Pacifiers

They are the devil's advocate. Sure, they seem innocent enough, but inside them is a Pandora's box you can live to regret. Look how cute the baby is sucking on her pacifier, isn't she adorable? Ohhhh... what a cutie there. Oh yeah. She's adorable alright, no doubt. Wait till she can't get at that damned thing and see how adorable she gets.

We give our children pacifiers because the motion or action of sucking releases endorphins, theoretically. So, if they have a pacifier, they're cool. That's right, with almost no exception. The problem is, once you give em the pacifier and they get a taste of those endorphins, they get addicted to that rush (yeah, stole a line from an old hair band, sorry). More accurately, they lose sight of how to soothe themselves (if they ever had it); they rely on the pacifier to provide the soothing. It's not unlike booze really. We would rely on an external force of some sort to make us feel good, right? Well, pacifiers are the 90 proof for babies. Without the mind altering drunken side effects, that is (or really any side effects for that matter). But, just like anything, it can be overdone, and left to run unchecked, can run amok. YEAH BABY, I used the word amok!

Joy is now over a year old. Sometime around 6 months old, my wife and I ganged up on her and made her go cold turkey on the pacifiers. It was a few cranky nights, but at 6 months old, she was off the pacifier! Man I felt like a king. I felt I could do no wrong. I mean, who else but perfect parents would have already weened their 6 month old off pacifiers? Nobody. But. Us. Heh. Funny thing happens from anywhere to 8 to 12 months... Teeth. Suddenly my accomplishment wasn't really, so much. I don't know how it happened, but pacifiers got back into Joy's mouth. It probably seemed unnatural for a baby who was still crawling to NOT have a pacifier. My wife and I kind of point the finger of guilt back and forth, but I know it was her and she knows it was me. We're probably both right, and both wrong. Bottom line though, we have to endure the pacifier weening again. Or should we?

If you ask 10 "experts" on this subject, you'll get 12 answers. By the way, if you ask 10 "experts" just about anything about any subject, you'll get 12 answers (at least), so really spend a little time reading, a little time googling, but spend the most time thinking, and come to your own conclusions.

I spent a LOT of time thinking about this, from a strategic standpoint, and usually about timing. When would be a good time? 6 months worked out great, until teeth came along. So, now when do we do this? For the past 2 months or so, I've been plotting, and re-plotting, and re-re-plotting etc etc. I could not come up with a good strategy. Every time that came close to being a 'good time' turned out to be a bad time for any one of a million reasons (read: excuses), some mine, and some belonging to others, but all excuses. I mean, reasons.

Lately Joy has been having bad dreams. Her little brain is growing every day and learning every day and absorbing literally everything it can. When we have a demanding day, we gotta vent, right? She doesn't know how, so all she can do is process her day in her dreams. I feel for her, I really do. How can I tell her that something she saw today that scared the shit out of her is really some cute cuddly thing and is not to be feared? I can't. She reacts oddly to the oddest things. Case in point: her gramma bought a big stuffed pig that wears a santa hat, and when you squeeze it's paw, or hoof or whatever pigs have, it grunts out "Jungle Bells". The first time she saw it, and heard it, it scared her so much she fell over. Talk about tugging at your heart strings. As we all played with it, she got to enjoying it and even danced to the grunts. But there was an initial response that was fear and anxiety and probably a whole bunch of other bad stuff I will never know about until her therapist tells me. Her brain has to process all that, and that kind of stuff happens 50 times a day. Imagine how you would feel...

So we're having bad dreams. She needs a pacifier to fall asleep, and sometimes throughout the night, when she wakes, she can find it again, and scoop in into her mouth and mom and dad get to sleep all night. That's been the exception rather than the norm lately. Usually what happened is, she would push it out of the crib and on to the floor while sleeping, so when she awoke, she couldn't find it, and started to cry. I can't even count how many times we've had to get up and "re-plug" as we call it. Last night, she was having bad dreams, and having a really rough night (read: nobody got any sleep). I would get up, re-plug, change diaper, and my wife would get up, change diaper, re-plug, etc etc. We would do this several times before realizing the other was doing it too. Joy got to the point where she was so upset, only holding her tightly and rocking her would calm her down. Even the pacifier didn't work. She pulled it out of her own mouth and threw it on the floor herself!

So, being the opportunist I am, I took the opportunity to un-pacify that girl.Last night, I took a pair of scissors and snipped off the very end of one of her pacifiers (I read about that method on some baby site), after she threw it on the floor. I had rocking duty, so I held her tightly to me, and rocked, and rocked, and rocked until she was about to fall asleep. Notice she still does not have the pacifier. I put her in her crib, and placed the modified pacifier within her reach. She grabbed it and stuffed it into her mouth. She was immediately so pissed off I thought she would jump out of that crib and yell at me. But about 15 maybe 20 minutes later, after a good bit of fussing, and me wanting to kill myself for torturing my child, she fell asleep. It was 4:00 am. I went to bed.

That was last night, and aside from about 30 minutes or less of having to pacify her because we were all out at a concert today, and she was well into 'nap time', we have been without. Bedtime tonight was interesting. She usually goes to bed at 6:30, and tonight she didn't until close to 8:00. Other than the pacifier, our night time routine was the same. She needed a little rocking to fall asleep, and I waited in her room with her until she did (I won't do that for very much longer), but it's now a little past 10, and she's still sleeping quietly. I'm so damn exhausted I can't clearly see the keys on my keyboard, and I have to think how to type. I'm going to bed and sleep while I can. I'll report more in the coming days.

Christmas And Rushing

So, Christmas is upon us, and that brings any number of things to any number of people. To some, it's just another day; to others it's a joyous event; to others still, it's a nightmare. Whatever its effect on whatever people, it probably falls somewhere in one of those 3 categories, and it can probably change day by day. We had a busy day today; we got a tree, a wreath, a bunch of icicle lights, a truckload of diapers, Joy's Christmas present, etc etc. A regular shopping day for us, and we got a lot of stuff.

Up until today, we were the only ones on our block without lights on the house. I usually don't care too much about that sort of thing. I mean, lights on a house used to be kind of an oddity. Now, it seems, it's a requirement, at least in our neighborhood. We know a family a few blocks away who go completely nutty with the lights. Nice enough folks, just nuts about the lights; I may have mentioned them before... I digress. I didn't want to be the only one on our block without lights somewhere outside the house. As if I needed to somehow prove I wasn't a grouchy old bastard, I felt the need to light up the place. Of course, the first thing that comes to a guy's mind is something that would show up on a photo taken from Mars. That is not terribly realistic (not entirely UN-realistic either...), so we decided on some icicle lights hanging from the gutters all across the front of the house. Ya know, a little understated but still festive.Not exactly Norman Rockwell but also not Grouchy Old Bastard either.

As usual, I waited until most of the day had elapsed, and I was a little tired. We put Joy in the front yard in an "exer-saucer" (you'll have to google it if you care) to contain her a bit and still let her be a part of the action. The action being me putting up the lights, and my wife preparing the wreath and other decorations. It was a festive joyous moment. I felt good. Until I started to unravel the lights out of their boxes, then my demeanor diminished. It was getting cold (snow in the forecast in a few hours), and the wires of the lights had taken a set and didn't want to unravel to a row of nice icicles. So, I ended up with less of a string of icicles and more of a big jumble of lights hanging from the gutter in one long, snake like bunch. The clock was ticking, the daylight was getting short, it was getting cold (did I mention that?), Joy had decided awhile ago that it was time to go inside, and there I was, rushing to finish. I HATE to rush. I'm one of those guys who would get up an hour or so early before work just so I could sit with my coffee for awhile. I hate it. I find myself rushing alot though. There is always a serious time constraint looming directly ahead, and I am always fighting to meet it. Whether I am trying to do whatever task before the baby wakes, or before the glue dries, or before the wind picks up, I am always rushing. In projects, that is. It doesn't seem to matter what that project is, either. It can be anything, like emptying the dishwasher, or mowing the lawn, and this is just an example. Could the lights have waited? Yes but that would mean I would have to clean up my stuff only to bring it out another day. Spending more time that I might not have. If I don't get it done NOW it might not get done; I might not get another opportunity. Would that be the end of the world? No but then I would be the Grouchy Old Bastard Without Lights, or worse yet - I would be the Hillbilly With Only Some Random, Half-Assed Lights. So I had to rush, and not do a good job. That's how it goes when I rush, I don't do my best. I do my best for now, and sometimes that's all I get to do.

So the lights went up as did my blood pressure. I did get them up and working before nightfall, so I guess we will call that a win. In the end, they actually looked ok. A little goofy but... festive at least. Now I am NOT the Grouchy Old Bastard without lights. You can see them from inside, though the window. Joy seems to like them. She will stare at them, gesture towards them and babble something in her native tongue.

Two seconds of that makes it all worthwhile.

Maturity

Ya know, sometimes it sucks being the grown up. I'm supposed to be the mature one. I'm supposed to be the one who guides, who teaches, who shows the way to do things. I'm supposed to be the one who is to be counted on. I'm supposed to walk the walk not just talk the talk. I am with whom the buck stops, but today I feel like for whom the bell tolls. Today I took a test. OK it was actually yesterday. It was for an IT certification; for Cisco Systems to be precise. It was my first attempt at what is called a CCENT certification. It's more or less the kindergarten of networking certs. I have been studying for probably 2 months pretty solid. I've been reading some REALLY BORING STUFF. I can say with absolute certainty there is only SO MUCH interest the OSI 7 Layer Model can hold for me. I would rather have a 7 layer burrito.

I took the test and failed it by less than one half of one percent! Yes, .4 percent more and I would have had it. Can you get that close to a skunk without smelling it? NO. Can you get that close to a hipster in a lowered Prelude blaring Jeremy and not become violently ill? NO. But - you can get that close to the cert and fall on your face. Sometimes I want to be the one who is coddled. Sometimes I want someone to pat me on the head, give me a pacifier and say "there there". Um. That painted a rather disturbing mental image. Let's move on.

Joy just turned 1. We had a nice birthday party for her with family and friends. It was a really nice evening. I made the cake and the chili. I'm pretty proud of myself. Ya gotta celebrate the small victories, ya know. Lately my job has been to be her personal jungle gym. Laying on the floor (where I can be found most days), with my legs bent up at the knees make a mysterious tunnel that must be discovered ,or sometimes a cave for the intrepid spelunker. My stomach turns into a magnificent obstacle that must be forded approximately 65,535 times a day. My forehead some sort of drum, my belly button a source of wonder and maybe treasure, my hair a handhold. I wear lots of hats. She can walk now too. In just a few days, she has turned from a baby who can wobble just a few 'steps' before falling on her butt to a small person who can walk across the room (on most attempts). I look at her, standing. Just standing. She can stand. She can STAND! I watched her just today... just... standing there. She was playing with a toy of some sort but she was standing straight up, not wobbling, not shaking. My little girl was on her own two feet. I have a bit of a lump in my throat as I'm writing this right now because this is the most wonderful miraculous thing, and at the same time, it's a knife through my heart, that twists a little more every day. This is the best of times, this is the worst of times. Hey, how do you like that huh? TWO literary reference in one blog post? Huh? HUH?

It's really neat to see the excitement in her face as she is coming to terms with her new skill. I can stretch out my arms, and she will get this look on her face, as she walks over to me, that I am having a hard time describing. It's excitement, giddiness, wonder, uncertainty, a little fear, all in one as I wrap my arms around her. Jesus I don't want to let go. But I do, because that's my job.

She doesn't always make it over to me, or the chair, or the wall, or wherever she is headed. She doesn't have this thing all figured out yet. She's still learning, and sometimes she falls on her butt. Sometimes that look on her face turns to frustration, but she picks herself up and keeps trying. She knows she will get there, even after falling on her face.

Who is teaching who here?

This one was hard. I need pie.

Sleepless (not) in Seattle

Sleep is a wonderful thing. Talk about something we probably all do take or have taken for granted at one time or another. It's been shown that the human body can go without sleep for days but certainly most higher brain functions suffer almost immediately. I am quite certain that I could go without for 3 or 4 days. I've done it before. That being said, it would be my own personal hell. I can say that with some degree of certainty because these days I'm at least in my own personal heck has far as that goes.

I have, for many years, had some difficulty sleeping. I get tired, I get into bed and my mind just whirrs. You can probably hear the gears spinning. So, several years ago, I turned to booze to stop or slow the whirring so I could get to sleep. Well, guess how that turned out? I already posted about my difficulties in that area, so I won't go further into it. Suffice it to say, that was a poor choice for me. I'm regaining some control of myself in that area lately, and I'm proud of my progress. My reward was, at least initially, a few REALLY GOOD NIGHTS OF SLEEP! I curtailed my booze intake some weeks ago and when Joy allows me, I sleep like a baby. Well, I sleep like a baby who sleeps through the night. Quietly. By herself. Without intervention. Maybe the metaphor breaks down somewhere here.

Joy has been getting up in the middle of the night for quite some time now. Usually the procedure would be to "re-plug" as we would say, or in other words, help her find her pacifier, and go back to sleep. Sometimes that would include a quick diaper change but in any case, everyone would be sleeping within 5 or 10 minutes. No problem right? Hell I can keep that up. It turns out, if you do that long enough, your body starts to adjust. You don't even notice it but you're really missing out on an hour or 2 of sleep, every night. See, Joy would wake up at around 2:00 am. That's the time I am in my deepest sleep. My "restorative" sleep. Take that away from me long enough, and I'm no longer restored as well. I hardly noticed at first.

Sometime in the last maybe 2 or 3 months, Joy has been getting up, as usual, and sometimes not going back to sleep. Sometimes she needed a little cuddling or even a little playing or a bottle or etc etc etc. Before she would sleep by herself. At first, this was a half hour, then an hour. Now I can spend 2 or 3 hours in the middle of the night watching her while she plays. Does that mean I get an extra 2 or 3 hours in the morning? Hell no. She's up at 6:00 or 6:30 no matter what. If I get up at 1:00, play for awhile, and put her back to bed at 3:00 or 4:00 even, we're up at 6:30. I understand it's a phase she is going through, and I hope I can survive it.

If I'm only awake for 5 or 10 minutes, I can get my sleep-dysfunctional self back to sleep pretty quickly most nights. If I have to be awake for 2 or 3 hours, it is MUCH harder. Sometimes I just start a pot of coffee and stay up. It is difficult but I tell myself bourbon is not the answer. I have to solve my own sleep problems before I can help Joy with hers.

Being a mechanic in a previous life, I can speak authentically about being a mechanic. I was an aircraft mechanic but that's all the same. Every mechanic, myself included, had the crappiest cars in the world. Unless he had inherited some money and drove a muscle car or something. Usually, we would all show up in the morning driving something that probably should be in the junkyard. I mean, beat up, barely running, complete pieces of _ _ _ _. The reason for this is, when you're a mechanic, and working on engines and what have you all day long, the last thing you want to do is work on your own car when you get home. The pay wasn't good enough so we could afford someone to work on it for us, so if work was to be done, we had to do it ourselves. When we felt like it. Which was almost never.

I'm trying to take a different view here. I've mentioned before that when my own house is dirty I will try not to poke fun at yours. I will get to the bottom of my own sleeping problems before I help Joy with hers. I'm the adult after all right? Well the appointment is tomorrow.

Argo

A friend of mine and I went to see this move a few nights ago. It was one of those promotional premier things and  he had some passes to get in free. He lives for this sort of thing. You know, he's the one who camps out to wait for the new iphone. Yeah that guy. A little quirky perhaps, but overall a good guy. So we met at the train station and walked to the theater, which was in downtown Denver. Yeah... look at me, all like taking the train like a big boy. When my wife and I go to the movies we get the package deal where you get 2 tankers of carbonated beverage and a metric Ton of popcorn. Buttered, of course. So my buddy and I got the same deal, which seemed like a good idea at the time. It turns out that reaching into his lap to pull out a handful of warm salty greasy things suddenly has different... meaning... for lack of a better word. Funny, when my wife and I do this, and we do this fairly regularly, I think nothing of it. I mean, I don't think anything. Nothing even sexual, or even appropriately sexual. Nothing. It's just a thing. Suddenly its not and I'm not going to have any more popcorn. Which is a total bummer because I really like popcorn. I manage to sneak a few more handfuls but, yeah, for whatever pathetic reason, I can't handle it.Damn. I didn't even have dinner and was counting on the popcorn to satisfy that need.

Joy is trying new foods these days. Gone are the days when some amount of formless tasteless goop would do for a meal. We are eating bananas, carrots, peas, raisins, bits of hotdog, bits of pasta and bits of potato. It was just maybe 2 or 3 weeks ago when I gave her her first piece of pasta. Just plain old overcooked curly - q pasta. She gave me a look that would melt your heart or a polar ice cap. It was a look of pain, disgust, anguish, fear, and even anger. At me. How could I poison her like that? "How could you" she was asking me with her beautiful eyes. How could I indeed. I wanted nothing more than to scoop out a pile of formless tasteless goop and go back to the way things were. This was my baby growing up a little. It's funny how one tiny insignificant piece of overcooked curly - q pasta can change your whole life. Feeding time was our time; it was a special moment when I could really nurture her and see her taking nourishment. I knew that her tiny body was doing the best it could to process, and it was my job to see that it had the chance. Nobody saw the tear in my eye that day.

Now her menu is fairly advanced. She is eating new stuff almost every day. What was good a week or so ago is now more or less a plaything on her high chair table. She wants the next new thing. She wants the new experience. She wants to see what other stuff she can taste. Man I totally get that. I'm an explorer at heart and "adventure eating" is something I enjoy, from time to time. So yeah Joy, I understand where you're coming from. Just don't go too fast ok? If you want formless tasteless goop, its ok with me.

A Tulip Opens
It Cannot Be Hurried
It Cannot Be Delayed

Anxiety and Gaps

My world is alot of diapers. I complained recently to someone about the amount of poop I deal with on a daily basis. That person told me to be glad everything's working. Seeing as how going in after it would be worse, now I'm glad when I "get to" clean it up. I read "Curious George" books and describe, over and over what color my toys are. I am constantly taking foreign materials out of little hands headed for little mouths. I wash bottles. Did I mention diapers? Oh yeah, sorry. I decide when it's time to eat, when it's time to sleep (sort of), when it's time to play and when it's time to go for a walk. I am the keeper of the cheerios. I am the merchant of tummy tickles. I am the cleaner of barf and the wiper of noses. As if picking my own wasn't a full time job already, yes I pick hers too. Those damnned boogers, you know they get everywhere.

I have to tell myself, and sometimes others also must tell me how important my work is. I mean, SOMEONE has to tend to the boogers.

Its just after Labor Day weekend, and we had a great time. My wife and I got to get out to see a hilarious musical called "Book of Mormon", which I highly recommend for everyone, even mormons. All 3 of us got a chance to go out yesterday for a nice long walk in the gorgeous fall weather. It was just a really nice weekend. For all things in my life, I am lucky and happy. Yet I sometimes strive for more things. Case in point: another boat. You see, I just sold a motorcycle, so it only makes sense I get another boat, right? To be honest, I got the boat before I sold the bike, so at one point I had 2 trucks, 2 boats and 4 motorcycles. Now, I only have 3 motorcycles. Only. I saw on ad on Craigslist a few weeks ago for an old wooden boat. How cool would it be to restore one of those, right? I mean, the beautiful woods, the classic lines. Can't you just see yourself (or me) just sublimely cruising aboard some gorgeous vessel I can call my own? I can. As if my life would have more purpose or be more important. Or just more. I can see it clearly. I contacted the owner and asked if he would consider a trade for a rifle. I had one more gun in the house; it was locked up in the attic, but it was there, and I knew it had to go. The guy said yes. I was going to let it end there. I mean, I could have another boat, and I'd get rid of the gun, and it wouldn't cost anything. Yet. My resolve is weak but I was holding ground. One evening, I told my wife of this, and she encouraged me to proceed. Well, I can say without a doubt that it didn't take long. Within the next few days, Joy and I embarked on an Odyssey to pick up Das Boot. I had a place to put it in the backyard. The opening to the gate was 10 foot 3 inches, and the boat was 10 foot 6 inches wide. You'd think this would stop me? HELL NO! If you knew me, you'd know that was just a detail in my mind. I found out I would need a CDOT permit, because this thing was so wide. Was that going to stop me? HELL NO! I got my permit, which cost 33 bucks for one day. This thing was on a home made trailer which looked like it was assembled by preschoolers. Was that going to stop me? Really, we should stop asking. I drove this thing all the way from Loveland Colorado to Centennial Colorado. Took a few hours because I had to drive slowly. You see, at 10.5 feet wide, my sides were CLOSE to other trucks on the road. CLOSE. I don't know which I watched more closely, my windshield or my mirrors. Thankfully the big Dodge was up to the task, and everyone got home safely. I had to disassemble the fence, and thankfully that one corner post was rotten, so it came right up and I was able to get er in the back. I put the fence back together and let it sit for a few days.

I started poking around. Literally. I started to get sad. Everywhere I looked this hull had rot. I mean, in every panel, every piece. Earlier rot events were covered up with epoxy, which just makes the rot worse because the wood never dries out. This went from a cool project to a hideous mess within an hour or so. Maybe that's how I was able to get a 28 foot cruiser for a traded worthless rifle. The gun could put holes in things, this already had holes in it. Lots of em. After some soul searching, some bourbon and a little time, with the help of my ever - understanding, ever - patient, ever - supportive wife, I decided to cut it up with a chainsaw. The boat itself was worthless. It had an engine that ran, and a trailer that was worth a few hundred bucks in scrap steel alone. I couldn't even sell the whole thing on Craigslist for 300 bucks. People would call, and some even came over. They would look at it with tired expressions, asking if I would take 200. I told them that at 300, I'm already losing 300, so any less than that, and I'm having some fun with a chainsaw. I started the hacking up yesterday. It's hard on my heart to do this, but I know it must be done. It's a painful process. This has perhaps been a mistake, and I hate doing dumb things. All will be well, though. In the end.

About a month ago, Joy started showing some levels of anxiety. Our morning routine was almost exactly the same every day. At 6:00 she would start mewing in her crib. By 6:30 this turned into hanging on the edge crying. So I had 30 minutes to wake up, get out of bed, and get her. The way I would do this was go in the kitchen, prepare her morning bottle, get her up, change her (of course) and take her to the waiting bottle and feed her. Then we would have some cuddle / reading / playing time while she was in my lap before she would get restless and want to be put down to challenge the day on her own terms. It was at the time I would head to the kitchen, close the baby gate behind me, and prepare the day's bagel and coffee or what have you before heading back into the playroom where she would be engrossed in whatever toy she had discovered at that moment. Life was good. All was in balance.

A few weeks ago, when I put her on the floor and headed into the kitchen, she started after me, whimpering. After a few moments, she would have herself pulled up on the baby gate and almost full volume screaming. She would be absolutely beside herself. Tears and all. We have done this the same way, every day and yet it was suddenly abhorrent.

Sleep time started to change too. Night time meant a routine. The bath was perhaps the only variable. Sometimes she didn't get a bath. Especially when she was younger, much smaller, and much less mobile. Not to mention it was colder outside. In any case, the routine meant story time, a bottle, a pacifier, and off she would go. Now it seems she is afraid to sleep. Now a process that took maybe 15 minutes can take an hour and a half or more. She has also returned to getting up in the middle of the night. Sometimes she is wet, and sometimes not. In every instance, she will not settle back down until one of us goes in there and shows our face.

She also cries angrily when someone who was in her presence leaves her presence. This is short lived, but obvious. It makes me sad because I know this is some sort of anxiety. I want to help her, but how can I tell her that everything will be ok when we're still at the Curious George stage? She is only responding to what her brain is telling her. This process is not subject to logic or reason. She feels a loss and must express her grief. Obviously history has no impact. The fact that I have been there for her every day of her life so far apparently carries no weight. She feels a void and does her best to get it filled. Now. This is just a phase. She will stop this silly behavior and see that her life is good, and full and happy. Nobody can tell her though, she has to find that out on her own. She is going to make mistakes and do dumb things. All will be well though. In the end.

Theft.

So this is to serve as a complaint about our system of commerce. Over the weekend, 2 charges showed up on my debit card that I did not recognize. Charges amounting to over 600 dollars, which, in my world, is significant. My wife and I share that account, so I approached her about the charges and she did not recognize them either. I called the bank to alert them of these charges and both of our confusion. I had to initiate a fraud alerting transaction with the bank, which has so far resulted in my debit card number being disabled. This action, I applaud because that means nobody else can use it for their nefariousness. That's where the applause stops. When I asked the bank what is going to happen, I got some fairly nebulous responses raging from "the charges just might drop off" to " the vendor may have to issue you a refund". That's one "might" and one "may". My money did not "might" or "may" get stolen, THEY STOLE IT! No iffs ands or butts. Plain and simple, they stole my money. By the way by "they" I mean American Eagle Outfitters in Pennsylvania. So here I have 2 transactions, behind which is an electronic trail, with names, dates, maybe some sort of reference number, etc. and this is being treated like its some sort of fucking mystery.

I called American Eagle Outfitters to enquire which asshat took my money. I was, of course, given the runaround, and eventually told to basically piss up a rope, they weren't going to do anything for me, that the "items had already shipped"(!). Your skull will be my urinal.

So then I called the cops. The sheriff to be precise. A deputy showed up at my door within a few minutes to take my statement. Wearing too much perfume, and oddly turning me on because she could obviously kick my ass and shoot me with the gun on her belt, the deputy took my statement. She then proceeded to advise me that I should subscribe to one of those ID Theft protection services,and that these cases sometimes don't get resolved unfortunately.

Is everyone blind to the fact that 1) these bedwetters took my money, and 2) there is a record of the transaction and 3) an attached trail of information, like items, addresses, names, dates, probably phone numbers? I mean the stuff had to get shipped somewhere, right? START THERE!  This is NOT a mystery. Kyra Sedgwick will not be needed here. This should have started and ended with me telling the bank I did not authorize the purchase of 600 dollars worth of campy khaki cargo pants!

More to come.

EDIT: It's now a few days later, and I found out some new information. After I reported the deal to the local Sheriff, an Investigator called me to share some information. The reason nobody really seems to give a rat's ass about my 600 bucks is that, according to Federal law, as long as I notified my bank within one statement cycle (which I did), the bank has to refund me any charges I report as unauthorized. I then called the bank to add the Sheriffs case number to my claim number (the cops recommended this), and the voice at the bank confirmed this. I asked the voice at  the bank why the hell don't they OPEN with this information, seeing as how (at least) I freak out when people steal money from me apparently, and didn't get a good answer. Actually I got no answer at all. All they had to do was tell me that, and I would have freaked less. So I checked my bank account this morning, and one charge already dropped off, and I'll (somewhat) patiently wait for the other. I would still use the American Eagle guy's skull as my urinal if I get the chance (I'm a big fan of the oatmeal.com!). So, back on topic with baby raising stuff from here on out.

Am I Helpless Or Lining Up My Shot?

I would hate to use the word helpless because quite frankly that's a bullshit word, to borrow a bit from the show Jersey Boys. I am not a helpless person. I am a man. I have gone to lots of places and done lots of things, some even good things, some rarely even smart things. I have led a full and, more or less, productive life. Someone once told me in order to be happy, you either have to make a difference or really love what you do (I may have said that before, please forgive). In my previous live, I would like to think I made a difference, so I enjoyed what I did for a living. The gratification was instant and obvious. I was helping good people do their good works. I was a rock. Unflappable. Hah! there, I used the word "unflappable"! It's just a fun word to say, isn't it? Unflappable. Kinda like imperturbable. OK, enough of that.

This week I was flapped. I flapped myself. I had a flappy day. Dammit, OK Ill stop. I went to pick up Joy who had filled her diaper so significantly I thought the neighbors might smell it. Wowie that wonderful little bundle sure can make a stank. When reaching down for her, I threw my back out. I have a long and storied history with back troubles dating back probably over 20 years (I'm feeling a little more flapped just thinking about that), and even surgery a few years ago. My spouse was away on business and it was just me and Joy, just us turkeys, and one turkey was... heh. I won't do it... injured. When you put your back out, usually one or more events occur, you strain the tendons that hold a particular vertebra in alignment so that vertebra is now out of alignment, kinda like pulling one tent stake out and the tent goes wonky, or you just aggravate the soft tissues, and either way the tissues directly involved with the injury start to go into distress, and the surrounding tissues can also go into sympathetic distress, or spasm. So, it's like the tent, which is already hurting is also being pulled in other directions by the other tent stakes making the situation mucho worse. Suffice it to say, it hurts. Like a lot.

So there I was, stanky baby in my arms, just about wailing from pain and all alone. I got her changed, and back on the floor safely when I called my family for help. They came over immediately to take care of Joy and take my flapped ass to the ER. Long story short(er), I'm back home, everyone is ok and my back hurts like hell. It will too, for another few months, just to remind me not to be stupid (anymore). It's penance. I am a recovering catholic, so it's appropriate. I accept this.

This brings on a new feeling to me. As anyone who knows me knows I'm grappling with my new station in life. Heck that's the purpose of this blog. This event just brought me down a notch though. I was not the helpless one remember, I was the rock. I feel less like a rock and more like a sea cucumber. Kinda passively existing, waiting for the currents to bring me some grub. Not going after life, letting life wash over me. I've gone from existing in this world to hoping the world allows me to exist in it.Have I been here all along? I don't know. I doubt it. I would like to think not. A rock would not allow it. Well, maybe that's where the metaphor breaks down. Anyway, I digress. Right now I am more or less helpless. There was not much to do in my pre-injury life, and I can do even less now.

So now, I'm grappling with the idea of being even less effective than before. What will be the outcome? I don't know, I can't offer any solutions at the moment. I had tried to make some money to help the budget around here, and I did make a little. Every little bit helps, but it was really only a drop in the bucket. I have to find a way to get my mind through all this. I have to find a way to be comfortable with this, but not too comfortable. That's a mighty fine line to walk, if I do say so myself. If I get comfortable with my lifestyle, will maybe some day come that I can't be comfortable with another? Will I become lazy? Does it ever come back? I'm told it does. By "it" I mean the "it" that was lost when I took this new job. "It" would be drive, motivation, whatever you want to call it. Rocks have "it". I feel I'm losing "it" and "it" won't come back, now that I'm even farther away than a few days ago.

You can't see the stag in your scope if you're too close to it. You have to step away to get the big picture and line up your shot, otherwise it is too blurry. I have a new perspective on my new job. I've taken a step back and maybe even though I'm further down from where I was before, I can hopefully see it now more clearly and get the big picture. I am hoping to see it for what it is, not for what I was in it. Or what I am in it. Maybe I was too close to it. It's not about me anyway, is it?

The Seven Month Itch

... or the Prodigal Son Returns...
It's funny to me how easily time passes. Joy is now 8 months old. She is going to be walking and talking in no time. I can already hold her hands and help her walk. By "walk" I mean, I more or less provide the motive force and balance and she moves her legs and feet back and forth to simulate a walking motion. Walking. Geezis. She is still taking 3 (ish) naps a day and I still have some "me time". But the time is getting less and less mine... Sort of. 

The business I was in for lo these many years has a network associated with it; in other words, I have (had) a reputation, and it was more or less widely known in my circle of communications technicians and their customers. I am known by lotsa people. People who really aren't known by anyone else. So, if I am popular amongst those that are not, am I really popular? Well that's a subject for another day. Where I was going with this is, sometimes I hear from those people who know me and my abilities, as I did just recently. I received a phone call from someone who needed my expertise for some projects he was doing. He runs his own business, and it's doing okay, and he remembered me, so he decided to give me a call. The work he needed me to do was certainly "in my wheelhouse", so my ability to perform the tasks was not in question. But that's not my job, is it? No. It's not. I had to tell him that I could provide some consulting and maybe some design or commissioning data, but as far as "boots on the ground" type work, I was out.

I discovered I had turned a corner. Up until that point, anyone who had contacted me to do some work (and there were a few), I had more or less just led on and not committed to anything because I couldn't commit to a service level, but I also was not ready to admit I was out. I was not ready to admit to anyone, myself included. Until now. Well, a few days ago. How does that saying go, "the scent is starting to come off the rose"? I think that's happening. It's ok. I have a job. I don't need another.

I was talking to my wife the other day about this. Do I miss the workplace and such. The answer is yes I do, but to be honest, I can't decide what about it I miss. Is it the regimen of the 9-5? Is it the camaraderie of other people? Is it the 'away from home' factor? Is it the pay? Is it the professional satisfaction of a job well done? I could go on, but I won't. The truth is, I have no idea exactly what I miss, but I miss it. I honestly do. In fact, I missed working so much I found myself spending all my "me time" today researching Internet marketing. I'm reading about Google's Ad Words, Ad Sense embedded advertising, etc etc. Really kinda boring stuff. But if one is to start a web-based business one has to know how to market it right?

I don't know if I am going to go back to work. Let me rephrase. I don't know when I am going to go back to work. I don't know if I can start a business. Let me rephrase. I don't know if I can start a web-based business. I think I'm going to try though. There's alot of people selling alot of crap out there. Surely, someone is making some money somehow. I just have to figure all that out. Surely it is that simple right?

Travel

This week, we are travelling to Seattle, so that we all can be together while my wife works at her actual place of work with her actual people. I can certainly appreciate the need for this. I mean, even though she worked there while we used to live here a year or so ago, over time, sometimes when a voice on the phone or an email is all that's left of a person, to prevent them from disappearing into the ether, we need to be physically present from time to time. I get it.

So I ran around the house yesterday like a chicken with my head cut off getting everyting ready to go. When you travel with a baby, you need to bring a TON OF SHIT (please pardon my language) with you. All items to support the child. You try to make the experience as close to "normal" as you can, so the kid doesn't freak out. You try to bring all the kid's toys, the kid's bowl and spoon, the kid's blanket, etc etc. Creature conforts. All the while you hope you remember to pack at least one pair of clean underwear for yourself. I get it.

I had no small amount of anxiety about this. Joy is now 6 month old (!) and this is the first time we travelled. I told my wife on the drive to the airport, while I was trying to maintain a steady breathing pattern, that we were about to "turn into those people who travel with an infant". You've all been there. You've all had the experience while flying to Chicago for the family reunion or Detroit for that meeting that nobody actually wants to be at. You've all watched that parent or those parents struggle with the child that will not be consoled and absolutely screams the ENTIRE TIME! You've all felt maybe a little sympathy looking at these grown men and women who have been beaten down by this child, looking for all the world homeless and unclean. There is an icy hollowness in their eyes. You wonder if their soul has left the building. You almost want to approach and offer assistance but are scared they'll turn into zombies and eat your tasty brains. The fear is real. The look is real. The danger is... real, and you know it, so you continue on your way. At the same time you are feeling all this wholesome sympathy, you're also feeling anger. I mean this kid wailed for hours, and how were you supposed to be able to focus on the latest Dan Brown novel? Yeah, you were violated. There you were, minding you're own business (that's a mandatory phrase in this case, right?) and your ears were raped by this child. This (seemingly... HAH) innocent, helpless, beautiful, perfect human being just ruined your flight (?) to whatever boneheaded location you were heading. Not the TSA who strip searched you, and weren't even gentle,  not the baggage handlers who lost your luggage (yeah right, they sell the good stuff, and they know that your bag is full of awesome stuff), not the idiot who took up 2 parking spaces in the Most Densely Populated Parking Structure Ever, not the fat guy in line in front of you who smelled like a fetid combination of sweat, garlic, salami and roadkill. NO, not any of those people... the baby ruined it, and you know it. It's true, you'll forget about the smelly fat guy; the parking putz isn't even remarkable in any way; you might even enjoy the TSA; you know you bought crappy baggage anyway, but you'll remember that baby.

This is what I had swirling in my mind. I actually told someone beforehand that I was expecting Joy to start screaming as soon as we walked out the front door, and stop screaming when we walked back in, 5 days later. I was expecting the absolute worst, and my guts were in knots about it. My heartrate was elevated as we were packing up the car. My pulse rose as we unpacked the car and hopped into that shuttle that takes you from The Northwest Territories to somewhere slightly closer to the gate in Denver. I took mental note of how LONG it was taking, and mental tally of HOW MUCH SHIT WE HAD (again, please forgive). We checked what we could and girded ourselves for war. Before I knew it, we were through security. What? Wait, what happened there? We just sailed on through, with no difficulty at all. OK, that was a fluke. Luck of the draw. Won't happen that way again. I angried all up again, and was ready for the next phase, Gate Activity. We were there early enough so we could stop for a burger and a beer. My wife knew I was already at the boiling point, and for her own personal safety, stopped for sustenance and booze.

We then made it to our gate, which was NOT 17 miles down the corridor, but pretty darned close to the beer. Score again. We waited for a few minutes and then the illegible announcement came over the loudspeaker that we were either at war with Russia or people with children could board. I bashed my way through the hoards of ASSHATS whe feel the need to CLOG the ENTRY to the gate like the goddamm PLANE is going to LEAVE without them.... breathe now... On to the plane and into my seat. My wife and I manage the child and baggage like seasoned veterans. She is a veteran at flight; I'm more than a rookie, but not as good at it as she is. I mean she knows her stuff when it comes to flight (among other things). We get into our seats, and the seat next to me, which is the window seat, is empty. I heard on a completely different illegible loudspeaker that either polar bears are invading Rhode Island or the flight is 100% full, so I knew there would be at least one (other) extremely unlucky sonofabitch on this flight. Not only do you have to sit next to me, I have a baby BWAAAAHAHHHAAAAHHHAAA! YOUR SOUL IS MINE! The doors closed and the seat next to me was empty. Maybe polar bears are invading Rhode Island. At this point, I've decided that since things were going so well, any moment Joy was going to open up her lungs, and really test out her ability to shatter glass from afar. Not to mention my eardrums. My heart was racing. I was ready to tear the face off everyone on this voyage of the damned. We taxied into position, the engines ran up to full power. We were pushed back in our seats, the roar of the General Electric genX Turbofan engine right outside my window was almost deafening. The aircaft shuddered off the runway, my pulse was pounding in my ears, I was sweating and visibly shaking. It was going to start ANY MOMENT! Soon, my world would cease to exist and I would turn into a soulless zombie! My perfect little angel was going to turn me into the UNDEAD! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!!!! Then, she fell asleep. Like a small sack of potatoes over my arm. The whole flight, she slept. Unreal.

My wife and I looked at each other like we had gotten away with something. I knew then and there our karma was overdrawn. We were due for a payment but it wasn't that day. We arrived at our hotel, and once we all got settled, we all slept.

It's now day 2 and Joy and I have already been out for a walk (to the Subway, the Walgreens and the liquor store, as you might expect) and we're back in the hotel room ready for hopefully a nap. I still feel like there will be a payment. I just don't know when, maybe on the way back...

Growing and Other Mysteries

I'm finding it more and more difficult to find time to post, so they're not coming as regularly. Maybe that will change, mayne not, we'll see.

It seems every day Joy is doing someting new. For instance, just 2 days ago she tried sweet potatoes for the first time, and yesterday that was her meal and she liked it. A competely new and foreign experience is now an accepted part of her routine. Today she is spending more time voluntarily on her tummy. See, she can roll over on her own but can't roll back yet, so we spend a good amount of time on our stomach; much more so than usual. But then I guess this is the new 'usual'. I asked her as nicely as I could to slow down all this growing and development while she is still in an easily handled package. She is obviously ignoring my request. She is sleeping through the night (mostly) in her own room, in her own crib too. I seriously don't know how to keep up with this child.

In a few weeks, my brother and some friends and I are heading off to ride dirtbikes out in the wilds of Colorado and perhaps Utah for a week or so. My wife, who is the most wonderful person in the while world, insists I join them and get out and ride. We had a slight problem though. "We" consist of 5 guys, and between the lot of us, we could only gather 4 motorcycles. So that means either one would have to stay home (not an option), or we would have to share what we had between the lot of us, which would mean 1 guy always without a bike (not a good option), or buy one. We decided to pool our financial resources and procure one for the group, fix it up, and sell it at the end, and redistribute the funds back to the group. A little complicated, to be sure, but the only good option. I was, of course, tapped to broker the deal, and due to the fact I have a garage, tools, experience with motorcycle maintenance, etc etc I was to be the overall caretaker of the machine and the deal until it was sold on the far end of our adventure. I accepted happily.

My usual procedure would be to go out and purchase a bike made by one of the manufacturers known as the "big 4", which would be Honda, Suzuki, Kawasaki, and Yamaha. All of which I have owned at one point or another. I'm currently the owner of a Honda and 2 Yamahas, as an example. Well I wanted to go do that but I began to get frustrated because people were asking way more than the bikes were worth, even for bikes that needed significant work. It was spring, and people were getting their tax refunds, and the economy is supposedly on the rebound, so sellers were taking full advantage. I'm an experienced buyer so I will not be sucked in to the crap they were trying to spew. I was looking for a 4 stroke (I won't go into detail what that means, except to say it refers to the kind of engine it has) because 2 strokes were falling by the wayside in popularity and parts availability etc. The prices were through the roof! I will not pay over "Blue Book" value for a motorcycle, period. So I would go home frustrated. Repeatedly.

Time was beginning to be an issue. I only had about 2 thousand dollars to spend, and I wanted to get a bike in time to fully check it out and do whatever fixing it needed before all the guys got here. Joy only allows me so much time to do that sort of thing, ya know? I mean 6 weeks sounds like a ton of time, but in my life, 6 weeks is PUSHING IT. Stress was starting to rise. I did NOT want to disappoint my riding buddies. This is important to me.

So one day, after just coming home from what I thought was a 'slam dunk' which turned out to be more like an 'air ball' instead, I stumbled across an ad on ... an internet listing website... for a 2 stroke. Now I had owned 2 strokes in the past, and also had one in the garage, so I was no stranger to 2 strokes, liked em and all, but my riding buddies didn't want one. For a few reasons but the greatest of which is power delivery. 2 strokes have an angry, agressive, abrupt power delivery while 4 strokes' power delivery is smoother, more electric... it's not going to rip your arms out of their sockets trying to get away from you. MUCH easier to ride. Anyway, I got home, saw the ad, it was close, and the guy was there, so I ran out to see him and his bike. It was made by an austrian company called KTM, a fine machine of strong repute, and completely foreign to me. It was a 2 stroke. It was bigger in engine displacement than any other 2 stroke I had ridden in years. It did not have electric start. It was NOTHING my friends asked for. Shit.

I threw a leg over it, it fired on the first kick and treated me to an experience that was near heavenly. Wow. This thing was impressive. Power delivery was smooth smooth smooth, engine started really easily, and the total package was just really nice. This thing was Austrian. This thing was not only completely foreign to me, but really unwanted by the group. Oh yeah, and it could be had for half our budget. So I bought it. It's sitting in my garage now, waiting for my attention, which I will start giving it tomorrow. What was completely foreign is now commonplace.

How does one keep up with change? Must I constantly stretch my envelope of comfort to accomodate the next new thing? How can one find balance when balance is in a constant state of flux? How do you toe line when the line constantly moves? Steel is a pretty strong material and is strongest when its strength is tested (a state called stressed). You can bend steel. Once. If you bend it more than once, the area that is bent goes into a state called "work hardened" where it starts to become brittle. Keep going and it'll break.

Steel doesn't put up with change.

Joy does, every day.

I'm learning how.

Juggling, Jobs and Other Circus Acts

Today we decided to wake up at 4:30 am and not go back to sleep. So, here we are, 5:00 in the morning and playing. I see an opportunity to write a bit.

My family is awesome. They are so great, they have all stepped in to take care of joy on a regular basis so I can have some "me time" or whatever. Lately, what I've decided to do with all this time is work. You know, for money. I have one of those odd skillsets that allows me to take on small, "catch as catch can" contract jobs. The one I am referring to now has been going on for about a month and is almost done. The customer and I are going through what is called "acceptance testing"today, wherein all the stuff I installed for them is put through its paces in front of the customer to achieve their satisfaction. Normally, and the last paycheck. This time, I was paid 100% up front, so pay isn't a motivator, just knowing a job well done is, and that's good enough for me.

So, you'd think that we could schedule a regular rhythm of daycare, working, testing, etc etc to make this a painless experience, right? Maybe if I were an organized person. As it turns out, I'm an airhead, so we now have a painful experience. It's a direct cause and effect relationship. What is so hard about it, you ask? Well, not much really. I mean, all it takes is a memory (I have CRS), an understanding of what's going on generally (airhead, remember?), and a desire and time to organize (that's pretty much a luxury). Case in point: I recently had scheduled a day of work, and the weather turned inclement while I was onsite, and I had to bail (my work was outside and I'm a wimp when it comes to mixing rain with electronics). Just to get to this point, I had to schedule the day with the customer, which required a call to campus security (the work was on a local community college campus), the director of facilities, and the campus electrician. Not to mention a call to my mother in law to schedule daycare. That's four phone calls for one day of work! This is just one more of those aspects of my life that have had to slow down.

I'm grappling with this working bit. I want to be 'out there' working and hopefully making some bucks and contributing. My problem is involving my whole family to do it. They are incredibly supportive and understanding but they're entitled to an unmolested lifestyle, aren't they? Yes they are. So who am I to impose on their generosity just so I can feel better about myself? This is the grappling part. I think maybe once this project is done, I'm going to chill at home and not worry about working for awhile. Afterall, my little girl needs her daddy, and that's enough work for me for now. She deserves my undivided attention. I think it's time to cut the chaos and get back to basics. Maybe I'll find the satisfaction that I get while on the job working for my kiddo.

She's done playing for the moment and ready to go back to sleep, and so am I, so off we go.

Real Men Don't Cry... Do They?

... and on a lighter note:

When did I turn into such a goober?
One of the things Joy and I like to do is dance while I "sing" to her. Sometimes everyone needs a little cuddle time, and I am no exception. We were having a tender moment when a song by Collin Raye came on called "I Think About You". It's a song about a guy seeing a provocative billboard and sees his own daughter or hears about someone being beaten and abused, or objectified, or generally mistreated and can't help but put her face in the story. It's a sad song to be sure. Of course, I do the same thing, and there we were dancing and me providing additional vocals to the song and hell if I didn't tear up. I must be honest, I have a little lump in my throat right now. I could not finish the song! I just had to keep dancing with my daughter while the urge to take her away from anything that might hurt her waned a bit, or at least to a sane level. I can't help but be a little overprotective of her, but this is taking things a little too far, isn't it? Maybe, maybe not. I don't apologize for it, I just never thought I would care that much. That sounds a bit odd to say about one's own progeny but I have been... umm... kind of a cold person in the past. I have kept the world at arm's length. My wife is about the only exception to the rule. Family too. This is where I write about my life a few years ago, going through a divorce and all the pain that generated for me, and all the associated crap that goes along with it. This is where I say stuff like I built walls around myself because of past experiences to assure I would never feel again. The point of said walls is ostensibly to prevent pain, but what they actually do is prevent any sort of feelings. I have said in the past, and I say it now, if not for all that "crap" I would never had moved to Colorado, met my wife and have been blessed by this wonderful squirming thing in my arms. All the good things in my life, all the things that really matter would not have happened if not for the ugliness of my past. If that is true, how can I possibly call it ugliness? Afterall, it led to such beauty. If beauty begets itself, everything that has happened in my life is perfect. It all happened for a whole bunch of really really good reasons, so it's all good :)

I am by far not a perfect person, but I don't consider myself damaged goods either. Well, not too damaged. Maybe the damage is repairing itself, I don't know, I'm a guy. I have no idea what I'm feeling from one moment to the next, with the possible exception of that one moment. I know what I was feeling then, I'm 100% sure I am completely in touch with what my heart was telling me. It was telling me I love her with everything I've got, and it's my job to protect her. I have to admit, that's sadly a foreign concept. That's pretty unfair to say considering I've devoted myself to my wife previously. Maybe I always left a little place inside me that was ready for rejection. Maybe my wall was still there. Smaller, but there. Maybe there will always be a vault somewhere in there that is ready for the kind of emotional crap I've experienced before. Maybe that thing is getting smaller all the time. I don't know, I'm a guy!

It's one thing to look into the eyes of someone who loves you and seeing that love look right into your soul. It's something else completely to see eyes that are part yours looking at you and a smile that is part yours smiling at you. To see such need, and know you're the one who must respond makes you feel bigger than you ever were. When you used to live in a small little world, and now your world is tenfold bigger than it was, it is like a tree that grows too close to the street and eventually heaves up, seemingly effortlessly, large chunks of asphalt. It's nothing that can be helped, it can't be stopped, and hell it shouldn't be. I'm that tree slowly pushing away things that hinder my reach for the sun. I have no idea where this is going to lead, but it suffices to say I'm along for the ride!

There is so much about this experience that is foreign to me. The whole point, or at least a piece of the point of this exercise is to help me figure it all out. There is almost too much going on to filter it, but I'm making a go of it. A year ago, I would have said "pfft... I don't think so" but now, I'd have to say "they apparently do."

Bourbon Under The Bridge or The Truth Hurts

Warning: Sensitive Material Follows, You Should Probably Skip Over This One.

Sometimes, as in when we have a child, we have to change our lifestyle. I'm talking about giving up listening to the Scorpions and Rolling Stones and start listening to James Taylor and John Hiatt, but more importantly bad habits. I don't smoke cigarettes, but occasionally smoke cigars, and yes, here I admit it, sometimes chew. I wouldn't normally even bring that up, but the point of this exercise is therapy, and lies don't enable therapy, so there ya go, ugly truth. There are other "features" of being me that probably warrant corrective action, or at least an attempt. Tobacco is easy to walk away from, it's not a real big part of my life. I can easily cut it out completely or severely restrict its usage so that it will never interfere with my life as an Old Man With A Daughter. There are 2 things that I cannot say that about, and they kind of scare me a bit. I eat too much and I drink too much. It's really that simple. I have been fighting the Battle of the Bulge since before high school. I was always the fat kid, and subject to the associated ridicule and harassment. In high school, I thought it was cool to be 200 lbs because I was part of an elite group called the Chub Club, who were guys on the football team, I think all lineman, at 200 lbs or more. 200 pound freshman in high school is nothing to be proud of or even happy about. Now I would kill to be 200. I won't discuss what my numbers are now, just that it's over 200.

I have a history of subjecting myself to addictive behavior. I had my first cigarette in 6th grade, I think. My first trial of pot and acid (don't ever go near that shit) in 8th grade, and I have no idea when I first tasted alcohol but it was early. I'd like to apologize to my family for this, as I am certain this is a bit painful to read. It's painful to write too, to be honest. I should say that I have not used drugs since then. I think somehow I decided drugs were bad, and I shouldn't use them. In honor of my wife's pregnancy I gave up the sauce for the duration, but picked it right back up now that the child is here. That's the thing about mistakes; you sometimes don't see 'em until later.

I'm not going to kid myself and swear I will completely alter my lifestyle overnight. That's incredibly foolish. I've been trying to do that for over 20 years. I've been lying to myself for over 20 years. Remember a post or two back when I talked about working toward goals, and that we never really get there, that its the hunt for it that is the exciting part? This is one goal I would surely like to achieve and never visit again. Obviously I have never considered myself or my health important enough to do anything about it. I don't know where I developed such a low self esteem but I honestly don't put a high value on me. It's funny, isn't it, that we can be so selfish when it comes to material things but the absolute opposite when it comes to things that increase our own personal value or longevity? How stupid is that? It doesn't make any sense at all. I have a fairly high level of shame having to do with the whole thing.

When do I decide I'm important enough to live better? Is having a child going to do it? I mean, nothing else has so far. I'm staring 40 in the face, and at the rate I'm going, I'm going to be on dialysis and drooling by the time she graduates college. That doesn't paint a pretty picture does it? No.

I thought about writing this (or not) for awhile now. It's been on my mind, and I couldn't decide if I was going to include it. The point of this exercise was not to entertain, or appeal to the masses, but to organize, document, and relate what the process was like from my perspective. My perspective. This is part of me, so to exclude it would somehow be dishonest, right? I'm still grappling with hitting the "publish" button, almost as much as I'm grappling with my issues.

I'll wrap it up by saying I'm going to try. I have a good start today. I exercised today and only had one beer last night. Maybe someday I'll be worthy of the smiles Joy gives me. Maybe I never will, but I'm going to try. It's silly to shoot for perfection, but it's not silly to shoot for better. I'm trying.

Goals and Time

I used to have both. I can no longer call either one mine. This is just another step in the process, I assure myself, and it's completely true, and ok. Actually I should be fair and accurate. My goals and time have changed, not disappeared. My goals are now babbling on the couch next to me, and that is, by the way, where "my" time is now too. Is that a matter of convenience that everything I used to define myself is now a small person who goes through many many diapers a day? I think maybe yes. It is quite convenient. At least this way there is no doubt.

Goals are easy to define. You just decide where you want to be in the next 2, 5, 10 years and boom, there's a set of goals. Time is just as easy, you either have it or not. What you do with your time has always been your business right? Not anymore, for me anyway. My family, as awesome as they are, have come forward and helped me with Joy by taking her periodically so I have some time to do what I want to do. But it's not MY time, is it? Not really. It's borrowed time, or more accurately gifted time. So, by some measure it's mine but technically, if not for my family, I would not have it.

So that takes me down a road I had not expected. When someone gives you a shirt for Christmas or a tool for your birthday, you kind of expected to wear it, or use it as it was designed to. It's not good form to take a perfectly new shirt and use is as oil rags, or a brand new tool and sell it for scrap metal. A few years down the road, when it starts to recede from everyone's memory, it's ok to do whatever you want with it. But for the first few years, you have to abide by the commonly accepted protocols. What is an acceptable usage of this time I have? Well I have to be honest, I'm being pretty damned selfish with it. I'm fairly defensive of "my" time. I've been using it messing around in the garage, working on trucks and motorcycles, and occasionally, the house. I feel a bit guilty, but I think if I don't do something for myself, I might go batty. So I consider this an ounce of prevention. Definitely worth some pounds of cure.

So if my goals and time are now either deflected or not mine anymore, how do I define myself? That's easy. My goals are simple, I want my daughter to grow up and be happy and healthy, and I spend almost all my time working to that end. That's a noble goal, so I define myself as noble. If a toolmaker is the noblest profession, a parent has to be a close second.

I've learned through this process that my need for goals and time has largely been a response to an outside force of some kind. I've had goals because society expects me to. I've had time to pursue my goals. Don't get me wrong, I liked my goals and enjoyed the pursuit. But it was the joy of the hunt that kept me in the game for the most part, not the goals themselves. Why is that? I believe it is because we are results driven human beings. We look for a particular result, aim for it, and work our asses off to get there. What happens when you get there though? Do you sit on that previously driven ass and enjoy the fruits of your labors? NAH. You keep going, don't you? You keep aiming for goals until you create one that cannot be hit, and you're happy. You're happy because of the joy of the hunt, not the goal itself. Goals, in fact, can make one unhappy by some arguments. In the end, if you hit all your goals, you have nothing to work towards. That sounds like an incredibly empty feeling to me.

Up until a few weeks ago, my goals were to work up at the mine in Leadville kinda doing paltry IT support stuff, working on my Cisco certifications, and eventually landing a better job down in the front range when baby was going to be a little bigger, more active, and more wanting of activities. I figured I could land that better job because the economy might have improved and I would have some real experience and be marketable. Then and only then would I finally be happy. Why did I choose the IT field versus any of the other myriad of fields I actually had experience in? At some level because it was mysterious and unobtainable. I would never get there. It was never really going to happen for me, so I pursued it like a dog chasing a rabbit. A big rabbit that ran real fast. Might I have got there eventually? Sure. I'm quite certain I would have. I mean, there are very few goals I've actually wanted and never achieved, and this would be no different, I'm sure of it. I would be competing for jobs with people half my age, fresher education (my masters in IS is 10 years old already), etc etc but I would get there eventually. Then what? Where from there? I'm at the brass ring, I'm there. Well, there's always the next echelon isn't there? There's management (yuck), engineering (I don't have the patience), design (I don't have a thread of creativity in me), sales (umm NO), or super geek. It would seem like my only option would be to master some technology(s), pigeonhole myself into it (them), and eventually become obsolete. Kinda like what I did to my communications career. It took about 10 years or so but it could be done again.

I joke from time to time with a friend of mine who is about my age, about what we want to be when we grow up. It sounds scary but it's true, I'm actually still trying to nail that one down. So, maybe it's actually refreshing to have my goals greatly simplified for me. It kind of takes the pressure off. Now my goals are simple, my job is simple, my life is simple. Maybe this hiatus will allow me to do a reset. Maybe in a month or so, I'll have new goals, a new idea of what the perfect life actually is, and maybe I'll be living it.

Whining.

Joy has started this new way of crying. Before, her crying was strictly clear and purposeful. There was no real middle ground, either she was upset and crying, or not (refer to aforementioned checklist). I never appreciated how much I enjoyed this more or less binary state until this week. In the communications industry, any new gizmo or geegaw has a multitude of options, and when I sold a particular gizmo to any customer(s), I would try to talk the customers out of 95% of the options, or conveniently forget to tell the customers about them. Honestly, for the most part, they didn't need them. Secondly, if I "allowed" the customer to have the options, or enabled the options, I would be stuck dealing with this gizmo and it's million options for the lifespan of the gizmo (or the company heh heh). Too many options are too confusing to most of us. I am NO exception.

This "middle ground crying" could be described as "whining". I really can't describe it any better (I would have to embed an executable sound file, and I am NOT that nerdy...really). It's definitely a cry of sorts, but she's not committed to it, so it comes out kinda wimpy. Now my point is, if SHE'S not committed to it, why the heck should I be? Just because this thing is making noise, must I respond? Modern philosophy says yes. You should respond to all crying a newborn makes. That begs the question, "for this process, define a newborn".

So the analyst in me wants to define this New Operational Parameter. What does it mean, what processes does it spawn, and what processes spawn it, and how to mitigate it? I found out last night that this noise occurred during a wet diaper situation. Wet diaper usually spawned a much more aggressive noisy status, but last night, there was a wet diaper, and there was whining. Joy usually gets up at around 7 am, eats, gets a new diaper, and goes back to sleep for an hour or so. Sometimes there is crying before this sleeping. This morning, there was whining. She's beside me now, sleeping like a... hmmm... I'll think of something; let me get back to you on that one. In any case, the procedure was the same; she's fed, changed, and sleeping, but in the interim there was this whining. So, obviously "wet diaper" spawns the whining, and "fatigue" does too. So, obviously, whining is not a clear indicator of any status I can find so far. Inconclusive.

What processes are spawned by the whining? Most of them fall into my court. I've been treating the whining as any other status indicator so far, again I refer to the checklist, and results are very unsatisfactory. The whining makes me check diapers, try to get her to nap, make sure she's warm, see to it she's fed... does this sound familiar? Inconclusive!

One of my philosophies is Be Somebody, Don't Be Nobody. Be who you want to be, exist on some plane, wave your flag, say it proud. Be a lover, be a fighter, be a builder or be a killer, it doesn't matter, just be someone. Be all about that person. BE. In that philosophy there is no room for whiners. By the way you can't BE a whiner. That doesn't count. So, here's my progeny whining. This hurts me at a level I've never seen before. Is this a mirror into me? Am I looking at me when I look at her? They say that true greatness is defined by what you do when nobody's watching. She doesn't know anybody's watching. This is a disturbing turn of events, I can say with certainty. She only has the tools I (and my wife) gave her. This whining did not come from my wife. I was in the delivery room, I saw what happened. It was clear to me at that point that my wife was the kindest, most loving, most tender, toughest, baddest, strongest mofo ever. This whining came from me obviously.

I am looking at myself when I look at my daughter. She gets it honest, I have to admit. How can I "fix" what's "wrong" with her, if I can't do it for myself? HAH! Maybe this is one of those times when I am supposed to make her better than me. That's kind of bullshit, isn't it? If I make someone better than me, that means I don't walk the walk. That means I don't practice what I preach. That's not true (Id like to think)! Maybe the best thing I can do for her is not to focus on her imperfections, but to point out my own, and let her think about it. I can't make her be better, but I can show her what NOT better is, and let her DECIDE to be better. That's the only way she's going to improve over her life. So maybe instead of getting frustrated about her whining, I should teach her how to deal with her issues, and let her stop whining herself. Maybe even before that, I should deal with my own issues. Maybe I should take my life by the horns and be in charge of it. Maybe I should stop whinin....

3 Steps Forward...

Have you ever run in sand, or mud maybe even uphill? If you have than you have a keen understanding of the concept of 3 steps forward and 2 steps back. Why does every little accomplishment take VAST effort? Why is it that the diaper pail is always full at 3:00 am? Why can I not seem to complete ONE home improvement project without "The Golden Rule of Three"? The Golden Rule of Three, as a friend pointed out to me some years ago, is a rule that says "you will make at least 3 trips to the hardware store during any home improvement project". I think I have yet to prove that rule wrong. When I lived in Leadville, and the nearest Home Depot was in Avon, almost an hour away, projects sometimes went long, and sometimes didn't go at all, depending on the weather.

Joy and I were out and about running errands yesterday. She in her car seat and me, um, driving. We have one of these car seats that she can stay strapped into, and to get her in and out of the car, all you do is mount her seat to a receptacle that's already mounted in the car with a "quick release" lever. So, getting her in and out of the car, as long as she's strapped in the seat, is a piece of cake. I think back on the days when, in order to transport little one hither and yon, one would have to actually strap and unstrap into and out of the car seat. That sounds like a HUGE PITA to me, and these days, by comparison, things are easier. They are not easy, just easier. We went to 3 stores and it took hours. When I'm by myself, I can jump out of the car and almost literally run into and out of the stores I patronize. You see, I loathe "shopping". When I want a product or service, I like the "blitzkrieg" approach, which is, get in, get it, get out. That means I can get my "shopping" done in record time, which is how I like it. Er... liked it. Babies slow everything down. You take longer to get out of the car, you take longer to get into and out of the store. Hell, you even drive slower. Yeah, slow is life. So, getting furnace filters, a camera tripod, and some D subminiature pins from Radio Shaft took something on the order of 3 hours. It should have taken an hour. 3 steps forward.

I haven't written in a few days because things have been a bit busy around here. I took it upon myself to "fix" the dishwasher. HAH! I took the suspect door parts apart, cleaned them, and put it back together, and turned the damn thing on. It started with a satisfying hum, and I was certain it was on its way to a "fixed" state. I walked away to putz around in the garage with my transmission for awhile, and came back in about 30-40 minutes later to find water on the floor, a funny smell in the air and a "dripping" sound coming from the basement. Oh yeah, I fixed it good alright. I was so mad I was fuming. I yanked the dishwasher out, and put it in the garage. It was old and on its way out anyway, and these attempts were to try to get a little more life out of it. Contrary to my goal, I perhaps shortened the life of it, damaged my subfloor in the kitchen, and damaged my ceiling downstairs, and perhaps the lighting fixure the water was actually dripping from. Industrial accident, flood damage and a fire hazard all wrapped up in one. How's THAT for FIXING IT EH? Sometimes only 2 steps back is optimistic.

Patience

I never believed was a virtue until today. I know I said "sometimes babies just cry" but the fact that my little one just won't stop no matter what I do is really a slap in the face. I know damn well she hasn't napped enough today and it's just a sleep thing. But I try everything I can think of, and she's still just going off. Now she's sitting in her swing, where daddy puts her when he needs a break, and being a complete doll, and I'm feeling like a tool. Has she been telling me all day "put me in the swing"? Maybe I should add the damned swing to my list. Maybe I should toss the damned list out the window; it's led me astray today.

When I speak of patience, do I mean patience with the child or patience with myself? I'm supposed to be the one in charge; I'm supposed to be all things to this child, and here I am completely defeated. How totally inappropriate of me to assume this child is being anything but completely true to herself and me. If that is so, why do I need patience with her? I'm supposed to be the smart one, and she's not even 3 months old for fuck's sake. It's not like she can tell me "don't sweat it old man, we'll figure it out". I'm sitting here laughing at myself and this whole situation, in a "what a pathetic so-and-so" sort of way. Sometimes all that gets me through is me telling myself "I am an intelligent and resourceful human being". Sometimes I'm full of crap.

When I was an aircraft mechanic working in Virginia, I was performing what's called an annual inspection on a small single engine aircraft, I believe it was a Cessna 206. Kinda cookie cutter deal; I'd done a million of em. An annual is required by the FAA, and it's like a prostate exam. Nobody likes em even the guy doing it, but ya gotta do it. There are these things called Airworthiness Directives that are published by the FAA. They are documentation about a fault that someone found with some component of the aircraft, and reported. They're divided up into airframe, powerplant, and accessories categories. These Airworthiness Directives or "ADs" for short, are just that, directives. Meaning I MUST comply, or make sure they've all been complied with. So when I do an annual inspection or "annual" for short and sign it off, I'm saying that "I've complied with all applicable AD's and found this aircraft to be airworthy" and signed my name and a&p number (number assigned by the FAA to indicate my licensed status). So, you might be able to imagine if there are ADs for every aircraft out there in one category or another, that there are LOTS of ADs. There are. Thousands. Maybe even millions. The normal procedure would be to look in the airframe section, and look up my airframe by serial number, and see what applies. Do the same for the engine. The same for the propeller. The same for every. Component. On. Board. The accessories section covers everything that's not an airframe, or an engine. Seriously, how can I say I've checked them ALL? Well that's what I say, every time. The owner / pilot expects that of me and puts that trust in me. That's a trust I hold dear.

I signed the plane off, and off the guy went. A few days later, I heard he was dead. He crashed in the plane I signed off. He ran into some "IFR" conditions, and hammered it in somewhere out in Colorado. IFR means Instrument Flight Rules, or just inclement weather. Crappy weather. In his instrument panel was a device called an HSI or Horizontal Situation Indicator. The HSI is the main source of attitude and direction indication. I mean there are others, like an altimeter, airspeed indicator, compass, etc. There are "old school" instruments, but the HSI is a fancy backlit, really expensive doodad that is designed to replace those, or more accurately, make all those readings in one place. His flight plan, or communications with control towers along the way indicated he was using his HSI. So there I was, sitting in the Director of Maintenance's office, with the lead inspector, the owner of the company, and some serious looking dudes from the local FAA office going over my logbook entries with a fine tooth comb, "interviewing" (interrogating) me about the inspection and boring holes in me with their stares. I was told to "stay close" and that the inspection would take a few days, and "don't worry". Yeah. I'm cool as a cucumber alright.

A few LONG days later, everyone who should not have been there disappeared, and everything was back to normal. I went to work with a knot in my stomach, like I had been doing for almost a week, thinking I was going to be in jail at any moment, and everyone was all "'morning Pete... hay Pete wassup... howdy Pete". WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? I was almost insane at this point. The Director of Maintenance pulled a crazy me into his office and told me the feds were gone, I'm absolved of any sin and I'm just supposed to go on like it's a regular day. WHAT?!?. Yeah, all is well. They were here so long because of an AD. There was an AD on this guy's HSI that said "this unit is known to fail under these conditions" or something like that. The Director is telling me this, and I'm getting ready to pass out or throw up or maybe both. The AD listed that this was only applicable to a specific serial number range. The HSI in the Dead Man's plane was ONE NUMBER outside that range. Jesus. Talk about the skin of my teeth. If the equipment I signed off was deemed to be in the range of that AD, I would be negligent. I would lose my license and open myself to all sorts of legal issues. But all is well right? Yeah, sure.

I never even saw that AD. I missed it completely. If I'd have seen it, since the numbers were so close, would I have complied anyway? Maybe. Maybe not, I'll never know. None of this changes the fact that a guy was dead, and it was REAL CLOSE to my fault. He was a nice guy too, I met him when he brought the plane to me.

The patience I'm speaking of is hers with me.

Prorities

If this experience has taught me nothing, it's taught me what's important and what's not. I was driving with my Brother in Law to our house in Leadville CO to move some furniture for some future tenants. We have a house in Leadville we call our Mountain Ski Chalet; it's probably more accurate to call it our Mountain Home We Can't Sell. But hell tenants are better than an empty house. Anyway, back to my point; I knew this already, it just kind of hit me like a ton of bricks maybe because we were talking about it. We were driving Ruby, my 20 year old truck with a quarter million miles on it, and a normally aspirated small block engine pulling a trailer in the mountains. Slowly. We were approaching an area called Officer's Gulch, an area between Silverthorne and Vail, and we both admitted to the other we had to pee badly. I didn't want to stop because things were going so well (no breakdowns) and I didn't want to hex Ruby's efforts or our entire day.

We were probably a few miles to the nearest "conventional" stop when we discussed pulling over and just "whipping it out" to pee. It was then and there when the aforementioned ton hit me. There was a time when I would not do that. I would be embarrassed or caught up in propriety or whatever you want to call it; I wouldn't do it, unless it's an absolute emergency, like on our road trip back from Seattle and I had to go. Not #1 but #2! It took a severity 1 CRITICAL situation to get me to stop alongside the road somewhere in Wyoming to do what bears do in the woods. Fortunately I found a ranch exit. So to that rancher....umm.... sorry. I said all that to say this: I will 99.9% of the time NOT stop without a proper potty.

That was then; this is now. Now, I would stop without hesitating. See, stuff like self esteem and an over whelming sense of pride in self has no place in my life anymore. I mean what do I really care if anyone sees my weenie? Half of us have one, and those who don't have probably seen one, so what's the deal? Who really cares? Why is that important? Truth is, it's not anymore. Other than it might be illegal, that is. Of course, its not illegal if you don't get caught right? I have never been in that part of the local paper called "police beat" where stories of police activity are shared with the readership, and I don't want to end up there in that way. I'd rather not be in there at all, but if I must, I'd rather it be a bank robbery or something cool like that, not getting caught peeing on the side of the road. But the bottom line is, what was important to me before doesn't even register anymore. I can only have so many important things in my mind, and this Brand New Human Being takes up almost all of it, which kicks almost all other things out. I fade into the woodwork; I cease to be important; aside from my ability to change diapers, feed and love this child, I become almost irrelevant. That sounds harsh, but that's the truth. I become at least #2 and maybe less (not referring to the #2 mentioned above, I meant #2 in IMPORTANCE!). Things like regular meals, showers, shaving (never really important to me, but I include it anyway), and a myriad of personal things I used to do on a regular basis now become almost a reward. I mean I'm feeling pretty lucky if I get a shower on any given day. I didn't take one today, for example. I might have brushed my teeth, I can't remember.

It's funny how a long drive and a discussion of bodily functions can define a complete shift in my personal philosophy. kinda disgusting subject matter, but it drove home my point (heh heh). We ended up stopping at the next gas station, which was only a few more miles, and buying a diet coke to make myself less guilty for using the facilities. We never broke down that day and made it home ok.

Boredom

There we were, having this situation all under control, happy with our perspective rolls in this world; she a baby and me a daddy. Where do you go from here? What do you do when there is no crisis, no feeding, no changing, no nothing? Do you just sit there and stare at each other? We play for a little bit every day. I mean, there’s only so much you can do with a newborn, but there is some stuff. We do sit-ups, we roll on our tummy, we make our legs kick more while saying “kick kick kick”. By “we” I mean I actually manipulate the baby and she drools. That’s not true at all, sometimes there is no drool. Boredom was a huge problem for me. I’m a man’s man, remember? I’m used to action, right? This was tough for me. I would take her downstairs, put her on a soft blanket on the couch next to me, and once the play was done, all we would do was watch tv. Noise, as it turns out is soothing to her, by the way. For the whole first week, that’s what my life was. I thought I was going to die. One day my wife came down there and told me she went through the very same things I was now going through. Remember, she was staying home with Joy for the first 2 months or so, so her opinion held credence with me. She told me that, while I could sit here and catch up on all my ‘80s movies playing on cable, I could do something else as well. I didn’t know what that meant. What can you “do” with a baby? Well, for instance, you can put her in a bouncy chair and let her watch you fix the garbage disposal, or put her in her car seat or in her stroller and let her watch you pick up debris in the yard (as long as it’s warm enough). Seriously? She can do that? I can… WE can do that? Yah. You can. My laundry didn’t just do itself for those first 2 months, although it seemed like it. My wife is a pretty smart cookie.

Slowly I started to engage the child in that way. Now – there is a limit to how much she’s willing to “help me” with. By “help me” I mean “don’t scream while I do this”. There is a limit but there is an opportunity to do things while you have a baby. Fortunately, we had just moved into a house that needed LOTS of work, so there was NO shortage of projects. Some were longer and required more resources and time than others, but for the most part, I kept busy. I’m grateful I had the mad skillz to get some of that stuff done.

During all this plumbing work and electrical repairs and general spiffing up, I still felt short somehow. A piece of me was missing. Enter The Dodge. The Dodge is a truck I received in lieu of some payroll my company, who was going under and desperate, never gave me. It was a 2007 Dodge 2500 4x4 Heavy Duty with a Cummins Turbo Diesel. WOW. Talk about manly! Well, it had a bad transmission. So, all this manly potential was draining out via this broken transmission. Do I have the nerve to rebuild a transmission with a baby on board? Damn right I do. Stay tuned.

Turning a Corner

... Weight the outside peg. Sorry a little off-road riding technique humor there. You'll have to forgive me, it's snowing like crazy and I'm jonesing to go riding. I'll explain later.

I'm feeling pretty good today; we are doing housework that *really* needed to be done, the little one is in the tender care of my better half, and things are going fairly well. I got pretty good sleep last night, and even though we (baby and me) were "off schedule" with feedings, I still got up feeling ok, and well, doing pretty well. My head is clear, I don't feel drunk or oppressed, and I'm probably easier to get along with. FTW.

I think one of the best ways to survive this is communication. Yeah there I go again; all about the communication. It's true. Honestly the best way to survive almost any traumatic event is communication. I think we wouldn't need therapists so much if everyone just had someone to talk to; who'll listen. I read alot about single dads / moms doing this alone. I don't have a clue how they do it. If I didn't have my soulmate to talk things over with, I would be adrift. Truly.

So, what is today's lesson on how to survive raising a child? Well, some time off duty, honest work, and a good night's sleep have really brightened my outlook today so I'll say that... and communication. I would also add exercise I think. I spent a good bit of yesterday shoveling snow. Whereas that is not my favorite activity it got me outside and working up a sweat. I shoveled snow at our house and my in-laws' house, which is only 2 blocks away. It felt good to help them, but I think part of my good feeling today is the fact I worked a little yesterday. So, I think I will add that to the list. Exercise.

We actually have an exercise device in the basement where me and Joy spend lots of our time. NO EXCUSES whatsoever why I haven't spent more time on that thing, except I hate exercise. I know my weight is going up a little, I can feel it; so why don't I get on that thing and sweat a little? Perhaps I shall. I'm sure it'll be better for me.

So what exactly has turned a corner in me today? To be honest I'm not real sure. I'm even a little rambling. I just feel as if something has and wanted to document. Maybe some event in the future will see me reviewing this post and saying "ahh I remember, it was..."

Teamwork and Responsibility

So now I’m a stay at home dad, and my only responsibility is this little girl, I’m not supposed to care about stuff like ‘whose job’ any particular thing is right? On paper, that’s absolutely correct. I should not care anymore if my wife is better at some stuff than I am. Sure. Truth is, it bugs the shit out of me. Here is where the major conflict comes in to play. I used to be a productive member of society; I used to make money; I used to be lots of things to lots of people. I used to be a real man. Now I’m a dad to a little girl and a husband to a woman, and that’s about it. I’m supposed to be ok with this. This is, afterall, what I signed on for, right? This is perhaps the biggest problem I face. Now I should disclose that, when she worked before, my wife made more money than me, so I had to get used to that, which I did. It was difficult to dispose of the stereotypes in that area but I did successfully and moved on. My wife and I used to joke that she married me for my money.

Now I’m not making any money at all. When you stop to think about it, you might wonder “who the hell cares about money?” Money can’t buy anything that’s important anyway. Try telling that to my ego. I am the one who is supposed to be raising this child, and my wife is the one who is supposed to work. When Joy fusses or cries and that interferes with something she is doing like a phone conference or something, I feel lower than low. I mean, I’m a Big Tough Guy and I can’t even do THIS?!? Jesus check my masculinity at the door and just give up.

That would be a cowards way out, wouldn’t it? One more thing in a long list of sacrifices I make for my little girl is my pride. Or at least some of it. When I was faced with a difficult problem in my professional life, one that I could not handle alone, I would have to rely on my fellow technicians sometimes to solve the problem. Afterall, it was my job to fix the system not hang on foolish pride. Sometimes, as in the case of a 911 center failure, people’s lives even depended on me doing my job. My work enabled the real heroes; the EMS people, Law Enforcement, and the like to do their good works, which was help people in need and keep people safe. If I did my job right, they could do theirs. I tell you I was proud of my job! I felt like I made a difference. I felt like I was doing my bit to be a part of the solution not a part of the problem. There was no room for pride. There was only room for “git-r-dun”, which I did. Regularly.

Now I have this Brand New Human Being who just won’t stop crying. I mean I’ve gone through my checklist and she’s just having a fit. Yeah, I remember the last item, sometimes babies just cry. But that doesn’t help the fact that I’m supposed to be doing this, and there is NOTHING I can do to console her. Sometimes I have so swallow my pride and ask for help. Sometimes just handing the baby to someone else stops the crying. Sometimes nothing in the world will stop the crying, but it’s my job to try. Yup throw some of that pride out the window and do what’s right for the child. Once you do that, you realize you don’t miss it anyway. It was just this useless bit of stuff to carry around with you. Now it’s gone, and you don’t have to worry about it. I can say it’s a relief. It’s a load off my shoulders. Am I learning something here?