terrible horrible no good very bad. . . age

I never thought I would need to have a kid of my own in order to make me feel like a kid again. I mean, I’ve never really had that much difficulty finding my “inner child”. I doubt that anyone I know, outside of maybe my own son, would actually mistake me for an adult. And I have to admit, I kind of like it that way. But my son did something the other day that forced me to look more closely at the reflection I see in the mirror every day and realize, once and for all, that I am all growed up. Shit! It happened to me too! I don’t remember the moment the change occurred - it must have been years ago – or maybe it was just a gradual shift from youth to adulthood made imperceptible by the focus I’ve placed on my career, my wife and my family, and a modest acquisition of knowledge along the way. Maybe the gray hair popping up all over my temples has something to do with it. Maybe the world is just spinning faster than it used to. No – heck, it must be global warming. Yeah, that’s it.

Either way, I’m screwed. I’m officially old. As crusty and wrinkled as your grandma’s upper lip. Might as well toss in the towel now. Save myself the trouble of dementia and arthritis. Just pack up my bag and take a long walk off a short pier. Do they have ice-cream in heaven? Will you play “I'm a Barbie Girl" at my funeral?

Anyhoo. It was my son that forced me to realize this terrible news, as if the mere fact that I AM A FATHER wasn’t enough in the first place. And he did this to me with one cool little trick that he apparently learned all on his own - he did a summersault. He bent over at the waist, looked between his legs at his mommy behind him, tucked his grinning face into his chest, and rolled. And then he laughed and did it again. When I saw this for the first time, I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. My kid just figured out how to do a summersault! Sweet! How much fun is it that he’s discovered how to do something that we've all done so many times in our own lives? It’s kind of like playing catch with him for the first time, or seeing the look on his face the first time he ever ate candy. How nice to relive those memories!


No - not that nice, really. It just makes you feel old. After Ben finished rolling around the living room, I got down on my knees and attempted my own summersault. And, as ridiculous as it must have looked, I did it. I may have nearly put my foot straight through the TV, but I did it. The cat ran out of the room for fear of being trampled, but I did it. And it was then, as I sat panting on the ground with my arms wrapped around my knees, that I realized I hadn’t done a summersault in more than 10 years - at least. I couldn’t remember. How is it that 10 years of my life could have gone by without my rolling around on the floor end-over-end until I got dizzy? What have I been doing with my life? What else have I been neglecting? Hand-stands? Skipping? Jumping-jacks? Making wet imprints of my butt on the driveway after jumping out of the pool? Frying bugs with a magnifying glass? Ahhhh! I’m so old! Someone save me!

I don’t know what to do now. Maybe I should go out and buy myself a hand-knit shawl. Actually, I should probably start thinking about what I’d like to see carved on my tombstone. “Here Lies An Aged Old Man - The Oldest 29-Year Old Who Ever Lived” or “Don’t Sit On This Here Grass – I Just Ate Mexican For Dinner”.

Or maybe I just need to practice my summersaulting. And skipping. Come to think of it, my whistling and bubble-blowing could use some work too. I’ll stop eating my vegetables. I forsee a lot of cartoons in my morning routine from now on. And I’m going to start pulling girls' hair and throwing rocks.

Hey Benjamin! Let’s go outside! I want to climb the tree! No, c’mon, let’s go! Forget your calculus homework, I want to go spit on bugs!

inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened

Today’s blog is dedicated to my mother-number-two. Why? Because she provides me motivation to continue writing here, she was one of the main reasons I started to write here in the first place (due to her out-of-town condition), and she is the only one left who still reads what I write here. And because she practically demanded it. And - oh yeah - because it’s her birthday! Happy Birthday, Mormor!

So instead of forcing you to read whatever crap is surging through my brain on this particular morning, today we’re going to try something a little out of the ordinary. Ben has been bugging me for months to take control of the keyboard and write his own thoughts for you, but I’ve been hesitant to allow him that satisfaction. Not so much because I’m afraid of what he’ll say, or because I’m worried he’ll click the wrong mouse button and accidentally get transported to some kinky adult web site, but mainly because he can just barely identify all 26 letters in the alphabet and I don’t think he’d ever finish his blog using the 'hunt-and-peck' method of typing. Not to mention he doesn’t even know how to say “punctuation”, let alone comprehend it’s meaning or usage [I guess you could say the same about me, but that’s neither here nor there]. So instead, I’ll be Ben’s ghost writer, his correspondence officer, his fingers and spell-checker. I have the little kid on my lap, and he’ll whisper his innocent little thoughts into my ear – okay, check that. He’ll scream them into my ear. Okay, Benjamin, I’m shutting up. . . Okay, fine – you can talk now. . . Okay, already! . . . No, you can’t hold the mouse. . . Because I need it. . . Could we just start already?


Hi, Mormor! Happy Birthday! I love you! You rock!

Never mind whatever Daddy was typing up there; he can get so confused. I love him, I really do, but sometimes he can be just a few fries short of a Happy Meal, you know what I mean? [I heard that, Benjamin]. I don’t know how you keep reading this thing, other than to look at all the pretty pictures of me. I know I get tired of listening to Daddy after just a few minutes. [I heard that too!]. I try to talk as much as possible, as a matter of fact, to drown out whatever drivel my parents babble at me. It’s always “Benjamin, do this,” or “Benjamin do that.” “Benjamin, say please,” and “Benjamin, no hitting.” “Benjamin, take off your shoes,” and “Benjamin, you shouldn’t splice dissimilar thermonuclear reactor couplings in a 100% oxygen environment!” I figure, if I just talk and talk and talk and talk and talk, they won’t be able to get a word in edgewise, especially since I know that they think it’s just oh so cute when I try to talk in full sentences. They are such pushovers! Someday I’m going to parlay this cuteness into a sweet new ride at their expense. [Helloooo? Benjamin, I’m right here! Have you forgotten?]. Just type, Daddy. You’re not paid to comment.


Where was I? Oh yeah - my Mormor. So this weekend I got sick, Mormor. I had some kinda hand, hoof and mouth disease. I must have gotten it from the cow in my flip-up book, the one with the brown spots on his butt. It really hurt, I must say, but after the first couple of days I was just pretending the pain to get more popsicles. I didn’t have to eat any vegetables for five straight days! [All right, I’m not even going to comment on that one, Benjamin.] I’m feeling much better now, but I figure I could stretch it out a few more days, just in case I don’t feel like going to bed on time, and then Mommy will let me stay up late cuddling in her arms.

What have you been doing at your house? How are the doggies? I miss you so much. Whenever I play baseball in the front yard, I think of you and how we played baseball the last time you were here in town. I still think it was a little weird that you kept throwing your long dress over my head and playing hide-and-seek, but I’ll just chalk that up to the long-term effects of your being surrounded by a bunch of other cheese-heads for the past few years. By the way - when are you coming to live here in Illinois? We would have so much fun! I would totally take you out on a date to the ice-cream store, and let you buy me all the ice-cream I can eat! Pleeeeease, come and live in Illinois?


Okay, Daddy says I have to go to school now. Normally I would put up a fuss, but he doesn’t look all that awake yet, so I’ll catch him a break. Besides, I can’t wait to go play with all my friends and go down the slide and swing in the playground. I love you so much, Mormor! I hope you have the greatest birthday ever! Tell the doggies I said hi!

[Happy Birthday, Momma. We love you!]

a peach is not always a peach

These past several days have proven to be some of the most trying afternoons I’ve experienced in my role as a primary source of comfort and stability for my son, a provider of warmth and love for my wife, and a well of sustenance for the ego and confidence required by that one X chromosome and one Y chromosome buried deep beneath my skin. Trouble arises. And then there are those times when trouble finds it appropriate to arise en masse.

This blog has served as a trivial little chronicle of my explorations as a newly-minted father, and I have always written with an audience in my head comprised of twenty-or-so rows of other newbie fathers and twenty-or-so rows of fathers-to-be. The elder dads - the seasoned veterans sprinkled amongst rows 37 through 40 - have no real need to observe the thoughts of a confused twenty-something dad trying to describe his encounters with parenting other than to chuckle at the memory of their own assuredly similar experiences with their own families. For them this is comedy. And for them I’m sure the accounts of my troubles seem inconsequential in retrospect. So, ye grand old men, now would be the time to switch back to the Discovery Channel and pass out on the couch. And if you chose to stick around, please try not to laugh out loud. The kid, after all, is finally asleep.

And so, the point of today’s sermon is: sometimes parents need some comfort too. Sometimes parents need a break. Sometimes parents can only be divided so many ways. And this is laughable to me because, well, we’re only a family of three. We’re haven’t yet been dissected into seventeen different parts expected in seventeen different places at the same time. We’re only up to eight or nine. And on any typical day those eight or nine pieces of us will work themselves into a nice little rhythm - a great background track - and you’ll rarely ever hear them drop the beat. Oh, maybe the kid might get sick. Or Dad might get stuck at work too late. Mom might be tired. Kid might be acting-out. But sometimes, all at once, dad gets stressed, mom loses focus, the two fall apart, anger ensues, feelings are hurt, stability is broken, claims are staked on the bed and the couch, the clouds are forming, the sky is falling, the Sox are losing, your stupid cat is staring you right in the face. . .

. . .and then your son - your darling son, your perfect, smiling, sun-dipped wonderment – finds himself in pain. He’s hurting, which is a fear every parent knows all too intimately. It‘s our single greatest fear. He’s hurting, and now’s the time when each parent needs to lean on each other to help him make it through. To help each other make it through. He's hurting, and he needs you both. Together. Right now.

But you can’t. At least, you don’t think you can. She’s not the one you want to lean on right now. And you’re certainly not willing to be her buttress. Hell, you’ve only just begun speaking to each other in a civil manner, and now. . . now he’s hurting. And you have to help him. Together. For crying out loud, why the hell does this have to happen now? Couldn’t this all have waited for another day? What the f***!

But no, this isn’t about us. It never was. This is about him. Why did we decide to bring him into our lives if we’re not going to do whatever it takes to make his life the best possible life we can piece together out of our own, faulted existences? I suppose the answer is easy. You have to forget your problems for now. It’s not your choice anymore, really.

You comfort him. Together. You show him how solid of a rock you can be together. You make sure as hell he doesn’t have any uncertainty about the foundation he’s standing on, even if he is only two. And when you’ve rocked that poor, uncomfortable boy curled-up between you to sleep, you fix the other problem between you. Now. And as fast as you can. The things you said, the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other, could take forever to heal. But you need to start that process now before he wakes up and the pain comes back.

I apologize if this isn’t the usual light and fluffy, “fatherhood is the bomb” blog entry. This is for me really. I'd like to think I’ve learned a lot from that wise old guard of fathers that are sitting in the last few rows of my mind, but if there are only two things I am allowed to take away from my encounters with them, it would be this:

Sometimes being a father and a husband is the greatest thing you’ll ever have the fortune to experience.

Sometimes it’s not.

Either way, you still have to BE the greatest father and husband.

Now smile :)

there was a star danced, and under that was a bigger ben born

Editor’s Note: I began writing this blog entry on the eve of Ben’s 2nd birthday and I am just now finishing it. It’s been a little busy, this life of mine. Rest assured Benjamin is doing fine, as is his mama. Benjamin says hello to you from the living room, where he is currently playing tee-ball with everything in the room but the tee-ball itself. Benjamin also just asked me to apologize to you on his behalf for my neglect in writing this blog (he is so ashamed of me), and for not letting him have that last cookie. What?! Nevermind the cookie, Benjamin! It’s mine! No, Benjamin - it’s mine! No, mine! No, no! Mine!!!


April 16, 2007:
We come to this again: Twenty-four months, seven hundred and thirty days, a couple doctor well-visits and a couple doctor sick-visits, a sixth diaper size, and another five hundred fifty million worried thoughts. From size 2T to 4T. From those shaky, uncertain first few steps up the neighbor’s sidewalk, to a confident yet still wobbly run around the house. From a climb up five meager stairs in the hallway, to a climb atop the towering playground with a baseball bat in his hand and a handful of toddlers on his shoulder. Eating with fingers to eating with utensils (usually). Two naps cut down to one. From “mamma” and “da-dee” to “Happy Birthday to You!”, and “No no, mommy - that’s MY bread!”


Looking back on what I was thinking at this point last year [holy holy holy macaroni], I’m glad to see that some things haven’t changed. Ben is still one very happy kid, and he still has a penchant for making us laugh. It all started at 6 months old with his ear-to-ear grins [chuckle]. Then, when he figured out that he possessed the ability to make the people around him happy - and sometimes downright hysterical - he amended his comedic repertoire to include the “snort” [natural selection], which he loved more than anything to perform for his grandparents on Saturday afternoons, and a never-ending stream of goofy faces, a wiggly bottom, and cracker dancing [cracker dancing].

And he’s still big. Freakishly big. Have you ever seen an engorged lemur? Yeah, um. . .no - me either. But I bet Ben is a lot bigger. His latest trip to see Dr. Bolton provided us with the opportunity to plot his height and weight on this dandy little chart [see here]. If you look closely, you’ll see that his weight is plotted so far above the weight-curve, it almost makes it onto the height-curve. He’s the size of a large 3 year-year old. . . brontosaurus.


The funny thing is, he’s stopped eating. When he was little (now that’s an oxymoron) he would eat anything you placed within 30 feet of his face. Peas. Carrots. Chicken. Tennis shoes. Now, you could put an ice cream-covered cupcake with candy sprinkles and chocolate-covered yumminess on his plate, he’d take two bites, start playing with the frosting in his hair, then fling a spoon-full of cupcake at the wall until daddy gets too frustrated to watch anymore and has to leave the room to go watch baseball.

37 inches. 37 pounds. That’s an inch per pound. If he keeps this up, he’ll grow to be over 16 feet tall! He could be a professional apple-picker.

And now the talking. It’s taken him some time to get a good hold on the speech thing, but he’s finally coming around. He can count to 20, say his ABC’s (the song is a little muddy, but it’s cuter that way), and he has a few phrases and sentences that he uses with regularity. I think one of his favorites might be, “No no daddy!” because that’s just about the only thing I ever hear him say when I’m around.

Personally, I love it when he tries to mumble out a conversation that only he, I’m guessing, can understand. It’s so funny! You ask him a question like, “How was your day today, Benjamin?” and he responds - his chin half-buried in his chest, sheepishly looking back up at you with that crooked grin - with a low-volume stream of unintelligible vocabulary and cute mutterings interspersed with his tiny little breaths and just a few clearly-spoken words like “doggie”, “park” and “slide”. I can’t say that I know anything more about his day than I did before I asked (other than, maybe, that he met a dog at the park, picked him up, carried him up the ladder and pushed him down the slide) but hearing him try to hash it all out for us is well worth the time.


And of course, with all this growing, learning, and reasoning flying around his bedroom, we’re bound to experience a couple drawbacks. A few weeks ago Ben decided that he was too cool for his crib. And every morning at 5:00 a.m. he would let us know. Leaping out of his crib, Benjamin would prance into our bedroom, his two favorite stuffed-animals in tow, grab a children’s book on his way to our bed, and proceed to read to us while we slept. And by “read to us while we slept” I mean, “sat on our pillows while our heads were still there on the pillows and demand that we read to him RIGHT NOW or else he’ll go downstairs all by his self, turn on the television and mistakenly turn up the volume thinking it was the channel button until it gets so loud that it no longer seems worth it to stay in bed any longer dreaming of the days when 5:00 a.m. on Sunday morning meant you had 7 more hours to sleep before you even thought about waking up.”

So we set him up with a “big boy” bed, which (as I write this nearly two months later) he has promptly out-grown. Funny how that works.

So. . . I must go now. As Ben likes to say as he sees me off every morning. . .

“Bye bye, daddy! Go to work. Have fun!”