Musings
It's been a while since I wrote in this blog. A long while. I probably would have been even longer had it not been for an angry reaction to a post. I've deleted the post, because the anger was probably justified, and the most appropriate response seemed to be to delete it. I won't go into that in any detail, because then I'd just be making the same mistake again.
But the incident makes me want to express a few meandering thoughts. I am always struck by the fine line one walks when writing in a blog. How personal should one be? When you write personal stuff on a blog you're inviting commentary on the personal stuff from strangers, or at the least people you wouldn't normally share you're personal stuff with. People might disapprove or disagree and they may not be polite or thoughtful when they do so. I'm a shy and uptight Midwestern boy, not far removed from Obama's bitter people, so the idea of a blog makes me uneasy. Conflict makes me uneasy. Being judged by others makes me uneasy. Lot's of things make me uneasy. If I didn't love writing, and if the idea that people would read any of this wasn't simultaneously abstract and ridiculous, I couldn't think about doing this.
I have done it, though, and I haven't just written about myself. When you write about other people and their lives, they may read it and be unappreciative. When you write your honest opinions about other people's lives, the chances of backlash are much higher. People can be hurt and friendships can be destroyed, or at least seriously impinged. On the other hand, if you're writing a personal blog and being less than honest, what's the point? In an actual conversation involving someone other than my wife I might not say half of what I type, for a lot of reasons. I'm not sure which way that cuts. Certainly, one reveals a lot about themselves in their reflections on other people, and not all of it will be good. In this unmentioned case, that was certainly true. Who knows, maybe it's worthwhile if you learn something about yourself, and you use that knowledge in the future.
I do think it's true that people often aren't as thoughtful in blogs as they would be, and would expect others to be in person. Every minute I waste reading responses to articles on the election confirms that. And I'm as susceptible to that as anyone else, although you won't find me knocking off angry salvos at a presidential candidate and his or her supporters as if the rival candidate was my aunt or my second cousin. It is very easy to forget that real people are out there somewhere and can read what you write. It's even easier to think say and write stuff without really thinking it through. For some the cause might be a yearning for a female president, for me it is the yearning for the perfect phrase or some particularly biting bit of humor. Whatever the cause, the end result is still thoughtlessness, inappropriate statements, hurt feelings, uncalled for nastiness, etc.
I suppose I'm back in the blogging business, for whatever that's worth. I'm somewhat recharged and ready to continue to describe the life and times and potentially inappropriate thoughts of one stay at home dad. I'm certainly still at home, although not entirely by choice anymore (if you have a job you'd like to give me, please do! :) ).
I guess that the theme of this first wandering diatribe is the importance of thoughtfulness and consideration of the feelings of others, and also the importance of a cognizance and recognition of your own feelings and vulnerabilities ... even on the Internet. For me, I think it's important to be able to admit when I might be wrong, and recognize when it doesn't matter whether I'm right. That would be an important skill to pass on to my daughter.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
The Phone
Every Tuesday Dipity and I attend a free activity at a local hospital. It is called Baby Bop N'Jam. Dipity loves saying it. She always throws in a dramatic pause before she says "Jam," and she says "Jam" with great gusto. It is hilarious. Also hilarious is what she does when she's at Baby Bop Nnnnn ... Jam.
I should start with what she doesn't do. She doesn't play with the other kids. She doesn't acknowledge that there are other kids, unless they get in her way. Of course, none of them really acknowledge any of the other kids. It is parallel play at its finest. Dipity also doesn't sing and dance during the sing-a-long portion of the program.
So what does she do? Two weeks ago she parked herself in front of the bookshelf and read. Last week she went ran around, climbed on the mats, went through the tunnels, and looked in the mirror. Three weeks ago she played with the kitchen. This week she was on the phone. She walked around with the plastic phone from the play kitchen glued to her ear, periodically saying "hello?"
The phone routine was particularly funny, until one mother said "she really is a girl, isn't she?" My immediate reaction was anger at the assignment of traditionally feminine traits to my daughter, and then I began picturing phone bills. Suddenly I wanted her to go back to playing with blocks, or even dollies or the kitchen. I was about to say trucks, but they aren't cheap either. I surely don't want her playing dress up.
I was in the middle of a financial panic attack when Dipity offered me the phone. "Oh hi mama. You want to know what song we're singing? It's head and shoulders. No, not the shampoo ditty. Here. Dipity and I will do it for you. Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes ... Eyes and Ears and Mouth and Nose ..."
And after touching her head twice and her mouth once, she took the phone back. She was done singing. All I could do was laugh.
Every Tuesday Dipity and I attend a free activity at a local hospital. It is called Baby Bop N'Jam. Dipity loves saying it. She always throws in a dramatic pause before she says "Jam," and she says "Jam" with great gusto. It is hilarious. Also hilarious is what she does when she's at Baby Bop Nnnnn ... Jam.
I should start with what she doesn't do. She doesn't play with the other kids. She doesn't acknowledge that there are other kids, unless they get in her way. Of course, none of them really acknowledge any of the other kids. It is parallel play at its finest. Dipity also doesn't sing and dance during the sing-a-long portion of the program.
So what does she do? Two weeks ago she parked herself in front of the bookshelf and read. Last week she went ran around, climbed on the mats, went through the tunnels, and looked in the mirror. Three weeks ago she played with the kitchen. This week she was on the phone. She walked around with the plastic phone from the play kitchen glued to her ear, periodically saying "hello?"
The phone routine was particularly funny, until one mother said "she really is a girl, isn't she?" My immediate reaction was anger at the assignment of traditionally feminine traits to my daughter, and then I began picturing phone bills. Suddenly I wanted her to go back to playing with blocks, or even dollies or the kitchen. I was about to say trucks, but they aren't cheap either. I surely don't want her playing dress up.
I was in the middle of a financial panic attack when Dipity offered me the phone. "Oh hi mama. You want to know what song we're singing? It's head and shoulders. No, not the shampoo ditty. Here. Dipity and I will do it for you. Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes ... Eyes and Ears and Mouth and Nose ..."
And after touching her head twice and her mouth once, she took the phone back. She was done singing. All I could do was laugh.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Thankful
I am thankful that I live now, as opposed to some moment in the future when parents will be able to order up their kids from a menu. It might have been nice to be able to order up blue eyes, red hair and every bit of height we could muster, but I like Dipity the way she is. Besides, she's 90th percentile in height, has blue eyes, and occasionally if the light is right there appears to be a hint of red in her hair. And most importantly, if my wife and I had been faced with a menu of options to choose from for our first child, we'd still be choosing.
I just finished putting a first coat of Vienna Beige paint on a wall in our front hallway. It was the first coat of Vienna beige, but not the first coat of paint. The first coat, actually the first three, were primer. Fourth and fifth were a very light blue. Sixth was a pea soup green. Seventh was primer. Eighth was an orangey shade that looked nice in our office, but turned out to be very bright and very orange in the hallway. Ninth was primer. Which brings us back to Vienna Beige. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe, if we could make our kids to order, we'd have four or five by now. Maybe in the distant future you’ll be able to adjust your kids as they grow up. If that's the case, we might be OK there. For now, though, I'm going to believe that we were lucky to have this decision taken out of our hands.
I am thankful that I live now, as opposed to some moment in the future when parents will be able to order up their kids from a menu. It might have been nice to be able to order up blue eyes, red hair and every bit of height we could muster, but I like Dipity the way she is. Besides, she's 90th percentile in height, has blue eyes, and occasionally if the light is right there appears to be a hint of red in her hair. And most importantly, if my wife and I had been faced with a menu of options to choose from for our first child, we'd still be choosing.
I just finished putting a first coat of Vienna Beige paint on a wall in our front hallway. It was the first coat of Vienna beige, but not the first coat of paint. The first coat, actually the first three, were primer. Fourth and fifth were a very light blue. Sixth was a pea soup green. Seventh was primer. Eighth was an orangey shade that looked nice in our office, but turned out to be very bright and very orange in the hallway. Ninth was primer. Which brings us back to Vienna Beige. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe, if we could make our kids to order, we'd have four or five by now. Maybe in the distant future you’ll be able to adjust your kids as they grow up. If that's the case, we might be OK there. For now, though, I'm going to believe that we were lucky to have this decision taken out of our hands.
Troubled
As a father of a girl, I am beginning to find the Democratic Primary just a bit troubling.
As Obama has gradually ascended to front runner status, I have been mostly happy. I have liked Obama ever since I first heard one of his speeches on television, back when he was running for Senate. I have also always had a great deal of ambivalence when it comes to Hillary. I find her approach to be too partisan, combative, and polarizing; her governing style to be a little too back roomesque; the record of her husband's foreign policy team, likely to be hers as well, to be good only in comparison with the last eight years; her campaign style to be decidedly too nasty; and her husband to be constitutionally banned from having the third term he appears to aspire to.
It certainly is refreshing that Obama is now capturing as much of the white vote as Clinton. What is less refreshing is how much of the white male vote he is capturing, and how many of those white males say they would vote for McCain over Clinton. White women voting for Clinton would mostly support Obama in the general election. Why is the same not true for white male supporters of Obama? It seems that while the country is ready for a Black President, it may not be ready for a female one. There may even be a grain of truth to the idea that Clinton is in jeopardy of losing the Democratic nomination to Obama because she is an assertive, capable, and even nasty woman. These are all qualities traditionally sought after in male leaders, but not so valued in women.
I knew that Dipity would grow up in a world filled with sex happy boys, and predatory adults. I figured that she would have to navigate stereotypes and expectations. Hell, the pink clothing was piling up before she was even born. I'm not nearly naive enough to think that women will have solved the career vs. motherhood conundrum by the time she has to start worrying about it. I certainly know that the prospects of her becoming a professional athlete and supporting me in the style which I deserve to be kept and to which I could easily become accustomed were less than if she were a boy (and less if my wife had gone along with my plan to ask Michael Jordan for some of his sperm). I figured, however, that female leadership in all walks of life would be accepted and acceptable to the majority of Americans. I knew the idea of a woman as President would bother more than a few men. I didn't think that very many would be threatened enough by the idea of a woman as commander and chief not to vote for her, even if doing so compromised their values. Obviously I have been a little naive, and my wife and I will have some extra explaining and warning to do in a decade or two.
As a father of a girl, I am beginning to find the Democratic Primary just a bit troubling.
As Obama has gradually ascended to front runner status, I have been mostly happy. I have liked Obama ever since I first heard one of his speeches on television, back when he was running for Senate. I have also always had a great deal of ambivalence when it comes to Hillary. I find her approach to be too partisan, combative, and polarizing; her governing style to be a little too back roomesque; the record of her husband's foreign policy team, likely to be hers as well, to be good only in comparison with the last eight years; her campaign style to be decidedly too nasty; and her husband to be constitutionally banned from having the third term he appears to aspire to.
It certainly is refreshing that Obama is now capturing as much of the white vote as Clinton. What is less refreshing is how much of the white male vote he is capturing, and how many of those white males say they would vote for McCain over Clinton. White women voting for Clinton would mostly support Obama in the general election. Why is the same not true for white male supporters of Obama? It seems that while the country is ready for a Black President, it may not be ready for a female one. There may even be a grain of truth to the idea that Clinton is in jeopardy of losing the Democratic nomination to Obama because she is an assertive, capable, and even nasty woman. These are all qualities traditionally sought after in male leaders, but not so valued in women.
I knew that Dipity would grow up in a world filled with sex happy boys, and predatory adults. I figured that she would have to navigate stereotypes and expectations. Hell, the pink clothing was piling up before she was even born. I'm not nearly naive enough to think that women will have solved the career vs. motherhood conundrum by the time she has to start worrying about it. I certainly know that the prospects of her becoming a professional athlete and supporting me in the style which I deserve to be kept and to which I could easily become accustomed were less than if she were a boy (and less if my wife had gone along with my plan to ask Michael Jordan for some of his sperm). I figured, however, that female leadership in all walks of life would be accepted and acceptable to the majority of Americans. I knew the idea of a woman as President would bother more than a few men. I didn't think that very many would be threatened enough by the idea of a woman as commander and chief not to vote for her, even if doing so compromised their values. Obviously I have been a little naive, and my wife and I will have some extra explaining and warning to do in a decade or two.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Chef Dipity
Dipity and I attend a music class once a week, or at least that is what we aspire to. Given ear infections, bronchiolitis, and a febrile seizure, regular attendance has been a little tough. When we do make it, Dipity has a great time. She loves dancing, and she loves all of the props that are given out. She shakes the rattles, dances with and swims in the scarves, slaps and drums the sticks, rolls and throws (and sometimes kicks) the balls, and plays with and occasionally kisses the flashlight. Every week the kids have the opportunity to simply play along with an instrumental number, and don't have to worry about dancing, singing, or making hand gestures. Sometimes the big bin that is dumped out on the floor contains a great variety of 'official' musical instruments, and sometimes it contains instruments concocted out of pots, pans, whisks, and plastic fruit and vegetables. Dipity knows exactly what she is supposed to do with the 'official' instruments: shake them for all their worth, grab them out of another kid's hand, and occasionally hit someone in the head. She knows exactly what to do with the kitchen stuff too, but unlike all the other activities what Dipity does is not what everyone else is doing. All the other kids make music. Dipity makes a soufflé. She stirs, mixes, and tastes. What else are you supposed to do with pots, pans, spoons, and bananas? She loves music and music class, but maybe she needs another kind of outlet. Cooking class here we come?
Dipity and I attend a music class once a week, or at least that is what we aspire to. Given ear infections, bronchiolitis, and a febrile seizure, regular attendance has been a little tough. When we do make it, Dipity has a great time. She loves dancing, and she loves all of the props that are given out. She shakes the rattles, dances with and swims in the scarves, slaps and drums the sticks, rolls and throws (and sometimes kicks) the balls, and plays with and occasionally kisses the flashlight. Every week the kids have the opportunity to simply play along with an instrumental number, and don't have to worry about dancing, singing, or making hand gestures. Sometimes the big bin that is dumped out on the floor contains a great variety of 'official' musical instruments, and sometimes it contains instruments concocted out of pots, pans, whisks, and plastic fruit and vegetables. Dipity knows exactly what she is supposed to do with the 'official' instruments: shake them for all their worth, grab them out of another kid's hand, and occasionally hit someone in the head. She knows exactly what to do with the kitchen stuff too, but unlike all the other activities what Dipity does is not what everyone else is doing. All the other kids make music. Dipity makes a soufflé. She stirs, mixes, and tastes. What else are you supposed to do with pots, pans, spoons, and bananas? She loves music and music class, but maybe she needs another kind of outlet. Cooking class here we come?
Friday, February 15, 2008
V-Day
Valentines day was a rough one. Dipity is still sick, although better today. Yesterday she was incredibly grumpy. She was both tired and tired of me torturing her with medicine droppers and nebulizer treatments. Two blocks before the conclusion of our diaper run, the day and the week caught up with her. I brought her in and laid her on the floor, and for the sake of postreity I took some pictures.
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Valentines day was a rough one. Dipity is still sick, although better today. Yesterday she was incredibly grumpy. She was both tired and tired of me torturing her with medicine droppers and nebulizer treatments. Two blocks before the conclusion of our diaper run, the day and the week caught up with her. I brought her in and laid her on the floor, and for the sake of postreity I took some pictures.
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E-Mail
E-mail is a funny medium. I am a funny person. Combine the two and the result is a little odd.
Some people type e-mails quickly, focusing on the substance to be conveyed rather than the style with which it is conveyed. That wouldn't be me.
First of all, I run spell check on every e-mail, even if the e-mail says Thanks, I'll be there. Of course, I'd never just write "Thanks, I'll be there," but if I did I'd make sure it wasn't "Thnks, I'll be there," or "Thanks I'll be tere." And I'd take a look at it to make sure it wasn't "Thanks, ill be there," or "Thanks, I'll bet here."
Second, even if you do receive an e-mail from me along the lines of "Thanks, I'll be there," be sure that I spent some time writing it. It might have started out as: "Thanks for the invitation. I wouldn't miss it. I do so appreciate being included. Let me know if I can bring anything." Then I would have taken out the sentence about bringing something and replaced it with "Let me know if I can help with anything." Next I would have dropped the offer of help all together. After that, some scrambling of ideas and phrases would occur. "Thanks for indicting me. I wouldn't miss it for the world." "The invitation is awesome. I'll be there." "It was nice of you to send off an invite, I'll be there." "Thank you for the kind invitation. I'll certainly be attending." Some of this, like "I wouldn't miss it for the world," I would type out knowing full well I'd never include it in a million years. Eventually I would settle on "Thanks, I'll be there," or "Thank you, I can't wait," or "Thank you, it sounds like a fun time," or maybe even "I'll be there. I can't wait to see you."
If the e-mail is truly the stuff of contemplation, then I will take half a day to send it. That is, after all, what the drafts folder is for.
What I find most intimidating about e-mail is the marked absence of tone. What I find most interesting is all the lost dialogue, the facts, tidbits, arguments, or words of encouragement that go unsaid. Whole conversations go unsaid, or at least that's the way it is for me. But, I'm kind of funny.
E-mail is a funny medium. I am a funny person. Combine the two and the result is a little odd.
Some people type e-mails quickly, focusing on the substance to be conveyed rather than the style with which it is conveyed. That wouldn't be me.
First of all, I run spell check on every e-mail, even if the e-mail says Thanks, I'll be there. Of course, I'd never just write "Thanks, I'll be there," but if I did I'd make sure it wasn't "Thnks, I'll be there," or "Thanks I'll be tere." And I'd take a look at it to make sure it wasn't "Thanks, ill be there," or "Thanks, I'll bet here."
Second, even if you do receive an e-mail from me along the lines of "Thanks, I'll be there," be sure that I spent some time writing it. It might have started out as: "Thanks for the invitation. I wouldn't miss it. I do so appreciate being included. Let me know if I can bring anything." Then I would have taken out the sentence about bringing something and replaced it with "Let me know if I can help with anything." Next I would have dropped the offer of help all together. After that, some scrambling of ideas and phrases would occur. "Thanks for indicting me. I wouldn't miss it for the world." "The invitation is awesome. I'll be there." "It was nice of you to send off an invite, I'll be there." "Thank you for the kind invitation. I'll certainly be attending." Some of this, like "I wouldn't miss it for the world," I would type out knowing full well I'd never include it in a million years. Eventually I would settle on "Thanks, I'll be there," or "Thank you, I can't wait," or "Thank you, it sounds like a fun time," or maybe even "I'll be there. I can't wait to see you."
If the e-mail is truly the stuff of contemplation, then I will take half a day to send it. That is, after all, what the drafts folder is for.
What I find most intimidating about e-mail is the marked absence of tone. What I find most interesting is all the lost dialogue, the facts, tidbits, arguments, or words of encouragement that go unsaid. Whole conversations go unsaid, or at least that's the way it is for me. But, I'm kind of funny.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Decision Making
I am still unsure of who I will vote for in the suddenly meaningful Pennsylvania primary. I'm leaning towards Obama, but I haven't totally made up my mind. I have been paying close attention to endorsements. I haven't, however, heard from the characters that are most influential in my life now. And they are unlikely to speak up before November, let alone April, so I will have to make educated guesses as to how they might vote.
First up is Curious George. He is an African American in the truest sense of the label, so that would seem to point towards Obama. Given the popularity of reality television and the fascination of American humans with the lives of people like Brittany Spears and Lindsey Lohan, George may want to distance himself from any connection to people. Thus he might denounce evolution, making Huckabee his candidate of choice. But, he shares an apartment with a man that wears a yellow hat. This alternative lifestyle might make it hard for him to vote for any Republican. He is curious, which would make one think that he would support change. So, George would probably endorse Obama.
Mother Goose has to be a Clinton supporter. She is an old white woman.
Maria and Luis are old Puerto Ricans, so they would be right there with Mother Goose. Gabby, as a young Puerto Rican, probably would go for Obama. Gordon and his family would be likely to be in Obama's camp. Oscar might be at a loss if he had to choose from among Obama, Clinton, and McCain. All three stress the importance of protecting the environment, and Oscar loves "anything dirty or dingy or dusty." Elmo just strikes me as a Ron Paul supporter. He probably gets his voting guidance from Mr. Noodle's brother Mr. Noodle. Paul seems the right choice for Mr. Noodle. Baby Bear is a bit of a schemer. He also is willing to step on his friends to get ahead. He stole the triangle lover award away from Telly, despite the fact that he wasn't a triangle lover and he knew that his best friend Telly was a triangle lover and was hoping to have the honor himself. Baby Bear sounds like he might be a Clinton, and with the way Bill gets around ... well Goldilocks might not have been the only one trying out the beds.
Clifford was a runt that became the biggest dog around, so Bill Clinton's story might resonate and a third term might be an attractive thought. He does show an ability to work with other species, though, so this might be another endorsement for Obama. Since he's a dog, he's colorblind. I'm not sure who that favors. He may be right to life given his status as the runt, which could point in the direction of McCain or Huckabee. If he's a Republican, his vote may depend on the geographic location of Birdwell Island. It's important to remember that Clifford lives on an island connected to the mainland by a ferry. He is isolated from the real world, and thus might be a Ron Paul supporter. Clifford's might really be the endorsement to watch for given the fact that each candidate has some potential pull.
Well, I'm not sure this has helped. I think I'll have to go get Dipity's Richard Scarry books out, and look for clues as to how Huckle and Lowly might vote.
I am still unsure of who I will vote for in the suddenly meaningful Pennsylvania primary. I'm leaning towards Obama, but I haven't totally made up my mind. I have been paying close attention to endorsements. I haven't, however, heard from the characters that are most influential in my life now. And they are unlikely to speak up before November, let alone April, so I will have to make educated guesses as to how they might vote.
First up is Curious George. He is an African American in the truest sense of the label, so that would seem to point towards Obama. Given the popularity of reality television and the fascination of American humans with the lives of people like Brittany Spears and Lindsey Lohan, George may want to distance himself from any connection to people. Thus he might denounce evolution, making Huckabee his candidate of choice. But, he shares an apartment with a man that wears a yellow hat. This alternative lifestyle might make it hard for him to vote for any Republican. He is curious, which would make one think that he would support change. So, George would probably endorse Obama.
Mother Goose has to be a Clinton supporter. She is an old white woman.
Maria and Luis are old Puerto Ricans, so they would be right there with Mother Goose. Gabby, as a young Puerto Rican, probably would go for Obama. Gordon and his family would be likely to be in Obama's camp. Oscar might be at a loss if he had to choose from among Obama, Clinton, and McCain. All three stress the importance of protecting the environment, and Oscar loves "anything dirty or dingy or dusty." Elmo just strikes me as a Ron Paul supporter. He probably gets his voting guidance from Mr. Noodle's brother Mr. Noodle. Paul seems the right choice for Mr. Noodle. Baby Bear is a bit of a schemer. He also is willing to step on his friends to get ahead. He stole the triangle lover award away from Telly, despite the fact that he wasn't a triangle lover and he knew that his best friend Telly was a triangle lover and was hoping to have the honor himself. Baby Bear sounds like he might be a Clinton, and with the way Bill gets around ... well Goldilocks might not have been the only one trying out the beds.
Clifford was a runt that became the biggest dog around, so Bill Clinton's story might resonate and a third term might be an attractive thought. He does show an ability to work with other species, though, so this might be another endorsement for Obama. Since he's a dog, he's colorblind. I'm not sure who that favors. He may be right to life given his status as the runt, which could point in the direction of McCain or Huckabee. If he's a Republican, his vote may depend on the geographic location of Birdwell Island. It's important to remember that Clifford lives on an island connected to the mainland by a ferry. He is isolated from the real world, and thus might be a Ron Paul supporter. Clifford's might really be the endorsement to watch for given the fact that each candidate has some potential pull.
Well, I'm not sure this has helped. I think I'll have to go get Dipity's Richard Scarry books out, and look for clues as to how Huckle and Lowly might vote.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Sick
Dipity has been sick for a few weeks now. In this blog I will describe the last few weeks in two ways. First I have simply listed the major medically related events. Second I have written a poem.
List
Dipity has a cold
Dipity has a cough
It’s in her lungs
She needs a nebulizer
On the follow-up visit, the doctor discovers ear Infections
She gets and successfully takes a 10 day course of antibiotics
She transitions down to two nebulizer treatments
Two days after said course is finished, she begins running a fever
A different and more choke like cough appears
Fever rises
Febrile convulsions
We go to the emergency room with a fever of 104.8
We get antibiotics
Dipity stops cooperating with the administration of medicine
We see our doctor the next day
Our doctor wants us Dipity to take a different antibiotic
The fever hits 104 again, but no convulsions
We master the sit on your child and ram medicine down her throat technique
Things begin to improve
We cross our fingers as night comes again
Sitting
I’m sitting on her
Her head is wedged between my knees
My wife is kneeling in front of me
Syringe in one hand
Looking down at our daughter
Our captive looks to both of us for help
Eyes passing back and forth
As she calls out our names
“Mama”
“Dada”
And then
As I attempt to reason with the twenty month old
She,
Alternating between sobs and screams
Gives me back my arguments
“Sairahhs medcine”
“Own good”
“Sohhhy Sairrea”
“Get bedder”
“Medcine”
“No feeing wehh”
If it was funny
It’d be hilarious
If all the “medicine” wasn’t on my leg, the carpet,
And the prisoners hair
I’d laugh
My wife leaves to refill the syringe for another attempt
The detainee watches me from behind sobs, medicine, and bubbling mucus
I’m still sitting on her
Dipity has been sick for a few weeks now. In this blog I will describe the last few weeks in two ways. First I have simply listed the major medically related events. Second I have written a poem.
List
Dipity has a cold
Dipity has a cough
It’s in her lungs
She needs a nebulizer
On the follow-up visit, the doctor discovers ear Infections
She gets and successfully takes a 10 day course of antibiotics
She transitions down to two nebulizer treatments
Two days after said course is finished, she begins running a fever
A different and more choke like cough appears
Fever rises
Febrile convulsions
We go to the emergency room with a fever of 104.8
We get antibiotics
Dipity stops cooperating with the administration of medicine
We see our doctor the next day
Our doctor wants us Dipity to take a different antibiotic
The fever hits 104 again, but no convulsions
We master the sit on your child and ram medicine down her throat technique
Things begin to improve
We cross our fingers as night comes again
Sitting
I’m sitting on her
Her head is wedged between my knees
My wife is kneeling in front of me
Syringe in one hand
Looking down at our daughter
Our captive looks to both of us for help
Eyes passing back and forth
As she calls out our names
“Mama”
“Dada”
And then
As I attempt to reason with the twenty month old
She,
Alternating between sobs and screams
Gives me back my arguments
“Sairahhs medcine”
“Own good”
“Sohhhy Sairrea”
“Get bedder”
“Medcine”
“No feeing wehh”
If it was funny
It’d be hilarious
If all the “medicine” wasn’t on my leg, the carpet,
And the prisoners hair
I’d laugh
My wife leaves to refill the syringe for another attempt
The detainee watches me from behind sobs, medicine, and bubbling mucus
I’m still sitting on her
Monday, February 11, 2008
What A Difference A Year Makes
Last week my wife had a work-related conference to attend in our nation’s capitol, so she brought Dipity and me along for the ride. While she was working, Dipity and I hit the mall and the museums. We did the same thing last year ... but being that last year Dipity was 9 months old and now she's 21 months old, it really wasn't the same thing.
Last year she went everywhere in either her stroller or her baby bjorn, and I went in and out of museums, and bag check and metal detector lines, with a large and theoretically moveable pile of stuff. This year I had less stuff, and carried every bit of it ... including Dipity, for the vast majority of the time. Dipity's favorite phrase was "dada up."
Last year there was less Dipity.
Last year I had three or so hours of pushing a sleeping infant in a stroller, a wonderful time in which I was able to view museum exhibits at my own pace. This year I had forty five minutes of carrying a sleeping toddler, during which I did indeed move slowly through the exhibits.
Last year it was clear that her favorites were the planes at the air and space museum and the animals at the natural history museum. This year she had the exact same favorites, but was much more vocal about it. My favorite moment was when she shouted "Panda."
Last year all the time when Dipity was asleep and we weren't had to be spent in the bathroom or in the dark. This year ... it was the same. I am still sore from the two hours of typing, and thirty minutes of unplanned napping, I did on the bathroom floor.
Last year we went to dinner at a restaurant that was close and loud, this year we did the same.
Last year we forgot all of Dipity's food, bowls, bottles, etc. This year we didn't forget anything.
Last year we ended the trip by spending the night with my wife's aunt and uncle in Maryland. This year we did the same thing, and again had a great time and great food. We also had the chance to meet someone my wife met through her blog. Technology is a strange and wonderful thing.
Some stuff remained the same, but so much changed. Next year should be interesting, maybe in more ways than one.
Last week my wife had a work-related conference to attend in our nation’s capitol, so she brought Dipity and me along for the ride. While she was working, Dipity and I hit the mall and the museums. We did the same thing last year ... but being that last year Dipity was 9 months old and now she's 21 months old, it really wasn't the same thing.
Last year she went everywhere in either her stroller or her baby bjorn, and I went in and out of museums, and bag check and metal detector lines, with a large and theoretically moveable pile of stuff. This year I had less stuff, and carried every bit of it ... including Dipity, for the vast majority of the time. Dipity's favorite phrase was "dada up."
Last year there was less Dipity.
Last year I had three or so hours of pushing a sleeping infant in a stroller, a wonderful time in which I was able to view museum exhibits at my own pace. This year I had forty five minutes of carrying a sleeping toddler, during which I did indeed move slowly through the exhibits.
Last year it was clear that her favorites were the planes at the air and space museum and the animals at the natural history museum. This year she had the exact same favorites, but was much more vocal about it. My favorite moment was when she shouted "Panda."
Last year all the time when Dipity was asleep and we weren't had to be spent in the bathroom or in the dark. This year ... it was the same. I am still sore from the two hours of typing, and thirty minutes of unplanned napping, I did on the bathroom floor.
Last year we went to dinner at a restaurant that was close and loud, this year we did the same.
Last year we forgot all of Dipity's food, bowls, bottles, etc. This year we didn't forget anything.
Last year we ended the trip by spending the night with my wife's aunt and uncle in Maryland. This year we did the same thing, and again had a great time and great food. We also had the chance to meet someone my wife met through her blog. Technology is a strange and wonderful thing.
Some stuff remained the same, but so much changed. Next year should be interesting, maybe in more ways than one.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Friday, February 01, 2008
Hopeful Note
I just had a thought that made me smile, so I'm sharing it. Maybe McCain will win the Republican nomination, and maybe it will be the first step in re-marginalizing evangelical Christians. I am happy to let them believe what they want to, but it would be nice if they didn't wield power out of proportion with their numbers and way out of proportion with the amount of analytical thought put into their positions. It would be nice if what I saw on television was true, and many evangelicals were putting their focus off of politics and onto helping people. Wouldn't that be a novel thought? It's not like Jesus (their prophet, lord, and leader) tried to help people during his life. I mean, he didn't feed the hungry, or heal the lame, or ... wait he did? Evangelicals might even find the world changed to their liking where they to put more effort into battling poverty, spread education, provide jobs, etc and less efort into picketing and proselytizing. Less poverty and drug abuse and more emphasis on education might mean fewer abortions, for example. Volunteering at a soup kitchen or tutoring a low income child might prove more conducive to change than picketing an abortion clinic? It would be cool if family food would trump family values. It would be nice if nuance entered the evangelical worldview.
Maybe I'm dreaming, but it's a nice dream. Of course, picturing McCain as a liberal on social issues, or even as a moderate, would be dreaming too.
I asked Dipity what she thought about the future of evangelical Christians in the United States. She said "dadas bawl." So there you go.
I just had a thought that made me smile, so I'm sharing it. Maybe McCain will win the Republican nomination, and maybe it will be the first step in re-marginalizing evangelical Christians. I am happy to let them believe what they want to, but it would be nice if they didn't wield power out of proportion with their numbers and way out of proportion with the amount of analytical thought put into their positions. It would be nice if what I saw on television was true, and many evangelicals were putting their focus off of politics and onto helping people. Wouldn't that be a novel thought? It's not like Jesus (their prophet, lord, and leader) tried to help people during his life. I mean, he didn't feed the hungry, or heal the lame, or ... wait he did? Evangelicals might even find the world changed to their liking where they to put more effort into battling poverty, spread education, provide jobs, etc and less efort into picketing and proselytizing. Less poverty and drug abuse and more emphasis on education might mean fewer abortions, for example. Volunteering at a soup kitchen or tutoring a low income child might prove more conducive to change than picketing an abortion clinic? It would be cool if family food would trump family values. It would be nice if nuance entered the evangelical worldview.
Maybe I'm dreaming, but it's a nice dream. Of course, picturing McCain as a liberal on social issues, or even as a moderate, would be dreaming too.
I asked Dipity what she thought about the future of evangelical Christians in the United States. She said "dadas bawl." So there you go.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
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Elmo Rises
I entered fatherhood as an Elmo-hater. I saw Elmo as Sesame Street's equivalent to Scrappy. In my mind, post-Elmo Sesame Street was like post-Scrappy Scooby Doo. It sucked. The little red thing annoyed the hell out of me. His whiny little voice put me instantly on edge. I despised everything in Elmo’s world, from the fish to the bald perv that peeks in the window. Elmo was an interloper taking away time from Grover, Oscar, Bert, and Ernie. I wanted Kermit brought back on Sesame Street, and Elmo kicked off. Not only was Elmo annoying in his own right, but like Scrappy, he ushered in other annoying characters. Instead of Flim-Flam and Vincent Van-Ghoul Elmo brought Baby Bear, Zoe, Abby Cadabby, and Telly to prominence. Elmo had ruined a great show, and driven my favorite characters out of the limelight. His voice was irritating, his antics simple by Sesame Street standards, and his habit of referring to himself in the third person terribly annoying, or at least Sam thinks so. The few times I had watched a bit of Sesame Street in the last few years, all I had seen was Elmo. Elmo was evil, he had conquered Sesame Street, thus Sesame Street was evil and I wanted nothing to do with it.
And then Dipity took a liking to my wife's Elmo doll. My wife is younger, and grew up with an already corrupted sesame street. She liked Elmo, a fact I had always assumed was due to the misfortune of her late birth and her inability to know any better because of said late birth. I'd forgiven her Elmo-fatuation, and unfortunately I'd allowed the little red thing into my house. By the first time she saw him on you tube (we have long used Sesame Street excerpts on you tube to facilitate hair brushing and prettying), Dipity was already smitten. I was disgusted, at least at first. Somewhere between watching him sing with the Goo Goo Dolls and interact with Super Grover, the little thing started to grow on me. Now I actually almost look forward to Elmo's world, although the ask a baby stuff and the bald perv still annoy me a little. I like Telly now too. I mean, he learned to play catch from Joe Torre. Baby Bear's stock hasn't appreciated it quite the same way. He's the new Elmo/Scrappy. He's an annoying little know-it-all. And the fairy, well the whole magic thing just gets on my nerves. Why is it possible for spells to be cast on Gordon and Maria? No little sprite, or her wand, should be able to mess with Gordon. So the fairy and Baby Bear are still on my list, and Rosita is in limbo, but Elmo is on the rise.
Elmo's rise has been pretty under the radar, but it is more than a little disquieting. As I type this, Dipity is sitting on my lap reading Baby Bop Discovers Shapes. My thoughts are dark ... dark and purple.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Bummer
A month or so ago I decided to start paying attention to the presidential race. I did it with great trepidation. I knew I had to pay attention, but I also knew how depressing it would be. First of all, when was the last contest that had more than one really good candidate (The West Wing election doesn't count). Hell, when was the last presidential election with one good candidate. Second, I detest campaign ads, and campaigning in general. All we get are platitudes, lies, and nastiness. There are real policies in there, but you have to wade through talk of slum lords and Reagan worship to get to them. Third, after the last two presidential elections, the very mention of a presidential election fills me with great foreboding. Fourth, I'm not sure when exactly to fit it in to my day. Maybe during diaper changes. That's what I need, a little flat screen television on the changing table. Fifth, I knew that really following an American election meant relying on the American press. The BBC wasn't going to cut it. This is the real kicker for me. It means I find myself reading stories about how Obama snubbed Clinton by not shaking her hand at the State of the Union. How is this important? Why is this news? Is this election for President or student council? And that story was CNN. I would love to make fun of the story lines on FoxNews, but I refuse to watch or read anything they produce. At least MSNBC has Keith Olberman leading their election coverage. That raises the possibility that sports will infiltrate into election night. It also makes possible references to reconstruction, Lincoln, and Andrew Jackson. No other election coverage went back before 1980. For the record, I would make more use of NPR if I had a car radio which received FM signals. Anyway, at the end of this nonsense I am sure we will have selected a horrible president (Romney is still alive), but at least I will be able to go back to the BBC full-time.
A month or so ago I decided to start paying attention to the presidential race. I did it with great trepidation. I knew I had to pay attention, but I also knew how depressing it would be. First of all, when was the last contest that had more than one really good candidate (The West Wing election doesn't count). Hell, when was the last presidential election with one good candidate. Second, I detest campaign ads, and campaigning in general. All we get are platitudes, lies, and nastiness. There are real policies in there, but you have to wade through talk of slum lords and Reagan worship to get to them. Third, after the last two presidential elections, the very mention of a presidential election fills me with great foreboding. Fourth, I'm not sure when exactly to fit it in to my day. Maybe during diaper changes. That's what I need, a little flat screen television on the changing table. Fifth, I knew that really following an American election meant relying on the American press. The BBC wasn't going to cut it. This is the real kicker for me. It means I find myself reading stories about how Obama snubbed Clinton by not shaking her hand at the State of the Union. How is this important? Why is this news? Is this election for President or student council? And that story was CNN. I would love to make fun of the story lines on FoxNews, but I refuse to watch or read anything they produce. At least MSNBC has Keith Olberman leading their election coverage. That raises the possibility that sports will infiltrate into election night. It also makes possible references to reconstruction, Lincoln, and Andrew Jackson. No other election coverage went back before 1980. For the record, I would make more use of NPR if I had a car radio which received FM signals. Anyway, at the end of this nonsense I am sure we will have selected a horrible president (Romney is still alive), but at least I will be able to go back to the BBC full-time.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Too Many Bows
I'm certainly not the John Wayne of stay at home dads, but even I have my limits. Back before Dipity began wearing clothes, or even before anyone began buying it for her, I vowed that she would not be one of those girls with wardrobes, rooms, and lives covered in nothing but pink, purple, and the occasional soft yellow. I was determined that she would have blue jeans, sweatshirts, and lots of red and blue. She does wear jeans, and her wardrobe includes green, blue, and red. She wears an awful lot of pink though, and has right from the start. It is hard to stop people from buying pink for a girl. They just don't know any better. The programming is too strong. Once it's in the wardrobe, it's not going to go un-worn. And once pink and its girly brethren made it into Dipity's wardrobe, I found myself aiding and abetting the girly colors cause. She looks good in pink. Plus, before she had a ton of hair, the only way to stop gender confusion was to put her in one of the appropriate colors. However it happened, the bottom line is pink and purple don't bother me anymore. Bows and ribbons though ... My wife's best friend recently bought Dipity an outfit that was pink and pinker. When we opened it I remember thinking how cute it was (at this point I my emasculation is so close to complete that I don't even flinch before I let loose with a "how cute is that," or a "that looks fine, but not with those shoes"). Today I decided to put said outfit on. I went through the negotiations entailed in getting Dipity out of her pajamas and into her outfit, stood back, and gasped. It was very pink, but that wasn't anywhere near as traumatic as the bows. One on each ankle, one on each wrist, and one on each pocket. That's more than one too many. I was shocked, disgusted, and then proud. It was clear that some pocket of manhood had withstood a year of stay at home dadding, even though I entered the experienced with my manhood already quite compromised (I had disagreements with my mother-in-law over the flower arrangements and with my wife over the bridesmaid dresses). It's nice to know that I have limits, that all my anti-gender classification blustering wasn't hot air. I'd get more excited about all this if Dipity didn't still have the outfit on, or if I thought there was a chance I would forbid a repeat wearing. But at least I didn't run out and buy shoes with matching bows. And even though she's standing next to her kitchen, I swear she was playing with a cement truck not a minute before. I would have taken a picture of that, but it's blue and it would have clashed with the outfit.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Tree Pease
Last night my wife uttered five words that I never thought would be uttered in our house, at least not together in one sentence. When she said "can you hide the broccoli," we both had to hold back the laughter. She'd already said "only one more piece." She'd also had to put broccoli in the cheese sandwich in order for her to eat it. And Dipity, after her first tentative bite, had eaten piece of broccoli after piece of broccoli. When the little green guys didn't come fast enough, she would let loose a "brocclii pease" or "tree pease." It was just too much for us. Until two weeks ago, it had been months since even a pea had been given any serious consideration. Corn and avocado were the only vegetable-like substances Dipity would suffer. And then one day she wanted "dad's peas." Last week she ate cooked carrots. And now, it's little trees. In toddler world, nothing stays the same for very long. It's comforting to know that the changes can go in any direction, even ones that are parentally perceived to be positive.
Last night my wife uttered five words that I never thought would be uttered in our house, at least not together in one sentence. When she said "can you hide the broccoli," we both had to hold back the laughter. She'd already said "only one more piece." She'd also had to put broccoli in the cheese sandwich in order for her to eat it. And Dipity, after her first tentative bite, had eaten piece of broccoli after piece of broccoli. When the little green guys didn't come fast enough, she would let loose a "brocclii pease" or "tree pease." It was just too much for us. Until two weeks ago, it had been months since even a pea had been given any serious consideration. Corn and avocado were the only vegetable-like substances Dipity would suffer. And then one day she wanted "dad's peas." Last week she ate cooked carrots. And now, it's little trees. In toddler world, nothing stays the same for very long. It's comforting to know that the changes can go in any direction, even ones that are parentally perceived to be positive.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Tuesday January 22, 2008
This last weekend the three of us were up in West Hartford, Connecticut. We spent our MLK vacation with my wife's best friend and her family. They have a daughter who is five or so months younger than Dipity. Her nap schedule doesn't overlap at all with Dipity's. They eat at different times. And it was freezing cold. So, we spent most of our visit inside of their house.
Visiting a friend used to mean you had a chance to explore whatever place they were calling home at that moment. Now, it wouldn't really matter where our friends lived. The only thing that really matters now when it comes to friends home's is distance. How far are they from our house? How far are they from the expressway? How far are they from the airport? How far will we be from Dipity at night? How removed from children are these people. And how close are we to these folks?
This weekend we had a four hour drive, ten minutes of which was non-highway driving. We drove, so I don't even know if they have an airport. Besides, they are well within the it's not worth it to put up with flying with a toddler radius. We were not in the same room as Dipity, but still within earshot. Also within earshot was their toddler, who was actually louder than Dipity, so there was no screaming/misbehaving/schedule ruining toddler related guilt. And, my wife talks to this person all the time, who is her best friend and was maid of honor in her wedding (which was also mine), so we would have put up with a less advantageous set of distance variables. Besides, they have a huge house and a huge television.
We didn't spend every moment inside though. We saw two of Hartford's streets up close (the two closest to our host's house). The kids rode in their wagon. Dipity was a screech. Her snowsuit (a hand me down from one of my wife's work colleagues), was straight out of the 80's. It was very pink, very goofy, very clearly sporting a cheerleader with pom-poms, very much clashed with her purple hat and gloves, and was very free. Dipity's boots, which we purchased ... from a church sale, light up when she walks. Dipity's attitude didn't light or lighten up. She had a cold, and no sense of humour when it came to the snowsuit, the wagon, her cold, the close proximity of the other toddler, the camera, or ... anything else. Maybe she was reflecting on the immensity of MLK and his legacy, and the large part of his vision still unrealized. Maybe she had gas. With a toddler you never can tell.
Monday January 21
Barack Obama has been hit with that most vile of all labels. He has ... I can hardly even bring myself to think it, let alone type it ... he's been called a ... Muslim!! Who could do such a thing? This is in the same league as saying McCain was gay. Someone did that in 2000. Can you believe it?
Obama responded to his horrible rumor by saying that "I think that those who are of the Muslim faith are deserving of respect and dignity." What a guy. He is so gracious and respectful. I don't think I could have endured such an insult with such grace and thoughtfulness. If he hadn't gone on the attack, though, I don't think I could have continued to consider voting for him. I mean, to let such a vile accusation go unanswered. Someone might actually think he was a Muslim. So I'm glad he said, "but to try and feed into this fear-mongering and try to question my faith commitments and my belief in Jesus Christ, I think is offensive." I am so thankful that Obama stood up and reassured America that he is a "committed Christian" and that he "felt a beckoning of the spirit and accepted Jesus Christ into his life." He has put it in writing in his most recent mailer in South Carolina, it's right there over top of the picture with him in the pulpit in front of an organ and a cross.
Obama has come through this trial with flying colors. He has answered this horrible accusation with strength and courage. I shudder to think what might have happened had he just laughed it off, or said something frightful like: "I'm hoping that I can do my part to bring our country to a place where being called a Muslim or a gay man wouldn't be considered an insult, and couldn't possibly be used as part of a smear attack of a Presidential candidate." What would Muslims in this country and around the world think of a country where such a statement was possible. How could they possibly consider such a place to be a beacon of light? What kind of a world would I be bringing my Dipity into if such a thing were possible. I will certainly rest easier tonight.
Barack Obama has been hit with that most vile of all labels. He has ... I can hardly even bring myself to think it, let alone type it ... he's been called a ... Muslim!! Who could do such a thing? This is in the same league as saying McCain was gay. Someone did that in 2000. Can you believe it?
Obama responded to his horrible rumor by saying that "I think that those who are of the Muslim faith are deserving of respect and dignity." What a guy. He is so gracious and respectful. I don't think I could have endured such an insult with such grace and thoughtfulness. If he hadn't gone on the attack, though, I don't think I could have continued to consider voting for him. I mean, to let such a vile accusation go unanswered. Someone might actually think he was a Muslim. So I'm glad he said, "but to try and feed into this fear-mongering and try to question my faith commitments and my belief in Jesus Christ, I think is offensive." I am so thankful that Obama stood up and reassured America that he is a "committed Christian" and that he "felt a beckoning of the spirit and accepted Jesus Christ into his life." He has put it in writing in his most recent mailer in South Carolina, it's right there over top of the picture with him in the pulpit in front of an organ and a cross.
Obama has come through this trial with flying colors. He has answered this horrible accusation with strength and courage. I shudder to think what might have happened had he just laughed it off, or said something frightful like: "I'm hoping that I can do my part to bring our country to a place where being called a Muslim or a gay man wouldn't be considered an insult, and couldn't possibly be used as part of a smear attack of a Presidential candidate." What would Muslims in this country and around the world think of a country where such a statement was possible. How could they possibly consider such a place to be a beacon of light? What kind of a world would I be bringing my Dipity into if such a thing were possible. I will certainly rest easier tonight.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
My Libretto
She’s lyrical
I’m not exactly sure what I mean by that
Maybe it’s that she reminds me of all the good songs I should be able to write
and all the great poetry that there’s no reason I shouldn’t be writing
Her essence is just beyond my ability to capture it …
to reveal her simple and awe inspiring truth
and convey it to someone else
Her whole world happens below my belly button
that doesn’t really roll off the tongue,
and it sounds a little … well a little like a statement I shouldn’t make in public
There’s always the dancing
I show that off in public all the time
Just provide music and step back
It’s the best … but, come to think of it, it may not be dancing
Dancing isn’t an accurate or comprehensive enough label
And spelling words wrong doesn’t perfectly convey the poetry of her discourse
It’s in my headdd, but it won’t come upppp or outdd
Ham
That’s about as clear as if I was to describe her hair
A true tangle fest
Kind of like these thoughts,
And kind of like when she sits on me,
while reading a book,
as I lie on the floor studying the poetry of her movement,
and the artistic expression of,
skinny little fingers,
miniature elbows,
an impossibly studious face
a curly mess of hair
and all the other lines of my little libretto
If only I could hum it in crowds
She’s lyrical
I’m not exactly sure what I mean by that
Maybe it’s that she reminds me of all the good songs I should be able to write
and all the great poetry that there’s no reason I shouldn’t be writing
Her essence is just beyond my ability to capture it …
to reveal her simple and awe inspiring truth
and convey it to someone else
Her whole world happens below my belly button
that doesn’t really roll off the tongue,
and it sounds a little … well a little like a statement I shouldn’t make in public
There’s always the dancing
I show that off in public all the time
Just provide music and step back
It’s the best … but, come to think of it, it may not be dancing
Dancing isn’t an accurate or comprehensive enough label
And spelling words wrong doesn’t perfectly convey the poetry of her discourse
It’s in my headdd, but it won’t come upppp or outdd
Ham
That’s about as clear as if I was to describe her hair
A true tangle fest
Kind of like these thoughts,
And kind of like when she sits on me,
while reading a book,
as I lie on the floor studying the poetry of her movement,
and the artistic expression of,
skinny little fingers,
miniature elbows,
an impossibly studious face
a curly mess of hair
and all the other lines of my little libretto
If only I could hum it in crowds
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Poetry
I have been writing some poetry and submitting it to various places. Not much luck so far, but I do have lots of poetry to show for my effort. So, I thought I might share one.
She’s the Daughter
“Don’t turn the cup over …”
And she does
Of course she does
She’s the daughter
And … I’m the parent
I’m the parent
I am a parent
I am her parent
I am the parent
No matter how I say it
Or how many times I say it
It’s still true
And weird
I’m not the parent
But of course I am the parent
It’s the truth
It really doesn’t matter what I say,
I’m always the parent
And it’s truly weird
Which may be why I still say it out loud
I’m not sure why I keep saying “don’t turn over the cup”
That isn’t true
Or, it isn’t truly effective
But, I still say it
And the response never changes
Nothing changes
Except that one day most of it will
Maybe even one day soon
I mean she won’t be twenty and still pouring out a sippy cup full of juice onto the floor
So it has to change
But I may not notice
I’ll just be shouting out some other admonishment
So I won’t miss anything, at least not right away
Except I already miss watching her run naked through the house
Even though she still runs naked through the house
Because she definitely won’t be doing that at twenty
“Hold onto your cup … please”
Please
But she won’t
It doesn’t work that way
Because I’m the parent
And she’s the daughter
I have been writing some poetry and submitting it to various places. Not much luck so far, but I do have lots of poetry to show for my effort. So, I thought I might share one.
She’s the Daughter
“Don’t turn the cup over …”
And she does
Of course she does
She’s the daughter
And … I’m the parent
I’m the parent
I am a parent
I am her parent
I am the parent
No matter how I say it
Or how many times I say it
It’s still true
And weird
I’m not the parent
But of course I am the parent
It’s the truth
It really doesn’t matter what I say,
I’m always the parent
And it’s truly weird
Which may be why I still say it out loud
I’m not sure why I keep saying “don’t turn over the cup”
That isn’t true
Or, it isn’t truly effective
But, I still say it
And the response never changes
Nothing changes
Except that one day most of it will
Maybe even one day soon
I mean she won’t be twenty and still pouring out a sippy cup full of juice onto the floor
So it has to change
But I may not notice
I’ll just be shouting out some other admonishment
So I won’t miss anything, at least not right away
Except I already miss watching her run naked through the house
Even though she still runs naked through the house
Because she definitely won’t be doing that at twenty
“Hold onto your cup … please”
Please
But she won’t
It doesn’t work that way
Because I’m the parent
And she’s the daughter
Monday, January 14, 2008
Closed Captioning
My phone conversations now come with closed captioning ... of a sort. It's not for the hearing impaired, though. I'm not sure what to call it. Dipity would qualify as height impaired, but so would my wife's best friend. Reasoning impaired would bring in half of the Republican presidential candidates. Vegetable impaired might work, but it conjures up too many bizarre visuals. Picture a carrot up someone's ass. Wait, that would be vegetable impaled. Maybe the better visual is of a blind parsnip, or would that be an impaired vegetable. Anyway, maybe the best label for what Dipity does is closed captioning for the age impaired.
Of course, it's not really closed captioning. Dipity doesn't really lend herself to being shut off. The captioning she provides isn't optional. It is, however, damn funny.
Since she's been on the scene, a large percentage of my phone time is spent relating Dipity's exploits. Now, as I relate the exploits, they are simultaneously re-enacted. When I tell my mother-in-law about the time Dipity rammed her head into the wall, Dipity looks at me and slaps herself in the head. When I tell my mom the same story, she actually rams her head into the wall again. When I let my wife know that Dipity's screetches are now followed by a long extended "shhhhhh," Dipity screams and says "shhhhh." All dinner reports have to include a lot of spelling, or else I have a hungry parrot on my hands. Any mention of an article of clothing leads either to a short tutorial or a strip tease.
The conversation doesn't, however, have to be about Dipity to get the Dipity treatment. If I tell my wife that I'm feeling a little hoarse today, I hear a little "neigh" in the background. If I say I've been running around, I have a whirling dervish on my hands. I try hard not to duck or jump to conclusions, or at least not admit to either out loud.
Amazingly, Dipity's interpreting doesn't stop her from carrying out her kid duties. She'll knock out a neigh or spin around in a circle a few times and stumble to the ground, and then go right back to whatever she was doing. I've never seen a sign language interpreter on television knit a sweater or bake a pie while they were translating. I've also never seen one that helped cut through all the verbiage to the heart of the matter. And no little signing woman in the corner of my television screen has ever made me smile.
Maybe it's just closed, or open, captioning for the smiling impaired. It could be closed captioning perspective impaired. Whatever it is, it's happening in my house, and that much I understand.
My phone conversations now come with closed captioning ... of a sort. It's not for the hearing impaired, though. I'm not sure what to call it. Dipity would qualify as height impaired, but so would my wife's best friend. Reasoning impaired would bring in half of the Republican presidential candidates. Vegetable impaired might work, but it conjures up too many bizarre visuals. Picture a carrot up someone's ass. Wait, that would be vegetable impaled. Maybe the better visual is of a blind parsnip, or would that be an impaired vegetable. Anyway, maybe the best label for what Dipity does is closed captioning for the age impaired.
Of course, it's not really closed captioning. Dipity doesn't really lend herself to being shut off. The captioning she provides isn't optional. It is, however, damn funny.
Since she's been on the scene, a large percentage of my phone time is spent relating Dipity's exploits. Now, as I relate the exploits, they are simultaneously re-enacted. When I tell my mother-in-law about the time Dipity rammed her head into the wall, Dipity looks at me and slaps herself in the head. When I tell my mom the same story, she actually rams her head into the wall again. When I let my wife know that Dipity's screetches are now followed by a long extended "shhhhhh," Dipity screams and says "shhhhh." All dinner reports have to include a lot of spelling, or else I have a hungry parrot on my hands. Any mention of an article of clothing leads either to a short tutorial or a strip tease.
The conversation doesn't, however, have to be about Dipity to get the Dipity treatment. If I tell my wife that I'm feeling a little hoarse today, I hear a little "neigh" in the background. If I say I've been running around, I have a whirling dervish on my hands. I try hard not to duck or jump to conclusions, or at least not admit to either out loud.
Amazingly, Dipity's interpreting doesn't stop her from carrying out her kid duties. She'll knock out a neigh or spin around in a circle a few times and stumble to the ground, and then go right back to whatever she was doing. I've never seen a sign language interpreter on television knit a sweater or bake a pie while they were translating. I've also never seen one that helped cut through all the verbiage to the heart of the matter. And no little signing woman in the corner of my television screen has ever made me smile.
Maybe it's just closed, or open, captioning for the smiling impaired. It could be closed captioning perspective impaired. Whatever it is, it's happening in my house, and that much I understand.
A Message
I'm addicted to sports. I actually checked ESPN.com at the end of that last sentence. Before I'm done with this blog entry I am sure I will have been to ESPN.com again, or if I'm down to the articles on skiing and track and field, maybe I'll have checked into SI.com. My addiction is so severe that I actually listen to sports-talk radio. In my defence, I didn't really start listening until after my radio stopped picking up any FM stations. But now, even if I could get NPR, I'm not certain I'd go with it.
Lately, though, I've been feeling guilty about listening to sports-talk radio. Usually when I am in the car, so is Dipity. I always start out singing to her, or asking her questions. I always end up listening to the radio. Now, it's not as if I pretend she's not in the car. I still engage her, and she does have about forty pounds of stuffed animals and books scattered about the car. But, I do force her to listen to some rather obnoxious and rather low-brow sports-radio personalities. I have been feeling more and more guilty about this, but had been unable to stop. And then I received some help.
Last week when I flipped on the radio to hear some talk about the playoffs, I got a breakdown of Revelations. My knuckle dragging sports radio had been replaced by fundamentalist Christian mumbo jumbo. At first I thought it was a joke. But, a week later it's no longer funny. I finally brought new CDs out to the car. My other choices included Spanish radio, republican mumbo jumbo, or static. If I didn't have a CD player I'd have gone with static. If I was more superstitious, or religious, I would have a hard time not thinking this was a sign from God. I think it's more likely a sign from Dr. Sears, although I don't believe in him either. I could say more, but I haven't checked the NBA scores yet.
I'm addicted to sports. I actually checked ESPN.com at the end of that last sentence. Before I'm done with this blog entry I am sure I will have been to ESPN.com again, or if I'm down to the articles on skiing and track and field, maybe I'll have checked into SI.com. My addiction is so severe that I actually listen to sports-talk radio. In my defence, I didn't really start listening until after my radio stopped picking up any FM stations. But now, even if I could get NPR, I'm not certain I'd go with it.
Lately, though, I've been feeling guilty about listening to sports-talk radio. Usually when I am in the car, so is Dipity. I always start out singing to her, or asking her questions. I always end up listening to the radio. Now, it's not as if I pretend she's not in the car. I still engage her, and she does have about forty pounds of stuffed animals and books scattered about the car. But, I do force her to listen to some rather obnoxious and rather low-brow sports-radio personalities. I have been feeling more and more guilty about this, but had been unable to stop. And then I received some help.
Last week when I flipped on the radio to hear some talk about the playoffs, I got a breakdown of Revelations. My knuckle dragging sports radio had been replaced by fundamentalist Christian mumbo jumbo. At first I thought it was a joke. But, a week later it's no longer funny. I finally brought new CDs out to the car. My other choices included Spanish radio, republican mumbo jumbo, or static. If I didn't have a CD player I'd have gone with static. If I was more superstitious, or religious, I would have a hard time not thinking this was a sign from God. I think it's more likely a sign from Dr. Sears, although I don't believe in him either. I could say more, but I haven't checked the NBA scores yet.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Burp check
Tonight, after dinner, my wife asked me if I was still feeling burpy. Dipity was sitting on the couch. Upon hearing the word "burpy," which she clearly misinterpreted, she jumped off of the couch and came straight over to where I was lying on my back on the floor. She looked at me for a second, a big smile on her face, and then walked up between my legs and grabbed my crotch. Next she went over to my wife, and grabbed her crotch. Finally, she grabbed herself and said "poop." I haven't laughed that hard since last year. Dipity thought mom asked dad if he was poopy, and thus decided that all three of us needed a poop check. Earlier she grabbed herself and said poop, which she does every time she expels waste of any kind, and then rolled onto her back on the floor and began to try to unzip her jeans. Dipity may be ready for the toilet soon.
Tonight, after dinner, my wife asked me if I was still feeling burpy. Dipity was sitting on the couch. Upon hearing the word "burpy," which she clearly misinterpreted, she jumped off of the couch and came straight over to where I was lying on my back on the floor. She looked at me for a second, a big smile on her face, and then walked up between my legs and grabbed my crotch. Next she went over to my wife, and grabbed her crotch. Finally, she grabbed herself and said "poop." I haven't laughed that hard since last year. Dipity thought mom asked dad if he was poopy, and thus decided that all three of us needed a poop check. Earlier she grabbed herself and said poop, which she does every time she expels waste of any kind, and then rolled onto her back on the floor and began to try to unzip her jeans. Dipity may be ready for the toilet soon.
Our Christmas 'Ghee'
The undisputed highlight of this years Christmas was the 'ghee.' Now, it didn't have a ton of competition. We had a ... well ... an interesting Christmas. We Christmased on Cape Cod with the in-laws, which was nice, at least in theory. We all were feverish and throwing up for at least twenty-four hours, which wasn't so nice. Dipity got it first. My wife and I were next, and we received another gift simultaneously (our sewer system backed up, for the third time ... and this time the expensive fix came with the news that in the near future we'll have to have the pipes, which are pressed tar paper (!!!), replaced). My wife was in our room puking into a trash can while I was talking to the plumber out in the hallway. Merry Christmas!
Thankfully we had our family Christmas before the stomach bug hit. That actually was a pretty fun day. The actual Christmas came right after our illness. We thought about staying put, but that was pretty a pretty depressing thought, so weak, but no longer losing our cookies, we dragged ourselves to the airport. Turns out we dragged more than ourselves. Within two days of our arrival, my wife's parents and her brother were also throwing up. Luckily we were all well for Christmas.
Actually, it wasn't an awful time. It was just a little low energy, with the exception of Megan's brother who makes more noise while throwing up than I thought was possible. He screams into the toilet. We had a few nice walks on the beach, days of Dipity opening gifts, and, most importantly, a Christmas 'ghee.'
Christmas 2007 was all about the 'ghee.' Dipity liked driving past the lights at night. She said "oooh," and "wow" as we drove by. She also liked 'ohman.' We'll have to buy her a book or movie or something about Frosty the 'ohman' before next year. She never got into Santa. She was, however, all over the 'ghee.' It wasn't any particular 'ghee' that caught her fancy, it was every 'ghee,' whether real, artificial, cardboard, or painted on a lasagna pan. Our 'ghee' at home was locked in our family room, which kept the room smelling like Christmas and the tree safe from the cats. Of course, the cats weren't the real threat to the tree and everything on it. We were smart enough to place only ornaments we could stand to see used as a basketball within four feet of the concrete floor. This was good, because Dipity, like all toddlers and her father, looks with her hands. And there were just too many cool things on the tree: 'owmen,' an 'ouse,' several 'earts,' a 'baa baa,' and lots of 'bubs.' She would be out in the living room, and suddenly, remembering that the tree was in the family room, would sprint for the door yelling 'ghee.' It was pretty cool that she was so excited about it. For a month we had an easy and reliable way of bringing on a good mood.
This Saturday was the saddest day of the holiday season; it was the last day. The tree came down. Dipity was calm as the ornaments came down. She actually 'helped.' It was when I started to take the lights off the tree that the mood changed. She pointed at the electrical outlight where the lights had been plugged in and, in her best angst filled cry, belted out a series of 'ghees.' When I lifted the tree up in anticipation of moving it out ... well ... Initially I placed it in the back yard, but I had to move it out of sight. She was standing at the back door and saying, in a more subdued voice, "ghee." Actually, by this point it sounded a lot more like 'tee', or even 'treee.' It was sad. I suppose we should have taken it down when she was asleep, but that struck me as more traumatic. I'd hate to wake up and have something I loved just vanish.
Christmas didn't just vanish, though. We have rooms full of toys to let us know it was here. And more than one good story.
Monday, January 07, 2008
HAPPY NEW YEAR
We were here for the holidays, so assorted travails aside, we have little to complain about. For more on what little we do have to complain about, and the rest of our holiday experience, tune in tomorrow.
Right now I have a bookcase to apply polyurethane to before Dipity wakes up, so see you all on Tuesday!
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