatment. Although by the time we get the jet-way and take everything apart to be checked at the door, your pretty much fighting all the regular boarders anyway. On the trip back my wife was wise enough to scoot ahead with the precious cargo whilst I wrestled with the less-precious cargo.
The flight wasn't really all that bad. She didn't sleep quite as much as we'd hoped, but while awake she didn't have any major meltdowns. There was a few moments she was on the precipice, but we were able to coax her back from the edge. Just a lot passing her back and forth between my wife and I, and thankfully understanding passengers sitting adjacent on both legs of the journey.
Getting off the plane and recovering the stroller and car seat, and putting it all together didn't seem to take too long. However, each time we were pretty much holding up the entire flight crew from leaving- not that they offered to help, really.
All in all, we made it. And it certainly wasn't anywhere near as bad as it could have been. I realize that traveling with older children is problematic for other reasons, but look I forward to the day I can say, "You can hold your backpack, sweetie," as she walks next to me. It seems like an upgrade now, but I am sure I will be yearning for simpler times when it comes around.
We made a trip down to Baltimore for Fourth of July weekend, when our little girl was just over two months. We made this trip by car. While there was extra time added to the trip to take care of feedings, changings and the like- it wasn't too out of the ordinary from a normal car trip. You see, you just load up all she needs for the weekend in the back of the car and there it stays for the duration of the trip. While this is mostly true for plane travel, the added romp from through the airport until you actually get on the plane proves to be the challenge.
Going through airport security is a hassle without a baby. Take your shoes off. Take your belt off. Empty the contents of your life in a plastic bin and motor through the metal detector and try to make sense of it all on the other side. Add a baby, and her accouterments, to the mix and it's like adding mass amounts of tequila to the hokey-pokey. "You put your left foot it in... wait, which is my left foot?...(drink)... wait, what's a foot?" It's now take your shoes off, take your belt off, empty the pockets (the wife does so as well)... Then it's do "We take her out of the car seat?" "Yes." Remove the baby from the car seat, detach said car seat from the stroller and separate it from its base, collapse stroller, make sure everything fits through the rubber curtain separating the rest of the world from x-ray land... breathe. Look back, realize that you're holding up a bunch of people who look thrilled with you- and let's face it if they were in that much of a hurry there's been ample time for the to have gone ahead of you- quickly slide the remaining bits of your inanimate entourage on the treadmill, race through the the metal detector hoping and praying you've taken everything beep-worthy off, and then start the whole process in the reverse on the other side.
And I realize they're probably doing the best they can- but can we get a little consistency with how this process goes? On the way back, thinking I've got it down pat this time, it's "That needs to be upside-down, that one needs to be wheels first, and please hold the baby by its ankles as you go through the metal detector." Okay, perhaps not that last one, but come on people, let's get it together.
I will say, the pre-board is nice. The "those of you traveling with small children" treatment. Although by the time we get the jet-way and take everything apart to be checked at the door, your pretty much fighting all the regular boarders anyway. On the trip back my wife was wise enough to scoot ahead with the precious cargo whilst I wrestled with the less-precious cargo.
The flight wasn't really all that bad. She didn't sleep quite as much as we'd hoped, but while awake she didn't have any major meltdowns. There was a few moments she was on the precipice, but we were able to coax her back from the edge. Just a lot passing her back and forth between my wife and I, and thankfully understanding passengers sitting adjacent on both legs of the journey.
Getting off the plane and recovering the stroller and car seat, and putting it all together didn't seem to take too long. However, each time we were pretty much holding up the entire flight crew from leaving- not that they offered to help, really.
All in all, we made it. And it certainly wasn't anywhere near as bad as it could have been. I realize that traveling with older children is problematic for other reasons, but look I forward to the day I can say, "You can hold your backpack, sweetie," as she walks next to me. It seems like an upgrade now, but I am sure I will be yearning for simpler times when it comes around.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 6: Hearing things
With a newborn around the house, you tend to hear things. My wife and I tend to be unconsciously vigilant about listening for our little one when she is in another room sleeping, either on the baby monitor or with the naked ear. It's not uncommon for one of to stop the other when we think we've heard a noise resembling that of our child. "Was that her?" Sometimes it's her, but often times it's not her, but a noise from outside or the like. Now none of that is outside the range of normalcy for parents of a young baby. But we hear other things too, which may or may not make us a little crazy.
I'll think I hear a peep or cry through the monitor, when the monitor may not even be on and she is lying in the same room as me. Or the monitor will be on and I'll think I hear her from down the hall, yet no noise is coming through the monitor. Her sleep sheep- which is an ingenious little white-noise machine and is set to calming wave noises to help her go to sleep- I hear quite often throughout the day whether it's on or not.
We also have a couple of little entertainment devices for the little lady: one being a play "gym" which amounts to an elaborate mat that she lies on and looks up on various animals unrecognizable to science hanging above (such as Geebee the ginormous light-up butterfly, or Gloria the turtlebug... and yes, they have names). The other is a bouncy chair where she can sort of recline in while looking at sea life shapes and dancing lights. Now it must be said that both of these things can be a lifesaver. She can sometimes be entranced by them for quite a few minutes, giving us a small respite from entertaining her ourselves. They share another quality in that they both play various catchy* (*see also: burned-into-the-fibers-of-your-brain) tunes. So common are the tunes heard, and so limited in their variety, we tend to hear them sometimes- even when they are not on. So much so, that if we are in another room and think we hear one, one of us will call out to the other saying something like, "I hear Geebee. Do I really hear Geebee, or is that just in my head?" And to add to the mayhem, throughout the day I will catch myself or my wife humming or whistling these tunes unconsciously.
We recently added a swing to the mix, which as luck has it, plays the same tunes as the bouncy chair. Who needs variety? Right now as I write this I am hearing a couple of the songs from said devices- a quiet tune that makes me think of stately people doing medieval dances in candle-lit chambers, and also a quite jaunty arrangement of Ba Ba black sheep... Yessir, yessir my brain is full.
I'll think I hear a peep or cry through the monitor, when the monitor may not even be on and she is lying in the same room as me. Or the monitor will be on and I'll think I hear her from down the hall, yet no noise is coming through the monitor. Her sleep sheep- which is an ingenious little white-noise machine and is set to calming wave noises to help her go to sleep- I hear quite often throughout the day whether it's on or not.
We also have a couple of little entertainment devices for the little lady: one being a play "gym" which amounts to an elaborate mat that she lies on and looks up on various animals unrecognizable to science hanging above (such as Geebee the ginormous light-up butterfly, or Gloria the turtlebug... and yes, they have names). The other is a bouncy chair where she can sort of recline in while looking at sea life shapes and dancing lights. Now it must be said that both of these things can be a lifesaver. She can sometimes be entranced by them for quite a few minutes, giving us a small respite from entertaining her ourselves. They share another quality in that they both play various catchy* (*see also: burned-into-the-fibers-of-your-brain) tunes. So common are the tunes heard, and so limited in their variety, we tend to hear them sometimes- even when they are not on. So much so, that if we are in another room and think we hear one, one of us will call out to the other saying something like, "I hear Geebee. Do I really hear Geebee, or is that just in my head?" And to add to the mayhem, throughout the day I will catch myself or my wife humming or whistling these tunes unconsciously.
We recently added a swing to the mix, which as luck has it, plays the same tunes as the bouncy chair. Who needs variety? Right now as I write this I am hearing a couple of the songs from said devices- a quiet tune that makes me think of stately people doing medieval dances in candle-lit chambers, and also a quite jaunty arrangement of Ba Ba black sheep... Yessir, yessir my brain is full.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Yes, I'll hold...
My lovely wife's post the other day got me thinking. Holding doors open for people- and the etiquette of doing said service and/or receiving it.
Now I do my best to hold the door open for people, regardless of their physical status- be they pregnant, hands-full, handicapped or able-bodied. It's not out of any sense of real politeness- it just seems like common decency (yes, here's my back- go ahead and pat directly on the sign that says "pat here"). I actually feel bad if I let a door close behind me and then notice there was somebody coming in after me. Not really bad- like I don't feel the need to apologize profusely or track them down and offer to write them a check for the damages- just a normal amount, like "Oh damn, wish I had seen them," and then I move on - I might apologize a little, depending on the severity of the door-in-face to distance-behind-me ratio; but within reason.
When I do notice somebody's behind me, there's often that fine line of- is that person to far away for me to hold the door? We certainly don't want to offend, so usually I'll make the attempt- if not holding it open, at least performing the common maneuver giving the door an extra push or tug, so as to keep it open a little longer for the person without actually standing there holding it. If I do stand there, I do appreciate if the person makes at least the tiniest effort not to take their merry time getting to the door. Or when they do reach the door, at least an attempt to take the load off me- reaching out for the door- is always appreciated. I'm not your butler after all, and my courteousness only goes so far. Don't make me passive-aggressively (or is it passively-aggressive) let the door close on you on purpose- I've done it before and I'll do it again (you can have that pat on the back you gave back now). Also, a quick "thank you" or gesture of appreciation is always nice. A little acknowledgment is all I need. Although, when treated like a butler, some sort of tip might be more in order.
Like I said- it should be a matter of common decency. But for some I'd like to think it's less a matter of utter rudeness, and more of a complete obliviousness to the presence of others on the planet. Like: In a city of ten million people, there's no way somebody is coming in the same door as me, better just let it slam shut behind me. These are the same folks who stand in front of doorways- chatting it up and having a ball, completely in the way. Helllooo??
Ah, the lost art of politeness. Just remember, the door swing both ways, people- sometimes quite literally, but that's not what I'm talking about; focus people! Hold a door: that extra two seconds could come back to you in mass amounts of karma. Of course, it could also make you miss the elevator.
Now I do my best to hold the door open for people, regardless of their physical status- be they pregnant, hands-full, handicapped or able-bodied. It's not out of any sense of real politeness- it just seems like common decency (yes, here's my back- go ahead and pat directly on the sign that says "pat here"). I actually feel bad if I let a door close behind me and then notice there was somebody coming in after me. Not really bad- like I don't feel the need to apologize profusely or track them down and offer to write them a check for the damages- just a normal amount, like "Oh damn, wish I had seen them," and then I move on - I might apologize a little, depending on the severity of the door-in-face to distance-behind-me ratio; but within reason.
When I do notice somebody's behind me, there's often that fine line of- is that person to far away for me to hold the door? We certainly don't want to offend, so usually I'll make the attempt- if not holding it open, at least performing the common maneuver giving the door an extra push or tug, so as to keep it open a little longer for the person without actually standing there holding it. If I do stand there, I do appreciate if the person makes at least the tiniest effort not to take their merry time getting to the door. Or when they do reach the door, at least an attempt to take the load off me- reaching out for the door- is always appreciated. I'm not your butler after all, and my courteousness only goes so far. Don't make me passive-aggressively (or is it passively-aggressive) let the door close on you on purpose- I've done it before and I'll do it again (you can have that pat on the back you gave back now). Also, a quick "thank you" or gesture of appreciation is always nice. A little acknowledgment is all I need. Although, when treated like a butler, some sort of tip might be more in order.
Like I said- it should be a matter of common decency. But for some I'd like to think it's less a matter of utter rudeness, and more of a complete obliviousness to the presence of others on the planet. Like: In a city of ten million people, there's no way somebody is coming in the same door as me, better just let it slam shut behind me. These are the same folks who stand in front of doorways- chatting it up and having a ball, completely in the way. Helllooo??
Ah, the lost art of politeness. Just remember, the door swing both ways, people- sometimes quite literally, but that's not what I'm talking about; focus people! Hold a door: that extra two seconds could come back to you in mass amounts of karma. Of course, it could also make you miss the elevator.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 5: On Diapers
My life, among other baby-related things, revolves a good deal around diapers now. Check her diaper, change her diaper, make sure we've packed the diapers, how many diapers are left, emptying the diaper pail... not to mention the conversations and notations of what's in the diapers- what color, consistency, frequency...
So now that I am regular consumer of diapers, I feel comfortable in addressing a particular issue that's troubled me for some time: Kids in public in just their diapers. Especially if they are are walking around on their own. If they're old enough to walk around, they're old enough to have some sorts of pants on. End of story. I don't even necessarily like seeing little babies in their parents clutches, sans clothing on the bottom. I don't care how hot out it is. Keep those butts (and the diapers surrounding them) covered, please.
And now, is if to further perpetuate my annoyance, Huggies brand has come out with diapers made to look like denim. News flash: They still look like diapers. Just blue diapers with little lines on them made to resemble stitching and pockets. And you know what? Never mind that they still look like diapers- they ARE still diapers. You're not a part of the solution, Huggies, you're exacerbating the problem.
One exception I would make is the impromptu run through the sprinklers or fire hydrant- you find yourself at the park on a hot day, and your small child wants to play in the water- and you haven't planned for this and don't want his or her clothes soaked. By all means, send your child out in just a diaper. Completely understandable. But don't walk around the grocery store or down a city street, with your child half-clothed. I'm sorry if you think it's just adorable... because it's not.
So now that I am regular consumer of diapers, I feel comfortable in addressing a particular issue that's troubled me for some time: Kids in public in just their diapers. Especially if they are are walking around on their own. If they're old enough to walk around, they're old enough to have some sorts of pants on. End of story. I don't even necessarily like seeing little babies in their parents clutches, sans clothing on the bottom. I don't care how hot out it is. Keep those butts (and the diapers surrounding them) covered, please.
And now, is if to further perpetuate my annoyance, Huggies brand has come out with diapers made to look like denim. News flash: They still look like diapers. Just blue diapers with little lines on them made to resemble stitching and pockets. And you know what? Never mind that they still look like diapers- they ARE still diapers. You're not a part of the solution, Huggies, you're exacerbating the problem.
One exception I would make is the impromptu run through the sprinklers or fire hydrant- you find yourself at the park on a hot day, and your small child wants to play in the water- and you haven't planned for this and don't want his or her clothes soaked. By all means, send your child out in just a diaper. Completely understandable. But don't walk around the grocery store or down a city street, with your child half-clothed. I'm sorry if you think it's just adorable... because it's not.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 4: The hospital
Our little wonder was diagnosed a little over a month ago with a hemangioma- a benign tumor- under her right eyelid. Not a terribly uncommon condition in children, but because of it's location and its threat to her developing eye and eyesight, it needed to be treated with medication. Unfortunately, to begin her treatment, she had to be admitted to the hospital for at least a 48 hour stay, so she could be monitored. Fortunately my wife and were allowed to stay with her for the duration.
I've been in the hospital for out-patient procedures, and for a few days with my wife when our little girl was born- never really an enjoyable time. But nothing compares, nor adds to the trials of the process as when the patient is your child. Adding to the heartbreak, are all the other children you see- and their parents wearing looks of concern and emotional exhaustion. Even with all the worry and nervousness I was experiencing, even with the all the wires attached to her little body, it made me really grateful that my little girl wasn't there recovering from major surgery, or wandering through the halls with an IV drip following close behind, or in worse condition. It was all there on display in our little corner of the ward.
(Emotionally unattached rant:) Speaking of those we shared or little corner with- and on a lighter note- and not to pat ourselves on the back- it appears as though my wife and were the only people who seemed to have any respect for those around us. These poor sick little children's cries paled in comparison to the noise made by their adult companions. People very loudly speaking on their phones, or talking to each other as if they were in separate zip codes despite the fact they were sitting next to or very near each other. There was a posted "Quiet Time from 1-3pm" sign that was never observed. And overheard at 3 am one morning was some guy saying, "Man this place is like a ghost town," with the subtlety of a lawn mower in a library. It's three o'clock in the morning dude, SHUT THE F UP. I understand everybody has their own ways of dealing with stressful situations, but is it too much to ask that they do it in a quieter fashion? It is a hospital after all, not the mall. When I'm trying to keep my daughter calm after being poked and prodded- I don't need to hear somebody talking about their leaky kitchen sink. Emoting over the state of your infirmed child is understood, discoursing at volume about your plumbing is not.(End of rant)
The greatest news came when we learned that she was responding well to the treatment, and that we'd be going home today. Her treatment was only just beginning, but now it could continue in the privacy of our home- away from the hubbub of others' chaos, and away from the reminders of how much worse it could be.
I'm glad that at only 11 weeks old, this isn't an experience she'll ever remember. I'm glad that she's too young to know that she should be afraid. And I'm filled with unbelievable gratitude that we're back in our own beds tonight. At one point this morning, I looked down in the eyes of my little girl and asked her to promise me she'd never be sick enough where she'd have to come back to this place. A promise I know she doesn't really have control over- but nonetheless a promise I hope with all my heart she keeps.
I've been in the hospital for out-patient procedures, and for a few days with my wife when our little girl was born- never really an enjoyable time. But nothing compares, nor adds to the trials of the process as when the patient is your child. Adding to the heartbreak, are all the other children you see- and their parents wearing looks of concern and emotional exhaustion. Even with all the worry and nervousness I was experiencing, even with the all the wires attached to her little body, it made me really grateful that my little girl wasn't there recovering from major surgery, or wandering through the halls with an IV drip following close behind, or in worse condition. It was all there on display in our little corner of the ward.
(Emotionally unattached rant:) Speaking of those we shared or little corner with- and on a lighter note- and not to pat ourselves on the back- it appears as though my wife and were the only people who seemed to have any respect for those around us. These poor sick little children's cries paled in comparison to the noise made by their adult companions. People very loudly speaking on their phones, or talking to each other as if they were in separate zip codes despite the fact they were sitting next to or very near each other. There was a posted "Quiet Time from 1-3pm" sign that was never observed. And overheard at 3 am one morning was some guy saying, "Man this place is like a ghost town," with the subtlety of a lawn mower in a library. It's three o'clock in the morning dude, SHUT THE F UP. I understand everybody has their own ways of dealing with stressful situations, but is it too much to ask that they do it in a quieter fashion? It is a hospital after all, not the mall. When I'm trying to keep my daughter calm after being poked and prodded- I don't need to hear somebody talking about their leaky kitchen sink. Emoting over the state of your infirmed child is understood, discoursing at volume about your plumbing is not.(End of rant)
The greatest news came when we learned that she was responding well to the treatment, and that we'd be going home today. Her treatment was only just beginning, but now it could continue in the privacy of our home- away from the hubbub of others' chaos, and away from the reminders of how much worse it could be.
I'm glad that at only 11 weeks old, this isn't an experience she'll ever remember. I'm glad that she's too young to know that she should be afraid. And I'm filled with unbelievable gratitude that we're back in our own beds tonight. At one point this morning, I looked down in the eyes of my little girl and asked her to promise me she'd never be sick enough where she'd have to come back to this place. A promise I know she doesn't really have control over- but nonetheless a promise I hope with all my heart she keeps.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol 3: Ready, set... wait!
There was a pizza party/baby shower for a co-worker of mine at work today. He's having a little girl too, and also like with us it's his first. So doing my best grizzled-veteran (of just over two months, mind you), I imparted some advice. Eat that pizza while it's still hot.
It's just another thing that if you think about it, it's like- of course it's hard to sit down and eat a meal when there's a tiny baby involved. But you gotta think, well the baby's gotta sleep at some point, we'll eat then. The thing you need to figure out on your own is that babies are born equipped with built-in heat-seeking sensors that work as such: If it's warm and I'm not eating it- than neither are you. If I'm asleep and dinner is ready to eat- I will wake up. If I am already awake, I will fuss and demand your attention until the food has cooled considerably. At which point you may go about your business, and "enjoy" your meal.
Now luckily, with two parental units, one gets a warmer dinner than the other. And I think my wife and do a pretty good job of switching off. I eat, you tend to the babe... you eat, I wrestle the child. Re-heat and repeat. It works, and it has to because dinner at 10pm on a Tuesday night is not high on my to-do list. And on those few nights where the sensors get jammed somehow and we enjoy a warm meal together at the same time- we feast like... well, like normal people. Grateful, normal people.
It's just another thing that if you think about it, it's like- of course it's hard to sit down and eat a meal when there's a tiny baby involved. But you gotta think, well the baby's gotta sleep at some point, we'll eat then. The thing you need to figure out on your own is that babies are born equipped with built-in heat-seeking sensors that work as such: If it's warm and I'm not eating it- than neither are you. If I'm asleep and dinner is ready to eat- I will wake up. If I am already awake, I will fuss and demand your attention until the food has cooled considerably. At which point you may go about your business, and "enjoy" your meal.
Now luckily, with two parental units, one gets a warmer dinner than the other. And I think my wife and do a pretty good job of switching off. I eat, you tend to the babe... you eat, I wrestle the child. Re-heat and repeat. It works, and it has to because dinner at 10pm on a Tuesday night is not high on my to-do list. And on those few nights where the sensors get jammed somehow and we enjoy a warm meal together at the same time- we feast like... well, like normal people. Grateful, normal people.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, vol. 2: First time for everything
Having a new baby in your life, you encounter firsts everyday. Her first bath, her first smile, the first time she squeezed your hand- even the less desirable but no less memorable first time she poops/pees/spits up on you- all go on the list of new things you experience thanks to this new little bundle of joy. All of these things remind you that you're a parent now, and brings on the joy/stress/wonderment/fear that this little one is going to be completely dependent on you for some time to come.
Which brings me to another first which really made it all hit home. Her first bill. A medical bill, addressed to this little girl, not yet but a few weeks on this earth. And the joy and wonderment more than slightly gives way to the stress and fear when you realize that this dependency isn't just going be an emotional transaction. And yes- we all know how much it costs to raise a child these days- but it's suddenly different when it's black and white (and maybe a little red due to the hospital's logo). It's as if there's a letter attached stating: You owe such and such amount, and guess what? It's just the beginning, pops.
I realize the time will come where she'll pop in the room while I am watching TV or penning my memoirs, and squeak: "Hey Dad, can I have twenty bucks?" But we're not there yet. And yes, we've already spent more than the GDP of some third-world countries on various needs and supplies for her arrival and sustenance, but it's just different when it comes in bill form.
There's one thing I can always count when I wake up in the morning (be it 8am, 4am...): and that is I will get another day of firsts from from my little girl. I know that they can't all be the warm and fuzzy kind- yet part of me wants a little time a buffer of say a few months, to retain the innocent and sun-shiney side of child-rearing. Ah hell, if I'm asking for time- gimme a few decades instead- maybe by that point I'll be ready for the slings and arrows.
Which brings me to another first which really made it all hit home. Her first bill. A medical bill, addressed to this little girl, not yet but a few weeks on this earth. And the joy and wonderment more than slightly gives way to the stress and fear when you realize that this dependency isn't just going be an emotional transaction. And yes- we all know how much it costs to raise a child these days- but it's suddenly different when it's black and white (and maybe a little red due to the hospital's logo). It's as if there's a letter attached stating: You owe such and such amount, and guess what? It's just the beginning, pops.
I realize the time will come where she'll pop in the room while I am watching TV or penning my memoirs, and squeak: "Hey Dad, can I have twenty bucks?" But we're not there yet. And yes, we've already spent more than the GDP of some third-world countries on various needs and supplies for her arrival and sustenance, but it's just different when it comes in bill form.
There's one thing I can always count when I wake up in the morning (be it 8am, 4am...): and that is I will get another day of firsts from from my little girl. I know that they can't all be the warm and fuzzy kind- yet part of me wants a little time a buffer of say a few months, to retain the innocent and sun-shiney side of child-rearing. Ah hell, if I'm asking for time- gimme a few decades instead- maybe by that point I'll be ready for the slings and arrows.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Confessions of a new dad, volume one - D(elivery) Day
After months of staring at ultra-sound images of the contents of my wife's uterus, I knew I would see the contents of what had been contained in the uterus- namely the baby- however I was unaware that, due to the c-section, I would see the uterus itself.
During the surgery, I was positioned at my wife's head- safely tucked behind a curtain. With the various sounds of surgery taking place, I was more than a little interested in what was taking place on the other side. "Am I allowed to peek?" I asked the anesthesiologist, after he peered over the curtain. To which he quickly responded, "No." Oh well.
Fast forward to-- our daughter's out, and I am fawning over her at the warming table- taking pictures and getting acquainted with her while they clean her up and such. I cut the umbilical cord- which surprises me how very like a nice thick piece of calamari it is in its consistency. Grilled, of course, but really high grade calamari- not the cheap stuff you'd just throw in the deep fat fryer- but I digress.
I happen to look back over toward the operating table where, apparently, all the kings horses and all the king's men (and women and doctors and nurses- as it were) are putting my wife back together again. I notice that in the doctor's hands were what looked like guts. You know, guts: Freddy Krueger slashes the guy open, and you see his guts? Guts- that's what it looked like. "Is that the placenta?" I ask, assuming that what has been taken out of my wife were only things that were staying out. "No, it's her uterus," replied the doctor casually, at which point I was told by the nurse to keep my eyes the other direction, lest I pass out on the OR floor. Show over, I obliged, although whilst I snapped more pics of the baby, I wondered what other interesting photo ops lay just a few feet behind me.
If only I had been quick enough on the shutter- perhaps I could have been able to post a picture of my wife's guts, er uterus, on Facebook or something. She could have used it as her profile picture, with the caption, "my guts" or something cleverer like, "me, on the inside." But again, I digress.
Fatherhood begins, and a long list of things I probably never thought I saw or say or do. It only took me 6 weeks to get this post completed- so hopefully I'll post again before she goes off to college.
During the surgery, I was positioned at my wife's head- safely tucked behind a curtain. With the various sounds of surgery taking place, I was more than a little interested in what was taking place on the other side. "Am I allowed to peek?" I asked the anesthesiologist, after he peered over the curtain. To which he quickly responded, "No." Oh well.
Fast forward to-- our daughter's out, and I am fawning over her at the warming table- taking pictures and getting acquainted with her while they clean her up and such. I cut the umbilical cord- which surprises me how very like a nice thick piece of calamari it is in its consistency. Grilled, of course, but really high grade calamari- not the cheap stuff you'd just throw in the deep fat fryer- but I digress.
I happen to look back over toward the operating table where, apparently, all the kings horses and all the king's men (and women and doctors and nurses- as it were) are putting my wife back together again. I notice that in the doctor's hands were what looked like guts. You know, guts: Freddy Krueger slashes the guy open, and you see his guts? Guts- that's what it looked like. "Is that the placenta?" I ask, assuming that what has been taken out of my wife were only things that were staying out. "No, it's her uterus," replied the doctor casually, at which point I was told by the nurse to keep my eyes the other direction, lest I pass out on the OR floor. Show over, I obliged, although whilst I snapped more pics of the baby, I wondered what other interesting photo ops lay just a few feet behind me.
If only I had been quick enough on the shutter- perhaps I could have been able to post a picture of my wife's guts, er uterus, on Facebook or something. She could have used it as her profile picture, with the caption, "my guts" or something cleverer like, "me, on the inside." But again, I digress.
Fatherhood begins, and a long list of things I probably never thought I saw or say or do. It only took me 6 weeks to get this post completed- so hopefully I'll post again before she goes off to college.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Out of the Woods?
Tiger Woods made his first public appearance and statement today after what you could probably characterize as "a couple of bad months." Tiger seemed contrite, visibly shaken, and sincere in his apology. Now begins the veritable fire-storm of coverage- What did he say? How did he say it? Was he sincere enough? I watched a little of his statement, and you know what? Good enough for me. And you know why? Because really, it has nothing to do with me.
Let me be clear about something: Tiger Woods owes the media and general public absolutely nothing. His wife and family? Absolutely. Friends and close supporters? Sure. But for any of us that follow or cover golf or professional sports of any kind, to stand in judgment of this guy seems foolish. He is after all, a human being. I don't care how much money he makes. I don't care what kind of image he put out, or has had put upon him- he is subject to the same issues and problems that any of us can have. It doesn't mean he's a good person, or that I feel sorry for him- I'm just saying that if I, as human being, am not immune to the emotional challenges of life, then why, just because he's a public figure, should he be? Anybody who feels different is living on another planet, or perhaps should maybe work on some of their own issues.
I like watching Tiger play golf. He's an amazing talent. The fact that he is an imperfect being does not sway my perception of him as a golfer. I will continue to watch him, when he returns to play. If you don't want to buy the products he hocks, if you don't want to watch him or root for him because of is transgressions- that is certainly your prerogative. But for anyone who judges him as a person, because of some sort of unreachable ideal that was projected on him, needs only look in mirror before the casting of stones.
I'm the type that's willing to forgive. And it's easy to do, when the person really hasn't done anything to me in the first place. Also, not to put marital infidelity on some sort of sliding scale of wrong-doing, but let's face it- he's not the first guy to cheat on his wife, and he won't be the last. He got caught, and it seems he's taking steps to repair the damage done to his family. He shouldn't get a pass, but he also shouldn't be scorned- least of all by the general public- because bottom line, it's really none of our business.
Let me be clear about something: Tiger Woods owes the media and general public absolutely nothing. His wife and family? Absolutely. Friends and close supporters? Sure. But for any of us that follow or cover golf or professional sports of any kind, to stand in judgment of this guy seems foolish. He is after all, a human being. I don't care how much money he makes. I don't care what kind of image he put out, or has had put upon him- he is subject to the same issues and problems that any of us can have. It doesn't mean he's a good person, or that I feel sorry for him- I'm just saying that if I, as human being, am not immune to the emotional challenges of life, then why, just because he's a public figure, should he be? Anybody who feels different is living on another planet, or perhaps should maybe work on some of their own issues.
I like watching Tiger play golf. He's an amazing talent. The fact that he is an imperfect being does not sway my perception of him as a golfer. I will continue to watch him, when he returns to play. If you don't want to buy the products he hocks, if you don't want to watch him or root for him because of is transgressions- that is certainly your prerogative. But for anyone who judges him as a person, because of some sort of unreachable ideal that was projected on him, needs only look in mirror before the casting of stones.
I'm the type that's willing to forgive. And it's easy to do, when the person really hasn't done anything to me in the first place. Also, not to put marital infidelity on some sort of sliding scale of wrong-doing, but let's face it- he's not the first guy to cheat on his wife, and he won't be the last. He got caught, and it seems he's taking steps to repair the damage done to his family. He shouldn't get a pass, but he also shouldn't be scorned- least of all by the general public- because bottom line, it's really none of our business.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Groundhog Day Nonsense
I'm not feeling it.
The idea of allowing an over-grown rodent to predict the near meteorological future isn't flying with me. I get it- believe me- I get it. The pomp and circumstance of hauling this groundhog - who no longer lives in the ground, by the way- out every year, the ceremony, the pictures... it's very dear, and I'm sure he enjoys it immensely.
So legend has it- if the groundhog comes out and sees his shadow, he gets scared and goes back in and it's six more weeks of winter. I've got a problem with this. If he sees his shadow, then there's gotta be some semblance of sun out, so how does that constitute more wintry days ahead of us? Don't insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of groundhogs. There must be some sort of international allegiance (or at least a Facebook page) for groundhogs who are furious over the fact that human kind has invented a scenario in which these hogs of the ground don't understand the basic principles of seasons; or that they are such cowardly creatures as to be scared into six weeks of self-imposed imprisonment by the sight of their own shadow. I mean, honestly. Honestly.
I would love for one uppity groundhog to walk out, and declare "It's February 2nd, of course there's about six more weeks of winter left. Look at a calendar, douche bags." And then walk back into his domicile with his middle claw extended in the air for all to see. Such a groundhog would have my admiration.
But until then, it's Punxutawney Phil, every February 2nd forever and ever- or at least until the groundhogs rise up and destroy us.
The idea of allowing an over-grown rodent to predict the near meteorological future isn't flying with me. I get it- believe me- I get it. The pomp and circumstance of hauling this groundhog - who no longer lives in the ground, by the way- out every year, the ceremony, the pictures... it's very dear, and I'm sure he enjoys it immensely.
So legend has it- if the groundhog comes out and sees his shadow, he gets scared and goes back in and it's six more weeks of winter. I've got a problem with this. If he sees his shadow, then there's gotta be some semblance of sun out, so how does that constitute more wintry days ahead of us? Don't insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of groundhogs. There must be some sort of international allegiance (or at least a Facebook page) for groundhogs who are furious over the fact that human kind has invented a scenario in which these hogs of the ground don't understand the basic principles of seasons; or that they are such cowardly creatures as to be scared into six weeks of self-imposed imprisonment by the sight of their own shadow. I mean, honestly. Honestly.
I would love for one uppity groundhog to walk out, and declare "It's February 2nd, of course there's about six more weeks of winter left. Look at a calendar, douche bags." And then walk back into his domicile with his middle claw extended in the air for all to see. Such a groundhog would have my admiration.
But until then, it's Punxutawney Phil, every February 2nd forever and ever- or at least until the groundhogs rise up and destroy us.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The year we made contact?
2010. I mean- man! 2000 and 10. Twenty-ten. Geez Louise. Remember when that number was just total science fiction? Flying cars, vacations to the moon, not to mention the 1984 movie: "2010: The Year We Make Contact" - the title of which having something to do with making contact with a lost spacecraft, as well as making new discoveries on the moons of Jupiter (that's if memory serves, as it's probably been 20 years since I've seen the movie). And while flying cars have yet to hit the market, and outer-space trips are available only to the mega-rich, I do believe we are still waiting on that whole "making contact" thing.
Not to say we are out of touch, per se- Facebook and text messaging and the world wide web itself keep us abreast of even the menial details of each other's lives: Who-had-what for breakfast, or who's-wearing-what on which red carpet... we what's going on, for better or worse. But this isn't really one of those, "how connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so I digress.
Recently, while trying to resolve a matter of supreme annoyance in regards to a present I had ordered for my wife for Christmas- I did what anyone might do these days. Go to the website I ordered from, and look for the "Contact Us" link to try and right the situation. Now with all the technology at all of fingertips these days, this should make the whole Contacting-us thing a simple transaction. But, no it's- "press 1 for this, press two for that." Or in this case, it was "leave a message and we'll get back to you within 48 hours..." Or for faster service, "visit our website or send us an email, and we'll return your message within 24 hours." And while these response times are extreme for nowadays, the actual the fact that the contacting part of "contact us" seems harder than ever is the norm. (At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man) There is no contact when it comes to customer service- and some prefer that way these days- but how hard is to make eye contact with someone across the counter at the drug store. If that's too much to ask for, then hoping for a little virtual-face time for an internet or phone transaction is probably a pipe dream. So perhaps we just change "Contact us" to- "See if we care" or "You've got to be kidding."
2010 has brought us to a world that is indeed uber-connected, but we've got a long way to go before we've actually made contact. Sorrowfully, this has turned into one those "How connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so feel free to stop reading now.
Not to say we are out of touch, per se- Facebook and text messaging and the world wide web itself keep us abreast of even the menial details of each other's lives: Who-had-what for breakfast, or who's-wearing-what on which red carpet... we what's going on, for better or worse. But this isn't really one of those, "how connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so I digress.
Recently, while trying to resolve a matter of supreme annoyance in regards to a present I had ordered for my wife for Christmas- I did what anyone might do these days. Go to the website I ordered from, and look for the "Contact Us" link to try and right the situation. Now with all the technology at all of fingertips these days, this should make the whole Contacting-us thing a simple transaction. But, no it's- "press 1 for this, press two for that." Or in this case, it was "leave a message and we'll get back to you within 48 hours..." Or for faster service, "visit our website or send us an email, and we'll return your message within 24 hours." And while these response times are extreme for nowadays, the actual the fact that the contacting part of "contact us" seems harder than ever is the norm. (At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man) There is no contact when it comes to customer service- and some prefer that way these days- but how hard is to make eye contact with someone across the counter at the drug store. If that's too much to ask for, then hoping for a little virtual-face time for an internet or phone transaction is probably a pipe dream. So perhaps we just change "Contact us" to- "See if we care" or "You've got to be kidding."
2010 has brought us to a world that is indeed uber-connected, but we've got a long way to go before we've actually made contact. Sorrowfully, this has turned into one those "How connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so feel free to stop reading now.
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