I have many shortcomings that I am aware of, and many more that are pointed out to me daily. In spite of these, I have managed to attract a mate and procreate. My progeny are eight and five, girl and boy respectively. I have had many experiences in the last nine years that have humbled me as a member of humanity and as a man. None so much as my experience today.
When my daughter was six months old I took her to open a bank account in her name at the local bank. I'm at a credit union that has an office for such transactions. While I sit in the office with five other customers, my daughter across my lap, she needs to move and when I say move, I mean bowels. A pink flush runs up her face and I am aware of what is to come. Like clockwork, a grunt is followed by audible flatulence which makes me the center of attention. I affect a grim rictus and with aplomb and timing, ask the receptionist if there isn't a bathroom that we can avail ourselves of to affect a change of clothes for my daughter. All pretense of masculinity is stripped from my facade at that moment, and forever.
Four years later I am at the Tragic Kingdom with my year old son and my four year old daughter. We commence our trip with an E ticket ride in a cab to LaGuardia that culminates with my son demonstrating explicitly how projectile vomiting manifests. We experienc the joy of public opinion when we strip James on the curb in 30 degree weather while we try to minimize the collateral damage of projectile vomiting. We go through an entire pack of baby wipes in hopes of cleaning up the car seat and our son. Vomit clothes stowed in lawn and leaf bags, car seat cleaned, as well as possible, stuffed into a plastic bag, we dutifully make our way through TSA and flew to Orlando.
Have you ever gotten just a whiff of something rank? You move, right, to be a few more feet away from the offending object. Imagine yourself in an International airport, like Orlando, and getting that whiff. Then you realize that the whiff of stank is from the baggage claim thirty five feet away. Then imagine the horror when you realize that whiff is your car seat. What would you do?
If you are me, you get that garbage bag and throw that $70 car seat away, even if you know it is going to cost you $12 a day to rent one from Hertz. So, stash that bag on a garbage can, rent the car seat and eat that $80 charge and head to Didney. Then, find out that the projectile vomiting wasn't from the drunk cab driver's lurching driving but was actually a stomach flu.
Sitting in the Tragic Kingdom with your 2 year old son stretched across your lap, uncomfortable in the heat and apparently suffering from a stomach issue. The familiar flush of face, the ubiquitous grunt and flatulence as runny diarrhea warms your leg through his clothes, then yours. Make a quick break for the stroller...diapers and wipes not in that stroller, but the other one, one hundred yards away at "It's a Small World." Hold your kid out in front of you, a talisman, and watch the sea of people part.
In retrospect, all great experiences for me. I have enjoyed them. I'm sure there are several more in my future. But, I read two books to my son's Kindergarten class today. It was his week. he brought his favorite toys on Tuesday, a poster of his family on Wednesday, and a family member to read today. I was that family member.
His teacher directed them all to the carpet and gave me the seat of honor. I read two books. It really doesn't matter what I read. He didn't care. He was proud of me. He sat, eyes azure and bright, locked on mine while I read, but always checking his classmates. His looks aside spoke volumes. "That's my Dad. Don't you love him?" Every time I looked at him, the joy, admiration and pride were evident. "That's my Dad. Don't you love him?"
It went fast. I was nervous, but it was over before I knew it. I learned that I know, "That's my son. I love him?"
Friday, January 27, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Brothers
Had an epiphany today. Actually, had it shoved in my face. My friend Steve did it, Held it up in my face, rubbed my nose in it and pointed out the obvious. It wasn't obvious to me, but it was to him. Been having some issues with my parents. Normal stuff. Normal, unless you lost a brother...or a child, which means us, which means not normal, unless you lost a brother...or a child.
See, it was my brother. When I was five and that kid hit me and I let go of my balloon, Jon found me a new balloon. Then he found that kid. When I was five and fell on that hammer and had my tooth ripped from my upper jaw, I was with Jon. When it didn't grow back until I was seven and I had to go to speech therapy, Jon went with me. When I went to the Vanderkins to be babysat as a four year old, who walked me there, kissed me on the lips and told me he loved me? Yep, it was Jon. On the first day of school at Sabin, when Michael West made fun of me for putting on lipstick (chap stick), and I started crying. Who bashed his head against the wall? It was Jon. When I was placed in a gifted class with 2nd and 3rd graders and Mrs. Hooper grilled me about the stolen pencils, who led the rebellion? It was Jon. With whom did I pack a lunch and freeze Kon Tiki soda cans so we could go pick berries at Jim Fuji Farms at four in the morning. Jeans, boots, tee shirt, shirt, flannel, coat- layered against the cold, to make four dollars, for me, fifteen dollars, for him. Jon.
When I struggled in college, who sent me my own postcards and blackmailed me for a quarter about things that had long passed, just to get a smile, never seen or realized by the writer. It was Jon. "If you don't send me a quarter, I'll tell Mom about the time you shoplifted a Snickers." Ironic in its inception, the postcards given me by our grandmother, ludicrous in its execution - pretty sure my mom wasn't concerned with my light fingered habits of youth. It was a perfect recipe to defunkify my collegiate life. Me, struggling with the academics at the local state college, him thriving at Stanford. Jon.
A lonely evening at the hospital, I roll in. "Jon's brother, hold on." I'm regal, royalty at this hospital. Jon joins me shortly. We go to the cafeteria together, brothers, and eat Thanksgiving dinner, commercial turkey, stuffing and gravy, three thousand miles from our family. We talk. We know. This is kin, brothers.
Six months later, I have dinner with him again, at the hospital cafeteria. He seems tired, has been travelling. It doesn't matter. We are kids again, giggling about mom and dad, laughing about the adventures. We tell jokes. We are seven again, my brother Jon and I. He grills me, I question him. My big brother, Jon, who is four inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter, looking out for me. He travels a lot and when he is gone, I fill his fridge with designer hot dogs and import beers. When he gets home, we try the dogs and drink the beers. Sabretts with Spaten, Boar's Head with Budweiser, Nathan's with Heineken. I have recently turned him on to 7/11's hot dogs - $1.29 but add all the chili and cheese you can. He tells me, laughingly, about sitting on the curb at 7/11 and wolfing down a dog with chili and cheese after swimming 3000 meters, his daily exercise. He is fit, 5'9" about 145. He swims two miles five times a week, but he looks tired. I blame it on the travel.
The ER is separated into two sides and he sees me out from the left side. There are two big double doors there. He stands, watching me, as the doors close. He is not in his white jacket, just wearing a button down and a tie, out of uniform. I know that I will see him tomorrow. We have no plans, but we see each other every day, so I know I will see him tomorrow. Most likely, it will be for a beer and a Camel Light, we keep a pack in his green mailbox on the porch. I fully expect to be on his porch tomorrow, drinking a Heineken, smoking a Camel Light from his mailbox. I know this, but I still tell him I love him. It's a habit I have adopted.
"Love you!"
"Love you too."
And the next time I see Jon, he is laying on the floor, in his kitchen, his right arm across his face, a Stouffers Beef and Tomato in the microwave above him.
It looked like he just layed down, all peaceful like, to take a nap. My brother Jon. Asleep, forever, on the floor of his kitchen, waiting for a Stouffers frozen dinner.
Wonder why I am pissed?
See, it was my brother. When I was five and that kid hit me and I let go of my balloon, Jon found me a new balloon. Then he found that kid. When I was five and fell on that hammer and had my tooth ripped from my upper jaw, I was with Jon. When it didn't grow back until I was seven and I had to go to speech therapy, Jon went with me. When I went to the Vanderkins to be babysat as a four year old, who walked me there, kissed me on the lips and told me he loved me? Yep, it was Jon. On the first day of school at Sabin, when Michael West made fun of me for putting on lipstick (chap stick), and I started crying. Who bashed his head against the wall? It was Jon. When I was placed in a gifted class with 2nd and 3rd graders and Mrs. Hooper grilled me about the stolen pencils, who led the rebellion? It was Jon. With whom did I pack a lunch and freeze Kon Tiki soda cans so we could go pick berries at Jim Fuji Farms at four in the morning. Jeans, boots, tee shirt, shirt, flannel, coat- layered against the cold, to make four dollars, for me, fifteen dollars, for him. Jon.
When I struggled in college, who sent me my own postcards and blackmailed me for a quarter about things that had long passed, just to get a smile, never seen or realized by the writer. It was Jon. "If you don't send me a quarter, I'll tell Mom about the time you shoplifted a Snickers." Ironic in its inception, the postcards given me by our grandmother, ludicrous in its execution - pretty sure my mom wasn't concerned with my light fingered habits of youth. It was a perfect recipe to defunkify my collegiate life. Me, struggling with the academics at the local state college, him thriving at Stanford. Jon.
A lonely evening at the hospital, I roll in. "Jon's brother, hold on." I'm regal, royalty at this hospital. Jon joins me shortly. We go to the cafeteria together, brothers, and eat Thanksgiving dinner, commercial turkey, stuffing and gravy, three thousand miles from our family. We talk. We know. This is kin, brothers.
Six months later, I have dinner with him again, at the hospital cafeteria. He seems tired, has been travelling. It doesn't matter. We are kids again, giggling about mom and dad, laughing about the adventures. We tell jokes. We are seven again, my brother Jon and I. He grills me, I question him. My big brother, Jon, who is four inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter, looking out for me. He travels a lot and when he is gone, I fill his fridge with designer hot dogs and import beers. When he gets home, we try the dogs and drink the beers. Sabretts with Spaten, Boar's Head with Budweiser, Nathan's with Heineken. I have recently turned him on to 7/11's hot dogs - $1.29 but add all the chili and cheese you can. He tells me, laughingly, about sitting on the curb at 7/11 and wolfing down a dog with chili and cheese after swimming 3000 meters, his daily exercise. He is fit, 5'9" about 145. He swims two miles five times a week, but he looks tired. I blame it on the travel.
The ER is separated into two sides and he sees me out from the left side. There are two big double doors there. He stands, watching me, as the doors close. He is not in his white jacket, just wearing a button down and a tie, out of uniform. I know that I will see him tomorrow. We have no plans, but we see each other every day, so I know I will see him tomorrow. Most likely, it will be for a beer and a Camel Light, we keep a pack in his green mailbox on the porch. I fully expect to be on his porch tomorrow, drinking a Heineken, smoking a Camel Light from his mailbox. I know this, but I still tell him I love him. It's a habit I have adopted.
"Love you!"
"Love you too."
And the next time I see Jon, he is laying on the floor, in his kitchen, his right arm across his face, a Stouffers Beef and Tomato in the microwave above him.
It looked like he just layed down, all peaceful like, to take a nap. My brother Jon. Asleep, forever, on the floor of his kitchen, waiting for a Stouffers frozen dinner.
Wonder why I am pissed?
Saturday, December 10, 2011
WTF?
I have matriculated. I am not sure how that will affect me as a teacher or as a parent, and frankly, the latter is my greatest concern. I so want to be a great father, but, I think that a continuing education is part of me being a good father, so...I am enrolled in an MFA program in Creative Writing. I am sure that I will get some heat for this, but I need to do it. Nuff said.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
New Journey
Yeah, hey, how you doin?
Off on a new journey, thinking I'm gonna kill this blog. I know this is gonna hurt you's and yours, but, whateva. Going to school am I , gonna get a fuckin mfa, whateva, you know. Be good youze, and see youze soon.
Off on a new journey, thinking I'm gonna kill this blog. I know this is gonna hurt you's and yours, but, whateva. Going to school am I , gonna get a fuckin mfa, whateva, you know. Be good youze, and see youze soon.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Hounds of Life
6-10-2011
After my brother passed away in July of 2001 I was blessed with the opportunity to upgrade my living conditions. While I wasn't given his house outright, I was able to move in and it helped to ameliorate his loss. I have written extensively about the loss and it wears on me daily. One of the first things I did after moving in was to acquire a dog - specifically, Dakota. I picked her up at the pound after a bizarre episode involving me, my fiancé' and the ASPCA of Orlando, Florida.
Having decided to solemnize our relationship and declare our relationship before the law and the lord, our first order of business seemed to involve taking on responsibilities that demonstrated, at least to us, our readiness to procreate. Like most new couples, that involved a dog when it should have involved a fish, a hamster, a snake or some other animal lower than a mammal. In retrospect, an ant farm might have been most appropriate, since, after all, who really cares if you forget to feed the ants, or if the ants die. At least with ants you can just toss them out in the yard which precludes flushing the fish down the toilet or finding a shoebox in which to bury the hamster. Least conspicuous of all would have been a rattlesnake which would have at least provided sustenance without the messy requirements of ridding ourselves of the evidence of our incompetence. Jonathan Swift might have been on to something.
Stupid is as stupid does and we dutifully slogged down to the animal shelter, ostensibly to look at what was available, but not to adopt. Being the consummate dork, I had researched what type of dog might be acceptable to us and our emergent lifestyle. My research yielded several important findings. We would be most suited to finding a dog without a wet mouth, that did not shed and that was low energy. We would not fall into the trap of most pound shoppers; we would not be taking a dog home on our first visit. Instead, we would coldly and with cunning calculation, view the animals available, leave the facility and return home to discuss our options, then return when we were confident of adding an animal to our small household that would be a perfect fit.
I think most discerning readers can predict accurately what happened. We walked into the facility and were immediately confronted with the option of turning right or continuing straight. Being a fan of Robert Frost, I opted for the road less traveled and we were immediately confronted with our first option, on the right. A mixed breed dog that was part Yellow Lab, part Golden retriever and part Whippet. An odd looking hound with upright ears and anxious nature, she was appealing. She had been dropped off just 30 minutes prior to our arrival.
We continued down the road less traveled and were confronted with several different snarling, angry versions of Pit Bull or Rottweiler or some strange combination of both. It was clear to both of us that the pick of this litter was the first dog we had seen, the mix that was the first dog on the right.
We asked to have the lab, retriever, whippet mix be let out to play with us in a small enclosure intended for this purpose. I threw a ball, she retrieved it...again and again. I rubbed her ears, pinched her paws and rolled her on her back, all activities advised by my research, in an effort to determine her suitability for our household and the children we had not yet had but were very much counting on. She passed with flying colors.
Having suitably completed our visit, I advised my betrothed that we were ready to return home, much to her dismay. She insisted we take that dog home, "or else someone else would." I responded that would be great as that was the purpose of the pound in the first place and reminded her that we had agreed that we would not be bringing a dog home that day. We were merely looking to see what was available.
There have been many battles that I have lost in the ensuing ten years but this battle is the one I am most glad to have lost. We dropped over two hundred dollars that day on adoption fees, spay fees and equipment, but we brought her home, that Dakota, the hound with the wet mouth, that sheds and that is hyperactive.
We got Dakota home and I commenced her training in the only fashion I knew - a mix of uncommon sense and research. I connected her leash to my belt to teach her to focus on me and recognize me as her leader. All I taught her was to pee in our bathroom. I made her homemade dog food with a pressure cooker from chicken parts and learned that the wrong diet results in bloody diarrhea and vomit in the crate. I learned that dogs do not know when to quit and bloody paw prints on a pool deck indicate it might be time to stop throwing the Frisbee. I learned that if your three year old steps on your sleeping dog, she is going to growl and snap, but she might not bite. I learned that if I try to pull my dog out of a fight with another dog when she thinks she is protecting her kids, she is going to bite me too. I learned to love the dog that pees her bed at night, that sheds enough to knit a new sweater every two days and that barks at shadows now that she is 13 years old. I learned to whistle or to stomp to get her attentions because she is deaf now. I learned to love a noble animal.
And now, as I follow her halting gate up stairs, as I worry about the tumor, fatty and not cancerous I assume, as I brush her, as I hug her, I realize what it means to share a life with a good friend. I have had her for eleven of her thirteen years, and I hope to have her for another eleven. But I know. I know we are nearing the end and I have regret. I regret not training her, not spoiling her and not enjoying her more, and that is why she has been a great dog. She has taught me to raise my kids.
I will not be confronting my last days and thinking the same thoughts about my children. I will not have regrets about time spent with them. I will wear it out daily. This is what my dog, Dakota, has taught me and this is why every man needs a dog.
After my brother passed away in July of 2001 I was blessed with the opportunity to upgrade my living conditions. While I wasn't given his house outright, I was able to move in and it helped to ameliorate his loss. I have written extensively about the loss and it wears on me daily. One of the first things I did after moving in was to acquire a dog - specifically, Dakota. I picked her up at the pound after a bizarre episode involving me, my fiancé' and the ASPCA of Orlando, Florida.
Having decided to solemnize our relationship and declare our relationship before the law and the lord, our first order of business seemed to involve taking on responsibilities that demonstrated, at least to us, our readiness to procreate. Like most new couples, that involved a dog when it should have involved a fish, a hamster, a snake or some other animal lower than a mammal. In retrospect, an ant farm might have been most appropriate, since, after all, who really cares if you forget to feed the ants, or if the ants die. At least with ants you can just toss them out in the yard which precludes flushing the fish down the toilet or finding a shoebox in which to bury the hamster. Least conspicuous of all would have been a rattlesnake which would have at least provided sustenance without the messy requirements of ridding ourselves of the evidence of our incompetence. Jonathan Swift might have been on to something.
Stupid is as stupid does and we dutifully slogged down to the animal shelter, ostensibly to look at what was available, but not to adopt. Being the consummate dork, I had researched what type of dog might be acceptable to us and our emergent lifestyle. My research yielded several important findings. We would be most suited to finding a dog without a wet mouth, that did not shed and that was low energy. We would not fall into the trap of most pound shoppers; we would not be taking a dog home on our first visit. Instead, we would coldly and with cunning calculation, view the animals available, leave the facility and return home to discuss our options, then return when we were confident of adding an animal to our small household that would be a perfect fit.
I think most discerning readers can predict accurately what happened. We walked into the facility and were immediately confronted with the option of turning right or continuing straight. Being a fan of Robert Frost, I opted for the road less traveled and we were immediately confronted with our first option, on the right. A mixed breed dog that was part Yellow Lab, part Golden retriever and part Whippet. An odd looking hound with upright ears and anxious nature, she was appealing. She had been dropped off just 30 minutes prior to our arrival.
We continued down the road less traveled and were confronted with several different snarling, angry versions of Pit Bull or Rottweiler or some strange combination of both. It was clear to both of us that the pick of this litter was the first dog we had seen, the mix that was the first dog on the right.
We asked to have the lab, retriever, whippet mix be let out to play with us in a small enclosure intended for this purpose. I threw a ball, she retrieved it...again and again. I rubbed her ears, pinched her paws and rolled her on her back, all activities advised by my research, in an effort to determine her suitability for our household and the children we had not yet had but were very much counting on. She passed with flying colors.
Having suitably completed our visit, I advised my betrothed that we were ready to return home, much to her dismay. She insisted we take that dog home, "or else someone else would." I responded that would be great as that was the purpose of the pound in the first place and reminded her that we had agreed that we would not be bringing a dog home that day. We were merely looking to see what was available.
There have been many battles that I have lost in the ensuing ten years but this battle is the one I am most glad to have lost. We dropped over two hundred dollars that day on adoption fees, spay fees and equipment, but we brought her home, that Dakota, the hound with the wet mouth, that sheds and that is hyperactive.
We got Dakota home and I commenced her training in the only fashion I knew - a mix of uncommon sense and research. I connected her leash to my belt to teach her to focus on me and recognize me as her leader. All I taught her was to pee in our bathroom. I made her homemade dog food with a pressure cooker from chicken parts and learned that the wrong diet results in bloody diarrhea and vomit in the crate. I learned that dogs do not know when to quit and bloody paw prints on a pool deck indicate it might be time to stop throwing the Frisbee. I learned that if your three year old steps on your sleeping dog, she is going to growl and snap, but she might not bite. I learned that if I try to pull my dog out of a fight with another dog when she thinks she is protecting her kids, she is going to bite me too. I learned to love the dog that pees her bed at night, that sheds enough to knit a new sweater every two days and that barks at shadows now that she is 13 years old. I learned to whistle or to stomp to get her attentions because she is deaf now. I learned to love a noble animal.
And now, as I follow her halting gate up stairs, as I worry about the tumor, fatty and not cancerous I assume, as I brush her, as I hug her, I realize what it means to share a life with a good friend. I have had her for eleven of her thirteen years, and I hope to have her for another eleven. But I know. I know we are nearing the end and I have regret. I regret not training her, not spoiling her and not enjoying her more, and that is why she has been a great dog. She has taught me to raise my kids.
I will not be confronting my last days and thinking the same thoughts about my children. I will not have regrets about time spent with them. I will wear it out daily. This is what my dog, Dakota, has taught me and this is why every man needs a dog.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Whoa!
Lonely, lonely for being a fool. Life is rough and it is kicking my ass right now. I haven’t posted here since May and that is a reflection of the ass kicking life is giving me. I know that the beat down is my own fault, but I still am not treasuring it. Whateve!
I haven’t written in a while and my lack of production is weighing heavily on me. I really need to finish my novel and get it off to an agent so I can move forward, but it is hard. I have kids and a day job and they take a lot of time, but my heart is truly in finishing this novel.
I will roll.
Spike
I haven’t written in a while and my lack of production is weighing heavily on me. I really need to finish my novel and get it off to an agent so I can move forward, but it is hard. I have kids and a day job and they take a lot of time, but my heart is truly in finishing this novel.
I will roll.
Spike
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Morals, Ethics, Honesty
As a writer I am aware of all of the different methods of criticism. Most lay readers aren’t reading for criticism –they are reading for interest. However, I read and write with an eye to the critic. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I write better or more efficiently; it means that I write more defensively. With this in mind I address the issues of the day.
What, exactly, are the issues of the day? In my opinion, the issues are honesty, ethics and morality. Are the leaders of this nation being honest, ethical and moral? Are the leaders of your community being honest, ethical and moral? I think the resounding answer is no.
So, what do you, as an honest, ethical and moral voter and member of the community do about your elected leaders not being honest, ethical and moral? One thing you can do is justify and rationalize their behavior. “Well, they all do it and they are just trying to bring economic development to our neighborhood.” It sounds good when your Congressman tacks on pork for that park when Congress is passing a bill to supply training to Iraqi Police.
However, that Pork takes money out of every taxpayer in America’s pocket. It is stealing. We didn’t vote for the swing set in your park. We voted for Democracy in Iraq. And if it is your Congressman or Senator that attached that pork to the bill, let them know you are unhappy about their actions.
How do you live your life in an honest, ethical and moral fashion? Well, for one thing, you can reduce your carbon footprint. Carpool, walk, ride a bike, buy local and support your community by spending your money there. There are probably five farms within 100 miles of where you live. Buy from them. Carpool to work, ride your bike, do whatever you can to avoid using fossil fuels – turn your heat down, change your filters.
I am tired of paying good money for gas and oil. I don’t think this administration is going to fix it. Speak. Do it by cutting your consumption. If every American saved two gallons of gas, we would cut our dependence on oil by 600 million gallons, or 1.8 billion dollars. It’s a simple equation. Make the math work, please!
What, exactly, are the issues of the day? In my opinion, the issues are honesty, ethics and morality. Are the leaders of this nation being honest, ethical and moral? Are the leaders of your community being honest, ethical and moral? I think the resounding answer is no.
So, what do you, as an honest, ethical and moral voter and member of the community do about your elected leaders not being honest, ethical and moral? One thing you can do is justify and rationalize their behavior. “Well, they all do it and they are just trying to bring economic development to our neighborhood.” It sounds good when your Congressman tacks on pork for that park when Congress is passing a bill to supply training to Iraqi Police.
However, that Pork takes money out of every taxpayer in America’s pocket. It is stealing. We didn’t vote for the swing set in your park. We voted for Democracy in Iraq. And if it is your Congressman or Senator that attached that pork to the bill, let them know you are unhappy about their actions.
How do you live your life in an honest, ethical and moral fashion? Well, for one thing, you can reduce your carbon footprint. Carpool, walk, ride a bike, buy local and support your community by spending your money there. There are probably five farms within 100 miles of where you live. Buy from them. Carpool to work, ride your bike, do whatever you can to avoid using fossil fuels – turn your heat down, change your filters.
I am tired of paying good money for gas and oil. I don’t think this administration is going to fix it. Speak. Do it by cutting your consumption. If every American saved two gallons of gas, we would cut our dependence on oil by 600 million gallons, or 1.8 billion dollars. It’s a simple equation. Make the math work, please!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)