I, Rodius

I'm Minding the Kid, Though He's Often Not Minding Me

2012-02-10T21:54:00.002-06:00

A friend of mind posted a link on Facebook to a fascinating article about a report from the Census Bureau and how it classifies stay-at-home dads and the work we do. He seemed annoyed by the way the report willfully skews its view, assuming always a mom-centric child-rearing experience, where a dad is only a "designated parent" when he's the only parent.

Me, though, I'm glad this stay-at-home dad thing is still staying off the mainstream radar, more or less. I mean, I'm a white, middle-class, suburban father in a two-parent household. There aren't a lot of opportunities out there for me to feel "alternative" or "subversive."

I have had the conversation now and again where someone, usually an older woman, says, "Oh, giving Mom a break today, huh?" Or where someone, usually an older man, says, "Oh, got the day off from work today, huh?" But mostly moms on the playground say that they think it's great that I can do what I'm doing. I suppose that in itself is evidence of a bias, since I am certainly not telling any stay-at-home moms how great it is that they can do what they're doing, but still. I almost never face a negative bias.

But to be so out of the mainstream that I'm not even measured? That my contribution isn't even considered as part of the equation? I don't know. Maybe it's just me, but I find that appealing. I suppose we'll see if I still find it appealing when I'm sitting in interviews someday with these days as an entry on a resumé, with a potential employer questioning what exactly I did all this time.

Deep

2012-02-07T22:17:00.004-06:00

33 words in response to the Trifecta Writing Challenge, Week 13:

I carefully considered my counterargument and deftly presented it, irrefutable. Still, her face was the definition of “sneer”, or perhaps “smirk.” Slowly, very slowly, she dragged out her rebuttal into two syllables: “deep.”

Goals Met and Unmet

2012-02-01T21:01:00.007-06:00

So I'm 40 now. Last year, I set some goals for myself. Some of them I met; one of them I didn't. I'm only halfway to my weight loss goal, mostly because I did not stick to the calorie-counting and limited alcohol consumption. I'm not sure why this is so hard for me, but it's a lifelong struggle. I'll keep struggling.

I'm not going to beat myself up too badly for it, though, because I have succeeded in some ways that I never have before. While I didn't lose as much weight as I wanted, when I stopped losing, I maintained instead of gaining. I ran my first 10K nearly 2 years ago, and I've continued to run, to improve, to decrease times and increase distances, and it's that long-term commitment to running that's new to me. I have, all my life, lost weight, stopped exercising, then gained weight back again. This time I'm keeping regular exercise as part of my lifestyle, mostly by continuing to add running events, 5Ks, 10Ks, and even a half marathon, to my calendar.

Oh yeah, did I mention I ran the 3M Half Marathon? I registered to give myself a new challenge, but at the time, and right through to the time that I crossed the finish line, I didn't really believe that I could do it. I set a time goal for myself that was only a little bit slower of a per-mile pace than my 10K pace at the time, and I thought I couldn't possibly reach that goal, either.

But I did. I ran the whole way, never stopping to walk, and I beat my time goal by 30 seconds.

So looking to the future, I guess it's time to remind myself of old goals, like controlling my calorie intake and especially my alcohol consumption. But it's also time for new goals. I would like to reach my 200 lb. goal by the time the local pool opens for the summer, which is around May 1. I'd also like to be a better father to Thumper. I'm terrible at controlling my annoyance and exasperation. I can see clearly how I'm teaching him to react the same way as every day I see my irritation reflected right back at me. One of the members of the Stay-at-Home Dads group was talking about a class he's taking, called Logic and Love, and it may be that Thumper and I would benefit from something like that. At any rate, I'm tired of being bitchy so much of the time.

This is the year that Thumper will enter kindergarten, and I also plan to start writing now. I'll be staying home full-time for a while even after he enters school, and I'll need to find ways to do that and still earn more money. I've always wanted to be a writer, but I've never actually written very much, so now is the time to establish a more regular writing routine by blogging more often and participating in writing challenges like Trifecta and Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge. To write, and to sell, short stories, articles, and eventually a novel, I have to actually write short stories, articles, and a novel.

So continue to work on my health and fitness, read and write more and watch fewer movies and TV shows on the internet, and try to be nicer to my son. That's where I am right now. Happy 2012!

Group Behavior

2011-12-04T23:24:00.004-06:00

Fall Commencements this year were simple, and slow, and the greatest challenge was staying awake, mostly because I got two long days, four straight shifts, of easy, sit-down, out-of-the-way positions.

But what struck me this year, this round, as it often does while ushering football games and other events, is that people in groups are odd, by which I mean, "mildly amusing and completely understandable." If there is a line, they will stand in it, even if there is an open door with no line in clear sight and only a couple of feet away. They will also, like other herd animals, stay if everyone else is staying and leave if everyone else is leaving.

Oh yeah, and I also was reminded that, much like in "My Finest Hour," much can be accomplished with the decisive action that other more experienced supervisors are unwilling to take.

So, you know, the bottom line is, it was chilly, windy, rainy, and other -y words, and at the end of the last of five University Commencements over two days, the crowd was reluctant to leave the building, though the building staff were more than willing to put a cork on this series of events and head home to their families. I was not working in a supervisory capacity, and I felt that I should defer to those who were, but I realized that those who were really had no intention to do very much. So I moved through the masses crowding the concourse, and shouted (in the voice that I've discovered can be so much louder than so many others'), "Folks, I don't mean to push you out into the cold, but we're trying to clear the building, so if y'all can start winding up conversations, and taking last pictures, we'd very much appreciate it. Thank you!"

I wandered through about 2/3 of the concourse, repeating this message, stopping to play photographer for various family groups so that no one would be left out of the shot, and thanking people for coming. After just a few minutes, the concourse was virtually clear.

No, there's not much point to this story, but I do want it acknowledged that I saved the University, possibly, $200 or $300 in payroll expenses by my bold and valiant actions this evening. That is all.

Summon

2011-11-17T17:37:00.004-06:00

333 words for the Trifecta Writing Challenge, with apologies because I've been reading The War Against Boys and The Decline of Males and thinking about my maleness.

The sun rises; the cool, humid air surrounds us. 24,000 of us shuffle restlessly together at the starting line. We are a gathering marked with a distinctive, festival atmosphere, a nervous, anticipatory energy. The emcee bawls cheerfully into the microphone; his rich, basso voice is familiar from a half-dozen other similar events, his cheerfulness and affability carefully cultivated and laid out upon the script that rests before him. He acknowledges sponsors. He calls shout-outs to regulars on the running circuit. People stretch; people chat. Music thumps.

The balance between hydration and urination is a carefully orchestrated affair. Bottles of water, bottles of sports drinks, carefully mixed concoctions of powders, liquids, and gels, are quaffed. Lines form at the port-o-pots; the slamming of plastic doors punctuates the hum of conversation. The nervous move directly from the port-o-pots to the end of the lines again until at last the emcee calls us all to the starting line.

And now, not too close to the front or to the back, I anxiously adjust my hat, my headphones, and I think, “I should stretch.” I lift one leg, then the other. I shuffle from foot to foot. I bounce a few times, showing off, perhaps, or maybe relieving a little tension.

“I’m not a runner,” I tell myself at these moments. “Why am I doing this?”

“Yes, I am,” I answer back. “What is a runner but someone who runs?”

“No,” I say. “I’m a fat man, an asthmatic. This is silly.”

“And yet,” I reply, “here I am. Again.”

The emcee begins the countdown to the starting gun, and I think back to the million years of evolution that has produced me, this man, this body, this collection of tissues and chemicals. I try to imagine myself, the Neanderthal, the warrior of a thousand ancient tribes, the hunter chasing down his prey, spear in hand. I summon the strength and speed and desire of the caveman from whom I am barely an eye-blink removed.

I run.

Hallowed Evening

2011-11-02T16:49:00.003-05:00

I'm supposed to be working, but my VPN access is in limbo while I wait for a new part-time job (mostly a title change) to come through. So here I am, sticking my toes back in Velvet Verbosity's "100 Words" pond:

The neighborhood is dark now, and quiet, conspicuously lacking in Halloween ghosts, ghouls, and other assorted monsters. There is nothing out there to mark this as a special night, as anything more than just another Friday. The house is quiet, too. In the silence, though, I still hear the doorbell ringing, the cries of “Trick or Treat!” the noise, the electric atmosphere that used to put the cats on edge. The boy is grown now, and the neighborhood has grown, too, aging quietly, waiting for a new round of kids to come and bring this magical night back to life.

On Being a Hardass in a Management Position

2011-10-30T10:44:00.003-05:00

As I may have mentioned, I supervise a gate at the big football stadium. Some days, I struggle to remember that the cantankerous few are greatly outnumbered by the cheerful, polite, and sometimes even grateful many. I was called "my guardian angel" by a woman who had traveled 600 miles with her two kids to attend the game. They arrived during halftime, and the "visiting team will call" window had already closed, leaving them unable to pick up their tickets. I let the three of them in anyway, and later, when they were leaving, I told them where they could find their team's bus. Earlier in the day, helping someone find their wheelchair-accessible seating, I was told, "thank you so much; last game no one could tell us how to get to our seats and it took us almost 2 hours to find them."

But, then again, I was also called an "asshole."

One man, who was told by the bag checkers that he could not bring in an item that's clearly listed on the "prohibited items" sign, called me over, harangued me for over 5 minutes, and berated me for "coming up with ridiculous and arbitrary rules," for "failing miserably to inform the public about those rules," and for being "in a management position and not willing to make an exception" for him.

Then he asked me for a favor.

I chuckled about the "in a management position" comment. I make a whopping $2/hour more for being the guy who gets yelled at, so for yesterday, I earned about $15 more than the usher who simply calls me over whenever the going gets tough. I was polite; I was apologetic; I stood firm on the prohibited item. And then I did him the favor, finding him a clean, empty plastic bag that he could use. He snatched it out of my hand. He definitely did not say, "thank you."

Not 10 minutes later, an usher waved me over because he didn't know what the "Invalid Date" message on his ticket scanner meant. I pointed out that the ticket he had scanned was for next week's game. The following conversation took place, not with the student who had brought the wrong ticket, but with her drunk, belligerent friend:

"This is ridiculous! She has all the tickets! Why can't you just let her in?"

"Because she didn't bring the ticket for this game."

"But she bought the whole season! You're being a hardass!"

"If you went to the Taylor Swift concert and tried to get in with a ticket for the WWE show, you wouldn't be able to get in, either."

"What the hell is a WWE?"

"I'm just saying for any event, you need the right ticket to get in. She can go to that student box office right over there and have them reprint her ticket for a $10 fee, or she can go to the library and print it herself for free. Or she can stand here with you while you continue to argue with me about it, but that's still not going to get her into the game."

"You're an asshole!"

"Thank you very much. My supervisors are right over there in that office; you're welcome to go tell them all about me."

"I will!"

It's amazing to me how many people think that insulting me and calling me names is going to convince me to bend the rules for them. Being nice is almost always a more effective strategy.

I love this job.

Being a Boy and Being a Man

2011-10-07T21:20:00.005-05:00

I grabbed a book to read while Thumper bounced his ass off at Extreme Fun this morning, and because it's been on my shelf for 10 or more years, and I've never read it, I picked Christina Hoff Sommers' The War Against Boys: How Misguided Feminism Is Harming Our Young Men.

Now, before you get worked up over the term "Misguided Feminism," I think the essence of the book, that perhaps the author didn't choose to represent in the title because provocative turns of phrase are just plain good marketing, is that improving the academic standing of girls does not necessarily have to come at the expense of boys, and vice versa.

I bought this book years ago, when I was still thinking about the novel that I started to write but never finished as part of my Honors Program Creative Writing directed study in 1996 or thereabouts, a project I was still thinking about finishing in 2000 or so when I bought the book. The idea occurred to me, through the fervor of political correctness that permeated the University atmosphere throughout the '90's, that men in general, and white men in particular, were the villains of the historic and cultural tale that we were told, and how that indoctrination into our own villainy would affect us in the long term. It was supposed to be a novel about the marginalization of men, the irrelevance of men in family and cultural life.

So, anyway, here I am, 11 or 12 years later, a man in a non-traditional gender role, happily married to a woman who is happy with the value of the contributions that I make to our family, trying to teach my son how to be a good man, (despite the accusations of chauvinism that may now and again be raised against me), and I picked up this book. Having finished only 50 or 60 pages, I'm not in a position to say anything meaningful about the book itself, but it's certainly timely as I try to navigate the rough waters of playground etiquette and aggression.

A couple of weeks ago, Thumper ended a thoroughly pleasant play date by punching his best friend in the face. Most play dates or other excursions to playgrounds, bounce houses, and other places where children gather, involve some discussion, sooner or later, about not hitting, about being nice, about not taking toys from other kids. This, according to the book, is exactly the kind of aggressive behavior inherent in boys that the "shortchanged girls in public school" movement believes must be actively "re-socialized" if women are to make significant progress in this society. Sommers seems to assert that that progress has already been made, and then some, but that's not really the point.

Ultimately, though, I don't think raising a boy is so different from raising a girl, as far as trying to teach them to fit into the social order. Do we not all try to teach our kids to be nice to each other? Maybe for boys it's teaching your son not to punch his friend in the face while for girls it's teaching your daughter not to ostracize, or ridicule, or manipulate, or I don't know, whatever the little girl version of not being nice is. I don't believe in the pathology of masculinity, the idea that without intervention, the average man will likely become a predator of women. I believe in the value of teaching my son to be proud of strength and speed and skill, to work to improve these things in himself, to want to play games where scores are kept and winners declared. And I believe that these things can be taught while also teaching him not to punch his best friend in the face, to remind him that he does not want to be hit, or have toys taken away from him, and so he should not hit, or take toys away from, others.

I do not accept that masculinity is defined as a thirst for power and dominion, and that if it is not quelled early, it will develop into a destructive force.

I also hope that he can get through school without feeling marginalized, undervalued, despised, feared, or ignored.

Pride, Hopefully Without the Fall

2011-09-08T20:56:00.012-05:00

Thumper has grown so much this year, that the bike that was a perfect fit for him a little over a year ago:

is now too tiny for him. The other bike that he spent so much time on last summer:

is also too tiny for him. We worked a deal with the neighbors across the street, who have 3 boys, 2 of whom are younger than Thumper, trading our 12" bike that's too small for Thumper for their 16" bike that's too big for their 2 youngest. Perfect! Except that the front inner tube keeps exploding. At first, I thought it was the unbelievable heat that builds up in the garage when it's 108 degrees outside, but why would it apply only to that one tire on that one bike? Then I thought maybe it was a rough edge inside the rim, but I ran my fingers all the way around inside the rim and inside the tire and felt nothing. About a week and a half ago, we shortened the lives of a handful of moms at the sand pit when the front tire of the bike he rode from the parking lot suddenly, dramatically, exploded. Two of them hit the deck like battle-weary veterans, scanning the horizon for the sniper in the grass. After carrying a huge, exhausted 4-year-old, a flat-tired bike, and a bag full of sand toys back to the car, I was absolutely done with that bike, returning it to the owners the same day and heading to the local Goodwill to find Thumper a 16" bike of his own.

So after replacing dramatically blown tubes on that bike 4 times, plus one of his tricycle's tubes, plus one of his balance bike's tubes so that we can pass it down to a friend, plus both the front tire and inner tube on his new bike, I'm done with bicycle tire repair. I've spent more on tires and inner tubes in the last 6 weeks than I have on all of his bikes combined.

But it was all worth it today.

Yesterday, I replaced 2 inner tubes and one tire on his various wheeled conveyances, leaving just 15 or 20 minutes to ride bikes before dinner. He loved his new bike so much that he declared he wanted to ride bikes every day, a desire he hasn't expressed since last summer. This afternoon, we left a little more time for bike riding in the afternoon, enjoying the fact that it's only 95 at the day's peak instead of 108. After riding around for a bit in the dead-end, I asked him if he wanted to ride to the local park, about a mile-and-a-half away. He thought it was a fabulous idea. I warned him it was kind of a long way; he had no doubts. So off we pedaled.

And instead of the inner tube, it was me that burst. With pride. Repeatedly. He pedaled and pedaled. He talked and talked. He reminded me so much of that kid in the triathlon right before Thumper was born that I almost teared up. He looked for cars at each of the street crossings and checked with me to make sure it was OK to cross. He kept right on going all the way, without getting bored or tired. He lit up with pride each time I told him how impressed I was that he was riding so far.

"You didn't know I could ride so far, did you Dad?"

No, my son, I didn't.

By the time we got there, he'd ridden 2.16 miles. Under his own power, without stopping or complaining. After we played for almost an hour, he was even willing to pedal home again, but (of course!) my front tire was flat, so Aerie picked us up on our walk home.

I am stunned by the power of my love and pride for this boy, and how it contrasts daily with my annoyance and guilt.

An Odd Way to Treat Your Beloved Mascot

2011-09-04T19:26:00.005-05:00

Did you know that The University of Texas at Austin cooked and ate its first mascot, Bevo, in 1920, serving part of it to its chief rival, A&M College of Texas, who had stolen and branded its hide with the score of the 1915 rivalry game?

You can't make this stuff up. It will be sad to see the Aggies move out of the Big 12. With them gone, who will we make fun of? Baylor?

"How do you get a one-armed Baylor Bear out of a tree?"

"Wave."

Sigh. No, it's just not going to be the same.

http://www.texassports.com/trads/bevo.html

At Least a Year and a Half, Maybe Five

2011-08-26T15:10:00.003-05:00

My ongoing breathing problems may have found a solution this week. Not a quick solution, but maybe a real one for a change. The Laryngopharyngeal Reflux turned out to be a bust. The acid blockers and the elevating the head of the bed did just as much nothing for me as asthma inhalers. Aerie is glad that we're back to a level bed with no more toe-bashing going on.

So the next step was allergy testing, which I did on Wednesday. Thumper came with me. Once he was thoroughly reassured that he would not, in fact, be getting a shot himself, he was cool. He watched Monster House on the portable DVD player while I sat still and itched. I got 38 allergens scratch-tested on my forearms, 2 "control" injections on my left shoulder, and 38 allergen injections on my right upper arm. When the tech lined up all the bottles and needles on the counter in preparation for my injections, Thumper said, "Wow! I think that's 52,000 shots!" I thought he'd be more impressed with my machismo in getting 40 injections without crying, but he was more interested in watching Bones get lured into the house by his long lost childhood kite, then eaten.

The end result of all those sharp pointy things with goopy allergens dripping menacingly off their tips was that I am allergic to 14 different grasses, trees, and molds that span the entire seasonal cycle, which is why my symptoms are more or less constant. Cedar and one of the molds were the big winners. I'm glad that "cat" didn't swell up at all. If it had been a cat allergy, I'm not sure what the solution would be. Hold off on breathing freely until our two current kitties passed on, I guess, which might be awhile since the most recent addition is only two years old. Anyway, bygones, as Fish used to say, and it's entirely Aerie's fault that I know that.

The course of treatment, since I've worked through every over-the-counter allergy medication available to no avail, is allergy shots. Weekly allergy shots. For possibly three to five years. They tell me, though, that if I haven't seen any improvement after a year and a half, I can pretty much stop because it isn't going to work. Apparently they mix up a cocktail of all 14 of my allergens in small doses, and inject it into me in gradually increasing doses over a long period of time in order to desensitize me and reduce the severity of my body's reaction to those allergens. They usually max out a shot at 12 allergens, but since I'm barely above that, they're going to give 14 a shot, so to speak. I had to get an EpiPen, in case I react badly to the injection. When I picked it up from the pharmacy, I asked the pharmacist how to use it, and she said, "Uh, there's a trainer in there. You pretty much just stab it into your leg." I hope the instructions included are a little more specific.

Since this is all based on the Central Texas panel of common allergens, I guess I'll never be able to move again. That's OK with me, though, because Austin is the coolest. Excepting, of course, the 108 degree weather in which I'll be working outdoors tomorrow. That's not the coolest. But, you know, cost-benefit.

What We Do

2011-08-19T21:53:00.004-05:00

Thumper and I went to the Circus today. It's a whole different perspective experiencing it as an audience member instead of chatting with the workers behind the scenes. It was the 140th showing of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, and what struck me most was how little the show has changed over the years. What has changed, at least since last year, is how much it engaged Thumper.

From the beginning of the "All-Access Pre-Show" where audience members can go down onto the arena floor and get close some of the acts, his head was on a swivel, yelling, "Woah!" and "Wow!" and "Did you see that?" He loved a clown act where we on one side of the ring were to cheer for one clown and those on the other side were to cheer for the other as they engaged in a silly race and other shenanigans. He especially loved that we were supposed to boo the other guy, too. And the old gag where the bucket of water turns out to somehow, magically, be full of confetti rather than water? Stunning! He even picked up a piece of the confetti and examined it for awhile, I suppose to see if he could figure out how it changed to paper from water.

His favorite parts were, of course, the snow cone (in the souvenir cup: $12) and the toy (plastic cannon that shoots a rubber man about 3 feet: $14) and the popcorn (no souvenirs: only $3), but he also was truly amazed by each of the acts, including acrobats and high-wire acts and a strong man ("Dad, can you lift weights like THAT??") and a guy who walked on fire and jumped up and down on broken glass ("OUCH!!"). He yelled, "Look, real tigers!" when the tiger tamer came out, but he quickly lost interest in it, and who can blame him? It was slow, and interminable, with the tamer mumbling in some foreign language while tigers did tricks that didn't look very impressive to a 4-year-old, who perhaps didn't quite understand the premise of a tiger taming act. And when you do understand the premise, it's just kind of sad and shabby and mean: "Look how I can make these once terrifying and ferocious killers do small, petty, and degrading tricks!"

Anyway, he made it almost through the entire 1-hour first act before deciding he was done, which is about 50 minutes longer than last year. And when you consider the 90 minutes of pre-show activities, that's really more like two and a half hours, which is pretty good for a 4-year-old.

I was smart enough to bring his toothbrush, toothpaste, and pajamas, anticipating that he would zonk out in the car on the way home, which he did. When I told him we were going to brush his teeth, he said, "No, that's silly! You're just kidding!" When I put the paste on the brush and told him to open, he anxiously said, "But there's no where to spit!" When I told him to lean way out of the car and spit on the street, he did it, but he said, "This is just crazy!"

My favorite part, though, was walking back to our car, when we chased each other's shadows, trying to step on them. Earlier, when we were in line for popcorn, he wandered away to chat with a couple other kids about their toy selections, so I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, explaining that he had to stick by me because there were so many people, he could easily get lost. When we were walking to the car he said, "You know, if I got lost, I'd be really, really upset if I couldn't see you." I replied, "I'd be really upset, too, but I won't let that happen. You don't have to worry." "Yeah," he said, "but if you and Mama both got lost, we'd never find our way home." I answered, "But we know where we live, right? No problem!" "Yeah," he said, "No problem. When we get into trouble, we get out again, right? That's just what we do."

Yeah, little man, that's what we do. God, I love that kid. I really needed tonight to help me remember that.

Abstinence Makes the Calorie Count Grow Smaller

2011-08-17T12:43:00.003-05:00

I tried the Paleo Diet awhile back, hoping it would reveal that my respiratory difficulties are the result of a wheat or dairy allergy. After a couple of months of strict adherence (except for the alcohol and caffeine) it hadn't helped my breathing, so I let it go. I moved on to various asthma medications, a systematic trial of every allergy medication available over-the-counter, and a couple of months of daily neti pot use, all with no effect on my breathing problems.

I went to an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist, who upon hearing my tale of woe, immediately zeroed in on Laryngopharyngeal Reflux (LPR), declaring it the most common of all digestive disorders, and put me on a regimen of 2 acid blockers. He also told me to elevate the head of my bed, which didn't make Aerie happy since she keeps bashing her toes on the cinder blocks I used to achieve that effect.

I go back to see the ENT guy next week, and I want to be able to tell him that I actually did what every doctor says first for every ailment: cut out the alcohol and caffeine. I will also be telling him that the acid blockers did exactly what every other remedy I've tried so far has done: absolutely nothing.

So I suspect I'll be back where I was with my personal care physician many months ago: allergies, despite the fact that no allergy medication helps. When I go back to the ENT guy, I'll also be getting those allergy tests where they scratch your skin with a jillion different allergens to see what causes you to swell up. Hopefully a solution will present itself.

But all of that was to tell you that I'm not drinking alcohol or caffeine, and I'm back on the Paleo Diet. Paleo may not have cured my lungs, but since it eliminates grains and dairy, it's an easy way to remember to skip empty calories, like crackers, pretzels, cheese, ice cream, etc. I've thought of food before as taste and belly filler, figuring nutrition would take care of itself, but now I'm trying to remember to make every calorie worth something, with a high nutrition-per-calorie ratio, with lean protein, fiber, vitamins, minerals, etc. and not just empty calories that do nothing for me beyond the few minutes it takes me to consume them. Also, the ENT guy said that alcohol and caffeine can both exacerbate the LPR, so I'm trying to make sure the booze and cola and coffee and Rockstars aren't cancelling out the acid blockers.

The added bonus is, of course, that I'm consuming far fewer calories. Last time I was on Paleo, I wasn't counting calories, so I hadn't realized what I realize now that I'm tracking my meals on myfitnesspal.com: without the booze, I'm struggling to meet my daily recommended allowance of calories. Three meals a day, I eat giant plates of food, with spinach and peppers and cucumbers and strawberries and peaches and broccoli and cauliflower and mushrooms and chicken breast and fish fillets and turkey breast, etc., plus a couple of snacks each day, and I can't come close to the 2300 calories myfitnesspal wants me to eat. On the weight loss front, this is a good thing, as I've dropped 2 pounds in 2 days, but long-term, I don't want my body to go into starvation mode. Though there is a school of thought that a reduced calorie diet is the surest path to longevity.

When I was on a Weight Watchers plan, I loved that it was so easy to stay under my points goal for the day, because it left me plenty of drankin' calories left over, but now that I'm not drinking them up, I feel like I should be using them in a healthy manner. But I'm not hungry, and I don't think I could possibly pack in another giant plateful, and to hit my 2300, I'd have to jam in two more giant platefuls anyway.

So I guess I'll keep on for awhile, see how I feel, see if the elimination of two of my few remaining vices helps my breathing, and see if 1200 or 1400 calories per day drives me into an early grave or helps me live forever.

I Get Smells Stuck In My Nose

2011-08-02T21:30:00.004-05:00

The internet tells me that I have cysts, or brain tumors, or who knows what else. Never consult the internet for medical advice.

Seriously: I get smells stuck in my nose. It's been happening for a couple of years now. Some time during the course of each day, there will be a smell that catches my attention, then it will come back again and again and again throughout the day. It's not, I think, in my hair, or on my skin, or in my clothes. I can shower and change clothes, and it will still be there. Often it's the meal that they're serving for Meals on Wheels. I'll smell fried chicken all day long.

A couple of months ago, I accidentally left a bag of frozen chicken breasts in the trunk of my car. In the Texas heat, in a little less than 36 hours, it went from frozen to rotten. The smell has lingered despite every effort I've made to clean the trunk. Some days, even far from the car, even after Aerie has said that the car doesn't smell bad, that horrible, rotten chicken stench will stay with me, all day long.

Sometimes it's the dead skunk we drove past. Sometimes it's the compost pile or the trash can. I think it's not always an actual smell, because I can sniff, drawing air across my olfactory nerves, and it doesn't provoke a response. It's often not so much a smell as a feeling. Or a memory. Well, not a memory; it's a real, physical sensation. But not always so much a scent like holding an onion to my nose and breathing deeply. It's just sort of there, even if I'm not breathing in. It's there, in my nose.

There's no telling what scent will stick. I've tried countering an offensive smell with a strong, pleasant smell, to no avail. And it doesn't go away with any predictability. Only sleeping and waking up seems to reset my brain or nose or whatever it is that holds on to the smells.

So do I have a brain tumor, or cysts in my sinuses, or what? This is kind of starting to freak me out. I guess I should mention this to the ENT doctor I'm seeing for my respiratory/allergy problems.

I acknowledge that I may just be crazy.

The Nail in the Coffin

2011-07-31T17:53:00.004-05:00

My brother and his wife had a bad experience with an airline recently. They flew to Montana for a friend's wedding and had a wonderful time. Then, the Facebook Status Updates began:

First: "I am a slow learner, I guess, and have to be presented with the same lesson again and again at times, before it sticks. Well, this time I've got it, and here it is:

Delta is a terrible airline. NEVER fly Delta.

Burned into my mind, now. Thanks."

Then: "When I fly Southwest, nothing goes wrong.

When I fly American and something goes wrong, they make things right in some way.

When I fly Delta and something goes wrong, they make me pissed."

And then (THE NEXT DAY): "is back at the gate in Salt Lake. We were already behind, because our flight attendant was delayed. Then, we taxied out about 25 yards, before returning to the gate for maintenance.

Now, we sit."

So of course they eventually made it home. What does any of this have to do with me? Nothing really until we get to yesterday, when I dropped Thumper off at their house for a sleepover. Aerie was out of town, and they kindly agreed to take care of the boy so that I could keep my shift at the big Dance Pop/Pop Rock show. There are precious few opportunities for ushering work over the summer, so I was grateful for the chance to earn a paycheck.

Still no tie-in to Delta, I know. Stick with me.

As I was driving to their house to drop Thumper off, I touched my face and realized: I hadn't shaved. The grooming standards for ushers aren't very strict, but I generally try to show up with a clean, or semi-clean, shave. So I asked if I could borrow a disposable razor from my brother. What I got was an unused, individually wrapped disposable razor, complete with a tiny pouch of shave gel. It came, SWSIL ("Social Worker Sister-in-Law") told me, from a complimentary travel toiletries pack that Delta gave them to compensate for the fact that their flight was canceled for mechanical problems. I was grateful to have it and hurried off to the arena in time to get semi-close free parking, which is so much better than distant free parking.

Still early enough that I had time for a shave before clocking in, I busted out my cello-wrapped pack. I tore it open, applied the gel, which wouldn't lather up, and dragged the razor across my cheek. I was stunned. I talked, grumbled, and cursed to myself in the empty bathroom. The razor simply would not cut. After nearly 10 minutes of toe-curling pain, I had reduced the stubble on my face almost not at all. I may have done better if I'd tried to shave with a plastic knife from one of the concession stands.

When I exited the bathroom, I was facing a promotional stand from one of the tour's sponsors, a major brand of women's razor. Would that they had samples, but alas, they did not. I ain't too proud to shave with a girly razor.

So there you go. When Delta cancels your flight due to mechanical problems, stranding you overnight, and then delays your next day's flight, first because a flight attendant is late and then because of a "maintenance issue," they make it up to you by offering you the least effective and most painful shaving experience of your life. You're welcome!

I'd Rather Be with You Poor Bastards

2011-07-31T01:46:00.006-05:00

I was surprised to discover that I'd been assigned "Stage Left" as my position for the big Pop Rock? Dance Pop? I don't know... show tonight. I suppose it was a dream position for most ushers, because I was on the arena floor, near the stage, in a spot that allowed me to see and hear the entire show. Or see the entire show if I weren't inclined to put my head on a swivel. Which I am. Because I'm working.

I was in a spot where my chief job was to check the credentials of anyone trying to go backstage and pull the rope from the stanchion for anyone moving from backstage to the floor. I hate working anywhere near backstage, or the corridors where the dressing rooms and locker rooms are. It stresses me out because of this dilemma: many authorized people do not display their credentials. If I ask to see credentials, or to take a closer look at the credentials flashed at me, I'll inevitably piss off some high-level VIP who thinks I should know who he is. If I don't check credentials closely enough, some poser (at best) or stalker (at worst) will inevitably slip by.

So I kept my head on a swivel, watching behind me for show staff heading out to the floor or the EMS crew stationed behind me leaping into action, and watching in front of me for people with the right credentials trying to get backstage. Tonight I got suckered. I won't tell you how, lest I teach you the techniques that will let you sucker me next time, but someone with fake credentials got past me. Repeatedly. And even escorted others without credentials. I am Jack's gaping hole in security, as Edward Norton might say. It was an odd night, because I also committed what is one of the cardinal sins for an usher: I pulled out my phone and took pictures of the show. I did it at the instruction of my supervisor, but still. It just felt so wrong. He wanted pictures of the hundred of cameras and phones that the crowd was holding up, taking photos and videos of the show. To what purpose, I don't know. To chastise the ushers at the doors for not catching all the cameras? To illustrate to the show how unenforceable a strict camera policy is?

It is sort of ironic that people spend so much money to attend the live show just to spend most of their time watching their camera's view screen as they film the giant, projected image of the star on the video screen behind the stage, an image of an image of the live event. And it strikes me as beyond futile that some of these shows have strict camera policies, with no still photos and no video. Every phone can take pictures today, and every camera and most phones can shoot video. We can stop the 30-inch-long professional lenses from coming in, but still, what can you do when the show starts and you're looking at a sea of glowing phones held up in the air, recording everything, when your supervisor told you that the show is particularly touchy about camera phones?

Anyway, it's funny that the cheap seats in Shakespeare's day were in front of the stage. Now, that's where the "friends of the show" and the "meet and greet" customers are. I'd rather spend the evening working among the modern equivalent of the Groundlings, because frankly, the nobility give me anxiety.

Thinking About Four

2011-07-21T17:08:00.005-05:00

Thumper will very soon become a four-year-old, a landmark that has me thinking again about all the time we've spent getting here, how fast it's gone, and what's changed since all those trips to the obstetrician, mostly, I guess, because we're just about one year away from kindergarten.

Since the early days, and the days in between, much has changed, and much has stayed the same. I think I was better suited to the first couple of years. Three has been tough, with attitude, attitude, and more attitude (from both of us), as his will has developed into something, surprisingly, independent of my own. Many of our days this year have been filled with moments when he expresses an idea ("I want candy!") that I shut down ("You've already had 2 Tootsie Rolls, a piece of taffy, and a cookie; no more sugar.") causing an angry reaction ("I NEVER get candy! I guess you want me to be mad!") to which I react angrily in turn ("Never? Don't even start with that! You've already had 3 pieces of candy and a cookie just this morning! Seriously? Do we have to do this every time?") Things generally go downhill from there.

As we approach four, though, he seems to be softening, sweetening, changing his attitude, which of course is causing me to change mine. He's running and kicking and trying at soccer instead of throwing himself on the ground and making an unending series of angry faces. I've heard that four is pretty sweet. I'm desperately hoping that it's true. I've waffled back and forth since Thumper was around 1 1/2 years old, thinking I want another child and thinking maybe I just couldn't possibly handle another one. If I'd had another one to deal with while working our way through three, I think someone would've suffered, possibly permanent damage.

Now, as he moves out of three and I move closer to forty, I've been thinking more about taking drastic, mostly permanent measures. I think our family is complete now. I have a stay-at-home dad friend who tells me pretty regularly about his adventures with a 6- and 3-year-old, and man, I am not ready for those kind of adventures. His elder child has reached the landmark that I fear most of all: she has figured out that mom and dad will not kill her or seriously hurt her, and she has decided that everything else is a battle that she can win. Where do you go when you say, "I will take this away from you," and the child responds, "I don't want that anyway?" When you say, "I can outlast you," and she says, "No you can't." I am shuddering at the thought.

Anyway, I hope Thumper actually is moving towards helping me be a better dad, because it's been a long time feeling like I'm really pretty terrible at this.

And things haven't changed that much. He's still pretty danged adorable, even though he's almost four now and not almost two, like he was the last time we went to see the Biscuit Brothers at Symphony Square in June of 2009, which we did again a couple of days ago. The Biscuit Brothers haven't entirely lost their charm, and neither has this job that I mostly love, though maybe not as much as I did when he would stay where I put him and never talk back.

No One Expects the Feminist Inquisition!

2011-07-06T12:10:00.006-05:00

Thumper and I are feeding the ducks at the pond near the playground. He notices a mom sitting on a park bench giving a baby wipe bath to a boy about his own age. He wanders over to chat while I keep throwing bread.

I glance over, and the mom is speaking animatedly. Thumper comes back over to me, wearing his angry face.

RODIUS: What's the matter, buddy?

THUMPER: She said I was "appropriate."

R: What did you say that was inappropriate?

T: I said maybe that boy didn't want to sit down.

R: Maybe you should let her worry about that boy and mind your own business.

T: OK. I think she's mean.

R: If she's mean, just stay away from her.

T: OK. I think she's mean. Maybe she's evil.

R: She's not evil, buddy.

We walk further along to the bridge and throw the rest of bread to the ducks. He's still mopey. When the bread's gone, he lays down and says he wants to go home. I pick him up, put him on my shoulders, and head towards the parking lot. The path takes us past the bench, where the woman is still wiping down her kid. Maybe he fell in the pond or something, I don't know. I decide to ask her what happened.

RODIUS: Excuse me. Did something happen? With my son?

NUTJOB: He just started smart-mouthing me. When I told him that was inappropriate, he said his dad was over there, so I told him maybe he should go back over there before I tell his dad what he said.

R: What did he say?

N: He was smart-mouthing me and exhibiting male chauvinist behavior.

R: Well, what did he say, so I can correct him?

N: He was being a chauvinist.

R: He's three.

T: He's showing off the behavior you've shown him.

R: Lady, I'm a stay-at-home dad. I'm showing him non-traditional gender roles. I don't think I'm a chauvinist.

THUMPER: Hey, Dad! Is she mean? Dad? Dad? Is she evil and mean? Dad? Is she?

N: Well he's calling me names right now, and you're not correcting him.

R: Thinking to myself, "I'm not entirely sure he's wrong..." I say nothing.

N: Asshole!

I decide this is a fruitless endeavor and walk on. We go to the bathroom. When we're walking out, she's walking past.

NUTJOB: Asshole! Have a nice day, asshole!

RODIUS: You're the only one using words like that. You realize that don't you?

N: flips me the bird and walks away.

THUMPER: What did she say, Daddy?

R: She called me a name that's not very nice.

T: I think she's mean. I think if she's going to call you a "werdernerder," she should call herself a "werdernerder."

R: You're right.

T: She's mean.

R: Yes, she is.

I swear that I did not exaggerate, embellish, or omit in order to make myself look blameless. I really have no idea what I could have done differently.

Some days it's not worth leaving the house.

2011-07-03T23:24:00.003-05:00

Srsly? WTF? OMFG. IDK, 2M2H? 4COL!YGTBKM!UFB!PITA.KWIM?

In My Head

2011-06-29T20:28:00.004-05:00

The deep breathing while running is definitely helping my performance. I ran a 10K on the treadmill today, the first time since the Cap 10K on 3/27 that I've run a full 6.2 miles. I finished it just 27 seconds short of my all-time best treadmill 10K time, completely turning my attitude around. I'm considering signing up for a half marathon around the time of my 40th birthday to help give me motivation for working out and to give myself a birthday present of accomplishing something I've never done before. Yesterday, I thought that I wouldn't do it because it seems so far beyond my reach since I haven't run further than 5K in over 3 months. Today, I think I will do it because I'm pretty sure I can if I work hard in the intervening months.

So in 24 hours, I went from thinking that I probably couldn't even finish a 10K right now to turning in one of my best times, with a time on the second half that beats my best 5K time by 10 seconds. I can do this. Of course I can do this!

My biggest hurdle in running isn't my knee. It isn't my lungs. It's my head.

Just Breathe

2011-06-24T20:56:00.003-05:00

By the way, Mom, that's a reference to "Breathe (2 a.m.)" by Anna Nalick, a song which Aerie quite likes.

I've had a lifelong struggle with my lungs. It was, of course, complicated by my smoking for more years than I care to remember, but it began, so my mother says, from scar tissue left in my lungs when I had pneumonia at the age of two and was hospitalized, oxygen tent and all. In the intervening years, I've repeatedly tried to get various doctors to help me find a solution to improve my lung function, but each one, each time, either has or has not administered a breathing test and has, in either case, diagnosed me with asthma and prescribed an inhaler. I've tried Primatene, Ventolin, Albuterol, Advair... Maybe more. Never has an inhaler helped. Never has an allergy med or Bronkaid or guaifenesin helped.

After another bout with bronchitis last week and a 2- or 3-week struggle with running because of breathing problems, I thought I'd try again. My primary doc referred me to a pulmonologist. He talked to me about my history, mentioned "bronchi..." something-or-other, which can result from lung infections at a young age, administered a breathing test, and diagnosed me with asthma. I'm not sure how I can have asthma when I never have anything like an asthma "attack;" he explained that the ONLY (and he emphasized "only") lung disease consistent with my breathing test, which was essentially normal, is asthma. Therefore I have asthma. QED. And he prescribed Symbicort, one I haven't tried, but which so far seems to have zero effect, just like all the others.

So in the midst of all this, I got an email from Active.com. One of the 5K or 10K races that I signed up for used Active.com for their online registration, and I've been on their email list ever since.

It was an article entitled "Breathing Tips for New Runners." I certainly never considered myself an "elite" runner, but I didn't think of myself as a "new" runner either. I didn't think it would have much to offer me, but I clicked it anyway because the timing seemed like kismet.

The article suggested that it was possible to breathe slowly, deeply, and regularly, even while running. I scoffed. I disbelieved. I thought, even if it was possible for other runners, it certainly wasn't possible for me and my damaged, weakened, and, despite what the breathing test said, definitely sub-normal lungs. When I run, I huff, and puff, and wheeze, and gasp, and suck, and blow.

Turns out, it is possible. I tried it today. I was amazed. I couldn't believe it. I still ran out of wind and had to walk for 3 or 4 brief stretches through the 5K, but it may have been because I tried a faster pace than I'd done on Monday. But by filling my lungs deeply and pushing the air all the way out on each breath, I breathed slowly. I didn't fall back into rapid, shallow breathing.

I'm choosing to accept that maybe this is a turning point for me, both in my running, which has been declining lately, and my breathing, which has been a constant irritant to me for my entire life. Maybe it's time to accept that my "normal" breathing test may be correct and that my lungs are not as awful as I have believed them, for my entire life, to be. I want this approach to breathing during exertion to be my gateway to actually achieving the improvement that I've expected since I first began running a couple of years ago. Maybe I should finally read that Pranayama book that I bought years ago, too.

Youth Sports

2011-06-18T13:49:00.013-05:00

Thumper started 3-year-old soccer at the YMCA, with one practice last week, one practice this week, and his team's first game this morning. It was mostly a hot, sweaty, comical chunk of chaos, starting with some basic instructions, like, "Your team stands on this side:"

Then they were all told to put their right hands over their hearts. Then they were all told which one was their right hand. Then they were all told where their hearts are. Then they were all told to put their right hands over the "Y" on their shirts. Then they took some sort of oath:

I couldn't quite hear, but it didn't sound like the Pledge of Allegiance. Perhaps they were swearing eternal devotion to the referee? I'm not sure.

There was much waiting for the kids to get back into position, and many adults running around like Australian sheep dogs getting the kids back into position.

#9 in orange was the real superstar. He was one of maybe 2 kids who was able to dribble and knew exactly where the ball was supposed to go. He didn't always care which goal he was dribbling toward, but he scored probably 90% of the goals made today.

That's my boy kneeling down as the action begins, watching #9 dribble right past him, and then sitting down in the grass. He also liked to throw himself on the ground far from the action and make angry faces because "somebody pushed me down!" All in all, it was a lot of laughs, with only one hardcore pushy dad yelling at his kid. And his kid reeeeaalllyy didn't want play.

Shortly thereafter, Thumper began to get into it a little more, yelling, "Go Cardinals!" throwing a high five or two, and actually making some attempt to slow down that scoring juggernaut, #9.

And thus Thumper begins his youth sports career, following precisely in the footsteps of his old man by getting completely blown out by the competition. Yay!

Conundrum

2011-06-16T22:30:00.006-05:00

I say that I live in Austin, but I'm actually in the suburbs outside of Austin. Austin is a unique, liberal oasis in the center of the conservative desert of Texas, if you're inclined to think of conservatism as a barren wasteland. I'm not; I was once conservative, though I have more liberal leanings now. But one way in which I never meshed with conservatism was in my religious beliefs.

A few days before Thumper was born, I wrote about how I was pondering his religious education. I have, in the intervening years, come to the conclusion that our conversations about religion will develop independently of my constant over-thinking. But I've noticed lately that here, in my suburban landscape, there are a lot of upper middle-class white folk who are surprisingly (to me) religious. They also make lots of babies. I suppose it's not surprising, ultimately, that there are good Christian breeders here in suburban Texas, but I've been feeling more and more in disguise lately.

"Vacation Bible School" (familiarly referred to as VBS) has repeatedly been suggested to me as a summer alternative for the boy, and church daycare and/or preschool is also a highly recommended solution, even from my south and central Austin friends who are not particularly religious. Apparently it's not uncommon for the agnostic or atheist parents to send their kids to church child care, and hey, they don't indoctrinate THAT much, anyway. The more time we spend at our suburban YMCA (which, Lord God, is a lot of time, because of the gymnastics, the swim lessons, the soccer, the child care while I work out, the cool pool with the splash pad, the free babysitting one Friday a month, the cheap babysitting two Saturdays a month... Well, it adds up to a lot of time, is what I'm saying...) the more I seem to find myself listening to conversations between mothers of four and five kids talking about the dilemma of either home schooling or sending their kids to private school, of church, and bible school, and bible studies, and backyard bible clubs. Forgive me if any or all of that should have been capitalized.

I was even invited to attend a backyard bible club, or Backyard Bible Club, or backyard Bible club, today. I didn't exactly or directly respond to the invitation and immediately felt the degree to which I am undercover out here in the suburbs. Religion is a dominant part of the lives of most of the moms that I've met through the couple of moms' playgroups to which I belong, and I do my best to fly under the God radar. I try not to talk about religion, because as far as I can tell, nothing good can come of such a discussion. At best, I will be stuck trying to explain myself, and at worst, Thumper will no longer be able to play with some of the friends he has made over the past year or two. Making friends has turned out to be one of Thumper's best skills, but still, I don't need to be burning any of his bridges.

So it turns out that, despite all my agonizing over the religious education of my child, I'm an anti-religion snob whose first reaction to the word "bible" is distaste, and there's no chance of me inculcating my child in Christ, though I recognize that growing up without faith is a disadvantage and that without early indoctrination, faith is virtually impossible.

Still, there's going to be bounce houses and ice cream at the Backyard Bible Club.

Yo' Mama!

2011-06-13T21:36:00.005-05:00

Well, my Mama, actually. Or Mom, to be more precise. Or Grandma, if your name is Thumper. She's blogging again. Check her out. She's fun, and funny, and she's learning and still going through changes and discoveries and adventures in her most joyful retirement. She and Pops are exceptional people. Go see what she's thinking about today:

Think About This.

Media Contact

2011-06-06T20:45:00.004-05:00

Maybe I'm not the best choice for this role, but as the current administrator of my dads's group, I not only schedule the weekly play dates and approve new members, I'm also the contact for media inquiries. In January, I was contacted by a freelance writer who was working on an article for a major, national women's magazine. He's made it pretty clear from the beginning that he had already written the article and was mostly looking for quotes from members of the group that he could plug into the article to support the conclusion he'd already come to before talking to any of us. As of today, his article has now been returned to him for final edits, and he wants a couple of more dads to talk to for about 10 minutes tomorrow to cull a few more quotes, I suppose.

In May, the photo editor for said magazine contacted me to schedule a photo shoot with our group. She's waffled on dates, saying maybe this week, maybe next week, maybe the week after that to send a hired photographer to shoot us. I suggested she take advantage of the talents of one of our members, who has shot some excellent photos, some of which he took at past play dates. She was non-committal, until today, finally saying she wanted him to take more photos of us at upcoming play dates. She stressed that it's important to her magazine to represent diversity in their photo shoots, especially those involving real people, which struck me as manipulating reality to make it fit some idealized version, true reality be damned.

After 5 months of emails with these two journalistic professionals who won't make a decision and stick with it, I got a little fed up. So I sent the following email to my group today to promote the Wednesday play date, which will be taking place at the business of one of our members:

First, let me say that the rest of this message is tongue-in-cheek, and I don't give a rat's ass about satisfying [national women's magazine], since I'm sure the article will not in the least represent us (or at least me) and what it means (to me) to be a stay-at-home dad. I'm sure that the author wrote the article before speaking to any of us, and the gist of it will be that "silly, incompetent dads think they can be moms! Isn't that cute?"

That said, I would really appreciate it if we could turn out in large numbers for Wednesday's play date this week. First, it will be great to see what our own [Dad #1] and his family have come up with as a business idea and to throw our support behind it. It sounds unique, and a lot of fun, and priced more than reasonably, compared to other indoor play spaces. Second, I'd like to see [Dad #2] get national exposure as a photographer, too, if that's also what he wants. So let's come together and support these two dads and see what good can come of this mess for them. Maybe [Dad #2] can get some shots of us in front of a sign or a logo, or a web address on Wednesday.

I suggested to [national women's magazine]'s photo editor from the beginning that she take advantage of [Dad #2]'s talents, but she hemmed, hawed, delayed, and was generally a giant pain in the ass about picking a date to send a hired photographer to. Now she's come full circle and wants [Dad #2] to shoot us Wednesday at All Things Kids, and presumably any other play dates we turn up to over the next few days. Or weeks. Or whatever. I have no idea when they plan to actually pull the trigger on this project and publish the damn article already. It can't be soon enough, as far as I'm concerned.

What she seems most concerned about is "diversity," though she never specifically defined what she meant by that. They like their photo shoots to be diverse, "especially of real people," even if reality is semi-homogeneous. I presume she means it in the "racial diversity" sense, but she didn't specify, so if you're coming on Wednesday, please come at your most diverse. If [Dad #3] shows up, we'll have "white man with blond kids" covered, though that beard isn't quite "Middle America" enough. [Kid #1] and [Kid #2] should definitely come, but maybe it would best if their mom brought them and [Dad #4] stayed home. [Dad #5] and [Dad #6] certainly should be there, and if anybody has any black friends with kids that they can convince to take the morning off from work, I'd appreciate it. As the only woman in the group, [Mom #1], you better show up, or I'm kicking you out, and whichever dad it was that had something about a "partner" in his bio, I'm counting on you, too. [Dad #7] should come, but only as a real person and not as an actor. As the definitive "blue-eyed devil," I'm not sure I should be in any of the pictures, but [Thumper] and I will be there to check out [Dad #1]'s ultra-cool imported European toys. [Dad #2], please make sure to get some self-portraits with the mohawk and the baby strapped to your chest. I can only hope this will be one of the weeks that your hair is blue or some other unnatural color.

Anyway, please come. It's $5 per kid, unless we show up in a group of 10 or more kids, which will prompt [Dad #1] to give us a 20% discount, or $4 per kid. If we can't be racially diverse, maybe we can be, I don't know, politically diverse? If [Dad #8] and [Dad #1] are in the same room with the rest of us, we'll pretty much have the spectrum covered. Religiously diverse? Fashionably diverse? Or diverse heights and weights? Shoe sizes?

And thus you see why maybe I'm not the best choice for media contact.

My Biggest Problem

2011-05-31T22:14:00.004-05:00

I cannot stop yelling at my kid. Is this normal for parents of almost-four-year-olds? It's my biggest daily struggle. I often think that I was well-suited to the daily care-taking of an infant, but a three-year-old is outside of my expertise. Somewhere I picked up the idea that I shouldn't have to repeat myself so much, that he should just listen to me and behave the first, or second, or third time that I say something. I'm not sure why I think this is true. Parents for a millennium have bemoaned the inability of children to listen or pay attention or follow instructions. Somehow I thought I'd be better at this.

So he sneezes full in the face of a pregnant chick, and I snap at him because, really? The whole "Vampire Sneeze" thing that we've discussed ad nauseum and that I remind him of daily, multiple times? And he says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Like, "Let it go already!" He's gonna sneeze in a pregnant chick's face and then give me attitude about it, like I'm being a dick for reminding him to cover and telling him to go apologize? Really?

And of course I immediately feel guilty every time I lose my cool. My mother told me when I was a kid that being a parent was all about guilt, but, I don't know, I thought I'd be better at this. I remember watching Bill Cosby's stand-up routine about "Come here. Come here. Come HERE. Here! Here! Here!" and thinking, "That's funny." It's not so funny anymore. The phrases I repeat more than three times in a row, several times a day, day after day, include, "don't touch," "get down," "eat your veggies," "get your finger out of your nose," and maybe a hundred others. I try not to think of each of those as a knife in my back or a middle finger in my face, but yeah, I kind of do, really.

So I know, intellectually, that he's a kid, he's three, I can't really change his behavior except in a strictly long-term sort of way. I know that in his purely id-driven three-year-old state, he does not think, remember, or judge before acting or reacting to immediate stimuli. I get it. But man, I just told him, 30 seconds ago, not to do what he is currently doing. While he looks right at me. With that look on his face.

How is it that anybody ever has more than one kid?

Jaded

2011-05-28T15:57:00.004-05:00

One of my long-term goals for ushering is never to become bitter and cynical as so many long-time ushers seem to become. They expect the worst of people and are given no end of opportunities to see their expectations met. I do my best to remember that for every angry, demanding, selfish, or entitled patron that I encounter, I meet at least a couple who are friendly, kind, funny, and generous, and there are of course hundreds that come and go without ever drawing my attention at all.

While eating my breakfast before heading to work this morning, I read some old blog entries about ushering, including this one, a meditation on the sentiment, the pride and the poignancy, on display at high school graduations.

Today, though, was not one of those days.

I know that for so many of the families in attendance, graduation is the culmination of years of work, both for them and for their graduates. I know that parents of graduates often feel quite literally like participants in these events. In fact, some of our signage outside the building directs "participants" one way and "public" another; when I'm outside helping get people to the proper spots, I always call them instead "graduates and faculty" while pointing one way and "family and friends" while pointing the other, because mothers especially, in my experience, truly believe themselves to be participants in this triumphant moment.

Still, it's amazing to me to see how many family members will behave as if their child's graduation entitles them to specific benefits that other families, celebrating the exact same achievement by their own children, are not entitled to. People set up tripods for their video cameras on stairways and landings, blocking other people's views and access to whole rows of seating. One thoughtful young man once even set up his tripod across three mobility-impaired seats, which are in high demand for grandparents at these events. Some people will "save" three and four rows of seating, upwards of 40 individual seats, for their friends and family who are "parking the car" when other families who are here, now, with only minutes before the start of the ceremony, have nowhere to sit. Entire families fill the mobility-impaired seating sections, bristling indignantly at the suggestion that one of their party sit with grandma while the rest sit in regular seats a dozen feet or so away from grandma so that another family's grandma, who is also in a wheelchair, may take advantage of the mobility-impaired seating sections as well.

Trying my best to resolve such a conflict today, I told the Hatfields and the McCoys, who appeared on the verge of coming to blows over a half-dozen seats they both wanted to sit in, that "we're all here for the same reason. We're all part of the [insert school's name] family; let's all behave in a kind, courteous, and loving way toward each other." Two people involved in the conflict actually snorted in derision at my suggestion.

I called the police to one of our vendor's concession stands today, too, because a woman, dressed to the nines and there presumably to show her pride and to celebrate the achievement of a close friend or family member suddenly decided that this place and this time were the appropriate moment to engage in a dispute with that vendor over payroll money she felt she was owed; presumably she had worked for or with that vendor at some previous event. She was screaming with such force and gesticulating so vehemently at the vendor that I was afraid she was about to start throwing punches. When I approached, she turned her venom on me without missing a beat. The spittle was flying. The police were called. The vendor was visibly shaken. I thought, how delightful it is that this patron has stolen this day from the graduate she was there to honor, turned the attention from the graduate to herself and even involved the police.

So, as much as I love ushering, and as much fun as I have, and as much gratification as I get from helping people enjoy our events and helping them in other ways whenever I can, sometimes I can't help walking away feeling that people, in the broadest, most general terms, suck.

Wheezy

2011-05-20T21:57:00.002-05:00

Maybe it's the mold, which is high, though it's always high. Maybe it's because I'm poorly rested, poorly hydrated, and poorly nourished. But I just can't get it together the past two times I've tried to run. I can't get my breathing and heart rate under control. I can't move enough air. I've only run just over two miles each time, and I was struggling to do that. And my iPod kept pausing itself throughout my workout today, which is extremely annoying, and ridiculously symbolic. I have to do something. I'm not losing weight, and I fear that I am on the verge of quitting and gaining it all back again, as I've done so many times before. Though on the plus side, my knee isn't bothering me much.

Commitment

2011-05-18T22:38:00.002-05:00

Through the miracle of Netflix streaming, I'm watching Shaka Zulu for the first time since it was first broadcast on television in the '80's. Aside from the inherent racism in the fact that bare African breasts were acceptable on network television when bare European breasts most certainly were not, I'm thinking about how many of my most admired heroes are military men willing to do anything and everything to achieve their goals.

I love war movies; I've recently obsessed on Toshiro Mifune as the unstoppable samurai. Years ago, I went through a Civil War period, reading memoirs and biographies of men like John Mosby, Stonewall Jackson, Nathan Bedford Forrest, and William Tecumseh Sherman, men who were willing to break the rules in order to win.

I'm currently watching the episode where Shaka defies the general who tells him that warfare is fought at 50 paces, with long spears and small shields, with little chance and no intention of killing or dying. Shaka remakes the tools of war, and the strategies, and in doing so creates an empire to rival Napoleon's, or Alexander's.

Odd that these are my heroes, since I am as far from a military man as one could possibly get, and I can't commit to losing 50 pounds, let alone commit to sacrificing everything for the sake of a principle, such as honor, or pride, or God, or country.

Chasm

2011-05-15T21:52:00.003-05:00

I haven't done Velvet Verbosity's 100 Words in awhile. I write so many product description blurbs, using the Word Count feature on MS Word so many times to make sure that I'm writing enough but not too much, that it feels a little odd fitting a paragraph to a purpose that isn't selling a product I've never seen or touched. So here's my 100 words.

I'm trying so hard these days, but it's tough, to use only one space after a period. A graphic designer friend of mine Facebooked this article, pointing out that it's a sin in the modern world to use two spaces after a period, regardless of what my 8th grade typing teacher told me. So I'm trying. Anyway, "Chasm:"

Each trip down this path has worn something away, crushed underfoot some small living thing, until the way is hard as rock and void of life. From the very beginning, we have known that it leads nowhere, yet we cannot resist following it one more time. Regularly as seasons, we pass over it again and again, year after year. Our persistence has worked magic on the landscape between us, laying waste, scuffing out a line, a ditch, a ravine, finally a vast chasm, until there is nothing left to say, no way to reach across. Next time, let us leap.

Talking About Giving

2011-05-10T21:24:00.002-05:00

"Good night, buddy. I love you."

"What are we going to do tomorrow?"

"We're going to give blood. Then we're going to Central Market."

"Am I going to do it?"

"No, I'm going to give blood. You're too young."

"Why?"

"Because you have to be bigger to give blood. That's the rule."

"Well, when I'm bigger, I don't want to give blood."

"OK. You don't have to. It's your choice. I like to give blood."

"Well, I don't. I like to give poop!"

"Good night."

"I said 'poop.'"

"Yes, I know. I heard you."

It Begins at Home, But It's Where It Ends That Worries Me

2011-05-04T17:03:00.005-05:00

I've spent much of my life as a misanthropic intellectual, but since the arrival of Thumper, I've tried to reinforce the idea, for him and for me, that service to our fellow human beings has value for ourselves and our world. I don't do a lot, but I regularly give blood, and our family donates money where we can. I'm not above clicking on a "sign this petition" or a "send your Senator or Representative a letter" link, even if it does mean I'll start getting smug reply letters from John Cornyn, but one of the things we do that makes me feel best about myself is driving a Meals on Wheels route. It's easy, taking up about an hour-and-a-half of my life each week, but it makes me happy. And since we pick up the meals at a Senior Center, it means that Thumper gets the loving attention of several more grandmas in his life.

Some people have no interest in us, just opening the door to accept delivery and then closing it again, and that's fine with me. Some people on our route are very open and friendly, especially with Thumper, and invite us in to sit and chat and pet their dogs, which is also just fine with me. I've met a couple of very interesting and likeable people, and dogs, this way. We've been doing it since Thumper was 18 months old, and our Senior Center friends and our Meals on Wheels clients have known him for more than half his life.

I'm not particularly proud of how one of our clients makes me feel about myself, though. She's in her 80's, is disabled, and lives alone. She wants most of all to have someone to talk to, and there are days that we spend 20 minutes or more standing on her porch. There are some days when I just want to finish, to move on, so that we can have lunch. Sometimes I dread stopping at her house, and that dread makes me feel guilty.

Recently, though, she's begun to ask more of me. Perhaps because I've been willing to let her talk and tell the same stories over and over, and perhaps because Thumper is an adorable charmer, she's said how much she feels like she can trust me and what a wonderful job she thinks I'm doing with my son. So she's asked if I can help her out here and there. I've changed light bulbs for her. I've shopped for a portable DVD player for her so that she can watch Armageddon prophecy videos. She has talked about maids and landscapers and pest control techs who've treated her badly and stolen from her. She's asked me if I know anyone who can mow her yard and pick up the beer bottles her inconsiderate neighbors have thrown over her fence, help her around the house, and help her sort through and sell or donate her 80 years of accumulated belongings. I connected her with a couple that I thought would make a perfect match for her, but it ended badly, with them declaring her "impossible to please" and angrily extricating themselves from her life.

My former work history has demonstrated that I have a remarkable capacity for monotony and repetition, and I have a remarkable patience for dealing with difficult people with whom others have been incapable of dealing. I could be her lawn mower, and her sink de-clogger, and her Craigslist and eBay expert, and her confidante and companion. She's made it clear that she has money and wants very much to pay someone to be her man Friday. But at this point in my life, I really don't want to. The more I do for her, the more I am sure that she will ask, and I just don't want to be drawn in any more than I already have been.

Does that make me uncharitable?

The End of Preschool

2011-04-27T20:02:00.004-05:00

Today I ran my best 5K treadmill time, with an incline on the first mile, which made me feel good since I took last week off from exercising to help my knee heal. Of course, it didn't, so I guess I'll try working it to see if it heals, since not working it didn't help. Anyway, I again worried I'd gained weight and lost fitness, and then I performed just fine. I really should stop doubting myself.

But what I really wanted to write about was that tomorrow is Thumper's last day of preschool. It's been a fulfilling experience for both of us, and he's done better than I could have hoped. I haven't told him that he won't be going back next week, and I'm not sure how that will work out. I'd love to keep him in, and keep getting glowing reports back about his sociability and outstanding language skills, but man, preschool is expensive, and I think we've picked one even more expensive than average. I'm nervous about how I'm going to pick up the academic slack, because I'm lacking in patience, and he's lacking in desire to please me in the same way that he's happy to please his teachers. I understand that this is perfectly normal.

We, all three of us, watched his old videos last night (Thumper mostly talked about that kid in the videos in third person; he knew it was he, but I guess it was hard to really conceptualize as himself), and I'm stunned at how quickly we got here, and how much he's changed in so little time. Many of the dads in my playgroup that have kids the same age or younger than Thumper are now announcing their second pregnancies or second births, and part of me still hurts whenever I hear about other families' joy. But another part of me knows that it's already a stretch financially for us with just one child, and it's already a stretch for my patience and my abilities to be a good dad. One child is best for us, but the time is going so fast. Many people have told me how wonderful it is that I get to spend this time with him and that we'll both treasure these years for the rest of our lives, but it's just flying along so quickly. My baby boy will (probably, if we decide he's ready, and his preschool experience makes me think, yes, he'll be ready) be in kindergarten in 2012. And I swear, he was just a minute ago talking about his boo oddypop.

Me and the Knee

2011-04-25T21:12:00.004-05:00

Warrior Dash was a blast, again. I'm not sure I can articulate why; it's partly the crowd, which has huge variations in age and physical ability, and partly the course, which has obstacles of different degrees of difficulty. It's just fun to run, and fun to hang out after, watching the crowd and its costumes while listening to the music, watching the people dance, and drinking a few celebratory beers

I got down on myself in the days before the race and decided I was going to fail miserably. Then I performed better than I expected, as usually happens when I get down on myself. I didn't meet the 32-minute goal I set after the last time I ran it, but I came pretty close. I ran the entire way without walking and finished at just over 34 minutes. I ran it with Biggest Brother again, and this time I didn't feel like he was holding himself back to stay with me. In fact, I think I might have impressed him with my performance a little bit. Making your big brother say, "Wow, that was great!" is something every little brother wants to do. I'm proud of him, too, since he managed to make the guy with the top time for men 40-44 scoff when he told him what age group he was part of and declare, "I'm on the 10-year plan to be like you!" It was just a great time all around. I love that my brother is a youthful, active, athletic man who wants to do these things with me.

I still don't know what to do about the knee, though. Maybe the knee pain is just a physical manifestation of my lack of motivation and boredom with running. The knee felt better after Warrior Dash than I feared it would, but the next day, it was sore again. I skipped workouts all week to give it a chance to heal, then Saturday I stepped off a curb that was higher than I expected, landing awkwardly, wrenching it again, and putting myself right back where I was at the start of the week. Today, I returned to the gym since I have The Bun Run coming up this weekend. I tried an elliptical instead of the treadmill, hoping a "no impact" workout would help, but I couldn't make it work. Maybe I'm doing it wrong, or maybe I'm too tall with too long a stride, but it just didn't feel right. It felt like I was trying to run while staying a good foot or more shorter than I actually am, putting a huge strain on my thighs. So I returned to the treadmill. I walked, instead of running, at the steepest incline and fastest pace I could manage. Then I did weights. Maybe the squats were a bad idea.

So, I don't know. I hear about Brandon Roy and his cartilage-less knees and I think, "Maybe I'm grinding bone on bone after years of my weight putting extreme stress on my knees." Or maybe I'm arthritic. And what am I going to do, and how am I going to find my motivation, if it's not as a runner finding 10Ks and 5Ks and obstacle courses for which I must train?

But more or less, I think I'll find something. My weight loss has stalled at 240 pounds, but I think I can ride it out until I can make it start falling again. Aerie walked in on me naked, getting dressed after a shower, and asked me if I am lighter than I've ever been. No, but I'm 7 pounds short of the lightest I've been in two years, which was lighter than I'd been for 10 or 15 years before that. Considering the fact that I met her when I was around 200 pounds, I'll gratefully take "are you lighter than you've ever been?" Maybe I'll keep running, or maybe I'll start riding my bike more, or maybe swimming laps at the neighborhood pool. But my diet has greatly improved, and athletic performance (such as it is for an overweight 39-year-old) has become important to me. I think I'll keep on keeping on. Or keep on hobbling on.

Draggin'

2011-04-14T21:32:00.004-05:00

My weight loss has stalled, my running performance has plateaued, my knee refuses to heal, my lungs are full of glue, and my motivation is waning. I'm 2 days away from Warrior Dash, and there's no way in hell I'm going to meet my overly-ambitious 32-minute goal. My past three workouts have been a disaster, with my energy level in the toilet (maybe I should try going to bed before midnight) and my heart rate inexplicably at a surprisingly high 169 today, which is way outside of what the chart on the gym wall says it should be at the ripe old age of nearly 40. I don't know if the Paleo Diet is letting me down, or if I'm not doing it right, eating too many fruits and not enough vegetables, or if Paleo's a crock and I should chow down on some pasta tomorrow night. It has not, as I thought it might, made a difference with my lungs or with my skin. My knee still hurts and never heals because I keep running on it. When I try to remember my Chi Running fundamentals, my knee bothers me less, but still, it hurts during and after a run.

Maybe I need to start riding my bike more instead.

Oh yeah, I did remember that this summer (July specifically) will mark my 5-year anniversary of quitting smoking, which is a year longer than I made it the previous time I quit smoking. Hooray, me!

Running on Empty, and with a Sore Knee

2011-04-04T22:58:00.005-05:00

I ran the Austin American-Statesman Capitol 10K last Sunday, along with 23,000 other people. I thought, since I ran 1:01:44 at the Longhorn Run last year, and since I ran a 56:04 10K on the treadmill, that I would blow my best time for an official 10K out of the water, so when I posted a time just a little less than one minute faster than my Longhorn Run time, I was disappointed in myself. The official photographers of the event quickly posted their photos, searchable by bib number or name, and looking at the pictures of me, I felt old. And fat. And though I've been running and training with nary a sign of knee pain or other injuries, the week before the race, I twisted my knee playing soccer with Thumper and his best pal, and by the end of the race I was downright hobbling.

So I took the week after the race off from exercising to give my knee a chance to recover, and I thought about whether I'm really a runner. I became morose and maybe a little pissy, thinking that I'm not going to meet my fitness and weight loss goals and I'm a terrible father who yells at his kid too much and I haven't kept up with the 100 push ups and I haven't even started the 200 sit ups and there are no solutions to ongoing family problems and I'm constitutionally incapable of keeping a clean house and there's no possible way I'll meet my copywriting deadline and nobody loves me everybody hates me I think I'll go eat worms.

And then I picked up Thumper from preschool and the teacher gave me a daily report that was glowing about his social and verbal skills. And then I went to the gym, ran on a steeper incline with only a slightly slower time than my last 5K workout, and I'd only gained a pound over my last weigh in. Suddenly I don't feel quite like I've totally blown it, though I'm not sure what to do about the knee. And I still have to finish 40 more of those stupid product descriptions in the next 24 hours.

Don't Call It School

2011-03-26T09:50:00.005-05:00

Thumper started pre-school last week. We talked about it, and he was extremely excited. His Mama bought him a special first-day-of-school outfit, and he marched into the building with a jaunty strut:

When we got to his classroom, though, he suddenly got nervous, turned around, and said, "I want to go to a different classroom!" and started crying. I didn't think it would last long, and when I came to pick him up, his daily activity report said he had a wonderful day and was great at making friends. Each of the subsequent days, he's never looked back and has glared at me with angry eyes when I come to pick him up. He doesn't want to leave.

Don't call it school, though. It's pre-school, as he forcefully reminds anyone who asks him if he likes school. We told him a long time ago that he would go to school when he's five, so since he's 3 1/2, another fact that he, along with his full name, tells everyone he meets, he clearly can't be going to school. Q.E.D., as they say.

The school (pre-school) we chose is the one that I called "impressive" and "state-of-the-art" and "out of our price range," but we got a big break on the tuition for a couple of months. When the money runs out, he won't be going back, but we might move him to a cheaper program, maybe when the next school year starts in the fall. Or maybe we won last night's lottery, and we won't have to worry about that annoying income-expense balance anymore. I should go check our numbers.

Doctors, Therapists, Runners, and Cavemen

2011-03-17T16:37:00.003-05:00

3 1/2 months after breaking my finger, I was told today by my orthopedic specialist that she was "cutting me loose." So no more doctors, no more occupational therapists, just more bending and straightening and special splints to get it straighter and more bending to get it flexible, though it's almost entirely there. I'm typing! Look at me, I'm typing!

1 1/2 weeks after starting the Paleo Diet, I'm feeling pretty good and noticing what may be improvements in both my lungs and my skin. There are so many variables involved, including allergens and pollutants and who knows what else, that it's hard to say for sure. But I think so. I'm amazed at the volume of fruits, vegetables, and meat that I'm eating. Every few days, I have to make yet another trip to the grocery store because the giant pile of produce and meat that I thought would last me a week or more is gone. The Paleo Diet combined with Thumper's addiction to bananas is sending me shopping far more than I'd like. It's more expensive, too. But I'm still losing weight.

I've been struggling on the exercise front. By all appearances, I'm still progressing (with the exception of 100 Push Ups; I've tried week 3 twice now, and both times I've been unable to meet the requirements of day 3), with improvements on my inclines on 5K's and on my speed on 10K's, but it's been much harder to keep running. A couple of times over the past couple of weeks, I've quit before reaching the distance goals I set for myself. One of the "So-and-so's Story" anecdotes in the book was about a former Olympic athlete who agreed to try Paleo for a month, certain that his athletic improvement couldn't possibly improve without the pasta carb loading. At 2 weeks, he thought he was well on the way to proving he was right, because his energy levels were lower, but another 2 weeks changed his mind. Maybe the next couple of weeks will see my energy bumping up, too.

Of course, maybe it's a crisis of motivation and not of energy. I haven't, in the times that I've quit before achieving what I wanted, reached the point of puking that Le Trevolution acquainted me with when he kindly gave me an introduction to Crossfit last October ("that's the puke bucket; that's the chalk bucket. Don't puke in the chalk bucket."), so maybe I'm not pushing myself as hard as I could. But finishing has been tough. Maybe I need to change my focus from running for awhile, but with Cap 10K next weekend, I think I'll stick with the running for now.

So anyway. That's what's up with me. What's up with you?

King of the Wild Things

2011-03-13T21:44:00.008-05:00

It seems like, at just past 3.5 years, every other day is a trial. Today was one of those. He challenged every decision, refused every activity, threw things, hit, kicked, slammed doors, and just generally made everything more difficult and unpleasant than it had to be. Some little part of me is happy when I see him working that same behavior on his mama. We read Where the Wild Things Are as part of the bedtime routine tonight, and I swear he is often the spitting image of Max yelling, "I'LL EAT YOU UP!" Though as of yet, we haven't sent him to bed without eating a thing.

Much of his attitude is his attempt, I'm sure, to assert his independence, to exert his will over mine, or his mother's. This weekend I worked the boys' high school basketball championships, which is sometimes exciting and sometimes, like this year, completely mind numbing. Not the event, really, just my position during the event. This year, I worked two consecutive shifts courtside, sitting in a chair behind the photographers keeping them from moving too far forward and tripping the players or officials and keeping the patrons from coming down onto the floor. In reality, though, I was just sitting and watching basketball. There were some good games, sure enough, but it made for a long, slow day without the moving around and interacting with people and solving problems that I like best. The other two shifts I worked were in the "usher room," a closet where ushers can check in their belongings and check out things like radios, ticket scanners, and the like. Even more boring.

So where I was going with this is, while I was in the usher room, I read two issues of The Atlantic cover to cover, including the most recent, which had a trio of articles related to the entire Tiger Mother brouhaha. One article was "Sympathy for the Tiger Moms" by Sandra Tsing Loh. I took this one in a sort of Chris Rock "I'm not saying she was right, but I understand" sort of way. (NSFW link, BTW). There was also "The Ivy Delusion" by Caitlin Flanagan, which I took as, "The reason you middle class white moms are upset is because clearly the Tiger Moms are taking college admissions spots away from your kids by choosing what you're not willing or able to choose."

To me, though, the most interesting was "Leave Those Kids Alone" by Christina Schwarz. The images of childhood reverberated for me ("finding a stone that 'they could believe was an axe-head, or a fossil'"; "Girls could carry their books in both arms across their bellies, but boys had to carry them in one hand against their sides"; "A kid needs time to lie on his back, opportunity 'to find out whether he breathes differently when he’s thinking about it than when he’s just breathing' and to wonder who she’d be if her parents hadn’t gotten together. A kid needs enough downtime to be bored, yes—bored enough to stare at the sky and study the imperfections in his own eyeball.") I thought, not for the first time, about the difference between what I remember from my upbringing and what I've seen of children's experiences today.

When I was a kid, I had to come home after school, and then I was free and clear until dinner time. My mother had no idea where I was or what I was doing for hours every day. And this was perfectly normal. From what I've seen, it's not normal now. The exception that proves the rule, as they say, is the little girl next door who spends hours each day and seemingly entire weekends roaming the neighborhood freely without so much as a head stuck out the door from her parents, a fact which amazes the local parents, myself included.

On the one hand, thinking of an unsupervised childhood in terms of Thumper terrifies me, because some of what I was doing when I was a child (like crawling through storm drains and setting fire to golf courses) was inadvisable at best and dangerous and destructive at worst. On the other hand, I recognize how much freedom to learn, explore, and develop my own personality, interests, and relationships that time away from grown-ups gave me. My friends and I, and my brother and his friends, explored creeks, caught crawdads, built things, destroyed things, talked, wondered, and did nothing at all, completely free of adult involvement, adult supervision, adult rules, and adult safety gear. And ultimately, I think I'm better for it and only occasionally approached anything like serious danger. And I have no doubt even the danger taught me a few things, too.

So this afternoon, I asked Thumper if he wanted to weed with me. For some reason, he was thoroughly excited by this proposition and ran to tell his mama. Confused as to his excitement about weeding, she said, "What? You and Daddy are going to go weed? Or Wii?" Weed! he happily assured her. Once outside, though, his enthusiasm quickly faded and he said, "Can I ride my bike?" I agreed, got his bike out, and strapped his helmet on his head before returning to my weeding. He stayed close, circling in the driveway. Then he said, "Can I go ride by myself? Because you're still weeding." I thought about it, thought about that article, and said, "OK." I told him what his boundaries were and reiterated more times than he was comfortable with that he couldn't cross the street. He took off happily in the direction of the sound of other kids having fun.

The boundaries I set for him were essentially my sight lines. I dug up a few weeds then checked on him. He was still there where he'd dropped his bike, playing with a gang of other kids, on the correct side of the street. I dug up a few more weeds and looked again. He was fine. I gave him over an hour of freedom, looking in his direction every so often, and when I couldn't see him, riding my scooter (yes, the scooter that broke my finger) down the street until I could see him and then turning around again. I got a fair amount of weeding done, and he got a fair amount of playing. No one was hurt or abducted.

Incidentally, a neighbor walked by with his dog as I was weeding. He is a fitness, and apparently tanning, fanatic who owns a small dog. I try not to jump to conclusions based on this information, but well, I do jump to conclusions. My first experience with him was during the neighborhood triathlon before Thumper was born. He was out jogging before the event began, and I casually mentioned to him as he passed that he might want to run on the sidewalk instead of the bike lane because a huge crowd of kids was soon to be filling the bike lane. He mumbled something about asphalt being better for the knees than concrete and kept right on running in the bike lane.

My next experience with him was when Thumper was riding his bike through the neighborhood, and he was in his yard, digging up weeds and grumbling about how much easier it would be to keep a neat yard if his neighbors ever did anything about THEIR weeds.

Other than that, I've only ever seen him walking his dog, or running, or biking, and he's never looked twice at me or had a pleasant word to say. To be fair, neither have I.

Well, today, he walked by, looked at my big pile of extricated weeds, smiled, and said, "Hi."

What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah, childhood's freedom from adults and their rules and their structure and their "hanging around and bothering them and... making it so bloody important." And maybe 3.5 is too young to be playing unsupervised with slightly older and much older children hundreds of feet away from me, but despite all my fears as I dug up weeds, he didn't get snatched, he didn't get run over, he didn't get shot in the eye with a pellet gun or beat up.

Later, when I asked him what he did when he played with those other kids, he said, "I climbed into Mikey's truck, and I got inside it, and you didn't see me."

"If Mikey said it was OK," I said, "then that's all right. The only reason I told you not to climb on that truck before is that no one was around, and I didn't want you to get in trouble with Mikey's dad."

"Yeah," he said. "It was OK. I climbed in the truck. You didn't see me because you were weeding. Maybe we can weed again tomorrow."

Maybe we can.

The Finger Revisited

2011-03-02T15:07:00.002-06:00

I broke my finger on December 8, and today was finally my last day of occupational therapy. I've learned that there's a difference between physical and occupational therapy, but please don't ask me to explain it. I'm amazed that a broken pinky has taken so much time and work to return to (nearly) mint condition. I say "nearly" because it's still a little stiff, sore, and weak, but if I work at it for a few minutes, I can bend it far enough to touch the tip of my pinky to my palm. That's pretty good since not long ago I called it "an intricately detailed wooden carving of a finger."

Thumper warmed up to the whole idea of going to the therapist 2 and 3 times a week, so much so that when I told him that today would be the last time we'd see Ms. Lisa, he said, "Don't say that!" It's been a long, strange three months, and the moral of the story is: don't break your bones.

Dirty Old Man

2011-02-27T21:23:00.004-06:00

One thing I like about ushering is that you never know what will happen when you walk through that door and start working. Most days, it's a waiting game: waiting for an event to start, waiting for it to be over, waiting for the building to empty of people. Some days though, I start out pretty certain of what my day will look like and it takes a sudden turn into totally new territory.

Today I was assigned to work in arena seating, helping patrons find their seats, looking for spills and other safety hazards, solving problems on the fly, and just generally providing that kick-ass customer service that I do my best to provide.

Several minutes after the doors were supposed to open, the lead supervisor in the seating area called me down to the floor. There was a safety issue that couldn't be fixed in time for the patrons to get in and the televised event to start on time. It was something that could have put the front row of one of the student sections at risk, so I was stationed there to point out the problem to the students, keep an eye on them, and remind them throughout the game to stay well back from it.

The students in that first row were lounging comfortably. They appeared pretty much like any of the other students in the section, though the first two of the group of six were casually painting their faces in patterns of orange and white. With about half an hour until game time, though, the first one stood up and said, "We ready to do this?" And as one, they stood up and pulled their shirts off, including the woman in the middle. She was wearing a black sports bra, which immediately got the attention of the camera operators on the floor whose video feed goes to the scoreboard screen.

Five of the six friends began painting letters on their chests. The woman helped her friend outline his "E," and then he began filling it in himself. She tried to outline her own "X," but was unsatisfied with the straightness and symmetry of her lines. Soon she had 3 guys surrounding her, helping her get it right. The sixth friend, incidentally, if you're keeping score, did not remove his shirt, but instead worked the Pentax camera, documenting the occasion.

So there I am, directly in front of them, trying not to ogle the smooth, curvaceous college body and trying particularly not to get on camera ogling the smooth, etc. etc. Then suddenly I was entirely surrounded by the cheer squad. Apparently I had set up shop right in the middle of their territory, and there was barely enough square footage for me among their pom poms, megaphones, and sundry promotional items, including t-shirts, mini-basketballs, and other giveaway items.

So bare abs to my left, short skirts to my right, and me in the middle trying to look professional, is what I'm saying here.

The game progressed, and the students were pretty good about remembering to stay back from the safety issue. I got a few smiles from listening to them razz the officials ("OK, I'll give you that one, Ref, but I'm expecting a make-up call!"), and the opposing team's coach ("Don't yell at them, Coach! It's not their fault they can't read!") and players ("Hey, #23, is that Frost & Glow?") and fans ("Lighten up; it's just women's basketball!"). They participated in all of the cheers and songs, and lamented the rest of the crowd's lackadaisical attitude. "Our fans suck," one observed. "Yeah," another agreed. "That's because they're all old people."

As the end of the game approached and our team closed the gap and came within a few baskets of the opposing team, the student section came to life. They danced like crazy on the time outs; they jumped and waved and screamed through the free throws. The front row even picked up their string of interlocking folding seats and pushed it back into the row behind them, giving themselves some more room to move and groove and jump. Sadly, our team wasn't able to pull off the come-from-behind victory, but the students' adrenaline was up, and after the end of the game and the singing of the school song, they started rough-housing, jumping on each other, and trying to smear each other's body paint. One jumped on another's back, transferring his own "A" to his friend, and suddenly they were staggering backwards, about to topple right over my safety issue and right on top of me. I stepped forward, and pushed them back onto the risers, preventing potential injuries to them and to me, and covering my hand and forearm in sweat and body paint. I was relieved that the one I touched was not the woman.

So maybe I saved some lives today without groping a nearly topless woman, and managed, I hope, not to be filmed or photographed looking at the bare abs or sports bra of a woman half my age or contemplating the legs of God knows how many short-skirted cheerleaders. I'll call that a pretty good day.

Predictably

2011-02-20T22:02:00.005-06:00

1) My motivation for counting Weight Watchers points faltered pretty quickly. I'm still making good mealtime choices, but when I'm not counting, it's easy to throw in an extra snack here and there and think of it as unimportant or incidental, or to eat in their entirety the staff meals that were provided at work this weekend, including dessert, because it's really not that bad, and it's only occasional. But repeated and untracked "occasional" or "special" meals or snacks add up quickly. I'm going to keep trying to make good choices, but clearly counting is not for me.

I just ordered The Paleo Diet from Amazon (along with new ear-clip headphones and lubricant to prevent nipple chafe), so hopefully that will help me keep my calories under control and improve my lung function. I'm running and running and pushing myself to ever greater respiratory achievements, but somehow I'm still constantly wheezing and clearing my throat. My lungs suck. And blow. Ha! See what I did there? Respiratory humor! Anyway, maybe the Paleo Diet will help me discover that some portion of my lung dysfunction comes from a food allergy, like wheat or dairy, and suddenly I'll be able to breathe effectively again. Or something.

And yes, I did parenthetically mention that I purchased a special salve to put on my nipples to keep my shirt from sanding them off entirely as I run. And no, I couldn't let it pass as just a parenthetical comment. Nipple chafe for runners is a fascinating topic to me. Never would I have imagined such a thing. Never would I have imagined so many people pursuing a hobby with nipple chafe as a side-effect. Never would I have thought of Googling images of runners' bloody nipples. And yet, here we are.

2) Old stressors temporarily muted are starting to rise in volume again, pushing my wife to make tough choices and to anguish over them. There are, still and again, no good solutions, and every option has unpleasant consequences. Which is partly why:

3) I'm also struggling on the elimination of alcohol from my weekly routine.

So there you go. I'm working hard, running and lifting weights and doing push ups and losing weight, but every weekend is one step back on my week's two steps forward. I'm succeeding and I'm failing, and I'm happy, and I'm sad, and I'm mad, and I'm guilty, and I'm proud, and that's pretty much how life goes.

I Didn't Expect That When I Woke Up This Morning

2011-02-08T13:46:00.003-06:00

I woke up this morning and canceled our Meals on Wheels run because Thumper was acting very sick yesterday afternoon. I couldn't get him a doctor's appointment until this morning, and when we went, the doctor said, no, he's not sick. He has allergies. She gave us free samples of Claritin, but confided that she's had better luck with Zyrtec. After seeing the Zyrtec prices at the drug store, I wish she'd had free samples of those. The Claritin must have worked some, though, because when we got home, Thumper said he wanted to go to the gym. It's nice having someone help me stay motivated by encouraging me to go.

I figured since I worked out yesterday and plan to work out tomorrow, I'd take it easy on myself, maybe give my knees a break and ride one of the recumbent bikes instead of running on the treadmill. But when I got there, I stepped up on the treadmill and thought, "I wonder if I can finish 10K without stopping?"

So I ran 10K non-stop today, for the first time since May! And I was only about a minute and a half behind my best time. I ran a faster second half than first half, and I burned about 1200 calories, earning 13 Activity Points. That's a pretty good day!

Now that I know that I can actually finish a 10K, I think I'm going to alternate between 5 and 10K runs. I'll work on speed on a 0.0 incline on the 10K's and work on increasing the incline on the 5K's.

My headphones shorted out on me halfway through today's run, though. I'm not sure if this was sweat-related damage, but I'll have to replace them, and soon. Who knows what I could have accomplished today if the right song had come along!

Because I Can, Mostly

2011-02-07T13:58:00.003-06:00

After a couple of weeks, my training and weight loss program is going well, except that I'm having a hard time staying motivated on the not drinking part. I haven't gone crazy and still managed to stay within my allowed Weight Watchers points each day, even when I do drink, though.

Which reminds me: it is kind of amazing the number of points that I'm allowed as a large male. On days when I don't drink, I've regularly had around 20 points left over at the end of the day, and I'm not starving myself. I'm just making good choices.

I've lost 7 pounds so far. I'm pushing myself on every workout, too, improving my 5K time every time I run, except for today, when I significantly increased the amount of time that I ran on an incline, so though I didn't go faster, I did work harder and burn more calories. Choosing the right music makes a big difference for me. Last Wednesday, I picked a play list that Aerie made and called "Cardio." I was running out of steam about halfway through, and at the perfect moment, Fatboy Slim's "Because We Can (Can Can)" came on and saved my workout.

Today, the Chemical Brothers got me through with "Horse Power."

Huzzah! Also, Boo!

2011-01-26T12:17:00.003-06:00

It wasn't as tough at the gym today as it was on Monday, and I was able to run continuously for a complete 5K. After Monday, I wasn't expecting to be able to do that for another couple of weeks, so that's exciting. I ran mostly on a flat incline, but I finished with a short sprint and felt good afterward. Also, I weighed in 2 pounds lighter than Monday, and despite what I said yesterday, I did not drink anything last night except water. I know it's only the middle of my third day, but so far I'm meeting all of my goals and exceeding my expectations.

Good enough.

Also, Jungle Java, our favorite indoor playground closed a couple of months ago. Thumper finally asked me today, "Can we go to the jungle place with the pretend animals on the walls?" When I told him it was closed down for good, he had a hard time understanding the concept.

"But we can go later."

"No, it's closed for always."

"But we can go to a different Jungle Java."

No, there aren't any other ones. That the was the only one."

I tried and tried to explain it, until at last he said, "I think Jungle Java is in jail."

Good enough.

He Already Knows That Forever Young Would Just Suck

2011-01-25T09:29:00.007-06:00

For Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa gave Thumper Modern Publishing's Treasury of Illustrated Classics, a box set of 16 children's versions of classic novels. His set has some different titles than this one on Amazon, including Black Beauty, Moby Dick, The Secret Garden, and Oliver Twist but you get the idea. He has been very interested in looking through the books one by one and asking us questions about the illustrations, but he has resisted actually reading them at bedtime. Last night, though, he decided he was ready.

I have to admit, I'm curious what a children's version of Moby Dick might be like. If they removed all of the bits about whale biology and the history of whaling through the mid 19th-century, it might be just the right length. But instead, what we started with was Peter Pan. I was excited to start his very first chapter book.

We read the first chapter, about the mother's perplexity over the presumably imaginary Peter Pan who manages to leave dried leaves and muddy footprints in the nursery while the Darling children are sleeping, even though the nursery is three stories up and he never uses the door. When we finished the first chapter, I told Thumper we could read more the next night, and he thought that was a good idea. We talked about the characters on the cover and in the couple of illustrations in the first chapter. When I told him that Peter Pan is always a little boy and never grows up into an adult, he furrowed his brow. I asked him if he'd like to be a little boy forever, and he said, "No!" in a tone of voice that clearly communicated that he thought that was the dumbest question I could ever have come up with. Why would anyone want to stay a kid?

I can understand why he feels that way. Being a kid has been tough lately. We're in a near-constant battle of wills these days, and most of the time he winds up on the losing end, though he puts up quite a fight. It's been a struggle for me, too, and I feel like most of my time is spent feeling either angry or guilty. I tell him to do something, and he ignores me. I tell him again and he ignores me. I say it louder, and he growls at me, hits me, throws something at me, or yells, "You keep saying it over and over!" And the next thing I know, we're both yelling at each other until finally he's wailing through a timeout in his room.

Today, though, when he refused to eat his lunch and then threw his spoon at me when I said he couldn't have dessert, I skipped all the yelling and carried him calmly to his room. He wailed, "Daddy! Daddy!" through a 3-minute timeout, and then I sat with him in his rocking chair and quietly explained that all of the yelling makes me feel bad, and I don't want to do it anymore. I'm the Daddy, and it's my job to keep him healthy and safe and teach him how to be polite. He's the kid, and it's his job to listen to me. From now on, he can choose to listen to me and we can keep playing and having fun and getting nice treats sometimes, like dessert, or he can choose not to listen to me and go straight to timeout, but we're not going to do the part where I tell him something, he ignores me, and we yell at each other anymore.

"But I don't like timeouts," he said.

"Then you should think about doing what I ask you to do. Does that sound like a good plan?"

"Yeah."

"I love you."

"Now can I have some dessert?"

I've heard that 4 is sweet. But it's only Tuesday, and 3 is already making me question my resolve not to drink.

Good News, Bad News

2011-01-24T13:08:00.001-06:00

Six weeks away from the gym, and wow, it was hard. It's amazing how quickly fitness fades when it's not used. The good news is that I went. Also, I've gained less than I guessed. The bad news is that I was only able run for 12 consecutive minutes before walking, and at a slower speed with a flatter incline. I also did some weight exercises on the machines, but at less weight than previously. But at least I went, and at least I discovered that I am able to do some weight training with my still-broken finger (I went back to the orthopedic specialist last week and had another x-ray, which still looks remarkably like the old x-ray: a scattered jigsaw puzzle. Occupational therapy is helping, but I still can't bend the it.).

Now to just keep on keepin' on!

Start Again

2011-01-23T15:03:00.004-06:00

I recall from my adolescence when my father and I watched British comedies on PBS each Sunday night that there was an episode of Monty Python in which the voice over would periodically throughout the episode say, "Start again..." and the title sequence would run again and the show would start afresh.

Yeah, my weight loss saga is kind of like that.

Tomorrow I will be returning to the gym after a 6 1/2-week absence. I've eaten whatever I wanted during that time and have no doubt I've gained 10 or more pounds in the interim. I ultimately want to take a look into the Paleo Diet and see if it's right for me. I heard about this diet from Le Trevolution! whose transformation since I first met him has been inspiring. I suspect some of my respiratory troubles may come from my diet, and I want to see if eliminating dairy and grains helps. I haven't done the work to become informed and plan ahead for that yet, though, so this week my goals are: exercise 3 or 4 days, count Weight Watchers points (on the old Flex plan, because who has the time or money to keep up with Weight Watchers constantly changing plans?), and not to drink on weekdays.

So I've put some numbers on the sidebar that I hope will help keep me motivated. Here's to 200 in 2012!

Happy Birthday to Me

2011-01-13T14:57:00.004-06:00

I am soon to be 39, and naturally that makes me think of 40. If it's to be ready in time, I should get started on the birthday present that I want to give myself for my 40th birthday: a me that's not overweight for the first time in about 20 years.

I've done this so many times in my life that I'm going to try not to set my goals too high. Mostly I want to return to some idea of reasonable in portion control, alcohol consumption, and exercise. The portion control part will be in the vein of Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers has been the most effective weight loss program I've ever tried, but it's tedious and joyless and I've never been able to keep up with it for very long. I'm going to try again, though, and if I can stick with it long enough, maybe I can establish a new pattern for myself.

I'm also going to try to eliminate alcohol, not from my life but just from my routine. It's a part of my routine, which doesn't make me proud, but it does make me fat and sometimes surly.

And exercise. I was doing well on the exercise portion of the program for quite awhile, losing weight when I ate right and maintaining weight when I didn't. Then I broke my finger, and got pneumonia, and Thumper got sick, and Thumper got sick again, and now I've been over a month out of the gym and have put on 10 pounds or so.

When I think about maybe finally being healthy when I turn 40, it's great to have the inspiration of Greg Moyle, who's following a Couch to 5K program, and Captain Carl, who's posting weigh-in pics and talking openly about his struggles. There's also Le Trevolution, the father of a smart, funny, and pretty darn cute little girl just a little older than Thumper. He's doing Crossfit and following the The Paleo Diet and looks amazing. I'm doing physical therapy for my finger at a facility that also offers Crossfit, and his name is all over the bulletin boards there that show off the weekly standings. I went to a Crossfit session with him in October, and though the puke bucket and the manly yelling weren't for me, it was a great reminder that a narrow focus in exercise, like running on a treadmill over and over, is a quick path to boredom and doesn't create the broad-based strength and endurance that helps one succeed at all sorts of physical activities, like keeping up with a three-year-old.

So, there you go. My mid-range goal will be to improve on my Warrior Dash performance in April, and my long-range goal is to weigh around 200 pounds by the time I turn 40. If my sidebar becomes a list of short-term goals, successes, and failures, you'll know why.

I Only Hope We Get Free Tickets

2011-01-09T16:09:00.010-06:00

A professional entertainer attempted some audience participation with Thumper and may have regretted the decision. His exact words to me were, "He's going to have his own show before long!"

We've gone to live children's music shows before, most notably the live summer shows at Symphony Square which I have mentioned here and here, and we've also gone to a couple of Sunday morning free kids' shows at Ruta Maya, including one by a very nice stay-at-home mom named Sarah Dinan who invited me to join her play group once upon a time, though that play group eventually turned me down. Thumper has enjoyed all of these shows except for the last one at Ruta Maya, known as Mr. Leebot, billed as Devo for kids. We walked in the door and Thumper declared it "too loud," saying that it "made his belly hurt." So we haven't been back to Ruta Maya since. Though he's enjoyed most of the shows, he's been suspicious of attempts to get him to dance, or to sing along, or clap in time.

But today we checked out ScottyRoo and Christini at the Cherrywood Coffeehouse. It was a very small, informal, intimate performance that seemed heavily ad-libbed. There were perhaps half a dozen families with kids from one to four years old. What I really enjoyed about the show, despite the really bad pre-schooler-targeted stand-up comedy and puppet bits between songs, was that it was the first time Thumper actually participated in audience-participation moments. When they asked if anyone were afraid of bees or bugs that bite or sting before "Baby Bumble Bee," he raised his hand. He sang along in a couple of places, he jumped in front of his chair during "Pet Kangaroo." The more he warmed to ScottyRoo, the chattier and more outgoing he got until he finally was standing in front of ScottyRoo's keyboard holding a full conversation, oblivious to the audience behind him. He told ScottyRoo his full name and age, he asked if ScottyRoo were afraid of dragons or triceratops and advised him he need not be afraid of baby triceratops because they come from eggs and are tiny. Some of the time, ScottyRoo had no idea what he was talking about, as when he asked if ScottyRoo liked Despicable Me, the movie we were going to see after the show. ScottyRoo said, "Spooky what? Is that a TV show? I probably wouldn't like it if it's spooky. I get scared easily."

ScottyRoo had been playing an extended musical interlude on his keyboard throughout this exchange then looked at me and said, "He's going to have his own show before long!" I took this as a cry for help. I wondered if maybe I should've intervened sooner, but I figured if ScottyRoo didn't want his show hijacked by a three-year-old, maybe he shouldn't engage them in conversation like that. It was time for us to leave to make it to our movie on time, so we exited stage right while ScottyRoo sang about his friend Thumper who likes dragons and triceratops.

I'm in Therapy...

2011-01-05T14:26:00.003-06:00

...and Thumper is just not happy about it. My broken finger is healing well, but when the orthopedic specialist held it and asked me to wiggle the tip and I couldn't generate so much as a twitch, she said, "You need to be in physical therapy. Now. Tomorrow."

I was unconvinced about the wisdom of beginning a plan of treatment that involved somebody forcibly bending my finger when the bone is still in pieces, but now that I've been to two PT sessions, I understand that the injury itself wasn't the biggest hurdle on my way to recovery; instead it's the tendons and ligaments that have tightened up during the three weeks that my fourth and fifth fingers were immobilized in a splint. Maybe y'all already knew this, but it's stunning to me. Three weeks without moving it, and it's as if it were an intricately detailed wooden carving of a finger.

I strain to bend it until the muscles in my forearm ache and the rest of my fingers are trembling from the effort, and nothing happens. I stare at it and try to bend it with my mind like a spoon in a magic trick, and it just sits there. I try to type because my physical therapist says that's an excellent exercise for it, and it hovers above the keyboard. If so short a period of immobility has turned my tendons into stone, how is it possible that anyone who has been bed-ridden for any length of time ever manages to get up and walk again?

I took Thumper with me on Monday morning, and he colored in his coloring book and chatted with several therapists and patients as they went through their exercises. To keep him from getting scared or upset, I tried hard not to show pain on my face or in my voice as my therapist forced my finger to bend. As she was working on my hand, I asked her about toe walking, something Thumper does when he's barefoot around the house. Our pediatrician has been concerned for as long as Thumper's been walking, but I've ignored his concerns because it was something he mostly did when he was nervous, like during doctor visits. Recently, it's seemed like he might be doing it more, so I brought it up with my physical therapist. She called over another therapist who works with children more, and he had a couple of suggestions, including putting swim fins on him at home to force him to heel strike when he walks. The more we talked about it, the darker the cloud over Thumper's head became and the less he had to say. Finally I asked him if he was mad, and he said, "Yes, because I don't want physical therapy!" None of what we talked about involved him getting PT, but he made the leap in his mind and decided getting PT was definitely a bad thing, even though I wasn't writhing in pain, nor was anyone else in the office that day.

So when I told him last night that we would be going to physical therapy again today (our second PT appointment), he said, "Are you going a million times? I'm going to do something fun with Mama when you go."

At 3 times per week, it's going to be a long four weeks...

A Blog Header Retrospective

2010-12-24T11:29:00.019-06:00

I've had a lot of fun over the years creating new blog headers in Photoshop. I haven't done a great job documenting where I found each of the Photoshop brushes that I've used, and I've barely documented the fonts at all. I'm sorry. If I used something of yours and didn't credit you, let me know. I take no credit for any of the brushes or fonts, only the photos of my kid and his toys.

JUNE 2008, By Beth of Be Design.

JULY 2008, I used Mythology Vol. I by Centric Studios, and Crack Brushes II by hawksmont, both found on brusheezy.com.

AUGUST 2008, ED01 brush set by KaliJean on PSBrushes.net

SEPTEMBER 2008, v. 1, Dumpster Brushes by Dubtastic Design Labs and Physiology Brushes by Centric Studios, both of which I found on Brusheezy.com. "Astigma" font by Mike Doughty at Mike's Sketchpad.

SEPTEMBER 2008, v. 2, A still from the video for Justin Roberts' "Willy Was a Whale."

SEPTEMBER 2008, v. 3, ED02 brush set by KaliJean on PSBrushes.net

SEPTEMBER 2008, v. 4, I'm sorry I can't attribute the photos better. I think I got them off of a stock photo site, but I can't remember. It was inspired by "White Winter Hymnal" by Fleet Foxes. Here is the blog post that references it.

OCTOBER 2008, Keren's Abstract Brushes Vol. 1, and her Flies as well

NOVEMBER 2008, I lost the attribution info on this one. I still have the zip file, and the brush is called 07_hires_tree_brushes.

DECEMBER 2008, I think this one cam from flina

JANUARY 2009, Cafeina brushes by: archnophobia; Robots and Wires brushes by: Dex Multimedia

APRIL 2009

JUNE 2009

JULY 2009

SEPTEMBER 2009, Frame Brushes by alteredteddybear

NOVEMBER 2009, Splatter Brushes by FlowGraphic.com

JANUARY 2010, Ultimate Brush Pack by axeraider70

MAY 2010, DJ Brushes from brushforphotoshop.com

NOVEMBER 2010

DECEMBER 2010, Street Soul font by Endie

A Name to Strike Fear in the Hearts of Evildoers

2010-12-20T21:59:00.005-06:00

On December 8, I broke my little finger. The urgent care clinic took three x-rays, taped my pinky to my ring finger, and advised me to see an orthopedic specialist the following week. On December 13, the orthopedic specialist repositioned the finger, splinted it, took 3 more x-rays in the process, and told me to come back in a week to verify that it hadn't moved. On December 19, I became convinced that I had pneumonia (again), and returned to the urgent care clinic, where they gave me two chest x-rays and confirmed my suspicions. Today, I returned to the orthopedic specialist, who took three more x-rays of my hand, was unsatisfied because of an obstructed view, and took two more.

So that's thirteen x-rays in twelve days. When I mutate into a superhero from all of the radiation, I shall call myself Iron Lung.

I'm not sure how this works. Does bronchitis left untreated become pneumonia? Would you Google that for me? Or are pneumonia and bronchitis separate and unrelated conditions? I suspected a couple of weeks ago that I might be developing either bronchitis or pneumonia. I had a little pain in the right side of my chest, but nothing terribly alarming. I remember telling my Primary Care Physician once that I had heard that untreated bronchitis will not resolve on its own, and he told me that wasn't true, that it may or may not. So I thought this time I'd wait and see what happens. I ran a couple of 5Ks in the meantime, which, I reasoned, I'd never be able to do with a serious respiratory condition. The pain improved, in retrospect largely because of the Vicodin I was taking for the broken finger, so I thought I was on the mend. When I stopped taking the Vicodin, the chest pain returned, along with an alarming spot of blood, prompting me to seek, at long last, medical attention.

The problem with having a wonky pair of lungs is, you never know when it's regular wonky or serious wonky. Even with pneumonia confirmed by chest x-rays, I don't feel that much different than I do on any given Monday evening.

I Give You: The Finger

2010-12-08T21:50:00.005-06:00

I broke the little finger on my left hand today, and I'm just giddy about it. It makes me inordinately happy. I know; it makes no sense. It's the second broken bone of my life. I have 2 older brothers who were both Emergency Room regulars, but it took me until I was in my 30's to break my first bone, and that was a tiny little bone in my right wrist that I broke falling down on my bike. This doubles my total count, which is a stupid, macho thing to be happy about, but I just am. There, I said it.

Also, I'm just kind of amazed at the low pain level, which is another stupid, macho thing to be proud of, but there it is. I was riding my scooter, chasing after the boy on his bike on the way back home from getting the mail. I hit a chasm in the sidewalk and watched myself fall in slow motion, almost sure I could recover right up until the moment my glasses went flying and I felt skin on my left hand and knee come off. I stood up, picked up the strewn envelopes, and noticed that the little finger on my left hand was pointing upward at an alarmingly unnatural angle.

I put my glasses back on and thought, "I dislocated my finger. I should straighten it out before it starts to hurt." So I pulled it out and down. It looked better, but was still pointing up and to the left a bit, so I tried again. It still wasn't straight, so I thought, "I should go see a doctor to straighten it out before I make it worse."

Thumper must have heard me fall. He turned back, and seeing me lying in the gutter, yelled, "Daddy!" I told him I was OK, but I had a boo boo. He asked me if I was going to see a dentist. I told him I'd go see a doctor. He said, "OK. We'll eat dinner first."

So we went home, and I called Aerie, who had been planning on working late but rushed home so that I could go to the doctor without bringing the boy along with me. Thumper asked me if my boo boo was all better; I said it was not. He suggested that Gummi worms might make it feel better.

I took 2 Naproxen and made the boy dinner while I waited for Aerie to get home. I began to believe it might be broken, since it appeared to bend at a spot that was not a joint. But it didn't hurt enough to be broken.

So I went to the Urgent Care clinic, and the receptionist filled out my paperwork for me since I'm left-handed. The doctor came in and said, "Let me guess: what did you punch?" I told him my story, and he told me the x-ray tech would be in to see me in a minute. I had 3 x-rays taken, which only hurt a little when the x-ray tech and his trainee wanted a shot from the side, with my hand resting on the injured finger. I asked the tech if it was broken, and he said, "Only the doctor can diagnose. Do you want to see it?" This is the shot I looked at:

Not seeing the straight line across the bone that I expected to see, I said, "Oh, I guess I just dislocated it after all." The tech said, "Only the doctor can diagnose; he'll be in in a minute."

I sat in the exam room for a few minutes until the doctor knocked and entered, declaring, "You broke the crap out of it!" He pointed at the x-ray and said, "It's a mess. You broke it here, and here, and here..." He wrapped it up to the 4th finger and gave me a Vicodin prescription "So you won't be cursing my name at midnight tonight" and told me to see an orthopedic hand specialist in a week or so.

Later, the x-ray tech walked me out to unlock the door since I'd stayed passed closing time. I said, "So you must've had a laugh when I said I'd only dislocated it." He said, "Yeah, I told the doctor what you said. We all thought it was pretty funny. I can't say anything, though."

So there you go. I busted my finger in multiple places, and it didn't really hurt much. I'm a man, baby! Yeah!

Warrior Dash

2010-11-21T21:32:00.016-06:00

I signed up for Longhorn Run last May to motivate myself to work out harder, thinking I had little chance of actually completing it, or at least completing it without walking some part of the course. I surprised myself by succeeding, and of course, I immediately stopped working out and lost most of my fitness and endurance.

So I signed up for Warrior Dash to motivate myself to work out harder. I seriously underestimated how tough it would be, though. I thought, "It's just a 5K; I've already done a 10K. How hard could it be?" and I didn't train nearly as hard for this one as I did for the Longhorn Run.

Here I am approaching the finish, trying to look like I still have some spring in my step, but I was seriously dragging:

The difference was the terrain and the obstacles. Somehow I'd convinced myself that there were only 3 or 4 obstacles, and that they were mostly for entertainment value, since the event seems largely about the silly costumes many participants wear and the beer and turkey legs to be had on the other side of the finish line. It turns out that some of those obstacles, like high-stepping through a field of tires and climbing a pyramid of hay bales and scaling cargo nets, were downright tough. There weren't any long hills, but there were lots of little ones, as well as some slick, steep creek beds to navigate.

I trained mostly by running on the treadmill, with some weights thrown in here and there and an occasional outdoor run. My running strategy has been to find a nice, steady, sustainable pace and focus on my breathing. On this course, though, with all of the up-and-down, and the broken ground, and the 11 obstacles interspersed throughout, I couldn't find my pace. I couldn't steady my breathing. I was winded all the way and did much more walking than I anticipated.

My oldest brother ran the course with me. He said that he's never been much of a runner, preferring biking and softball. When I talked about running a 35-minute 5K, he acted like I was nuts if I thought he was going to be able to keep up with a pace like that. But throughout the course, he was well ahead of me, and while he got winded here and there, I think most of the time he spent walking was for my benefit. Here he is waiting for me to finish the third-to-last obstacle:

In the end, I wasn't as proud of my performance (though at the time I'm writing this, official results have not yet been released) as I was after the Longhorn Run. But I feel more motivated moving forward than I did then. Both of my brothers, several friends, and Aerie are all talking about running another one in the Dallas area in April, and there is no doubt in my mind that I'm going to have to step up my training significantly over the next 5 months if I'm going to be proud of myself when I stagger up out of the mud the next time.

The other great thing about Warrior Dash was the after party. Thumper had a blast. He and his cousin danced their butts off and charmed all of the ladies within a 50-foot radius. They did the Cupid Shuffle:

And the Macarena:

And, uh, whatever this is:

And with everyone else showing off their bodies:

He just couldn't resist showing off a little himself:

I'm not sure what was up with the shoes, though:

Bro-Bonding

2010-11-21T00:44:00.003-06:00

I should be blogging about Warrior Dash, a 3.2-mile obstacle course I ran today with my oldest brother. My older brother was going to run with us, too, but at the time we registered, a huge uncertainty in his family's life prevented him from committing, and so, the uncertainty resolved, he was only able to stand at the finish line and cheer us on. It was a fabulous time, and I'll tell the thrilling tale soon, but what I wanted to say instead was that I'm glad for my family, and glad for brothers who enjoy each others' company, and good conversation, and periodically forging anew those old connections that we take for granted and getting to know anew people we think we know, though it's been so long since we've seen or really talked to them. I love my family, despite and because of all its foibles. I'm getting all sentimental and sappy, so I'm going to sing some Tim Michin. I know, I already posted this song; I just really like it. And it says something about family that I really want to be true for Thumper, no matter how nutty his relatives may be:

"And you, my baby girl,
My jet-lagged infant daughter,
You'll be handed 'round the room
Like a puppy at a primary school,
And you won't understand,
But you will learn some day
That wherever you are and whatever you face
These are the people
Who'll make you feel safe in this world,
My sweet blue-eyed girl.

And if, my baby girl,
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around,
And you find yourself 9000 miles from home,
You’ll know whatever comes,
Your brothers and sisters and me and your mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun.
Whenever you come,
Your brothers and sisters,
Your aunts and your uncles,
Your grandparents, cousins,
And me and your mum.
Will be waiting for you in the sun,
Drinking white wine in the sun."

Why I Have a Stop Sign in My Car

2010-11-16T13:01:00.002-06:00

"I was a little mad because you took the water away."

"Yeah, I was a little mad, too, because you kept spitting the water out."

"Yeah."

"I keep telling you not to spit the water out, but you keep doing it. Do you have any ideas on how I can get you to stop?"

"Yeah. You should have a stop sign in the car. Then you could show it and say, 'Stop!' when I spit the water out."

"And then you'd stop?"

"Yeah."

"That's a good idea. Should we make a stop sign when we get home?"

"Yeah."

"OK."

Mostly Unstructured

2010-11-14T22:13:00.008-06:00

What I really should be blogging about is the thing that's on my mind most, which is all of the guilt and frustration I've been going through lately and the sneaking suspicion that I'm not that good at this job and it's a pretty good thing that we've only got one kid or I might end up either divorced or in jail.

But gah, who has the energy for that kind of self-loathing on a Sunday night?

So the other thing I've been thinking about is structure. Since the boy was a wee lad of less than two years, we've occasionally attempted library story time. The first one we went to was a moderate success, until I realized that it was intended for kids under 1, and he was stomping around among the crawlers like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. He enjoyed himself and participated in the activities, but, despite another dad's reassurance that the age ranges listed for the several story times were merely suggestions, I felt socially awkward and we didn't return to that age group's story time again.

Instead, we tried his own age group's story time, and it was, each and every time, a complete failure. He refused to participate. When everyone stood to sing and gesture and pantomime along to the songs ("down came the rain and washed the spider out!") he would sit in my lap, sucking his thumb and eying everyone else suspiciously. When everyone else sat still while Ms. Jane read, he would stand up and wander and talk to me as loudly as a teenager with headphones on ("I WANT MY SNACK, DADDY!"). The more we went, the shorter his attention span was ("I WANT TO GO PLAY PUZZLES, DADDY!")

So we kind of gave up on structured group participation activities for awhile, until we decided to try a gymnastics class at the YMCA. It was titled something completely non-descriptive, like "Buddy and Me" or something like that, and I signed up thinking it would be a mild introduction to structured group activities, with instructors at least suggesting specific activities for the various pieces of equipment.

Instead, it was 45 minutes a week of free play time in the gymnastics room, with no instructor participation except reminding us that the "TumblTrak" was a one-way street and the high balance beams were off-limits. Otherwise, it was Daddy and Thumper playing, much like we do any other day, except on gymnastics equipment instead of playground equipment. It was fun, but by week six, he was more interested in exploring the thermostat and electrical outlets than he was in playing on the equipment again.

In the meantime, my mother and several of the members of the moms' groups expressed the opinion that a Mother's Day Out program was an essential step in his preparation for a classroom setting someday. I felt like paying someone to watch him while I did something else was sort of like cheating, and pretty much what we'd tried to avoid by having me stay home with him full-time in the first place, but I also didn't want to deny him an advantage that would ultimately help him get ready for school. So I priced the YMCA's Mother's Day Out program, was a little shocked, and immediately tabled the idea for reconsideration at a later date.

So time went on, he turned three, he was potty-trained and eligible for the next level of YMCA classes, and I signed up for gymnastics again. This one was "Intro to Tumbling" or "Toddler Tumbling" or something like that, and definitely had instructors and group activities, and the whole thing. I was certain it would be a complete disaster.

And it wasn't! At his first class, every other kid sat in a circle listening to the teacher and participating in a toddler stretching routine ("Pretend your hands are a butterfly. Now land your butterfly on your toes; now fly your butterfly way up in the sky!"), Thumper ran 'round and 'round the outside of the circle. The teacher suggested he sit down and join them; he just kept right on running.

But after a few minutes, he did sit down. He did participate. He followed instructions. He joined in the group activities. I was stunned. I was proud. And I realized: one of the keys to his success in group activities is peer pressure. With other kids staring at him like he's a nut, he starts to reel in his behavior a bit. The other key: I was not allowed in the room with him. On the last of the six weekly classes, the instructors declared that it was "Parents' Day" and we were allowed to sit in the room, and lo and behold, it was utter chaos. Not only my kid, but almost every other kid in the room, went nuts. If I'd been able to watch Library Story Time through a window, he probably would have been just fine.

So the kid who wouldn't participate in group activities was finally participating. The kid who wouldn't jump off of anything more than an inch high if he weren't holding my hands was suddenly jumping and tumbling and rolling and balancing and hanging and swinging. When the six-week program was over, I asked him if he wanted to sign up again, and he said no. The only other class for his age group was "Tap Dance and Ballet," and when I asked him if he wanted to do that, he said, "No, that's just for girls." I'm not sure where the kid who loves to dance and who has the dad in the alternative gender role gets the idea that something is "just for girls," but there you go. Cultural inculcation starts early, I guess.

With structure a success, but with no structure on the near horizon, I thought again about pre-school. Aerie took Thumper to a "Fall Fest" with pony rides that turned out to be a marketing ploy by a local pre-school. She gave them my phone number on Saturday, and by 9 a.m. on Monday, the owner called me. I had no doubt it would be more expensive than the Y, but I also figured with that kind of response time, he was probably not going to leave me alone, so I took him up on his offer for a tour that afternoon.

It was impressive. The teachers seemed patient and kind, and the owner was too. Thumper started out clinging to me like a baby chimp. I wasn't sure why he was so anxious, but after awhile, when he said, "You said school when I'm five!" it became clear that when I told him we were going to "tour a school," he thought I was going to take him there and leave him. The owner captured his interest with a collection of Melissa & Doug puzzles and then let him wander into each of the different classrooms while we watched and talked in the hall. By the end, Thumper didn't want to leave.

It was state-of-the-art, with a security system that uses two keypads and a thumbprint scanner. When he pointed out some kind of interactive touch-screen wall projector and proudly declared that "we're the only school in the state of Texas that has one," I was even more certain the program would be out of our price range. And I was right. It was twice the cost of the YMCA Mother's Day Out.

So there you go: a whole bunch of words to say, "We tried structure, we liked it, and we're not doing it anymore."

The End.

Now I Should Teach Him to Slide Across the Hood Before Getting in His Carseat

2010-11-09T08:36:00.002-06:00

I'm going to write more about our experiments in structured activities, but I have a deadline to meet tonight first. Gymnastics was a success, though. The kid who wouldn't jump off the side of the pool without holding my hands is now doing leaping rolls off the couch.

Blog

2010-11-02T21:29:00.005-05:00

One post in nearly three months, and I'm wondering if I'm still a blogger. When I think about blogging, I don't have much more to say than what I've already said, except for anecdotes about Thumper that I've already put on Facebook in abbreviated form. When I think I might have something to say, I put it off because I have copy writing deadlines, or database deadlines, or I'm just tired and would rather stare at ridiculous episodes of Black Adder on Netflix for Wii.

Part of it is that I think the novelty and excitement I felt at becoming a parent and at being a stay-at-home dad has worn off. It's not that novel anymore. I have a routine; I feel more confident than I used to. I have friends; Thumper has friends; things are progressing, and there's not that much new. I'm used to being a SAHD; I'm used to being an usher; I'm used to being a copywriter. Telling stories about each of those things seems a little redundant now. The biggest challenge I have now, the one that occupies my mind most and is most ripe for exploration via blog post is my struggle dealing with the aggravation that comes from living with a three-year-old who constantly pushes the boundaries, constantly tests my patience, constantly challenges me not to yell. But writing about my regular failures to meet those challenges isn't exactly inspiring.

But one of the moms from one of my playgroups invited me to follow her blog, one of the moms that I admire because of her energy and positive attitude, despite the fact that she has 3X the kids (plus 2 dogs, a cat, and a snake) and a much fuller schedule than I do. It's one of the things I appreciate about my 3 different play groups: they surround me with parents who seem to be better at it than I am, inspiring me to try to be better at it myself. They're involved; they do crafts; and they don't yell (at least when I'm around). And reading her blog, I remembered that part of blogging is reminding myself of the good things, articulating the things that I love in fuller detail than a picture and a few words on Facebook allows.

Halloween and the 3 days preceding it were a blast, by the way. And did I mention, we ran into Kat Nash at Which Wich?

So, I don't know. I guess I'm still a blogger. But, gah, who has the time? I'm going to go play Bejeweled Blitz now...

Stuff and Things

2010-09-08T21:59:00.004-05:00

Wow, it's been a month since I posted, and I left a vague reference to a curse word up as my lead title all this time. For shame.

Things are tough over here, but not absolutely horrible. I've not been to the gym, until today, for nearly a month. I've also been eating crap and drinking excessively. Coincidentally, I've gained 10 pounds. Yay!

Speaking of going to the gym today, it was almost an hour and a half excursion. I began to feel like Odysseus attempting to return home. The surprising rainfall amounts from (I think; I'm too lazy to look it up and confirm) Tropical Storm Hermine as she moved up from the Gulf of Mexico and across Central Texas flooded several roads, leaving our local YMCA completely inaccessible. We approached from one direction; the road was blocked. We took the long way 'round to approach it from the other direction; the road was blocked. So we chucked it in and went to the other not-so-local Y. I hope the building didn't get flooded; the boy starts a gymnastics class there next week.

A month off, and by the way, I could barely run for 10 minutes, let alone a full hour. I best get my act together if I'm going to run in Warrior Dash in November.

So yeah, I'm a fat lazy bastard. I'm way behind on a copywriting project. Like waaaayyyyyy behind. My wife is working most of the time and still under coal-to-diamond pressure to solve unsolvable problems for her family, with the people she's trying to help not always being so nice to her. I'm hosting play dates here tomorrow and Friday, and I haven't finished cleaning my house.

Hmm. What else? Oh yeah, I got peed on by one cat shoving him into a cat carrier this morning and scratched by the other. One has a chronic UTI problem that's getting beyond old and more than expensive. The other is apparently allergic to his own teeth and has a rare viral infection that gives him the permanent runs. I spent $375 to maybe, or maybe not, find solutions to these problems. I think I'll do the Happy Happy Joy Joy dance.

Oh yeah, and then, what with my wife working 14-hour days and burning out her brain cells and feeling guilty about it, and then burning out her brain cells again the next day and feeling guilty about it, we decided to just go ahead and close the door on the second child thing and cut out the stress of the whole "Now? Later? How much later, 'cause we ain't getting younger? Can we afford it? How much bodily damage will a second pregnancy do?" conundrum. Hasn't seemed to reduce the stress much, but it has managed to make me pretty sad. Maybe adoption? Probably not. Doesn't feel like the right thing to me. But little babies sure is cute...

And so then bitching about it makes me feel like I should say: I know we're blessed. The boy is a marvel, a wonder, a joy. He held court at the vet's office today, cracking up staff and customers alike. But also: even that, I mean, Lord, he just. Never. Stops. Talking. I can't think straight talking to the vet about this med for that cat, and that med for that cat, and how often and how much because he's chattering non-stop and asking questions peppered with "Why?" every 10 or so words and climbing on the stool when I told him not to because he'll tip it over and hurt himself and then he almost tips it over and I can just see the chipped teeth and split chin and I snap at him and the vet looks all uncomfortable and I'm feeling guilty again.

Wait, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Blessed. Wonderful. Lucky. And we are. But man. So much for not complaining.

OMFG

2010-08-10T22:02:00.004-05:00

I thought I didn't want to let this space become a place where I complain about my life, but I just don't know how to process all of this. I thought, when we got married, the "I'll always love you, no matter what" part would get us through anything, and I guess it has, and it will, but it isn't making it easier. There is no one I can talk to about all of the stress that we, our little family unit, is under right now, and I should be worried about who will see this and what I'll do if the wrong people see it and take it badly, but...

FFFUUU...!!!

No, that didn't really help.

And the Rage Thread, by the way, is a meme I wouldn't know anything about if my hip, just-graduated-from-high-school nephew didn't reference it on Facebook all the time. Tip o' the hat to ya, Penguin Man.

What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. At the exact moment that the pressure exerted on my wife in her professional life is increasing, for a variety of reasons, and the staff that she has available to her to help her deal with that pressure is decreasing, for a variety of reasons, the demands placed upon her by her extended family are also increasing. She is the go-to chick when it comes to getting problems solved, only this time, the problems are starting to look pretty damn near unsolvable. Yet solve them she must, while navigating the minefield of family history and catering to the particular needs and sensitivities of each individual party, and especially one particularly needy and sensitive party, all while still working 12 hours a day and not letting her son, or her husband, feel the burden of her stress or her absence.

And I'm supposed to help her. What I want to do to help her is to unleash the venom of 18 years of suppressed anger on certain parties, and especially one party in particular, but I know that it wouldn't really help, and I know that Aerie would definitely not appreciate it, so I keep on suppressing it. Come to think of it, she probably isn't going to appreciate this post, either, but...

FFFUUU...!!!

She's had enough. More than enough. And I've had enough. And more keeps coming, with no end in sight.

Three

2010-08-07T22:25:00.003-05:00

Friends and family gathered today to celebrate Thumper's third birthday. It's wonderful to have so many people who will come to our home and participate in these moments with us, and to see conversations bloom and mutate and migrate from room to room. To watch kids and cousins playing together. To see how things have changed and how things have stayed the same.

While he's not quite up to J-H's level, here's Thumper thoroughly enjoying his new guitar and improvising a couple of songs for your listening pleasure:

Struggling, in a Strictly First World Sort of Way

2010-07-26T21:23:00.004-05:00

My blog output has been hampered of late partly due to my reluctance to use this space to complain about my pretty-all-right life. I mean, we're not suffering through starvation or disease. Our neighborhood is not torn apart by warfare or even criminal activity. We're all doing very well, relatively speaking. But still, I feel like I'm struggling, and I haven't wanted to say so. I asked for this job, this stay-at-home dad job, and I got it, and it's made me very happy, so complaining about the difficulties seems, well, a little whiny.

But.

I'm having a hard time here. I yell at my kid daily. My levels of frustration, irritation, annoyance, and outright anger often catch me by surprise and fill me with guilt. I think I want another child, but I'm frequently pretty sure I can barely handle the child I have, so another one might just unravel me completely.

Aerie and I like to point out which of Thumper's phrases, sayings, and gestures originate with whom. "Oopsie, doodle bugs" is definitely hers. "You're getting on my nerves," unfortunately, is definitely mine. I try to obviate my frustration by blogging and Facebooking all of the fun things, the adorable moments and interactions, and to remember to see him as other people do, as a smart, charming, sociable kid who's pretty much funny as hell.

Today, for instance, when we were leaving the YMCA, a staff member I'd never seen before, without so much as a glance at me, gave Thumper high five and said, "See you later, Rock Star!" People love this kid. He's a charmer. Often, his charm is lost on me, though.

And don't get me started on the whole potty training saga. It's mostly going pretty well, but good God, it's exhausting. How can I be so full of pride when he craps on the toilet and so mortified when he pees on the floor at the mall, all in the same day?

And I'm sure my struggles are all perfectly normal. Thumper's darn-near three and is supposed to be pushing and testing every limit that's set for him. He screams; he flops; he throws things and hits people, mostly me. I nag him all day long: "Don't touch that. Don't put that in your mouth. Be nice. Don't hit. Don't throw that. Ask nicely. Stop kicking me. Say thank you. Sit up and eat your lunch, please. Sit up. Sit up. One more bite. Get in your seat, please. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on! Come on! Come here right now!"

When I tell him over and over again to leave the back door alone and don't slam it, and then he slams his finger it, and then does it again the next day, when he cries I practically yell "I told you so!" at him. I just don't feel like I'm being the kind, patient, and loving father that I should be, especially since this is exactly what I signed up for.

More Awkwardness

2010-07-09T19:57:00.004-05:00

I'm not sure how to write about this now. I think I've been looking at things from the wrong direction. I've thought of play groups as something good for Thumper, something that helps him learn how to interact with other people, and maybe get some potty training motivation from seeing other kids pause the action while they go pee. I have also thought of it as something good for me, as ideas for destinations and activities when I run out, as pleasant conversation. I had several expectations for the dads' group when I first joined, with almost none of them actually approaching reality. I thought I would find ideas for ways to supplement Aerie's income; I did not. I thought I would find conversations and message board posts about approaches to solving difficulties I was having. But dads don't talk much. They sit in companionable silence. They talk about possible solutions to inexplicable noises coming from rear brake drums. And fishing. And sports. And they tell dirty jokes.

Don't get me wrong; there are a few great guys in the dads group whose company I enjoy and whose parenting I admire. I've had pleasant times and even great times over the past few years. But I haven't made fast friends, and I haven't found the regular, core group of kids that Thumper can play with again and again, learning how to navigate personality conflicts when everyone's not on their best behavior because they've just met. One obstacle is the large size of the group and the large size of the geographical area over which they're spread. The bigger obstacle is the apathy the dads have towards getting their kids together to play.

So I joined the couple of moms' groups thinking I'd have better luck finding friends for Thumper, but not really expecting to find friends for me. I have never minded being the only man on the playground. Moms have always been surprisingly friendly and accepting of me, especially with Thumper's outgoing nature. But I didn't anticipate, when I joined the moms' groups, the frequency of the in-home play date versus the playground/pool/sprinkler park play date. I tried twice to host in-home play dates for the dads' group. When Thumper was almost 6 months old, I hosted. I was apparently a little nervous. It went well, but it didn't turn into a relationship, either for me or for Thumper, and it would be another 2 years before I hosted another. Again, it attracted only one dad and one kid. The kids had fun; I had fun. But I haven't seen the dad, or the kid, since, at playgrounds or elsewhere.

Since joining the two moms' groups, though, we've been to 3 in-home play dates, a birthday party, and a baby shower, on top of many playground, pool, and sprinkler park dates. That's five times in a couple of months that we've gone to other people's homes, along with sometimes large and sometimes small groups of other kids and parents. Thumper loves these play date so much that he has not yet managed to leave one without having a screaming, hysterical fit. It is a cruel injustice that so much fun ever has to end.

For me, though, the in-home play dates add another layer of social awkwardness. Not just with the unselfconscious breastfeeding, but with all sorts of aspects that don't generally come up at the playground. I want to make sure my kid doesn't make a mess and shares and has good manners and covers when he coughs and doesn't club any babies or big-screen TVs with a baseball bat, lest my male parenting style be judged inferior. I want to make sure I participate in food prep or cleanup to the degree that's appropriate, not too much to be overbearing or annoying but not too little, either.

And conversation, especially at the baby shower, just takes turns that seem to leave me behind. When one mom asks the showeree how much weight she's gained, and the showeree says, "Oh sure, bring that up in front of everybody..." I feel like maybe I'm overhearing something I shouldn't, or that I'm the particular everybody it shouldn't have been brought up in front of. When birth stories were shared, with so many hours spent to reach so many centimeters dilation, I just never felt the natural opening in the conversation to talk about Thumper's birth, and transverse breach and c-section. It felt like I'd be intruding.

And then Bingo was played, and I was invited, and I played. I misheard the prize, though, thinking that the winner would watch the showeree's 3 1/2-year-old some day soon so that she could go out and watch the latest Twilight movie in peace by herself before the baby comes. I won at Bingo, tying with another of the moms, and it was explained that the prize was two other moms watching the showeree's and the winners' kids so that we could all go enjoy Edward and Jacob together. It suddenly seemed too much like a date to me, and I mumbled something about what I thought the prize was and wandered away. At the end of the shower, one of the moms who'd offered to do the kid watching reminded the other winner of Bingo that she was obligated to go see the movie whenever the showeree wanted, but she never looked my way, and I felt kind of stupid. And kind of relieved.

And when people began to leave, and the showeree was hugged, I filled one arm with my big bowl of fruit salad and the other with my big toddler so that I wouldn't wonder if I was supposed to hug too, or not. But still, it seemed like the hug could've happened, if I'd tried, but I didn't, and I wondered if she felt snubbed, or felt like I was oddly reserved, or if the hug, if I'd attempted it, would've been even more awkward, especially since I'd filled my arms with cargo.

And then, when I got home, I saw a Facebook Status Update that made it clear that one of the breastfeeding moms had found my blog, and I remembered that, though I'd originally intended to keep my blog anonymous and separate from my Facebook, I'd had second thoughts. I couldn't recall if I'd actually added irodius.com as my webpage in my Facebook info, or if I'd just thought about adding it. Turns out I had actually added it. And my imaginary online life collided with my real life.

It didn't sound like she was offended, though maybe her husband was. Hard to tell. But what struck me from what she said about the whole thing was: I am probably making up all of this awkwardness all by myself. If I feel like I'm standing on the outside, unincluded, it's probably because I'm standing on the outside, not participating. I have been very careful not to offend, not to overstep my bounds, whatever those bounds might be to whoever might be keeping score. And who knows how my own reserve is interpreted by these perfectly nice people who've invited me into their homes.

I wonder how old I'll be when I finally stop acting like that awkward teenage boy who was pretty sure that everyone else was working with a script he never got?

It Doesn't Really Feel Like Emasculation, But It Is Kind of Odd

2010-07-08T21:45:00.004-05:00

I'm spending part of my evening tonight making a big bowl of fruit salad to take to the first of two baby showers that I'll be attending over the next three days. I haven't been to a baby shower ever in 38 years, but after joining two moms' play groups, BAM! Two in a row. For the first, the entire play group was invited, and I thought, "Oh, they don't really mean me. That would just be awkward." But then I was explicitly, specifically invited and encouraged to attend.

I even tossed the apple chunks in lemon juice to prevent browning.

I guess the second shower doesn't really count, because it's for BFF and his girlfriend, and it's being billed more as a celebration than a shower, with gifts not necessary, but still. It's a shower. My second in three days.

There are clear differences in how the moms' groups and the dads' groups operate. For instance, the moms show up in numbers, and the dads show up in ones or twos. The moms host play dates in their homes, and the dads stick to the playgrounds. The dads venture all over two counties, and the moms return to the neighborhood playgrounds again and again.

The biggest difference, though, and perhaps the most disconcerting? In a couple of years of dads' group play dates, breastfeeding has never come up. Not once has a bare breast suddenly appeared in the middle of a conversation. With the moms, it's happening with somewhat alarming frequency. I like to think of myself as a hip, modern man with no philosophical objections to breastfeeding in public, and I like to believe that there's nothing erotic about the use of the breast for the sustenance of children, but somehow, when I'm having a pleasant conversation with a woman and she suddenly pulls her top down, it's a little distracting. I think I'm playing it off okay, but it sends my brain into a little bit of a spin. Should I just not look at her, pretend to be fascinated by what Thumper's doing over there on the other side of the room, even though she's still talking, and talking to me? If I don't look, does that make it even more obvious that I'm discombobulated? Can I continue to ignore that one voice in the back of my head that's yelling, "It's a boob! It's bare! Look at it!" and still hold eye contact?

And am I glad, or maybe just a little bummed out, that I'm so non-threatening that these moms seem to give not a second thought to whipping it out in front of me?

Wow, That Was Two Years Ago?

2010-07-07T21:17:00.003-05:00

I was thinking my whole Self-Improvement Project Thingy was last year, and I was thinking it was time to do an update about how I've done. Turns out it was two years ago, and last year I already did a progress report. I must be getting old, because the time, it is a-flyin'.

So anyway. As of today, I'm at 243 pounds, which is 19 pounds less than this time last year. As I mentioned last year, virtually all of that progress was while sticking to the tenets of Weight Watchers, but I friggin' hate sticking to the tenets of Weight Watchers. It's tedious, and takes all of the joy out of every single meal you'll ever eat for the rest of your life. I was, at my best, down to 232 pounds, but, well, I gained some back. I'm not too down on myself right now, because I think I may be about the best I've been as far as health and strength and endurance, physically. I mean, this is the year that I ran a 10K, and I'm pretty proud of that. I may never be my ideal weight, but I'm still exercising, and that's a good thing. My downfall is caloric intake. I like to eat, and I like to drink. I haven't smoked cigarettes in 4 years now, and it's been even longer since I might possibly have consumed whatever illicit drugs that I may or may not have done at some unspecified point in my life. My greatest vices are eating and drinking, and while I know that needs to change, right now I'm kind of OK with it.

So if I have goals for change for the next year or so, they would mostly be gaining control of my emotional reactions to Thumper and his more or less constant testing of his limits and mine. I'm not always the calm and reasonable parent I'd like to be. I may never be, but I need to work harder at not losing my shit on a nearly daily basis. He's pretty damn cute, but he's also a test of my patience and kindness and selflessness, and I fail that test far more often than I'd care to admit.

So, as DJ Lance and the Yo Gabba Gabba gang tell us, keep trying. Don't give up; never give up.

From Drought to Flood

2010-06-25T14:36:00.005-05:00

So now I belong to three playgroups, and my calendar is full. Thumper and I go to play dates and there are people there whose names I know! And whose kids' names I know! I can entice him to go out the door with me sans screaming fit by telling him, "[Insert name of older kid he admires] will be there!"

And dangit, wouldn't you know, my dads' group, who show up to nearly nothing and communicate almost not at all, like they're a bunch of do-it-yourself loner males or something, suddenly planned an outing! A spontaneous outing that sounded like a lot of fun! This morning, they went to McKinney Falls State Park to fish and swim and hike and grill and bike and play horseshoes and throw footballs and have all manner of excellent outdoor fun. The old guard dads were even going to show up in numbers, the ones who were the original members and haven't come to anything since their kids entered school.

I was kind of baffled by this. Last week, Thumper and I suggested a morning swimming in the lake, followed by a picnic lunch. One other dad wanted to come; the idea was met by deafening silence by everyone else. So we went, and we had a great time. The other dad brought his canoe. His little girl is just a month older than Thumper, and the four of us had a fabulous time.

So why do I find it annoying that the dads' group finally planned an outing, and a spectacular one at that? Because I'd already RSVP'd to the first play date of the brand new playgroup, the third to which I now belong. I didn't want to make a bad impression and back out. And it was fun. We went to the sprinkler park. Thumper has gotten over his fear of lifeguards, and has been having a blast at the pools the last few weeks. And he even got wet at the sprinkler park today. He didn't get upset when he got sprayed or splashed by other kids, either. It's a great relief to know we won't be the only two idiots frying on the untouchably hot playgrounds this summer while everybody else keeps cool in the pool.

So we did the same-old, same-old while the dads all had grand fun without us. Stupid dads' group...

Belated

2010-06-17T23:31:00.003-05:00

Once again, I forgot to acknowledge my blog's birthday this year (May 11). I've spent my free time the past couple of days reading through my 2007 posts, which is a remarkably narcissistic way to spend one's time, but still enlightening. I remembered many of those posts, but hadn't realized how early and close together they'd appeared. I wrote with much verbosity and frequency when I was still working full-time, spending 9 hours in front of a computer and doing surprisingly little work.

I'm also posting less because, well, I've said already, and repeatedly, much of what I'm thinking about these days. A graph of the number of posts per month over the last three years looks sort of like the EKG of a dying patient. I've mentioned that "He makes me laugh all the time, and he makes me frustrated all the time, and I'm not sure why I didn't know it would be like this," and that's pretty much my theme these days. I even start to bore myself when I talk about how wonderful Thumper is, and I'm not really interested in turning this blog into a place where I complain about the difficulties and frustrations that are a built-in part of raising a kid. And since I do this kid wranglin' thing full time, that doesn't leave me with much more to talk about.

What else was different then? I was funnier. I was livelier. I was a better performer. I think I had a voice then that I've lost. I had a more exuberant attitude about a world that I was discovering, and now I'm in a rut that doesn't inspire me as much as all those heady changes did back then. Plus, More Than a Minivan Mom and I had a falling out. She had and has a large following that bled over onto my blog when she added me to her blogroll. When we had a falling out that led to her removal from my blogroll and my removal from hers, it resulted in the loss of many readers and many commenters over here, though I suspect it had no effect on her readership over there. So sometimes I feel like I'm writing to my family and not many more than that, which still has value, but doesn't give me that intoxicating feeling of being an internet superstar.

Anyway. Those were crazy times. These are crazy times. The end.

Yes, We Read the Grinch, Too, Even Though It's June

2010-06-14T21:22:00.006-05:00

This week, in addition to trying to control my calorie intake and workout every day and just generally try to be a better person, I'm trying to remember that despite the ear infections and Terrible Twos and tantrums and the retorts of "no, I'm just tryin' to do this" when I tell him to stop doing something and the several thousand times a day that I say, "Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on." and the throwing of toys and the bashing of various household objects with his officially licensed Texas Longhorns baseball bat, that doing this job really is fun and exactly what I wanted for my life.

Wow, that was a really long sentence.

Tonight, as I was reading him his bedtime books, I thought about what a strange and wonderful experience it is watching him turn into a real person. Anyone who sees my Facebook status updates knows I talk about him a lot, and post ad nauseum all the funny things he says and does as we go about our daily routine. He gets a lot of attention wherever we go. Just as a fer instance, we went jogging Saturday morning, and as we passed the tennis courts, he pointed and yelled, "I want to watch tennis!" So we paused and sat on the little bleachers with a couple of moms who were watching their kids receive tennis lessons. He had an entire conversation with one of the moms, completely independent of me, asking her name, pointing out what a funny name "Dixie" is, telling her his name and age, discussing the hummingbird on her shirt and what exactly a hummingbird is, telling her about his recent haircut and the birthday party he'd be going to later. She told him he didn't get a hair cut, he got 'em all cut, then snorted out a laugh and apologetically told me her humor was about at a two-year-old level. He told her Daddy cut his hair, and she said she bet I'd done it with clippers rather than scissors because that was a lot of ground to cover over his big ol' brain.

When the tennis lesson was over, and Thumper ran out onto the court to help the kids pick up balls and rackets, The mom asked me if he was really two, which we get a lot. She repeatedly marveled at how smart he was and how well he spoke, which we also get a lot. As often as I report encounters like this, and how often I'm reminded of how special he is and how lucky we are, it's still easy to forget and get bogged down in the challenges, the less pleasant aspects of taking care of him day after day.

So that's what I was thinking about while I read him his books. Because I've read all of those books so many times, I began changing We're Going on a Bear Hunt up a bit to amuse myself. I sang the first two sentences; he turned and gave me the Upraised Finger of Discipline, that I apparently use on him, though I'm not aware when I do it, and said, calmly, "No, you don't sing it. You just read it." I began reading from where I left off, and he said, "No, you missed some words." So I started over. Then I began changing some of the words. I turned the thick, oozy mud into thin, squeaky mud. I turned the whirling, swirling snowstorm into stinking, creeping smog cloud. At each point that I wandered from the printed text, he patiently brought me back, explaining that it wasn't woods, it was a forest, it wasn't a squeaky, wooden door, it was a narrow, gloomy cave.

And my heart grew three sizes that day, swelling with love for this remarkable, adorable, maddening kid who knows much more than he should, and who is, after all, only two, and is exactly where he should be, doing what he should be doing, just as I am.

Comfortable in my Manhood, Except at a Shower

2010-06-13T15:43:00.005-05:00

Now that I'm cheating on my dads' group with a neighborhood playgroup that's comprised almost entirely of moms (excepting one other dad that I haven't yet met because he hasn't showed up to anything), it's becoming apparent that gender is not quite as inconsequential as I might have thought. Being the self-confident and progressive male that I am, and having often been the only dad on the playground these past nearly-three years, I thought joining a moms' group would be no big deal. And mostly it is, but now and again it does make for some awkward moments.

I finally got a reply from the first moms' group I tried to join, one that actually has the word "Moms" in its name. Six weeks or so after I requested membership at the suggestion of a couple of the group's members, one of the administrators of the group replied at last and said, "no, thanks, sorry, but we decided a long time ago that we would be moms-only so that none of our members would be made uncomfortable by the presence of men, but best of luck to you and if you'd like tips on starting your own group, I'm happy to help." By then I'd already joined the small, local playgroup, so I felt only mildly annoyed by this reply and its long time in coming.

The local group is small, with a core of regular attendees whose company and children I quite like. I've had fun chatting with them while forcing Thumper to share and be nice and not hit and not throw playground gravel. For the most part, they are friendly and inclusive. We've been invited to three birthday parties already. But there are two moms that seem particularly reserved around me, despite Thumper's apparently-not-irresistible charms. Maybe they're just slow to warm to new people. Maybe it's not personal. Maybe it's not gender-related. But somehow I get the feeling that it is. I don't know. They seem more formal, more guarded, than they are with the other moms. That is, "with the moms;" not "with the other moms."

Also, I find there are conversational turns that leave me behind. At a birthday party yesterday, a pregnant mom who has been very accepting of me was sitting next to me eating birthday cake. She suddenly said, "Oh!" and put a hand to her side, then awkwardly said, "Sorry," when I smiled at her.

"The baby likes cake, huh?" I said. "Yes," she replied, then turned away from me and started a conversation with the mom next to her on the other side about breach positions and gestating babies' punches and kicks and what foods seem to inspire the most activity. It was a conversation I felt like I could have participated in, having lived with a pregnant woman whose baby was transverse breach and who shared her affinity for coffee-flavored ice cream. But body language seemed to make it clear that this was lady talk, and the door was closed. Ah, well.

This morning, I got an email that this same mom sent to the group, asking for mailing addresses of all the members interested in attending the baby shower her mother is throwing for her. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think I am, in thinking that traditionally baby showers are strictly for the females. I was reminded of Aerie's wedding shower. Her family surprised her with it by getting us to come to her aunt's house for I think a cousin's birthday party or something like that. When we got there, and it turned out to be a shower, my future brother-in-law earned my eternal gratitude, rescuing me from having to sit through a parade of housewares, home décor, and lingerie by taking me out to drink beer and shoot pool, a manly inoculation against such girly pursuits. So receiving an invitation to attend a baby shower at which I presumably would make the other attendees feel as awkward as I would feel myself, I quickly, and I hope politely, declined.

So, yeah, being part of a moms' group is mostly good and sometimes weird. At least they show up to play dates regularly, though.

Toddler Punk

2010-06-11T21:34:00.001-05:00

Back in the Swim

2010-06-07T14:20:00.003-05:00

Ever since last summer's lifeguard debacle, I've been hoping that he'd forget all about it over the winter. We were careful not to use the L word around him. But every time we went to the playground that's next to the neighborhood pool, he would say, "Nope! No lifeguards today!" He was determined never to forget.

So when school finally ended and the pools all opened up again, I thought the perfect way to help him get over his fear was to make a special occasion out of it. We didn't just go to the pool, we took Freckles and Robert McGee to Volente Beach. It has a 1-foot kiddie pool with a pirate ship in it! It has a bigger pool with frog slide! It has a lakeside beach! And best of all, it would have Freckles and Robert McGee, two of his all-time favorite people in the world!

That morning, as I was dressing him, I told him we were going to pick up his cousins.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"To Volente Beach."

"What's Volente Beach?"

"A waterpark."

"What's a waterpark?"

"It's a place that has water slides, and a pirate ship, and pools, and ice cream, and hamburgers and hot dogs, and Freckles and Robert McGee will be there!"

"Does it have lifeguards?"

"Yes."

"Ahhh!!! I don't want to go there!"

But I told him we had to, because we promised the cousins we would. When we picked them up, Robert McGee had swim goggles that fascinated Thumper. I asked him if he needed swim goggles, too, and of course you know that he did. So we stopped on the way to buy him some. And suddenly he was excited again.

At first my hopes were a little dashed because he had no interest in either pool, even with a pirate ship, even with two fabulous cousins. He saw the lifeguards, and was wary, but he didn't panic. He just didn't really want to play in the water. So we took him down to the beach. There were lifeguards there, too, but I told him with his swim goggles we could look for rocks and shells and look for fish swimming in the lake. So in he went, and he had a blast. He bounced, he danced, he sang, he played. He even waved to a lifeguard. He had so much fun, that he didn't want to get out, though we promised him ice cream. Thumper never turns down ice cream!

Since it was such a success, I thought I'd best strike while the iron was hot and get him quick to the scene of the original trauma. I told him we were going to the pool, and he was fine with that. Until we got there. As soon as he saw it, he said, "The pool's closed! No lifeguards today!" I told him it wasn't closed, and he started crying. "I don't want to go in there!"

But I persisted, and we went in. I changed him into his trunks and doused him with sunscreen, and he cried the whole time. Then I pulled out a squirt gun. He brightened immediately.

"I want that!" he said. I gave it to him. "I want water in that!" he said.

"OK, the water's in the pool. Let's go get some." And we did. And he immediately began having fun. It took about 10 minutes to get from sitting on a deck chair with his face in his hands sobbing to standing in chest-high water with a huge grin on his face yelling, "I'm jumping on one feets! I'm jumping on one feets! I'm jumping on one toe!" We were there for two straight hours. I may have been a little premature in declaring redemption last year, but now? Maybe now?

I Almost Said Yahtzee

2010-06-07T14:17:00.001-05:00

Really? We're Still Calling It a Revolution?

2010-05-27T16:02:00.004-05:00

Mike Denning asked to be a member of our Austin Stay-at-Home Dads group, and I denied him because (a)he lives a couple hundred miles away, which would kind of be an obstacle to his participation in play dates, and (b)he probably only asked to join to promote his movie. I watched the first of the 4 parts of his movie on his Facebook page, and I'm baffled by the assertion that people still treat SAHD-ing like an odd choice that breaks cultural traditions and stereotypes. I almost never encounter that kind of reaction from people I meet. Maybe I'm just oblivious to the negative reactions other dads report, but moms are almost always friendly on the playground and tell me it's great that I can do this and that I'll treasure these years for the rest of my life. Dads tell me they wish they could do it, too. And I'm not talking about just the heart of "Keep Austin Weird" Austin, where the hippies and the hipsters and the alternative lifestyles abound. I'm talking about the conservative, white, Williamson County suburbs. I'm talking about Dallas. I'm talking about outside of that bizarre liberal bubble in the middle of hardcore red-state Texas, I've never drawn stares, or disgusted looks, or insinuations that my lazy dependence on my wife will lead me straight into the fires of hell.

This is the conversation that I had with one of my ushering co-workers last weekend that is remarkable only in that it almost never takes place. When I quit my full-time job, I thought I'd be having this talk all the time, but I really don't.

"So what do you do? This isn't your only job, is it?"

"No, I have a couple of other part-time jobs, too."

"I mean, what's your full-time job?"

"Oh, I take care of my son."

Long pause. "Oh, that's cool." Another long pause. "You only have one kid?"

"Yeah, so far."

"Oh, that's cool." Long pause. "So what do you have a sugar mama or something?"

Seasoned Traveler

2010-05-27T14:15:00.004-05:00

On Monday, Thumper and I gave Aerie a couple of nights to herself and flew to Dallas to visit my parents. It was his first airplane trip, and an experiment on my part to see if it would be easier than the three-and-a-half hour drive. When you factor in the airport experience four times, I wouldn't say it was easier, and it certainly wasn't cheaper. But it was an adventure.

He was a little nervous at the Austin airport as we checked our baggage and went through the security line. A TSA employee chatted with us while we waited, though, and Thumper began to relax a bit. He told the guy that we were going to visit Grandma and Grandpa and the Dallas Zoo, and that his favorite animal is the gorilla, who says, "RAHHRRRRRR!!!" He has been given this impression of the gorilla by the very cranky Kerchak in No Nap for Tarzan. As we discussed the impending trip over the past few weeks, he had periodically expressed some trepidation about meeting such cranky animals face to face, but I repeatedly reassured him that zoo gorillas mostly just sit and stare off into space.

Once we got through security ("Why you taking my shoes off?"), Thumper squatted by the window while we waited to board, watching them load luggage into our plane. ("Is that's our plane? Why?") Once we were aboard, he repeatedly asked, "Now are we flying? Now are we flying?" as we taxied around and waited our turn to take off. When the engines began roaring in earnest, he yelled, "What's wrong with the plane?" So if you have a fear of flying, and you were on that flight with us, I apologize. There was not, as I loudly reassured him, anything wrong with the plane.

He was excited by the takeoff, later reporting to Grandma and Grandpa that the plane went really fast, but after that he quickly reverted to boredom, though the apple juice he was served mid-flight cheered him mightily. He was also confused about where exactly Grandma and Grandpa were going to be, thinking they were at the Austin airport, then that they would be on the plane. And since they had outdated info about which terminal we'd arrive at, they weren't there while we waited for our luggage, either. But when he saw them pull up to pick us up curbside, he literally jumped for joy.

We had a lot of fun with Grandma and Grandpa, playing at their house and visiting the zoo. Grandpa cleverly left a Hoppity Ball deflated and lying casually discarded in their living room; Thumper instantly wanted to know what it was, what it was for, and what it did, so he and Grandpa went to the garage to blow it up. Here he is enjoying it while having a conversation with Grandma shortly after she suggested that maybe he not hammer on her wind chime quite so persistently:

The only reason he didn't cover his face as I took that video was that I used my iPod, which he has not yet realized is also a camera.

By the time we visited the zoo, Thumper had missed a couple of naps and had a late night in the hotel, so he was fairly subdued. Luckily, Grandma had the idea of renting a stroller, which saved the day. Thumper rode from exhibit to exhibit, then leaped out of the moving vehicle without warning Grandma, who was driving, to get a look at each animal. There were a couple of school groups there, so sometimes he had to fight for a spot at the glass:

Since he still has an aversion to having his picture taken, all of my zoo shots are of the back of his head. I could get a shot of his face if I got him while his hands were busy:

But then he'd quickly revert to his extremely strict no pictures policy:

And of course, no trip to the zoo would be complete without an in-depth conversation concerning the universal need of all animals to poop and pee:

When we got home, he reported to Aerie that he saw gorillas, but that they did not, surprisingly, "RAHHRRRRRR!!!" at him. So, there. Now he's a seasoned traveler who has experienced a real zoo. I think, though, that some of his favorite moments were the afternoons we spent at the motel, resting and recuperating if not actually napping:

The Conversationalist

2010-05-22T19:44:00.000-05:00

"Hey, what are you eating?"

"A piece of gum."

"Why?"

"It makes my breath smell fresh."

"Daddy, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It smells like mint, so when I chew it, it makes my mouth and my breath smell like mint."

"Daddy, I have no idea what you're talking about."

How We're Spending Our Days

2010-05-21T13:39:00.004-05:00

Ever since we went to that flea market, we've been doing a lot of this:

And I mean a lot. As in every single day, for at least an hour and sometimes more. A little over a week ago, we ran into a dad at the playground at Central Market and his daughter, who was just about Thumper's age. She had a LIKEaBIKE that Thumper absolutely loved. They kindly let him give it a try while the dad told me about his three kids who were all riding two-wheel pedal bikes without training wheels after learning to balance on that unusual contraption. When I got home, I looked them up. After choking on the $400 price tag, I looked up "balance bike" on Craigslist and found a used Park Racer for a much more palatable $35. So we got it.

He loves his new "cheetah bike" and is the envy of the neighborhood kids, even the big kids who already know how to ride a two-wheeler without training wheels. So now we have to drag both bikes around with us whenever we play on our street or at the playgrounds. After a week, he's getting pretty good at coasting, and can even make some long, graceful, looping turns with his feet up.

I tried to get some video, but he still refuses to let me take his picture. This is the conversation we have every time I pull the camera out:

Consent

2010-05-09T22:22:00.003-05:00

Sometimes the mood strikes to do Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge.

This is simply idle speculation on my part, but it seems to me that sharing a bed with a writer of erotica would have its benefits. I would happily consent to be your research subject, baby. What precisely would happen, if...? Is it actually possible to fit bodies together like that? What sound, exactly, would one make? Let us study the subject together. I will vow under oath and sign before a notary consent forms and non-disclosures. I don't have to be the hero of your story as long as I can act it out with you, before and after.

Have the Dads All Become Moms?

2010-05-07T14:30:00.004-05:00

I've been frustrated with my dads' group for a long time now because they're very inactive. There are 195 members, yet the message board is virtually silent, and when we drive all over town to go to the daily scheduled play dates, more often than not we're the only ones who show up. Of the 195 dads, over the past year I've probably only seen 7 or 8 dads at the playgrounds, and another 4 or 5 who come to the Dads' Night Out events at area bars and restaurants every month. On a good week, there will be 2 or 3 dads at one of the week's play dates, and none the rest of the week. That seems like a remarkably low participation rate to me.

So when the dad who regularly schedules the play dates went out of town and asked me to make the schedule for a couple of weeks, I tried to shake things up a bit to see if it would attract more dads. It wasn't a huge success.

A few weeks ago, when we were at yet another play date with no other dads, there was a moms' group there having a play date of their own. I got into a conversation with a couple of the moms about what the secret is to a successful play group, and their answer was, more or less, "I don't know. People come. Why wouldn't they? Isn't that what they joined the group for?" I could only hypothesize that maybe dads just don't care as much about cooperative action as moms, that we're genetically predisposed to going it alone.

Now, though, I have a new theory: we've all joined moms' groups.

A couple of those moms that talked play groups with me suggested I join their group. They said I'd be the only dad, but they didn't think it would be a problem. For a couple of weeks I let the idea simmer: me? in a moms' group? And then I came to the conclusion that I'm the only man on the playground most days anyway, so why not at least know the moms? Why not at least let Thumper play with kids he knows, too? So I requested membership. That was over a week ago, and they still haven't responded at all, so maybe they don't want any dads in their moms' group. Or maybe they're furiously debating the pros and cons. Or maybe they just forgot about me.

And then, talking with a mom down the street that we frequently run into when we go out front to ride the bike in the afternoon, I learned about a neighborhood play group she belongs to. She told me I should join and gave me the Yahoo! address. So I requested membership. They replied instantly, invited me to meet them at the local playground yesterday, and after that meetup, immediately approved my membership. We met with them again today. It's kind of amazing. I'm not driving 45 minutes to the far side of Austin just to be the only one who shows up to the scheduled play date. Instead, for two days in a row, I drove five minutes to be one of a handful of parents. Two of the moms today were also there yesterday. I knew their names. I knew their kids names. It was kind of cool.

Yesterday, before going to meet with the neighborhood group, I posted to Facebook: "Off to go audition for a moms' group. I hope the boy brings his A game." One of the dads in my old group commented, "haha, you could join the one I am in :)" And it suddenly dawned on me: the dads aren't inactive. They're just inactive in the dads' group because they're all too busy with their separate moms' groups. Dangit! If I'd only known sooner, I could've transformed into a mom a long time ago and saved myself a lot of frustration.

That's More Than I Won on the Nickel Slots in Marksville

2010-05-04T14:11:00.005-05:00

A week or two ago, I asked Thumper what we should get Mama for Mothers' Day. He said, "A toy."

"What kind of toy?"

"A duck."

So we went to the mall to look for a duck. We didn't find any, but we did stop by Dollar Tree to pick up some soap. Aerie likes this soap, and the only place we can find it without paying shipping is, for some reason, Dollar Tree at the mall.

All of that is just to explain how Thumper came to associate Dollar Tree with buying gifts for his Mama, which becomes pertinent right about here:

This morning, when we were driving our Meals on Wheels route, I asked him if we should go look for a present for Mama again. He enthusiastically told the next client on our route, "We're going to the dollar store to buy a present for Mama!" I asked him what we should get her, and he said, "Something breakable."

So we went to the mall today to look for something breakable. This time we found something. It is indeed breakable, but it didn't come from the dollar store. Perhaps it's a sign of insecurity, but it seems important to me to make that clear: I did not buy my wife a Mothers' Day present at the dollar store.

Anyway, after we shopped, we proceeded with our usual routine for the mall: lunch at Chick-fil-A, a quarter or two into the candy machines, and then some "playing with the kids" at Kidgitville, or whatever it is they call that playscape outside Dillard's.

There's a skylight overhead, and it was warm, and I started to doze off. So before we left, I decided to buy an energy drink out of the nearby vending machine so I wouldn't wreck the car on the way home. I put in three $1 bills and selected a $2.50 Monster. The coin return started dropping coins one after the other. I thought, "Oh great, it's giving me nickels." I looked inside and they were gold, so I thought, "Oh great, it's giving me Chuck E. Cheese tokens." When it finally stopped clinking, I pulled out the stack. Thumper said, "What are those?" and I could only answer, "I don't know." I'd never heard of them before, but they looked like legitimate U.S. $1 coins. There were twelve of them, plus three quarters. Turns out they actually are legitimate U.S. money! So near as I can tell, I'm up $9.75, plus a Monster. Today's my lucky day!

And I Ran; I Ran So Far Away

2010-05-01T13:04:00.008-05:00

I ran my first official 10K today! I ran the whole way, without stopping or walking! As a wheezy, gray-bearded man overweight by a good fifty pounds, this fact is still a little stunning to me.

It was the Longhorn Run, and it was a beautiful day for it, overcast and cool with no rain. It was a beautiful course, too, running all through campus and finishing in Darrell K Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium.

It was a thrilling feeling standing at the start with 2,500 other orange-clad runners (me, a runner! weird...) and hearing the University president fire the cannon to start us on our way. I tried to run at a pace that felt familiar from the few practice 10Ks I've run working my way up to today and not worry too much about what other runners were doing. My biggest worry was that my practice route was fairly flat, and I didn't know how much up and down I'd have to do on this course.

I loved being part of an event that was big enough to shut down traffic. We meandered through tree-lined West Campus, where a volunteer stood next to sign that told us we had just passed 1,589 yards, the total rushing yards Colt McCoy ran for during his career at UT. There were also signs marking the 3-mile and 6-mile points, but I was glad that there weren't more regular landmarks; it freed me from worrying about how much distance was left and made it easier to just run and forget about comparing my performance with previous runs. I just ran at a pace that felt good.

And I was passing people! And I kept running when other people stopped to walk!

I had pretty much zoned out by the time we made the turn from San Jacinto onto 24th, but I heard the runner next to me say, "Oh, shit." I looked up the hill toward Speedway and remembered getting out of breath carrying Thumper up that same hill on the way to an ill-fated business meeting a few months ago. But I told myself to just keep moving, and I did. And I didn't die!

When we turned from Speedway onto 21st, we were looking down the hill at the southwest corner of the stadium. My heart leaped, knowing that we would enter the stadium at the southwest corner to finish. I wanted to sprint down that hill, but I thought there might be some stairs to run up to get us to field level, so I kept my pace. I'm glad I did, because part way down the hill, it became apparent that runners were turning left at the bottom, not right. We would enter at the southwest, but we would have to run a lap around the stadium first.

It was a good thing I didn't take that sprint after all, because the hardest part of the course was just ahead. Turning from San Jacinto onto 23rd, we were looking up the steepest hill on the course. Appropriately, its apex was at Robert Dedman. I imagined course planners chuckling at the irony of the name. Many people walked up that hill, and many walked after that hill, but again, I told myself to just keep moving. And I did. And I didn't die!

At that point, runners who'd already finished had come back down the course to cheer us on. "You can do it! Looking good! That was the last hill; you're almost there!" I felt great. I couldn't wait to run through the tunnel at the south end and burst out beneath the scoreboard, crossing the finish line and stepping out onto the field to the joyful cheers of friends, family, and my fellow runners. I pictured it something like this, with smoke and music and video montage and all (jump to around 2:10 if you're the impatient sort).

But no, it wasn't quite like that. We crossed the finish line at the entrance to the tunnel, then sort of just dribbled out onto the field, where we were directed up and out again to where water, fruit, and a live band awaited us. I thought the post-race festivities would be happening on the field, but I suppose I can understand their desire to protect their million-dollar grass and hustle us away from it as soon as possible. I also didn't wear a watch. I looked at the scoreboard to see if the official race time would be ticking along up there, but alas, it wasn't. And I didn't have the presence of mind to ask anybody what time it was, so I don't know how I did relative to my previous personal best of 1:09. We ran with microchips on our shoes, though, which we turned in at the end of the race, so hopefully results will be posted online somewhere.

Then I came home, ate a lunch lovingly prepared by my wife, and played Play Doh with Thumper. The End.

UPDATE! I finished in 1:01:44! Woo hoo!

Bluebonnets, 2010 Edition

2010-04-24T12:48:00.003-05:00

The World Wide Web is a Dirty Rotten Liar

2010-04-22T13:51:00.005-05:00

The guy who regularly schedules the play dates for my Stay-at-Home Dads group was away from his computer for a couple of weeks, so he asked me to fill in for him. This week, I thought I'd depart from the usual round of playgrounds and seek grander adventures. I spent an hour or two on Sunday Googlin' around, checking out event calendars on the City of Austin and surrounding towns websites, and checking out other activities sites like Free in Austin and Austin Bored Kids.

MONDAY: Bilingual Storytime. OK, this one wasn't actually the Web's fault. It was exactly what, when, and where I thought it would be, but it turned out that Thumper had no more patience and attention for a bilingual storytime than he's had in the past for monolingual storytimes.

TUESDAY: Peter Pan Mini Golf. It's stunning to me that in this day and age, a business doesn't have a website. The Citysearch page didn't list operating hours. Austin360 said it "generally" opens at 9:00 a.m. I didn't call to verify the hours, because it never occurred to me it would be closed at 10:00 a.m. on a Tuesday. Guess what? It was. "Generally" opens? Stupid South Austin hippie businesses...

WEDNESDAY: Georgetown Firefighter Museum. OK, this is where the Web really starts telling some whoppers. visit.georgetown.org assured me that I would find "Betsy, a prized 1922 Seagraves fire engine in mint condition" and that "[t]he station is still used as the city’s main fire station." After the Tuesday mix-up, I decided on Wednesday morning to call and verify, and it turns out that it's no longer a working station, Betsy has been moved elsewhere, and the "museum" is essentially a bookshelf in some administrative offices. "I don't want to tell you not to come," said the nice lady who answered the phone, "but..." So we went to a tried-and-true standby, the Georgetown Creative Playscape instead, where Thumper aggravated a three-year-old boy by steadfastly refusing to take direction.

THURSDAY: Austin Zoo. The train that's supposed to run every hour on the hour and which was a big part of Thumper's excitement while he patiently sat through the long car ride there, wasn't running today. Their website says: "Concession stand is open March 1 - June 1 Monday through Friday from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. weekdays" so we didn't bring lunch, planning to eat hot dogs and Frito pies instead. It was closed. And neither of the vending machines would take my money, so when Thumper was suddenly and very emotionally hungry, there was nothing to eat. And the peacocks that Thumper found so fascinating last year were instead terrifying this year. And he tripped and fell flat on his face, busting his lip open. OK, most of that wasn't the web's fault, but still...

FRIDAY: The Cathedral of Junk. This one sounded pretty cool. Turns out, though, that it's been closed by the City of Austin. The owner, Vince, says in his answering machine message that he's fighting with the city, but until it's resolved, he can't let anyone in to see it, though you can "peek over the fence." Doesn't sound that enthralling for a two-year-old, so we'll have to think of something else to do tomorrow.

So out of 5 events, not one was the thriller I was looking for. I relied on the internet, and it let me down. The moral of the story: call ahead, and don't throw together a schedule at the last minute on Sunday night. The end.

It Still Doesn't Get Me High

2010-04-14T07:20:00.003-05:00

I got up at 5:15 this morning, which never happens. Then I went outside and ran continuously for 6.2 miles. It took me 1 hour and 9 minutes. I now know that I will be able to finish the Longhorn Run. I won't be the fastest guy out there, but I'll finish, and that's pretty huge. A year ago, I didn't think I'd be able to run the three mile loop around our neighborhood once without stopping, let alone twice! I feel pretty good!

Maybe I should've done this on a a day when I could afford to take a nap, though.

Physical Therapy

2010-04-11T00:57:00.004-05:00

There are at least a couple of reasons I'd love to blog about my evening at the arena, but I won't because I'd rather not be dooced. Things were said that should not be repeated, as much as I'd like to repeat them. So instead, I'll tell you about my physical therapy.

I just finished my third of four weeks of physical therapy for "rotator cuff tendonitis," probably resulting from repeatedly hoisting my giant toddler son onto my shoulders when he doesn't feel like walking in a straight line. It wasn't a tear, but might eventually have torn if I'd kept up the same activity without trying to make a change.

Most of my physical therapy is about "engaging my core" (man, I hate abdominal exercises) and adding back and upper body exercises to strengthen all of my other muscles so that the annoyed part of my shoulder can get a little help and a little rest. If I'm stronger everywhere else, that one spot in my shoulder won't be left to do all the work while my other muscles relax and have a cappuccino.

As much as my shoulder, though, my physical therapist is intent on fixing my posture. Apparently, I'm well on my way to walking around like a Mystic from the The Dark Crystal. On first meeting me, my physical therapist asked, "Your wife is much shorter than you, isn't she?" Yes, both of the two most important people in my life, with whom I interact most, are shorter than I am, such that I spend a good part of my day looking down. And it shows in my posture. Supposedly my ear is supposed to be directly above my shoulder and not several inches in front. Who knew?

So my posture exercises are: pelvis tilted and abdominals engaged, as if I'm about to be punched in the stomach. Shoulders back, but not raised. Chin down and back, so that my ears are in a straight line over my shoulders. The result is sort of roosterish. While I worked tonight, in a spot that was exceptionally boring where I spent most of the evening sitting and staring at a wall 8 feet in front of me, I practiced my posture exercises. I'm sure I looked ridiculous. There is nothing natural about this posture. Also: chin down and back is not a comfortable position for someone who grew a beard specifically to help de-emphasize his double chin, thank you very much. But my physical therapist, who has called me her "star pupil" and gushed about my progress, would be proud. I'm trying, people; I'm trying.

The Extremes of Ushering

2010-04-04T21:10:00.005-05:00

Sorry I haven't had much to say lately. Apparently being happy and tired doesn't inspire me to blog.

Anyway...

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Or, it was the worst of ushering; it was the best of ushering. Or maybe more like, it was the hardest of ushering; it was the easiest of ushering.

I'm tired. I should be copywriting, but I'm tired. I've worked 18 hours of ushering and 4 hours of repetitive, non-creative writing this weekend, and tomorrow the week starts over. I'm takin' a break.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. Ushering. Yesterday was the most exhausting ushering event I've ever worked. It was an outdoor event, in lots of sun, with non-stop walking and stair climbing, plus the psychological drain of repeatedly doing the same task over and over, knowing that I'd just have to do it again. We were understaffed; the event was oversold; and the crowd was uncooperative. On a day when I needed assertive ushers with loud voices and lots of confidence, most of my staff were temporary workers, and most of those were timid, young, and physically unimposing. I spent many hours with my skin and my brains cooking in the sun, walking back and forth in an outdoor stadium, clearing stair landings, walkways, and aisles of people. There were ushers at each of those spots whose job it was to keep it clear, but they weren't up to the task. So I'd clear one, remind the usher there to be assertive! but friendly! then move on to the next one, knowing that the spot I just left was already filling up with people again.

There were three supervisors in the stands on that side of the stadium, but apparently the other two got together and voted that I was in charge. One of them handed me the radio. "You don't want it?" I asked. "NO!" she laughed. So it was my name that the radio kept calling, telling me that the fire marshal wanted those areas cleared, telling me to get out there and do something. So I cleared them. And cleared them. And cleared them. And vowed, when I got home, that I would never work that event again.

But when I woke up this morning, and Thumper was bursting with excitement over the Easter Bunny and what he brought, and we three shared a special breakfast, and the sunburn that was so red yesterday had significantly dialed down its intensity, my attitude had improved enough that I was thinking the event had even been sort of fun, in its own way. And I wrote for awhile, then went to work again, this time ushering a free exhibition event. It was also outdoors, but in a shady spot on an overcast day. The work was easy; the crowd was happy. I stood in one spot and welcomed people as they entered; I thanked them for coming and wished them a good evening as they left. I had one usher working for me; she did her job cheerfully. She welcomed people as they entered; she thanked them for coming and wished them a good evening as they left. She never wandered off or complained. And it was so quiet and boring, and the clock ticked so slowly along, that I almost wished for a little excitement, for the radio to call my name, telling me to get out there and do something.

A Perfect Weekend

2010-03-28T19:35:00.006-05:00

We were supposed to go to Houston to visit family this weekend. I hate to say, "I'm glad our nephew got sick," but I kind of am. Does that make me a bad person? Instead of twice making a 3 1/2 hour drive with a toddler, and spending the night in the guest room of someone else's house with a toddler who's testing the limits of his sleep routine, we got to spend an entire weekend together, the three of us. I didn't have to work! While money is nice, time together is, too.

Yesterday, I got to sleep in while Aerie got up with Thumper. Today, I returned the favor. When she got up, I said, "So what do you want to do with the boy today?" She said, "What about the flea market?"

We haven't been to the flea market in years. We always had fun there, wandering around, looking at the huge array of stunningly ugly home decor available in the many booths. It's kind of like a giant garage sale, kind of like a farmers' market, and kind of like a day trip to Mexico. I mean, sure, it was nothing to compare with the Married Geeks' adventures in China, but I think it's good now and again to be reminded what it's like to be the racial minority. It was doubly fun seeing the whole spectacle through fresh eyes, through the eyes of a kid who'd never experienced it before. He was all wide eyes and giant grins from the minute we arrived. Every cheap plastic toy was a treasure that he "needed!" Every stranger was a potential friend. Every electronics display blasting at top volume that weird accordion-heavy-but-somehow-not-polka Mexican music that I'll never understand was an opportunity to dance, dance, dance!

And then, he saw the treasure that he really did need. It was a big kid bike. A two-wheeler with training wheels and coaster brakes. At first we told him what we told him about every treasure he needed: let's look at everything and then we'll pick the thing he wanted most. We told him not to touch. But he couldn't stop himself, and the vendor was quick to jump up and tell us he could try it if he wanted. So he did, and that was that. We bought it. The vendor cleaned and oiled it while we went to find some lunch.

He was reluctant to leave it behind, but we told him the man was going to fix it for him. I was very proud of Aerie: she ate food from a portable kitchen, a trailer with a window in the side, with questionable hygiene. While we stood in line, Thumper pointed at the amazing mulleted perm (or permed mullet?) ahead of us and said, "Look at the long hair! I haven't seen him before!" Then we sat in the sun and ate our gorditas and watched the families strolling by and all the other treasures that the other kids picked. Then we had funnel cake, another joyful new experience for the boy, then picked up the bike and rode it proudly through the flea market on our way out. The vendor told us that we should bring it back when the boy outgrows it; he's sold it three times already.

As we paraded slowly past the booths on our way back to the car, the smile on Thumper's face was the topper for the weekend.

He was so proud. And so happy. And I was so proud. And so happy.

He fell asleep almost immediately on the drive home, but when he got up, he got the opportunity to show it off around the neighborhood. I wonder how old he'll be when the training wheels come off? This kid, he's a pissah, as we use to say when we were Yankees.

Rotator Cuff Tendonitis

2010-03-26T21:03:00.003-05:00

So I've been to a few doctors lately, and whatnot. I'd love to tell you more about the conversation Thumper had with one of them, but it would be wrong. You wouldn't respect me in the morning. Seriously, when I recounted it to Aerie that night after the boy had gone to bed, we both laughed out loud in a particularly "we can never tell anyone about this" sort of way. Good times. I'd bet money that doctor told his wife about it when he got home.

But (one part of) the upshot of all is that I'm in physical therapy now for my long-standing shoulder injury, which the physical therapist believes is a result of me hoisting my giant toddler over my head to carry him on my shoulders several times a day. She thinks maybe I should quit doing that for a little bit of a while.

One good thing is that most of the physical therapy is about strengthening all of my other muscles, particularly my back and "core" (read, "abdominal muscles") so that my left shoulder won't have to compensate for all of its brethren throughout the rest of my body every time I pick the two-year-old-that-everyone-mistakes-for-a-four-year-old up.

So, anyway. I'm finally diversifying my workout routine to include a wide range of upper and lower body resistance exercises, as well as sit-ups and crunches and a yoga ball, etc. All stuff I've known about, considered, and put off. So maybe this stabbing pain in my shoulder will help me get over the hump and actually start losing weight again.

Restlessly Running

2010-03-15T13:48:00.004-05:00

Thumper's down for a nap, now, and he only tried twice to escape before giving it up as a lost cause. Maybe he's starting to catch on. I had a poor night's sleep last night, though. He kept getting up through the evening, but finally fell asleep before we went to bed. He stayed asleep, too, except for that one time at 5:00 a.m. when he jolted us awake by standing next to our bed and saying, "Hi, Mama!"

But he didn't keep climbing out all night long, and he didn't wander the house looking for poisonous chemicals and steak knives, as I imagined him doing while we slept. Aerie said if he did get up in the night, he'd immediately come looking for us because he's not too fond of darkness, and she was right. She usually is.

Even though he didn't keep us up with his escape artistry all night, he might as well have, because I dreamed restlessly of him escaping, then woke up to listen to the silence for signs that he had actually escaped. Oh yeah, I also dreamed that a junkie stabbed me in the bicep with his needle. Odd. Plus, of course, I had this song stuck in my head all night, which didn't help my rest either:

Despite poor rest, though, I did get up and go to the gym. I think my plan to motivate myself by signing up for a 10K is working: I actually ran for an entire hour, without stopping or walking! I felt pretty good, too! I don't think I got anywhere near what anyone would call a "runner's high," but I didn't feel like I was going to die, so that's a good thing. Maybe, just maybe, a 10K isn't as far out of my reach as I thought it would be. 6.2 miles sounds much easier than 10 kilometers. I think the U.S. should stick to its anti-metric guns.

A Riveting Tale for You

2010-03-14T00:50:00.002-06:00

Here is this year's high school basketball tournament story, though it did not bring anything exciting like last year's adventures:

I sat quietly and stared off into space a lot.

The end.

It Had to Happen Eventually

2010-03-10T15:06:00.005-06:00

Last night, after I'd already read him his books, sang him his song, and gave him his kisses, Thumper suddenly appeared in the living room, unannounced. He was a teary, panicked mess, sobbing, "I dropped my cloth!"

When he was a tiny baby, we used old-fashioned organic cloth diapers as spit-up rags; he became very attached to them, and to this day snuggles with them when he is tired or anxious. I don't think his panic was entirely about the cloth, because he had 4 of them in his bed with him, and though he lost one, there was still an armload of them left for him to cuddle with. I suspect he had some kind of bad dream, and when he woke and tried to recover from it, he dropped a cloth out of reach behind his crib, lost his mind, and climbed right out of his crib for help.

So I calmed him, rocked him, and when he was ready, put him back to bed, and he was just fine for the rest of the night. Now, though, it's nap time, and I'm kind of jumpy. I knew that some day he would figure out that he was capable of leaving his bed any time that he wanted, and part of me is surprised that, with his climbing skills, it took him this long. The other part of me thinks it's too soon. Now, every sound I hear makes me stop and listen. Is it him? I just know I'm going to be working away and jump out of my skin when from directly behind me he suddenly says, "I want my milk!"

And it's just my opinion here, but I think 2 1/2 is much too soon for me to have to have the "Mama and Daddy were just wrestling" conversation with him.

Fat Man Running

2010-03-09T21:02:00.002-06:00

Holy crap, I'm going to run a 10K...

The Longhorn Run

Hipster Shoes

2010-03-05T20:21:00.007-06:00

He bowled a 59 and even picked up a spare!

Much appreciation to The man with the mohawk for flashing us when we weren't looking.

Hidden

2010-03-01T21:49:00.003-06:00

It's been awhile since I did one of Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenges. This one is "Hidden."

"I don't care if you do it," she says. "You know I love you."

"I know," he says. And he does.

"I just don't want you to lie to me."

But that's what she doesn't understand, and maybe he doesn't either. Not really. It's not the doing; it's the hiding. It's the getting away with it. He can be a good man, he can be a good husband, and father, and son, and brother. He can be everything that everyone expects him to be if he can just have this one thing, this one secret that no one knows. Hidden.

Future Think

2010-02-28T21:03:00.003-06:00

I suppose it's not a surprise that, 2 1/2 years after the birth of Thumper, we've been thinking a lot about a second child. No, Aerie's not pregnant; we've just been thinking and talking and thinking and talking. I'm far more convinced than Aerie on the subject; she wavers back and forth and back again. I want another. Thumper needs a sibling, I have no doubt, and I want an extension on this stay-at-home dad contract of mine. I know she didn't enjoy pregnancy that much the first time, or at least not the first and last thirds of it. We're both working on losing weight, and she doesn't want the setback that pregnancy would represent on that front, either. And there are money worries, and health-related worries, both for baby and mom, that increase as we grow older.

So, anyway. Yesterday she asked me, "What do you think of adoption?"

My first thought was, oh, no. I've heard horror stories. I have fears. I think adoptive parents spend the rest of their lives living with the consequences of strangers screwing up their kids. Oh, nightmares. Developmental delays. Angry, violent, drug addicted. No, no, no. Lots of fears.

But, I don't know. I had a lot of fears about pregnancy the first time, too. If there's one thing I've learned through this whole parenthood experience so far, it's that you can spend a lot of time and energy worrying and planning about possibilities that never come to pass. And the possibilities that do come to pass are ones that never even occur to you. So having fears is not reason enough.

This morning, while driving Thumper to the playground, the idea of adoption really started to appeal to me. In some ways, it seems like both of our lives, Aerie's and mine, point in this direction. I grew up intimately involved in the Child Protective Services world. From the time that I was six until I was nineteen, my parents were foster parents. They took in (I think) 38 kids over that time, kids that were the product of abuse and neglect and drug addiction. I have no doubt that that experience had a profound effect on me, shaping me into the man that would want to be a stay-at-home dad.

Even after they retired from fostering, my mom became a social worker in the CPS system, placing foster kids into adoptive homes. Two of those foster kids even nearly became my adoptive siblings. The first, a round-headed, red-haired boy, did not for reasons I can't begin to recall. The other did not because (I think) of racial preference policies where white parents weren't the first choice for black kids. Anyway, fostering and adoption are part of my upbringing. And if you know Aerie, you know her upbringing has shaped her into a protector of the weak and the underdogs, a caretaker, a champion of the abandoned.

But then again, when you start looking at adopting, it seems like it's for much better, and stronger, people than I. There are so many kids, older kids that too few people want or can even begin to consider taking in, kids with daunting special needs. I don't know if I'm up to all of that. I want to be a better person, but I don't think I'm capable of being that much better, really.

Snow Day

2010-02-23T14:10:00.005-06:00

It doesn't snow in the Greater Austin Metropolitan Area very often, so when it does, you by-god make your kid get out there and play in it. Actually, he's the one who said, "I wanna go outside and see the snow." So we did.

He stood inside the open garage and watched me quickly make a snow man. He did not want to participate in the process, and he was thoroughly unimpressed with the result:

Finally he decided to try his scooter in the snow, but the cons quickly outweighed the pros, so we went inside:

Then we had this conversation:

"I don't like the snow."

"You don't."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't. It makes me wet."

He watched my sad little snowman from the front window for awhile and soon reported that it fell over. But when we weren't looking, the snowman fairies came and built us another one, which I thought was right neighborly of them:

Jumping

2010-02-12T07:51:00.004-06:00

Last night I got the clear impression that I was watching Thumper's physical abilities develop second by second. In gymnastics, I've been encouraging him to jump. He jumps up and down on the floor, but he won't jump on the trampoline and he won't jump off objects, even low ones.

Last night, though, he dragged a box into the living room and jumped off of it holding my hands. Then he climbed back up and jumped off into my hands. Then he climbed up and jumped off over and over and over, with his Mama and me praising his wonderful jumping skills. Each time, he got a little better at it, first falling on the floor when he landed, then putting his hands to the floor but staying on his feet, and finally sticking the landing.

"I'm a good jumper," he said.

"You are!" we said.

Then he landed badly and turned his ankle. It didn't swell, but he was limping. That's a very sad sight, a two-year-old with a limp.

This morning I asked him, "How's your ankle? Does it still hurt?"

"Just a little bit," he said. "But it doesn't hurt."

Veggie Tales Does Seem Like Sort of a Capitalist Juggernaut, Though

2010-02-07T22:40:00.004-06:00

I think back on my ponderings of religion shortly before the boy was born, and it kinda makes me laugh a little now. It's funny that this post got one of my highest comment counts (partly because I commented all over it myself). I pondered and wondered and worried, and now, it turns out that the religious indoctrination of my kid is mostly being handled by animated vegetables with no hands or feet. And despite all my intellectual posturings, I'm pretty much O.K. with that.

An asparagus sings to my son that he need not be afraid of monsters on TV or under his bed or in his closet because "God is bigger than the Boogie Man." That same asparagus also tells him that it's comforting to know that God loves him, even if he forgets to feed his dog, or if he sings off-key. As uncomfortable as I am and have been over religion and religious indoctrination, those seem like pretty good lessons for the boy to absorb, even if they mean little to me personally.

This morning, I thought of that religious discussion at Olive Garden while we watched Silly Little Thing Called Love, which is mostly about God's love, and just had to sort of giggle at myself. One of the many lessons for me in fatherhood is that no matter how I think and plan and worry and anticipate and imagine how things will be, they will be different. Life is unpredictable, and the actual experience does more to shape what will happen than all the thoughts I can think or words I can type or philosophies I can philosophize. So worry as I may have about how I would teach the at-the-time-still-waiting-in-the-wings Thumper about God and religion, our lives together proceed as they will proceed. He has already asked, "What's the Bible?" and he will over time ask about God. And those conversations will proceed as they proceed, more or less independently of whatever imaginary conversations I've already had in my head with him.

Hey, Me Too!

2010-02-03T16:12:00.002-06:00

Miss Yvonne at Yo Mama's Blog (not your mama's blog) coined a phrase for something I used to do obsessively for more than a handful of years, and still do now and again, sometimes only semi-consciously. Turns out I'm not the only Phantom Typist in the world! Hooray!

I took Typing from an odd, cross-eyed man, whose name I can no longer recall, who had a weird bowl-cut hairstyle. Not to pick on the cross-eyed; that wasn't why he was weird, though it didn't help. Anyway, I was 14. It was the 8th grade. And we used actual IBM Selectric typewriters because I am old. During that semester, and for more years after than I'd care to recall, I "typed" my internal monologue as well as things that other people said to me or that I said to them. I credit this bizarre behavior with transforming me into the incredible typist that I am today.

And I'm not the only one!